Reprisal (14 page)

Frank watched from hiding as Ned Pine brought Conrad out of the cabin with a gun under his chin. The boy's hands were tied in front of him. Swirling snow kept Frank from seeing the boy clearly.

Five more members of the gang brought seven saddled horses around to the front. Frank was helpless. For now, all he could do was watch.

He wondered if Pine would execute his son for the men he'd already lost. But Pine needed a human shield to get him out of the box canyon. He needed Conrad alive. For now.

“Pine will kill Conrad when he hears the first gunshot,” Frank whispered. “I'll have to follow them, and wait until Ned makes a mistake.”

He wondered where they were taking his son. Frank had taken a deadly toll on Pine's gang in a matter of hours, with the help of the old fur trapper.

Frank felt something touch his shoulder, and he whirled around, snaking a pistol from leather. He relaxed and put his Peacemaker away.

“Don't shoot me,” Tin Pan Rushing said softly. “They're clearin' out, as you can see.”

“I've got no choice but to trail them. Maybe Ned will get careless somewhere.”

“Where will they take him?”

“I've got no idea, but wherever it is, I'll be right behind them. I don't know this country.”

“I do,” Tin Pan said. “Been here for nigh onto twenty years.”

“This isn't your problem. I appreciate what you've done for me, but I can handle it from here.”

“I'll fetch one of them dead outlaw's horses from behind the canyon. I'll ride with you.”

“No need, Tin Pan. This isn't your fight.”

“I decided to make it my fight, Morgan. When some ornery bastards are holdin' a man's son hostage, he needs all the help he can get.”

“That was a nice shot from up high a while ago. Couldn't have done any better myself.”

“I was hopin' the wind didn't throw my aim off. But this ol' long gun is pretty damn accurate. I'll collect that horse and unsaddle the others so I can let 'em go. I'll bring your animals around, along with Martha, to the mouth of the canyon soon as they ride out.”

“I'd almost forgotten about your mule.”

“She's got more'n fifty cured beaver pelts tied to her back, and that's a plenty to get me a fresh grubstake before the weather gets warm and the beaver start to lose their winter hair. You might say that's a winter's worth of work hangin' across her packsaddle.”

“Here they come,” Frank said, peering into the snow. “Stay still.”

“No need for you to tell me what to do, Morgan. I know how to make it in this wilderness without being seen. Rest easy on that notion.”

Ned Pine rode at the front with Conrad, Pine's gun still pressed to Conrad's throat. Two more gunmen rode behind Ned and the boy. A third outlaw came from the cabin leading a loaded packhorse.

The last pair of outlaws stayed well behind the others with Winchester rifles resting on their thighs.

“Keepin' back a rear guard,” Tin Pan observed. “If we get the chance, we might be able to jump 'em in this snow. It's hard to see real well.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Frank said. “One way or another, I've got to get rid of Pine's men before I take him on man-to-man.”

“You'll need to pick the right spot and the right time,” Tin Pan reminded him.

“I'm a pretty good hand at that,” Frank told him, moving back into the trees as Pine and his men rode out of the canyon with Conrad as their prisoner.

Snowflakes swirled around the men as they left the canyon and turned east, away from the badlands. Frank was surprised at the direction they took.

* * *

Barnaby Jones parked his rented buggy in Cortez. His drive down from Denver had been brutal and he was sure he'd almost frozen to death. Had it not been for three bottles of imported French sherry, he was certain he wouldn't have made it through this wilderness in a blizzard.

He stopped in front of the sheriffs office and took a wool blanket off his lap before he climbed down from the seat. He removed his gloves. Cortez was a mere spot in the road, a dot on the map he bought in Denver after he got off the train.

“The things I do to get a story,” he mumbled, wondering if his editor at
Harper's Magazine
would appreciate the difficulty he'd gone through.

He entered the sheriffs door without knocking, enjoying the warmth from a cast-iron stove in a corner of the tiny room. A jail cell sat at the back of the place.

A man with a gray handlebar mustache looked up at him with a question on his face. He was seated at a battered rolltop desk with a newspaper in his lap.

“Sheriff Jim Sikes?” Barnaby asked.

“That's me.” The lawman looked him up and down. “Stranger, you ain't dressed for this climate. Didn't anybody tell you it gets cold in Colorado Territory?”

