Ambush Valley

by Johnstone, William W.

  After several minutes of digging, Frank saw some thing yellow. He brushed dirt aside and felt the fibers of a rope.

  “That’s it,” McCoy said. “The money is in several canvas bags, and I wrapped them up in my slicker and tied it up tight. Let’s get more of this dirt out. … “

  In less than a minute, then, they had enough dirt cleared away so that they could grasp the rope and pull the bundle out of the ground. It was heavy, which made Frank chuckle to himself. He had never really given much thought=-or any thought, to be truthful-to how much eighty thousand dollars would weigh.

  The yellow rain slicker hadn’t been harmed by being buried for several weeks. It would have held up all right if McCoy had been able to stick to his original plan and leave the loot here for six months or a year.Frank sat back on his heels and glanced around the ravine. The plan Conrad had hatched, and he, Frank, had carried out, really had been the only chance of recovering the money. If McCoy hadn’t led him to this spot, a hundred men could have searched Ambush Valley for a year without ever finding this cache. It would have been a fluke, pure luck, if they had.

  “Want to take a look at it?” McCoy asked with a grin. Frank shook his head. “No, that’s all right. I reckon it’s all there. Where would any of it have gone in the past two months?”

  “Yeah, I can tell nobody’s disturbed the place.” McCoy stood up and turned toward the horses. “I’ll fix a place on one of the saddles where we can carry it.”

  Warning bells went off in Frank’s head. There was nothing unusual in what McCoy had just said, nothing unusual in his actions.

  But that was just when a man like him would strike, when an unsuspecting companion had been lulled into complacency by the mundane. Frank’s muscles reacted instantly, powering him instantly to his feet, and his hand flashed toward the gun on his hip as McCoy whirled, already drawing ….

  They froze that way, Colts leveled, facing each other over the loot that had brought them to this blistering corner of hell.

  Chapter 20

  After a tense moment, McCoy chuckled and broke into a grin. “Well, what do you know?” he said. “You were about to double-cross me and take that whole eighty grand for yourself, weren’t you, Morton?”

  “Looked to me like it was the other way around,” Frank replied. “You made the first move, McCoy.”

  The bank robber shook his head. “We could argue about that all day long and never get anywhere. The question now is, what are we going to do about this?”

  “I guess we’ll make the split now.” Frank had to find some way to get the drop on McCoy, disarm him, and tie him up.

  “How are we going to manage that? We’d have to hol ster our irons to do it, and somehow I just don’t trust you anymore, Morton. So much for teaming up and going to Mexico together. That’s a damned shame, too. We would have made good saddle pards.”

  Not in a million years, Frank thought.

  “Back away from the money,” he said. “You can still cover me, but I want you to go around on the other side of that pool. I’ll keep my gun on you while I open the bundle and split up the money.”

  “How are you going to count out your share and watch me at the same time?” McCoy asked, his face still wear ing that wolfish grin.

  “How many bags are there?”

  “Four.”

  “My share is now two of them. I’ll take them and leave the other two for you.”

  McCoy lost his grin. “The hell you will!” he snapped. “I never agreed to go halves with you. Anyway, there probably aren’t equal amounts of money in each bag.”

  “Probably not,” Frank agreed. “But you get what you get and so do I. Otherwise … well, I guess we can shoot, and neither of us will get anything except some lead.”

  He could see the wheels of McCoy’s brain turning as the outlaw considered the suggestion. Finally, McCoy nodded grudgingly and said, “I reckon it’ll have to do.”

  Again, Frank didn’t believe him. Despite their agree ment, McCoy would be just watching and waiting for a chance to kill him. That was fair in a way, Frank sup posed, because while he didn’t plan on killing McCoy, he was biding his time, too. He wasn’t really going to divvy up the money, now or any other time. All of it would be going back to the bank in Tucson where it belonged.

  McCoy backed away, and began working his way around to the other side of the spring-fed pool. The gun in his hand remained rock -steady as he moved, and his eyes never wavered from Frank’s eyes.

