Cutthroat Canyon. William W. Johnstone

common people had plenty of reason to be leery of Indians, bandits, revolutionaries, and the government alike. No wonder they hid when they saw a group of hard-faced gringo strangers coming.

      Davidson led them through a pass and into another valley. This was a long, flat area between two mountain ridges. A stream meandered along the middle of the valley, and cultivated fields bordered it. About halfway along the valley’s length, buildings clustered to form the village Davidson had mentioned. Most were humble adobe huts, but Bo could see a good-sized church with a square bell tower that had a cross mounted on top of it. There were some frame buildings as well, constructed of rough-hewn planks sawn from pine trees brought down from the mountains. It looked like a nice place, nothing fancy about it, but still a good home for the people who lived in the valley.

      At the far end of the valley, the mountains came together to form a steep, rugged wall. The only breach in that wall appeared to be a canyon about a hundred yards wide. Davidson pointed to it.

      “Cutthroat Canyon, gentlemen. The mine is about half a mile up it.”

      “Is that a box canyon,” Bo asked, “or is there another way out?”

      “It extends another mile or so into the mountains and then comes to a dead end,” Davidson explained. “At least, as far as horses and wagons are concerned it does. A man could probably climb out, but then he’d just find himself in the middle of those mountains with nowhere else to go.”

      The sun had dropped down nearly behind the peaks to the west. Even so, some of its rays still slanted into the valley, and Scratch pointed toward the church and said, “Sun’s reflectin’ off something in that bell tower, Bo.”

      “It’s the bell, of course,” Davidson said. “A big brass thing, a hundred years old or more. The old Spanish padres brought it here when they established the mission many years ago. Or so I’ve been told.”

      That was a reasonable explanation, Bo thought—but he had seen the reflection, too, and it hadn’t really looked to him like the sun shining on brass. He had seen glints like that before—too many times, in fact—and they had nearly always come from rifle barrels.

      “Maybe we’d better circle around that village,” he suggested. “Those bandits could have set a trap for us there.”

      “I doubt that,” Davidson said. “Like I told you, they’ve always left us alone around here. They’ve only struck out on the trail between here and El Paso. Besides, it’s the shortest way to the canyon.”

      Bo shrugged. “You’re the boss.” He looked over at Scratch, and the glance they exchanged carried a clear message. The Texans would be riding wary as they passed through the village.

      It appeared that Davidson was right, though. No shots rang out as the riders entered the settlement. In fact, it was oddly quiet. No dogs barked, and no children ran out of the huts to follow the men along the road. Bo might have thought that the inhabitants had abandoned the village if not for the cook smoke that rose from several crude chimneys.

      Scratch noticed it, too. “Where is everybody?” he asked quietly.

      “It’s late,” Davidson answered before Bo could say anything. “These people work hard. They’re all in their houses resting after a day in the fields.”

      “I suppose,” Bo said.

      They saw their first sign of life as they neared the church. A brown-robed priest came out of the sanctuary, saw the men on horseback, and stopped short. As they passed by, the padre crossed himself and backed through the open door of the church.

      “What was that about?” Bo asked with a frown.

      “You mean Father Luis?” Davidson said. “He’s a very devout man. I imagine he was about to ask us inside to pray with him, but I guess he changed his mind when he realized that we’ve been riding a long way and probably want to get back to the mine as soon as possible.”

      That explanation made sense, too, Bo thought—but for some reason, uneasiness still lurked inside him. Back in El Paso, Davidson had struck him as being honest, open, and friendly, and so far the man hadn’t done anything to make that opinion change.

      And yet, Bo wasn’t feeling so sure now about taking this job. Maybe it was because Davidson had hired Jim Skinner. Was that just a lapse in judgment on Davidson’s part, or did he really not care that he had a vicious, low-down snake like Skinner working for him?

      He and Scratch hadn’t made any promises other than telling Davidson they would ride down here with him and have a look at the situation, Bo reminded himself. They could ride away any time they chose, and if Davidson tried to pay them for helping out against the bandits the night before, well, they could always refuse the money. They wouldn’t want to be beholden to the man if they weren’t going to work for him.

      They left the strange little village behind and rode on toward the mine. The sun had vanished behind the mountains by the time they reached the mouth of the canyon. The shadows that gathered inside it made it look like a black maw gaping in the rock wall. Bo heard some muttering behind him, and glanced around to see a worried frown on Hansen’s face. The Swede’s mouth was moving. Saying some more of those Lutheran prayers, Bo thought. Douglas looked a little uneasy, too.

      But not Skinner, Jackman, Tragg, and Lancaster. They appeared eager to get where they were going. Jackman said, “I hope you got plenty of good whiskey in this place, Boss. After eatin’ trail dust for a couple of days, I’m plumb thirsty.”

      “There’s whiskey,” Davidson said. An edge crept into his voice as he went on. “But I don’t want you or anybody else getting sloppy drunk, Jackman. That makes a man careless. Just because those bandits haven’t attacked the mine doesn’t mean they never will.”

      “Sure, Boss, I understand,” Jackman said. “Anyway, whiskey don’t muddle me none.”

      “See that it doesn’t,” Davidson said.

      Their eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the canyon. It ran fairly straight, and after a few minutes Bo spotted the yellow glow of lamplight up ahead. He was able to make out several buildings, and when he asked Davidson about them, the mine owner explained, “There’s a bunkhouse for the workers, quarters for the foremen, a mess hall, and a cookshack. Plus storage sheds for the equipment, of course, and a barn for the mules we use to pull the ore wagons. There’s another barn and a corral for our saddle horses. The shed where we store blasting powder is about two hundred yards farther up the canyon.”

      “That’s a good idea, not keepin’ that stuff too close,” Scratch said. “I never have cared for anything that’s liable to blow up.”

      “Well, you won’t have to work with it,” Davidson pointed out. “I have men who do that.”

      “How big is your crew?” Bo asked.

      “I have between fifty and sixty men working here, plus a dozen more supervising the operation.”

      “You need that many foremen?”

      “Mining can be pretty complex,” Davidson said.

      That didn’t really answer the question, Bo thought, but he didn’t press it. He had done some mining himself, and while it was grueling, backbreaking work most of the time, it wasn’t really that complicated if you knew how to dig a tunnel and shore it up. That’s what had been done here, he knew, because he could see the tunnel mouth in the canyon wall beyond the cluster of buildings.

      Most of the buildings were made of adobe, but the biggest structure was of logs. Davidson nodded toward it and said, “That’s the mine headquarters. My office is in there, as well as my living quarters. And there are extra rooms for you gentlemen as well, although I’m afraid you’ll have to double up.”

      “I don’t share a room with anybody,” Skinner snapped.

      “Reckon that’s because nobody’d want to share one with you,” Scratch drawled.

      Skinner turned toward