Chapter 9 - The Clash at Skeleton Pass
The morning sun had barely cleared the eastern ridge when Silas, Nalin, and their prisoner emerged from the mouth of Devil's Punchbowl onto the upper plateau of Skeleton Pass. The air was crisp, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue that offered no mercy to anyone traveling the open trails.
They had commandeered Vance’s bay gelding for Silas to ride, easing the constant strain on his injured hip, while Nalin walked beside him leading a pack mule they had found near the tailings shed. Vance trudged between them on foot, his hands still bound, his uniform covered in dust and dried blood.
They had reached the narrowest part of the pass—where the trail squeezed between two massive walls of red sandstone—when the sharp crack of a rifle echoed off the canyon walls.
A bullet struck the rock face two inches from Silas's head, sending a stinging shower of stone splinters across his cheek.
"Get down!" Silas shouted, hauling the horse around and shoving Nalin behind a granite outcrop.
From the rocks above the trail, Blackjack Vain stepped into view, holding a Winchester rifle with a smoking barrel. Behind him stood two deputies and three regular cavalry troopers, their blue uniforms stark against the red stone.
"End of the line, Sergeant!" Vain shouted down, his voice dripping with malicious satisfaction. "Drop the bag! And let the officer go!"
Silas crouched behind the horse, pulling his Sharps from the saddle scabbard. He looked at Vance, who was smiling despite his injuries. "Your friends are early, Lieutenant."
"They were always thorough," Vance replied softly.
Nalin drew her knife, her eyes scanning the heights above. "There are too many of them, Silas. We're trapped between the rocks."
"Not yet," Silas said. He looked up at the ridge where Vain and his men were positioning themselves for a crossfire. He knew the terrain; he had mapped these hills when Vain was still robbing stagecoaches in Texas. Fifty yards up the western wall was an old drainage fissure that led to the upper plateau behind the ridge.
"Nalin," Silas said, keeping his voice low and steady. "Take the ledger and the mule up the fissure. There's a cattle trail on the other side that leads straight down to the San Pedro river road."
"I'm not leaving you here," she said instantly.
"You aren't leaving me," Silas corrected her, loading a fresh round into his rifle. "You're taking the evidence where it needs to go. If I go down with Vance, this book dies with us."
Before she could argue, a volley of rifle fire rained down from the ridge, kicking up dirt and lead around their position. The bay gelding panicked, rearing back and pulling free of its reins.
Silas didn't hesitate. He stood up in the open, exposing himself to the ridge, and fired twice in rapid succession—not at Vain, but at the dry pine snag leaning over the outlaws' position. The heavy bullets shattered the trunk, sending a massive cascade of dead timber and brush crashing down directly onto the troopers' ledge.
"Go!" Silas yelled over the roar of falling debris. "Now!"
Nalin clutched the calfskin pouch to her chest, gave Silas one fierce, uncompromising look, and scrambled up the steep rock fissure into the brush.
Up on the ridge, Vain roared in fury as he fought his way clear of the fallen branches. "Kill the old man! Take the girl alive!"
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Silas pumped another round into his rifle, his back against the stone wall, waiting for the charge.
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