“I’m gettin’ that feelin’ myself. But they’s too much money involved to quit and pull out now. I’m gonna see it through.”
“Morgan not showin’ up by now worries me some. Where the hell is he?”
“He don’t know where we are. Forget him.”
The men walked on. Frank watched as they opened the door to a building and stepped inside, closing the door behind them.
Frank placed the heavy charge of dynamite and lit the fuse, moving quickly away toward the building where the hostages were held. Taking a deep breath, Frank pulled his six-gun and opened the door just as the dynamite blew, the enormous sound shattering the quiet of night.
He shot the first guard, shifted position, and drilled the second man. “Move!” he yelled to the Easterners. “Get to the corral and grab a horse. Ride toward the east. Get into the timber and wait for me.”
“We don’t have time to saddle them properly!” a man said.
“Then goddamnit, ride them bareback, you ninny!” Frank yelled. “Move or die. It’s your choice.”
Frank quickly lit another charge and tossed it toward a group of men running toward the building. The short-fused bundle of dynamite landed in the middle of the men and blew, knocking bits and pieces of them in all directions.
“Somebody kill that son of a bitch!” a man yelled.
“Kill who?” another man shouted. “Where is he?”
Frank lit another bundle and tossed it into the night.
“Look out!” a man screamed.
The charge landed in a doorway and exploded, the blast ripping the door off its hinges and sending bits of wood and stone and metal into the interior. The concussion momentarily deafened the men inside the building and knocked them all to the floor, one dead and the others hurt, some seriously.
Frank paused long enough to light another bundle, and then ran to another building, reaching it just as the door was jerked open. He tossed the sputtering charge into the room with just a couple of seconds to spare. The dynamite blew, the concussion sending Frank rolling on the ground. He lost the last bundle of dynamite when he hit the ground. He rolled until coming to a stop against a building.
The last building must have held a store of explosives, for when Frank’s charge exploded, whatever was stored in there blew with it. The roof blew off, and bits and pieces of outlaws went flying through the night air, one severed leg landing about a yard from Frank.
“There he is!” someone shouted.
The night was filled with gunfire, but none of it came anywhere near Frank. He got to his feet and jerked out his pistol.
“You crazy bastards!” Sonny yelled. “You’ve killed Owens.”
“Oh, damn!” a man said. “I thought it was Morgan.”
“The damn hostages is ridin’ off toward the east,” a man yelled. “They stole the horses and is gettin’ away.”
During the confusion, Frank began working his way toward the ravine.
He almost made it.
“There he is!” someone shouted. “By the ravine.”
“Somebody kill that bastard!” another yelled.
The night became sparked by muzzle blasts. Frank felt a hard blow in his left leg and his boots flew out from under him. Just before he went down hard, a stray bullet nicked the side of his head and Frank felt a gush of hot blood on his cheek. Then he went sliding on his belly into the deep part of the ravine. He began rolling over and over until he hit the bottom. He banged his head hard on the way down and lost consciousness for a moment. He also lost his spare .45. His holstered .45 somehow remained in leather.
“Where the hell did he go?” The shouted question drifted to Frank as he slipped back into consciousness.
“I don’t think he made the ravine,” someone yelled. “I think he headed out toward the rear of the fort.”
“Split up and search for him,” Sonny hollered. “Some of you others get those damn horses. Or we’ll all have to walk out of here.”
Frank began crawling on his hands and knees, trying to be as quiet as possible. The shock of his wounds was wearing off, and now the pain in his leg and head was coming on hard. It had to happen sooner or later, Frank thought. My luck ran out. I took a chance and it didn’t work out. I wonder if the hostages made it clear, and if they did, where are they? What did I tell them to do? I can’t remember.
One of the outlaws imagined a sighting of some sort at the far end of the old fort and yelled out, “I seen him! There he goes. He’s runnin’ out the rear of the fort. Come on, boys.”
