Dead Before Sundown

Chapter 20

The last person Frank had seen dressed in such a gaudy outfit was Buffalo Bill Cody, when he had stopped in Chicago on his way to Boston a couple of years earlier. The old scout and buffalo hunter’s Wild West show and extravaganza had been putting on performances at the Columbian Exposition there.

They were a long way from Chicago now, but the cream-colored Stetson, fringed jacket, tight trousers with fancy stitching, and high-topped boots looked like something Bill Cody might have worn.

Instead, the owner of the duds was a young man with a smiling, friendly face and wavy brown hair under the thumbed-back Stetson. In his left hand he held a Winchester with a gleaming barrel tipped back on his shoulder. An ivory-handled Colt rode in a holster on his right hip.

He didn’t seem offended by Salty’s question. “No circus,” he said. “I was just passin’ through these parts and heard what sounded like a mighty interestin’ ruckus.” His voice held the soft drawl of a Southerner, possibly from Virginia. “Name’s Russell. Reb Russell, they call me.”

“You’re too young to have been in the war,” Frank said.

“Yes, sir. Fact is, I wasn’t even born until a few years after it was over. But my pa, he was an officer in the Confederate cavalry, rode with Jeb Stuart, in fact, so I was sort of brought up in the tradition, you could say.” Russell’s smile widened as he turned to Meg and took his hat off. “We haven’t been introduced, ma’am, but I’m mighty pleased to meet you. Reb Russell, at your service.”

“I’m Meg Goodwin,” she said, looking a little flustered.

“It’s an honor.”

“You ain’t gonna kiss her hand, are you?” Salty asked.

“Not unless the lady asks me to,” Russell said.

Frank stepped forward and introduced himself. “Frank Morgan,” he said as he stuck out his hand. “I reckon that was you up on the rimrock, taking a hand in that fight?”

Russell shook with him. The young man’s grip was surprisingly strong.

“Yes, sir. I was ridin’ back a ways behind this ridge when all the commotion started, so I thought I ought to see what was goin’ on.”

“How did you know which side you ought to take?”

“Well, it’s true I don’t really know who you folks are or why those other folks were tryin’ to kill you, but I just naturally sort of stick up for the underdog.” Russell’s voice hardened slightly as he added, “I guess that comes from growin’ up in the South while the Yankees were havin’ everything their way durin’ Reconstruction.”

As a Texan, Frank had fought for the Confederacy during the Civil War, but he had long since put that conflict behind him. As far as he was concerned, both sides had been so damned stubborn that war was inevitable, and then to make things even worse, the Yankees had proved to be mighty poor winners. Nothing was going to be gained by dredging all that up now, on either side.

“Anyway,” Russell went on, “I saw they had you outnumbered and outgunned, and then those bushwhackers climbed up on the ridge and tried to get you in a cross fire. Didn’t seem like a very sportin’ thing to do.”

“Well, we appreciate the help,” Frank said. “We can offer you some coffee and something to eat, if you’re hungry.”

“That sounds mighty fine.” Russell leaned his head toward the canyon mouth. “You don’t think those varmints are liable to come back?”

“I’ll stand watch,” Salty volunteered. “Y’all go ahead.”

He muttered something about circus cowboys as he walked off.

As the others started back toward the fire, which had burned down and gone out during the battle, Frank told Meg and Russell, “You two go on. I’d better do something about those bodies.”

The two dead men lying on the canyon floor where they had fallen, plus the one lying sprawled just outside the brush barrier, were grim reminders of what had happened here. Frank still couldn’t be certain why the men with the Gatling gun had tried to kill him and his friends, but there was no doubt about their deadly intentions.

He walked over to the corpses, retrieving his hat along the way. The first man he came to lay face down. That was the one Frank had shot in the belly.

Frank rested his hand on the butt of his Colt as he got a toe under the man’s shoulder and rolled him over. The chances of the bushwhacker still being alive were practically nonexistent, but it never paid to take chances.

Sure enough, the man’s beard-stubbled face had the lax looseness that came with death. Frank hunkered next to him and went through his pockets, but the search didn’t turn up anything except a plug of tobacco, a few coins, and a harmonica.

Frank held the harmonica in his fingers and looked at it for a long moment, wondering what songs the man had played on it around a lonely campfire at night. His mouth tightened into a grim line. He tossed the harmonica on the man’s chest. Thinking about such things didn’t do any good. They were just reminders of what a waste it was when a man took a wrong turn in life and went down a trail that ended with him dying by the gun.

Frank had taken his own wrong turns, some by choice and some he’d been forced into by circumstances, and someday his own trail would end the same way.

He stood up and walked over to the other man who had fallen from the rimrock. This one had turned over as he plummeted and landed on his back, splitting his skull like a watermelon. His face was unmarked, though.

Frank didn’t recognize him, either, although he knew the type. This one, like the other man, was a hardcase, an outlaw, the sort of man who would steal a Gatling gun from the Army and smuggle it across the border into Canada for God knew what reason … although money was bound to be involved somewhere. The dead man didn’t have anything in his pockets except the makin’s and some folded, greasy greenbacks.

Frank went back to the first man, took hold of his legs, and dragged him over next to the other corpse. After he fetched the body outside the canyon, he and Salty could put the corpses next to the canyon wall and collapse part of it over them in a makeshift burial. Maybe Reb Russell would give them a hand, if he didn’t mind getting his fancy duds a mite dirty.

