* * *
The next morning, just before dawn, as Frank knelt rolling up his blankets, Dixie Carpenter slipped through the mist beside the cottonwoods where he had camped.
“Mrs. Carpenter.” He gave a smiling nod. “You’re up awfully early.”
“You said you were a coffee-drinking man. I hated for you to slip off without one last cup.” The sun was not yet up, but she seemed to radiate light. “Sorry, it’s a little strong, warmed up from last night.”
Frank took the offered cup and sipped it. “It’s wonderful and much appreciated. As is the company.” He met the woman’s eyes in the darkness. “Something on your mind, Mrs. Carpenter?”
“I thought you were going to call me Dixie.” Her eyes held a hint of mischief.
“I did say that, for a fact.” Frank chuckled. “So, Dixie, what besides your good manners and desire to serve me coffee brings you out so early this morning?”
“I don’t trust that Mr. Wilson,” the woman said bluntly.
Frank raised a brow at that and cocked back his hat. “What does your husband think about him?”
Dixie scoffed. “Virgil is basically a good man, but he’s no smarter that this tree stump. Wilson has him completely hoodwinked. He thinks the man hung the moon and stars, but I know different.”
Frank said nothing about his own concerns. “What makes you so suspicious?”
Dixie hesitated for a few seconds. “He’s . . . well, devious, Mr. Morgan.”
“Devious?”
“When I asked about other groups he’s guided west, he became defensive, almost surly. I don’t know how to explain it. He’s . . . oily is the best word I can think of.”
Frank nodded and drained the last of his coffee. “He won’t give you a straight answer?”
“No. He says everyone he’s taken west is likely spread all over and he doesn’t know where they are.”
“Spread out could well be true.”
“I know it could, but I still don’t trust him. We’re carrying a lot of money, Mr. Morgan.” Her eyes narrowed, and she wrung her hands in front of her. “All of us are. We sold everything we had to come on this trip, and some of us took sizable sums from the bank. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I’m frightened something is going to happen.”
Before Frank could reply, Steve Wilson’s voice cut the early morning air.
“Who’s out there? That you, Morgan?” The voice was stronger than it was the day before—and Dixie was right, there was something oily about it.
Wilson sauntered into view out of the fog, and raised an eyebrow when he saw Dixie. “This sort of thing could lead to trouble, Morgan. She’s a married woman.”
“Mrs. Carpenter was kind enough to bring me a cup of coffee before I pulled out. Nothing to get knotted up over.”
“Then I beg pardon . . . from both of you. I was wrong in assuming the worst.”
Dixie took the cup and held out her hand “I’m glad we met, Mr. Morgan. I hope you find whatever it is you’re seeking.”
Frank gently took the hand. “Thank you, ma’am. You and the others have a safe journey.”
Dixie disappeared into the early morning shadows.
“So, Morgan, you’re pulling out then?”
“That I am.” Frank lifted the stirrup leather to tighten the cinch on his saddle. He turned his back on Wilson. “Right now, as a matter of fact.”
“Maybe we’ll meet again.” Wilson’s voice had an edge to it.
Frank picked up each of Stormy’s feet to check for stones. “I’d count on it, Mr. Wilson.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Frank turned and smiled. “Means we’re heading the same direction but taking two different trails to get there. Nothing more.”
Wilson grunted, then turned and walked away without another word.
Frank patted his horse on the neck and swung into the saddle. “Something about that fellow makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.” He looked down at Dog. “What do you think?”
Dog growled, low in his throat.
“That’s what I thought,” Frank said, lifting his reins. “All right, boy, let’s travel.”
Chapter 2
Three days after Frank Morgan drifted away from the wagon train, Dixie Carpenter slapped the thick leather reins and whistled to start the mules. The terrain had changed little in the ensuing days.
Virgil and the other men rode out to the sides of the wagons scouting for game and signs of trouble. Wilson spent all his time out front. The train rumbled along at an agonizingly slow pace, creeping up low hills and slipping down shallow valleys that all melted into one long red and gray formless plain.
