Showdown (16 page)

Frank did not know what to expect once he reached he old Army fort for it had been deserted for years. He knew there were no towns anywhere near the place, and he suspected the old road leading to the fort would be overgrown from lack of use. Boise was probably a good fifty miles away from the fort.

Frank traveled light, not taking a packhorse. If he ran out of food, he would kill a deer, or live on rabbits and squirrels. He'd done it many times in the past.

I'm a rich man, he thought as he rode out of South Raven several hours before dawn. How do I get myself into these fixes? More importantly, why do I get myself into these fixes? Why don't I move to Canada and live peacefully under a false name? I certainly have the money to do so. Frank sighed as he settled more comfortably in the saddle. Because I'm Frank Morgan, he concluded. I've been Frank Morgan for forty some years. That's my name and I'll be damned if I'm going to run away and live under a name that isn't my own.

Frank headed cross-country, riding north for a time, then cutting almost due west. He couldn't be sure, but he figured he was probably paralleling the outlaws and their hostages, with them being north of the route he was taking.

This was tough, rugged country, inhabited by only a few brave souls. Frank had no idea how they managed to eke out a living. The days were bright and sunny and the nights downright cold. Frank traveled the passes and the valleys, avoiding the high-up country most of the time. Stormy liked the trail, and had a pleasing, comfortable gait that ate up the miles.

On his second day out, Frank smelled smoke and headed toward it. He reined up about fifty yards from the camp and gave out a holler.

“If you're friendly, come on in!” a man shouted. “If you're unfriendly, you bes' ride on.”

“I'm friendly,” Frank shouted. “Just looking for a place to noon and rest my horse.”

“Come on in.”

The two men looked to be prospectors, and the meat they were frying up and the coffee they were boiling sure smelled good. Frank said as much.

“Be ready in a few minutes,” one of the men said. “Light and sit.”

“I've got the fixings for some pan bread, if you'd like some,” Frank offered.

“That would be tasty,” the other man said. “We run out of flour a couple of days ago.” He peered at Frank for several seconds. “You look familiar. We ever crossed trails before?”

“I don't know. Name is Morgan.”

“That's me.”

“Great God Amighty! It is you. I seen your picture on the cover of one of them dime books one time.”

“What are you doin' out here in the wilderness, Mr. Morgan?” the other man asked.

“Not that it's any of our business, mind you,” his partner added quickly.

“Just wandering, boys. Staying away from people mostly. You haven't seen any big bunches of people close by, have you?”

“We shore have. Early this morning, we did. I mean to tell you they was some hard cases, for shore.”

“We fought shy of 'em, Mr. Morgan. Then about two hours later, here come another bunch of hard cases, ridin' hard in the same direction. 'Bout a dozen or so of them. I don't know what's goin' on or where they was all goin', but we shore didn't want to be nowheres close by.”

Frank set the skillet on the rocks by the fire and waited while his cup was filled up with the hot brew. “I wonder where they're heading,” he said.

“I wouldn't have no idea. If they headin' for Boise, they need to cut south some and get on the road. Be a lot easier goin'. If they stay due west like they're goin' there ain't nothin' except what's left of that old Army fort.”

“Army fort?” Frank asked innocently. “I didn't know there was a fort in this area.”

“There ain't no more. The Army pulled out years ago. The stone buildin's still there. That's 'bout all.”

“I'll be damned. I never knew about that fort.” Frank shook his head.

“Not too many people does. Hell, it was built in the middle of nowheres. I never knew why the Army built it there.”

“Must be a road to it.”

“Not no more. Just a trace of where it used to be. You couldn't get no wagon down it now. It's all growed up.”

“Well, I'll make it a point not to get anywhere near that place,” Frank said, holding out his cup for coffee.

“Be smart of you to do that.”

* * *

Frank left the two old prospectors and once more hit the trail. If the gunslicks that left South Raven joined up with the kidnappers, that would bring the total to over forty men. There wasn't one chance in hell Frank could free the hostages.

He didn't know what to do.

“If you had any sense at all,” he muttered, “you'd just ride on and forget the whole damned thing.”

But he knew he wouldn't, couldn't, do that.

“We're gonna be in for a rough time of it, Stormy,” he said to his horse. “I'm just too hardheaded to quit.”

