Reprisal (9 page)

Conrad had stepped out for lunch and never returned. The two bodyguards that accompanied him were found in a shed behind the cafe. Their throats had been cut. The other two bodyguards had disappeared without a trace. A bloodstained note had been found, pinned to the chest of one of the dead bodyguards with a knife. The note demanded a million dollars for Conrad's safe return. If the money was not paid, the young man would die.

Frank stared for a moment in disbelief at the marshal. “A million dollars?”

“That's what the note said.”

“I can't even imagine a million dollars!”

“I can't either. When it gets past a couple of thousand, my brain gets boggled.”

“Who signed the note?”

Dickson handed the bloodstained note to Frank. It was unsigned. “This is it?” Frank asked.

“That's it. Now you know as much as I do.”

“No instructions.”

“None.”

Frank handed the note back to the marshal. “The two missing bodyguards?”

“For sure they had something to do with it. But there were at least half a dozen boot prints back of the cafe and bloody boot prints in the shed.”

“Pine and Vanbergen.”

“That's my thinkin'.”

“Do you know their hideout, Marshal?”

Dickson shook his head. “No. I honest to God do not. I've talked with other lawmen who say it changes from time to time. From the canyon country badlands west of here to the mountains north of here. Take your pick.”

“Have you ever chased them?”

Again, Dickson shook his head. “They've never committed a crime in this town. At least not to my knowledge. And I don't know a damn thing about the badlands.”

“Do me a favor?”

“Sure. Name it.”

“Find Jeff and tell him to look after Dog. I'm going to gear up and try to pick up their trail.”

“If he can't look after him, I promise you I will. I'll take good care of him. You have my word. I like that mutt.”

Frank packed quickly but carefully and saddled up, then rigged the packsaddle on his packhorse. Then he filled up Dog's water bowl and food dish.

“Now you be good and mind people, you hear me?” he told Dog.

Dog looked up from his food dish and wagged his tail, then resumed his dining.

Frank rode into town and provisioned up. While the shopkeeper was filling his order, Frank checked the tracks in back of the cafe, and found a couple of horseshoe prints that were very distinctive. One shoe had a distinctive marking, and one of the horses had an odd way of putting down his right front hoof.

“Now I can follow you to hell, boys,” he muttered. He was back in the saddle in half an hour, heading out of town. The tracks led straight north.

“Better than heading down into Ute country,” Frank said aloud, although there was not much fight left in the Utes now.

There was still snow on the ground in many places, and that made tracking a lot easier.

The kidnappers were following an old Indian trail that Frank felt sure had originally been a game trail. The stage road was a few miles to Frank's east, but those few miles were over some rugged and inhospitable terrain. The day was bright with sunshine and the temperature, Frank thought, was probably in the mid-forty range. The snow was melting quickly in the lower elevations. The nights were still well below freezing, usually in the mid-twenties.

The kidnappers had several hours' jump on Frank, and Frank was pretty sure the outlaws would have fresh horses hidden along the way. There was no way he could catch up to them without killing his horses, something he had no intention of doing.

A half day's hard ride north of Durango, the trail abruptly turned west. Frank rested his horses while he inspected the trail sign on foot. After casting around for several minutes, he discovered that half of the outlaws had continued on north, the other half west.

“Damn!” Frank muttered.

He had no way of knowing which group was holding his son captive.

Either way was rough country, but north was slightly worse and colder.

“West.” Frank made up his mind. “And I hope I'm right.”

Frank spent an uncomfortable night on the trail—the first of what would turn out to be many—and was back dogging the outlaws at first light. During the cold night, Frank awakened often to add wood to the small fire and to think. He didn't believe his son was kidnapped solely for ransom . . . a million dollars was totally unrealistic. He believed, in part, that Conrad had been taken to pull Frank out of Durango. Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen had grabbed Conrad knowing Frank would follow and they could kill him—or try to kill him.

But if that was the case, then why did the trail suddenly split?

