Unless ...
The idea that sprang into his brain held some promise, but he didn’t know if it was possible. That depended on something that was largely out of his control and would require a great deal of luck. But he couldn’t rule it out just yet.
As the dusk thickened around him, he holstered his gun and started back along the ridge. Since he knew there were no bushwhackers between him and the hollow where Salty was dug in—no live ones, anyway—he didn’t have to be as careful and could move faster. Within minutes he was close enough to call softly, “Salty!”
“Frank?” the old-timer’s voice came back. “Is that you?”
“Me and Dog,” Frank replied as both of them slipped down in the hollow. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, they ain’t hit me again. I’m thirsty as hell, though, prob’ly because of that blood I lost. I’m so thirsty I’d even settle for a drink o’ water instead of whiskey.”
“Maybe it won’t be too much longer.”
“Yeah, because I figure those two buzzards’ll try to sneak up on me once it’s good and dark. They’ll have a surprise waitin’ for ’em when they realize you’re here, too.”
“I won’t be,” Frank said. “I’ve got something else to do. But I’ll leave Dog with you. He’s worth any two fighting men.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Salty said. “But what have you got in mind?”
“Before it started getting dark, did you see where that extra horse went?”
“The one where you shot the hombre ridin’ it out of the saddle?” Salty sounded confused. “The last I seen of that hoss, it had wandered off over yonder to the left and was grazin’. Don’t know where it is now.”
“Thanks, Salty. That gives me a place to start looking for it, anyway.”
“What do you want with that horse? You gonna cut and run and leave me up here, Frank?”
“You know better than that,” Frank said. “If you weren’t wounded I’d kick you in the butt for even asking such a thing. I’m hoping I can find what I need to get those men out of that line shack.”
“Unless that nag can sprout wings and fly down there, I don’t see how it’s gonna help.” Salty sighed. “But I reckon you know what you’re doin’. You always do.”
Frank chuckled. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He added, “Dog, stay here with Salty. If those varmints charge him, you know what to do.”
He patted Dog on the head, squeezed Salty’s shoulder, and moved off into the twilight, which was not far from being full-fledged night now. The sky was fading from dark blue to black overhead, and some of the millions of stars had already popped into view.
An orange glow climbed into the sky above the pasture. Frank knew Baldridge’s men had fired the hay in the wagon. It would burn fairly quickly, but they might have more wagons ready to move in if they needed to.
Frank heard something moving in the brush not far away. He drew his gun in case it was some of the hired killers, but a moment later he spotted a dark shape larger than a man.
“Hey,” he called softly. “Take it easy. I’m a friend.”
The words didn’t mean anything, but the tone of voice did. He continued to speak in calm, steady, soothing tones as he approached the bulky shape. As he came closer, he could see that it was a riderless horse, the mount that had belonged to the man he’d killed earlier. The horse acted a little spooked, but it stayed put until Frank was close enough to catch hold of the reins.
Feeling a human touch on the reins, the horse settled down instantly. Frank patted the animal’s shoulder and then ran his hand over the saddle. His fingers tightened on the coiled rope he found hanging there from a strap.
That was what he needed. Luck was with him, at least this far.
But there was still a long way to go.
He took the rope loose from the saddle and draped the coil over his left shoulder.
“You can go back to grazing, old hoss,” he told the bushwhacker’s horse. “And I hope your next owner is an improvement on the last one.”
With the rope on his shoulder, Frank practically ran back to the cliff at the end of the ridge. He had to move carefully since now it was getting too dark to see very well, but he hurried as much as he could.
The haystack was still burning down below in the pasture, he saw. Baldridge’s men, or Brady’s men, or whatever they ought to be called, had turned the vehicle so that its back was toward the line shack. That had allowed them to use the wagon itself for cover as they cut the team loose and led the horses away. The glare from the burning hay lit up the front of the shack almost as bright as day, and it spilled out to the sides, too.
