Dead Before Sundown

Chapter 29

Frank lunged across the camp and took hold of Salty’s arm. “Come on,” he urged the old-timer. “We need to get up there in those trees.”

Reb was already grabbing their packs and kicking dirt and rocks over the fire to put it out and hide the signs of it.

“Who do you reckon it is?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Frank said, “but the way things have been going, chances are it’s not anybody friendly.”

He helped Salty up the slope into the trees that covered the top of the knoll. Reb came behind them, bringing both packs and his Winchester. They took cover behind the thick trunks of the pines and waited.

The riders were coming from the west, down the long, shallow valley between hills that Frank and his companions had been following. The sun had started to rise, casting its garish light over the landscape. That light was an explosion of red as the riders trotted around a bend in the trail and came into view.

The splash of color wasn’t just from the early-morning sunlight. The riders wore scarlet coats, along with black trousers and tan, peaked, flat-brimmed hats. The brass buttons on the coats gleamed in the sunlight.

Frank recognized the uniforms, and so did Salty. They had encountered a number of North West Mounted Policemen at Whitehorse the year before.

“Tarnation!” Salty exclaimed. “It’s the Mounties!”

Relief went through Frank, especially at the sight of the riderless horses being led by several of the red-coated men.

“It looks like they’ve got our horses, too. They must have stampeded back toward the mountains when Palmer and Lundy attacked us.”

Frank had gone in that direction, as well as searching north, south, and east of the camp, but he hadn’t found the horses. The Mounties had swept up the animals during their patrol, though.

“You two stay here,” he went on. “I’ll stop them.”

He stepped out of the trees and pointed his rifle skyward. Quickly, he squeezed off three shots, the universal frontier signal for somebody in trouble. Down below, the Mounties reined in their horses and wheeled toward the knoll.

Frank saw some of the red-coated constables draw rifles from saddle sheaths. He figured they had spotted him by now, so he waved his Winchester over his head in a sign that he was friendly. The Mounties came to a stop and waited.

Frank turned and waved for Salty and Reb to follow him. As he started down the slope, they came out of the trees behind him. Frank glanced over his shoulder and was glad to see that Reb had a hand on Salty’s arm, helping the old-timer.

One of the Mounties walked his horse out ahead of the others. Frank recognized the insignia of a sergeant on the man’s uniform. He had a ruddy face and watched Frank with narrow, suspicious eyes.

“We’re sure glad to see you, Sergeant,” Frank greeted him. “Are you in charge of this patrol?”

“That’s as may be,” the Mountie snapped. “Who am I addressing, sir?”

“My name’s Frank Morgan.” Frank nodded toward his companions as they came up to join him. “This is Reb Russell and Salty Stevens. We’ve been set afoot out here. Been walking for a day, and our feet are mighty sore.”

“Americans, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

The sergeant’s forehead creased in disapproval. “You American cowboys are too accustomed to riding. Even though we’re mounted police, myself or any of these lads could walk halfway across Canada if need be.”

Frank kept a tight rein on his impatience as he said, “I’m sure that’s true, Sergeant. But those are our horses you’ve got there, and we’re mighty glad to see them, too.”

“I suppose you can prove that, as well as the identities you claim?”

Salty burst out, “Dadgum it, mister, why would we lie about such a thing?”

The sergeant regarded him coolly. “The men we seek are wanted for numerous crimes, including robbery and murder. I hardly think that they would shrink from telling a falsehood or two.”

“You’re after the gang that stole a bunch of gold,” Frank said as he realized what was going on here.

His statement just made the Mounties more suspicious. The men holding rifles never took their eyes off of him, Salty, and Reb.

“What do you know about that?” the sergeant asked sharply.

“I know the men you’re looking for are somewhere ahead of us to the east,” Frank said, pointing in that direction even though it wasn’t necessary. “While you were circling through the hills to the north yesterday on your patrol, they slipped past you and headed for Calgary.”

He was only guessing that the Mounties’ horses were responsible for the tracks he and his friends had found the day before, but the look of surprise on the sergeant’s face told him that he was right.

“You do know something about this matter,” the man said.

Frank nodded. “I sure do. More than you might think, because I also know they’re Métis revolutionaries, and they have four Gatling guns as well as the gold.”

Shocked muttering came from several of the Mounties. They fell silent abruptly as the red-faced sergeant twisted around in the saddle and gave them a stern look. He turned back to Frank and said, “I think you had better explain yourself, Mr. Morgan.”

“I’d be glad to.” Knowing that Meg was still Palmer’s prisoner made any delay chafe at Frank, but he thought it would save time in the long run to lay his cards on the table for the Mountie sergeant. “Why don’t you and your men get down off those horses? There’s coffee in the pot, and we can always brew more.”

The man hesitated for a moment, but then he nodded and said, “All right.” He ordered his men to dismount and added, “At ease, lads.”

The Mounties swung down from their saddles and fetched tin cups for coffee from their packs. The sergeant clasped his hands behind his stiffly held back and faced Frank.

