“There’s an ax here,” McCoy said. “Maybe we can use it to chop these chains off. Can’t do anything with it about the shackles themselves, though. That’ll have to wait.”
“It’ll all have to wait,” Frank said as he gently lowered the boy’s head to the ground. “We’ve got to head for the Sorengaard ranch and give them a hand, if it’s not too late already.”
McCoy stared at him, “Are you serious, Morton? That’s none of our damn business.”
Frank picked up the cap-and-ball pistol and checked the cylinder as he straightened to his feet. The gun had five shots left in it. The boy had managed to reload after he made it into the shed, and he hadn’t fired any of the rounds except the one when McCoy opened the door. The youngster had probably expected to see an Apache standing there, Frank thought.
“I gave that boy my word.”
“Well, I didn’t. I’m not going to waste my time bury ing him or his folks, and I’m not riding to the rescue of those Scandahoovians he was talking about, either. Hell, the Indians have probably wiped them out already, anyway.”
“Maybe not,” Frank said as he stepped out of the shed and started toward the horses. “I gave my word,” he said again, “and if we help them, maybe they’ll help us. We still need a hacksaw and some clothes.”
“Yeah, there’s that,” McCoy said in a grudging tone. “Oh, hell. Wait up, Morton. I’ll ride over there with you. But I’m bringing this ax along.”
They mounted up and rode hard across the valley, still following the Gila River. Frank hated to leave those folks behind without giving them a proper burial. By the time he and McCoy could have gotten back, it would be too late. The scavengers would have been at the bodies al ready. Anyway, the dead were beyond caring. Cere monies were strictly for the living.
By the time they had ridden up and down a couple of ridges, Frank began to hear gunfire in the distance. The sound of shots could travel a long way out here in this dry air. He and McCoy glanced at each other and kept riding. As long as they could hear the shots, they knew that the Apaches hadn’t succeeded in overrunning the Sorengaards.
Frank couldn’t help but think about Abner Hoyt and the other bounty hunters who were back there some where behind them. The addition of eight battle-hard ened fighting men might make all the difference in the world if Hoyt and his companions pitched in to help run off the Apaches. But to do so would reveal their presence to McCoy and ruin the plan. Frank didn’t think Hoyt would do that. The man wanted the rest of the reward Conrad had promised too much to risk it.
On the other hand, if McCoy was killed fighting the Indians, that hidden loot would never be found. Frank decided that Hoyt and the others would hang back, close enough to keep an eye on what was going on, but wouldn’t take a hand unless circumstances forced them to do so.
No smoke rose against the pale-blue sky, which was another good sign. The Apaches hadn’t been able to get close enough to the ranch buildings to set any of them on fire. Maybe somebody at the Sorengaard place had seen the smoke from the other spread and been warned that an attack was imminent.
Frank and McCoy topped another rise, and found themselves looking down into a valley much like the one where the other ranch was located. The creek that ran through this one was about dried up, though, with only a few puddles left in its bed, and the vegetation was sparse. The ranch house, barn, and a long, low building that was probably a bunkhouse were all built of adobe with thatched roofs. Puffs of powder smoke came from the main house and the bunkhouse as defenders fired at the figures in high-topped moccasins, breechcloths, blue shirts, and red headbands who crouched behind every available bit of cover and blazed away at the buildings.
As Frank and McCoy reined in to study the situation for a moment, movement on a sandstone bluff behind the ranch house caught Frank’s eye. An Apache crept along the top of the bluff. He held a burning torch in one hand, and when he reached a point directly behind the house, he raised himself up and lifted his arm, poised to throw the torch down onto the roof and set it afire.
If the warrior succeeded in that move, the flames from the roof would spread and eventually force the defend ers out of the house. In the instant that Frank had to act, he snapped the rifle he carried to his shoulder, drew a bead, and pressed the trigger. The whipcrack of the Win chester rolled across the valley.
