Then he saw a loose horse trotting back toward the valley floor, a saddle on its back.
"Morgan got him," Buck told himself.
Looking uphill, he sought the place where the man in the derby hat had gone down. Whoever he was, he'd been knocked off his horse, but that was a long way from a sure sign that the man was dead.
And there was another thing to consider ... making sure he didn't mistake Morgan for the enemy.
Buck continued up the slope at a slow pace, pausing behind every tree to look and listen. He knew this country well, and he knew how easily a man could be fooled by what he thought he saw in front of him.
* * * *
Frank was blinded by tears by the time he made it out of the saddle. He tied off his bay, cradling his rifle in the crook of his good arm. The man he was after had gone down little more than a hundred yards away.
He sleeved tears of pain from his eyes.
"Time to be real careful," he told himself, beginning a slow walk downhill, a bit of carelessness he allowed himself due to his injury, and the need for haste to get to Conrad before Pine and Vanbergen killed him.
A pistol shot roared from his left and he made a dive for his belly, tasting snow, feeling the shock of his fall all the way up to his sore shoulder.
Bitter bile rose in his throat. "You missed me, you son of a bitch!" he cried, knowing how foolish it was to give his present position away.
His answer was another gunshot, coming from more than a hundred yards away.
"You're a damn fool, whoever you are!" Frank bellowed, making sure he had some cover behind the trunk of a thick pine tree.
" You're the damn fool, Morgan!" a distant voice shouted back at him.
Frank didn't recognize the voice. "Who the hell are you, asshole?"
"What difference do names make? Where's all that goddamn money you're supposed to be bringin' to get that snivelin' kid of yours back?"
"I've got it right here. Come and get it!"
"I'm gonna kill you, you old bastard."
"Make your play. I'll be waiting for you...."
Another soft sound reached Frank's ears, a movement in the snow.
"Keep coming," he said. "Keep thinking about all this money I've got in my money belt."
Now there was silence.
* * * *
Cletus belly-crawled toward the place where he'd seen Morgan go down. In his mind's eye, he could see a leather money belt filled with gold coins. He told himself that Morgan wasn't as good as they said he was ... if his own aim had been just a little bit better a moment ago, Morgan would be dead and all the ransom money would be his.
He continued to inch forward on his elbows, his Greener shotgun clenched in one fist, his Colt in the other. He could almost feel the gold in his hands.
Then he heard a whispering sound. A short arrow with a feathered shaft entered his side, penetrating his liver with a suddenness he'd never known before.
"What the hell ... ?"
He rolled over just in time to see an Indian moving away from him among the pines.
Blood pumped from Cletus's wound. He dropped both of his guns to reach for the arrow shaft, and found it buried in his flesh almost all the way to the hilt.
Shooting pains, like hot branding irons, raced down his body and across his chest. He tried to breathe, and couldn't.
A moment later, Cletus Huling, bounty hunter from Texas, was dead, never knowing who it was that killed him.
* * * *
Victor went to a window of the shack. "Those were gunshots I heard," he said, turning to Ken and Harry Oldham, brothers from the Texas Panhandle. "You boys ride up there. Maybe Huling got Morgan, but I'm gonna make damn sure Huling don't double-cross us. If you find him, bring him down here with that money."
--------
*Twenty-eight*
Ken Oldham was riding his horse up a steep incline when he heard the thud of a gun. Something entered his abdomen like a hot knife.
"I'm shot!" he shrieked, toppling out of the saddle into a snowdrift.
Another gunshot blasted from a ridge above the lip of the valley.
"Holy shit!" Harry bellowed, gripping his belly as a piece of hot metal passed through him, exiting next to his spine. He threw his rifle into the snow to hold onto the saddle horn with both hands.
Harry jumped off his horse, gripping his wound with one hand. A sharpshooter from above was taking potshots at them in the shadows of dawn.
"Help me, Harry," Ken called from a dark place between two lines of trees.
Harry didn't answer him. Only a fool would give his position away now.
Ken began to groan somewhere in the forest. "You gotta help me."
"Not now," Harry muttered. The shots had come from more than two hundred yards away. It would take a hell of a marksman to make that kind of shot, and a very large-bore rifle to boot. But he had to go to the aid of his downed brother.
* * * *
"Morgan," Ken wondered aloud, gripping the stock of his rifle with gloved hands.
He'd been sure they were following Frank Morgan's trail of blood out of the valley, but now he wasn't so sure. Who the hell was shooting at them? Morgan was supposed to be mortally wounded.
"You gotta help me," Ken cried again. "I'm shot through the gut. I'm bleedin' real bad."
From another spot in the pine woods, Harry began coughing until his throat was clear. "Jesus."
Ken crawled over to a pine trunk. He was out of breath, and wheezed softly as his gelding galloped away to escape the bang of guns.
"I'm dyin' over here," he croaked. "You've gotta help me, Harry."
Harry was only thinking of surviving the sharpshooter himself. He lay still for a moment.
"Where are you at, Harry?" Ken wondered, pain in his voice.
Harry wasn't about to answer him, making a target of himself, even though the cry came from his brother.
The boom of a rifle came from above.
"Damn! Damn! Damn!" Ken screamed, flipping over on his back.
It was proof that Harry had been wise to remain silent until he knew where the rifleman was.
"Please help me," Ken called. "I'm hurt real bad. I don't think I can move...."
Harry wanted to make sure his legs would move as he made his way back down the slope. He said nothing, closing his ears to Ken's cries.
He could hear Ken choking. Under better circumstances he would have offered his brother some assistance, but not now. He knew with certainty that his life was at stake if he made the wrong choice.
"Where're you at, Harry?" Ken shouted. "You gotta come help me."
Harry squatted behind a tree with his rifle ready. His belly wound was bleeding badly.
Moments later he felt himself losing consciousness, and when he looked down at the snow around him it was red with blood ... his blood.
He fell over on his chest and took a shuddering breath, wondering about his brother.
* * * *
Dog led Frank over to two bloody bodies stretched out in the snow. Both men appeared to be dead. Dog growled and looked down the slope, a sure indication that someone else was close to the spot.
Buck came up behind Frank, making almost no noise in spite of the new-fallen snow.
"I got one more, maybe another," Buck told him.
"I heard them yell," Frank said. "I still haven't found the bastard wearing the bowler."