Chapter 6 - The Echoes of the Canyon
The descent into Devil's Punchbowl demanded every ounce of concentration Silas possessed. The gorge walls closed in like the jaws of a giant vise, dripping with recent storm moisture and choked with slate and shale that slid away under their boots with every step. Silas walked slightly ahead, his shoulder brushing the cool stone, his eyes constantly checking the narrow ribbon of gray sky visible between the cliffs above.
Nalin stayed close behind him, her hand occasionally brushing against his elbow when the path narrowed to a ledge scarcely wider than a boot. She carried the leather ledger wrapped tightly inside an oiled calfskin pouch she had fashioned from a discarded saddlebag found in the cave.
"How far to the old mining camp?" she asked, her voice echoing softly off the granite walls.
"About two miles past the narrows," Silas said without turning around. "There’s an abandoned tailings shed where the company used to store dynamite before the vein pinched out in '82. If the roof hasn't caved in, we can hole up there, dry our gear, and figure out our next move toward Tombstone."
"And if Vain's men find the track?"
"They won't find it easily," Silas replied, pausing to look back at her. The concern in his eyes wasn't hidden anymore; it was an open, weathered acknowledgment of the danger they shared. "The entrance is choked with fallen cedar from the slide three years ago. From the valley floor, it looks like a dead-end fissure."
They pressed on, the roar of the swollen creek below them drowning out all other sounds. But as they rounded a sharp granite bend where the canyon widened into a small amphitheater of red stone, Silas stopped dead in his tracks, his right hand dropping instantly to the hammer of his Sharps.
Standing twenty yards ahead, blocking the trail where it emerged from the creek bed, was a single rider mounted on a lathered bay gelding.
The man wore a pristine cavalry tunic with the gold braid of a lieutenant, though his hat was pulled low over his eyes and his horse bore no regimental brand. Across his saddle rested a repeating carbine, pointed lazily toward the ground.
"Well," the officer said, his voice smooth and carrying a distinct eastern drawl that didn't belong in the Arizona badlands. "Sergeant Miller. They said in Tucson you were buried under six feet of alkali and bad whiskey. Looks like the reports were exaggerated."
Silas didn't lower his rifle. "Lieutenant Vance. I should have known Halloway wouldn't trust a bounty hunter like Vain to finish a job that required an officer's touch."
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Vance smiled, but his eyes were hard and flat as river stones. "The colonel sends his regards, Silas. He also wants his book back. That ledger represents a great deal of administrative inconvenience to the War Department."
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