At least the men got to look at something different. Dixie and the other women didn’t get to see much except the back end of the mules. The shorter wheel animal nearest her reminded her of Virgil. It was strong enough, but endowed with a permanent scowl and more than content to do nothing but follow in the traces behind the others. He put his back into it when he absolutely had to, but never seemed to get excited about much of anything.
The lead mule on the right was a big red beast with a kind face and a soft eye. This particular mule had a look that seemed to always wander along the horizon, looking for adventure. It pulled with a vengeance when in harness, and ate and played with gusto when turned out at the end of the day. This mule reminded her of Frank Morgan.
No matter how hard she fought the thought, ever since he’d ridden away on his beautiful spotted horse, she’d felt as if a part of her was missing. Of course, she knew it was a stupid notion, but no matter how she tried to busy her mind, it always returned to thoughts of the handsome drifter.
He was tall with strong shoulders, and had just enough gray in his dark hair to give him the dignified look of a man who knew things—a man who’d been places besides Indiana and this barren plain. But it was more than that. None of the men in the group were ugly. Each was strong, and capable in his own way. Even Mr. Wilson, with his funny pale eyebrow, was not completely unattractive. But Frank Morgan had a way about him that made all the others sit up and take notice. The men were all a little afraid of him and the women were curious about him. And it wasn’t just his name either. Dixie had heard the name of the famous gunfighter, but dime novels weren’t on her reading list and she had no more than a passing knowledge of him. But there was a presence that followed the man wherever he went, a stoic strength that comforted and frightened at the same time.
“Everything all right, Dixie?” The wagon master trotted up next to her wagon and reined in his horse to match her speed. Dixie. That was a switch. He’d never been so bold before as to call her by her first name.
“Everything’s fine, Mr. Wilson.” She stared straight into his eyes. “Why do you ask?”
He didn’t flinch. “I don’t know. You seem sort of preoccupied since your friend left. That’s all.” There was something different about him. It was as if all his manners and social pretence had dissolved as soon as Frank Morgan had ridden away.
“I was under the impression he was a friend to all of us, Mr. Wilson.”
“That’s a fact,” the man said with a hint of a sneer. “I guess he is. More to some than others, I would wager. Well, good day to you then.” He put the spurs to his horse and trotted back to take the lead.
Dixie shivered in spite of the intense sun that beat down on the desolate plain before the wagon train. The wagon master was up to no good. None of the men appeared to notice it, but in the days since Frank had gone, there was a bounce to Wilson’s step—as if he knew something was about to happen. When she tried to bring it up with Virgil, he’d dismissed her concerns. But the women could see it. They could tell something had changed. Wilson was cocky, and outspoken with the children, and bossy—even sometimes flirtatious with the women when none of their husbands were around.
That very morning, Carolyn Brandon had taken a tumble off her wagon when her mules shied at a rattlesnake. All the men had been off h
unting, and Wilson was alone with the train. Dixie was in the wagon directly behind, and had heard her scream.
By the time she’d gotten back to the poor woman, Wilson was off his horse, standing over her, staring down and grinning like the lecher Dixie know he was. Carolyn’s dress had caught on the brake handle and a good deal of it had ripped away, leaving her stripped down to her flannels.
When Dixie had shooed the man away, he’d just glared at her and gotten back on his horse, smiling and taking his own sweet time about it.
Something bad was about to happen. Dixie Carpenter just knew it. Steve Wilson was up to something. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she knew it surely as she knew she could trust the handsome drifter. She could feel it, deep in her soul.
The auburn-haired woman shielded her eyes with an open hand and searched the horizon. She knew the odds were against it, but hoped against hope that she might spot a lone rider on an Appaloosa horse.
“Frank Morgan,” she whispered to herself. “Where are you when I need you?”
Chapter 3
Frank stayed about five miles north of the wagon train, paralleling their route. Occasionally, after topping a low hill, he could just make out the dust kicked up by the mules and the wheels of the heavy wagons. It was slow going, for the train could only make eight miles a day—and that was if everything went right.