Just maybe, Frank thought, the bodyguards who were in cahoots with the Pine and Vanbergen gangs had been paid off and sent on their way.

Lingering over coffee at his nooning, Frank decided that was it.

He knew that Pine and Vanbergen hated him with an unbridled passion; he had been told that both had sworn to kill him many times. He suspected they had killed Vivian, not just for the money Dutton had surely paid them, but to get at him.

“Sorry bastards,” Frank muttered, pouring another cup of coffee and munching on hard crackers.
Well,
he thought,
if you've done this to get me on your trail, boys, you've damn sure succeeded.

Frank's horses suddenly became alert, their heads coming up, ears pricked in attention. A twig popped faintly in the timber. Frank dropped his coffee cup and threw himself to one side just as gunfire ripped the cold stillness.

Rifle in hand, he rolled toward a fallen log and hunkered down behind the small protection.

One man,
Frank thought,
off to my left in that thicket of brush.

Frank held his fire, wanting the sniper to expose himself. He waited, but no more shots came.

A few minutes ticked past. Frank rolled from behind the protection of the log and into brush. No shots followed him. He slipped deeper into the brush and then into the timber, carefully working his way toward the thicket. He heard a slight noise and paused, listening intently. The faint sounds of a horse moving away reached him. Frank ran toward the fading sound, hoping to get in at least one shot. He was too late. The unknown sniper had gotten away. He knelt down and inspected the hoof tracks. He could not tell if they were part of the group that had left the tracks behind the cafe in town, and it was still a mystery as to whether or not he was following the group that had his son.

But he now suspected more than ever that he was.

Frank mounted up and rode on. Before he had gone a mile, he came across the fresh tracks of his ambusher. The man had swung back onto the trail and was traveling as fast as he could over the rough terrain.

Frank reined up. He had to give this situation some thought. The ambusher knew he was following, and also knew he wasn't going to stop following. That made Frank a very conspicuous target. What to do about that? He couldn't leave the trail, for if he did that it might take him hours or days to pick it up, or he might never pick it up.

Frank shucked his rifle out of the saddle scabbard and started on, his rifle held in one hand, across the saddle horn.

He would ride a few hundred yards, then rein up and carefully check out all that was in front of him. It slowed him down some, but was helping to keep him alive.

He moved on another half a mile, he reckoned, and abruptly stopped when he saw where the sniper had reined up and sat his horse for a time. Frank carefully scanned the terrain in front of him, his gaze always returning to one spot about five hundred yards in front of him and slightly to his right.

“Right there is where I'd choose for an ambush,” he muttered. “Perfect cover and elevation. And I'll bet that's where the shooter is.”

Frank stepped his horse off the trail and into deeper timber. He ground-reined both animals and took off his spurs. Then he set out on foot, swinging wide so he could come up behind the ambusher . . . he hoped.

As he drew ever closer, Frank caught the faint odor of tobacco. The man had built him a smoke while waiting, probably to try to steady his nerves for the kill.

Frank was much more cautious now, for while he knew approximately where the shooter was, he wasn't sure of the exact spot. He could be anywhere along that ridge, in the brush and timber. And from the sound of the rifle, he definitely wasn't shooting a .44 or a .44-.40. Probably one of those fancy new bolt-action rifles with maybe one of those high-powered telescope things on it. That type of rifle would have a much more accurate range to it than Frank's .44-.40. Definitely something to take into consideration.

Shortly after he swung in behind the ridge and started working his way up, Frank caught a flash of color, a color that was out of place in the brush and timber.

“There you are,” Frank muttered.

Frank had a shot, but chose not to take it. He wanted the ambusher alive, if possible, to answer some questions.

Frank began slowly and furtively working his way up the ridge, utilizing every bit of cover. The ambusher came into clear view, and never looked around to check behind him.

When Frank was about twenty-five yards behind the man, with a clear shot if the fellow spun around and tried to shoot, Frank called, “Don't move, partner. Don't do anything stupid or you're dead.”

