Dead Before Sundown

by William W. Johnstone

  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.

  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.”

  Mirabeau’s eyes narrowed and glanced toward the other men. Joseph understood then. Mirabeau didn’t want to appear weak in front of them, now that he had taken over command of the group. It was a matter of honor and pride.

  “We will talk about this later, once we have finished our mission.”

  “You mean our attack on the North West Mounted Police barracks at Calgary?”

  He might as well be blunt about it, Joseph thought. Their actions would amount to a declaration of war against the Crown. It was highly likely that none of them would survive except for Charlotte. Joseph didn’t intend to let her anywhere near the scene of the attack. So this argument with Mirabeau might well be pointless. He should have held his tongue.

  But it was too late for that now.

  He realized that Mirabeau was giving him an odd look. Joseph suddenly felt a chill go down his back. Something else was going on here, something he didn’t even know about.

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” Mirabeau said. “I don’t think it would be a good idea to attack the Mounties.”

  Joseph tried not to sneer. “You’re afraid of them?”

  Mirabeau shook his head. “Not at all. But that’s what the Crown would expect us to do. We need to do something to surprise them, something that will leave no doubt as to how serious we are about winning freedom for our people.”

  “What are you talking about, Anton?” Charlotte asked. She seemed to be as baffled by this turn of events as Joseph was.

  “In a few days, they’re going to be holding a competition in Calgary for the cowboys who work on the ranches,” Mirabeau said. “A rodeo, they call it. Hundreds of people will be there, and no one will be expecting trouble.”

  A feeling of horror washed through Joseph as his eyes widened in amazement. He said, “You can’t mean—”

  Mirabeau nodded. “We’re going to set up those Gatling guns and wipe out the crowd before anyone knows what’s happening. Then the damned English will have no choice but to give us what we want.”

  Chapter 27

  Reb Russell gave Frank a friendly smile in the strengthening dawn light.

  “What are you talkin’ about, Frank?” he asked. “I told you who I am. Reb Russell. Just a cowpoke from Texas headin’ for the rodeo.”

  “A cowpoke who knows about the Métis and their troubles with the Canadian government?”

  Reb shrugged. “It was in all the papers. How do you know about it?”

  Reb had a point there, Frank supposed. It was true that he had read newspaper stories about the previous rebellions up here north of the border.

  That wasn’t enough to get rid of all of Frank’s suspicions, though.

  “That was a fast draw you made a few minutes ago.”

  “I have a lot of time to practice,” Reb said. “And I won’t lie to you. I’ve run into my share of trouble in my time. Too many hombres still seem to think the best way to settle an argument is with a gun.”

  “Funny I haven’t heard of you, then.”

  “I’ve been lucky. I never had to kill anybody until I came up here to Canada.” Reb gave a rueful chuckle. “Maybe I should’ve stayed home.” He grew more serious as he hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt. “Look, Frank, if you and me are gonna have a problem here …”

  Frank shook his head. “No problem. Just forget I said anything, Reb. With everything that’s happened, I’m just naturally a mite leery, I guess.”

  “Well, yeah, I can understand that.” Reb grinned again. “I’m glad you understand that you and I are on the same side, Frank. Seems to me that right now, you and me are all we got.”

  “And Salty,” Frank pointed out.

  “Yeah, sure, Salty, too, when he gets back on his feet.”

  Frank looked around for his hat. He found it, picked it up, and put it on.

  “I’m going to take a look around. Maybe some of those horses didn’t run off too far. If we can round up even one or two of them, it’ll help.”

  “You bet it will,” Reb said. “We’re goin’ after Meg, aren’t we?”

  Frank nodded. “Of course we are. And the sooner we get on Palmer’s trail, the better. Take care of Salty, will you?”

  “Sure. If he wakes up and needs anything, I’ll be right here.”

  Reb was right about one thing: Frank had no choice but to trust him. They would have to work together if they were going to get out of here and rescue Meg.

  As he walked through the hills looking for the horses, Frank tried not to think about the fact that Meg was Palmer’s prisoner. He knew she was good at taking care of herself, and he told himself that she would be all right until they could catch up to her and her captor.

