Several minutes later, he crouched in the brush and carefully parted the branches so he could look between them. From where he was, he could see part of the grassy clearing on the creek bank. He didn’t spot Salty or Meg and didn’t hear them talking.
A horse blew loudly through its nostrils, though, so he knew the camp wasn’t completely deserted.
Frank sniffed the air. The tang of burned powder still hung there faintly. This was where the shot had gone off, all right. He was sure of it.
He shifted his position, circling the camp in as close to absolute silence as he could manage. When he stopped and peered through another gap in the thick foliage, he could see all the camp that he hadn’t been able to see before.
The lame horse stood there, but the other saddle mounts and the pack mules were gone.
More importantly, so were Salty and Meg.
Chapter 11
A short time earlier, Anton Mirabeau had had nothing more on his mind than the lovely Charlotte Marat. She filled his thoughts as she often did. He should have been paying more attention to where he and the other men were going.
If he had, they wouldn’t have ridden right into trouble.
As it was, Mirabeau and the half-dozen other Métis with him had emerged from the trees into a clearing on the creek bank only to find themselves looking down the barrels of a rifle and a revolver, held by a couple of people who had taken cover behind some pines.
“Hold it right there, mister!” a man’s voice ordered.
From the sound of it, Mirabeau thought the voice belonged to an old man. But an elderly finger could pull the trigger of a gun the same as a young one, provided, of course, that age had not stiffened it.
Mirabeau reined his horse to a stop and motioned for the other men to do likewise. His gaze darted around the campsite. He saw three horses and three saddles, along with a couple of pack mules and the packs of supplies lying on the ground.
Three saddle horses meant three people, but he saw only two pointing guns at him and his companions. The third man was probably somewhere nearby, out of sight, likely with a rifle pointing at him right now.
“Easy, my friend,” Mirabeau said, taking care to keep both of his hands in sight. “We are not hunting trouble.”
“Then what do you want?” the old-timer demanded.
“We are looking for some friends of ours. A man and a woman. Brother and sister, actually. Perhaps you have seen them. They both have dark hair. The young woman is very attractive.”
“I don’t know who in blazes you’re talkin’ about,” the old man said. Mirabeau caught a glimpse of white hair and beard as the man peered around the trunk of the tree where he had taken cover. The man added in a disgusted mutter, “Who’d’a figured these woods would turn out to be so blamed crowded?”
Mirabeau knew what he meant. This area of the mountains had been chosen for the rendezvous precisely because it was so remote, so isolated, so empty of humanity.
He looked at the other tree, the one where the man with the rifle crouched.
Or perhaps the rifleman was not a man at all, Mirabeau thought suddenly, as he took note of how the denim-clad hip he could see behind the tree curved. Though he had lived his entire life in Canada, he credited the blood of his French ancestors for giving him an appreciative eye for the female form.
The blue eyes and the blond curls stuffed under a flat-crowned hat just confirmed his suspicion. He and his companions were faced with an old man and a girl.
But even such as them could be dangerous.
“We will be on our way,” Mirabeau said. “Please forgive the intrusion.”
“Hold on just a dang minute,” the old-timer said. “Who are you fellas, and what are you doin’ out here in the middle o’ nowhere?”
“We could ask you the same,” Mirabeau pointed out, “but we did not.”
The old man ignored him and demanded, “Are you lookin’ for that varmint Palmer? Is he a friend o’ yours?”
Mirabeau shook his head. “I do not know anyone named Palmer.”
“Yeah, well, you’d probably lie about it if you did. That’d make you the same sort of thievin’ polecat he is.”
Suspicion suddenly reared up in Mirabeau’s mind. “This man Palmer is a thief?”
“Dang right he is!”
“And he is an American?”
“What else would he be?”
The response brought a faint smile to Mirabeau’s lips. So typical of the Americans to think without hesitation that they were the only ones occupying the continent. But despite their arrogance, they had their uses.
Such as providing the weapons that Mirabeau, the Marats, and the rest of the Métis so desperately needed if their plans were to succeed. It was possible this man Palmer was part of the group that was supposed to rendezvous with Joseph and Charlotte. If that was true, then these two were after him. Could the old-timer be an American lawman? Mirabeau couldn’t rule out that possibility.
That meant he and his friends couldn’t just ride away. They had to find out the truth. Nothing could be allowed to disrupt the plan. Not now. Not when they were so close to achieving their objective.
Even though Mirabeau’s thoughts were whirling madly in his brain, he didn’t allow that to show on his face. Instead he kept smiling and said, “I give you my word, we know nothing about the man you seek. We are innocent trappers, nothing more.”
The old man hesitated, but finally he nodded and stepped out from behind the tree. He didn’t lower the big revolver in his hand, which, despite his age, was rock steady. He motioned with his free hand for his companion to stay where she was, then said, “All right, I reckon you can go on about your business. Don’t get no ideas, though. There’s a dozen of us in this here posse, and they’ll be back any time now.”
The old man had overplayed his hand, Mirabeau thought. There might be one more man in the group, but the story about there being a dozen was an obvious lie.
Mirabeau hitched his horse into motion and lifted a hand as if in farewell as he started past the old man. The other Métis fell in behind him.
Without warning, Mirabeau kicked his feet out of the stirrups and launched himself from the saddle in a dive that sent him crashing into the old man. His arm flashed out and struck the old-timer’s arm, knocking it to the side as the revolver roared. Both of them went down, with Mirabeau’s considerable bulk pinning the old man to the ground.
The young blond woman darted out from behind her tree with the rifle in her hands. She hesitated, obviously not willing to take a shot at Mirabeau for fear that she would hit the old man instead.
“Take her!” Mirabeau roared to his friends.
She swung the Winchester toward the others, but she was too late. A couple of them were already on her, diving from their horses to grab her and wrench the rifle out of her hands. She screamed, but the sound lasted only a second before one of the men clapped a hand over her mouth.
Mirabeau hit the old man, pulling his punch so that he stunned him, but did no real damage.
“Get their horses and supplies!” he ordered. “We’ll take them with us.”
He hadn’t forgotten about that third horse. He halfway expected rifle fire to start raking them, but silence hung over the rugged landscape.
In a matter of moments, his companions had gathered up the supplies and thrown saddles and packs on the animals. They left the mount that had gone lame. They put the girl on one of their own horses, in front of a Métis plainsman. Mirabeau lifted the half-conscious old man and draped him across his horse in front of the saddle.
“Across the creek,” he ordered. He led the way, and with the others following, the group of Métis and their prisoners splashed across the stream and disappeared into the thick woods on the far side.
Frank emerged cautiously from the brush. He knew that Meg and Salty couldn’t have been gone long. He was convinced the shot he’d heard had come from Salty’s revolver.