  Slowly, Frank lowered his body until he crouched next to the slicker-wrapped bundle. His Colt was just as steady as McCoy’s was, his gaze equally intent. He reached down with his free hand and brushed his fingers over the rope that held the bundle closed.

  McCoy smiled again. “How are you going to cut that rope, Morton?”

  Frank knew what the outlaw meant. He had no knife, and if he took his eyes off McCoy in order to untie the knots in the rope, McCoy would kill him. It was a dilemma, all right. But when McCoy had tied up the bundle, he had left a few inches of rope trailing from one of the knots. Frank grasped that now and said, “I’m not going to untie it.”

  He uncoiled from his crouch, driving hard and fast with his legs as he threw himself to the side. At the same time, he whipped up the heavy bundle of loot and slung it toward McCoy as hard as he could.

  McCoy jerked the trigger of his gun, but Frank’s hastily formed plan worked. The bank robber’s bullet thudded harmlessly into the bundle, stopped by the layers of slicker, canvas, greenbacks, and coins. Frank rolled across the sand and fired, trying to knock McCoy’s legs out from under him.

  His slug only grazed McCoy’s thigh, staggering the outlaw for a second but not knocking him down. McCoy swung his pistol toward Frank and triggered two more shots. The reports echoed back from the walls of the ravine. One bullet plowed into the sand; the other whined off a rock.

  The deafening shots spooked the horses. They began to plunge back and forth, interfering with the aim of the two men. Frank crouched behind one of the boulders and tried to draw a bead on McCoy.

  “Damn it!” McCoy cried, and through the legs of the skittish horses, Frank saw what had the bank robber upset. The bundle of stolen money had fallen in the pool when McCoy’s shot hit it. That bullet had put a hole in the slicker and probably in at least one of the canvas bags inside the package. Some of those-greenbacks might be getting soaked.

  McCoy slammed a couple of shots at Frank, but again the bullets just glanced off the rocks. They came close enough to make Frank duck, though, and in that brief second, McCoy reached into the water, snagged the bundle, and jerked it out of the pool. He lunged for the closest horse and grabbed the saddle horn. Frank sent a bullet whistling past McCoy’s head as the outlaw jammed a boot in one of the stirrups and yelled at the horse. The animal broke into a run as McCoy threw a leg over its back and hung on for dear life.

  He clung to that bag ofloot with equal determination.

  With his face set in grim lines, Frank leaped for the other horse. He caught the frightened animal’s reins, dragged its head down, and swung up into the saddle. In a heartbeat he was racing after McCoy, who was head ing east through the ravine in a hard gallop.

  Frank held his gun ready to try another shot, but the way the ravine ran such a jagged course through Ambush Valley, it was hard to catch more than a glimpse of his quarry before another bend in the trail hid McCoy from view again. When they did reach a relatively straight stretch, McCoy hipped around in the saddle and fired, forcing Frank to bend low over his mount’s neck in order to make himself a smaller target. He wasn’t hit and his horse didn’t break stride, so he assumed that McCoy’s shot had missed entirely.

  More than that, it had also emptied McCoy’s gun. Frank saw him jerk the trigger a couple more times, but no shots sounded. Frank lifted his Colt and squeezed off a shot. McCoy kept going without slowing down, and a second later was out of sight again as his horse pounded around a bend in the ravine.

  Frank
didn’t think McCoy would be able to reload, hang on to the loot, and control the horse all at the same time. McCoy would have to outrun him now, as they had outrun the Apaches together. Frank leathered his iron and concentrated on getting all the speed he could out of the horse, which happened to be the one that McCoy had been riding before the fight at the water hole. They had inad vertently swapped mounts. Not that it mattered much, since both men were about the same size and weight.

  It was a wild ride through the ravine with the sheer stone walls flashing past, sometimes close enough that Frank could have reached out and touched them. The pounding hoofbeats of his quarry’s horse echoed back at him, and he was sure McCoy could hear the pursuit coming up behind him, too.

  Frank swept around a bend and saw McCoy up ahead, maybe fifty yards in the lead. That encouraged Frank, and he urged the horse he was riding on to greater speed. Once again, he wished he had one of his own mounts. Stormy and Goldy were both swift and sure-footed. Un fortunately, they were also hundreds of miles away in Buckskin.