  If she wasn’t, he would kill Palmer himself, even if it took him the rest of his life to track the man down.

  A feeling of frustration grew stronger in Frank as he continued to search without finding any of the horses. Palmer might have taken several of the animals with him, but he couldn’t have led all of them away. Some of them had bolted in panic from all the shooting after Palmer turned them loose. They ought to still be around here somewhere.

  But he didn’t see any, and when he stopped and turned around to scan the hills around him, he realized that he was out of sight of the camp, too. He didn’t want to go too much farther. Like most Westerners, he wasn’t used to walking when he could ride. His feet already hurt.

  Disgusted, he turned around and started back toward the camp. He could search again later. In the meantime, it was possible that some of the horses would wander up on their own and save him from having to look for them.

  When he reached the camp, he saw that Salty was awake and propped up against a log. Reb knelt beside him, holding a canteen. The young man looked back over his shoulder at Frank and asked, “Any luck?”

  Frank shook his head. “Nope.”

  “I was afraid that was what you were gonna say, when you didn’t bring any of the horses back with you.”

  Frank sat down on the log. “How are you feeling, Salty?”

  “Like I been shot,” the old-timer replied. “Hurts like Hades, too. How bad am I hit, Frank? Am I gonna die?”

  “Not from that bullet crease in your side,” Frank said with a smile. “You’re weak because you lost some blood, but you’ll be all right.”

  Salty took the canteen from Reb and swigged down a long drink of water. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and said, “I sure wish I had a drink right about now. Danged if I don’t.”

  “Reckon that’ll have to wait until we get back to civilization,” Frank told him.

  “Civilization … bah! Civilization’s full o’ crooked varmints like Palmer and fiendish contraptions like them devil guns and a bunch o’ skunks who ain’t got nothin’ better to do than stir up a whole heap o’ trouble. Why, for a nickel I’d chuck the whole blamed thing and go live in a cave somewheres like a danged ol’ hermit!”

  “Then you’d never get a drink,” Reb pointed out.

  Salty scratched at his beard. “Well, that’s true,” he allowed. “I reckon there’s a few good things about civilization … but mighty dang few!”

  By now the sun was well up. Frank said, “We need to get some breakfast going.”

  “I’ll handle that,” Reb offered. He patted Salty on the shoulder. “You just si
t there and rest, old-timer.”

  Reb bustled off to gather more wood and prepare a meal. While he was doing that, Salty said quietly, “The boy tells me Palmer ran off with Meg. Is that true, Frank?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Dadgum it! You got to get after ‘em. You and Reb just leave me here and get on the trail. I’ll be all right. I can take care o’ myself.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Frank said, “but we don’t have any horses.”

  “Well, then, you’re just gonna have to go after ‘em on foot. You can’t leave Meg in that bastard’s hands, Frank. You just can’t.”

  “I’m not going to,” Frank promised. “But we’ll never catch up on foot. We’ve got to find some horses somewhere. Maybe there’s a trapper’s cabin or a little ranch around here. I’ll have a look again later.”

  “I don’t like it. That son of a bitch could be doin’ ‘most anything.”

  Frank nodded. “I know. That’s why I’m trying not to think about it right now, until I can actually do something about it.”

  “One thing we can count on,” Salty mused. “Ol’ Meg ain’t gonna cooperate with him. If there’s one thing that gal knows how to do, it’s put up a fight!”

  The blonde took Palmer by surprise, kicking him in the chest as soon as he untied her wrists from the saddle horn. He had thought she was only half-conscious after the long, hard ride and not really a threat.

  But suddenly her boot thudded into him and the impact sent him staggering back a couple of steps. A rock rolled under his foot, and his balance deserted him. He went down, sprawling on the ground.

  The wicked kick had thrown the woman off balance, too. She grabbed at the horn, and even in his pain Palmer knew that if she stayed in the saddle, she could gallop away from him and might succeed in escaping.

  Her hands were still lashed together with her belt, though, and that made her grab an awkward one. Her fingers slipped off the horn, and she toppled to the ground with an angry cry.

  Like a flash, she was up and running. Palmer struggled to his feet and went after her.