Frank stopped a couple of hours before dark and put the hobbles on Stormy. He rigged up a makeshift lean-to, then gathered up several armloads of dry leaves to spread on the ground. He laid his groundsheet over the leaves and then unrolled his blankets. He quickly built a fire, put the coffee water on to boil, and then set about gathering up dry firewood, enough to last him through the cold night.

He fried up some bacon and made some pan bread, using that to sop up the bacon grease. He had another cup of coffee and a cigarette, and sat and smoked while the last rays of sun disappeared and shadows began creeping in. As he smoked and drank his coffee, Frank wondered how far he was from any town. A good long ways, he concluded.

Frank figured he couldn't be more than a day and a half behind the outlaws. He knew that in rough country a lone rider could make better time than a large gathering. Of course, he still did not have the foggiest notion what he was going to do once he did make the fort.

Frank pulled his blankets around him and cussed, his breath steaming the cold evening air.

* * *

Frank shot a deer the next afternoon. He hated to do it for most of the meat would go to waste. He didn't have enough time to jerk any. He cut off the backstrap and then a haunch to roast. The cooked meat would keep until he reached the fort. Just as he was stowing the meat, he felt eyes on him and turned around.

A group of Indians was watching him, staying in the timber, well away from him. Frank stood up and made the sign of peace. The Indians returned the sign. Frank rubbed his stomach and pointed to the deer, then pointed to the two males, two females, and several kids. One of the men nodded his head and smiled.

Frank mounted up and rode off, feeling better now that he knew the meat from the deer would not go to waste and a family would eat well that day.

That evening, he put the roast on to cook, and fried up some of the backstrap. He ate his fill, leaned back just under his lean-to, and looked out the front at the canopy of stars that filled the heavens. Everything seemed at peace. But Frank knew it was all an illusion: as long as there were evil men walking the land, there would be no peace.

Frank poured another cup of coffee and shook away the thoughts of peace. He was on his way to make war, not peace. He knew that to talk peace with evil men was a waste of time. Frank knew exactly how to deal with evil men.

You killed them.

* * *

Frank topped the ridge that looked down into the long valley. The old fort was clearly visible. Most of the log walls had rotted away, but many of the buildings were still standing. The stone buildings would be there until someone tore them down.

There wasn't much danger of anyone accidentally stumbling upon the ruins of the old fort. The fort was miles and miles away from any town or established road, and no one lived within at least thirty miles of the place. Frank had spent an entire day doing a wide circle of the place, and had found no sign of human habitation.

Frank rode deeper into the timber and dismounted, walking back to the ridge overlooking the old fort. He began studying the layout with his field glasses. There were four guards: one at each corner of the place.

“Bad move, Sonny,” Frank muttered. “If you were in the military, you must have spent your time in an office, 'cause you sure don't know crap about posting guards.”

Frank had found at least two easy ways into the ruins without running much risk of being spotted, due to the bad placement of the guards.

“Getting in will be easy,” he muttered. “However, if I went in with the notion of causing trouble, getting out might be a problem.”

Frank studied the ravine running right up to the fort. I'll go in and out that way, he concluded. And I'll do that tonight. Prowl around some. He smiled, thinking, Too bad I can't be the hairy monster again. That was fun.

Somebody, Frank thought, put a lot of thought into this kidnapping plan. Somebody other than Sonny had to transport supplies to this place and store them. So there was more than just one man working on this end of it. Probably staying in Boise.

Well, Frank thought, I'll worry about that end of it later. Right now, I've got plenty to do here.

Although he sure as hell wasn't sure exactly
how
to accomplish what he came to do.

* * *

At full dark Frank slipped into the ravine and began slowly making his way toward the ruins of the old fort. He had left his spurs in his saddlebags, and wore or carried nothing that would rattle. There was lamp and candle lights showing through the cracks in the boarded-up windows of the buildings within the compound, enforcing Frank's belief that someone had done a bit of work to the buildings long before the actual kidnapping took place.

He slipped up to the larger of the stone buildings and listened to the hum of conversation taking place inside.

“Lonesome,” someone said, “how come you boys think you can just ride in here and deal yourselves into this game?”