But it didn’t reach the very back of the building, Frank noted, and right now, that was all he cared about.
Working mostly by feel, he began to climb the cliff. He had gotten a good look at it earlier, before the sun went down, and he had seen that its face was pitted and scored, offering quite a few footholds and handholds. He pulled himself up carefully, testing each grip before he trusted his weight to it. If he fell it could prove fatal not only to him but also to all the men in the line shack who were still alive.
The climb seemed to take forever, but really it was only ten minutes or so. When Frank reached the top he pulled himself over the edge and sprawled out for a moment to catch his breath. Then he rolled over, came to his feet, and started along the cliff.
He suspected that the view from up here would be spectacular during the day, offering a panoramic vista of the entire valley. Right now, though, all he could really see was the pasture below, lit up by the light from the burning hay wagon. That allowed him to find the spot he wanted, directly behind the line shack. He tied one end of the rope around the sturdy trunk of a pine and dropped the rest of it over the brink.
The rope fell in the stygian darkness between the line shack and the cliff. Frank couldn’t tell whether it reached the ground or not, but it was as long as it was and would have to do. He leaned against it, testing the strength of the tree and the knots he had tied.
Satisfied with both, he let himself over the edge and started walking down the cliff, thankful that its face was rough enough to give his boots purchase and that his hands, wrists, arms, and shoulders were strong enough to support most of his weight.
The climb down seemed even longer than the one up. If it had been daylight, he would have been an easy target for the hired killers on the ridge. The glow from the blaze didn’t reach quite far enough to reveal him ... or at least so he hoped. It helped that none of the bushwhackers would be expecting someone to climb down the cliff like this.
His arms and shoulders ached and throbbed by the time he reached the end of the rope. Frank knew he was almost to the ground, so he let go and dropped the rest of the way. The fall was no more than six feet. He landed heavily and dropped to a knee but came up quickly.
The shooting had stopped now except for an occasional blast as the standoff continued. Frank went to the rear wall of the shack and drew his gun. Reversing it, he used the butt to rap sharply on one of the logs. He hit it three times, paused, then struck three times again in an unmistakable signal.
After a moment, a voice he recognized as Jubal Embry’s called, “Who the hell’s out there?” Embry sounded utterly shocked.
Frank put his mouth close to a small chink in the mud between the logs and said, “It’s Frank Morgan, Embry. I’ve come to get you out of there!”
“Morgan!” Embry exclaimed. “How the hell—”
“There’s no time for that,” Frank said. He drew his knife and started working at the mud to enlarge the chink. “We need to get some of these logs out.”
He heard scraping from inside the shack as some of the men in there went to work on the same task. He didn’t know yet how many survivors there were, but they labored industriously to remove the earthen mortar that held the logs together.
“Some of you keep shooting now and then,” Frank advised through the gap he had created. “That
way they’re less likely to think that something else is going on.”
A few shots rang out. Frank got his hands through the opening and took a firm grip on the log. He heaved on it and felt it shift a little.
Embry said, “I’ll push on it from inside while you pull, Morgan. Ready?”
“Ready,” Frank said.
It took several minutes of grunting effort, but the log came free and dropped to the ground outside the shack, making Frank hop back nimbly to keep it from crushing his toes. By then some of the other men had loosened another section of log, and with Frank pulling outside and the men inside pushing, it came out as well. That weakened the wall even more. Minutes later, they had another log out and an opening big enough for men to crawl through.
“How many men in there who aren’t wounded?” Frank asked.
“About a dozen,” Embry replied. “We got six or seven more who got plugged when the treacherous sons o’ bitches opened fire on us.” His voice choked for a second. “And we lost half a dozen or so in the pasture.”
“I saw them out there,” Frank said. “I’m sorry. But I need the men who are able to fight.”
“You heard the man,” Embry said. “Get on out there, and do what Morgan tells you. He’s in charge.”
“Pa, I’m not leaving you here.”
