Reprisal (10 page)

“You're a sneaky bastard, Morgan,” Charles Bowers said, lying in a patch of bloody snow, his shoulder leaking crimson onto the snowfall. “Nobody ever snuck up on me like that before.”

“There's first times for everything. Tell me where they took my boy and who has him. The trail split a few miles back and I need to know what tracks to follow. Don't lie to me or I'll finish you off right here. A bullet in the right place will send you to eternity. Where the hell are they taking my son?”

“Ned and his bunch have got him.”

“Where's Victor Vanbergen?”

“They turned toward the river, to throw off any pursuit if you or some posse from Durango was getting too close. Ned's being real careful about this, and so is Vanbergen. They know about your old reputation.”

“Conrad's with Pine?”

“Yeah. Sam and Buster and Josh too. Mack and Curtis are ridin' rear guard. Arnie and Scott rode on ahead to get the cabin ready. They figured you'd be behind them all the way, once you picked up their trail, Hell they're expecting you to show up.”

“The cabin? What cabin?”

“It's an old hideout. Sits beside Stump Creek at the edge of the badlands. Way back in a box canyon. Ned's gonna send somebody back to Durango to tell you where the ransom money is supposed to be dropped off.”

“Ned Pine's gotta be crazy. He knows I don't have that kind of money. Hell, all I'm gonna do is kill him and every one of his sidekicks.”

Charles winced when the pain in his shoulder worsened. “It ain't gonna be as easy as you make it sound. They don't figure you've got big money. All Ned and Victor aim to do is kill you when you show up. They've got grudges against you from way back, and they won't rest easy 'til you're dead. Like I told you, it ain't gonna be easy gettin' close to 'em. They're gonna be ready for you.”

“Depends,” Frank said, squatting near Bowers.

“Depends on what?”

Frank chuckled mirthlessly. “On how mad I am when I get to that cabin.”

“There's too many of 'em, Morgan. One of them will get you before you reach the kid. Ned Pine's about as good with a gun as any man I ever saw. He's liable to kill you himself, if the others don't beforehand.”

“I wish him all the luck,” Frank said. “I've been trying to quit the gunfighter's trade for several years. Then some bastard comes along like Ned Pine, or Vick Vanbergen, and they won't let it rest. But I can promise you one thing.” Frank stared off at graying skies holding a promise of evening snow, a winter squall headed into the mountains.

“What's that, Morgan?”

Frank glared down at Bowers. “I'll kill every last one of them. I been getting some practice lately, and I can damn sure take down Ned Pine and his boys. One at a time, maybe, but I'll damn sure do it. Vanbergen don't worry me at all. He's yellow. He won't face me with a gun.”

“Everybody says The Drifter is past his prime, Morgan. I've heard it for years. You got too old to make it in this profession and folks know it.”

“Maybe I am too old. Ned Pine and his owlhoots are about to test me, and then we'll see if old age has caught up to me. We'll know when this business is finished. It depends on who walks away.”

“You damn sure don't act scared,” Bowers hissed, clenching his teeth when more pain shot from his shoulder. “Ned claims you ain't got the nerve you used to have, back when you made a name for yourself. Hell, that was more 'n twenty years ago, according to Ned.”

Frank chuckled again. “I ain't scared. Never met a man I was afraid of ... leastways not yet.”

“You gonna leave me here to die?” Bowers asked.

“Nope. I'm gonna take your guns and put you on that stolen stud. I'll tie your bandanna around your shoulder so you don't lose too much blood. It'll be up to you to find your way out of these mountains and canyons. I'm giving you a fifty-fifty chance to make it out of here alive. It's better odds than I aimed to give you.”

“But I'm hurtin' real bad. I don't know if I can sit a saddle.”

Frank shrugged, standing up with the ambusher's rifle cradled in his arm. “Better'n being dead, son. I'll fetch your horse and help you into the saddle.”

“But Durango's fifty miles from here, across rough country to boot.”

Frank halted on his way into the trees. “I can put you out of your misery now, if that's what you'd prefer. A slug right between the eyes and you won't feel a damn thing. You'll just go to sleep.”

“You'd murder a man in cold blood?”

“Wasn't that what you were tryin' to do to me?”

