Rescue

by William W. Johnstone

  “First thing in the morning.”

  “Good luck.”

  * * *

  Frank and Dewey and their unlikely posse headed for Northern New Mexico before first light. Frank had provisioned up for the long haul the day before, and during his stay in Tucson had had several extra pairs of paw boots made for Dog.

  “You take better care of that damn dog than you do for yourself,” Dewey groused.

  “He’s a friend of mine.”

  “And I ain’t?”

  “You want me to have some booties made for you?” Frank asked with a grin.

  Dewey uttered a few very choice words and walked away, muttering to himself.

  * * *

  “You got any idee at all where the kids is being held?” Dewey asked, riding alongside Frank.

  “No. When we get to Santa Fe we’ll hang around for a few days, listening. Maybe we’ll pick up something.”

  “Could be Miss Julie’s girl is a thousand miles away or dead,” Dewey said. “Has she talked to you about that?”

  “Not in great detail.”

  “Can’t blame her, I reckon. Mother’s got to cling to hope.”

  They rode in silence for a time, until Dewey finally asked, “You two gonna get hitched up, Drifter?”

  “We have talked around that subject some . . . in a matter of speaking.”

  “You gun-shy ’bout that?”

  “Dewey, I’ve been a gunfighter all my adult life. I’ve tried to hang up my guns several times. Didn’t work. Won’t work.”

  “That’s the end of the subject, huh?”

  “What kind of life would she have with me?”

  “I used to say I’d never leave the mountains. But I did.”

  “That’s different.”

  “No, it ain’t. That way of life played out, that’s all. Your way of life ain’t got many more years ’fore it plays out. What then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was I you, I’d be doin’ some head ruminatin’ on it.” Dewey turned his horse’s head and rode back to the rear, taking the drag, leaving Frank alone.

  Julie rode up and asked, “Want some company?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve been doing some thinking, Frank.”

  “Oh?”

  “Becky may not be alive.”

  Frank said nothing.

  “Is it wrong of me to think about that?”

  “No, not really. I reckon a person has to consider all the options. But that doesn’t mean you have to give up hope.”

  “But she could be almost anywhere, Frank.”

  “That’s true. But more than likely she’s right where we’re heading.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “I’m not sure about it, Julie. But look at all the camps and hideouts we’ve busted up and closed down. Now we’ve shut down Val’s main accomplice in Southern Arizona. He’s got to pull in the reins for a time and lay low. He’s got no choice in the matter.”

  “I’ll never stop looking for her, Frank.”

  “We’ll never stop looking for her, Julie.”

  She reached out and touched his arm.

  No other word or gesture was needed.

  Twenty-four

  At a small community in the San Francisco Mountains, just west of the Continental Divide, and just inside the somewhat ill-defined boundaries of New Mexico Territory, Frank halted the group for supplies and for a meal not cooked over a campfire.

  “You’re Frank Morgan, ain’t you?” a man in the general store asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Thought so. Seen your picture in a magazine the other day. You resemble the outlaw Val Dooley, you know that?”

  “So I’ve been told. Has he been through here?”

  “Val? Naw. But there was some hard cases through here last week. Had some kids with ’em. I thought that was strange.”

  “Girls?”

  “Girls and boys. None of ’em over, I’d say, oh, fifteen. Kids acted funny. Like they was half asleep. They was all sort of glassy-eyed.”

  “Drugged maybe?”

  “Yeah! That’s it. Opium or something. But why would kids be on opium? Was they all sick?”

  “Did any of the men say where they were headed?”

  “Naw. Not directly. But I overheared one of them talkin’ ’bout Santa Fe.”

  Frank talked with the local for a few more minutes, then paid for his supplies and left. He found Dewey in the small town’s only watering hole, having a drink.

  “We’re on the right track, Dewey.” He brought the mountain man up to date, telling him what the local had told him.

  “Well, they had to cross the mountains and fight shy of some Injun reservations,” said Dewey. “They probably hit the main road north, don’t you figure?”