Frank recognized that new voice in the darkness. It belonged to Hal Embry.
“That bullet busted my ankle,” Jubal Embry said. “Whatever Morgan’s got in mind, I ain’t gonna be spry enough for it. You go, Hal. Settle the score for the Boxed E.”
If Embry had a broken ankle, he was probably in a lot of pain, Frank thought. And yet he hadn’t been able to tell it from the rancher’s voice, which sounded as strong as ever. Jubal Embry was a tough old bird, true pioneer stock.
Hal didn’t argue with his father. He crawled through the opening they had made in the wall and was followed by eleven other men, among them Gage Carlin. Frank was glad to see that the middle-aged cowboy was all right.
The feeling was likewise, because Carlin gripped Frank’s hand and wrung it.
“I didn’t expect to ever see you again, Frank, not this side of the hereafter, anyway. Where are Salty and Bill?”
“Salty’s up on the eastern ridge, holding down the fort there. Kitson’s not here.”
“Damn! You mean he’s dead?”
“No, but he’s not in this fight,” Frank said. Time enough to go into the details of Kitson’s treachery later. Right now it was more important to take the fight to the enemy. “Everybody still have ammunition?”
He got a chorus of affirmatives from the men, although some of them said they were starting to run low, then he showed them the rope dangling from the cliff top.
“Climbing that cliff won’t be easy, but you can do it. When you get to the top, wait for me. We’re going to make our way to the western ridge and give Baldridge and his men a surprise.”
The Boxed E punchers seemed to like the sound of that. Hal said, “I’ll go first,” and jumped up to grab the rope. He got his feet braced against the cliff and started climbing.
While they were doing that, Frank ducked down and crawled through the opening into the line shack. It was dark as pitch inside, so he said, “Embry?”
“Here,” the rancher said.
“Who else is in here?”
Embry named five of the hands from the Boxed E, then added, “And the marshal.”
“Trask?”
“Yeah,” the lawman said in a hoarse, strained voice. “I’m here, Morgan.”
“How bad are you hit?”
“Bad enough,” Trask replied. The note of fatalism in his words was obvious. “But it doesn’t really matter. I didn’t have much time left anyway.”
“Consumption?” Frank asked.
Trask sounded surprised as he said, “How did you know?”
“I saw the way you were coughing back in town a couple of times, and I spotted some blood on your handkerchief. It was pretty easy to figure out from that.”
Trask sighed and said, “Yeah. You wanted to know where I was right after the inquest, when the fight broke out. I was in my office coughing up what looked like half of my lungs, that’s where I was. But I didn’t want anybody to know about it. I never wanted anybody’s damned pity.”
“You should’ve spoke up, Marshal,” Embry said. “Maybe somebody could’ve helped you.”
“There was no help for me,” Trask said, “and now with a bullet through me, there sure as hell isn’t. But the rest of you can get out of here and settle things with Baldridge and that blasted Brady Morgan.”
“How did you know it was a trap?” Frank asked.
“Brady tried to spring it too quick,” Embry said. “That boy’s kill-crazy. He opened the ball before his men expected him to, I guess. Anyway, we were able to hotfoot it over here to this line shack while we were tradin’ shots with the varmints up on the ridges. I never trusted him or Baldridge, neither one.”
“And you were right not to,” Frank said. “I didn’t want to think Baldridge would sink to that level, but I reckon he did.”
“It was the woman,” Trask husked out. “I hate to say it, Morgan ... I know she’s the mother of your son ... but both of them are no good.”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, Marshal,” Frank assured him. “And I’ll deal with Brady if I get the chance.”
“What can we do to help?” Embry asked.
“Those of you who are able to pull triggers, keep shooting. Make them think nothing has changed down here. We’ll be working our way around behind them. Give us about twenty minutes to get in position, and then burn powder for all you’re worth so they all start shooting back. We’ll need their muzzle flashes to locate all of them.”