Imagination hit the others, another shouting, “Yeah! I see him. He’s almost in the timber. Come on, boys. Now we got him.”
Yeah, Frank thought, as he slowly drifted back into the darkness and uncertainty of unconsciousness. Go chase shadows, boys.
One last thought entered Frank’s head as he lost track of reality: I hope the hostages made it out.
Then Frank dropped into darkness.
Twenty-five
Frank came to in a world of hurt and confusion and silence. His head throbbed with pain and his leg was stiff and sore, his pants leg caked with dried blood and mud. The mud must have acted to help stop the bleeding. But Frank couldn’t understand the utter silence. He tried to sit up. The movement hurt him and he gave it up for a couple of minutes, then tried again. This time he made it. But God, his head hurt.
He rested for a time, then groped around until he found his hat. Before putting it on, he gently touched the side of his head with his fingers. There was a gash along the side of his head, all caked over with dried blood. He set his hat on his head very gently. It still fit, so his head wasn’t swollen. He guessed that meant his skull wasn’t busted.
He rested for another few minutes, then stood up. His head seemed to swim for a few seconds, and he thought he might pass out. He leaned against the side of the ravine for a moment until the dizziness passed.
He slowly and very carefully made his way out of the ravine. He suddenly realized that his second gun was gone, but knew it was useless to look for it in the dark. He stepped out of the ravine and looked back at the old fort. It was totally dark. Not a light showed anywhere. Frank sat down on a log and rested for a moment, trying to make some sense out of things.
The old fort looked and felt deserted.
After a time, curiosity got the better of Frank and he made his way back toward the fort. He walked only a few steps before almost tripping over the body of a man. Frank reached down, pulled off the man’s gunbelt, and slung it over his shoulder. All the loops were filled with cartridges and the man’s .45 was still in leather.
Frank found two other dead men and stripped them of weapons. He walked on through the night, looking into each building. The moon was up, the night cloudless, and he had ample light to see the damage his dynamite had caused.
God, what a mess!
The fort was devoid of living outlaws, the corrals empty. The outlaws were gone.
Hell with it! Frank thought as he passed by a stone building. I need something to eat and several cups of coffee. He stepped inside and struck a match. There was an old potbellied stove in the center of the room and the exterior was still warm, a coffeepot on the lid. Frank hefted the pot; it was nearly full. He found a tin cup and poured. Then he sat down on the side of a bunk and drank the warm coffee and smoked a cigarette. He stoked up the stove, adding some wood, and put the pot back on to heat the coffee.
Frank found a candle and lit it, then set about looking to his wounds . . . as best he could with what he had. He found a canteen of water someone had left behind in their haste to pull out, and lowered his trousers to look at the wound. The bullet had passed through the fleshy part of his leg about halfway between knee and hip. Frank washed out the wound and used his bandanna to bandage it. He washed the gash in his head, and that got it bleeding again and Frank cussing a bit. Looking around, Frank found some stale bread and ate it. It didn’t taste very good, but it filled up an empty spot in his belly. Frank rolled a smok
e and relaxed for a few moments. In the faint flickering light of the single candle he thought, Now what?
He checked his watch. It had stopped. Frank recalled then that he had forgotten to wind it. Although his leg ached and his head hurt, Frank knew he had to get going. He could not afford to lollygag about. He found a cloth sack and put the spare weapons in it, then picked up the canteen and blew out the candle. He stepped out into the night and began the painful walk back to where he’d left Stormy, hoping the horse would still be there. If not, Frank would have a lot of walking ahead of him. At this time, he chose not to dwell on that.
* * *
Stormy was as glad to see him as Frank was to see the big Appaloosa. Frank quickly saddled up and headed out to try to find the trail of the hostages... if they were still free, that is. It was going to be difficult at night, but he felt he had to do it. A bunch of Eastern city folks wandering about in the Big Empty? Frank shook his head at the thought.
