Montana Gundown

by William W. Johnstone

  “You dropped it when you got hit,” Frank explained. “I had my hands full getting you behind cover. I didn’t have a chance to grab your rifle, too.”

  “Oh, well. Still got ... my old hogleg ... and a couple dozen rounds for it. Anybody who ain’t on our side ... tries to bother me ... I’ll blow a hole in ’em.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Frank squeezed the old-timer’s shoulder. “I’ll see you around.”

  “Yeah ... if we don’t get back together here ... we’ll meet up in Mexico.”

  “In Mexico,” Frank repeated, knowing what Salty meant. “I’ll be looking for you.”

  No bullets had struck the deadfall in the past couple of minutes. Frank reared up suddenly and brought the Winchester to his shoulder. He cranked off five rounds as fast as he could work the rifle’s lever, raking the opposite ridge with lead. He didn’t know if he came close to any of the gunmen over there, but he hoped that he made them duck their heads, anyway.

  He surged to his feet and broke into a run.

  There were more trees about fifteen yards away. Frank wasn’t as nimble as he had once been; years of riding and cold nights spent on the ground had taken their toll on his muscles. Boots weren’t made for running, either.

  But he could still move pretty fast when he had to, and this was one of those times.

  Bullets sizzled through the air close enough for him to hear them, but he didn’t feel the heat of their passage. A few slugs kicked up dirt and rocks behind him. Then he plunged into the trees, moving so fast that he lost his balance and went down into a rolling tumble. He came to a stop on his belly, still holding the Winchester. The men on the other ridge continued to fire blindly for a minute or two, but the bullets only smacked into tree trunks and clipped small branches from the pines—none of them came close to Frank.

  He caught his breath again, reached out to retrieve his hat, and clapped it on his head. Using the rifle to brace himself, he climbed to his feet. There were still gunmen on this ridge. The more of them he could render useless, the better the chance the Boxed E men would have to escape from this trap with their lives. It was still possible that Gaius Baldridge was over here, too, and it might change things if Frank could get his hands on the rancher.

  Frank started to make his way through the trees, wondering briefly what had happened to Marshal Roy Trask. He had been unable to get a good look at any of the men who had been killed in the ambush. Trask might be lying out there in the pasture, dead.

  Or could the lawman have been in on the plan with Baldridge and Brady? That didn’t seem likely, but Frank couldn’t rule out the possibility. Plenty of star packers had turned crooked in the past. Maybe Trask had finally chosen a side and decided that Baldridge was going to come out on top. Frank had seen some things that made him curious about Trask, but he didn’t have any answers, even though his gut told him Trask wouldn’t have gone along with wholesale murder.

  He could figure out the truth about Roy Trask later, he told himself ... assuming he survived this dust-up and Trask did, too. If they didn’t ... well, it wouldn’t matter then, would it?

  During a lull in the shooting, he heard the distant rataplan of hoofbeats. He turned to look and saw four riders galloping across the far end of the pasture, where the slope leading up to it ended. Those had to be some of Brady’s men, Frank thought. Brady—or at least somebody over on that opposite ridge—must be sending them over here as reinforcements.

  They would be hunting him and Salty, Frank thought bleakly. He and the old-timer were caught between two forces now. If the killers who had come over from the other ridge found Salty, he wouldn’t stand much of a chance against them.

  Frank had no choice but to turn back; otherwise, he was condemning Salty to certain death.

  He’d be killing Brady’s men either way, whether he went forward or turned back, he thought as a grim smile tugged at his mouth, so he might as well try to save Salty’s life.

  When Frank reached the edge of the trees, he paused. He could see behind the deadfall from here. Salty had pushed himself up into a half-sitting position and had the old revolver in his hand.

  “Salty!” Frank called. He waved a hand to catch the old man’s attention.

  Salty’s eyes were big as he turned his head to look at Frank. “What’re you doin’ back here?” he demanded. His voice sounded stronger. “We just had that touchin’ farewell a few minutes ago. See you in Mexico and all that.”

