Rescue

by William W. Johnstone

  Back in the saddle, Frank pressed on, riding slowly, checking the many hoofprints of the outlaws. He found several very distinctive prints from three different animals. “I got you now, you bastards,” Frank muttered. “No matter where you go, if you’re on these horses, I’ll find you and send you to hell.”

  Frank rode on.

  He made camp about an hour before dark. Over a hat-sized fire, he fixed bacon, biscuits, and coffee. Then he went to sleep and slept soundly until four o’clock. After eating what was left of the biscuits he’d fixed for his supper and drinking a pot of coffee, Frank enjoyed a smoke, and then saddled up and was on the trail just as dawn was streaking the eastern sky. He dogged the trail of the outlaws relentlessly until two o’clock that afternoon; that’s when he discovered the body of fourteen-year-old Roy Sutton lying just off the trail. The boy had been shot in the back twice.

  Frank spent an hour studying the tracks and broken low limbs and smashed vegetation before he put it all together. The boy had escaped, somehow, and it looked as though he was making a pretty good run for it when the outlaws caught up with him and shot him. Frank doubted the boy suffered. He was probably dead before he hit the ground.

  “If you’d only taken to the timber, boy,” Frank muttered as he was digging a hole to bury Roy in, “you might have made it.” Too late to dwell on that now, Frank thought, glancing over at the body of Roy Sutton.

  He buried the boy and covered the mound with rocks, then spoke a few words over the grave and was back in the saddle again. He was getting closer to the outlaws. Horse droppings were very fresh.

  “Now if I only had a plan to get the hostages free,” he muttered. A hell of a lot of ifs associated with this, he thought.

  But he knew the plan would come when he caught up with the gang. It all depended on the size of the gang and the terrain.

  An hour after burying the boy, Frank reined up when he caught the faint scent of smoke. He sat in his saddle for a moment, sniffing the air, trying to determine where the smoke was coming from. He swung down from the saddle, removed his spurs and stashed them in the saddlebags, then pulled his rifle from the boot.

  “You stay,” he told Dog. “Stay.”

  The big cur sat down and looked at him.

  Frank slipped through the rocks and timber, the smell of smoke getting stronger. Then he caught the odor of coffee and bacon. A few yards farther and he could hear the faint murmur of conversation. He carefully made his way closer until he could clearly see the camp area. Four men and a woman. Julie Barnes.

  “I don’t see why we can’t have us a taste of this woman,” one man said. “Hell, Val’s gonna sell her to some greaser anyway.”

  “Orders, Brit,” another man said. “Val don’t want ’em all beat up. And you know she’s gonna fight you if you try to lift them skirts.”

  “Well,” the man called Brit countered, “why don’t you and Tom hold her down and I’ll mount her thataway?”

  “Leave me out of this,” Tom said. “I ain’t goin’ agin Val’s orders. ’Sides, we got whores a-waitin’ for us at the main camp.”

  “That’s a hundred miles south of here!” Brit said. “I got me an itch that’s got to be scratched right now.”

  “Hal’s right,” another man said. “There ain’t no woman worth gettin’ kilt over. Right, Jeff?”

  “I don’t know,” the fourth man said, looking over at Julie. “That there is shore-nuff one fine-lookin’ piece of candy.”

  Frank was mentally figuring the odds of his being able to take out all four outlaws without Julie getting hurt. The odds were not good.

  Brit suddenly stood up. “Hell with Val,” he said. “Hike up them skirts, lady.”

  “You go to hell!” Julie told him.

  The other three men laughed, Hal saying, “She’s a regular wildcat, Brit. You bes’ leave her be.”

  Jeff set his coffee cup on the ground and stood up. “I’ll hep you with her, Brit. Then I get my turn.”

  “Damn you!” Julie shouted.

  Brit was fumbling with the buttons on his jeans when Frank shot him. The .44-40 slug struck the outlaw on the left side and blew out the right. Brit was dead and cooling before he tumbled to the ground.

