Cutthroat Canyon. William W. Johnstone

      Dogs barked at them and children ran after them as they followed the dusty streets through Juarez, but the men paid no attention to those distractions. Soon enough the settlement was left behind, and the riders headed due south across the flat, semiarid terrain toward the greenish-gray mountains that rose in the distance. The mountains were farther away than they looked, which explained the two days it would take the men to reach them.

      Despite the fact that summer was still more than a month off, the temperature rose steadily as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Bo took off his frock coat after a while, and Scratch removed his buckskin jacket. Sweat trickled down Bo’s back.

      “It’ll be cooler in the mountains,” Davidson said with a smile as he pulled a bandanna from his pocket to wipe moisture from his face. He had changed into gray trousers and a white shirt and flat-crowned black hat, and he wore a holstered six-gun like the rest of the men. Bo recalled the way Davidson had shucked his iron from that shoulder rig during the battle of the Birdcage the night before, and figured the mine owner was plenty tough despite being something of a dude.

      “Did you study engineering, Mr. Davidson?” he asked.

      “Yes, I did, as a matter of fact, along with geology. That’s a good background for a mining man, don’t you think?”

      “Always helps to know what you’re doing, no matter what it is.”

      “What’s your specialty, Mr. Creel?”

      Scratch laughed. “We both been studyin’ on how to stay out of trouble for more’n forty years now. Haven’t quite got the knack of it yet, though.”

      “Surely you’ve done something besides just…drift.”

      “A little of everything,” Bo said. “Drove freight wagons and stagecoaches, scouted for the army, even toted a badge a time or two—”

      “But didn’t like it much,” Scratch put in.

      “No, we’re not really cut out to be lawmen,” Bo agreed with a faint smile. “We’ve done our share of cowboying. Chopped firewood and sold it one winter in Deadwood. Mostly, though, we just amble around from one place to another.”

      Skinner moved his horse up so that he was riding even with them. With a sneer, he said, “Don’t try to make out like you’re better’n the rest of us, Creel. You two have hired out your guns plenty of times, just like me and these other boys. What about that range war up in Montana you were mixed up in?”

      “Is that true?” Davidson asked. “You were part of a range war?”

      Bo shrugged. “The fella who owned one of the ranches did us a mighty big favor once. We were just paying him back, I guess you could say. Anyway, he was up against some mighty big odds. He would’ve been wiped out if somebody hadn’t given him a hand.”

      “That was quite a ruckus, all right,” Scratch said.

      “Last I heard,” Skinner said, “you two had a murder charge out against you up there.”

      Davidson frowned. “I heard what you told the marshal last night. Is it true you’re wanted for murder?”

      “Those charges were dropped,” Bo said as he gave Skinner a hard glance. “And the only reason they were filed in the first place is because one of the gents who ambushed us had a crooked judge for a friend.”

      “But you did kill him—the man who ambushed you, I mean?”

      “Darned right we did,” Scratch said. He slapped his thigh. “I got an old bullet wound in my leg that aches when the weather’s right to prove that the ornery son of a gun had it comin’, too.”

      “Don’t try to stir up trouble,” Davidson told Skinner.

      “Not tryin’ to stir up anything,” the skull-faced gunman said. “I just don’t want these two old buzzards thinkin’ that they’re any better than the rest of us. They’re goin’ down to that mine of yours for the same reason as the rest of us—to kill Mex bandits for pay.”

      Bo was tempted to tell Scratch that they were riding away right now. He’d already had a bellyful of Jim Skinner, and the trip had barely started. The idea of spending even a week around Skinner was distasteful.

      But they had given their word to Davidson, and Bo liked the mine owner. If they could help Davidson get those ore shipments to El Paso, Bo supposed he could put up with Skinner—at least for a little while.

      He hoped this job wouldn’t last too long, though.

      Jackman, Tragg, and Hansen started talking about some whores they had been with back in El Paso, and that shut Skinner up. Douglas and Lancaster were both pretty close-mouthed, Bo noted. But at least Skinner left Bo and Scratch alone following the brief clash, for the most part riding a short distance away from the others.

      They stopped from time to time to rest the horses, and at midday they paused longer to make a sparse lunch on biscuits and jerky from the bags of supplies. While they were eating, Scratch nodded toward the crates and asked Davidson what was in them.

      “Just some mining equipment,” Davidson replied. “That’s another reason I went to El Paso, to pick up that gear.”

      This was a dry, thirsty land, but the men had brought along plenty of full canteens. The water they had would last them until they reached the mountains, barring some sort of bad luck. And once they arrived at their destination, there would be streams to provide cool, clear water that came from springs higher up.

      “Have you ever been down here before?” Davidson asked Bo and Scratch late that afternoon.

      “Quite a few times,” Bo replied. “Not in recent years, though.”

      Scratch said, “Last time we rode through these parts, a fella still had to worry about the Yaqui and the Apaches. Never could tell when you’d run smack-dab into a raidin’ party. From what I hear tell, though, most of the Injuns have pulled back even farther into the mountains since Major Jones and the Frontier Battalion of the Rangers made it too tough on ’em every time they crossed the border. The Rurales chase ’em down here, too.”

      “Yes, well, the Rurales aren’t the most efficient law enforcement group in the world,” Davidson said. “Between their corruption and their incompetence, they haven’t been able to do a thing about the bandit problem in this area. I found that out when I lodged a complaint with the Mexican government about my ore shipments being robbed.” He shrugged. “I’ll give them a little credit, though. The Indians haven’t bothered us. As you said, Mr. Morton, they seem to have retreated.”

      “Mr. Morton was my pa. Call me Scratch.”

      “Same here,” Bo said. “I’m just Bo.”

      “Very well.”

      Davidson didn’t tell them to call him Porter, though, Bo noticed.

      They made camp that night next to a dry wash. Davidson thought they ought to camp inside the wash, so that they could build a fire without it being seen, but Bo shook his head.

      “I’ve known flash floods to come along and fill up one of these arroyos quicker than I can tell you about it,” he said.

      “Flash floods?” Davidson repeated. “Out here in the middle of this arid landscape?”

      “All it takes is a good storm up in the mountains,” Scratch said. “That’s why they sometimes call ’em gullywashers.”

      Skinner snorted. “I would’ve told you the same thing, Boss, if these two old mossyhorns hadn’t jumped in first.”

      “You’re mighty free with that mouth of yours, Skinner,” Scratch snapped. “And I’m gettin’ a mite tired of bein’ called names.”

      Skinner’s angular jaw jutted out defiantly. “I can think of worse things to call you, old man.”

      “Settle down,”