“You don't have a lot of choice in the matter, Stoner,” Lonesome Howard replied. “You either deal us in or try to kill us all. And if you try any gunplay, a lot of you are goin' to die. Think about that.”

“It ain't fair,” another man spoke up. “We done all the work and now you boys want a piece of the cake. It ain't fair.”

“Nothin' is fair,” Lonesome replied. “Them rich folks got their millions by workin' the poor man to death in their mines and railroads and factories. Think about that.”

“You gonna give your share to the poor, Lonesome?”

“In a way, yes, I am. I'm gonna build me a church with my share and preach the gospel to the poor sinners.”

“Who in the hell would come to listen to you?” another asked. “That's crazy, Lonesome. 'Course you're crazy, so I guess it makes sense to you.”

Lonesome laughed. “Crazy like a fox, Harden. But you go on believin' what you like. Women like for preachers to poke them. Think about that. You'll be spendin' your money on soiled doves and rotgut whiskey. But fine-lookin' country women will be knockin' on my church door all hot to bed down with me. Now who's crazy?”

“The man's got a plan,” Carl Depp said. “I got to admit that. That's right good thinkin', Lonesome. Can I be one of your choir members?”

“Absolutely not. Once I get my hands on that money, I ain't havin' no more to do with the likes of you godless heathens!”

The entire roomful of men all burst into laughter. Outside, Frank shook his head at Lonesome's plan. Lonesome was always thinking up some angle to work. The years had not changed him a bit.

Frank slipped around to another of the stone buildings and peeked in through another boarded-up window. Sonny was talking with a couple of men.

“Let Lonesome and that bunch from town think they're in tight with us. We'll gather them all in one building just before I go into town for the money and kill them. That will take care of that little problem.”

Damn! Frank thought. That would sure enough take care of the problem.

“How about Morgan? We know he's comin' after us.”

“What about him?” Sonny asked. “He's just one man. When he gets here, we'll kill him.”

I might have something to say about that, Frank thought as he slipped away from the building. As a matter of fact, I'm going to have a hell of lot to say about it!

Frank spent about an hour the next morning watching the old fort through his field glasses. He soon tired of it because there wasn't a lot of movement to observe. Before sleep dropped him into rest the previous night, he had given a lot of thought about freeing the hostages. He had thought of a dozen plans and rejected them all. Now, watching the old fort, he was forced to admit that he was stymied. He just didn't know what to do. If he tried to free the men one at a time, that would put the others at risk. He didn't know what to do.

Frank picked up his field glasses as two men walked out of a small building and started swinging at each other. Each got in some pretty good licks before one of the men stepped back and pulled his pistol. The other man held one hand out in front of him and shook his head. The word “No!” was forming on his lips a second before he was shot in the chest.

The man dropped to the cold ground and did not move.

The shooter walked to him and looked down as he holstered his six-gun.

Another man walked out of the building and shot the gunman in the back. The gunslick dropped to his knees, a horrible expression on his face, then fell forward, to die by the body of the man he'd shot. The building emptied of men.

Sonny and several other men ran out of one of the larger stone buildings and confronted the back-shooter and those siding with him. Frank could not, of course, hear any of the words, but he could tell the conversation was heated due to the gestures of the men.

Sonny began pointing to something. The back-shooter jerked his hat off his head and threw it on the ground, shaking his head in a negative way.

A dozen men, including Lonesome Howard and the Olsen cousins, came out of another building, all armed with rifles, and lined up with Sonny.

The back-shooter and the half-dozen men who had sided with him looked around them for a moment as Sonny told them something. They all nodded their heads and turned away, walking back into the building. Frank lowered his field glasses, resting his eyes for a moment from the pull of the heavy magnification.

“Interesting,” he said. “Now let's see what happens.”

After a few minutes the half-dozen men came outside, carrying their bedrolls and saddlebags. They began walking toward the corral, all under the watchful eyes of Sonny and his men. Frank watched them saddle their horses and mount up. They slowly rode past Sonny and his men. Just as they reached what was left of the gate entrance to the old fort, Sonny and his men lifted their rifles and opened fire.

All but one of the men were knocked out of the saddle. The one man who remained mounted slumped over his horse's neck as the frightened animal bolted, racing out of the ruins. The wounded man hung on.