Bowers laid his head back against a rotted tree trunk. “I reckon I'm obliged for what you're gonna do ... I just ain't all that sure I'm gonna make it to town.”

“Life don't have many guarantees, Bowers,” Frank said. “You got one chance to make it. Stay in your saddle and aim for Durango. Otherwise, you're gonna be buzzard food. Hold on real tight to that saddle horn and if you know how to pray, you might try a little of that too.”

* * *

He brought the bay stud back to the clearing. Bowers lay with his head on the rotten log, groaning softly, his shoulder surrounded by red snow.

“Sit up, Bowers,” Frank demanded. “I'm gonna tied a bandanna around your shoulder.”

“Jesus, my shoulder hurts,” Bowers complained. “I don't think I can make it plumb to Durango.”

“Suit yourself,” Frank said. “You can lie here and bleed to death, or you can sit that horse and test your luck riding out of these mountains.”

“You're cold-blooded, Morgan.”

“I'm supposed to stop looking for my son long enough to help a no-good son of a bitch who was trying to ambush me?” he asked, his face turning hard. “You'd have left me for dead if you'd gotten off the first shot. Don't preach me any sermons about what a man's supposed to do.”

“I ain't gonna make it,” Bowers whimpered. “I've lost too much blood already.”

“Then just lie there and go to sleep,” Frank said. “It won't take too long. First, you'll get real cold. The chills will set in. Then you won't be able to keep your eyes open. In an hour or two, you'll doze off. That'll be about all you can remember.”

“Damn, Morgan. You could take me to the closest doctor if you wanted.”

“I don't have the inclination, Bowers. You and the man you work for have taken my son. He's eighteen years old. You want me to cough up a big ransom, more money than there is in the whole territory of Colorado, only you know I can't pay it. Ned Pine and the rest of you figured you'd lure me into a death trap, only I've got news for Ned. A death trap works two ways. The man who lays it can get killed just as easy as the bait he's tryin' to lure into it. Pine and Vanbergen are about to find out how it works.”

“Help me on that horse, Morgan.”

“I said I would. I'll tie a rag around your wound so the hole in you won't leak so bad.”

“You got any whiskey?”

“Sure do. A pint of good Kentucky sour mash, only I ain't gonna waste any of it on you. It's gonna get cold tonight. I figure it's gonna snow. The whiskey I've got is gonna help me stay warm. I don't give a damn if you get froze stiff before you get back to Durango.”

“You ain't got no feelings, Morgan.”

“Not for trash like you. Nothing on earth worse than a damn bushwhacker.”

“It's what Ned told me to do.”

“Then ask Ned or Victor for some of their whiskey. Mine is staying in my saddlebags.”

“I ain't gonna make it plumb to Durango,” Charles said again as he tried to sit up.

“I'll notify your next of kin that you tried as hard as you could,” Frank said, pulling off Bowers's bandanna. “Now sit up straight and pull off your coat so I can tie this around that shoulder as tight as I can.”

“It damn sure hurts,” Bowers said, sliding his mackinaw off his damaged arm.

“A shame,” Frank told him. “Seems like they ought to make a slug that don't cause any pain when it takes a rotten bushwhacker down. No sense in hurting a dirty back-shooter any more than it's absolutely necessary.”

* * *

Frank hoisted Charles Bowers into the saddle, his mackinaw covering the bandage he had made for his shoulder wound. As the sun lowered in the west, spits of snow began to fall.

“Tell me where I find Stump Creek,” Frank said. “Then direct me to the cabin.”

“Stump Creek is due west... maybe ten more miles across this bunch of ravines. When you get to the first creek, you swing north. Stump Creek winds right up in that canyon where the cabin is hid.”

“If there isn't any cabin or any creek, I'm gonna come looking for you,” Frank warned.

“It's there. They're both there. When you get to the canyon they'll have a guard or two posted high on them rock walls on either side. Watch your ass.”

“I always do. Now you'd best head for Durango. It'll take you all night to make the ride.”

“It's snowin', Morgan. How about just one sip of the sour mash?”

“I already told you . . . I don't waste good whiskey on back-shooters. Besides, you've got a leak in your arm. Why let good whiskey spill out on the ground?”

“You're a bastard, Morgan.”

