William Johnstone - Dead Before Sundown

“That’s a nice story,” Meg said. “I’m glad your mother and father finally had a happy ending.”

“Yeah. When they didn’t really need me around anymore, I decided to do some travelin’. I was always a mite fiddle-footed. That’s how I wound up goin’ around to all the rodeos.”

Reb Russell clearly didn’t mind the sound of his own voice, Frank mused. But the talkative young man seemed friendly enough.

The problem was that Frank’s instincts still told him Reb was lying about something, or at least not telling the whole truth. But when he tried to figure out how Reb might be connected to that Gatling gun, or to Joe Palmer for that matter, he couldn’t make the pieces of the picture fit.

He would just stay on his guard, he decided. He would be doing that anyway, as a matter of habit.

When it came time to turn in, Frank said, “Salty and I will take turns standing watch.”

“You really think we need to do that?” Reb asked.

“You saw those bodies back there. This can be dangerous country.”

“Yeah, I reckon you’re right about that. I can take my turn.”

Frank shook his head. “Salty and I can handle it.”

“You’d get more sleep if you let me help out.” Reb paused, and when he went on, his voice had taken on a harder edge. “That is, unless you don’t trust me, Frank.”

“Nobody said that,” Meg put in. “You trust Reb, don’t you, Frank?”

“He hasn’t given me any reason not to,” Frank replied, which didn’t really answer the question.

“We can share a turn,” Meg suggested.

Reb smiled in the fading light of the fire. “I never turn down the company of a pretty gal,” he said.

Frank was uneasy about the arrangement, but he didn’t want to press the issue. He nodded and said, “All right. I’ll stand the first watch, Salty the middle one, and the two of you can finish out the night. That agreeable to everybody?”

The others all nodded.

“Better roll up in your blankets and get some sleep, then,” Frank went on. He reached for the coffeepot. “I’ll just finish off this Arbuckle’s.”

If it hadn’t been for the faint smell of wood smoke lingering in the air, Palmer might have missed the camp. He was alert for that very thing, though, and when he caught a whiff of the smoke, he followed it to a long, low ridge. Owen Lundy limped along behind him, grunting now and then from the pain in his wounded side.

It had been a long walk out of the mountains from the spot of the ambush. They’d had to hide once when a group of riders too large for them to attack had ridden past, heading west. A short time later, what could have been the same bunch rode past again, this time going east.

Damned mountains were turning out to be as busy as State Street back in Chicago, Palmer thought disgustedly.

Now, Palmer put a hand on Lundy’s arm to stop him and whispered, “I smell a campfire, or what’s left of one, anyway.”

His eyes searched the darkness along the base of the ridge for flames but didn’t see any. The fire must have burned down to embers. It might have gone out entirely by now, even with the faint scent of smoke lingering in the air.

“If it’s the bunch that rode past us earlier, there are too many of ‘em,” Lundy said. His voice was drawn thin and tight with pain and weariness. “We can’t jump ‘em.”

“Maybe it’s Morgan and the old man.”

“The shape I’m in, the two of us ain’t any match for Frank Morgan.”

Palmer was afraid Lundy was right about that. Morgan was hell on wheels all by himself. Throw in the old-timer Stevens, the young woman, and the kid Palmer didn’t know, and those odds were just too blasted steep.

Unless they could split the group up somehow.

At least he and Lundy were well armed again. Palmer had scavenged weapons and ammunition from the members of Lundy’s gang who had been killed in the ambush. He had a rifle and two pistols, and so did Lundy. If it came to a fight, they wouldn’t be lacking for firepower.

Palmer hoped he could figure out some way to avoid most of the gunplay, however. The fewer shots they had to exchange with Frank Morgan, the better their chances were of surviving the night.

As a matter of fact, most of the night was already gone. It wouldn’t be long until morning. The two men had trudged along for hours in the darkness, guided only by light from the moon and stars. That was enough to keep them on the trail.

Palmer studied the situation for long minutes, then finally said, “I’m gonna get above them on that ridge. You’ll draw Morgan out, Owen.”

Palmer halfway expected Lundy to argue with him. Lundy was used to being in charge and might not like the idea of taking orders.

But he must have been too tired and hurt to care about such things now, because he said, “All right. How do I do that?”

“You see those dark shapes there at the base of the bluff? Those are their horses. I think their camp is there, too, just to the right.”

Lundy squinted into the shadows and finally said, “All right, I see ‘em.”

Palmer didn’t know whether Lundy really saw the camp or not. But that didn’t matter, as long as he aimed in the right direction. Palmer knew Morgan and the others were there. There weren’t enough horses for it to be the larger group camped here.

“You give me time to get up on the ridge above them,” Palmer said. “Then you open fire on the camp, but aim high. We don’t want to kill any of the horses. We may need them all.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Morgan will come out to see what’s going on. I’ll ambush him if I can, but if I can’t get a shot at him, I’ll slide down the ridge and grab the horses for us. They can’t come after us if they’re on foot.”

Slowly, Lundy nodded. “Yeah, that sounds like it’ll work.”

The pain really did have his mind muddled, Palmer thought. He saw several big holes in the plan, but Lundy didn’t seem suspicious.

Some part of Lundy’s mind must have worked again for a second. He said, “You’ll come back around and get me, right?”

“Sure. Then we’ll go after those sons of bitches who stole our gold.”

“Yeah,” Lundy muttered. “Yeah, those sons o’ bitches.”

He was swaying slightly on his feet. Palmer put the back of his hand against Lundy’s cheek. The outlaw was burning up with fever.

“What’re you doin?” Lundy said.

“Checking to see if you have a fever. You’re fine, Owen. Must not be any infection from that bullet hole.”

“Good. I always was a quick healer.”

Not this time, Palmer thought. Lundy was on his last legs. He might not make it even a few more hours until dawn. This was the best chance to get a little more use out of him and then leave him behind to his fate. Palmer knew that if he waited much longer, Lundy wasn’t going to be any good to him.

“All right, there are some rocks right over here. We’ll get you forted up in them.”

Palmer led Lundy over to the rocks. Lundy knelt and rested his rifle on the top of one of the granite slabs. Palmer fished his pocket watch out of his trousers and opened it, placing it face up on the rock in front of Lundy. There was enough light for him to be able to make out that there were ten minutes until four o’clock in the morning.

“Can you see the watch, Owen?”

“Yeah, I can see it.”

“Give me fifteen minutes to get in position. That’ll be five minutes after four o’clock. Can you remember that?”

“Sure. Five minutes after … four o’clock.”

“That’s when you start shooting at the bluff over there. Remember, aim high, but not too high, because I’m gonna be on top of it. And when you see me start shooting from up there, you hold your fire, because I’ll be coming down and you don’t want to hit me.”