  Frank grinned and pointed back along the ridge. “More hostiles coming from that direction,” he explained. “I thought I’d come back and help you deal with them.”

  “You ran across that open ground once without gettin’ hit. I ain’t so sure you can do it again.”

  “Neither am I,” Frank admitted. “That’s why I thought I’d get you to cover me.”

  Salty hefted the revolver. “This smokepole won’t reach that other ridge.”

  “No, but my Winchester will. I’ll toss it over to you. You can get it and cover me while I make a run for it.”

  Salty nodded and shoved his iron back into leather.

  “Let fly with it!”

  Frank threw the Winchester with all his strength. The rifle was heavy, and it wasn’t meant for throwing. But it made it most of the way to the log, falling short by only a couple of feet.

  Salty crawled to the end of the deadfall and stretched out his arm as he groped for the Winchester’s barrel. More shots suddenly peppered the ground around the weapon. Salty jerked his arm back and let out a stream of colorful profanity.

  When he finished turning the air blue, he made another try and this time latched on to the barrel.

  “Dadblast it!” he yelped as he dragged the Winchester behind the deadfall. “Those ringtailed rannihans like to blowed my fingers off!” He shook his hand, as if to make sure that all the fingers actually were still attached, then called to Frank, “Come on anytime you’re ready!”

  “Make that rifle sing and dance, Salty!” Frank yelled. He burst out of the trees as Salty thrust the Winchester’s barrel over the log and opened fire.

  Chapter 31

  Salty fired the Winchester so fast the sound of the shots blended into one long continuous roar as he swung the barrel from left to right. Frank lunged ahead, running at top speed. He felt a tug on his shirt and knew a bullet had just come within a shaved fraction of an inch of hitting him.

  But that was the closest any of the hired killers came. Frank left his feet in a dive that carried him behind the log next to Salty. The old-timer ducked down again.

  “Pretty spry for somebody your age,” he commented.

  “Yeah, well, I’ll feel it in the morning,” Frank said.

  “Better hope so, anyway.”

  Frank understood. If they were dead, they wouldn’t feel anything.

  The exchange of shots had drawn the bushwhackers’ attention to the deadfall again. A hail of lead chewed into the log for a moment, sending splinters and chunks of bark spraying high into the air. The gunmen stopped firing fairly quickly, though, as they must have realized that their bullets weren’t doing any good.

  “Now what?” Salty asked.

  “Hand me that Winchester,” Frank said. “I’ve got more cartridges for it in my pocket.”

  He didn’t have an endless supply, though, and there was still a lot of fighting to do. There was more ammunition in the saddlebags on Goldy’s back, but under the circumstances, the sorrel might as well have been a million miles away.

  Frank thumbed more shells through the Winchester’s loading gate until the magazine was full again.

  “We’d better make all our shots count from here on out,” he told Salty.

  “Yeah, we wouldn’t want to run out of bullets before we run out of varmints that need killin’. Speakin’ of which, you said there were some comin’ up behind us?”

  “That’s right. And we shouldn’t have to wait very long for—”

  As if they had been listening to the conversation and
waiting for their cue, four horsemen burst out of the trees, charging toward Frank and Salty with guns blazing.

  Frank hadn’t expected them to be able to get their horses up the slope onto the ridge. They must have found another trail, he thought as he rolled from his side onto his belly and brought the rifle to his shoulder. The Winchester cracked and one of the gunmen went flying out of the saddle. The dull boom of Salty’s revolver filled the air as well. One of the horses went down, sending its rider flying wildly through the air. The man crashed to the ground, rolled over a couple of times, and came up on a knee just in time for a slug from Frank’s rifle to smash into his chest and send him over backwards.

  The other two gunmen yanked their horses around, threw a couple of last shots at Frank and Salty, and galloped back toward the trees.

  “Dadgum it!” Salty exclaimed. “I was hopin’ they’d keep comin’. That was our best chance of killin’ ’em.”