The Apache on the bluff was driven backward by the slug that punched into his broad chest. He dropped the torch and Frank watched anxiously, worried that the burning brand might still fall on the roof. It landed at the edge of the bluff, though, and stayed there. The war rior was sprawled on his back, unmoving in death.
“Hell of a shot, Morton,” McCoy said.
“Yeah, and it got some attention down there, too,” Frank replied with a nod toward the Apaches who were attacking the ranch. Several of them had twisted around at the sound of the shot, and now they opened fire on the two newcomers at the top of the hill.
Coolly, ignoring the bullets whistling around them, Frank and McCoy reined their horses back over to the far side of the slope where the animals would be safely out of the line of fire. They swung down from the saddles and hurried back up to the crest, dropping flat and thrust ing the barrels of their Winchesters over the hill so they could draw a bead on the renegades below.
Frank opened fire. He didn’t hurry his shots, and nei ther did McCoy beside him. They raked the attackers with regularly spaced shots, and their deadly accurate aim knocked two more Apaches off their feet. The rest of the war party broke and ran then, because they were still taking fire from the defenders in the ranch house and bunkhouse, too. Caught between three forces like that, the raiders had no choice but to abandon their attack.
Frank counted seventeen Apaches as the renegades fled, taking their wounded with them. They would have to leave the dead warrior on the bluff, although they might come back and try to recover his body in the dark of night. That meant the war party had totaled twenty, a good-sized band of renegades who had come up from the mountain strongholds below the border. The lure of the old, bloody days had been too much for the Apaches to resist. This bunch was trying to relive those days, when the white settlers who dared to venture into the ter ritory lived in fear of Apache wrath.
Frank and McCoy hurried the renegades on their way with a few more well-placed shots. A couple more Indians were dragging bullet-punctured legs as they fled. They fol lowed the mostly dry creek, disappearing around a bend in the stream. The landscape in that direction was rocky, rugged, and uninviting. The Apaches would be able to lose themselves in that wasteland without any trouble.
“I reckon we’re not going after them?” McCoy asked, his voice dry.
“I reckon you’re right,” Frank replied as he looked over the barrel of his Winchester at the spot where the members of the war party had vanished.
McCoy came to his feet. “Let’s get down there and see if those folks are properly grateful for our help.”
Frank stood, too, and said, “Better be careful. One good look at these clothes and the chains, and they’ll know we escaped from Yuma.”
“That doesn’t matter,” McCoy said. “We saved their hides. That redskinned bastard up on the bluff would’ve burned them out if not for your shot, Morton. All of them would’ve died. They’ll give us a hand.”
Frank wished he could be as confident of that as McCoy was. He hoped, too, that they weren’t just trad ing one set of problems for another.
Standing on top of the hill like that, both of them were visible to the people in the buildings down below. McCoy raised his rifle over his head in one hand and waved it back and forth. “We’re coming in!” he shouted. Frank didn’t know if the bank robber’s voice carried that far, but in all likelihood it did. They turned to retrieve their horses, and a few moments later they were both riding down the ridge toward the Sorengaard ranch.
Several dogs emerged from the barn and ran barking to meet them. That reminded Frank of the murdered dogs at the other spread, an
d he was glad to see that these big, shaggy fellas were all right. A couple of men came out of the bunkhouse and followed the dogs. They held rifles and watched the two strangers like hawks.
A mostly bald man with a drooping white mustache stepped out of the main house, followed by a couple of blond youngsters and a woman with gray braids. That would be the Sorengaard family, Frank guessed. The pretty blond girl who was about fifteen had to be Ingrid. Frank could see why the unfortunate young fella on the other spread had been smitten with her. Chances were, the two of them would have gotten married sooner or later and started a ranch and a family of their own.
Now that would never happen, because of the blood lust of those renegades.
“Hello the house!” McCoy called as he and Frank drew closer. “Howdy, folks!”
The white-mustachioed man swung up the rifle he held so that it covered Frank and McCoy and ordered, “Hold it right there, you two jailbirds!”
Chapter 17
“Don’t come any closer!” the rancher went on as Frank and McCoy reined their horses to a stop. The man had a slight Swedish accent.