  McCoy popped in and out of sight, depending on the turns that the ravine took. Each time Frank spotted him, he was a little closer. Frank wondered just how long this slash in the earth was. As long as they were in it, McCoy couldn’t do anything but keep moving forward with Frank behind him. The walls were too steep and high to let them out. But if McCoy reached a place where he could leave the ravine and make it out into the wilds of Ambush Valley, he might be able to give Frank the slip. Frank had to catch up to him before that happened.

  He saw McCoy up ahead again. The bank robber jerked his horse around a turn, and the animal’s hooves suddenly skidded on the sandy floor of the ravine. The horse tried to recover its balance, but it was already too far gone. The horse went down, taking a heavy fall.

  McCoy was thrown out of the saddle. He sailed clear of the falling horse, crashed to the ground, and rolled over a couple of times. Amazingly, he still held on to the bnndle of stolen money. Lashing his horse with the reins, Frank pounded closer as McCoy struggled to his feet. The outlaw turned to run, but it was too late. Frank was practically on top of him already.

  Frank left the saddle in a diving tackle. He crashed into McCoy from behind and wrapped his arms around him. Both men went down, but Frank landed on top with his weight driving McCoy into the ground.

  McCoy was a long way from beaten, though. He twisted and brought his elbow back in a sharp blow that caught Frank on the jaw and rocked his head to the side. Frank grunted and smashed a clubbed fist into the side of McCoy’s skull. They grappled and rolled over, each seeking even a momentary advantage. McCoy got one hand on Frank’s throat and clamped down hard, but at the same time Frank got his knee in McCoy’s belly and heaved him to the side. McCoy’s choke hold came loose.

  Frank sprang after him and landed another punch, this time on McCoy’s mouth. Blood spurted from pulped lips. McCoy tried to knee Frank in the groin, but Frank was able to twist aside. McCoy shoved him away and came up on his knees just as Frank did, too. They ham mered punches at each other, slugging it out in sheer des peration. Both men were bloody and weakened. Frank knew the fight couldn’t go on much longer.

  He supposed that he could have drawn his gun and ended it. He still had bullets in his Colt. But he was caught up in the heat of battle and not as clearheaded as he might have been otherwise. Like an old warhorse an swering the bugle, he swung again and again, pounding blows to McCoy’s face and body, absorbing the punish ment that the bank robber dealt out to him in turn.

  It was inevitable that a missed punch would end the fracas. McCoy’s fist grazed past Frank’s ear, throwing the bank robber off balance for a heartbeat. That was long enough. Frank’s left shot forward in a short but powerful punch that stunned McCoy and left the outlaw unable to defend himself from the looping right that exploded on his jaw. McCoy landed on his back, his eyes glazing as they rolled up in their sockets. He tried to lift his arms, but they fell back weakly. After that, he didn’t move except for the ragged rising and falling of his chest.

  Frank was almost as bad off. One of the horses was close enough so that he could reach out, grab hold of the stirrup, and use it for support as he pulled himself to his feet. Breathing as heavily as McCoy was, he leaned against the horse and tried to recover. He palmed the Colt from its holster and covered McCoy as awareness began to seep back into the bank robber’s eyes.

  “I know you can hear me, McCoy,” Frank rasped. “It’s over.” He leaned down, ripped the gun from McCoy’s holster, and tossed it aside. The revolver was empty, but Frank didn’t believe in taking chances.

  McCoy rolled onto his side and groaned. “You you bastard Morton,” he gasped. “I reckon you’ll kill me now and take all the money.”

  A grim chuckle came from Frank. “It’s worse than that, McCoy. Worse for you, anyway. I’m taking you back to Yuma Prison … and returning the money to its rightful owners.” He drew in a deep breath. “And the name’s not Morton. It’s Morgan. Frank Morgan.”

  McCoy stared up at him, pale blue eyes widening in shock. “Frank … Morgan?” he managed to say. “The gunfighter?”

  “Used to be,” Frank said.