He found a lot of sign that told him the freed hostages had reached the horses and made the timber in a group. But a few minutes later, the sign showed that the Eastern men had lost their sense of direction (if they ever had any) and had turned north.
“Damn!” Frank said. “Heading deeper into the wilderness.”
But what was puzzling to Frank was the absence of any pursuit from the kidnappers. They had abandoned the old fort, that was a fact, but where had they gone? The horses could not have wandered far before being caught. The outlaws were all experienced men, with plenty of horse sense, many of them as good with a rope as they were with a gun. Had they panicked and given up on the scheme, just let the hostages go free without pursuit?
Sure looked that way to Frank. But if so, what had panicked them?
Staying with the sign, Frank found no indication that any of the Eastern men had broken with the group and wandered off by himself . . . which was a good thing. They stood a chance of making it if they stayed together.
After a couple of hours of slow riding through the timber, Frank suddenly reined up and sat his saddle, sniffing the air.
Wood smoke! Sure as hell it was. And he didn’t believe for a moment it was Sonny and his bunch. He rode slowly on, following the sign of the hostages, the smell of wood smoke growing stronger in the cold night. Finally he spotted the flickering fire through the timber. He dismounted, ground-reined Stormy, and slipped up close.
He had found the Eastern men, and they were a sorry-looking bunch for a fact.
“Hello the camp!” Frank called.
The Easterners froze in panic.
“It’s Frank Morgan. Take it easy, boys. I’m coming in.”
“Oh, thank God!” one of the men exclaimed as they all stood up as one.
The closer Frank drew to the camp, the more he could tell the men were in bad shape. All of them had been badly beaten . . . probably more than once. Some of them were missing teeth, and all had bruises and cuts on their faces.
“You boys have had quite a time of it, haven’t you?” Frank said.
“Yes, we have, Mr. Morgan,” a man said. “By the way, my name is Aaron Steele.”
“I’m Frank, Aaron. Let’s keep it on a first-name basis. It’ll be a lot easier that way.”
The men all stepped forward and introduced themselves, shaking hands with Frank.
“I’ve got enough coffee left for a pot or two, boys,” Frank said. “And some food for a meal this night . . . or morning rather. You boys look like you could use some strong coffee and some hot food. ”
“That would indeed be wonderful, Frank,” John Garver said.
“I’ll get my horse and we’ll start cooking. And we’ve got to see about your horses too.”
“We picketed them, Frank,” Jackson Mills said. “We may be dudes, but we knew to do that much.”
“And we were lucky in another aspect,” Horace Vanderhoot said. “We all got horses that were saddled.”
“You really were lucky. Be back in a couple of minutes.”
Frank fixed a proper fire, first digging a small pit, then lining the outside with large stones and fixing a place for the coffeepot to rest. Then he sliced up all the bacon he had and fixed a skillet of pan bread.
“It isn’t much but it’ll jerk a knot in an empty belly,” he told the men.
“I’m salivating already,” Paul Edwards said.
Over coffee and bacon and pan bread, Frank began bringing the men up to date, starting with, “I might as well let you have the bad news first. Maxwell Crawford is dead. I buried him myself. He was a brave man at the end.”
“Oh, my God!” Hugh Dunbar said. “Poor Maxwell.”
“What about our wives?” Bernard Harrison asked.
“They’re all right. All of them. They’re waiting in South Raven for your return.”
“Will we return, Frank?” Edmund Greene inquired.
“You bet we will. We’ll sleep a few hours and be on the trail come morning. It’s going to be rough, ’cause I’ll be taking you cross-country. It’s the safest way.”
“You’re the boss, Frank,” Delbert Knox said. “Whatever you say do, we’ll do it, without question.”
“How many of those horrid people did you dispose of?” Fuller Ross asked.
Frank looked at the man who had offered his wife to the outlaws in exchange for his own well-being. “I killed several of them,” he said shortly.
Fuller picked up on the scorn in Frank’s tone. “Whatever you might have heard about my actions, they are nothing but lies.”
