The Drifter (14 page)

“Way over there to our right. In those rocks."

“That's three men, then. At least."

“We're in deep trouble, aren't we, Frank?"

“Well ... yes and no. To get behind us would take some doing. It's all nearly wide-open meadow for a long way on either side of us. An Indian could do it easy enough, but these men aren't Indians."

“The question is, who are they and what do they want?"

“You or me, or both of us."

“So we do ... what?"

“We wait, Viv. By now they're sure to have figured out we've spotted them, so surprise is out of their plans. That's a plus for us."

“The minus is, there appears to be only one easy way into this valley, right?"

Frank smiled. “You're still a very observant lady, Viv. That's right. There are a half-dozen ways in and out, but only one easy way. And they've got it covered."

“And the other ways out?"

“Rough. Danger of slides, mostly. To the north is completely out of the question. That pass is controlled by the Pine and Vanbergen gangs."

“Well ... we've got a little food and plenty of water. I can stand to lose a few pounds, anyway."

Frank chuckled. “You're a tough lady, Viv. Tougher now than when we first met."

“Dealing with male heads of business and shifty attorneys can do that."

“I ‘spect you're had plenty of practice in dealing with both over the years."

“Running a conglomerate of businesses is tough enough for a man in a man's world, Frank. Being a woman makes it doubly tough."

The ugly whine of a bullet put an end to that conversation. The bullet slammed into a tree behind the pinned-down pair and tore off bits of bark.

“They sure know where we are,” Viv remarked, raising her head and looking around.

Frank did not immediately reply. He was trying to determine where the bullet came from. He had a hunch it came from the location of a fourth man. Finally he said, “I'm sure there is another man behind the rocks near the entrance to the valley, Viv. That makes four."

“The odds just keep getting worse."

“We've got good cover, and that bullet came nowhere near us. I'm not even sure they know exactly where we are. They may be just trying to flush us."

“You will excuse me if I don't share your cool calmness, Frank. I'm a stranger to this type of thing."

“You're doing fine, Viv.” He looked up at the sun. About five hours of good daylight left, maybe less. “If it comes to it, Viv, I can lead us out on foot come dark."

Another bullet bowled into the copse of trees; then several more came whistling in.

“I think they have guessed we're here, Frank."

“I think so, too. This was the logical place for us to take cover."

“I counted four rifles."

“Yes. Me, too. I think someone is using a .32-.20. Another sounds like a .45-.70."

“Is all that supposed to mean something to me?"

Frank grinned at her. “When we get out of this pickle I'll give you a short course in firearms."

“I can hardly wait. In more ways than one."

The gunmen on the ridges and in the rocks opened up again, and Frank and Vivian could do nothing but huddle behind cover, all thoughts of talk obliterated by the roar of gunfire and the bowling of bullets.

“This is beginning to make me mad,” Frank muttered, when the gunfire ceased for a moment.

Viv looked at him in astonishment. She had taken off her hat, and her hair was just slightly disheveled. Her white blouse was spotted with dirt and grass stains. “You're just now getting angry, Frank?"

“Yeah. That bunch of yellow bastards over yonder is really annoying me now.” He lifted his rifle to his shoulder and mentally figured the range before squeezing off a round. The bullet was low, and he compensated for that before squeezing off another round. This time the bullet must have come very close to the hidden sniper, for both Frank and Viv heard a yelp of surprise.

“You hit?” the question was shouted.

“Naw. But that bastard can shoot."

“We all knowed that startin' off, Dick."

There was more conversation between the snipers, but it was so faint neither Frank nor Viv could make out the words.

Then one of the gunman called, “This ain't workin' out, boys."

Frank and Viv looked at each other.

“What do you mean, Rob? We got ‘em cold. All we got to do is wait ‘em out."

Another voice was added. “Yeah? But for how long?"

“That's right. Them two got good cover, and we can't get to them to finish this."

“He's right ‘bout that,” another called. “It's all open twixt us and them."

“Goddamn it, no names, you idgits!"

“Rob and Dick,” Frank muttered. “Remember those names, Viv."

