William Johnstone - Dead Before Sundown

“Sure,” Lundy said.

Palmer knew he was taking a chance. Lundy might pass out before the fifteen minutes went by. He might even die before then.

But there was nothing else Palmer could do. He couldn’t take on Frank Morgan and three other people alone.

Palmer squeezed Lundy’s shoulder. “I’m leaving now, Owen. Don’t forget, I’m counting on you. You start shooting, and I’ll get the horses.”

“Right …”

If Palmer had been a praying man, he would have sent a prayer heavenward as he stole away into the darkness. A prayer that Lundy would remain conscious and alert long enough to play out his final act in this drama.

But since the only god Joe Palmer really believed in was money in all its forms, he didn’t waste the time and effort.

He just hurried in a very roundabout path toward the ridge that ran behind the campsite.

He didn’t climb to its top until he was a good quarter of a mile away from the camp. The ridge was rugged enough that by the time he made it to the top, he was out of breath and his heart pounded heavily in his chest. The life he’d led hadn’t really prepared him for so much physical exertion. Mostly, the only exercise he got was with soiled doves.

But he was where he needed to be now. He started along the top of the ridge, heading back toward the spot where his quarry had made camp.

From up here, he could see the faintly glowing embers of the fire when he reached the right place. It was good to see proof with his own eyes that his hunch had been correct. Four people were down there, along with four saddle horses and a couple of pack animals. Palmer planned to grab all the horses he could and scatter the others.

Two of the people were asleep, rolled up in their blankets not far from the remains of the fire. The other two sat on a log. The blond hair shining in the moonlight told Palmer that one of them was the woman.

He couldn’t tell who the man was, but as he watched and waited for Lundy to start the ball, he saw the two of them move closer on the log. The pair of shadows suddenly seemed to merge into one.

Whoever that fella was, he was kissing the girl. Had to be the kid, Palmer thought. Morgan and Stevens were both too old to be carrying on with her.

This would be a good time for Lundy to open fire, while the two people standing guard were more concerned with each other than with any dangers lurking in the darkness. But so far the night was quiet and peaceful. Palmer’s frustration and impatience grew.

“Damn it, Owen,” he muttered. “It’s time. It’s gotta be past time by—”

The whip crack of the shot came at the same time as the bright spurt of flame from the rifle’s muzzle.

Chapter 25

Frank never slept too deeply. The life he had led made sure of that.

So he was instantly alert when the sound of the shot jerked him out of slumber.

He came out of his bedroll reaching for the Winchester on the ground beside him. A bullet whined somewhere overhead and thudded into the rocky face of the ridge.

“Everybody down!” Frank called. “Stay down!”

He was already on one knee. He brought the rifle to his shoulder as he spotted a muzzle flash a couple of hundred yards away. The Winchester already had a round in the chamber. It kicked hard as he fired.

Frank worked the lever and threw himself forward, expecting return fire. He got it, but the shots continued to go high, smacking into the bluff.

Salty called, “Who in tarnation you reckon that is?”

“Don’t know,” Frank replied. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, other than havin’ my sleep disturbed!”

“Meg! How about you? Are you hit?”

She called back, “Reb and I are both fine, Frank!”

Shots continued to crack from the unseen rifleman. Frank considered the situation and said, “Salty, we’re going to try to flush that varmint out. You go left and I’ll go right.”

“You bet,” Salty replied eagerly. “I’m gettin’ so dang frustrated, I’m just itchin’ to shoot somebody.”

“Let’s take him alive if we can,” Frank cautioned. “I’d like to find out who he is and why he wants us dead.”

“Shoot, seems like ever’body wants us dead these days,” Salty muttered as he started crawling off to the left.

Frank heard the comment. It brought a grim smile to his mouth. Salty was right. It seemed as if everyone they had run into in Canada was an enemy, with the lone exception of Reb Russell.

And Frank wasn’t a hundred percent sure about him yet….

On hands and knees, Frank moved away from the camp to the right. When he reached an area of taller grass, he came up into a crouching run but still stayed as low as he could.

The rifle continued to bang in the night. As Frank circled toward the bushwhacker’s position, something began to nag at him. The light from the moon and stars was too dim for accurate shooting, but even so, it seemed that all the shots had been going too high for this to be a real ambush.

As soon as that thought crossed his mind, he stopped short and started to turn back. The shots were nothing but decoys, he realized, designed to draw him away from the camp.

But as he swung around, something smashed against the side of his head like a giant fist. The terrible impact made rockets go off in his brain. He felt himself falling and tried to catch his balance, but he couldn’t stop.

He hit the ground, and that was the last thing he knew for a while.

Joe Palmer was pretty sure the man had just taken a shot at was Frank Morgan. His heart leaped as he saw Morgan fall.

Take that, gunfighter, he thought. Not such a big man now, are you?

Palmer didn’t waste any time gloating. He started down the slope, which was steep enough that part of the time he was bounding and the other part he was sliding.

He hoped Lundy remembered the plan and was holding his fire now. Otherwise Palmer might run smack-dab into a bullet from the outlaw’s rifle.

The kid and the blonde were still at the camp. They must have heard the shot from the top of the bluff and they probably heard Palmer making his way down the ridge, so he was expecting trouble. He wasn’t going to give them a chance to get oriented. He pulled one of his revolvers and emptied it in the direction he had last seen them.

He had barely reached level ground when a figure loomed up in front of him. The night was too dark for him to tell which one it was. Since he still had the empty gun in his hand, he lashed out with it.

At the same time, a gun went off practically in his face. The report slammed deafeningly against his ears. Burning bits of powder stung his left cheek. He felt a tearing pain in that ear, as if somebody had just tried to rip it off his head.

The gun in his hand crashed against his opponent’s skull. The figure went down like a poleaxed steer.

Palmer didn’t get any respite, though. Somebody tackled him from behind. They both went to the ground.

As he rolled in the dirt, wrestling with his attacker, Palmer’s hands told him he was fighting with the woman. He had dropped the empty pistol and the rifle when she knocked him down, but that meant he had both hands free. He drove a knee into her body, pinned her arms to the ground with one hand, and landed a punch to her jaw with the other fist. Her head bounced against the ground, and she went limp.

Palmer knew he had no time to waste. The way Morgan had gone down, he hoped the gunfighter was dead. But it was possible that Morgan was just wounded, and the old man was still unaccounted for, too. Palmer scrambled to his feet.

An idea occurred to him as he did so. He leaned down, and working by feel, he pulled the blonde’s belt from the trousers she wore and rolled her onto her stomach while she was still stunned and helpless. He pulled her arms behind her back and used the belt to bind her wrists together.