“Yessiree, they did,” Barnaby replied, offering his hand. “I am Barnaby Jones from
Harper's Magazine
in New York. I'm wearing long underwear under my suit.”

“What brings you to Cortez?” the sheriff asked.

Barnaby pulled off his bowler hat. “The United States marshal in Denver told me to look you up. I'm writing a story for my magazine about a retired gunfighter named Frank Morgan, and Marshal Williams said you would know if he's in this part of the country. One of our competitors, the
Boston Globe,
has sent a reporter out here to interview this Mr. Morgan. I'd like to talk to Morgan myself.”

“He ain't in these parts, mister. Marshal Williams is wrong about that. If Morgan was around, I'd know about it. I'd have dead men stacked up here like cordwood.”

Barnaby edged over to the stove, warming his backside as best he could. “I have other information. A writer by the name of Louis Pettigrew from the Globe found out that Morgan is in southwestern Colorado. I'm only a day or two behind Mr. Pettigrew.”

“You're both wrong.”

“How can you be so sure, Sheriff?”

“Like I said, no dead bodies. Maybe you ought to have the wax cleaned out of your ears. I said it real plain the first time.”

“But I
know
he's somewhere close by. Pettigrew left the day before I did. He rented a horse in Denver and came down here. Something about Morgan's son being a prisoner of some outlaw gang.”

“We've got a few outlaws,” Sheriff Sikes said. “Some of 'em are in town right now. Victor Vanbergen and his bunch of toughs are down at the Wagon Wheel, but they haven't caused any trouble. I think they're just passing through.”

“I never heard of Victor Vanbergen. Who is he?”

“A bank robber. A thief and a killer. But so long as he don't cause no trouble in my town, I'm leaving him and his boys alone.”

Barnaby reached inside his heavy wool coat, taking out a few papers. “Who is Ned Pine?”

“A hired gun. Worse than Vanbergen. He heads up one of the old outlaw gangs in this part of the West, but the last I heard of him he was down south. Texas, I think.”

“Mr. Pettigrew of the
Boston Globe
believes he's here, and that he has Frank Morgan's son as a hostage.”

“It's news to me,” Sheriff Sikes remarked. “I'd have had something over the telegraph wire by now if Ned Pine and his men were close by.”

Barnaby shook his head. “I still think I have good information about Pine. And Morgan.”

Sikes went back to reading his paper. “You're welcome to look around Cortez,” he said, a hint of impatience in his hoarse voice. “But Morgan ain't here, and neither is Pine. Vanbergen just showed up today. I judge he'll be gone by tomorrow if this snow lets up.”

“Where can I hire a room for the night?” Barnaby asked. “And I need a place to stable my buggy horse.”

“Ain't but one hotel in town, the Cortez Hotel. It's just down the street. You can't miss it.”

“Have I come too late to buy dinner?”

“Mary over at the cafe might have some stew left. She's about to close, so I'd hurry if I was you.”

“Thank you, Sheriff. I'm thankful for the information you gave me.”

“You're wasting your time in Cortez looking for Ned Pine or Frank Morgan. We don't get many of the real bad hard cases in this town. They usually pass right on through, if the weather's decent.”

Barnaby put on his hat and walked out the door. The wind had picked up after sundown, and bits of ice and snow stung his cheeks as he climbed back in his snow-covered buggy.

* * *

Frank sat his horse, watching Ned Pine and his men ride across a snow-covered valley.

“He's got those two men covering the back trail,” he said to Tin Pan.

“This snow is mighty heavy, Morgan,” Tin Pan said. “If we ride around 'em and cut off those two gunslingers, we can put 'em in the ground.”

“They're keeping about a quarter mile between them and Ned,” Frank said. “If this snow keeps up, Ned won't notice if I jump in front of them and have them toss down their guns.”

“You ain't gonna kill 'em?”

“Not unless they don't give me a choice.”

“What the hell are you gonna do? Tie the both of them to a tree?”

“I'll show you, if they'll allow it. Follow me and we'll cut them off.”

* * *

Rich Boggs was shivering, nursing a pint of whiskey in the icy wind. “To hell with this, Cabot,” he said. “We're not making a dime messing around with Frank Morgan's kid. I say we cut out of here and head south.”

“Ned would follow us and kill us,” Cabot Bulware replied with a woolen shawl covering his mouth. “This is a personal thing for Ned.”

