Palmer left the camp and his enemies behind him. He knew all three of the men were hurt, but he didn’t know how badly. All of them might be dead. He hoped fervently that was the case.
But even if they weren’t, they were set afoot now, while he had horses, supplies, guns … and a hostage, if he needed one.
Best of all, if he could get his hands on those chests of gold; now he wouldn’t have to split that fortune with anybody.
A grin stretched across Palmer’s face as he galloped through the night. Things were finally starting to go his way again.
Frank couldn’t hold back a groan as awareness seeped back into his brain. Thundering pain filled his skull.
If anybody was watching him, he had already betrayed the fact that he was regaining consciousness. He managed to lift a hand and touched the side of his head where the pain seemed to be centered. The sticky wetness he felt there was unmistakably blood.
But he was alive, and this was hardly the first time he’d been shot. He realized that the bullet that had come out of the night had barely creased him. Just a little hot lead kiss on the side of the head that had knocked him down and out for a while.
How long? he wondered.
Probably not that long, judging by the smell of burned powder that still hung in the air. The fight seemed to be over, though. No shots rang out, no angry yells. Instead everything was quiet and peaceful.
But so was a grave, Frank reminded himself.
He pushed himself up in a sitting position and looked around. A wave of dizziness went through him as the world seemed to spin in the wrong direction for a moment.
That feeling subsided. He was able to orient himself. He saw the ridge about a hundred yards away.
The shot that had felled him had come from the ridge, confirming his hunch that there were at least two bushwhackers. Both of them were probably gone now.
Cold fear for Salty and Meg gripped him. To a lesser extent, he was worried about Reb Russell, too. He looked around, spotted his rifle lying on the ground, and reached over to pick it up. He used the weapon to help lever himself to his feet.
Frank’s iron constitution helped him throw off the effects of being shot, at least for a while. Feeling stronger by the moment, he walked back toward the camp, his face hardening into a grim mask as he thought about what he might find there.
The moon was almost down and the eastern sky was turning gray, heralding the approach of dawn. As Frank came up to the camp, his keen eyes noted that the horses were gone. That came as no surprise to him. The horses could have been what the bushwhackers were after.
He heard a groan, followed by a muttered curse. That led him to a sprawled figure. As the man started to sit up, Frank drew the Colt and leveled it at him.
“Hold it right there, mister.”
“Wha—” The man sounded confused. “Frank?”
The voice belonged to Reb Russell. Not completely sure that Reb hadn’t had something to do with the attack, Frank didn’t lower his gun as he asked, “What happened here?”
“I … I don’t know. Somebody let off a shot from the top of the ridge. I heard him slidin’ down the slope and tried to jump him, but it felt like a mountain landed on my head.” Reb paused. “I’ve got a lump the size of a goose egg on my head! Son of a bitch must’ve pistol-whipped me.”
Frank’s instincts told him Reb was telling the truth, but he was still cautious. “Where’s Meg and Salty?”
Reb looked around. “Meg was with me…. I don’t know about Salty….” Alarm was in his voice as he called, “Meg!” He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the threat of the gun in Frank’s hand. “Meg, where are you?”
Frank was looking around, too. He said, “I don’t think she’s here.”
Reb let out a bitter curse. “The varmint must’ve grabbed her and taken her with him! Where are those damn horses? We gotta get after ‘em!”
“The horses are gone. The bushwhackers either took them or ran them off.”
“But … but … blast it! It’s hard to think straight with my head hurtin’ so much.”
Frank knew the feeling. Despite the pain in his skull, he started walking around the campsite, ranging farther out as he searched for Salty.
He almost tripped over the old-timer. Salty was lying on his side in the tall grass. For a second, Frank was afraid that his friend was dead. Then he heard the strained rasp of Salty’s breath.
Frank holstered his gun and knelt beside Salty. He rolled the old-timer onto his back. Salty groaned.
“Can you hear me, Salty?” Frank groaned. “How bad are you hit?”
“Did you find him?” Reb called. He hurried toward Frank and Salty.
Before Reb could get there, a figure loomed out of the shadows, gun in hand. “Where is he?” the man shouted hoarsely, but he didn’t wait for an answer.
Instead he jerked the trigger, and flame spouted from the revolver’s muzzle.
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.