Dead Before Sundown

Chapter 6

Frank was in the lead, so he saw the rifle first. He reacted instantly, yanking his horse’s head to the side and calling, “Follow me!” to Salty and Meg, at the same time as the shot blasted out from the window.

The bullet came close enough that Frank heard its high-pitched whine. He galloped toward the trees. It wouldn’t do any good to cross back over the creek. There was no cover over there in the open meadow.

A glance over his shoulder told him that Salty and Meg were close behind him. He was relieved to see that neither of them appeared to be wounded.

The whip crack of another rifle shot came to his ears, over the pounding of hooves. Then he reached the trees and sent the horse plunging into the thick growth. He pulled his Winchester from the saddle boot as he hauled the animal to a stop and dropped from the saddle.

Salty and Meg were close by, shielded by the tree trunks as well. As they dismounted, Frank called over to them, “Either of you hit?”

“Nope,” Salty said. “Not me.”

“I’m fine, too,” Meg said. “How about you, Frank?”

“That first shot was a mite close, but it didn’t get me,” he told them without taking his eyes off the cabin. “Meg, hold the horses. Salty, get your rifle.”

The old-timer worked the lever of the Winchester in his hands. “Already got it,” he said. “Let’s pour some lead into that shack.”

“Hold your fire,” Frank ordered. “We can’t just start blazing away without knowing who we’re shooting at or why.”

“We may not know who, but I dang sure know why!” Salty responded. “Because the son of a buck shot at us!”

“Maybe he thought he had good cause.”

“Maybe,” Salty allowed as he crouched behind the thick trunk of a pine. “That don’t mean I aim to let him get away with tryin’ to kill us. Dagnab it, Frank, that could be Palmer his own self in there!”

“It could be,” Frank said. “Why don’t we try to find out?”

No more shots had come from the cabin after the second one. Frank eased forward to the edge of the trees. He couldn’t see the rifle anymore. Whoever was using it had pulled it back inside the window.

“Hello, the cabin!” Frank shouted. “Hello in there! We’re not looking for trouble!”

There was no response.

Frank tried again. “Can you hear me in there? We’re friends!”

“That’s stretchin’ it a mite,” Salty muttered. “I ain’t friends with nobody who tries to part my hair with a bullet!”

“Hush,” Frank said. He raised his voice again. “Hello, the cabin!”

Nothing met the call but silence. There weren’t even any sounds in the underbrush. The shots had caused all the birds and small animals to flee.

“Something’s wrong,” Frank said quietly.

“Yeah, some polecat shot at us!”

“It’s more than that,” Frank said. “Salty, you and Meg keep an eye on the place.”

“What are you going to do?” Meg asked.

“Work my way through the trees and see if I can get behind the cabin. There might be a door or a window back there by that corral and shed.”

“Be careful,” Meg cautioned him. “There might be more than one man in there. If there is a back way in, somebody may be watching it.”

“That’s a chance I’ll have to take,” Frank said. Before she could argue with him, he slid off through the trees, moving quickly but quietly.

He pulled back deeper into the woods so that anybody watching the trees wouldn’t be as likely to see him. The cabin was only about fifty yards away. Frank covered twice that distance in circling around it. When he thought he had gone far enough, he ventured a look.

He was past the cabin now, so he was able to look at the back side of it. The shed was built right against the wall. There was no window or door.

But that didn’t mean this side was a blind approach. There could be chinks between the logs big enough for a man to look out through them but too small for Frank to see from this distance. There could even be loopholes through which a rifle barrel could be slid.

But he had to take the chance. The only other option was for him and his companions to mount up, work their way through the woods until they were out of sight of the cabin, and then ride on.

They could do that, but Frank didn’t like unanswered questions. Nor did he care for the possibility that the man they were looking for could be in that cabin.

The cabin and its adjacent shed and corral lay about twenty yards from the edge of the trees. Frank took a deep breath and then charged out from cover, running toward the structures as fast as he could.

Riding boots weren’t made for running. All too aware that he was out in the open, Frank felt like he was barely making any progress at all. He knew with every step that somebody could be drawing a bead on him.

In reality, only a few seconds passed before he reached the corral. He paused for a second, crouching beside the pole fence. When no shots roared out from the cabin, he moved closer. He reached the corner of the cabin.

There were no windows on this side, either. It was beginning to look as if the door and the front window were the only ways in or out of the place.

With his rifle held ready, Frank cat-footed along the side of the cabin. He waved toward the trees where Salty and Meg were hidden to let them know he was all right, as well as to signal that they should hold their fire.

He stopped at the front corner and listened. Dead silence hung over the valley. No sounds came from inside the cabin.

Like it or not, he had to move over to the window and see if he could find out what was going on here. He eased in that direction. Despite his long years of experience in dangerous situations, his pulse was beating a little faster than usual.

He was close enough now to see that while the door was pushed up, it wasn’t closed quite all the way. The window had shutters on the inside. One of them was closed, but the other hung open. Frank stopped only a foot from the window and listened again.

This time he heard a very faint rasping sound, like somebody using a piece of sandpaper on some wood. After a moment, he realized what he was hearing.

Someone inside the cabin was struggling mightily to draw one breath after another.

Carefully, he lowered the Winchester and leaned it against the cabin wall. He pulled the Colt instead, steel whispering against leather as he drew it. The revolver was better suited for close work.

The labored breathing could be a trick, the bait in a trap designed to lure him in.

Frank’s instincts told him that wasn’t the case. The man inside the cabin hadn’t cried out or claimed he was wounded or anything like that. It was unlikely that he even knew Frank was out here, close enough to hear those rasping breaths.

