Reprisal (11 page)

Sam signaled a halt. “Yonder's a fire. Maybe it's Charlie on his way back to the cabin after he ambushed that bastard Frank Morgan.”

“Who the hell else would be out here?” Tony asked as he peered into the snow.

Buster jerked his pistol free, his back to the heavy snowfall. “We gotta be sure, boys,” he said to Sam and Tony. “I've heard stories about Morgan. He ain't no tinhorn, even if he is gettin' on in years. Let's ride up real careful, just to be on the safe side.”

“You worry too much,” Tony said. “Charlie Bowers is as good as they come when a man needs killin'. That's how come Ned sent him back to do the job. Charlie don't miss. He's as good as they get for a bush-whackin' job.”

“All the same,” Sam said, drawing his own Colt .44, “we'll ride up careful. No sense in takin' any chances. It could even be some deer hunter or a traveler. But it pays to be cautious with Morgan followin' your tracks.”

“Remember what Ned told us,” Tony warned. “Frank Morgan is a killer, a professional shootist from way back. He may still have a lot of caution in him.”

“Ned's too worried about Morgan,” Sam declared. “Besides, he's just one man and there's three of us. You ain't giving Charlie enough credit. My money says he planted Morgan in a shallow grave by now.”

“We've got the wind at our backs,” Tony said. “Let's ride around and come at him upwind, whoever the hell he is.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Sam agreed. “If it's Charlie camped down by that creek, we'll recognize him. If it ain't, if it's Morgan, we start shootin' until that sumbitch is dead.”

“Morgan's already dead,” Sam said. “The only thing worryin' Ned is why Bowers didn't come back to the cabin by dark. Charlie knows his way around these mountains. Maybe all that happened was his stud went lame.”

“I don't like the looks of this, Sam,” Tony said, squirming in his saddle. “There's something about this that don't feel quite right.”

“You're a natural-born worrier, Tony,” Sam said. “If it is Frank Morgan down there by that fire, the three of us will kill him.”

The gunslicks rode south into the snowy night with guns drawn.

Larger flakes of snow had begun to fall, and the howl of the squall winds echoed through the treetops around them.

* * *

“Clarence Rushing is my full name,” Tin Pan said, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “I've been up in these mountains so long that the other gold-panners hung the Tin Pan handle on me. Suits me just fine.”

Frank grinned. “I like Tin Pan. It's a helluva lot easier on the ears.”

“A name don't mean all that much anyhow. I went by Clarence Rushing for thirty years, back in Indiana. I went to college for a spell. Tried to make my living as a printer. But I kept feeling this call to see the high lonesome, these mountains, and a man just ain't happy if he ain't where he feels he belongs. I came out here looking for gold with a sluice box and a tin miner's pan. A few miners took to calling me Tin Pan on account of how much time I spent panning these streams. Hellfire, I didn't mind the new handle. I reckon it suited me. A name's just a name anyhow.”

“You're right about that,” Frank agreed, “unless too many folks get a hankering to see it carved on a grave marker. Then a name can mean trouble.”

“Why would anybody want your name on a headstone, Frank Morgan?”

Frank looked up at the snowflakes swirling into the tiny pine grove where they were camped. “A few years back I made my living with a gun. I never killed a man who didn't need killing, but a man in that profession gets a reputation ... sometimes it's one he don't deserve.”

“You was a gunfighter?”

“For a time. I gave it up years ago. Tried to live peaceful, running a few cows, minding my own business on a little place down south. Some gents just won't leave a man alone when he wants it that way.”

“Sounds like your past caught up to you if you're about to tangle with Ned Pine and his gang.”

“They took my son. Pine, and an owlhoot named Victor Vanbergen, set out to settle old scores against me.”

“Old scores?” Tin Pan asked.

“First thing they done was kill my wife, the only woman I ever loved. Then they found my boy in Durango and grabbed him for a ransom.”

“Damn,” Tin Pan whispered. “That's near about enough to send any man on the prowl.”

“I can't just sit by and let 'em get away with it. I'm gonna finish the business they started.”

“I've heard about this Vanbergen. Word is, he's got a dozen hard cases in his gang. They rob banks and trains. I didn't know they was this far north.”

“They're here. I've trailed 'em a long way.”

