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.”