Dead Before Sundown

Chapter 26

Frank’s instincts took over. He twisted around and the gun that rested in his holster seemed to leap into his hand as if by magic. The Colt roared.

At the same time, almost equally as fast on the draw, Reb Russell drew and fired his ivory-handled revolver. His aim was just as true as Frank’s.

The attacker staggered as both bullets punched into his body. The gun he held sagged toward the ground as it went off again, his finger jerking the trigger spasmodically. The slug smacked harmlessly into the dirt.

The revolver slipped out of the man’s fingers and thudded to the ground at his feet. He swayed as he clutched at himself. Blood welled between his fingers.

“Palmer!” he gasped. “My … gold …!”

He pitched forward onto his face.

“Reb, did his first shot hit you?” Frank asked sharply.

“No, it went wild,” Reb replied. Smoke curled from the barrel of the revolver in his fist. The ivory-handled gun might be fancier than the Colt that Frank carried, but obviously it was just as deadly. “I reckon you’re all right, too?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Keep him covered while I see how bad Salty’s hurt.”

Frank turned back to the old-timer. Salty was unconscious but still breathing. Frank ran his hands over Salty’s body and found that his shirt was wet with blood.

“Got to have some light,” Frank muttered. He fished a lucifer out of his pocket and snapped it to life with his thumbnail.

The glare from the match showed him that Salty was wounded in the side. Frank ripped the old-timer’s shirt aside to get a better look at the wound. Relief went through him when he saw that a bullet had plowed a fairly deep furrow in Salty’s flesh but hadn’t penetrated to anything vital.

As Frank shook the match out, Reb asked, “Is he gonna be all right?”

“I think so. I’ll get him back over to the fire and see if I can patch him up. You keep an eye on that one.”

Frank slid his arms under Salty’s body and straightened to his feet, lifting the old-timer and cradling him as if Salty was a baby. Salty didn’t really weigh all that much. He wasn’t much more than bones and skin like whang leather.

Gently, Frank placed him on top of one of the bedrolls and then put some more wood on the ashes of the burned-down fire. He kindled a small blaze so he’d have enough light to see what he was doing.

It would have been good to clean the wound with whiskey or some other disinfectant, but Frank didn’t have anything like that on hand. Instead he drew his knife from its sheath and heated the blade in the flames until it glowed red from the heat.

He hated to do this, but he didn’t want that bullet crease in Salty’s side to fester. Without hesitation, he pressed the red-hot knife to the wound.

The steel sizzled as it burned into the flesh. Even unconscious, Salty howled in pain and tried to arch up off the ground, but Frank’s other hand held him down.

Salty sagged back when Frank took the knife away. His breath rasped strongly in and out. Frank thought the old-timer would be all right now, once he’d had a chance to rest.

Frank stood up and went back over to where Reb stood next to the other man, gun in hand.

“Is this one still alive?”

“Not sure. I think so.”

Frank knelt and took hold of the man’s shoulders to roll him onto his back. The man gasped and cursed. His eyes fluttered open. The whole front of his shirt was sodden with blood. The thatch of white hair on his head was wildly askew.

“What’s your name, hombre?” Frank asked. He could tell that the man didn’t have long to live, and he wanted to find out as much as he could.

“G-go … to hell!”

Frank shrugged. “Fine. I just thought you’d like to have your name on the marker we’ll put up after we bury you.”

“D-damn you. You’ve k-killed me.”

“You come into a place with a gun in your hand and start blazing away, folks are going to shoot back at you. You look like you’ve been around enough to know that.”

The man hesitated, air hissing between his teeth as his ruined body struggled to draw breath. Finally he said, “It’s … Lundy. Owen … Lundy.”

Frank didn’t recognize the name, but he hadn’t heard of every owlhoot west of the Mississippi, either.

“You said something about Joe Palmer.”

“He was supposed to … come back for me … after he stole … the horses.”

“But he rode off and left you behind, didn’t he?”

“I was … already wounded…. Guess he thought … I couldn’t keep up.” What might have been a strangled laugh came from Owen Lundy’s lips. “What he really wanted … was to go after that gold … all for … himself.”

“Your gold?” Frank said.

“Y-yeah. B-bastards … stole it back … from us.”

The wheels of Frank’s brain turned rapidly as he made connections between the facts he knew and the things he had guessed.

“They paid you in gold for the Gatling gun you smuggled in from the States, then double-crossed you.”

“Yeah … but it was … guns … four Gatling guns.”

Frank’s jaw tightened. One Gatling gun could do a hell of a lot of damage. Four could wipe out a small town.

“Who are they?” he asked, urgency creeping into his voice. “Who has the guns?”

“Bunch of … breeds. Half-breeds …”

“Métis,” Reb said.

Frank didn’t look around, didn’t waste time right now worrying how come this rodeo cowboy knew about the mixed-bloods who had tried twice to rise in rebellion against the Canadian government.

“Yeah,” Lundy said. “Didn’t … trust ‘em…. Didn’t really think they’d … bushwhack us … though. Sons of … bitches.”

“So Palmer’s going after them?”

“I … I reckon. He wants that … gold. Never should’ve … trusted him … either. Somebody always … double-cross—”

Lundy’s head tipped back. The cords in his neck stood out as a shudder went through him. When he relaxed a second later, a long sigh came from him, and Frank knew the outlaw was dead.

The whole thing was a lot clearer now. The theories that Frank had put together concerning the Gatling guns had been confirmed. Somewhere out there in the night, a group of Métis revolutionaries had four Gatling guns and a couple of chests full of gold. There was no telling what kind of hell they meant to raise with those guns, but it couldn’t be anything good.