  “No. I’d say they kept to the less-traveled trails because of the kids. The only reason they stopped here was that they had to provision up.”

  “Then they went through some rough country,” Dewey said.

  “So will we. Let’s chow down, get a good night’s sleep, and head out first thing in the morning.”

  “You act like a wolf on a blood scent, Drifter.”

  “I aim to get those kids back, Dewey. And kill that damned Val Dooley.”

  “Settle down, boy,” Dewey told him. “The kids was alive a few days ago. We know that.”

  He looked closely at Frank. “You gonna tell Miss Julie?”

  “It wouldn’t be fair not to tell her.”

  “I reckon not.” He held up a newspaper. “I found me a newspaper to read. It’s only a week old. There ain’t nothin’ in it ’bout any kidnapped kids.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me a bit. There isn’t anyone alive to present any solid evidence about the kidnappings . . . except Julie and Danny and the kids. And they haven’t spoken to anyone about the incident. Ted’s information probably won’t be released until the trial starts.”

  “I reckon it wouldn’t help none if the kids did say somethin’. Hell, Drifter, it’s like we’re chasin’ ghosts.”

  “Except these ghosts bleed, Dewey. And there’s going to be a lot of bleeding when we catch up with them.”

  * * *

  “That’s Jim Lawson right over there, Mr. Morgan,” Danny said, looking at a man standing on the other side of the street. “I remember him from the gang I was with. He’s a bad one. His ridin’ pard, Pat Gillian, should be close by.”

  Frank was standing close to Danny, both of them in the shade of the awning in front of a store. They would be no more than indistinguishable shadows to anyone across the street.

  “I’m familiar with Pat’s rep,” Frank said. “He’s quick, for a fact. I don’t know a thing about Lawson.”

  “Likes a knife, so I’m told.”

  “He won’t get that close to me . . . not if I can help it. But I want to talk to at least one of them. Let’s see if Pat shows up.” Frank thought for a moment, then said, “No, let’s don’t. You stay put, Danny. If Pat shows up before I can work up behind Lawson, holler at me.”

  “I’ll do it, sir.”

  Frank slipped into the alley and worked his way around to the other end of the street in one of Santa Fe’s less-than-desirable sections, mainly frequented by men looking for a good time from the soiled doves who hung around the area’s sporting houses and saloons.

  Frank circled around and came up behind Lawson. He stuck the muzzle of his Peacemaker in the man’s back and said, “Stand loose and easy, Lawson. Make any moves toward a gun or that knife you carry, and I’ll blow a hole in you big enough to drive a buckboard through. You understand all that?”

  “I sure do. But who are you?”

  “Frank Morgan.”

  “Morgan! Man, I ain’t got no quarrel with you.”

  “Listen to me, you kidnapping baby-raping son of a bitch. You turn real easy and walk into that alley behind us. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m movin’ real easy-li
ke.”

  At the rear of the alley, Frank jerked Lawson around and faced him. “Everything you know about Val Dooley’s kidnapping operation, Lawson. Starting with the location of his hideout and how many kids are there.”

  “Why . . . I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Morgan. I don’t know nothin’ ’bout Val Dooley or any kids. I—”

  Frank put a hard left fist into the man’s belly, doubling him over and dropping him to his knees, gagging and coughing.

  “Lawson, I can drag you out of town and start carving on you. I can guarantee you so much pain you’ll tell me things you wouldn’t tell the devil . . . just to make the pain stop. How do you want it?”

  Lawson knew all about Frank Morgan; knew the man did not make idle threats. The outlaw caught his breath and started talking so fast, Frank had to slow him down to be understood. Before he was through, Frank had learned more than he really needed or wanted to know about Val Dooley’s plans.

  “Is there a girl out there named Becky?” Frank asked.

  Lawson nodded. “Becky Barnes, yessir. Real pretty girl. She’s a favorite of Val. He’s been . . . well, you know, ever since she was grabbed.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Frank started naming other kids.

  Lawson nodded his head. “All them kids is out at the ranch. They all fixin’ to be sold real soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Next week.”