“It’s gonna be a helluva scrap,” Embry said. “Wish I could be in the big middle of it with you. But we’ll keep ’em busy until then, Morgan. Don’t worry about that.”
Frank reached out in the darkness, found the rancher’s shoulder, and clapped his hand on it.
“I never had any doubts, Embry.”
From outside the shack, Gage Carlin called, “Everybody’s up that rope but you and me, Frank.”
“I’m coming,” Frank said. He crawled back out and joined the cowboy at the base of the cliff.
“Who’s goin’ first?” Carlin asked.
“Go ahead,” Frank told him. “I can use a few more minutes to rest.”
“I’m gettin’ too old for dust-ups like this,” Carlin said ruefully.
“I keep saying the same thing ... but somehow folks just keep shooting at me.”
Chapter 33
Frank held the end of the rope as Gage Carlin climbed up. When Carlin reached the top, he tugged the rope three times to signal Frank. After drawing in a deep breath, Frank gripped the rope and started the ascent. His shoulders still burned from the previous exertion, but he ignored the discomfort and kept climbing.
When he made it to the top, Hal and Carlin were there to grasp his arms and help him over the edge. Frank stood up, rolled his shoulders to ease their ache, and then in a low voice explained his plan to the men gathered around.
“In a few minutes, the men in the shack will be stepping up the pace. Move as quiet as you can and spread out along the ridge. When the shooting picks up, you ought to be able to see the muzzle flashes from the bushwhackers. Hit ’em hard then. We’ll be taking them by surprise, and the odds are pretty even.”
“We’ll get them, Mr. Morgan,” Hal promised. “We’ll settle the score for the Boxed E.”
“Let’s go, then,” Frank said. “Somebody bring that rope. We’ll need it to get down to the western ridge, but that’ll be a lot easier than climbing that cliff.”
That prediction proved to be accurate. After Frank found a good place to tie the rope around a rock, the men scrambled down without any trouble. They assembled where the cliff met the ridge.
Frank had been trying to count off the seconds i
n his head. He knew the men in the shack would start firing fast and furiously any moment now.
“Spread out,” he ordered the men in an urgent whisper. “Find those bushwhackers!”
He spotted a muzzle flash and headed for it as the group scattered. It would have been good if they could have attacked together, but that wasn’t the nature of this battle. This skirmish was more a man-to-man fight. Unfortunately, that meant the Boxed E punchers would be going up against professional killers, but Frank was counting on the element of surprise to make the odds more even.
The hay was still burning, but the flames had died down some and their light wasn’t as bright. Bright enough, though, to reveal the man who threw open the line shack door and stumbled out into the glare. He yelled, “You sons of bitches!” Then he flung up his arm, and started firing the revolver in his hand.
Trask!
Frank barely had time to wonder what in the world the marshal was doing before he realized the answer. Baldridge’s men all along the ridge opened up on the defiant lawman, riddling Trask. But even though he jerked and staggered under the impact of the bullets, he stayed on his feet and kept pulling the trigger of his Colt until it was empty.
And every bushwhacker on the ridge had revealed his location by firing again and again, accomplishing exactly what Trask must have hoped he would accomplish by this fatal distraction.
Frank charged forward, bounding from rock to rock as he closed in on his quarry. The gunman kneeling behind a boulder must have heard him coming, because he tried to turn.
Frank shot him in the head, blowing the man’s brains out through a fist-sized hole in the back of his skull.
Frank raced along the ridge. Rifles cracked and pistols boomed, filling the night with a cacophony of death. Muzzle flashes split the darkness. One of them lit up the face of a hired killer right in front of Frank, and a split-second later his slug smashed through the bridge of the man’s nose and into his brain. For thirty seconds that seemed much longer, chaos reigned along the ridge.
Then Hal Embry shouted, “Boxed E, hold your fire! Hold your fire!”
Frank raised his voice, calling, “Hal! Gage! Boxed E! Gather up! Hold your fire!”
Montana Gundown Page 21