“I'm freezin' to death,” Rich said.

“So am I,” Cabot replied. “I'm from Baton Rouge. I'm not used to this cold,
mon ami.
”

“To hell with it then,” Rich remarked. “When Ned and Lyle and Slade and Billy ride over that next ridge, let's get the hell out of here.”

“I am afraid of Ned,” Cabot replied. “I do not want to die out here in this snow.”

Rich stood up suddenly in his stirrups and pulled his sorrel to a halt. “Who the hell is that with the rifle pointed straight at us?” he asked Cabot.

“There are two of them,” Cabot replied. “There is another one on foot standing behind that tree, and he also has a rifle aimed at us.”

“Damn!” Rich exclaimed, ready to open his coat and reach for his pistol.

“Climb down, boys,” a deep voice demanded. “Keep your hands up where I can see them.”

“Morgan,” Cabot whispered, although he followed the instructions he'd been given.

“Step away from your horses!”

They did as they were told. Rich could feel the small hairs rising on the back of his neck.

“Take your pistols out and toss 'em down!” another voice said from behind a tree trunk.

Rich threw his Colt .44 into the snow.

Cabot opened his mackinaw carefully and dropped his Smith and Wesson .45 near his feet.

“Get their horses and guns, Tin Pan,” the man holding the rifle said. “I'll keep 'em covered.”

An old man in a coonskin cap came toward them carrying a large-bore rifle. He picked up their pistols and took their horses' reins, leading them off the trail.

“All right, boys,” the rifleman in front of them said. “I've got one more thing for you to do.”

“What the hell is that, mister?” Rich snapped, giving Cabot a quick glance.

“Sit down right where you are and pull off your boots.”

“What?”

“Pull off your damn boots.”

“But our feet'll freeze. We'll get the frostbite.”

“Would you rather be dead?”

“No,” Cabot said softly, sitting down in the snow to pull off his boots.

“We'll die out here without no boots!” Rich complained. “We can't make it in our stocking feet.”

“I can shoot you now,” the rifleman said. “That way, your feet won't be cold.”

Rich slumped to his rump and pulled off his stovepipe boots without further complaint.

“Now start walking,” the rifleman said. “I don't give a damn which direction you go.”

“We will die!” Cabot cried.

The lanky gunman came toward them and picked up their boots without taking his rifle sights off them. “Life ain't no easy proposition, gentlemen,” he said. “Start walking, or I'll kill you right where you sit.”

Darkness came to the snow-clad mountains. Rich Boggs was hobbling toward the cabin at Lost Pine Canyon on seriously frostbitten feet. Cabot Bulware was behind him, using a pine limb for a crutch.

“It ain't much farther,” Rich groaned. “I can see the mouth of the canyon from here.”

“Sacré,
” Cabot said, limping with most of his weight on the crutch. “I be gon' kill that
batard
Morgan if I can get my hands on a horse and a gun.”

“I just wanna get my feet warm,” Rich said. “The way I feel now, I ain't interested in killin' nobody. I think a couple of my toes fell off.”

“Who was the old man with Monsieur Morgan?” Cabot asked. “I hear Ned say Morgan always work alone.”

“Don't know,” Rich replied, his teeth chattering from the numbing cold. “Just some old son of a bitch in a coonskin cap with a rifle.”

“He be dangerous too,” Cabot warned. “I see the look in his eyes.”

“You're too goddamn superstitious, Cabot. He'll die just like any other man if you shoot him in the right place. I can guarantee it.”

“My feet are frozen. I go back to Baton Rouge when I can find a horse. I don't like this place.”

“I ain't all that fond of it either, Cabot,” Rich said as they moved slowly to the canyon entrance. “It was a big mistake to side with Ned on this thing. I never did see how we was gonna make any money.”

“I do not care about money now,” Cabot replied. “All I want is a stove where I can warm my feet.”

“Won't be but another half mile to the cabin,” Rich told him in a shivering voice. “All we've gotta do is get there before our feet freeze off.

“Boots and horses are what we need,” Rich continued. “If they didn't leave our horses in the corral, we're a couple of dead men in this weather.”

“I feel dead now,” Cabot replied. “I don't got feeling at all in either one of my feet.”

