One of the farmers pointed. “He headed that way!”
Frank ran toward another building that was on fire. The conflagration lit the night brightly and cast a hellish glare over everything. Several of the raiders lay on the ground, unmoving. Frank saw some of the community’s defenders lying there too, and knew that Elysium had paid a high price to drive off the hooded riders.
One of the men sprawled facedown on the ground looked familiar. Frank dropped to a knee beside him and rolled him over. The man groaned. Frank saw that he had a bullet wound in his shoulder. Horace’s rugged features were twisted with pain.
His eyes opened, and he said, “F-Frank . . . you got here.”
“Sorry I wasn’t in time to stop Parmalee from attacking in the first place,” Frank said. “Come on, Horace. I’ll help you up and get you back to your house.”
“The . . . the fires . . .”
“Your friends are fighting them. You’re in no shape to help out right now.”
“Parmalee . . . ?”
“Gone, and his men with him,” Frank said. “The ones who were still alive, that is.”
Horace’s mouth stretched in a grim smile. “Got some of them . . . did we?”
“You sure did,” Frank told him.
He got an arm under Horace’s uninjured shoulder and lifted him, raising the farmer’s considerable weight without much visible effort. Once Horace was on his feet, Frank draped his left arm over his shoulders and put an arm around Horace’s waist. He was able to support the farmer as they walked unsteadily toward Horace’s house. Some of the women of the community were hurrying to tend to the other wounded men.
Mildred came running to meet Horace and Frank, but there was nothing she could do to help at the moment. She wrung her hands anxiously as Frank half-carried Horace into the house.
“Where do you want me to put him?” he asked.
“Just help him lie down on the divan,” Mildred said. “That’s the closest place.”
“I’ll get . . . blood all over it,” Horace objected.
“You think I care about something like that right now?” Mildred said. “You just hush up, Horace Duncan, and let me worry about things.”
Frank lowered Horace onto the divan, then straightened and asked, “Where’s Bonner?”
“Still in the spare bedroom. When the shooting started, Horace knew we’d need all our men to fight off Parmalee, so he tied up Bonner real good. That way no one would have to stand guard over him.”
Frank nodded. Horace was a smart man, and he had been using his head. Frank left Mildred there fussing over her husband, and walked down the hall to the spare bedroom. He found Bonner lying in the bed, with so much rope wrapped around him so tightly he looked like a pig all trussed up for market. Bonner had a gag in his mouth, and his eyes were wide with fear above it.
“Don’t worry, Bonner,” Frank told him. “Parmalee’s gone. The folks here in Elysium stopped him before he could get in here and shut your mouth permanently. That’s what he was after, you know. If he could have gotten to you, he would have put a bullet through your head just to make sure you couldn’t testify against him and Carter. And smell that smoke? Parmalee tried to burn down the whole settlement. You think he would have bothered trying to get you out if this place had gone up in flames?”
Bonner made urgent grunting noises behind his gag. Frank loosened the bandanna that had been used to tie the gag in place. Bonner spat out the wadded-up cloth and said hoarsely, “I’ll talk, Morgan. I’ll tell the law about the whole thing, about how Carter hired Parmalee to buffalo these sodbusters into not making trouble for him.” Bonner licked his lips and went on urgently. “And that ain’t all! Carter’s been stealin’ from the railroad, I reckon. That’s what Parmalee thinks, anyway, and I bet he’s right. I’ll testify to all of that.”
“What brought you around to the right way of thinking, Bonner?” Frank asked.
“I smelled that smoke,” Bonner replied hollowly. “I smelled it, and I knowed Parmalee wanted me dead. I could just imagine layin’ here, all tied up and helpless, while I started burnin’. . . .” A shudder went through him. “I knew then that Parmalee would kill me before he’d ever let me talk to the law. I can’t let him get away with that, Morgan. I didn’t kill nobody, I swear it. I’m not gonna hang, and I’m not gonna let Parmalee kill me.”
