Savage Country

by William W. Johnstone

  “I was ready for them and put up a fight,” Frank said simply. “They didn’t like that.”

  “But if they wanted to avenge the men you killed, surely they were prepared to face some danger in doing so.”

  “Some fellas want more than just to have the odds on their side,” Frank explained. “They don’t want the other fella to have a chance at all. From the way those hombres lit a shuck out of there, I’d say that’s the sort they were. If we hadn’t fought back, yeah, they would have killed us. But once they heard a few slugs whistling around their own heads, they decided it wasn’t such a good idea.” He gazed off into the distance. “Man like that, though, will usually hang back and bide his time, wait for another chance to get what he wants. That’s why we have to keep our eyes open.”

  Conrad frowned. “Are you saying that we’ll have this threat hanging over our heads until you manage to kill all the men who are after us?”

  “Or until they get tired of it and give up, whichever comes first.”

  “A veritable Sword of Damocles,” Conrad muttered, “hanging by a thread.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much.”

  “And why not?”

  “It takes a damned good shot to hit a thread,” Frank said.

  Chapter 6

  By mid-morning, even Conrad’s inexperienced eyes could tell that the mountains were getting closer. By noon, the two riders, the packhorse, and the dog that padded along with them had swung farther to the north and west, still following the railroad tracks, and the mountains were to their south. To the north was a long range of even taller peaks, most of them with white mantles of snow on their crowns. That snow would remain even in the middle of summer, when the temperature climbed to well over a hundred degrees down here on the flats.

  Straight ahead of Frank and Conrad was an easy pass between the two mountain ranges. As they rode through it, Frank said, “Those mountains to the south of us are the Floridas. The ones to the north are the Mimbres.”

  “I’m aware of the Mimbres Mountains,” Conrad said. “We have a mine there. I believe it produces silver ore.”

  “I’m not surprised. There’s ore of various kinds all over this part of the territory. In the old days prospectors sunk little one-man shafts in quite a few places, but it was too hard to get the ore out and there wasn’t enough of it to make the effort worth their while. With modern mining methods, though, I reckon it’s easier to make a mine pay.”

  “How much do you know about modern mining methods?”

  Frank shrugged. “I’m no expert, if that’s what you’re asking. Most of what I know comes from listening to men talk who do know something about it. But I’ve heard enough to know that mining isn’t a game for a lone man anymore. Hasn’t been, really, since the big companies went into the Comstock Lode up in Nevada and showed the way to get really rich. One man operations just won’t do anymore. Last place they did was probably in the Black Hills, around Deadwood. And that boom was over more than ten years ago.”

  “Browning Mines and Manufacturing is quite successful.” There was a note of pride in Conrad’s voice.

  “I’m sure it is. All the reports I’ve gotten from my lawyers have been positive.”

  “Now that we’ve started branching out into railroads, it’s only a matter of time until the Browning holdings represent one of the largest, most lucrative business enterprises in the country.”

  “I reckon you’ll have your hands full just keeping up with everything.”

  “Yes, I’m sure I’ll need a great many competent men working with me.”

  Frank’s eyes narrowed as he looked over at Conrad. “You’re not talking about me doing something like that, are you?”

  “You? Good Lord, no! What do you know about business? Except, of course, the killing business.”

  Frank stared straight ahead again and didn’t say anything.

  After a few minutes of strained silence, Conrad said, “I didn’t mean for that to sound so offensive, Frank. Honestly, I didn’t. It’s just that the thought of you in a suit . . . with a tie around your neck . . . shut up in some stuffy office . . . Well, I just can’t imagine it. I truly can’t.”

  “That’s all right, kid,” Frank said gruffly. “Neither can I.”

  Another train passed them, eastbound this time. Frank wondered briefly if any of the passengers looked out their windows and saw the two men riding in the distance. At the fast clip those trains moved, he and Conrad wouldn’t be visible for long. There and gone, dwindling into the distance and then vanishing, almost as if they had never been there, at least from the perspective of those rail travelers, speeding east into a newer, modern, more civilized world.

