Showdown (11 page)

The pleas for help changed into a low moaning in the night. Frank cautiously followed the sounds, staying on the road, but close to the timber. When he was close to the main road leading to Red Rock, he spotted the figure of a man lying in the middle of the cabin road. Frank stopped, stepping into the timber and surveying everything around him, listening intently. He could neither see, hear, nor sense anything hostile awaiting him. He walked up to the man and knelt down.

It was Maxwell Crawford. The man's clothing was ripped and torn and he had been badly beaten, his face swollen and covered with dried blood.

“My God,” Maxwell whispered. “I'm badly hurt. Please help me.”

“Can you walk?” Frank asked.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Come on. I'll help you up. That's good. Now lean on me. The cabin isn't far.”

Frank managed to get Maxwell to the cabin and into a chair by the table. He put on water to boil, lit several candles for more light, built up the fire, and then turned his attention to Maxwell.

The man had been savagely beaten. Frank could tell the man's nose was broken and several teeth had been knocked out.

“My ribs are broken,” Maxwell said. “And I'm coughing up blood. My chest hurts terribly. I believe a lung has been punctured.”

“Water will be hot in a few minutes. Then I'll clean you up. Tell me what happened to you, Maxwell.”

“The men we hired as guides, the Olsen cousins, turned on us. They were in league with our bodyguards. I don't know how they arranged that, but they did. I think it had been planned with the assistance of some of those who had gathered in town . . .”

Maxwell paused to take a ragged breath, and Frank asked, “Roberts, Russ Temple, Hamp Jennings, that bunch?”

“Yes. They helped take us prisoner. They were, are, holding us for ransom. I fought them and they beat me until I was unconscious. When they weren't looking, I crawled away and got onto a horse and slipped away. About a mile from here, the horse was startled by something and threw me. I walked and crawled until I smelled smoke, and then began yelling for help. Thank God you found me.”

“The women?”

“They haven't been . . . raped. At least not when I left. But they're going to be. I overheard the hoodlums talking about it.”

“Are any more men from town a part of this? The bounty hunters, I mean. Not locals.”

“I ... think so. Not sure.”

Maxwell slipped into unconsciousness, and Frank took that time to bathe the man's face with hot water and take his coat and shirt off. As gently as possible, Frank probed the man's bare chest and sides. He had several ribs broken, probably by savage kicks. Maxwell coughed up a pink froth several times. A sure indication that a lung had been punctured, maybe both lungs. His breathing was very ragged.

Frank covered the man with a blanket and stepped back. There was little else he could do for Maxwell Crawford. There was a terrible swelling knot on the side of the man's head. It was possible, probably even likely, the man's skull had been busted and there was bleeding inside.

“Damn!” Frank muttered.

“The manhunt was all a joke,” Maxwell mumbled, becoming conscious for a moment. “Just something for us to do; a little excitement for our wives. It was stupid. We misjudged the caliber of Western men. Sorry about any inconvenience we caused you, Mr. Morgan. I am truly sorry.”

“Forget it. Get some rest.”

“I'm going to have plenty of time to rest,” Maxwell said, his voice firming. “I'm dying and I know it. My skull has been fractured and lungs punctured. Even if you got me to a doctor, there is nothing he could do.”

“You want to lie down? I can fix you a pallet on the floor.”

Maxwell shook his head and moaned from the pain that caused. “No. I don't want to move, Mr. Morgan. It just hurts too much.”

“Frank. My name is Frank.”

“Thank you, Frank. The hoodlums, Frank, they're going to take the hostages to another old ghost town in the mountains.”

“Does it have a name?”

“Freetown, I heard one of them say. Do you know where it is?”

“I've heard of it. It was built by ex-slaves right after the war. It isn't far from Red Rock. Just a few miles east of there. But I didn't know it was a ghost town.”

“They said it would be fifteen minutes after they got there.”

“I see. Nice bunch of people.”