  “Who’s the buyer?”

  “I swear I don’t know that.”

  Frank shoved the muzzle of the Peacemaker harder against Lawson’s belly and jacked the hammer back.

  Lawson’s sweaty face paled under his tan. “I swear on my mother’s eyes, Morgan. I don’t know. For God’s sake, man! I don’t run the outfit.”

  Frank eased the hammer down on the .45, and Lawson visibly relaxed. “Tell me all about the ranch, Lawson. How many men?”

  “They’s ’bout thirty or so out there now.”

  “Where are the kids being held?”

  “The kids is held in a new bunkhouse just off from the main house. You can still smell the pine lumber. That’s how new it is.”

  “Windows, doors?”

  “Windows is high up and barred. One door, and it’s a heavy one with a padlock.”

  “Does Val ever come to the ranch?”

  “Yeah, but he ain’t there now. He pulled out a couple of days ago. And I don’t know where he went. He don’t confide in me.”

  “How long will he be gone?”

  “That’s anybody’s guess. He might be back right now. He might stay gone for days or weeks. I just don’t know.”

  “Lawson, I’m going to give you a break. Was I you, I’d take it.”

  “You ain’t gonna kill me?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, thank you, Jesus!”

  “At least, not right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want you to get on your horse and ride out of town.”

  “I can do that, Morgan,” Lawson said quickly. “I shore can.”

  “And don’t ever cross my trail again.”

  “If I do, it won’t be on purpose. I can gar-untee you that.”

  “Don’t tell your friend Gillian anything. Don’t say good-bye, don’t say anything. Just get the hell gone from my sight.”

  “I won’t. I promise you, I won’t. Can I git gone now, Morgan?”

  “Yes. Move!”

  Lawson hotfooted it out of the alley, heading for the livery and his horse. Frank didn’t believe Lawson would stay gone. He figured Lawson would ride out of town for a mile or two, then circle back and try to warn Gillian. But it would be too late for that. Frank walked across the street to Danny.

  “Find Dewey,” he told the young man. “Tell him I’ll be in that saloon across the street.”

  “You goin’ after Gillian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Go tell Dewey what’s happening, Danny. Then find the ladies and Jerry and stay with them. Go on, boy. I’m counting on you.”

  Frank walked across the street and into the small saloon. He’d seen the same scene hundreds of times in that many saloons all over the West. Half of the tables had men sitting at them, drinking and playing cards. Four men standing at the bar, one of them Pat Gillian. Frank recognized Pat by his gun belt: six cartridge loops, then a silver dollar, in that order, all the way around the belt.

  Frank ordered a beer and leaned against the bar, keeping a steady gaze on Gillian, knowing that the man would pick up on the unwavering gaze quickly and have something to say about it.

  It didn’t take long. Pat turned his head and looked into the cold, hard eyes of Frank Morgan. He straightened up and Frank did the same. Both of them held their drinks in their left hands. Frank a beer, Pat a shot of whiskey.

  “Morgan,” Pat said. At the mention of the name Morgan all conversation in the saloon ceased and all eyes turned toward the long bar. “Haven’t seen you in years. I heard you were dead.”

  “You heard wrong, Gillian.”

  “My ridin’ partner will be comin’ through them batwings any minute now. You aim to try to take both of us?”

  “Wrong, Gillian.”

  “Huh? Wrong about what?”

  “Doubtful your partner, Lawson, will be coming through the batwings.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I ran him out of town about ten minutes ago.”

  “I don’t believe that!”

  “Then you’re a damn fool,” Frank told him. “Your partner told me all about the ranch. All about the new bunkhouse where the kids are being held. Said the bunkhouse was so new you can still smell the fresh-cut pine. Had bars on the windows and a heavy door with a sturdy lock. Sound familiar, Gillian?”

  “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout no kids, Morgan.”

  “You’re a goddamned lying son of a bitch, Gillian.”

  The hired gun flushed, the red creeping up slowly from his neck to his face. “No man talks to me like that, Morgan.”