On the fourth morning out, just before dawn, Frank lay in his bedroll trying to chase thoughts of Dixie Carpenter from his mind. Dog sat up suddenly. Faint popping sounds carried in on the morning breeze. Gunfire? Frank lay still for several minutes, straining to hear anything that might tell him what was happening. Nothing.
The sun was pinking the eastern sky when he slipped out of his blankets, put on his hat, and tugged on his boots. He stood up, buckling his gun belt around a narrow waist. He built a small sage fire to boil water and make coffee. He looked over at Dog. The big cur sat on his haunches, ears pricked, staring to the south.
“So, I did hear something, eh, boy?”
A short time later, Frank dumped coffee in the pot of boiling water, then added a bit of cold water to settle the grounds. While he was waiting, he sliced some bacon and laid the thick strips in a small frying pan. He had some pan bread left over from his supper.
Dog suddenly left the clearing in a burst of energy, and returned a few minutes later with a jackrabbit in his mouth.
“So we both have breakfast, eh, boy?” Frank said. “You want me to cook that thing?”
Dog gave him low look and clamped his mouth down tighter on the rabbit. He trotted over the edge of camp, flopped down, and proceeded to dine.
“Didn’t think so,” Frank said.
Smiling, he poured his coffee and then rolled a cigarette. He leaned back against his saddle and decided that when he had good daylight, he’d ride south a ways and take a look at things. Satisfy his curiosity about the shots. They were probably nothing; maybe he’d just dreamed them. Frank often dreamt of gunfire.
* * *
Frank found the wagon tracks and followed them west for a mile. Buzzards circled on the heated morning air over the rise ahead of him. Frank set his jaw and urged Stormy into a quick trot. He shook his head sadly when he topped the rise.
A large party of men, twenty or so judging by the tracks, had jumped the train as they camped for the night. The wagons and livestock were gone.
It didn’t take Frank long to discover the bodies. The dead had been piled up in a dry creek bed, and one wall of sand and dirt had been caved in over them. He prodded the pile with a stick and discovered it was only the men and boys. The kids had all been shot in the head—the poor little ten-year-old Brandon boy looked like he was sleeping. The men had suffered various wounds. The body of Steve Wilson was nowhere to be found.
Frank covered the bodies again and marked the mass grave with a large mound of rocks. He stood for a moment, grimly considering the scene before him. He’d been right not to trust the wagon master, Steve Wilson, but he’d never expected him to be up to something like this. Any outlaw that would do such a thing to helpless children needed to be hunted down and killed.
The women were gone.
“Some of them are just babies,” Frank muttered to himself. “Dammit!” He spit in the dirt. He didn’t want to admit it, but he worried the most about Dixie.
Frank calmed down a bit and made a small, smokeless fire for coffee while he began to work out a plan. It would be no problem tracking the outlaws. The heavy prairie schooners left ruts deep enough to plant corn. Even a city slicker could follow them.
He smoked a cigarette and drank a couple cups of coffee, letting his rage boil down to a mentally manageable level. What kind of a man was this Steve Wilson? What kind of a human being would travel a thousand miles with people—men, women, and children—get to know them, share their food, enjoy their hospitality, and then coolly and dispassionately kill them? It would take some sort of inhuman creature. A monster.
Thinking about it made his anger return, and he felt the bitter taste of bile in the back of his throat. He fought the feelings, pushing them back. He wanted the hot coals he felt banked for the job ahead. He didn’t need a white-hot rage riding on his shoulders. It got in the way of clear thinking.
He finished the coffee, carefully put out the fire, then tightened Stormy’s cinch. He looked down at Dog.
“Let’s go save us some women, boy.”
Dog growled, low in his throat.
* * *
Frank kept Stormy at a ground eating dog-trot, and he made much better time than the outlaws with the wagons. It took him only a few miles before he could smell the dust kicked up by the caravan. After the attack, the killers had taken the wagons hard left, and Frank figured they were now well into the desolate strip of lawless territory known as No Man’s Land.