“One man won't stand much of a chance against Ned Pine and his boys. They're bad hombres. Same is bein' said about Victor Vanbergen. Have you gone plumb loco to set out after so many gunslicks?”

“Maybe,” Frank sighed, sipping coffee. “My mama always told me there was something that wasn't right inside my head from the day I was born. She said I had my daddy's mean streak bred into me.”

Tin Pan shrugged. “A mean streak don't sound like enough to handle so many.”

“Maybe it ain't, but I damn sure intend to try. I won't let them hold my son for ransom without a fight.”

Tin Pan stiffened, looking at his mule, then to the south and east. “Smother that fire, Morgan. We've got company out there someplace.”

“How can you tell?” Morgan asked, cupping handfuls of snow onto the flames until the clearing was dark.

“Martha,” Tin Pan replied.

“Martha?”

“Martha's my mare mule. She ain't got them big ears on top of her head for decoration. She heard something just now and it ain't no varmint. If I was you I'd fetch my rifle.”

Frank jumped up and ran over to his pile of gear to jerk his Winchester free. He glanced over his shoulder at the old mountain man. “I sure hope Martha knows what she's doing,” he said, hunkered down next to a pine trunk.

“She does,” Tin Pan replied softly. “That ol' mule has saved my scalp from a Ute knife plenty of times.”

Tin Pan pulled his ancient Sharps .52 rifle from a deerskin boot decorated with Indian beadwork. The hunting rifle's barrel was half a yard longer than Frank's Winchester, giving it long range and deadly accuracy.

“But the Utes are all south of here,” Frank insisted, still watching the trees around them.

“They signed the treaty,” Tin Pan agreed. “I don't figure these are Utes. Maybe you're about to get introduced to some of Ned Pine's boys.”

Frank wondered if Ned Pine had sent some of his shootists back to look for Charles Bowers. If that was the case, it would give him a chance to change the long odds against him. It would make things easier.

He crept into the trees, jacking a load into the firing chamber of his Winchester saddle gun.

* * *

“Right yonder,” Sam whispered. “In them pines—only it looks like the fire just went out.”

“Maybe he heard us,” Buster suggested.

“Could be Charlie,” Tony said. “He'd be real careful if he heard a noise.”

“It'd be a helluva thing if us an' Charlie started shootin' at each other in the dark,” Sam said.

“How the hell are we gonna find out if it's him without gettin' our heads shot off?” Buster asked.

“I ain't got that figured yet,” Sam replied. “Let's move in a little closer.”

“I say we oughta spread out,” Tony said.

“Good idea,” Sam agreed. “Tony, you move off to the left a few dozen yards. Buster, you go to the right. Stay behind these trees until we know who it is.”

“Right,” Buster whispered, moving north with his rifle next to his shoulder.

Tony slipped into a thicker stand of pines to the south of the grove where they'd spotted the flames.

Sam inched forward, blinking away snowflakes that got in his eyes. He and his partners were coming upwind, and whoever was camped ahead of them wouldn't hear a sound they made. If it was Charles Bowers who made the campfire, Sam knew he would recognize his bay stallion tied in the trees before any shots were fired.

* * *

Frank spotted a dim shape moving slowly, quietly among the trees. He didn't need a look at the man to know he was up to no good.

He thumbed back the hammer on his rifle, waiting for the man to show himself again.

The heavy roar of a big-bore rifle cracked near the mule and horses.

A shriek of pain filled the night silence. Tin Pan Rushing had hit someone with his Sharps. Frank knew the sound of the old buffalo gun. He was more than a little bit surprised that the mountain man would throw in with him in a fight that wasn't his.

Two muzzle flashes winked in the darkness from trees near the clearing. The crack of both bullets and the fingers of red flame gave Frank a target.

He squeezed off a round at a fading flash of light.

“Son of a bitch!” a deep voice cried.

Frank was ejecting a spent shell, levering another into the Winchester as fast as he could before ducking behind the tree as the voice fell silent.

“Is that you, Charlie?” someone shouted from the trees east of camp.

Now Frank was certain that some of Ned Pine's men had been sent back to look for Charles Bowers.

“Yeah, it's me!” Frank bellowed. “Is that you, Ned?”

“It's Tony. How come there's two of you shootin' at us? You shot Sam an' Buster just now.”

“My cousin Clarence came up from Durango. We met on the trail. We didn't know who it was out there. Come on down to the fire. We've got coffee.”