Frank nodded and said, “That’s smart thinking, Bonner. There’s a U.S. marshal on the way. You can tell your story to him when he gets here.”
“Good, because that sheriff in Salina ain’t gonna cross Carter. He’s too scared of the railroad.”
“I know. That’s why I sent for the marshal. Time he gets here, though, there may not be as many varmints left to arrest.”
“Why’s that, Morgan?”
“Because Parmalee and his men destroyed nearly half of Elysium tonight and killed some innocent men,” Frank replied, his face etched with taut, angry lines. “And he set up an ambush for me that resulted in a woman dying. It’s time that he and I settled this thing, once and for all.”
Chapter 12
Parmalee told his men to scatter as they approached Salina. “Better drift to other parts,” he said. “With the U.S. marshal coming in and Bonner still alive to talk, this job is over.”
“What are you gonna do, Vince?” one of the men asked.
“Never you mind about me,” Parmalee snapped. “Just spread out and lie low for a while. I reckon you’ll probably be safe enough from the law. Things’ll die down sooner or later, and maybe we can all work together again one of these days.”
The men nodded in agreement, and lifted hands in farewell as they rode off in different directions. Parmalee waited until they were all gone, then headed on into Salina.
He would need money if he was going to be on the run for a while. And he suspected that Carter had quite a bit of loot stashed in his office.
Parmalee rode straight to the building leased by the railroad. He wasn’t surprised to see that there was a light in Carter’s window. Carter knew what Parmalee had planned for tonight, and he would be waiting for a report on the results of the raid on Elysium.
Carter wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear, but Parmalee was a long way past giving a damn about what Carter liked or didn’t like. This whole enterprise had been jinxed from the beginning, he thought.
He drew his gun and used the barrel to rap on the window of Carter’s office. By the time he got to the door, he heard the key rattling in the lock on the other side. Carter swung the door open and asked anxiously, “Well? What happened? Did you get Bonner out of there, or . . .”
Or did you kill him? That was what Carter was asking, Parmalee thought. He said, “Let me in, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Without waiting for Carter to step aside, Parmalee shouldered his way in. He stalked down the hall to the office. Carter followed, jabbering nervously.
Parmalee still had his gun in his hand. When he reached the office, he swung around and lifted the weapon so that it pointed at Carter. The railroad executive gasped and took a quick step back, his eyes widening in surprise.
“What are you doing?” Carter demanded.
“That money you skimmed off the railroad,” Parmalee grated. “I want it.”
“I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about. What happened at Elysium?”
“Everything went wrong, that’s what happened! Morgan ruined it all. We burned some buildings and gunned down a few of those sodbusters, but I lost over half my men and Elysium’s still standing, damn it! And Bonner’s still alive to testify against us.”
Carter paled. “But . . . but Morgan sent for the U.S. marshal. When he gets here, if Bonner talks to him—”
“That’s right, we’re done for. That’s why I’m getting the hell out tonight, and I want that loot before I go.”
“I swear, I never stole from the railroad—”
Carter gulped and fell silent as Parmalee eared back the hammer of the gu
n and pointed it between his eyes. “Don’t bother lying to me, you weaselly little bastard. Just hand over the money and I won’t kill you.”
“I . . . I’ll testify against you,” Carter threatened.
Parmalee gave a humorless chuckle. “Now, was that a smart thing to say?”
Carter’s face turned the color of chalk.
“Don’t worry,” Parmalee went on. “Give me what I want and I’ll still let you live. You see, I’m not scared of you or anything you might say, Carter. With the loot you’re going to give me, I can make it to the border and live for a long time in Mexico, long enough for the law to forget all about me. So you see, I don’t have any real reason to kill you as long as you cooperate.”
Carter took a deep breath and let it out in a despairing sigh. “All right,” he said. He pointed. “The money is under a loose floorboard, there in the corner.”
“You get it,” Parmalee said, gesturing with the six-gun. “Just because I don’t plan on killing you unless I have to doesn’t mean that I trust you.”