Frank halted below the crest of a long rise, ground-tied Stormy, and looped the packhorse’s lead to a shrubby bit of sage. He took out his binoculars to study the situation.
The wagons were stopped all in a straight line. Outlaws sprawled all over the place, sleeping, drinking, and playing cards. A trickle of a stream ran nearby, but it was awfully early to set up a camp. They appeared to be waiting for something—or somebody.
The horses were all on one picket line strung between two of the wagons. The big chestnut Wilson had been riding was nowhere to be found.
At first Frank couldn’t figure out where the women were, but a man in a scruffy gray hat walked around one of the wagons and lowered the tailgate. He motioned with his hand, and women and girls began to climb to the ground. Frank counted them, trying to remember how many daughters everyone had. As near as he could figure, they were all accounted for. His hopes rose when he saw Dixie jump down from the wagon. Her hat was off and her auburn hair shined in the sun.
Frank studied the group through his long lenses, and could see the girls and Mrs. Fossman were crying uncontrollably. The man in the gray slouch hat sneered and used his boot to shove the women out into the brush. At first Frank thought the women were done for, and held his breath. But the outlaws didn’t do anything but push the women around. One slapped the youngest Brandon girl, knocking her to the ground.
Frank backed away from his vantage point and rolled over on his back, looking at Dog. “We can’t do anything until dark, boy,” he muttered. “Hell, I’m not even certain I can do anything then. But I aim to do something, even if it’s wrong.”
Mounting up again, Frank made a wide circle, ending up about a mile from the outlaw camp, in a little draw. He cleaned his guns twice, and every hour shimmied up the edge and removed his hat to check on the situation.
The outlaws seemed to be in no hurry to move. Frank wondered about that. What were they waiting for? What did they have planned for the women and girls? Sell them, no doubt. But to whom? Comancheros? Not this far north. Other outlaws in No Man’s Land? Now that was certainly a possibility. Maybe that’s where Wilson had gone. To fetch those that wanted to loo
k over the merchandise.
Frank shook his head. Wilson was as sorry as they came. He’d met bad men before, too many of them to count—men who would kill a man for a nickel and laugh about it in front of his kids. Life came cheap to such men, and cheapened their own worth in the bargain. The more they gave up their value for life, the more worthless they became. Wilson was one of those men. One of the worst—worthless as dung in the street.
As he lay in the little draw, Frank witnessed something that shook him down to his boots. Judith Fossman seemed to be in a heated argument with one of the outlaws. The man had shoved one of her girls and Judith, her mother’s rage ignited, slapped him hard across the face. The man backed away a step, put his hand to his jaw, them calmly pulled his pistol and shot her. He showed no more emotion than if he’d been at the supper table and asked someone to pass the beans.
“Dear Lord,” Frank muttered. He watched the Fossman girls run to where their mother lay and throw themselves on the lifeless body.
The outlaw scum jerked the girls to their feet and shoved them back toward the wagon. Other outlaws gathered around and laughed, pointing at the dead woman. Some of the men began to tease the killer and gesture to edge of the camp. Halfheartedly, he grabbed the dead woman by the arms, dragged her out of the camp, and dumped her unceremoniously in a shallow ditch.
“Whatever you plan to do, Frank,” The Drifter muttered to himself, “it has to be tonight. You can’t allow this to go on.”
Chapter 4
Dixie Carpenter sat on a sack of mule oats, a prisoner in the back of her own wagon. Her two girls, Laura and Faith, were about the same age as the Fossman twins. They had their mother’s fortitude, but the death of their father had been devastating. The killers hadn’t made them watch, but they hadn’t warned them to look away either.
No one had dared speak when the outlaws had stopped and marched all the men and boys out into the little clearing beyond the line of bushes. Even after the kidnapping, and the cruel shooting of Able Brandon, who’d tried to stop the evil men, even after that, the women had not dared to think their husbands, fathers, their brothers and sons would be marched off and shot.
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