Sonny and his men continued firing as the horse turned toward the ridge where Frank was watching, putting some old buildings between the rider and the rifle fire. The rider reached the timber and was out of sight.

Sonny pointed toward a man. The man ran for the corral. Moments later, he was riding out of the ruins, in pursuit of the wounded man.

Frank watched the activity in the old fort for a moment longer. The other men showed no interest in riding after the wounded man and his pursuer.

Frank left his hiding place and slipped through the timber, in the direction the wounded man had taken.

It took Frank only a few minutes to locate him. He was lying unconscious on the ground, his horse standing nearby. Frank slipped behind the scant cover of brush as the gunslick sent out from the fort rode slowly up to the downed man and dismounted. Frank stepped out of cover and swung his rifle, the butt taking the gunhand in the face and dropping him like a rock. He wasn't dead, but he'd be out for a time.

The bulging saddlebags of the wounded man held Frank's attention. He quickly jerked the saddle bags off and opened them. A wide smile creased his face. The saddlebags were stuffed with sticks of dynamite, caps, and fuses.

The wounded man moaned, and Frank's .45 leaped into his hand as he spun around.

“I ain't gonna be no trouble to you, Morgan,” the man whispered. “I'm done for and I know it.”

Frank holstered his pistol and walked over to him. The man had several bloody holes in his back.

“I was on my way to do a bank job when I joined up with this tumble bunch. That's why I was carryin' the dynamite.”

“Must have been a hell of a bank if you were going to use all that explosive,” Frank said.

The man pushed a smile past bloody lips. “I believe in bein' prepared.”

“Are the hostages still alive?”

“Yeah. So far. But some of them is in bad shape from all the beatin's they've took. Sonny is plannin' on killin' them all once he gets the money. Sonny is a mean son of a bitch, let me tell you he is.”

“How about this man who came after you?” Frank pointed to the man he'd smacked with his rifle butt.

“Sorry bastard from Kansas name of Hastings. Brags about killin' and rapin' young girls. No damn good a-tall.”

The man said no more as his eyes glazed over. He shivered once, and then died far more peacefully than he had ever lived.

Frank took the heavy saddlebags and slipped back into the timber and brush and waited. It wasn't long before half a dozen mounted men rode up and dismounted.

“What the hell happened here?” one asked.

“Don't make no sense unless Hastings fell off his horse,” another said.

“Is he dead?” a third man asked, pointing to Hastings.

“Naw. But he's bad hurt. Head looks like it's busted wide open.”

“This one's shore 'nuff dead,” another said.

“Leave him. Get the horses and let's tote Hastings back to the fort.”

“Yeah. I'm hongry.”

Frank watched them ride out. He carefully made his way back to his own horse, and then set about capping and fusing the dynamite, making a dozen tied-together bundles of the explosives. Now he had a plan.

* * *

Frank had pinpointed the location of the hostages, and knew which buildings were occupied by the outlaws. He longed for a cup of coffee, but hadn't dared build a fire or even smoke a cigarette for fear of detection. Now, at full dark, on the ridge overlooking the old fort, Frank rolled a smoke to settle his nerves and carefully lit up.

His plan was foolhardy and chancy at best, but it was the best he could come up with. Frank finished his cigarette and picked up the saddlebags filled with dynamite. He had moved Stormy to a location much closer to the old fort. It was time to get moving.

Frank made his way into the ravine and then cautiously slipped into the edge of the fort. If all the horses stampeded during the explosions, his plan was doomed, for on foot in the cold wilderness, the hostages would surely die—most of them anyway. These were men who were not accustomed to hardship or fending for themselves.

Frank stepped out of the ravine and moved up to the first building housing a group of outlaws. He would set the charges for this building, using long fuses, then move on to the building where the hostages were being held and free them as quickly as possible. Frank knew the chance of his plan succeeding was slim. But it was the only plan he had.

He pressed up against the building as several men walked by.

“Sonny says just a couple more days to go,” one said. “If we haven't heard from the relatives of the men, we move again.”

“Where to?”

“I don't know. He didn't say.”

“I'm gettin' tarred of all this damn waitin',” another said. “I'm thinkin' the relatives don't give a damn about these men.”

“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.