Frank took off his hat and leaned closer to the window. He risked a look around the edge of the closed shutter.

The inside of the cabin was dim and shadowy, but enough light came through the window for him to make out the shape of a man lying in a twisted position on the hard-packed dirt floor. The man wasn’t moving. Frank saw a dark stain on the ground around him and knew it had to be blood.

If the man Frank could see was the only one in the cabin, he didn’t represent much of a threat. Unfortunately, Frank couldn’t be sure the man lying on the floor was the only one in there. To confirm that, he would have to go inside.

He crouched low and went under the window, then straightened and put his hat on again as he came to the door. He paused long enough to flash a confident smile toward the trees where Salty and Meg were watching, then lunged forward, hitting the door with his shoulder and knocking it open as he dived through.

Frank landed on his belly with the Colt tilted up, ready to fire. His head jerked from side to side as his keen eyes scanned the room. The cabin wasn’t very big, and it took him only a second to see everything in it.

The man lying on his side in a pool of blood was the cabin’s only occupant except for Frank himself.

Frank heaved himself up on his knees. With the door wide open now, enough light spilled through it for him to see the man’s pale, twisted face. It was narrow, with an angular, beard-stubbled jaw. The man wore a buckskin shirt, the front of which was sodden with dark blood, and corduroy trousers.

He definitely wasn’t Joe Palmer.

A rifle lay on the floor not far from the man’s outstretched hand. Frank stood up and nudged it well out of reach with a booted toe. He kept his Colt trained on the wounded man. The man seemed to be out cold and probably on the verge of death, judging by the amount of blood he had lost, but Frank didn’t believe in taking unnecessary chances.

He stepped to the doorway and called to Salty and Meg, “It’s all right! Come on in!”

The man on the floor let out a groan.

Frank wanted to go to him and see if he could do anything for him, but he waited until his companions got there. When they did, he told Meg, “Wait out here.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because you don’t want to go in there,” Frank said bluntly. “Come on, Salty.”

Meg obviously didn’t like it, but she remained outside. When Frank and Salty stepped into the cabin, Frank said, “Keep him covered while I check on him.”

“What happened to him?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out. Looks like he was shot or stabbed in the belly.”

Being gut-shot was a long, hard, miserable way to die. Frank hadn’t wished such a fate on many men, not even most of his enemies. Certainly not on a stranger.

He holstered his Colt and knelt next to the man. Gently, he rolled the man onto his back and pulled up the buckskin shirt to take a look at the wound. The long, narrow opening through which the crimson blood had welled told Frank that the man had been knifed.

The man’s eyelids fluttered. His thinning dark hair was askew, and beads of sweat covered his forehead. He managed to force his eyes open and gasped, “Who—?”

“Take it easy,” Frank said. “I’m a friend. I won’t hurt you.”

“You … I shot … at you …”

“Yeah, but I won’t hold that against you. I reckon you thought you had a good reason.”

“I thought … you were him … comin’ back to … finish me off.”

Frank had thought it might be something like that. He said, “Are you talking about the man who stabbed you?”

“Y-yeah. He rode up … this morning … wanted some grub. I fed him…. Then he wanted to … swap horses with me….”

Every word was a struggle for the wounded man to get out. Frank felt a pang of sympathy, but he knew there was nothing he could do to save this luckless fella’s life. He wanted to find out as much as he could in the time the man had left, though.

“It hurts like … hell,” the man said. “I need some … whiskey.”

Frank glanced at Salty. Both of them knew that whiskey wouldn’t do the man any good.

On the other hand, he couldn’t hurt much worse than he already was, and the liquor might brace him up a little, at least for a few moments. Salty went over to a rough-hewn table and picked up a jug that sat on it. He pulled the cork, took a sniff of the contents, and nodded to Frank, who held out his hand.

Frank took the jug with one hand, lifted the wounded man’s head with the other, and tipped a little of the fiery rotgut past the man’s lips. That brought a gasp from the man. His eyes opened a little wider.

“The man who did this to you,” Frank asked, “what did he look like?”

“St-stocky fella … had a mustache … wore one of those … funny hats.”

“A derby?” Salty asked.

“Y-yeah. A d-derby.”

Salty nodded to Frank. “That’s Palmer, all right.”

“Had a hunch it was,” Frank said. He asked the wounded man, “What happened after he wanted to swap horses with you?”

“I said I … didn’t much want to … and he said … that was all right. He seemed like … a friendly cuss … but then he … when I wasn’t lookin’ … he … he stuck a knife … in my belly.”

“The low-down son of a bitch,” Salty said. “That’s just what he’d do, all right.”

“I tried to fight him … but I was … hurt too bad…. Reckon I must’a … passed out…. I came to … heard horses … thought he was comin’ back…. I got my rifle … made it to the window…. Couldn’t see too good, but I got off … a couple of shots….”

“That’s all right, friend,” Frank told him. “No need to wear yourself out. We understand now what happened.”

“Didn’t mean to … shoot at strangers….”

“Don’t worry about it. Just rest easy.”

The man grimaced and seemed to bow in on himself as a fresh surge of pain hit him. When it eased a little, he whispered, “I could use … some more whiskey….”

Frank lifted the jug again, but before he could bring it to the man’s mouth, a shudder went through the man and a long, rattling sigh eased from him. His muscles went slack and his eyes turned dull with death.

“He’s gone,” Frank said.

“Yeah,” Salty agreed. “Poor varmint. He died for nothin’.”

“Not completely for nothing.” Frank looked up at Salty and went on grimly, “At least now we know for sure that we’re on Palmer’s trail.”