Free Sidewinders by William W. Johnstone Page B

they were out of the fight. And even if they were, that would still leave him facing two would-be killers.
    It chafed him to let them get away, but right now, that might be the smartest thing to do. Sure enough, a few minutes later he heard the rattle of hoofbeats from somewhere higher on the ridge. It sounded like four horses were hurrying off into the distance.
    A tense silence that sounded odd after all the shooting had settled over the gulch. Bo waited it out for several minutes to be sure the bushwhackers really had fled and weren’t doing a double-back or setting another trap. When he was convinced they were gone, he called across the creek.
    â€œScratch! Scratch, are you all right?”
    The answer came back immediately from the silver-haired Texan. “Yeah, me and Chloride are fine! How about you?”
    â€œI’m all right,” Bo told them. “Those hombres lit a shuck after I winged a couple of them!”
    â€œLay low for now!” Scratch called back. “We’ll round up the horses!”
    Bo reloaded and waited while Scratch and Chloride emerged from the trees on the other side of the creek and hurried upstream. The horses and Chloride’s mule had headed that way when they ran off. Bo moved over to the rocks where the bushwhackers had hidden. He could see better from here. He kept an eye on the ridgeline, just in case the killers came back.
    Evidently peace had descended again on the gulch, though. Nothing happened as Scratch and Chloride returned with the three mounts a few minutes later. Bo made his way down the slope and waded across the creek to join them. His feet were wet and cold, so Scratch and Chloride stood watch while he took his boots and socks off, wrung out the socks, and spread them on a rock to dry for a few minutes. He rubbed his feet to warm them up.
    â€œDid you get a good look at any of the varmints?” Scratch asked.
    â€œAfraid not. They had bandanas over their faces and their hats pulled down low. There was nothing special about their clothes, either.”
    â€œSee?” Chloride said. “Just like I told folks in town! Some of ’em didn’t believe me, but you seen the thievin’ buzzards with your own eyes!”
    â€œIf they were part of the gang,” Bo said.
    Chloride snorted. “Who else’d ambush us to keep you from tryin’ to track ’em down?” he asked. “Them Devils are the only ones who’d have any reason to do that.”
    â€œHe’s right,” Scratch said. “Question is, did they follow us out here from town, or did the big boss leave some of ’em here to keep watch and bushwhack anybody who came pokin’ around?”
    Bo shook his head. “I don’t know, but I reckon we ought to try to pick up their trail and see where it leads.” He started pulling on one of his socks. It was still damp, but he was too impatient to wait for it to dry fully.
    Horses couldn’t make it up the side of the gulch right here, even with their riders dismounted and leading them. The Texans and Chloride had to backtrack almost a mile before they came to a place where they could reach the top of the ridge. They retraced their path, looking down on the creek from high above now, until they reached the spot where the ambush had taken place.
    â€œThe ground’s pretty rocky here,” Scratch observed. “It won’t be easy followin’ them, but we’ll give it a try.”
    With Scratch leading the way, they trailed the would-be killers into the rugged hills that bordered Deadwood Gulch. The going was slow. More gulches, many of them choked with brush, cut through the hills and formed obstacles. Finally Scratch reined in, sighed, and shook his head.
    â€œI’ve lost the trail,” he said. “We can back up and try to find it again, but it ain’t likely to do us much good. There are too many rocks, too many creeks, and too many places where a fella can