“Maybe so. But I'm still alive. Unless you get to Durango by sunrise, the same can't be said for you. Keep that horse aimed southeast. Don't let go of the saddle horn. If you're as tough as you say you are, you'll make it.”

“And if I don't? What if I freeze to death?”

“You'll make a good meal for the coyotes and wolves. Now get riding.”

“How 'bout giving me back my rifle. I may need it if the wolves get too close. They can smell blood.”

“No deal. You used it to take a shot at me. What's to keep you from trying it again?”

“You've got my word, Morgan. All I'm trying to do is stay alive.”

“Then you'll have to do it without a gun. Heel that horse southeast.”

“I wish I'd have killed you, Drifter.”

Frank gave him a one-sided grin. “Plenty of men have wished the same thing. The trouble is, so far, wishing just hasn't gotten it done.”

Bowers drummed his heels into the bay stallion's sides as more snow pelted down on the clearing.

Frank watched Bowers ride out of sight into the trees. “He'll make it,” Frank muttered, heading for his saddle horse and packhorse with Bowers's rifle in the crook of his arm.

He needed to keep moving until dark, if the weather allowed, until he found Stump Creek. During the night he would give the canyon and the cabin an examination, making plans for the way he would make his approach tomorrow morning.

Snow began to fall in windblown sheets as he mounted his horse and wound the lead rope on his packhorse around his saddle horn.

He turned northwest. “I'm coming, Pine,” he said, tilting his hat brim to block the snow. “Conrad damn sure better be in good shape when I get there.”

It had been years since Frank Morgan went on the prowl to kill a man, or several of them. He'd tried to put his killing days behind him.

“Some folks just won't let it alone . . . won't let it rest,” he told himself.

He had no doubts that he could kill Ned Pine, or Victor Vangergen, and their gangs. It would take some time to get it done carefully.

The soft patter of snowflakes drummed on his hat brim and coat. He thought about Conrad, hoping the boy was okay. A kid his age had no way to prepare for the likes of Pine and Vanbergen in these more modern times. But back when Frank was a boy, the country was full of them.

“I'm on my way, son,” he whispered, as a wall of white fell in front of him. “Just hang on until I get there. I promise I'll make those bastards pay for what they've done to you.”

Frank's shoulders were hunched into the wind, the collar of his mackinaw turned up, the brim of his hat pulled down against a building wall of snow.

“Just my luck,” he muttered, guiding his horse up a snowy ridge, leading his packhorse. “Even the weather's turned against me.”

But with Conrad's life on the line, no amount of hardship would turn him aside. The boy couldn't take care of himself against a gang of white-trash gunslingers. But Frank still had it in him to fill an outlaw's body with lead . . . old age hadn't robbed him of the skill. Or the speed.

All that mattered now was finding Conrad, and getting him away from Ned Pine and his shootists. Conrad would be no match for them.

“Hell, he's only eighteen,” Frank said into the wind as more snow pelted him.

His first objective was to find a stream called Stump Creek and then ride north along its banks. If Bowers hadn't been telling him the truth about the outlaw gang's hideout, he would track him down and kill him . . . if the weather and a shoulder wound didn't get Bowers first before he got to Durango.

Crossing the ridge, Frank spotted an unexpected sight, an old mountain man leading a mule.

“Seems harmless enough. Most likely an old trapper or a grizzly hunter.”

Most of the old-time mountain men were gone now. Times had changed.

To be on the safe side, Frank opened his coat so he could reach for his Colt Peacemaker. His Winchester was booted to his saddle, just in case a fight started at longer range, although he didn't expect any such thing. The old man in deerskins was minding his own business, leading his mule west into the storm with his head lowered.

The mountain man wearing the coonskin cap heard Frank's horses coming down the ridge. He stopped and watched Frank ride toward him, the mountain man's right hand near a belted pistol at his waist. He was out in the open, dozens of yards from any cover. He crouched a little, like he was ready for action.

“No need to pull that gun, stranger!” Frank called. “I mean you no harm.”

The gray-bearded man grinned. “Hell of a thing, to be caught out in this squall. Don't see many travelers in these parts, mister.”

“The name's Frank Morgan. I'm looking for Stump Creek, and a cabin north of here in a box canyon.”