  Frank thought the same thing. Now the men could take potshots at them from the safety of the trees, and from that angle, the deadfall didn’t offer any cover for them.

  “We can’t stay here, Salty,” he said. “They’ll pick us off if we do.”

  “If we get up and make a run for it, the varmints on the other ridge will get us,” Salty objected. “It’ll be dark in another hour or so. If we could hold out until then—”

  “We can’t,” Frank said. “We’ve got a minute, maybe less, before those two open fire on us again. Come on.”

  “What’re you—Whoa!”

  Salty let out the exclamation as Frank grabbed him around the middle with one arm and surged to his feet. Salty wound up draped over Frank’s shoulder. Frank broke into a run toward the trees where he had gone a few minutes earlier, only to have to turn back to rescue the old-timer.

  Salty howled curses with every jolting step, and Frank knew the wound in his side had to be hurting him. But it would be a lot worse if they stayed where they were.

  He stumbled as a bullet burned across the back of one thigh. The muscles in that leg still worked, though, so he knew the slug hadn’t penetrated. Another bullet kicked up dirt in front of them. The bushwhackers on the other ridge would have the range soon. Frank wasn’t a fast runner to start with, and with Salty’s extra weight slowing him down, he was reduced to plodding.

  “They’re comin’ up behind us again!” Salty yelled. He started firing, and the revolver’s boom was deafening at this close range.

  That fifteen yards was the longest of Frank’s life. It seemed to take an hour to cross it. But finally he staggered into the trees. Dropping to his knees, he lowered Salty to the ground behind one of the pines.

  “Lord, Frank!” Salty gasped. “I didn’t know you was so strong!”

  “Neither ... did I,” Frank panted. He had called on the reserves of strength that came to a man when it was either do what had to be done ... or die.

  They weren’t out of danger yet, though, because bullets were still zipping through the trees around them. Frank helped Salty to his feet, and together they made their way deeper into the growth. Salty groaned from the pain of his wound.

  “Feels like I’m bleedin’ again,” he said.

  “I’d be surprised if you weren’t,” Frank told him.

  They came to a little hollow, about half the height of a man, and slid down into it. Salty propped his back against the slope while Frank checked the bullet crease. The bandana he had tied on there earlier was soaked with blood. He replaced it with a pad he made from a strip cut off Salty’s shirt.

  “Sure wish we had a jug of whiskey right now,” Salty said.

  “Yeah, it would help to clean that wound.”

  Salty snorted. “I was thinkin’ more of drinkin’ it!” he said.

  Frank set the rifle next to him. “This is a good spot. You’ve got cover all around. I’m going to leave the Winchester with you and see if I can get a few more of them.”

  “You’re liable to need that rifle,” Salty protested.

  Frank shook his head and said, “No, I’ve got a hunch it’ll be close work from here on out, but it might come in handy for you if those varmints try to sneak up on you.”

  “If they do, I’ll give ’em a hot lead welcome, that’s for dang sure!”

  “I never doubted it,” Frank said with a grin. “So long.”

  “Vaya con Dios.”

  That was all they said this time in the way of farewells, but it was enough.

  Frank made sure he had a full wheel in his Colt, even the chamber where the hammer rested, which normally was empty. He moved through the trees, limping slightly from the bullet burn on the back of his left leg. He paused and felt back there. The slug had torn his trousers, but there was no blood.

  He made his way to a point of rock where he could see down into the pasture but was shielded by a pair of boulders. Shots coming from the line shack still peppered the ridges, so he knew at least some of the defenders were still alive.

  One of the gunmen was off to his right, firing down at the shack. Frank started in that direction and came up behind the man, who hadn’t noticed him.

  “Hey!” Frank called.

  The hired killer whirled, but Frank’s Colt was already out. The revolver roared, and the gunman doubled over as the slug punched into his belly. The rifle in his hands cracked as his finger jerked involuntarily on the trigger, but the barrel had sagged and the bullet went harmlessly into the ground.

