Winter Kill

by William W. Johnstone

  None of the saddles used by the outlaws had had lariats with them. This wasn’t cattle country, so folks didn’t have much call to use a rope. But Frank had picked one up in Skagway simply because, like any good Texan, he was used to carrying a lariat with him. Now he was glad he had thought of it. With any luck, it would come in mighty handy.

  In all that white expanse of snow covering the valley, he wasn’t sure exactly where the creek began. He reined in about where he thought the right spot was, swung down from the saddle, and found himself still on solid ground. He took the rope and swiftly tied one end to the saddle horn, then started out onto the ice, holding on to the rope and paying it out behind him.

  “Stand, Goldy!” he called to the horse. He knew that Goldy wouldn’t move now.

  A glance up the hill told him that Conway was making his way down the slope on foot. The women were still standing at the top, watching anxiously.

  Frank felt his boots sliding a little on the surface under the snow and knew that he was on the ice now. The place where Salty had broken through was about twenty yards in front of him. Frank scanned the water, which was clogged with chunks of broken ice, but didn’t see Salty or Dog anywhere. His heart pounded in his chest with fear for them.

  He heard another crack and knew the fissures in the ice must be spreading. He wrapped the rope around his left wrist and then lay down on the ice, sprawling on his stomach. That spread out his weight without concentrating too much of it in any one spot, he knew. Using his toes and elbows, he began to pull himself forward.

  The soaked forms of Dog and Salty suddenly broke the surface. The big cur’s teeth were fastened in Salty’s fur coat. The old-timer flailed around and gasped for breath.

  Frank was only about ten yards from the water now. He called out, “Hang on, Salty, hang on! I’m almost there!” He crawled closer and saw that Salty, helped by Dog, was trying to swim closer to the spot where the ice ended.

  From the bank, Conway shouted, “Frank, what can I do to help?”

  Frank twisted his head around to call to the young man, “Stay there! We don’t need anybody else on this ice!”

  He turned his attention back to Salty. The old-timer was trying to scramble up onto the unbroken ice, but he kept slipping. He wasn’t strong enough to pull himself out of the water, and the ice was too slick.

  Frank pushed himself forward again. He was within a couple of feet now. He reached out with his right hand, stretching his arm as far as it would go. As he did so, he felt the ice move a little underneath him. Not much, but enough to send a tingle of alarm through him.

  “Salty! Grab my hand!”

  The sourdough was sputtering and choking, and Frank didn’t know if he’d heard him. He called again, “Salty!” and stretched a little farther.

  Salty’s fingers brushed his, and Frank grabbed hold. He pulled the old man closer and shifted his fingers so that he had a solid grip on Salty’s wrist. Then he looked at the shore and shouted, “Goldy, back up!”

  The horse began to move backward. The rope pulled taut as Frank held it with his left hand. He felt himself revolving ninety degrees on the ice, so that he lay parallel to the jagged edge where it had broken. Both arms were stretched out, the left one toward Goldy, the right toward Salty.

  “Hang on, Dog!” he told the big cur. Dog probably couldn’t climb out on the slippery ice, either. Goldy was going to have to pull both of them out of the creek.

  Conway saw what Frank was trying to do and grabbed the rope to help pull. Frank felt the strain in his muscles and bones and ligaments and hoped that one or both of his shoulders wouldn’t pop out of their sockets.

  Thankfully, the pain lasted only a moment. With Goldy and Conway hauling on the rope, Salty and Dog were lifted out of the creek and onto the ice. Frank didn’t try to get up, though. Still lying on his belly, he called, “Pull us to shore!”

  Goldy continued backing. The two men and the dog plowed a wide furrow through the snow as they slid across the ice. It took only a moment for them to reach the bank. Conway was there waiting for them. Frank scrambled to his feet without any assistance as Dog finally let go of Salty’s coat and shook himself so that water flew everywhere off his thick pelt. Conway started to help Salty.

  “Wood!” Frank said urgently. “Find some wood! We’ve got to have a fire!” The water in that stream was even colder than the Pacific had been when they plunged into it from the sinking Montclair. They had to get Salty warm and dry as quickly as possible, or he might not survive.

  Conway whirled toward the trees, and as he did so, Frank heard another sharp crack. For a second he thought that the ice on the creek was continuing to break up, but then he realized that the sound came from the top of the hill. It was followed by more cracks and pops and a woman’s scream. What sounded like a giant bee buzzed past Frank’s ear.

  Somebody was shooting at them.

