Cutthroat Canyon. William W. Johnstone

like Mr. Davidson is quite a hunter,” Bo commented as he looked at the mounted heads.

      “Yes, sir,” Alfred agreed. “He’s an excellent shot, and very daring. That jaguar would have been on him in another couple of bounds when he pulled the trigger on his rifle and killed it.”

      Bo wasn’t sure whether a man endangering his own life like that just for a trophy was daring or foolhardy. He leaned toward foolhardy.

      The other men had gathered around a sideboard on the wall opposite the fireplace. They held drinks in their hands, poured from a bottle that sat open on the sideboard. Hansen picked the bottle up by the neck and held it out toward Bo and Scratch, raising his bushy blond eyebrows in a questioning look.

      Scratch glanced over at Bo and licked his lips. “Go ahead,” Bo told his trail partner. “You don’t have to ask my permission to take a drink.”

      Scratch sauntered over to Hansen and said, “Don’t mind if I do.” He got an empty glass from the sideboard, and Hansen spilled amber liquid into it from the bottle. Scratch took a sip and let out an appreciative “Ahhh.”

      Bo turned to Alfred, who had followed them into the dining room. “What sort of trouble is going on inside the mine?” he asked the young man.

      “I wouldn’t know, Mr. Creel,” Alfred replied with a shake of his head. “I don’t have anything to do with the actual mining operation other than keeping track of the books for Mr. Davidson. I also prepare meals for him and the supervisors…and now, I suppose, for you gentlemen as well.”

      Before Bo could say anything else, he heard a shot. From the deep, echoing sound of the report, it came from inside the tunnel. As it faded, it bounced back from the walls of the canyon as well.

      There was only the one shot, but that was enough to send Bo striding quickly out of the dining room, followed close behind by Scratch. The rest of the men trailed along, too, with the exception of Skinner, Bo saw as he glanced at him. The skull-faced killer remained at the sideboard, casually pouring himself another drink. Unless somebody paid him to care or his own life was threatened, he clearly didn’t give a damn what was going on.

      By the time Bo, Scratch, and the others reached the porch, Davidson had emerged from the tunnel mouth, accompanied by Wallace, and was coming back toward the mine headquarters. He didn’t seem upset.

      “What was that shot?” Bo asked as Davidson and Wallace came up to the steps.

      “Just now, you mean?” Davidson shrugged. “I saw a little rattlesnake and got rid of it. Can’t have them crawling in where they’re not wanted.”

      “No, I suppose not. What about that other trouble you went to check on?”

      “I’m not sure that’s any of your business, Bo, since I’m hiring you to help guard the ore shipments, not to run my mine for me.”

      “Scratch and I haven’t said for sure that we’re going to work for you,” Bo pointed out.

      “I hope you will. I saw how well the two of you handled yourselves when those bandits jumped us last night.” Davidson shrugged. “And I can understand your concern. But it’s nothing for you to worry about. Just a dispute between a worker and one of my foremen. It’s been resolved, and it won’t happen again.”

      “Well, I reckon that’s good to know. You were on your way back out of the tunnel when you spotted that snake?”

      “That’s right.”

      Bo wasn’t sure he believed that. He couldn’t help but wonder if Davidson had settled the dispute between miner and foreman with a bullet. He didn’t want to think that. He had liked Davidson or he never would have agreed to come down here in the first place. And he had no proof that Davidson wasn’t exactly the amiable sort he appeared to be, at least most of the time.

      Bo believed in giving a man the benefit of the doubt. He would continue to do so—at least for now.

      He would have felt better about things, though, if he had actually seen that rattlesnake himself.

      The last of the light was fading from the sky. As Davidson ascended the steps, followed by Wallace, he called, “Alfred, I hope you’ve prepared a suitable supper. After a couple of days on the trail, I’m hungry as a bear!”

      “Of course, sir,” the young man replied. “The meal will be ready shortly.”

      “And have Rosalinda serve.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      As Alfred spoke, Bo saw a troubled frown pass over the young man’s face. The expression was there and gone so fast that if he hadn’t happened to be looking directly at Alfred he wouldn’t have seen it.

      Something about Davidson’s mention of a woman called Rosalinda bothered Alfred. Bo wondered who she was and why Alfred had reacted that way.

      Like everything else, though, Bo figured that if he were patient, sooner or later he would have answers to all his questions.