“They're all trash and scum. Right down to the last man.” He coughed up blood and his body trembled from the pain. “I have to rest a minute, Frank. All right?”

“Sure, Maxwell. You rest for a few minutes. I'll get us some coffee.”

“I would like some coffee. It would taste good.”

Frank left the man's side and fixed coffee, then dumped in some cold water and waited for the grounds to settle. He poured two cups and returned to the table. Maxwell was unconscious. Frank was doubtful the man would ever wake up. He sat in a chair and drank his coffee and smoked. Just as he drained the last of his coffee, Maxwell shivered once and died peacefully.

“What a mess,” Frank said, looking at the body of Maxwell, sitting in the old kitchen chair, his chin resting on his chest. “What a completely unnecessary mess.”

Frank carried the body outside and laid it by the side of the cabin, covering it with a blanket. He hoped there was a shovel around the place. If not, he would have to cover Maxwell with rocks until someone could get the body for transport back East. Or maybe the family would leave him here. Frank had no way of knowing. And really, he thought, why the hell should I care?

Frank went back into the cabin, built up the fire, and tried to sleep, managing to sleep only fitfully. He was up before dawn and made coffee. He sat by the fire and drank coffee and smoked until it became light enough to see. He prowled around the place, but could find no shovel, not even a piece of one. He carried the body of Maxwell to a spot away from the cabin and began gathering rocks, piling them on the body. The rocks would not keep any large determined animal from the body, but it was the best Frank could do under the circumstances.

Back in the cabin, Frank heated water and washed up as best he could. He did not bother to shave. He doused the fire and rolled up his kit, then saddled up Stormy. In the saddle, Frank paused once on his way to the road to look back at the spot where he'd covered Maxwell.

“Sorry, Maxwell,” he whispered. “You folks should have stayed in the big city. And found some other way to amuse yourselves.”

Frank lifted the reins and rode away. He figured he would make the old town of Red Rock in a few hours. After that? He would handle whatever situation confronted him in the best way he could.

* * *

Frank reined up a few hundred yards from the old town and studied the place for a few seconds, then turned Stormy into the timber. The weather had turned decidedly colder, but he could see no signs of smoke from the ghost town. If anyone was in town, they must be awfully cold. Frank felt the place was deserted, the outlaws and their hostages having moved on toward Freetown.

Staying in the timber, Frank rode slowly toward the town, coming up behind the town proper, amid a small gathering of houses. He could see no smoke coming from any of the houses or the row of abandoned stores.

“Gone,” Frank muttered. He stepped down from the saddle and pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard. He left Stormy and began prowling the ghost town on foot, staying behind the row of stores, pausing every few seconds to listen.

He could hear nothing except the sighing of the cold late fall wind.

When he reached the last of the stores on the east side, he tried the back door. It was unlocked. He pushed the door open and stepped into the dimness of an old storeroom. He could see light coming in from what remained of the storefront windows. He cautiously made his way to the front and looked out onto the single main street. He saw recent horse droppings in the street, but no signs of human life. And could smell no smoke.

Somewhere in the town something—human, he hoped—began moaning.

He had never heard any animal moan like that. But there had been reports of strange, manlike, hairy beasts roaming in this area. Frank had heard the rumors, but had never seen any of the beasts, and sincerely hoped he never would.

The moaning began anew and Frank shivered, not entirely due to the cold winds that were blowing.

“Get hold of yourself, Frank,” he whispered. “What you're thinking about is old Indian rumors, that's all.”

Or was it?

“Ah, hell!” Frank said, and stepped out of cover, walking toward the sounds of moaning, which were getting louder.

Frank located the building where the moaning seemed to be coming from, and slowly pushed open the warped old door.

“Don't hurt me no more!” a man screamed from a pile of bloody rags in a dark corner of the room.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” Frank said, walking toward the man and kneeling down. “Who are you and what happened here?”