“You are the one who is a damn liar, Fuller!” Horace said. “You are an utterly despicable cad! I loathe you!”
Frank used a piece of bread to sop up some of the grease in the skillet. He said nothing, preferring to stay out of the building argument. Let the friends settle it among themselves. If it could be settled.
“Those thugs were threatening to kill me!” Fuller said. “I had to do something to stop the beatings. Any of you would have done the same.”
“We didn’t,” Paul Edwards said. “I would have willingly died rather than offer my wife to them to stop the abuse. And told them so,” he added softly.
“When we return to the city, Fuller,” Horace Vanderhoot said, “I shall see to it that your actions are made public. I want all our business associates to know what sort of person you really are. Do not speak to me after this. I want nothing more to do with you.”
The other men nodded their heads in agreement, Delbert saying, “The venture you and I planned together is now null and void, Fuller. I would rather go into business with a poisonous serpent.”
“You can’t mean that!” Fuller protested. “My God, I have a lot of money tied up in that project.”
“As I do,” Delbert replied. “I will gladly take my losses to be rid of you.”
“I’ll get even with you,” Fuller said. “All of you. You’ll see. I’ll get even.”
“Don’t press it, Fuller,” Aaron told him. “Or I will personally do Mavis a great favor and make her a widow this night.”
“You can’t mean that! Listen to what you are saying.”
“Shut up,” Jackson said. “Just shut your mouth, Fuller. Or I shall give you a thrashing you will never forget.”
Frank poured another cup of coffee and rolled a cigarette.
Fuller moved away from the others, and sat down with his back to a tree. He mumbled to himself.
Frank leaned back, easing his wounded leg. Horace noticed the movement and asked, “Are you badly hurt, Frank?”
Frank shook his head, which still ached slightly. “Not bad. I’ve been hurt worse. It’s just a flesh wound.”
“Is there nothing you can do for it?”
“Come first light, I’ll look for some tree moss and cover it with that. It works to prevent and heal infection. It’s an old Cheyenne Indian treatment.”
“Tree moss?” Edmund Greene asked. “I never heard of such a thing.”
“It works,” Frank told him. “I’ve used it b
efore.”
“You’ve been wounded before?”
Frank smiled. “Several times. A lot worse than this.”
“Are you in much pain?”
“Not much. Let’s finish up this coffee and then try to get a few hours sleep, boys. We’ve got a hard pull ahead of us come morning.”
“I swear I don’t believe I will ever be warm again,” John Garver said.
“Be thankful there were bedrolls behind those saddles,” Frank told him. “And say a little prayer that the snow holds off until we get back to town.”
“Did my wife say anything about me while you were with her?” Fuller Ross abruptly asked Frank.
“She mentioned a few things,” Frank admitted.
“What things?”
“This and that,” Frank said.
“Let’s try to get some sleep,” Horace said. “Fuller, what happens to you and Mavis is something the both of you will have to work out when we get back. Good night.”
Frank sat long by the fire after the others had gone to sleep. If we get back, he thought.
Twenty-six
Frank and the freed hostages started out just after first light. The men rejected Frank’s idea that they head for Boise, and insisted they return to South Raven.
“It’s rough country, boys,” Frank told them.
Frank’s statement was met with stony silence.
Frank shrugged. “All right,” he said, swinging into the saddle. “Let’s do it.”
The Easterners put the miles behind them without complaint. Frank knew they must all be hurting from the many beatings they had endured, and his opinion of the men rose considerably as the miles passed. On the evening of the second day out, the land was dusted with a light snow. But the morning sky dawned a bright blue and the men pushed on. Frank killed a deer later that day, and everybody went to sleep that night with a full belly. The saw no signs of the kidnappers.
Over breakfast, with Frank using the last of the flour and lard, Bernard Harrison asked, “What do you think happened to our kidnappers?”
Frank shook his head. “I don’t know. But I doubt we’ve seen the last of them. At least as far as I’m concerned.”
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