  McCoy shook his head, clearly unable to comprehend what he was hearing. “But … you were in prison. You rus tled those cattle, killed that sheriff and his deputies …. ” “That’s what we wanted you to believe, so that you and I could break out together and you’d lead me to that money.”

  “We?”

  Frank said, “Conrad Browning is my son.”

  McCoy stared at Frank in uncomprehending disbelief for a long moment, as if Frank had spoken in some lan guage that the outlaw had never heard before. Then McCoy let his head fall back on the sandy floor of the ravine and began to laugh. It was a bitter sound that rolled out of him as he lay there, beaten.

  Frank let it go on for a minute or so and then said, “Get up.”

  McCoy rolled onto his side and slowly, painfully pushed himself to his feet. He swayed there unsteadily for a few seconds. The grin he directed at Frank was ugly as sin.

  “You know you’ll never get me back to Yuma alive, don’t you, Morton … I mean, Morgan?”

  “Oh, you’ll get there, all right,” Frank said.

  McCoy shook his head. “No, the ride back is too long.

  Somewhere along the way you’ll let down your guard. Then I’ll kill you … or make you kill me.”

  “Well, that might be true,” Frank said, “if the two of us were traveling alone.”

  McCoy blinked in surprise as his grin disappeared. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded.

  Frank inclined his head toward the western end of the ravine. “There’ll be somebody waiting for us right outside Ambush Valley. You remember Abner Hoyt and the rest of the bounty hunters who captured you in Hinkley?”

  A red flush crept over McCoy’s face as he glared mur derously at Frank. “You bastard!” he hissed. “They’ve been following us all along?”

  Frank nodded. “Ever since we escaped.” He hoped the bounty hunters were actually where he expected them to be and that nothing had happened to them. For now, that was what he wanted McCoy to believe, anyway. He ges tured with his gun and went on, “Now mount up. We’re going back to that water hole.”

  McCoy climbed onto his horse, his slow, awkward movements showing how much pain he was in from the pounding he had taken. Frank wasn’t in much better shape himself, but he tried not to show it as he picked up the slicker-wrapped bundle, hung it from his saddle horn, and pulled himself up into the saddle.

  As the two men started back along the ravine, with McCoy leading and Frank following, McCoy said, “I still don’t understand. Those fights you had with Jessup, the time you spent in the Dark Cell, all those bullets the guards shot at us … It all seemed real to me.”

  “It was real,” Frank explained. “We didn’t want any thing to tip you off that I wasn’t an actual convict. Warden Townsend was the only one at Yuma who knew who I r
eally am.”

  “But you could’ve gotten killed a dozen times over!”

  “Yep,” Frank admitted. “I reckon that’s true.”

  “You did all that just to get back some stolen money?

  Your boy means that much to you?”

  “Conrad didn’t want to let you get away with it,” Frank explained. “He thought there was a good chance you’d escape from prison sooner or later, grab that loot, and make it across the border where nobody could ever touch you.”

  “I would have, too,” McCoy grumbled.

  “So we decided to just speed the process up a mite and send me with you. I wanted to be sure you got what’s coming to you, too, McCoy.”

  The bank robber looked back at Frank and sneered. “You’re talking about justice, aren’t you?”

  “It means something to some of us,” Frank said. “Then you’re fools. There is no justice in the world, only strength. People don’t get what they want just handed to them. They have to be strong enough to take it.”

  “Some folks would rather work for what they want out oflife.”

  McCoy shook his head. “Fools,” he muttered again.

  They reached the spring and the pool a short time later. Frank glanced at the bodies of the two men who had died here weeks earlier and wished that they could be given a proper burial. If he’d had a shovel, he would have put McCoy to work digging graves at gunpoint. But he didn’t have a shovel, and he wasn’t going to take the time to have the graves dug by hand. He wanted to get out of here and rendezvous with Hoyt’s group. So he just had McCoy refill the canteens from the spring instead.

  “Mount up and get moving,” he told McCoy when that chore was finished.

  McCoy started his horse walking along the ravine again. As he did so, he looked back and said, “You know there’s eighty thousand dollars in that bundle, Morgan.”