The man froze in place. “Morgan?”

“That's right.”

“Damn! Are you part Injun?”

“No. Just a man that's managed to stay alive by being real careful.”

“I believe it.”

“Lay the rifle down slow.”

The man carefully laid his expensive-looking rifle with a telescope sight on it on the ground.

“Stand up and turn around,” Frank told him. “And do it real careful. No sudden moves.”

The ambusher stood up slowly. Without turning around, he asked, “Are you going to kill me, Morgan?”

“Not unless I have to.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Your choice. Live or die, it's all up to you.”

The man stood with his back to Frank, his hands at his side. He refused to turn around.

“You're putting me on the spot, fellow,” Frank said, “and you're playing a dangerous game.”

The ambusher laughed. “What difference does it make? It's the only game in town.”

“For a fact.”

“I hear you're a fast gun, Morgan.”

“Fast doesn't have anything to do with this situation. I've got a rifle pointed square at you.”

“Well, now. If that's the case, I reckon that's true. I got me an idee: You wouldn't want to put that rifle down and let's you and me go head-to-head at it, would you, Morgan? Just see who's the fastest?”

“Why should I? I got nothing to prove, partner.”

“Don't interest you at all, huh, Morgan?”

“Not in the least.”

“Pity. Since I think you've slowed down. Man gets to be your age, he loses a lot. Includin' his nerve.”

Frank smiled. “I know what you're trying to do but it won't work, partner.”

“You're a cool one, Morgan. But I think I have to try you anyway.”

“Then that makes you a fool.”

“Won't be the first time.”

“It'll be the last.”

“Maybe.”

The ambusher spun around, snaking his pistol from leather.

Frank's bullet hit the ambusher in the shoulder and sat him down on the cold ground.

“Damn!” the man said.

“That was a really stupid move, partner,” Frank told him.

“I reckon so.” He slowly lifted his six-gun. Frank took careful aim with his rifle and put a bullet into the man's right arm. The pistol dropped from his fingers.

“You want to try for another bullet or some conversation?” Frank asked.

“How about a doctor?”

“Can't help you there.”

“My shoulder's on fire.”

“Get used to it.”

“You tryin' to tell me I'm headin' for the hellfires?”

“Only two people can answer that, partner: you and God.”

“I don't believe in none of that crap.”

“Your option.”

The ambusher groaned and stretched out on the ground.

Frank walked the distance between them and squatted down a few yards from the man. “You're not going to make it, partner.”

“I know that, you son of a bitch!”

“You have a name?”

“Don't everybody?”

Frank waited.

“Charles Bowers,” the ambusher finally said.

“Any kin?”

“Not.”

“Where's your horse? I'll turn him loose.”

Charles cut his eyes. “Over yonder a ways. He's a good one. You ought to take him with you and sell him.”

“Only if you have a bill of sale.”

Charles smiled.

“That's what I figured. Where'd you steal him?”

“Didn't. The gang did somewheres. I don't rightly know where.”

“Pine and Vanbergen gangs?”

“Yeah.”

“What is this million-dollar crap in return for Conrad Browning?”

“To get you to follow us and kill you.”

“And then what happens to Conrad?”

“He gets a bullet.”

“So Pine and Vanbergen never planned on collecting any ransom money?”

“Not a dime.”

“Where are they taking the boy?”

“West. Into the badlands.”

“Into Ute country?”

“No. Just north of there.”

“So I'm on the right track? Following the right bunch?”

“Yeah. Why lie about it now?”

“How much of what you're telling me is the truth?”

Charles laughed. “You figger it out, Drifter.”

“To hell with you then. Die alone.” Frank stood up and turned away.

“Where are you goin'?”

“Leaving.”

“You gonna just ride off and leave me here for the critters to eat on?”

“That's about it.”

“That ain't decent!”

“Neither are you.”

“All right, all right!”

“All right what?”

“Sit back down. I'll tell you everything I know.”