“What the hell!” McCoy burst out. “Didn’t you see us up there shooting at those damned Apaches, mister?”
“Yah, and I can see those prison outfits, too, and the chains on your wrists and ankles. Jailbirds; that’s what you are, the both of you!” The man’s hands shook a little from clutching the rifle so tightly. The other members of his family were armed, too, the woman with a shotgun. the boy and girl with pistols.
“Take it easy,” Frank said, keeping his voice calm and level. These folks had already had their nerves stretched to the breaking point by the Indian attack. He didn’t want them to open fire on him and McCoy. “We don’t mean you any harm,” Frank went on. “That’s why we pitched in to help run off those renegades, Mr. Sorengaard.”
The rancher’s bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise. “How do you know who I am?”
“A young fella on a spread west of here told us about you.”
The blond girl in her teens spoke up excitedly. “That would be Tim!” she said, adding, “Tim Faraday.” Fear shone in her wide blue eyes. “We saw smoke in that di rection. Tim and his folks, are they—”
She broke off her question and swallowed hard, unable to go on.
“I’m sorry,” Frank said, making his voice as gentle as he could. “The Apaches hit there first. They killed your friend, Miss Sorengaard, and a fella I reckon was his father. I don’t know about Mrs. Faraday, but the cabin was burned out and I suspect she was in there.”
Both of the females began to cry. The boy looked mighty upset, too. He and young Tim Faraday had prob ably been friends. The two men who had come from the bunkhouse, who Frank had pegged as ranch hands who rode for the Sorengaards, had stepped up behind him and McCoy to cover them. Now those men began to curse in low, bitter tones.
Sorengaard looked shaken, too, but he just muttered, “Gott hilfen those poor people. Did you at least have the decency to bury them?” .
“There wasn’t time,” Frank said with a shake of his head. “The boy was still alive when we found him. He told us about your spread over here and must have known that the Apaches would head here next, because he asked us to come help you. Those were his last words, in fact.”
The blond girl sobbed harder. The graying woman clutched at her husband’s arm and said, “Lars, we have to go over there and tend to those poor people.”
Sorengaard nodded his head. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his stringy neck. “Yah, yah,” he said. “If the buzzards and the coyotes have left anything to bury.”
“Lars!”
Her father’s comments just made the girl cry even more. Mrs. Sorengaard turned, put her arm around Ingrid’s shoulders, and led her back into the house.
Into the grim silence that followed, McCoy said, “Listen, we’re sorry about what happened to your friends, but do you think you could give us a hand? We’d like to get these chains off-“
“Yah, I’ll just bet you would!” Sorengaard said. McCoy’s jaw tightened in anger. “We risked our own lives to help you people, and all we’re asking is a little help in return.”
“You are convicts! You have escaped from the prison at Yuma. We have seen others like you before. The law always comes hunting them.”
“What business is that of yours?” McCoy snapped back. “I don’t see a badge pinned to your shirt, Soren gaard. All I see is a man who might be dead along with his family by now if we hadn’t come along. You know one of those damned Apaches was about to set fire to your roof when Morton here shot him. don’t you?”
Sorengaard looked surprised again. He turned his head to gaze up at the roof and the bluff behind the house. The body of the dead Indian couldn’t be seen from down here.
“He’s tellin’ the truth about that, Boss,” one of the cowboys put in. “Hank and me seen that redskin up yonder, but we couldn’t get a good shot at him from where we were.”
“He had a torch,” the other puncher added. “Looked like he was about to toss it down on the house.”
Sorengaard swallowed again. He had to know that if the renegade had succeeded in firing the house, it would have doomed him and his family. He looked at Frank and said, “You shot that Indian?”
Frank shrugged. “Seemed like the thing to do at the time.”
“Yah. Yah … ” Sorengaard nodded and lowered his rifle to his side. “I owe you a debt I cannot ever repay. But I can at least try, even though it means going against the law. You men can get down from your horses.” He turned to the boy. “Sven, go to the barn and find my hacksaw.”