  A few minutes after the train had passed out of sight behind them, Frank got a vivid reminder that there were still vestiges of the older, more untamed West. He reined in sharply and looked toward one of the foothills of the Mimbres Mountains. The rise was a good half mile away, but The Drifter’s eyesight was still as keen as that of a much younger man.

  “What is it?” Conrad asked as he hauled back on the reins and brought El Diablo to a stop. “You look like something’s wrong.”

  Frank rested his hands on the saddle horn and leaned forward. “Don’t know if it’s wrong or not. Could be they don’t mean us any harm.”

  “Who?”

  “Look yonder, at the top of that hill.” Frank didn’t point, but the direction of his steady gaze was enough for Conrad to follow.

  “Good Lord!” Conrad exclaimed after squinting at the distant hilltop for a few seconds. “Are those Indians?”

  “That they are,” Frank said quietly.

  Three men sat on ponies atop the hill, motionless. Frank knew they were looking at him and Conrad, just like he was looking at them. He saw a flash of red and another of blue. The riders wore blue shirts, more than likely, and had red headbands holding back their long black hair. That was the standard getup for Apache warriors, along with buckskin leggings and high-topped moccasins.

  Apaches weren’t really horse Indians, like the Comanche or the Sioux. Often, they thought of horses more as a source of food than as something to ride. An Apache warrior could trot along at a fairly fast pace all day, even in the burning sun. He could keep going when a horse had to stop to rest. That was why an Apache could often chase down someone who was trying to get away from him on horseback. It was a matter of perseverance and dogged determination.

  At times, though, the Apaches used horses, especially if they were moving their families. Frank hoped the fact that those men on the hill were mounted meant that they weren’t looking for trouble. Maybe they were just curious.

  He remembered, though, that Conrad had said something about the Apaches threatening the construction of the railroad spur line between Lordsburg and Ophir.

  Conrad swallowed and asked, “Are they going to attack us?”

  “Maybe not. My hope is that they’re not part of a war party. But there are three of them and only two of us, so they might be tempted.”

  “What can we do? Should we just sit here and . . . and try to outstare them?”

  “I can’t see that it’s hurting anything. Keep an eye on them while I look around to make sure they’re not just trying to distract us while some of their friends sneak up on us.”

  “How could anybody sneak up on someone in this arid wasteland? There’s no place to hide!”

  “You’d be surprised how little cover it takes to hide an Apache warrior,” Frank said.

  He checked their surroundings and was confident that no one was skulking toward them. While he was doing that, Conrad suddenly said, “Frank, one of them is doing something.”

  Frank looked up at the hilltop and saw that one of the warriors had raised his arm above his head. Clutched in his hand was a rifle. Frank reached for his own Winchester and slid it out of its saddle sheath. One-handed, he thrust the rifle into the air above his head.

  The Apaches wheeled their ponies and disappeared in the blink
of an eye.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Conrad burst out.

  Frank replaced the Winchester in its sheath. “Just their way of saying howdy, I reckon. A sort of acknowledgment that we each knew the other was there.”

  “They’re going back to get the rest of their tribe, or whatever you call it, and then they’re going to attack us.”

  “I hope not. We might could handle two or three of them, but a whole war party . . .” Frank shook his head and smiled. “I imagine we’d lose our hair.”

  A shudder ran through Conrad. “Snakes and scorpions and now Apaches.”

  “That’s right. There’s something interesting everywhere you look.”

  Conrad didn’t seem to think any of those threats were particularly interesting.

  By late afternoon, they were clear of the pass. Open plains stretched to the south, and Frank knew they ran all the way down across the border. The line of mountains loomed to the north as far as the eye could see, though. The Mimbres, the Mogollons, and the other small but rugged ranges were the tail end of the Rockies, at least as far as the United States was concerned. More mountains reached down through Mexico and all the way to South America. Down there they were called the Andes, and Frank wondered suddenly if he would ever see them. He doubted it. But wouldn’t it be something if he did?