Carter went to the corner, reached down, and pried up the floorboard he had pointed out. Underneath it, in a space between the floor and the sub-floor, were several canvas bags. He pulled them out and set them on the floor, all except the last one. That one he kept in his hands as he turned toward Parmalee. He opened the drawstring at the top and said, “I’ll show you, it’s all in cash—”
As Carter reached into the bag, Parmalee fired, the roar of the gun deafening in the close confines of the office. Flame spurted from the Colt’s barrel. It was close enough for the sparks to set Carter’s vest on fire as the bullet drove into the railroad man’s chest and flung him back against the wall. Carter managed to get his hand around the butt of the little pistol hidden inside the canvas bag, the pistol that had given the bag a different shape from the others and tipped off Parmalee. Carter was even able to fire a shot, but the gun was still pointed toward the floor and the bullet thudded harmlessly into the planks as Carter slid down the wall, leaving a bloody smear on the paint. He came to a seat with his back still propped against the wall, and as he looked up at Parmalee his mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came out.
“I would have let you live if you hadn’t tried that,” Parmalee said. “You stupid bastard.”
Death glazed over Carter’s eyes.
Parmalee holstered his gun and gathered up the other bags. Moving quickly, he opened them and dumped the bundles of banded-together bills onto the desk. He stuffed as many of them into his pockets as he could, and raked the rest back into one of the bags. He could carry that easier.
It was late enough, and Salina was civilized enough now that the pair of shots might draw some attention, so Parmalee didn’t linger. He cast one last glance at Carter, then left the office and went back into the alley to get his horse. He tied the canvas bag to the saddle and mounted up.
Just before he reached the mouth of the alley, he reined in sharply. He heard hoofbeats coming along the street, moving at a fairly fast clip.
Cursing, Parmalee swung down quickly and stepped to the corner of the building. He eased forward just enough to look along the street. His hand went to his gun as he saw the approaching rider pass through the light that came from the windows of a saloon. Parmalee recognized the hat, the broad-shouldered figure, and the dun horse.
Morgan!
Parmalee’s lips drew back from his teeth in a savage expression that was half grimace, half cruel grin. “Come on, Morgan,” he said softly as he pulled back the hammer of the Colt. “I’m ready for you, you interfering son of a bitch . . . ready for you to die!”
Horace had told Frank where Carter’s office was located, and Frank figured that if he was going to find Parmalee in Salina, that was where the gunman would be. Just as before, he didn’t bother stopping at Sheriff Haley’s office. This matter had gone far beyond the point where the ineffectual local lawman could do any good.
However, Haley must have spotted him riding past, because the sheriff emerged from his office and hurried along the boardwalk after Frank. He called, “Morgan! Morgan, you’d better not be looking for trouble! I heard what you did to Mr. Carter’s men—”
Frank reined in sharply and turned to tell the sheriff to go to hell. At that instant, a gun roared and from the corner of his eye, Frank saw Colt flame bloom in the darkness of an alley mouth up ahead. He heard the wind-rip of a bullet past his ear and knew he had narrowly avoided death.
Even as that thought was going through his head, he kicked his feet loose from the stirrups and rolled out of the saddle, falling so that the dun was between him and the alley. His gun was in his hand by the time his boots hit the street. The man in the alley fired again, and this time the slug spanked across the horse’s rump. The dun nickered in pain and lunged forward.
Frank snapped a couple of shots toward the alley mouth as he dashed for the front of a building on the same side of the street. The bushwhacker wouldn’t have as good an angle at him if he could reach it. Another bullet whistled past him, but then with a leap, he bounded onto the boardwalk and threw himself into a recessed doorway.
From where he had his back pressed to the building wall, Frank could see the sheriff scurrying into his office. That came as no surprise. Haley would probably lie low until the shooting was over, no matter what the outcome.
The bushwhacker had to be either Parmalee or Carter, Frank thought. He took advantage of the respite to thumb fresh cartridges into the Peacemaker, replacing the spent rounds. With a full cylinder again, he holstered the gun and turned to the door behind him. He wasn’t going to wait for the bushwhacker to make the next move. He gripped the knob and twisted it hard, throwing his shoulder against the door at the same time with all his weight behind it. Wood splintered as the jamb gave way and the door popped open.