  Jeff cussed and clawed for his pistol. Frank gut-shot him, doubling the man over just as Hal jerked up a rifle. Frank put a round in him. Hal was knocked backward but not down. He lifted his rifle, and Frank put a second round in him. Hal dropped his rifle and sat down hard on the ground, slowly toppling over, his head coming to rest in the fire. The smell of burning hair filled the air.

  Tom raised his hands. “I’m done! I’m out of this.”

  Frank stepped out of the rocks. “Pull your partner’s head out of the fire and then untie the woman. Do it!”

  “Oh, I’m hard hit!” Jeff hollered. “Hep me!”

  “In a minute, Jeff,” Tom said. “Just hang on.” He pulled Hal’s head out of the fire and then hurriedly untied Julie.

  Julie stepped away from the outlaw, rubbing her wrists, and walked toward Frank, being careful not to get between Frank and Tom.

  Smart woman, Frank thought. She knows something about guns.

  “Can I see to Jeff now?” Tom asked.

  “Go ahead. But first kick his pistol out of reach.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Whoever-You-Is.”

  “Frank Morgan.”

  Tom kicked the six-gun out of reach, and then slowly turned to look at Frank, his eyes wide. “Frank Morgan!”

  “Yes.”

  “Frank Morgan shot me?” Jeff asked, both his hands covering the hole in his belly. “You wasn’t supposed to be with them movers.”

  “Well, I was. And one of you bastards shot me.”

  “It wasn’t me, Mr. Morgan,” Tom said quickly. “I didn’t shoot nobody and I didn’t rape that woman back yonder.”

  “Ruby Carter.”

  “Whatever her name was. That was some others. They went on ahead with the other women and the boy.”

  “Who shot the boy I found back yonder on the trail?”

  “Ormond,” Tom said. “He’s a bad one too.”

  “He certainly smells that way,” Julie said. She looked at Frank. “Did you bury my husband, Frank?”

  “Yes. I buried all that were killed back on the road.”

  “I want my girls back.”

  “I intend to get as many of the hostages back as possible, Julie.”

  “You’ll play hell doin’ that, Morgan,” Jeff said as Tom helped him stretch out on the ground. “They’s too many in the gang.”

  “Tell me about the gang,” Frank said.

  Jeff cussed him.

  “What are you goin’ to do with us, Morgan?” Tom asked.

  “I haven’t made up my mind about that.”

  “I know what to do with them,” Julie said. “Fix a rope and hang them.”

  “Now wait a minute!” Tom protested. “I didn’t take no part in talkin’ ’bout rapin’ you, lady. I talked agin it.”

  “You can’t hang me,” Jeff said. “I’m a wounded man. I need a doctor.”

  “There isn’t a doctor within fifty miles of here,” Frank told him. “You think you can sit a saddle for fifty miles?”

  “You just gonna leave me to die?”

  “Seems like a good idea to me,” Frank told him. “Now shut up.” He looked at Tom. “Tell me about the gang, Tom.”

  “They’s five gangs, Morgan. They operate in Arizona and New Mexico. Rangers run ’em out of Texas. Val Dooley’s smart enough to stay clear of Texas now.”

  “How many men per gang?”

  “’Bout thirty-five or forty. Men come and go all the time.”

  “Why don’t you shut your cowardly mouth, Tom?” Jeff groaned.

  Tom ignored him. “And it ain’t just men south of the border who buy slaves neither. They’s men right here in the States buyin’ women and girls for . . . well . . . you know, personal use. And sometimes it’s little boys too. And the older boys are use
d as laborers in mines. They work ’em till they die. Which in many cases don’t take long.”

  “The women are sold here in the West?”

  “Oh, no. Not just here. They’re shipped like cattle all over the United States. Val worked it all out. They’re drugged up real good and kept that way till they get to where they’re goin’. Passed off as sick folks. It’s worked so far. Val’s becomin’ a really rich man. He’s gonna retire in Mexico someday and live like a king.”

  “You’re a dead man, Tom,” Jeff whispered. “Val’ll find out who talked and have you kilt.”

  “But you won’t be the one who tells him, Jeff,” Tom replied. “’Cause you’ll be long dead.”

  “Hell with you, you yeller dog.”

  Dog looked up from where he was lying and growled at Jeff.