“Now, then, Mr. Morgan,” he said. “My name is McKendrick. What can you tell me about these Gatling guns?”

“I figure they were stolen from the U.S. Army. I know they were smuggled across the border by an outlaw named Owen Lundy and his gang. They delivered the guns to those Métis revolutionaries I mentioned, in return for a payment in gold … which the Métis turned right around and stole back from them a little later. They ambushed Lundy’s bunch and killed all of them except a man named Palmer, who’s gone after them. Palmer took a friend of ours, a woman named Meg Goodwin, with him as a prisoner. I figure he plans to use her as a hostage if the law catches up to him. Clear enough, Sergeant?”

McKendrick frowned at him. “Clear enough … but decidedly far-fetched.”

Frank shrugged and said, “Maybe so, but that’s what happened.”

“What’s your connection with the guns?”

“There isn’t any, except that Lundy used one of them to try to kill us a couple of days ago. I think he was probably demonstrating it to the Métis, and we happened to be handy targets.”

“Then what are you doing here on Canadian soil?” McKendrick demanded.

“We were on Palmer’s trail. He stole some money from Salty a while back, and we hoped we could recover some of it.”

“That’s right, Sergeant,” the old-timer put in. “Palmer was part o’ Soapy Smith’s bunch over at Skagway, if you heard about that.”

“Skagway is in Alaska, out of our jurisdiction,” McKendrick said. He added, “But I do recall hearing something about the rampant lawlessness that went on there before the vigilantes rose up and restored the rule of order. Should have been done by the proper authorities, of course.”

Salty said, “There wasn’t no law to do it, so folks had to take care o’ things their own selves.”

McKendrick sniffed. “Such things would never happen in Canada.”

“Do you believe what we’ve told you, Sergeant?” Frank asked. “We could sure use those horses of ours you’ve got. I don’t think we could walk much farther.”

“You have bills of sale or any other sort of proof the animals belong to you?”

“As a matter of fact,” Frank said, “we do. We bought them in a place called Powderkeg Bay, on the other side of the mountains.”

“I’ve heard of it. Never been there.”

“I’ll see if I can find those papers,” Frank said.

Frank had the bills of sale from Parkhurst’s Livery in his saddlebags, which he had slung over his shoulder along with the pack of supplies. Actually, a couple of these horses hadn’t come from there, but the descriptions on the papers were vague enough that McKendrick didn’t notice the discrepancy. Anyway, Frank thought, three horses were three horses, under sore-footed circumstances like these.

“Very well,” the sergeant said as he handed the bills of sale back to Frank. “Everything you’ve told me seems reasonable enough to accept, Mr. Morgan, although it does take a bit of imagination. Do you have any idea what the Métis plan to do with those Gatling guns?”

Frank shook his head. “No, but they’ve been responsible for two armed rebellions against the Canadian government. I have a hunch that whatever their plan is, it won’t be anything good.”

“Indeed,” McKendrick said. “My men and I will proceed with all due haste to Calgary, so I can wire my superiors with this news. You and your companions will accompany us.”

“That was what I figured on doing,” Frank said.

A hint of an icy smile appeared on McKendrick’s lips. “You don’t understand. You have no choice in the matter. For the time being you may consider yourselves under arrest.”

“Arrest!” Salty yelped in surprise. “What in tarnation are you arrestin’ us for, you … you danged redcoat!”

“You’re being held for questioning as suspicious characters,” McKendrick said.

“That don’t sound like no real charge to me!”

Frank said, “Take it easy, Salty.” To McKendrick, he went on, “We’re coming with you anyway, Sergeant. What’s the point in placing us under arrest?”

“It gives me the authority to demand that you surrender your weapons.” McKendrick carried a revolver in a holster with a flap over the butt of the gun. He rested his hand on that flap now.

Frank could have drawn his own Colt half a dozen times or more in the time it would take McKendrick to unfasten that flap and haul out the holstered revolver. Outnumbered four to one, though, he didn’t want to get in a shooting scrape with the Mounties.

It wasn’t just a matter of the odds, either. Sergeant McKendrick might be a stiff-necked, overly suspicious son of a gun, but he was just doing his job the best way he knew how. Wrong or not, he didn’t deserve a bullet for that.

“All right, Sergeant,” Frank said. “We want to go to Calgary anyway, so we’ll cooperate … for now. Don’t get spooked. I’m going to hand you my gun.”

“Carefully,” McKendrick advised.

Frank reached over with his left hand to slide the Colt from leather and surrender it to the Mountie. Salty grumbled about giving up his gun, but he did it.

That just left Reb. McKendrick turned toward him and said, “You, too, Mr. Russell. Hand over your weapon.”

Reb looked torn. Suddenly, he stepped back, and his hand flashed to his holster with blinding speed. He drew the ivory-handled gun before any of the Mounties could hope to stop him and trained the weapon on McKendrick.

“Hold it right there, Sergeant,” Reb said. “I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if I have to. You’re not gettin’ my gun.”