  Since it usually took a while for a gutshot man to die, Frank strode over to him, picked up the fallen rifle, and slammed the butt down on the gunman’s head, crushing his skull and putting him out of his misery ... and eliminating even the slightest possibility of the man threatening anyone again.

  Frank glanced at the sky as he moved along the ridge. The sun had dipped close to the western horizon. Another half-hour and the shadows would be thick ... too thick for accurate shooting. If the defenders could hold on for that long, they might be able to slip out under the cover of darkness.

  The sound of rifle fire behind him made Frank look over his shoulder. Salty was swapping lead with those two gunmen, he thought. From the sound of the shots, the fight was hot and heavy. Frank said a brief, silent prayer for the old-timer and continued working his way toward the cliff, which not only backed up to the cabin but cut off both ridges at the far end.

  From time to time a bullet sliced through the branches nearby. He didn’t know if the shots were coming from the line shack or the bushwhackers on the other ridge, who might be firing blindly, hoping to hit him since they couldn’t see him.

  The sight of a pair of legs and booted feet sticking out from behind a rock made him freeze momentarily, but then he realized those limbs were motionless. When they didn’t move for a good two minutes as he watched, he approached cautiously, his gun held ready, and looked behind the rock.

  One of the bushwhackers lay there with his head in a pool of blood that was soaking slowly into the ground. The blood came from his throat, which had been torn open by savage fangs.

  Dog had been here, Frank thought with a grim smile. He resumed his own deadly hunt.

  He came to a pair of gunmen crouched behind some rocks as they sniped at the line shack. So far he hadn’t seen any sign of Brady or Gaius Baldridge, so it was looking like they were probably on the other ridge. They would have to be dealt with eventually, but right now Frank was doing all he could on this ridge.

  He crept up to within fifteen feet of the two bushwhackers. Leveling his Colt at them, he called, “Hold it! Drop those rifles!”

  Neither man followed that order. Frank didn’t really expect them to. Instead they wheeled around and opened fire. He dropped to a knee as slugs racketed over his head and triggered three swift shots. Both gunmen crumpled under the deadly accurate fire.

  Frank was checking them to make sure they were dead when he heard a man yell somewhere close by, followed by some fearsome snarling and growling. Breaking into a run, Frank came up to the battle just in ti
me to see Dog break the wrist of the man’s gun hand with a crunch of powerful jaws. The man screamed and dropped the revolver he had been trying to line up on the big cur.

  In a flash, Dog knocked the man down and ripped his throat out. None of his wolf cousins could have done it any better, or with more brutal efficiency.

  “Dog!” Frank called softly. The big cur turned and loped happily back to him, blood dripping from his muzzle.

  That was the last of the bushwhackers on this ridge, Frank realized. Against seemingly overwhelming odds, he and Salty and Dog had succeeded in opening one side of the trap. There were still the two men behind them, but from the sound of the sporadic shots coming from back there, Salty was keeping them pinned down.

  As soon as it was dark, he could make his way down the slope to the line shack and let the men inside know that there was a way out over this ridge. The sun was down now, and gloom had started to descend on the rugged landscape. It wouldn’t be long until the darkness was thick enough for Frank to make his move.

  Then something happened that changed all that.

  Chapter 32

  The sound of hoofbeats drew Frank’s attention to the far end of the pasture. A large wagon being drawn by six horses was headed toward the line shack. The back of it was piled high with hay. Several men rode behind the driverless wagon, yelling and shooting into the air to keep the team moving.

  Frank knew instantly what the purpose of this maneuver was. Brady’s men were going to drive the wagon up close to the line shack and set the hay on fire. The light from the blaze would reveal anyone who tried to escape from the building. The bushwhackers would be waiting to gun them down if they made the attempt.

  That ruined his plans before they ever got under way. He couldn’t reach the line shack now, and the men holed up in there couldn’t get out.

  The only thing he could do now was try to get up the cliff, which was only about forty feet high at the end of the ridge, cross over to the other ridge, and pick off as many of the hired killers as he could, just like he had done on this side.