“That still don't sound like you, Charlie. Did you kill Frank Morgan?”

“Put a hole right through his chest. Sorry about shooting Sam and Buster. Come on down and we'll get the fire going again.”

“Bullshit!” Tony said. “It must be you, Morgan.”

“Morgan's dead, like I told you. I didn't plan on riding up to the cabin in this storm. Me and Clarence shot a wild turkey hen. Walk on down here and have some.”

“You don't sound like Charlie.”

“It's cold. What the hell are you so scared of, Tony?”

“Scared of bein' tricked, and I never heard you make mention of no cousin by the name of Clarence.”

Tin Pan shouted from the far side of the clearing, “I'm Charlie's cousin. I don't know who the hell you are, but you've gotta be crazy to stand out in the cold and snow. We've got coffee and roasted turkey. Come on in.”

A silence followed.

“Let me check on Sam and Buster first. I can hear Buster groanin' over yonder. Ned ain't gonna like it when he finds out you shot down two of us.”

“It's dark,” Frank said, readying his rifle. “How the hell was I supposed to know who it was?”

“You don't sound like Charlie Bowers to me,” Tony said, his voice a bit lower. “I've been ridin' with Charlie for nearly three years. I'd know his voice if I was hearin' it.”

“I'll walk up there and prove it to you,” Frank said. “I can't tell exactly where you are. Show yourself and I'll come up.”

A dark silhouette moved in the wall of snow and pine trunks.

Frank brought his Winchester's sights up, steadying the gun against his shoulder. “I see you now, Tony. Just wait right there for me and we'll see to Sam and Buster.”

He squeezed the trigger. His .44-caliber saddle gun slammed into his shoulder.

The man partly hidden by trees flipped over on his back without making a sound.

“Nice shot, Morgan,” Tin Pan said from his hiding place. “Couldn't have done no better myself.”

Frank stepped around the pine. “It was mighty nice of him to walk out and introduce himself. Some men are so damn stupid, it makes you wonder how they stayed alive long enough to grow out of diapers.”

“One of 'em ain't dead yet,” Tin Pan warned as someone started moaning in the night.

“I'm always real careful,” Frank replied as he headed into the forest.

Tin Pan lit a small railroad conductor's lantern before he followed Frank into the trees. Yellow light and tree trunk shadows wavered across the snow as they walked with their backs to the wind and snow.

“The one that's moanin' is over here,” Tin Pan said, raising his lantern higher to cast more light on the few inches of snow covering the ground.

“I hear him,” Frank said, covering their progress with his Peacemaker.

“Hope he ain't in good enough shape to use his gun,” Tin Pan said.

“He won't be,” Frank assured him.

The first body they came to was a stumpy cowboy wearing a sheepskin coat. He lay in a patch of bloody snow. His chest was not moving.

“This is the feller I shot,” Tin Pan said.

“I got the one who called himself Tony. He's farther to the right. Let's see what the live one has to say,” Frank said with a look to the east. “The other two won't have much when it comes to words. I can hear the last one making some noise. Let's find him first.”

“That'll be Sam or Buster,” Tin Pan remembered.

“I don't give a damn what his name is. I'm gonna make him talk to me, if he's able,” Frank replied, aiming for the groaning sounds.

A dark lump lay in the snow. Frank could hear horses in the trees about a hundred yards away, stamping a hoof now and then, made nervous by the gunshots.

He came to the body of a man lying on his back, his mouth open, a rifle held loosely in his right hand. Blood oozed from his lips onto the flattened hat brim behind his head. The man groaned again.

Frank knelt beside him as Tin Pan held the lantern above his head.

“Howdy, friend,” Frank said.

Buster's pain-glazed eyes moved to Frank's face.

“You ain't Charlie,” he stammered.

“Nope. I sure as hell ain't Charlie. Mr. Bowers and I met back on the trail. I shot him. Put him on his horse headed for Durango. That's fifty hard miles in a storm like this. A man would bet long odds against him making it all that way, in the shape he's in. He's probably dead by now. But I gave him the chance to save his ass ... if he's tough enough to make that ride to Durango.”

“You're . . . Frank Morgan.”

“I am.”

“We thought it was Charlie's fire we seen.”

