William Johnstone - Dead Before Sundown

The horses were picketed. He grabbed a blanket and saddle and threw them on one of the mounts, hurriedly cinching the saddle in place. He risked taking long enough to saddle one of the other horses. The blonde was starting to make angry noises now as her wits returned to her. Ignoring the burning pain in his wounded ear, Palmer scooped her up and put her on one of the saddled horses.

“Don’t cause any fuss or I’ll kill you,” he warned.

She tried to kick him. Palmer dodged it and reached up to punch her in the belly. As the woman groaned and bent over, he used one of the picket ropes to tie her already-bound wrists to the saddle horn.

Now if she didn’t cooperate, she would fall off the horse and probably get dragged to death. So if she knew what was good for her, she would do what she was told.

All too aware that he was working against time, Palmer slung some supplies onto the pack animals, then jerked the other ropes loose, freeing the rest of the horses. An eerie silence hung over the night now that the shooting had stopped.

Where was the old man?

That question was answered just as Palmer picked up his rifle. A shot roared from somewhere close by. Palmer heard the bullet sizzle past his head. He swung around and opened fire, cranking off three rounds from the Winchester as fast as he could work the lever.

Stevens, who had reared up in the grass after crawling back to the camp, went over backward as at least one of the bullets ripped into him. The gun in his hand went off again, but it was pointed toward the stars now as he fell.

Palmer didn’t waste any more time. He leaped onto the other saddled horse, grabbed the reins of the horse carrying the blonde, and kicked his mount into a gallop. Together they thundered away from the campsite, scattering the other horses in the process. He rode close enough to one of the pack horses to reach over and grab its reins as well.

Palmer left the camp and his enemies behind him. He knew all three of the men were hurt, but he didn’t know how badly. All of them might be dead. He hoped fervently that was the case.

But even if they weren’t, they were set afoot now, while he had horses, supplies, guns … and a hostage, if he needed one.

Best of all, if he could get his hands on those chests of gold; now he wouldn’t have to split that fortune with anybody.

A grin stretched across Palmer’s face as he galloped through the night. Things were finally starting to go his way again.

Frank couldn’t hold back a groan as awareness seeped back into his brain. Thundering pain filled his skull.

If anybody was watching him, he had already betrayed the fact that he was regaining consciousness. He managed to lift a hand and touched the side of his head where the pain seemed to be centered. The sticky wetness he felt there was unmistakably blood.

But he was alive, and this was hardly the first time he’d been shot. He realized that the bullet that had come out of the night had barely creased him. Just a little hot lead kiss on the side of the head that had knocked him down and out for a while.

How long? he wondered.

Probably not that long, judging by the smell of burned powder that still hung in the air. The fight seemed to be over, though. No shots rang out, no angry yells. Instead everything was quiet and peaceful.

But so was a grave, Frank reminded himself.

He pushed himself up in a sitting position and looked around. A wave of dizziness went through him as the world seemed to spin in the wrong direction for a moment.

That feeling subsided. He was able to orient himself. He saw the ridge about a hundred yards away.

The shot that had felled him had come from the ridge, confirming his hunch that there were at least two bushwhackers. Both of them were probably gone now.

Cold fear for Salty and Meg gripped him. To a lesser extent, he was worried about Reb Russell, too. He looked around, spotted his rifle lying on the ground, and reached over to pick it up. He used the weapon to help lever himself to his feet.

Frank’s iron constitution helped him throw off the effects of being shot, at least for a while. Feeling stronger by the moment, he walked back toward the camp, his face hardening into a grim mask as he thought about what he might find there.

The moon was almost down and the eastern sky was turning gray, heralding the approach of dawn. As Frank came up to the camp, his keen eyes noted that the horses were gone. That came as no surprise to him. The horses could have been what the bushwhackers were after.

He heard a groan, followed by a muttered curse. That led him to a sprawled figure. As the man started to sit up, Frank drew the Colt and leveled it at him.

“Hold it right there, mister.”

“Wha—” The man sounded confused. “Frank?”

The voice belonged to Reb Russell. Not completely sure that Reb hadn’t had something to do with the attack, Frank didn’t lower his gun as he asked, “What happened here?”

“I … I don’t know. Somebody let off a shot from the top of the ridge. I heard him slidin’ down the slope and tried to jump him, but it felt like a mountain landed on my head.” Reb paused. “I’ve got a lump the size of a goose egg on my head! Son of a bitch must’ve pistol-whipped me.”

Frank’s instincts told him Reb was telling the truth, but he was still cautious. “Where’s Meg and Salty?”

Reb looked around. “Meg was with me…. I don’t know about Salty….” Alarm was in his voice as he called, “Meg!” He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the threat of the gun in Frank’s hand. “Meg, where are you?”

Frank was looking around, too. He said, “I don’t think she’s here.”

Reb let out a bitter curse. “The varmint must’ve grabbed her and taken her with him! Where are those damn horses? We gotta get after ‘em!”

“The horses are gone. The bushwhackers either took them or ran them off.”

“But … but … blast it! It’s hard to think straight with my head hurtin’ so much.”

Frank knew the feeling. Despite the pain in his skull, he started walking around the campsite, ranging farther out as he searched for Salty.

He almost tripped over the old-timer. Salty was lying on his side in the tall grass. For a second, Frank was afraid that his friend was dead. Then he heard the strained rasp of Salty’s breath.

Frank holstered his gun and knelt beside Salty. He rolled the old-timer onto his back. Salty groaned.

“Can you hear me, Salty?” Frank groaned. “How bad are you hit?”

“Did you find him?” Reb called. He hurried toward Frank and Salty.

Before Reb could get there, a figure loomed out of the shadows, gun in hand. “Where is he?” the man shouted hoarsely, but he didn’t wait for an answer.

Instead he jerked the trigger, and flame spouted from the revolver’s muzzle.

Chapter 26

Frank’s instincts took over. He twisted around and the gun that rested in his holster seemed to leap into his hand as if by magic. The Colt roared.

At the same time, almost equally as fast on the draw, Reb Russell drew and fired his ivory-handled revolver. His aim was just as true as Frank’s.

The attacker staggered as both bullets punched into his body. The gun he held sagged toward the ground as it went off again, his finger jerking the trigger spasmodically. The slug smacked harmlessly into the dirt.

The revolver slipped out of the man’s fingers and thudded to the ground at his feet. He swayed as he clutched at himself. Blood welled between his fingers.

“Palmer!” he gasped. “My … gold …!”

He pitched forward onto his face.

“Reb, did his first shot hit you?” Frank asked sharply.

“No, it went wild,” Reb replied. Smoke curled from the barrel of the revolver in his fist. The ivory-handled gun might be fancier than the Colt that Frank carried, but obviously it was just as deadly. “I reckon you’re all right, too?”