The mountain man scowled. “What in tarnation would you want with the old robbers' roost? Are you on the dodge from the law someplace?”

“Nope . . . leastways not around here. A gang of cutthroats led by a jasper named Ned Pine has taken my eighteen-year-old son as hostage. I aim to get my boy back.”

“Ol' Ned Pine,” the trapper said, his mule loaded with game traps and cured beaver skins. “I'd be real careful if I was you. Pine is a killer. So are the boys who run with him. They ain't no good, not a one of 'em.”

“Like I said, my son is their prisoner. I'm gonna kill every last one of them if I have to. I need directions to that creek, and the cabin.”

The mountain man cocked his head. “Ain't one man tough enough to get that job done, Morgan. I know all about Pine and his hoodlums. They'll kill a man for sneezin' if he gets too close to 'em. Maybe you oughta rethink what you're plannin' to do before it gets you killed. There could be as many as a dozen of 'em.”

Frank nodded. “I'll think on it long and hard, mister, but I'd be obliged if you'd point me in the direction of Stump Creek and that hideout.”

“Keep movin' northwest. You'll hit the creek in about ten miles. Turn due north and follow the creek into the canyon where Stump Creek has its headwaters.”

“I'm grateful. Names don't mean all that much out here, but you can give me your handle if you're so inclined.”

“Tin Pan is what I go by. Spent years pannin' these streams lookin' for color. Never found so much as a single nugget, but there's plenty of beaver pelts to be had.”

“Appreciate the information, Tin Pan. I won't make it to the creek until it's nearly dark. If you're of a mind to share a little coffee and fatback with a stranger, you can look for my fire.”

“Might just do that, Morgan. It gets a mite lonely out on these slopes. Besides, I'm plumb out of coffee. Been out for near a month now. But I've got a wild turkey hen we can spit on them flames tonight. Turkey an' fatback sounds mighty good, if it comes with coffee.”

“You'll be welcome at my fire, Tin Pan. I'm headed west and north until I hit the creek. I'll have a pot of coffee on by the time you get there leading that mule.”

“I can cover more ground than most folks figure. A mule has got more gumption than a horse when the weather gets bad. I'll be there . . . pretty close behind you, unless I get a shot at a good fat deer. It'll take me half an hour to gut him and skin him proper.”

Tin Pan had a Sharps booted to the packsaddle on his mule. There was something confident about the way the old man carried himself.

“Venison goes good with coffee,” Frank said. He gazed into the snowstorm. “The only thing I've got to be careful about is having Ned Pine or a member of his gang spot my campfire. I may have to find a spot sheltered by trees to throw up my canvas lean-to. I don't want them to know I'm coming.”

Tin Pan shook his head. “Not in this snow. The cabin you talked about is miles up the creek anyhow. Only a damn fool would be out in a storm like this. I reckon that makes both of us damn fools, don't it?”

Frank chuckled. “Hard to argue against it. I'll find that creek and get a fire and coffee going. It's gonna be pitch dark in an hour or two. I need to find the right spot to hide my horses and gear from prying eyes.”

“You won't have no problems tonight, Morgan,” Tin Pan said. “But if it stops snowin' before sunrise, you'll have more than a passel of troubles when the sun comes up. A man on a horse sticks out like a sore thumb in this country after it snows, if the sun is shinin'. That's when you'll have to be mighty damn careful.”

“See you in a couple of hours,” Frank said, urging his horse forward. “Just thinking about a cup of hot coffee and a frying pan full of fatback has got my belly grumbling.”

“I'll be there,” the mountain man assured him. “Sure hope you got a lump of sugar to go with that coffee.”

“A bag full of brown sugar,” Frank said over his shoulder as he rode down the ridge.

“Damn if I ain't got the luck today,” Tin Pan cried as Frank rode out of sight into a stand of pines at the bottom of a steep slope.

Frank rode directly into the snowfall, his hands and face numbed by the cold. The outlaws' trail would be gone in an hour or less, with so much snow falling. He'd have to rely on the information Bowers and the mountain man gave him.

* * *

His horses were tied in a pine grove. Frank huddled over a small fire, begging it to life by blowing on what little dry tinder he could find.

Stump Creek lay before him, a name he supposed the stream had earned due to the work by a beaver colony. All up and down the creek's banks, stumps from gnawed-down trees dotted the open spots.