“You were mistaken. You and your pardners made another big mistake when you tried to jump me. Tony, and some other fella who was with you, are both dead.”

“That'll be Tony and Sam. I told both of 'em we oughta be careful sneaking up on your fire.”

The light from Tin Pan's lantern showed the pain on Buster's face. A bullet hole in his chest leaked blood, and by the amount of blood coming from Buster's mouth, Frank knew the bullet had pierced a lung.

“I need to know about Ned Pine's hideout, and my son, Conrad Browning. Is my boy okay?” Frank asked, his deep voice with an edge to it.

“Ned's gonna kill him . . . but only after he lures you up there so he can kill you.” Buster issued his warning between gasps for air.

“I'm a hard man to kill, Buster. How many men has Pine got with him?”

“Maybe thirteen more. You ain't got a chance, Morgan. If Ned don't get you himself, then Lyle or Slade will. They're guarding your boy. Lyle is as good with a gun as any man on earth. Slade's just as good.” Buster paused and winced. “Jesus, my chest hurts. I can't hardly breathe.” He coughed up blood, shivering, unable to move his limbs.

“How many men are guarding the entrance into the canyon?” Frank asked.

“To hell with you, Morgan. Find out for yourself. See if you don't get killed.”

Frank brought the barrel of the Peacemaker down to Buster's mouth and held the muzzle against his gritted teeth. “I'm only gonna ask you one more time, Buster, and then I'm gonna blow the top of your head off. How many men are guarding the entrance to the canyon?”

Buster stared at the pistol in Frank's hand. “I'm gonna die anyway, 'less you take me to a doctor.”

“Ain't many doctors in these mountains. A few hours ago your pardner, Charlie Bowers, was wanting one real bad. About all I can do for you is put you on your horse and send you toward Durango tonight, like I did Charles Bowers. You feel like you can make a fifty-mile ride?”

“I'll freeze to death, if I don't bleed to death first. I need some whiskey.”

“I've got whiskey in my saddlebags. Good Kentucky sour mash too. Now I'm not saying I'd waste any of it on you, but your chances are better if you tell me what I want to know about who's guarding the entrance to that canyon.”

“Josh. Josh and Arnie are watchin' the canyon from a rock pile at the top.”

“Has Ned or any of the others injured my boy?” Frank tapped Buster's front teeth with his pistol barrel to add a bit of emphasis to his question.

“Ned slapped him around some . . .” Buster broke into another fit of bloody coughing. “Ned's after you. He swore he was gonna kill you. He won't kill your boy until he sees you lyin' dead someplace.”

“Damn,” Tin Pan sighed, balancing his Sharps in the palm of his hand. “That Pine's a rotten bastard, to hold a kid as bait like he is.”

“Gimme ... some of that whiskey, like you promised,” Buster said.

“I didn't promise you anything, Buster,” Frank said, taking his gun away from Buster's teeth. “I only said I had some in my saddlebags. If I poured a swallow down your throat, it'd just leak out onto the snow on account of that big hole in your chest. I think I'll save my whiskey for a better occasion. Be a shame to waste good sour mash on a man who's gonna be dead in a few minutes.”

“You bastard,” Buster hissed.

“I've been called worse,” Frank replied. “But I've never been one to be wasteful. I grew up mighty poor. Pouring whiskey into a dying man is damn sure a waste of the distiller's fine art.”

“Are you just gonna leave me here to die?” Buster croaked, blood bubbling from his lips.

“There's another way,” Frank said.

Buster blinked. “What the hell are you talkin' about, Morgan?”

“I can put a bullet through your brain and you won't be cold or hurt anymore.”

“That'd be murder.”

“Ned and the rest of you killed my wife. That was murder. In case you don't read the Bible, it says to take an eye for an eye.”

“You ain't got no conscience, Morgan. Ned told us you was a rotten son of a bitch.”

“I've got no conscience when it comes to men who kill women and harm kids who can't defend themselves. To tell the truth, killing you and Pine and all of his gang will be a downright pleasure.”

“Jesus . . . you ain't really gonna do it, are you?” Buster whispered.

Frank stood up, holstering his Colt. “I damn sure am unless they give me back my son.”

“Put me on my horse, Morgan. Give me a fightin' chance to live.”

“It don't appear you can sit a horse, Buster, but if you want I can tie you across your saddle.”