Thinking of Russell made Frank glance toward the camp. Meg had gotten the fire going again and was heating up the coffee. He saw her and Russell talking.

Frank didn’t trust the stranger. Why was someone dressed like Russell wandering through these rugged Canadian Rockies by himself? That didn’t make a lick of sense as far as Frank was concerned.

But there was no denying that Russell had helped them out of a bad spot. If he hadn’t given them a hand, they might not have been able to drive off the attackers.

Maybe after he’d had his coffee and something to eat, Russell would go on his way, leaving them in the canyon. Frank wasn’t going to count on that, though.

And he wasn’t going to take his eye off the man who called himself Reb Russell for very long, either.

He walked back to the brush across the mouth of the canyon. Salty stood there looking up and down the valley.

“Nobody movin’ as far as I can see,” the old-timer said. “Frank, I want to tell you again how sorry I am for gettin’ you and Meg into this mess.”

“Don’t worry about it, Salty. Like we told you, nobody forced us to come along.” Frank nodded toward the dead outlaw who lay out here. “Ever see him before?”

“Nope. Looks like a typical hardcase, all gun and no brain.”

Frank nodded. “Same as the two inside the canyon. You still think Palmer was with this bunch?”

“I got no earthly idea. It makes sense, though, and these are just the sort of ornery, no-good varmints he’d throw in with. He worked for Soapy Smith, after all, and Soapy was about as bad as they come.”

“You want to roll some rocks down on these three?”

Salty scratched at his beard. “I’d rather leave ‘em for the wolves.” He sighed. “But I reckon that wouldn’t be fittin’. We already left that fella you had to kill yesterday.”

Frank took the dead man’s shoulders while Salty got his feet. They carried the corpse into the canyon and placed him with the other two.

“Give us a hand, Russell?” Frank called over to the man.

Russell joined them right away. “Are you going to bury them?” he asked.

Frank shook his head. “No shovel.” He pointed to some loose talus rock on the slope above the dead men. “We’ll start a little rock slide and cover them up that way.”

“Sure, I’ll help you.” Russell started to climb, with apparent disregard for his clothes.

He and Frank took their rifles up the slope and used the Winchesters to pry loose some of the rocks. Salty and Meg stayed on the canyon floor. Once the rocks began to move, they picked up speed and dislodged more stones and dirt. Almost immediately, Frank and Russell had a small-scale avalanche going that swept down and raised a cloud of dust as it covered the bodies of the dead men.

They slid back down to the ground and joined Salty and Meg. The old-timer took his hat off, and the others followed suit.

“Lord, I ain’t much for speechifyin’,” Salty said, “and I reckon it’s more’n likely these fellas went the other way instead of up yonder to your homestead, but wherever they wind up, we’re puttin’ that in your hands. It ain’t for us to judge. Amen.”

“Amen,” Frank repeated.

Salty clapped his hat back on his head. “Now that’s done, let’s get after them skunks. I sure don’t take it kindly when somebody shoots at me.”

“You’re going after them?” Russell asked.

“Dang right we are. I got a suspicion there’s a fella with ‘em who owes me money.”

“Do you even know why they tried to kill you?”

“We’ve got some ideas,” Frank said without going into what those ideas were.

“Well, if you don’t mind the company, I’d be glad to come along with you,” Russell said. “I’ve got my horse right outside the canyon, and I left my pack animal with my supplies not far from here when all the shooting started. I won’t be a burden to you.”

“You don’t have any business of your own to tend to?” Frank asked, trying not to sound too suspicious.

“Yeah, but those fellows headed east when they left here, didn’t they? That’s the way I was going anyway. I’m bound for Calgary.”

Frank decided to be blunt. “What for, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Russell grinned. “Sure, it’s no secret. There’s talk that some of the cattlemen in those parts are fixin’ to put on a big rodeo there. I plan to take part in it.”

“A ro-day-o?” Salty said. “I been to the one down in Pecos a bunch o’ times. You mean to say they have such things up here in Canada?”

“They have rodeos anywhere there’s a bunch of cowboys gettin’ together,” Russell said. “There are ranches here in Canada just like there are down in the States. Say, Mr. Stevens, if you’ve been to the rodeo in Pecos, you might’ve seen me. I won the saddle-bronc ridin’ there, three years runnin’.”

Salty’s eyes widened in recognition. “Why, fry me for a gopher!” he exclaimed. “I knowed there was somethin’ familiar about you. You rode that dang Razor horse four or five years ago, the one ever’ body said was a killer and couldn’t ever be rode!”

Russell nodded. “That’s right. The purse was a mighty good one that year.”

Salty turned to Frank. “I know this boy now, Frank. He’ll do to ride the river with.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Frank said. He had long since stopped being surprised when people ran into folks they knew out here on the frontier. The West, and that included this part of Canada, too, he supposed, was a vast place, but at the same time it was possible to encounter someone you might not have seen for years. The network of mutual acquaintances stretched over hundreds, even thousands, of miles.

Frank went on, “You’re welcome to ride with us, Russell, but I warn you … we’re liable to run into more trouble.”

“That’s fine. Nothin’ I like better than a good scrape, Mr. Morgan. And call me Reb.”

Frank nodded. “All right, Reb. Just as long as you know what you’re getting into.”

He wished he could say the same thing for himself.

And despite the opinion of Reb Russell that Salty had expressed, Frank didn’t fully trust the young man. There was something about him that still didn’t ring true.

As they headed back to the fire, Salty said, “They let you wear that kind of getup to the ro-day-o these days?”