  They made a cold camp again that night. Frank thought about suggesting that they take turns standing guard, but when he saw how eagerly Conrad crawled into the blankets and fell asleep, he knew there wouldn’t be any point in it. Conrad would never be able to stay awake during his turn. Frank couldn’t stay awake all night either, so he knew he would have to rely on Dog and Stormy to alert him if anybody came too close. And he would sleep lightly too, he was sure of that.

  When trouble arrived, it didn’t come creeping. Dog lifted his head and growled, and Frank sat up and reached for the Winchester as hoofbeats sounded somewhere close by in the darkness. The unseen horse wasn’t galloping. It moved at a steady walk.

  Frank waited until the large, dark, bulky shape of horse and rider came into view before saying sharply, “Hold it, mister! That’s far enough.”

  Someone gasped, and surprise went through Frank as a woman’s voice called out, “My God! Is someone there? Oh, help me, please help me!”

  She sounded exhausted and scared and who knows what else. Frank didn’t fully trust her, though, simply because she was a woman. He kept the rifle trained on her as he stood up.

  The talking had roused Conrad from sleep. He sat up, reaching for his gun, and said, “Who’s there? Frank? What’s going on?”

  “Stay where you are,” Frank told him. He took a step toward the woman and her horse. “Get down off of there, ma’am, slow and easy.”

  Instead of doing as he said, she suddenly let out a groan, swayed in the saddle, and then slumped to the side, falling off the horse as she appeared to pass out. Frank sprang forward and grabbed the animal’s reins. The woman’s foot might be caught in the stirrup, and he didn’t want the horse to bolt and drag her.

  He saw a moment later that wasn’t the case. Both of her feet had slipped out of the stirrups when she fell. While Frank held the horse, he said, “Conrad, get over here and drag her over by the bedrolls.”

  “Who is she?” the young man asked as he scrambled to do as Frank said.

  “I don’t have any idea. She just rode up out of the night and said that she needed help.”

  Frank tethered the woman’s horse to a mesquite and then joined Conrad in kneeling next to her. She was stirring a little and making small noises, so Frank knew she was regaining consciousness.

  “We’re going to have to have some light,” Conrad said. “Otherwise, we won’t be able to tell how badly she’s hurt, or even if she’s hurt.”

  “You’re right. Gather up some of those dead mesquite branches, and I’ll build a fire.”

  “Why don’t you gather the branches? I thought I might loosen her clothes a bit, so that she can breathe easier.”

  Frank chuckled. “It sounds to me like she’s breathing just fine. And if there’s any clothes-loosening to be done, it might be better for somebody older and more settled to do it.”

  “Like you?”

  “Well, I do fit the description more than you do,” Frank said dryly.

  Muttering as usual, Conrad went to gather the wood.

  Frank checked the pulse in the young woman’s neck. It beat strong and steadily against his fingers. She seemed to be in no real danger. Likely, she had passed out from exhaustion.

  He could see well enough in the starlight to tell that she was dressed in men’s clothing: a shirt, a pair of denim trousers, and boots. She’d had a hat on when she rode up, but it had fallen off when she took her tumble from the horse. Thick waves of fair hair fanned out around her head. She had sounded young when she spoke, and nothing about her appearance belied that impression.

  Conrad came back with the wood and dumped it beside the bedrolls. Frank arranged some of the mesquite branches into a pile and poked dry grass among them for tinder. He took a lucifer from the little tin case in his pocket and struck it, setting fire to the tinder. It caught and flared up, and a moment later the mesquite branches began to burn as well. Soon the little fire was going strong, casting a reddish-yellow glow over the ground where the still-unconscious woman lay.

  Frank looked her over for bloodstains, but didn’t find any. Conrad stared at her face and said, “My God, she’s beautiful!”

  Frank couldn’t argue with that assessment. The young woman looked to be about twenty years old, and she was undeniably lovely. Her eyes were closed, of course, but Frank found himself wondering if they were blue or brown.