  “You keep that big ugly hound away from me, Morgan!” Jeff said.

  Dog growled again and showed his teeth.

  “I don’t think my dog likes you very much, Jeff,” Frank said.

  “Hell with you too, Morgan! Val’s gonna kill you too. He’s fast, Drifter. Fast as a lightnin’ strike. He’ll take you.”

  Frank shrugged that off and turned to Julie. “Rummage around in the men’s clothing and see if you can find some britches that’ll fit you. We’re going to be doing some hard riding and you’ll be more comfortable in the saddle wearing jeans.”

  “All right. Frank?” Julie said.

  Frank waited.

  “I’m going with you after my girls.”

  “Julie . . .”

  “No arguing, Frank. I can ride with the best of men and I grew up on the frontier, fighting Indians and outlaws. I can handle rifle, pistol, or shotgun. As a matter of fact, one of the dead men has a double-barrel Greener that I’ve had my eyes on. And he’s got a bandolier filled with shells too.”

  Frank smiled at her. “All right, Julie. But it’s going to be rough.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Frank. I can take it.”

  “Good enough. Now go find something to wear.” He looked at Tom. “I’m going to get pencil and paper, Tom. And then you’re going to write down the location of every hideout Val’s gang uses. Every trail, water hole, creek, and river. Large and small. Don’t leave anything out, Tom. Your life depends on it.”

  “Don’t you do it, Tom!” Jeff called, his voice weak.

  Frank got a writing tablet and a couple of pencils from his gear and handed them to Tom.

  “Get with it, Tom. And make it correct. ’Cause if it’s all wrong, I’ll come looking for you. And when I find you, I’ll kill you.”

  Six

  Jeff breathed his last breath on earth while Tom was busy writing instructions and drawing maps on the tablet pages. Neither Frank nor Tom had noticed. Julie came out of the brush after changing clothes and pointed out Jeff’s passing.

  “You don’t appear to be upset about it,” Frank remarked.

  “I hope he burns in hell forever,” Julie replied.

  That got Tom’s attention. He looked up from the writing tablet and said, “He didn’t have many good qualities, for a fact.”

  “You known him long?” Frank asked.

  “Awhile. I was with the gang when Mason was head of it. Jeff was already in tight when I come along.”

  “Val killed this Mason fellow?”

  “Sure did. Walked right up to him all smilin’ and shot him twice in the belly. Left him to die along the trail. Val laughed about it. Val ain’t, well, he ain’t quite right in the head, I don’t think.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Frank said very dryly.

  “Val is a big, handsome feller, so the ladies say. You and him resemble a lot. You could pass for brothers. But Val is mad-dog mean. Likes to hurt people.” Tom shook his head. “I never liked to be around him. He scares me.”

  “And I hear tell he’s fast with a gun too.”

  “He is, Morgan. He’s as fast as rumors claim you to be. You and him would be one matchup I’d pay hard money to see.”

  “We’ll see,” Frank said. “Finish up with your work.”

  “I’m ’bout done. ’Nother ten minutes or so.”

  Frank rummaged around the supplies of the outlaws and found a shovel, laying it aside. Tom could use it to dig the graves for the dead. Julie was also rummaging around the gear.

  “This Dutch oven belonged to the Suttons,” she said. “I’ve seen Joan use it many times.”

  “Set it aside,” Frank told her. “We’ll take one of the outlaws’ pack animals and carry enough supplies to last us for a time.”

  “Frank?” Julie whispered. “What are you going to do with Tom?”

  “Turn him loose.”

  “Unarmed?”

  “No. Not in this country. Not with the Apaches running wild.”

  “He might turn on us,” she replied, a dubious note in her voice.

  “I don’t think so. Besides,” Frank added with a smile, “I’m not going to give him a chance to do that.”

  Tom finished and laid the tablet aside just as Frank and Julie were done packing the additional supplies. “You gonna bury the dead, Morgan?” he asked.

  “No, you are.”

  “I’ll do it. Then what?”

  “While you’re digging the holes, Julie and I will head out. I’ve left you with supplies aplenty, and I’ll leave you a pistol and rifle.”