The youngster tucked his pistol behind his belt and hurried off to do his father’s bidding. Lars Sorengaard looked at Frank and McCoy again and went on. “What else do you want? There is water and grain for your horses, and plenty of food in the house … “
“We could use some regular clothes,” McCoy said as he dismounted. Frank swung down from the saddle as well and nodded in agreement with McCoy’s request.
“We got some extra duds that’ll likely fit you,” one of the cowhands offered “I don’t much cotton to helpin’ es caped convicts, neither, but I reckon after what you hom bres done, you deserve it.”
“Go out to the bunkhouse,” Sorengaard said. “I will tell my wife to prepare a meal, and then I will bring the hacksaw when my boy finds it. Zeke, tend to their horses. Hank, hitch the team to the wagon. As soon as we can, we will go over to the Faraday ranch and see what needs to be done there.”
“What about the Injuns?’ the cowboy called Hank asked. “Reckon they’ll double back and hit us again?”
Sorengaard shook his head. “I do not know, but I doubt it. When renegades like that cross the border, they hit and run and move on to the next place they want to attack.”
“You’ve been here for a while, haven’t you, Soren gaard?” Frank asked. The settled look of the place told him that much.
The rancher nodded. “Fifteen years. Many times I have fought the Apaches. Geronimo himself came here once and tried to run me out.” Sorengaard squared his shoulders. “But I am still here.”
“I reckon you know what you’re talking about, then, when you talk about what the Indians will do.”
Frank and McCoy walked over to the bunkhouse, car rying their rifles with them. McCoy still had the old cap and-ball pistol, too. Frank wondered if they might be able to rustle up some newer handguns here to go along with their Winchesters. He knew he would feel better with the weight of a Colt on his hip again.
It took a while for Sorengaard to saw the shackles and leg irons off the wrists and ankles of Frank and McCoy. He had to be careful to keep from cutting their flesh, too. By the time he was done, Mrs. Sorengaard had food ready. Frank and McCoy changed into the well-worn range clothes and battered Stetsons provided by the two ranch hands, Zeke and Hank, and walked to the house with Sorengaard.
“I want you men gone by the time I get back here,” the r
ancher said as they went inside. “Hank and I will go see that the Faradays receive a proper burial. Zeke and my son Sven will still be here, though, and they are both good shots.”
“Still worried about the Apaches?” McCoy asked.
“The Apaches … and other savages.”
McCoy grunted. “Still don’t have it through your head that we don’t mean you any harm, do you, mister?”
“A man who lives on the frontier must always be cau tious, especially with his family.”
“Don’t worry, Sorengaard,’ Frank said. “We’ve got places to go, so we’ll be moving on as soon as we’ve eaten.” He broached the other subject that was on his mind. “I was wondering if you might have a couple of extra revolvers around here …. “
Sorengaard’s mouth hardened under the drooping mustache, but he nodded. “Yah. You should have guns and ammunition, and we have plenty of both. But you must give me your word you will not use them against innocent people.”
“Where we’re going, we won’t be running into any in nocent people,” McCoy said. “Maybe those Apaches again, though.”
“If you do … kill some of them for me, yah?”
McCoy laughed. “Sure.”
The food was simple but good, and washed down with strong black coffee, it made Frank feel better. That was somewhat canceled out, however, by the grief on the faces of Mrs. Sorengaard and her daughter. Ingrid’s eyes were red from crying, but she had gotten it under control and only snifiled a little every now and then.
When they had finished eating, they buckled on the gun belts that Sorengaard had left for them. Frank drew the Colt from the holster, spun the cylinder to check the action, and then thumbed bullets into the chambers.
Sven Sorengaard watched him intently. After a minute, Frank asked, “Got something on your mind, son?”
“Are you going after those damned Apaches?” the boy asked.
“Sven!” his mother snapped. “Such language in your own house! If you must talk like that, go to the bunkhouse … or the barn!”
Ambush Valley Page 17