  “I just did,” Frank replied very matter-of-factly.

  “You take it back, Morgan. You do it or, by God, I’ll kill you!”

  “You got the killing part to do, Gillian. That is, if you think you’re the man who can do it. Personally, I don’t think you’ve got the sand in you to pull on me.”

  “Goddamn you!” Gillian shouted, and stepped back from the bar.

  Frank stepped around the corner curve of the bar and faced the man.

  The men standing at the bar quickly got out of the line of fire.

  “Is that really Frank Morgan?” a man whispered.

  “Damn shore is,” another man said.

  “What’s all that about kids bein’ held?” The whisper reached Frank.

  “I reckon we’re ’bout to find out.”

  “I’ll be known as the man who killed Frank Morgan,” Gillian said.

  “No, you won’t,” Frank contradicted.

  “Why not?” Gillian demanded.

  “Because you’ll be dead!”

  Pat Gillian’s hand snaked toward his pistol.

  Twenty-five

  Frank’s Peacemaker roared just as Pat’s hand closed around the butt of his six-gun. The force of the bullet tearing into Pat’s chest knocked the outlaw back, causing him to lose his grip on his pistol. The gun slipped back into leather. Pat grabbed for the edge of the bar and held on, a very confused look on his face.

  “Good Lord Almighty!” a saloon patron said. “I never even seen the draw.”

  “Faster than a snake can strike,” another said.

  Blood began leaking from Pat’s mouth, dripping down onto his shirt. He opened his mouth to speak; his lips moved, but no sound came out.

  Frank slowly holstered his Peacemaker.

  “Damn you!” Pat finally managed to gasp.

  “Somebody git the doc,” a man said.

  “Somebody best fetch the undertaker,” another said. “That ol’ boy’s had
it.”

  “The hell you say,” Pat whispered. “I ain’t done yet. Not by a long shot. I’m a-gonna kill you, Morgan.”

  Frank said nothing to that, just stepped back around the curve of the bar and picked up his mug of beer . . . with his left hand. He took a sip and waited.

  “Damn you, Morgan!” The shout came from behind the batwings. Lawson stepped into the saloon. “You’ve kilt my partner!”

  Frank turned just as Lawson cussed and grabbed for his gun.

  Frank’s Peacemaker roared again. The slug ripped into Lawson’s belly and the man grabbed for one of the batwings for support. He tore the batwing off its hinges as he fell to the barroom floor, his pistol still holstered. He had not cleared leather.

  “Damn you to hell, Morgan!” Gillian said. “Lawson was a good man.”

  “I gave him a chance to clear town and live,” Frank said. “He’s got no one to blame but himself.”

  Lawson moaned and cussed Frank.

  Gillian lost his grip on the bar and fell to the floor.

  A man wearing a star on his chest stepped over Lawson and into the saloon. “What started all this?” he demanded. He looked at Frank. “Morgan? Frank Morgan?”

  “That’s me,” Frank acknowledged.

  “Did you start all this killing, Morgan?”

  “No, he didn’t,” a local said. “He was just defending himself.”

  “I didn’t ask you, Tom,” the lawman said without taking his eyes off Frank. “I asked Morgan.”

  “Let’s go somewhere and talk,” Frank told the lawman. “I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

  Frank talked with the local law for over an hour, bringing them up to date on the activities of Val Dooley and his gang. The sheriff had a deputy go get Julie and the kids and Dewey. The lawmen listened intently as Julie quietly and calmly told them, in essence, what Frank had just told them. Then the kids told them their stories and the lawmen got mad.

  “Those men will be brought to justice,” the sheriff said after sending a deputy over to get a judge to sign some warrants. “And it’ll be done damn quick. Like today.” He looked at a deputy. “Round up a posse, Charlie. Good men all. Do it now.”

  “You want me to go along, Sheriff?” Frank asked.

  “No, Morgan, I don’t. You’re too quick on the shoot to suit me. From this day on, the law will handle this.”