“Forever,” she whispered.

There was more murmuring of words between the gunmen, again so faint that Frank and Viv could not make them out. They waited in the copse of trees.

Then there was nothing but the gentle sighing of the wind in the valley.

“Have they gone?” Viv asked.

“I don't know, honey. It may be they just want us to think they've left."

“If wishes were horses..."

“What?"

“Nothing,” she said with a quiet laugh. “Don't pay any attention to me. I'm babbling."

“Babble on, Viv. I'm going to ease out of here and take a look around."

She cut her suddenly alarm-filled eyes to him. “Frank—"

“Relax. I'm not going far, and I'm not going to take any chances. Take it easy, Viv. I'll be right back."

“Promise?"

“Cross my heart. You want to spit in my palm?"

She smiled, and Frank could see her tension ease. “Get out of here, you nut!"

Frank eased out of the trees and wormed his way down to and over the creekbank, then worked his way about fifty feet. Easing up behind a clump of weeds, he gave the rocks and ridges a good visual going-over. He could see nothing moving. His and Viv's horses had moved a few yards during the gunfire, but were now grazing calmly. His big horse was showing no signs of being alarmed.

Frank crawled over the creekbank and quickly got to his feet, running toward the horses. No shots boomed; no lead came howling in his direction. He led the horses over to the thick copse of trees.

“They're gone, Viv. Come on. I want to take a look at the ridges. I might find some sign that I can use."

Frank found some brass from a .45-.70 and a .32-.20. But it was the butt-plate markings that caught and held his attention. They were strange looking.

“What's wrong, Frank?"

“The butt-plate on this rifle. It's the strangest I've ever seen.” He snapped his fingers. “I know what it is. It loads through the buttstock. I'll bet you it's a bolt-action military rifle."

“Are they rare?"

“They are out here."

“And if you find a man in town who has one, it's a good bet he's one of the men who attacked us."

“That's it, Viv. Come on, let's ride. It's a good hour back to town, and we're not taking the same trail back we used to get up here."

Frank found the tracks of the men who'd attempted to kill them, and there were four horses. The hoofprints led straight toward town. Frank cut across country, and they made it back to town in just over an hour. Frank saw Vivian back to her house, where Jimmy was waiting on the porch.

Jimmy saw the dirt and grass stains on their clothing and asked, “Trouble?"

Frank explained what had happened.

“I bet that's one of those Winchester-Hotchkiss so-called sportin' rifles,” Jimmy said. “The army has some of them, but they're rare out here."

“Keep your eyes open for one, Jimmy."

“Will do."

At the office, while Jerry made a fresh pot of coffee, Frank told him about the events of that afternoon.

“You think they were after you, or Mrs. Browning?"

“Both of us. And I'm getting damn tired of it."

“You think the Pine and Vanbergen gangs were behind the ambush?"

Frank shook his head. “I don't think so, Jerry. They want to kill me, yes. But I believe there are other forces working to kill both of us."

“Who?"

Frank explained in as much depth as he knew about Viv's father and his deathbed desire to have him killed. He ended with, “This attorney, whoever he is—and Viv told me they have a couple of dozen lawyers, maybe more than that, working for the company—has some big ideas, I think. Ideas about controlling the various companies that make up Henson Enterprises. But first he has to get rid of Vivian."

Jerry slowly nodded his head. “OK. But that still leaves the son."

“Who is not twenty-one years old, and legally can't do a damn thing until he is."

“Ah! Yeah. I'm getting the picture now. But you have no proof of any of this."

“Not a bit. It's all speculation on my part."

“Now what?"

“Now I go visit the saloons."

“You saw the men who attacked you?"

“No. But if I show up where they are, one of them just might get nervous and tip his hand."

“Could be. Want me to tag along?"

“No. You do the early business check on Main Street. I'll handle this on my own."

The men sat for few minutes and drank a cup of coffee. The cell block area of the jail, for the first time in a long time, was empty. Frank finished his coffee and stood up to leave. He really wanted another cup, for Jerry made good coffee, but he had a lot to do, and wanted to get started. He could get a cup in one of the saloons, although theirs usually tasted the way horse liniment smelled.