“Waylon.” The man shoved the word past swollen and bloody lips. “I was driftin' and come up on this old town; decided to spend the night here. Las' night, no, night 'fore las', I guess it was, a whole bunch of people showed up. Mean bunch, as it turned out. Outlaws, I reckon they was. Had some folks prisoners. Men and women. They was beatin' up on the men and manhandlin' the womenfolk.” The badly beaten man paused for several breaths.

“Take it easy,” Frank told him. “Let me get my horse and I'll get you some water. Hang on.”

“ 'Preciate it, partner. I'm hurt bad, I think.”

Frank walked swiftly back to Stormy and rode back into town, reining up behind the building where he'd found the man. He got his canteen and entered through the back door. He wet a bandanna and mopped Waylon's swollen and battered face, then gave the canteen to the man. Waylon drank deeply and sighed.

“Man, that's good. Better than rye. Thanks.”

“Feel like finishing what you were telling me?”

“Yeah. Ain't that much more to tell.” Waylon took another pull from the canteen. “I seen what was happenin' and tried to leave. Some of them no-counts hung a loop over me and dragged me off my horse. Then they commenced to beatin' on me for the fun of it. I don't know how many times they whupped on me. More'un once, I can tell you that.”

“What about the women? Have they been raped?”

“Not yet, I don't think. But that's comin' for shore. All the men done been beat on some. One got away, though, I think.”

“He's dead. I found him a few miles down the road.”

A whinny sounded out in the street and the cowboy's eyes widened. “That's my horse. I thought they'd stole him.”

Frank stood up. “I'll see about him.”

“That's mighty good of you, mister.”

Frank found the horse and took him to the old livery barn. He stripped saddle and bridle from the horse and stabled him, then went back to the injured man.

“Let me gather up some wood and I'll build a fire and make us some coffee,” Frank said. “And I have some bacon I can fry up.”

“All that would taste fine, mister. I ain't et in a couple of days, not since them outlaws grabbed me. I had some grub in my saddlebags. Did you look in there?”

“No, I didn't. Don't worry about it. I have plenty of food.”

“I ... I guess I had give up till you come along. That ain't like me a-tall. I ain't no quitter. Let me try to stand up.”

“No. Lay still, until I get back and try to check for broken ribs and such. Okay?”

“All right. Say! What's your name, anyways?”

“Morgan. Frank Morgan.”

Waylon's mouth dropped open, and he was still stuttering and sputtering as Frank walked out to his horse.

* * *

Waylon ate a little bit and drank a cup of coffee, then went to sleep. Frank didn't think the man had any life-threatening injuries; he had just had the crap beat out of him and probably felt he was going to die.

When Waylon woke up, he stood and walked slowly around the room for a moment, then sat back down. “I reckon I'll live,” he said.

Frank poured him another cup of coffee and asked, “Did you overhear where this bunch of outlaws were heading?”

“They talked about Freetown.”

“People still live there, don't they?”

“I don't think so, Frank. I think the last bunch of colored folks pulled out about a year ago. I don't know where they went.”

“I hope you're right about that.”

“They's still colored families live in that area. Nice folks. I've et with them a couple of times. They pretty much keep to themselves. Don't never bother no one.”

“I hope they keep to themselves while this bunch of no-goods is around.”

“Yeah. They mean as a basket full of rattlesnakes, for a fact.” He frowned. “And I got the marks to prove that. They left me to die, Frank. Just rode out a-laughin' 'bout what they done. I feel sorry for them women. I really do.”

“They'll probably kill the men.”

“After they have some sport with them.”

“Sport?”

“Makin' 'em beg and plead for their lives. If they beg hard and long enough, them outlaws said they'd let them live. But I don't believe it.”

“Neither do I. Listen, Waylon. When you get to South Raven, go to Doc Raven's office. Tell him what happened and tell him about me. Will you do that?”

“Shore will.”

“But try not to tell anyone else you saw me up here. Okay?”