  “Pete! Grab some cover! Dog! Hunt!”

  As he shouted the orders, Frank lunged toward Goldy. He jerked the Winchester out of the saddle boot. He heard another slug whistle through the air nearby as he sprang back to Salty’s side and reached down to grab the old-timer’s coat with his other hand. With a grunt of effort, Frank dragged Salty behind a nearby tree. Salty sat up and leaned against it, clutching himself and shivering.

  “Th-that’ll b-be Sm-Smith’s m-men!” Salty managed to say.

  Frank nodded. He had figured that out as soon as he heard the first shot and realized what it was. Smith’s men had waited for their chance to strike, and Salty’s mishap had given it to them. With Frank and Conway busy trying to rescue the old-timer, the women had no one to defend them except themselves. From the sounds of the small-caliber rounds that had been fired, they had tried to put up a fight, but that had ended quickly and now the only shots being fired were from rifles. They were directed at Frank and his companions.

  He looked around the trunk of the tree and saw Dog bounding up the slope. Even soaked and freezing, the cur’s fighting spirit knew no limits. Dog disappeared over the crest, and a second later Frank heard snarling and screeching. Dog had gotten hold of one of the bushwhackers.

  But he couldn’t take all of them on alone. Frank called to Conway, who had drawn his pistol, “We’ll trade off giving each other covering fire! Go!”

  With that, he started squeezing off rounds toward the top of the hill. None of the women were visible now, so he wasn’t worried about hitting them. He just wanted to force Smith’s men to keep their heads down. Spotting several spurts of powder smoke, Frank aimed his fire at them while Conway dashed forward through the trees.

  The young man stopped behind a thick-trunked spruce to catch his breath, which wreathed his head with coils of fog. After a few seconds, he called, “All right, Frank, you go!”

  Conway stuck his pistol around the tree and started blazing away. Frank leaped out into the open as bark flew from the trunk behind him, chewed off by slugs hitting it. He raced as fast as he could through the snow, leaving the trees behind and heading for a rocky outcropping about halfway up the slope.

  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 ca
me 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.”

  Dog hadn’t returned after the fight. Frank believed that the big cur had pursued the bushwhackers. He was a little surprised that Dog hadn’t come back by now, though.

  Salty was right about Dog saving his life. As it was, things had been touch and go for a while. Salty’s face had been blue when Frank went down the hill to the fire Conway had built, and the old-timer had been shaking so hard that it seemed like the few teeth he had remaining might come flying out of his head. The sled that had been left behind by the bushwhackers had some fur robes on it, so Frank had grabbed a couple of them before starting down, as well as a blanket.

  He and Conway had worked the soaked clothes off Salty. They were already frozen and crackling. They dried him as best they could with the blanket, then wrapped the robes around his spindly shanks. Combined with the heat from the fire, that gradually eased the chill that gripped the old-timer. They used branches to rig a framework next to the fire so that his clothes could be draped on it and dry out while Salty was warming up.

  Now, dr
essed again and studying the trail left by the bushwhackers, the old man was still cold but no longer in any danger of freezing. As long as he didn’t come down with the grippe, he would recover from his plunge through the ice.

  “At least since there’s not much wind and no fresh snow falling, we shouldn’t have any trouble following their trail,” Conway commented.

  “Yeah, and that’s exactly what they’re counting on,” Frank said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Smith didn’t send those men just to bring the women back. They were supposed to kill the rest of us.”

  Salty grunted. “They ain’t too good at their jobs. The only one they managed to send across the divide was a blind man.”

  “I’m sure they thought you’d drown in the creek and that they could gun down Pete and me. When it didn’t work out that way, I reckon they must’ve panicked a mite. That’s why they grabbed the women and lit a shuck out of here. But then they started thinking again. They don’t want to go back to Skagway and have to tell Soapy Smith that we’re still alive. So they headed for that old cabin you mentioned, Salty, instead of the settlement.”

  “You mean they’re settin’ a trap for us.”

  “And the women are the bait,” Conway added.

  Frank nodded. “That’s the only thing that makes any sense.”

  Salty scratched his beard. “So if we go after ’em, we’ll be doin’ ’zackly what they want us to do.”

  “Yep.”

  “But we’re gonna do it anyway.”

  “Damn straight,” Frank said. “Just maybe not the way they’re expecting.”

  They couldn’t formulate any plans until they had gotten a look at the situation facing them. What Salty remembered about the cabin wasn’t encouraging. According to him, it sat out in the open, with no cover around it, so it would be impossible to approach without being seen.