Tin Pan shook his head. “Hell, Morgan, this sumbitch is already dead. Leave him where he lays. Have you forgot that him an' his partners just tried to kill you?”

“I'm a forgiving man,” Frank said dryly. “Just because some gunslick tries to take away all you have, or all you're ever gonna have, don't mean you can't show any forgiveness for what he tried to do.” He gazed down at Buster for a time. “Are you truly sorry you tried to kill me?” he asked.

“Hell, no,” Buster spat, still defiant. “If I'd had the right shot at you, it'd be you layin' in this snow with a hole in your guts.”

Frank chuckled, but there was no humor in it. He glanced over at Tin Pan. “See what I mean?” he asked. “We've got a killer here with no remorse. I think I'll just leave him here to die slow. His pardners are already dead. We'll take their horses and deliver 'em to Ned Pine. Send them into that canyon with empty saddles, a little message from me that this fight has just started.”

“It's your fight,” Tin Pan said.

Frank slapped the old mountain man on the shoulder. “I'm glad I had you siding with me. You dropped that outlaw quicker'n snuff makes spit.”

“It was the coffee,” Tin Pan replied. “A man who'll offer a stranger a cup of coffee with brown sugar in it way up in these slopes deserves a helping hand.”

Frank gave Tin Pan a genuine laugh. “Let's fetch their horses down to our picket line. Feel free to take any of their guns you want. Where they're going, they won't be needing a pistol or a rifle.”

Tin Pan grinned. “Reckon we could add a splash of that Kentucky sour mash to the next cup of coffee?”

“You can have all of it you want.”

Buster coughed again, then his feet began to twitch in death throes.

“You see what I was talking about?” Frank asked. “It would have been a waste of good bottled spirits to pour even one drop of it into a dead man.”

* * *

“What makes a printer from Indiana get filled with wanderlust for the mountains?” Frank asked, drinking coffee laced with whiskey after the outlaws' horses had been tied in the trees along with Frank's animals, and the mule.

“Dreamin', I reckon. I saw tintypes of the Rockies and I just knew I had to see 'em for myself.”

“And you planned to pay for it by panning for gold in these high mountain streams?”

“There was a gold rush on back then. Men were finding gold nuggets as big as marbles.”

“But you never found any,” Frank said.

“Not even a flake of placer gold. This country had been panned out by the time I got here. The only other way is to dig into these rocky slopes. I never was much for using a pick and a shovel.”

“So you've turned to trapping?”

“It's a living. I'm happy up here, just me and old Martha for company. I had me a Ute squaw once, only she ran off with a miner who had gold in his purse.”

“I owe Martha a sack of corn,” Frank remembered. “She heard this bad bunch sneaking up on us.”

Tin Pan smiled. “Martha earns her keep. She can tote three hundred pounds of cured pelts and she don't ever complain. Once in a while she gets ornery and won't cross a creek if it's up to its banks, but I reckon that just shows good sense.”

“You don't get lonely up here?”

“Naw. There's a few of us old mountain men still prowling these peaks. We get together once in a while to swap tales and catch up.”

“I think I understand,” Frank told him. “I've got a dog. I call him Dog. He's better company than most humans. I've had him for quite a spell.”

“Same goes for Martha,” Tin Pan said, glancing into the pines where his mule and the horses were tied. “She's right decent company, when she ain't in the mood to kick me if I don't get the packsaddle on just right. ”

Frank chuckled. “I want you to know I'm grateful for you helping me with those gunmen.”

Tin Pan gave him a steady gaze. “You're takin' on too much, Morgan, tryin' to go after thirteen more of 'em all by your lonesome.”

“I don't have much of a choice. They're holding my son hostage. I can't turn my back on it.”

“Maybe you do have a choice,” Tin Pan said after he gave it some thought.

“How's that?”

“I might just throw in with you to help get that boy of yours away from Ned Pine. I ain't no gunfighter, but I can damn sure shoot a rifle. If I find a spot on the rim of that canyon, I can take a few of 'em down with my Sharps.”

“It isn't your fight,” Frank said. “But I'm grateful for the offer anyhow.”

“I've been in fights that wasn't mine before,” Tin Pan declared. “Let me study on it some. I'll let you know in the morning what I've decided to do. I'd have to ask Martha about it. She don't like loud noises, like guns.”