* * *

As night blanketed the canyon Rich added more wood to the stove. He and Cabot had dragged the dead bodies outside, but a broken window let in so much cold air that Rich was still shivering. He'd taken the boots off Don Jones's body and forced his feet into them. Cabot was wearing boots and an extra pair of socks that once belonged to Mack.

They'd found two pistols and a small amount of ammunition among the dead men. Ned and the others had taken all the food. Thus Rich was boiling fistfuls of snow in an old coffeepot full of yesterday's grounds.

Five horses were still in the corral, even though the gate was open. They were nibbling from the stack of hay. Thus, there were enough saddles to go around.

“I am going back south in the morning,” Cabot said with his palms open near the stove.

“Me too,” Rich said. “I'm finished with Ned and this bunch of bullshit over gettin' even with Frank Morgan. There's no payday in it for us.”

“I've been dreaming about a bowl of hot crawfish gumbo and hush puppies all afternoon,” Cabot said wistfully. “This is not where I belong.”

“Me either. I'm headed down to Mexico, where it's warm all the time.”

Cabot turned to the broken window where Don had been shot in the face. “What was that noise?” he asked.

“I didn't hear no noise,” Rich replied.

“One of the horses in the corral . . . it snorted, or made some kind of sound.”

“My ears are so damn cold I couldn't hear a thing nohow,” Rich declared. “Maybe it was just your imagination. All I hear is snow fallin' on this roof.”

Then Cabot heard it again.

“Help . . . me!” a faint voice cried.

“That sounded like Jerry's voice,” Cabot said, jumping up with a pistol in his fist.

“I heard it that time,” Rich said, getting up with Mack's gun to open the door a crack.

Rich saw a sight he would remember for the rest of his life. Jerry Page came crawling toward them on his hands and knees in the snow, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

Rich and Cabot rushed outside to help him.

“Morgan,” Jerry gasped. “Morgan came up on the rim and stuck a knife in me. He killed . . . Roger. Cut his throat with the same Bowie knife.”

“We'll take you in by the fire,” Cabot said as he took one of Jerry's shoulders.

“I'm froze stiff,” Jerry complained, trembling from weakness and cold. “I'm bleedin' real bad. You gotta get me to a doctor real quick.”

“We can't go nowhere in this snowstorm,” Rich said as they helped the wounded man into the cabin. “It'll have to wait for morning.”

“I'm dyin',” Jerry croaked. “You gotta help me. Where's Ned?”

“Ned and the others pulled out. We ran into Morgan too. He took our boots and guns and horses. We damn near froze to death gettin' back here.”

They placed Jerry on a blanket beside the stove and covered him with a moth-eaten patchwork quilt.

“Morgan,” Jerry stuttered. “He ain't human. He's like a mountain lion. Me an' Roger never heard a thing until he was on top of us.”

“We figured there was trouble when neither one of you came back,” Rich said bitterly. “Morgan killed most of the others. Only Lyle, Slade, Billy, and Ned made it out of here alive.”

“What happened . . . to Morgan's kid?”

“Ned had a gun to his head,” Rich recalled.

“That's the . . . only way it's gonna stop,” Jerry moaned as he put a hand over the deep knife wound between his ribs. “Ned's gotta let that boy go.”

“Ned's gone crazy for revenge. He won't stop until he kills Morgan.”

“Morgan . . . will ... kill him first,” Jerry assured them. “I need a drink of whiskey. Anything.”

“We're boilin' old coffee grounds,” Rich said. “There ain't no whiskey. Ned and the others took it all with them when we pulled out of here.”

“Water,” Jerry whispered, his ice-clad eyelids fluttering as if he was losing consciousness. “Gimme some water. Morgan's gonna kill us all unless Ned . . . lets that boy go.”

“You know Ned,” Cabot said, pouring a cup of weak coffee for Jerry, steaming rising from a rusted tin cup. “He won't listen to reason.”

“I'm gonna die . . . way up here in Colorado,” Jerry said as his eyes closed. “I sure as hell wish I was home where I could see my mama one more time . . .”

Jerry's chest stopped moving.

“Don't waste that coffee,” Rich said. “Jerry's on his way back home now.”

Cabot stared into the cup. “This is not coffee,
mon ami.
It is only warm water with a little color in it.”

* * *

Ned paced back and forth as a fire burned under a rocky ledge in the bend of a dry streambed.