Joe Palmer was trailing them, intent on getting his hands on that gold, but Palmer wasn’t alone. He had Meg with him as a prisoner and a hostage if he needed one.

And Frank and Reb were left behind with a wounded Salty and no horses.

Any way you looked at it, they had been dealt a bad hand.

“You told him we’d bury him,” Reb said.

“I lied,” Frank snapped as he straightened from kneeling next to Lundy’s body. The sky was light enough now that they could see. Frank went on, “I don’t like doing that, especially to a dying man, but I wanted to know what was going on here so we could figure out what to do next.”

“What can we do next?” Reb asked. “We don’t have any horses.”

“That’s true. But there’s one thing I can take care of.” Frank faced Reb and gave him a cool, level stare. “Just who the hell are you, anyway?”

Joseph Marat was exhausted, but he had no choice except to keep up as the group of riders made its way eastward toward the dawn.

He glanced over at his sister. Charlotte swayed wearily in the saddle. She was just as tired as he was. Anton Mirabeau kept pushing them through the foothills, though.

There was no longer any doubt who was in charge here. Mirabeau had shoved Joseph aside as the leader of the rebellion. Joseph had been relieved when Mirabeau and a couple of the other men had shown up to rendezvous with him and Charlotte and lead them back to join the others, but in weak moments he was no longer so sure it was a good thing.

“When can we rest, Anton?” Charlotte asked. “We’ve been riding all night.”

“Soon,” Mirabeau told her. “We can’t be sure that Lundy and all of his men are dead. I want to be well ahead of them before we stop. There are too few of us to take unnecessary chances.”

That was true, Joseph thought. Only eight of them remained to protect the gold and transport the Gatling guns to Calgary.

The gold was important, Joseph supposed, but the guns were everything. Without them, the plan would fail, and if the plan failed, the rebellion would fall apart before it ever truly began. They were counting on the conflagration they would ignite with the Gatlings to spread quickly across the entire western half of Canada.

Mirabeau was true to his word. He called a halt a short time later, next to a creek that twisted and turned through a narrow gap between a couple of hills.

“We’ll rest here for a couple of hours,” he said. “Gabriel, ride up to the top of that hill and keep an eye on the trail behind us. If you see anyone following us, let me know immediately.”

The man Mirabeau had addressed nodded and set off to carry out the order.

Mirabeau went on, “The rest of you unsaddle your horses. We’ll fill up all our canteens before we push on, too.”

Joseph swung down from his saddle. As Charlotte dismounted, he told her, “I’ll take care of your horse.”

“No,” she said with a stubborn shake of her head. “I can do it.” She leaned tiredly against the horse’s flank. “Just let me rest for a moment first.”

Joseph took hold of her shoulders and gently moved her aside. “Go sit down somewhere.” His tone made it clear that he wouldn’t put up with any argument. “I can handle this.”

Obviously reluctant, she said, “Well … if you’re sure …”

“I’m sure—” Joseph began.

Mirabeau shouldered him aside. “Tend to your own horse, Joseph,” he said. “I’ll take care of Charlotte, and her mount.”

Anger flared inside Joseph, and for once he was too tired to suppress it for the good of their shared cause. “You’ll do no such thing,” he snapped. “In fact, I think you should stay away from Charlotte.”

Mirabeau frowned at him in surprise. “What are you saying? She and I are going to be married.”

“I don’t think so. I can no longer give my blessing to such a union.”

Charlotte acted surprised, too. “Joseph, what are you saying?” she asked. “You know that Anton and I have an … an understanding.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t,” Joseph said. “I don’t think he’s the right man for you, Charlotte.”

A booming laugh came from Mirabeau, but the sound had an undercurrent of anger in it. “You’re tired and not thinking straight, my friend. These are personal matters and should not be discussed in public.”

“Public?” Joseph repeated. He laughed, too, and waved an arm at their surroundings. “We’re in the middle of a wilderness! There probably aren’t fifty people within a hundred miles of here.”

Mirabeau’s eyes narrowed and glanced toward the other men. Joseph understood then. Mirabeau didn’t want to appear weak in front of them, now that he had taken over command of the group. It was a matter of honor and pride.

“We will talk about this later, once we have finished our mission.”

“You mean our attack on the North West Mounted Police barracks at Calgary?”

He might as well be blunt about it, Joseph thought. Their actions would amount to a declaration of war against the Crown. It was highly likely that none of them would survive except for Charlotte. Joseph didn’t intend to let her anywhere near the scene of the attack. So this argument with Mirabeau might well be pointless. He should have held his tongue.

But it was too late for that now.

He realized that Mirabeau was giving him an odd look. Joseph suddenly felt a chill go down his back. Something else was going on here, something he didn’t even know about.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” Mirabeau said. “I don’t think it would be a good idea to attack the Mounties.”

Joseph tried not to sneer. “You’re afraid of them?”

Mirabeau shook his head. “Not at all. But that’s what the Crown would expect us to do. We need to do something to surprise them, something that will leave no doubt as to how serious we are about winning freedom for our people.”

“What are you talking about, Anton?” Charlotte asked. She seemed to be as baffled by this turn of events as Joseph was.

“In a few days, they’re going to be holding a competition in Calgary for the cowboys who work on the ranches,” Mirabeau said. “A rodeo, they call it. Hundreds of people will be there, and no one will be expecting trouble.”

A feeling of horror washed through Joseph as his eyes widened in amazement. He said, “You can’t mean—”

Mirabeau nodded. “We’re going to set up those Gatling guns and wipe out the crowd before anyone knows what’s happening. Then the damned English will have no choice but to give us what we want.”