  A wry smile tugged at his mouth. He was too old to be thinking such things, especially about a girl young enough to be his daughter. She would have to settle for being mooned over by Conrad, who seemed perfectly willing to take care of that chore.

  In the meantime, they had to find out who she was and what she was doing out here in the middle of nowhere. From the sound of what she had said, she was in some sort of trouble. That meant that someone could be dogging her trail, and they might show up at any minute, looking for a fight.

  Frank picked up one of her hands and chafed it between his hands. “Miss?” he said as he leaned over her. “Miss, you’d better wake up. Can you hear me?”

  She moaned and stirred again, and this time her eyelids flickered open. As her eyes focused on Frank and Conrad, she gasped and tried to sit up. Frank’s hand on her shoulder stopped her.

  “Take it easy,” he advised her. “You passed out and fell off your horse. I don’t think you’re hurt, but we can’t be sure of that just yet.”

  She said, “I . . . I . . . Who are y-you?”

  “I’m Frank Morgan.” He nodded to Conrad. “This is Conrad Browning.”

  The girl closed her eyes again, and a sigh came from her. “So I found you,” she said. “I didn’t expect to be so lucky.”

  A frown creased Frank’s forehead. “You were looking for us?” he asked.

  She opened her eyes and peered up at him. “For you, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Why?”

  A shudder went through her. “Because they want to kill you.”

  Chapter 7

  “Maybe you’d better sit up after all,” Frank said, his voice becoming grim. “You’ll have to explain that.”

  “Yes. Help me up.”

  He was going to put an arm around her shoulders and lift her into a sitting position, but Conrad beat him to it. When the girl was upright, Conrad asked, “Are you all right? Do you feel dizzy or anything?”

  She managed to smile weakly. “I’m all right. Thank you.”

  “Let’s hear what you’ve got to say,” Frank put in curtly. “Start with your name.”

  She looked at him. “It’s Rebel . . . Rebel Callahan.”

  “What an unusual name,” Conrad said. “But quite lovely. It suits—” He stopped short as t
he full import of what she had said sunk in on him. “Did you say . . . Callahan?”

  “That’s right. The name means something to you, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” Frank said. “Are you related to Simon and Jud?”

  Rebel Callahan nodded. “They were my cousins.”

  “Until I killed them,” Frank said in a stony voice.

  “Yes. You did. And because of that, their brother Ed and my brothers Tom and Bob want to kill you.”

  “They’re the ones who ambushed us last night,” Frank guessed.

  Again the girl nodded. “That’s right. They thought they could finish you off without any trouble, but it didn’t work out that way.”

  “It usually doesn’t,” Frank said. “One thing I’ve learned over the years is that killing a man can be simple sometimes, but usually it’s a complicated affair. You never know what’s going to come of it.”

  “Like tossing a pebble into a pond and watching the ripples from it,” Rebel said.

  “That’s right.” Frank paused. “What’s your part in all this?”

  Conrad spoke up, saying, “They must have forced her to come along with them. Isn’t that right, Miss Callahan?”

  Rebel smiled at him and nodded again. “That’s right. Tom and Bob said it . . . it was my duty as a member of the family to help avenge Simon and Jud. My brothers and my cousin and I, we’re the only ones left in our family. They said you had to die because of what you’d done, Mr. Morgan.”

  “But you didn’t agree with that.”

  “Of course not! I don’t agree with cold-blooded murder. I waited for my chance, and then I got away from them as soon as I could. I rode after you, hoping I could find you and warn you.”

  “You did that out of the goodness of your heart?” Frank asked coldly.

  Conrad glared at him. “Blast it, Frank, you sound like you’re suspicious of this poor girl! She risked her own life to help us, and you cast aspersions on her motives!”

  Rebel lifted a hand to forestall Conrad’s protest. “No, he’s right, Mr. . . . Browning, was it? Mr. Morgan is right to be suspicious of me. After all, I belong to the same family that wants to kill him, and to kill you too, since you’re traveling with him.”