Frank stepped into the darkened building. He couldn’t tell much about his surroundings. This was the building where the railroad had its local offices, he thought, which meant that Carter had his office here. As Frank’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, he spotted a line of light coming from under a closed door along a hallway.
He cat-footed toward it, drawing his gun again. The door was unlocked, he discovered as he carefully tried the knob. With the Colt leveled, he swung the door back and stepped through.
The first thing he saw was Carter sitting against the wall in a pool of blood. The railroad executive’s eyes were glassy and lifeless. Frank saw the moved floorboard, the empty space in the floor, and the empty canvas sacks on the desk, and he instantly knew what had happened here.
A floorboard creaked behind him.
He whirled and ducked at the same time. At the other end of the hall a gun blasted, its muzzle flash lighting up the corridor for an instant. Frank felt splinters sting his face as the bullet punched into the doorjamb only inches from his head. He triggered twice, and in the flare from the Peacemaker saw a tall, duster-clad man driven back by the impact of the bullets as they smashed into his body. The man fired again, but he was already falling and the bullet went high over Frank’s head.
Frank heard the clatter on the floor as the man dropped his gun. Frank straightened and stepped into the office just long enough to grab the still-burning lamp from the desk. Holding it in his left hand and the Colt in his right, he strode down the hall toward the fallen man. Frank kicked the dropped gun well out of reach, and kept his own weapon trained on the man as he lifted the lamp and let the light wash over the figure sprawled on the floor of the hallway.
“Parmalee?” Frank said. He realized that until this moment, he had never seen his enemy’s face. Parmalee had been wearing the hood all the other times their paths had crossed.
“You . . . bastard . . . Morgan,” Parmalee grated out. The front of his shirt was already darkly stained with blood, and crimson froth was on his lips, indicating that he was shot through the lungs.
“You should’ve gotten on your horse and ridden out while you had the chance,” Frank to
ld him, “instead of coming in here after me.”
“Yeah . . . I know . . . but I didn’t want to . . . have you on my trail . . . from now on . . . didn’t want to spend the rest of my life . . . looking over my shoulder for you.”
He convulsed and pawed at his wounded chest, and a bundle of money spilled out of the duster. Blood had soaked into it.
Frank stiffened as he looked at Parmalee’s craggy face. He suddenly realized that he had seen the man before, but not recently. He said in amazement, “You’re Vic Parsons. You hired out your gun to Bob Horton up in Montana, when he was at war with Colbert’s Triangle C spread.”
“Yeah,” Parmalee gasped, “that’s the name . . . I was using then . . . and you rode for . . . Horton too, Morgan.”
“We fought on the same side,” Frank said in a voice thick with emotion. “You were a good man then. What the hell happened?”
“Same thing . . . happens to everybody . . . time . . .”
Parmalee’s head fell back, and his final breath escaped from his throat with a rattle.
Grim-faced, Frank holstered his Colt and stared down at a man who had once been . . . well, not his friend exactly. They had never been close. But as he’d said, they had fought on the same side, and that established a bond between men. At least, Frank had thought that it did.
A footstep at the front door made him look up warily. A tall man with a graying handlebar mustache stood there holding a rifle. A badge was pinned to his vest.
“Don’t move, mister,” he ordered. “Looks like I’ve got some sortin’ out to do here.”
“Who are you?” Frank asked.
“Name’s Cullen Short. I’m the United States marshal outta Wichita.”
That surprised Frank. He said, “You’re here already? I only sent those wires earlier today. Well, yesterday, I reckon, since it must be after midnight by now.”
“I happened to be in Abilene wrappin’ up some business there,” Short replied. “One of my deputies got your message and wired me there to let me know to ride on over here. I just got in, and Sheriff Haley told me all hell was breakin’ loose. You are Frank Morgan?”
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