Frank tucked the short-barreled Peacemaker behind his gunbelt, butt forward on the left side, and headed out. He had filed the sight off so it would not hang up.

His first stop was the Silver Slipper Saloon, and it was doing a booming business. He walked through the saloon, speaking to a few of the patrons. Just as he was about to exit out the back way, he cut his eyes over to a far corner table and stopped. Big Bob Mallory was sitting alone. Frank had thought Big Bob was long gone, for he hadn't seen him in a couple of weeks. He walked over and sat down.

“Make yourself right at home, Frank,” Bob said. “Uninvited, of course."

“I was hoping I'd seen the last of you, Bob. I thought you'd long rattled your hocks."

“I been here and there, Frank. But I'll leave when I get damn good and ready."

“Where were you this afternoon?"

“Not that it's any of your damn business, but I was playin' poker over at the Red Horse. All afternoon. Check it out if you don't believe me."

“I will, and I don't believe you. I wouldn't believe anything you had to say even if you were standing in the presence of God."

Bob smiled at him. “You're not goin' to rile me into pullin' on you, Morgan. Not now. I'm tellin' you the truth ‘bout this afternoon. You'll see."

“Don't screw up in this town, Bob. I told you before, and I'm telling you now."

Bob smiled at him and said nothing.

Frank pushed back his chair and walked away, exiting out the back door, stepping into the night. The darkness was broken only by the faint glint off the many empty whiskey bottles that littered the ground. Someone was grunting in the outhouse. Frank ignored that and walked on, up the alley and back onto the street. He stood in the mouth of the alley for a moment.

The foot traffic was heavy early in the evening—mostly miners wandering from saloon to saloon to whorehouses located at each end of the town, just past the town limits.

Frank stepped out of the alley and starting walking toward the Red Horse Saloon. He hadn't gone a dozen steps before three shots blasted the air. The sound was muffled, and Frank knew they came from inside a building. Probably the Red Horse.

“Here we go again,” Frank said, and began running toward trouble.

 

 

 

Sixteen

 

 

Just before Frank reached the entrance to the Red Horse, a man staggered out, both hands holding his bloody stomach and chest. The gut-shot man fell off the boardwalk and collapsed on the edge of the street. He groaned in pain and tried to rise. He didn't make it. He died in the dirt before Frank could reach him.

Frank pushed open the batwings and stepped inside the smoky saloon. The large crowd had shifted away from the bar, leaving the long bar empty except for two young men dressed in black, each of them wearing two guns, tied down low. Frank guessed them to be in their early twenties. The music and singing had ceased; the crowd was still, and gunsmoke hung in the air.

Trouble-hunting punks
, Frank thought.
Well, they've damn sure found it.
“What happened here?” Frank said.

“Who the hell are you?” one of the young men at the bar asked belligerently.

“The marshal. I asked what happened here."

“He got lippy and wanted trouble—that's what. We gave it to him."

“Both of you shot him?"

“Yeah,” the other young trouble-hunter mouthed off. “What's it to you, Mr. Marshal?"

“Sonny boy,” Frank said, taking a step closer to the young men. “I've had all the mouth I'm going to take from either of you. I'll ask the questions, you answer them. Without the smart-aleck comments. Is that understood?” Frank took a couple more steps toward the pair.

One of the punks feigned great consternation at Frank's words. “Oh, my! I'm so frightened I might pee my drawers! How about you, Tom?"

“Oh, me, too, Carl. The old-timer's words is really makin' me nervous."

Both of them burst out laughing.

Frank took several more steps while the pair were braying like jackasses and hit Tom in the mouth with a hard straight left. The punch knocked the punk clean off his boots and deposited him on the floor. Frank turned slightly and drove his right fist into the belly of Carl. Carl doubled over and went to his knees, gagging and gasping for air.

Frank reached down and snatched the guns from Tom, tossed them on a table, and then pulled Carl's Colts from leather. He backed up, holding the punk's twin pistols, and waited.