The clear creek still flowed, with only a thin layer of ice on it. It was easy to break through to get enough water to fill his coffeepot.

He poured a handful of scorched coffee beans into the pot and set it beside the building flames. Surrounding the fire pit with a few flat stones, he had cooking surfaces on which he could place his skillet full of fatback.

If Tin Pan found his camp, it would be easy enough to rig a spit out of green pine limbs and skewer hunks of turkey onto sticks above the fire. Just thinking about a good meal made him hurry.

In a matter of minutes the sweet aroma of boiling coffee filled the clearing in the pines. Frank warmed his hands over the flames, letting his thoughts drift back to Conrad, and Ned Pine's gunslicks.

“I swear I'm gonna kill 'em,” he said to himself. “They better not have done any harm to my boy or I'll make 'em die slow.”

His saddle horse raised its head, looking east with its ears pricked forward.

“That'll be the old mountain man,” Frank said, standing up to walk to the edge of the pine grove. An experienced mountain man Tin Pan's age would be able to follow the scent of his fire from miles away.

Frank looked up at the darkening sky. Swirls of snowflakes fell on the pine limbs around him.

“I'll need to rig my lean-to,” he mumbled. “No telling how much it'll snow tonight.

“Hello, the fire!” a distant voice shouted.

“Come on in!” Frank replied. “Coffee's damn near done boiling!”

“I smelt it half an hour ago, Morgan!”

He saw the shape of Tin Pan leading his mule down to the creek through a veil of snow. It would be good to have a bit of company tonight. He was sure the old man had a sackful of stories about these mountains. Maybe even some information about the hideout where Ned Pine was holding Conrad.

Frank buttoned his coat and turned up the collar; then he picked up more dead pine limbs to add to the fire. But even as the prospects of good company and a warm camp lay foremost in his mind he couldn't shake the memory of Conrad and the outlaw bastards who held him prisoner.

* * *

“Damn, that's mighty good,” Tin Pan said, palming a tin cup of coffee for its warmth, with two lumps of brown sugar to sweeten it.

“I've got plenty,” Frank told him. “I provisioned myself at Durango.”

Tin Pan's wrinkled face looked older in light from the flames. “I been thinkin',” he said. Then he fell silent for a time.

“About what?” Frank asked.

“Ned Pine. Your boy. That hideout up in the canyon where you said they was hidin'.”

“What about it?”

“It's mighty hard to get into that canyon without bein' seen, unless you know the old Ute trail.”

“The Utes cleared out of this country years ago, after the army got after them,” Frank recalled.

“That still don't keep a man from knowin' the back way into that canyon,” Tin Pan said.

“There's a back way?”

Tin Pan nodded. “An old game trail. When these mountains were full of buffalo, the herds used it to come down to water in winter.”

“Can you tell me how to find it?”

Tin Pan shook his head. “I'd have to show it to you. It's steep. A man who don't know it's there will ride right past it without seein' a thing.”

Frank sipped scalding coffee, seated on his saddle blanket near the fire. “I don't suppose you'd have time to show me where it was.”

“I might. You seem like a decent feller, and you've sure got your hands full, trying to take on Ned Pine and his bunch of raiders.”

“I could pay you a little something for your time,” Frank said.

Tin Pan hoisted his cup of coffee. “This here cup of mud will be enough.”

“Then you'll show me that trail?”

“Come sunrise, I'll take you up to the top of that canyon. I've got some traps I need to set anyhow.”

“I'd be real grateful. My boy is only eighteen. He won't stand a chance against Pine and his ruffians.”

“Don't get me wrong, Morgan. I ain't gonna help you fight that crowd. But I'll show you the back way down to the floor of the canyon. They won't be expectin' you to slip up on 'em from behind.”

“I've got an extra pound of coffee beans. It's yours if you'll show me the trail.”

“You just made yourself a trade, Mr. Morgan. A pound of coffee beans will last me a month.”

“It's done, Tin Pan,” Frank said, feeling better about things now. “I'm gonna pitch my lean-to while the fatback is cooking.”

Tin Pan grinned. “I'll cut some green sticks for the hen I shot this morning. A man can't hardly ask for more'n turkey and fatback, along with sweet coffee.”