William Johnstone - Winter Kill

Conway’s gun fell silent before Frank got there. The young man’s revolver was empty. As bullets whipped around him, Frank left his feet in a dive that carried him into the cover of the outcropping. The snow softened the impact of his landing a little, but it still jolted him.

As soon as he had grabbed a deep breath, he raised himself enough to fire over the rocks with the Winchester. Conway was off and running again, this time heading for some trees about twenty yards to Frank’s right. He made it and knelt behind one of the trunks, waving his gun to indicate that it was reloaded and he was ready to cover Frank again.

As Conway began firing, Frank started running again, veering toward some trees to his left. This stand of pines ran all the way to the top of the hill. If he could reach them, they could give him all the cover he needed to make it the rest of the way. A bullet tugged at the tail of his sheepskin coat, but that was as close as any of Smith’s men came with their shots before Frank ran into the trees.

They kept trying for him anyway. He heard slugs thudding into the trunks and rattling through the branches. Moving fast in a crouching run, he ignored the danger.

Before he reached the top of the hill, the shooting stopped and he heard shouts. He thought he caught the word “Go!” and realized that the bushwhackers might be withdrawing…and taking the women with them. That made his lips draw back from his teeth in an angry grimace. Once again, the women he had promised to protect were being kidnapped.

Somebody was going to pay for this.

When he reached the top of the hill, he could see that he was right. Five sleds were drawing off into the distance, three of theirs plus two more. One sled had been left behind, but the team had been cut loose and the dogs were following the other sleds, barking crazily. He didn’t see Dog anywhere, or any of the women.

Bart Jennings, though, lay facedown in the snow next to what appeared to be the body of another man.

Frank stepped out of the trees and shouted to Conway, “Pete, they’re gone! Get back down there and build that fire for Salty! Now!”

They had to save the old man’s life. Chances were, they would need his help if they were going to rescue the women.

Holding the Winchester ready in case the bushwhackers had left anybody behind to make a try for him, Frank hurried to Jennings’s side. He dropped to a knee, grabbed the man’s shoulder, and rolled him onto his back.

There was a large crimson stain on the snow where Jennings had been lying.

After seeing how much blood Jennings had lost, Frank wouldn’t have been surprised if the outlaw was dead. Jennings’s breath rasped in his throat, though, and his chest rose and fell raggedly. Frank moved the parka aside and saw that Jennings had what appeared to be three or four knife wounds in his belly.

Dixon again, Frank thought bitterly. He wished he had shot the little opium addict on sight.

Jennings clutched at his arm. “Who…who…”

“Take it easy, Bart. It’s me, Frank.”

“Oh, my God…I…I’m so sorry, Frank. I tried to fight ’em…When the girls started screamin’, I ran to them as best I could…Meg hollered that she had one of them and for me to help her…I didn’t have to see…I got hold of a man’s throat…I could feel his beard against my hands…I swore to myself I wasn’t gonna let go until…until he was dead…”

Frank glanced at the man who lay nearby on his side. The man had a beard, and his eyes looked like they had popped halfway from their sockets. His face was blue, and his tongue protruded from his mouth.

“You got him, all right, Bart,” Frank said softly. “He’s right here close by, and he’s dead.”

Jennings’s face contorted with pain and grief. “It wasn’t enough,” he choked out. “Meg screamed again…and then I felt this terrible pain in my stomach…again and again…The bastard…cut me to pieces…didn’t he?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Ah…hell. Now I…can’t go with you…help you save those girls…You’re gonna save ’em…aren’t you, Frank?”

“You can count on it,” Frank promised.

“I know you will…Frank, pull that rag…off my eyes…would you?”

“Sure.” Gently, Frank worked the strip of cloth up onto Jennings’s forehead, uncovering his injured eyes. “Can you see anything, Bart?”

A smile suddenly wreathed the dying outlaw’s face. “Yeah!” he said. “I can see…my ma…and my brothers…and…and…my wife…”

His final breath came out of him in a long sigh. His eyes continued to stare sightlessly at the blue Alaskan sky. With a grim look on his face, Frank reached out and closed those dead eyes.

Then he stood and looked down the hill, seeing a thin column of smoke rising from somewhere along the creek bank. Conway had gotten a fire going to thaw out Salty, as Frank had told him to do. Leaving Jennings where he was, Frank started down the slope toward the others.

They had some planning to do.

Chapter 27

“Here’s the thing,” Salty was saying an hour later. “They didn’t head back toward Skagway. It looks to me like they’re headin’ for an old sourdough’s cabin a couple o’ miles or so east o’ here. It’s the only thing in that direction ’cept some mountains that you can’t get through.”

Conway frowned in confusion. “If they’re Smith’s men, why aren’t they taking the women back to Skagway? That’s why he sent them after us, isn’t it? To get the women?”

The three men were standing near the spot of the brief battle. A mound of rocks marked the place where Bart Jennings’s body lay, wrapped in a blanket that had been tied securely around him. It was the best they could do in the way of a burial, at least right now. Salty had suggested that someone could come back in the spring, when the ground had thawed out, and see to it that Jennings was laid to rest properly. Jennings might not have redeemed himself completely from the life he had led as an outlaw, but at least he had made a good start on it. That was more than some men ever did, Frank thought.

There were two more bodies still lying in the open: the man Jennings had choked to death and another of the bushwhackers, who had been mauled by Dog. They had found that one in the edge of the trees. The bodies would be left for the wolves. It was a hard fate, but they had brought it on themselves by going to work for a murderous snake like Soapy Smith.

Frank was still convinced that Smith was behind the attack, even though the bushwhackers hadn’t started straight back to Skagway with their prisoners. In reply to Conway’s question, he said, “Smith didn’t send them after us. He sent them ahead of us.”

Salty was wrapped up tightly in a thick fur robe to help ward off a chill. He looked at Frank and exclaimed, “Doggone it if you ain’t right! That’s how come you never spotted ’em when you checked our back trail.”

Conway shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Smith had those men leave Skagway the night before we did, after the attacks at the hotel and the livery stable didn’t pan out,” Frank explained. “Most of them, anyway. I’m convinced that Dixon was with them, but he could have circled around us and caught up to them later with more orders from Smith. Smith knew where we were going and knew the route we’d be taking, so he put his men in front of us to watch for a good opportunity to jump us and grab the women. They must have been hidden in the trees. When they saw Salty fall through the ice and Pete and I rushed down there to help him, they figured that was their chance.”

“Then it’s my fault, gol-durn it,” Salty said bitterly. “I knowed it was early in the season for Eight Mile to be froze over solid, but I figured it’d save us some time if we could cross here, instead o’ havin’ to sidetrack a couple o’ miles. And the ice was good an’ sturdy on this side, too. It played out ’fore I got across, though. If it wasn’t for Dog, I don’t reckon I’d’ve ever come up.” Salty shook his head. “Hope the critter’s all right.”