“Where the hell is Rich and Cabot?” he asked, glancing once at Conrad, bound hand and foot beneath the outcrop where the fire flickered. It was dark, and still snowing, though the snowfall had let up some.

“They ain't comin',” Lyle said.

“What the hell do you mean, they ain't coming?” Ned barked with his jaw set hard.

“Morgan got to 'em,” Slade said from his lookout point on top of the ledge. “They'd have been here by now, if they were able.”

“Slade's right,” Billy said, with his Winchester resting on his shoulder. “Some way or other, Frank Morgan slipped up behind 'em and got 'em both.”

“Bullshit!” Ned cried. “Morgan is an old man, a has-been in the gunman's trade. He doesn't have it in him to slip up behind Rich and Cabot.”

“I figure he got Jerry and Roger,” Slade went on without raising his voice. “We know he shot all those others back at the cabin. Then you've got to wonder what happened to Sam and Buster and Tony back on the trail when they went to check on Charlie.”

Lyle grunted. “Morgan must be slick,” he said, casting a wary glance around their camp. “I wish we'd never gotten into this mess. That kid over yonder ain't worth no million dollars to nobody.”

“He ain't worth a plug nickel to me,” Billy Miller said as he added wood to the fire. “I say we kill the little bastard an' get clear of this cold country.”

Ned turned on his men. “We're not leaving until Frank Morgan is dead!” he yelled.

Lyle gave Ned a look. “Who's gonna kill him, Ned? We ain't had much luck tryin' it so far.”

“We'll join up with Victor at Gypsum Gap and hunt him down like a dog,” Ned replied.

Slade shrugged. “Bein' outnumbered don't seem to bother Morgan all that much.”

“Are you taking Morgan's side?” Ned asked.

“I'm not takin' any side but my own. My main purpose now is to stay alive.”

“Me too,” Billy added.

“Same goes for me,” Lyle muttered. “This Morgan feller is a handful.”

“Are you boys yellow?” Ned demanded.

“Nope,” Lyle was the first to say. “Just smart. If a man is a man-hunter by profession, he's usually mighty damn good at it if he lives very long.”

“I never met a man who didn't make a mistake,” Ned said, coming back to the fire to warm his hands.

“So far,” Slade said quietly, “Morgan hasn't made very many.”

“One of you saddle a horse and ride back down the trail to see if you can find Rich and Cabot,” Ned ordered, his patience worn thin.

“I'm not going,” Slade said. “That's exactly what a man like Morgan will want us to do.”

“What the hell do you mean?” Ned inquired, knocking snowflakes from the brim of his hat.

“He wants us to split up, so he can take us down a few at a time.”

“Slade's right,” Lyle said.

“We oughta stay together,” Billy chimed in. “At least until we join up with Vic an' his boys.”

“Morgan!” Ned spat, pacing again. “That son of a bitch is a dead man when I get him in my sights.”

“That'll be the problem,” Lyle offered. “A man like Morgan don't let you get him in your gun sights all that often, an' when he does, there's usually a reason.”

“He'll come after us tonight,” Billy said, glancing around at forest shadows. “He's liable to kill us in our bedrolls if we ain't careful.”

“I'm not goin' to sleep tonight,” Slade said.

“Why's that?” Ned asked.

Slade grinned. “I want to make damn sure I see the sun come up tomorrow mornin'.”

Ned was fuming now. Even his two best gunmen, Lyle and Slade, showed signs of fear.

“You ride back a ways, Billy,” Ned said. “Just a mile or two.”

“I won't do it, Ned.”

“Are you disobeying a direct order from me?” Ned demanded as he opened his coat.

“Yessir, I am,” Billy replied. “If Morgan's back there, he'll kill me from ambush.”

Ned snaked his Colt from a holster. He aimed for Billy's stomach. “Get on one of those horses and ride southwest to see if you can find Rich and Cabot. If you don't, I'll damn sure kill you myself.”

Billy Miller's eyes rounded. “You'd shoot me down for not goin' back?”

“I damn sure will. Get mounted.”

Billy backed away from the fire with his palms spread wide. “You let this Morgan feller get stuck in your craw, Ned. I never seen you like this.”

“Get on that goddamn horse. See if you can find their tracks.”

Billy turned his back on Ned and trudged off to the picket ropes.

“You may have just gotten that boy killed,” Slade said tonelessly.