  “That’s big of you, Morgan. Mighty big.”

  “I hope I never see you again, Tom.”

  “You won’t. I’m headin’ out, back home to farm. If the tax people ain’t seized my pa’s land, that is.”

  “How long have you been gone?” Julie asked.

  “Years, ma’am. I heard my ma died some five years ago, but Pa was still in good health and workin’ the land. I aim to join him.”

  “Stay clean with the law, Tom,” Frank said, swinging into the saddle.

  “I plan on doin’ just that, Morgan.” He looked at Julie. “I’m some sorry for what’s happened to your family. I mean that. And I hope you find your girls and bring them back to home safe and sound.”

  Julie looked as though she’d like to spit in Tom’s face. But instead she nodded her head in acknowledgment.

  “It ain’t proper for you to be dressed in men’s britches, ma’am,” Tom said.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Julie said.

  “Let’s ride,” Frank said with a smile, and lifted the reins.

  * * *

  “The nerve of that man,” Julie said. “A kidnapper, rapist, and thief, lecturing me about the way I dress.”

  They had ridden about ten miles before making camp for the evening. Frank was frying bacon and boiling water for coffee, and Julie was still seething about Tom’s comments.

  “Finish peeling the potatoes, please, Julie,” Frank urged. “And stop worrying about what Tom said. We’ll never see him again.”

  “I know it,” she admitted. “But it takes my mind off what might be happening to my girls.”

  “I understand. Julie, you know there is a good chance we won’t find them.”

  “I know,” she said, slashing at a potato with a knife. “But there is also a chance that we will.”

  “A chance, yes. But we don’t know what camp they were taken to. And we’ve got to hit them all.”

  “And the first camp is . . . where?” She stopped her mutilation of the potato, which was now about the size of a small egg, and looked at him.

  “About a day and a half’s ride from here. It’s over by a little creek. Sycamore Creek, I think it’s called.” He smiled at her. “Careful, Julie. You’re about to lose a finger hacking at what’s left of that tater.”

  She looked down at what remained of the potato and flushed in embarrassment. “I guess I got carried away, Frank. I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be,” he reassured her. “I think you’re holding up really well, considering all that you’ve been through.”

  She got another potato from the bag and began carefully peeling
it. “Thank you. Frank, you don’t speak or behave like a paid gunfighter. You’ve had some formal education.”

  “I’m not a paid gunfighter, Julie. I’ve never taken money to fight a man. Besides, how many gunfighters have you known?”

  “Well . . . actually, none.”

  “That’s what I thought. As to formal education, no, I have none. I left school at a very early age.”

  “But your manner of speaking . . .”

  “Whatever education I have is self-taught. I enjoy reading; usually have one or two books with me.”

  “I always wanted to be a schoolteacher,” Julie said. “My girls knew how to read before they ever went off to the first grade. They both love to read.”

  A branch popped in the brush and Dog growled low in his throat. Julie stared in amazement as Frank’s Peacemaker seemed to leap into his hand.

  “Hello, the camp!” a man called faintly from the timber. “I need help real bad. Please help me.”

  “Get your shotgun and get into those rocks over there,” Frank told Julie, pointing. “Take Dog with you.”

  Frank circled wide in order to come up behind the voice. But there was no need for that. The man had been shot and was stretched out on his back, nearly unconscious, when Frank came up on him.

  Frank knelt down. “Take it easy, partner. Let me open your shirt and see how bad hit you are.”

  The man’s eyelids fluttered. “Hard hit. Belly shot. Outlaws took my horse and gear yesterday. But I slipped into the rocks and hid from them.”

  “Did they have any women with them?”

  “Women? No. No women that I seen. Look, mister. They didn’t get my money belt. It’s around my waist. Bullet hit me right above it. I got near’bouts a thousand dollars in there. I been gold-huntin’ and found me a small vein. I cleaned it out and the money’s what I got for it. I ain’t got no family to leave it to. You bury me deep so’s the varmits won’t dig me up. Keep the money for your troubles. Will you do that?”

  “Of course I will,” Frank said. “I don’t want your money.”

  “It’ll rot if you plant it with me. What good would that do?”