And the female of the species, Frank reminded himself, was often deadlier than the male….
Chapter 26
Frank went about his business in a normal fashion for the next couple of days, waiting to see how—or if—Hammersmith and Munro would react to the prodding he had given them. If anyone tried to kill him, he planned to capture the bushwhacker and force him to reveal who had hired him. Most hired gunmen would spill their guts when faced with the prospect of hanging—or having Dog turned loose on them.
On the evening of the second day, Frank was making his rounds when Colt flame suddenly spurted from the darkness of an alley mouth he was passing. He had heard a faint noise just before the gun went off, nothing solid enough to identify, but alarm bells had gone off inside his head anyway, sending him plunging forward. The bushwhacker’s bullet went just behind his head, close enough so that he felt the wind-rip of its deadly passage.
By the time Frank landed on one knee, his Peacemaker was already in his hand and he was twisting toward the spot where the muzzle flash had lit up the shadows. Aiming low, he triggered twice, in hopes that he could knock the would-be killer’s legs out from under him.
The gunman must have been moving as soon as he fired his first shot, though, because two more blasts came from the far side of the alley. Either that or there were two bushwhackers, Frank thought as slugs chewed splinters from the planks of the boardwalk—in which case his attempts to draw an ambush might have worked a little too well.
He dived off the boardwalk into the street as more bullets whistled around his head. As he landed on the dirt, he rolled fast to his left, a move that brought him behind a water trough. He came to rest on his belly with the Colt still clutched in his hand. Slugs thudded into the thick wood of the trough, but didn’t penetrate it.
Running footsteps pounded on the boardwalk from both left and right. Frank lifted his head and shouted, “They’re in the alley! Go around back!”
The men who had been running toward him darted into other alleys, heading for the narrow lane that ran behind the buildings. When Frank started on his rounds tonight, Clint Farnum had been about a hundred yards ahead of him, while Catamount Jack trailed him by an equal distance. Both deputies stayed hidden in the shadows as much as possible, so that anyone laying a trap for Frank would be less likely to notice them. Unknown to the bushwhackers, Frank had been setting his own trap, and the gunmen in the alley had sprung it.
As the shots fell silent, Frank heard a muttered curse and then a man said in an alarmed voice, “They’re gonna get behind us!” That confirmed there were at least two bushwhackers.
“Blast our way out the front!” a second man urged. “We gotta get to the horses!”
A couple of saddle mounts were tied to a hitch rail in front of the next building along the street. Frank figured the horses belonged to the two gunmen. The men must have reloaded, because they burst out of the alley firing their six-guns like they had an endless supply of bullets. Frank had to stay low, behind the water trough, or else the deadly storm of lead would have ventilated him.
The killers dashed for their horses. The one in front made a leap for his saddle. Frank rose up and snapped a shot at him. The other man returned the fire, and Frank felt a bullet tug at the side of his shirt. It missed the flesh underneath, though.
Frank must have missed the first man to try to mount up, because the hombre reached the saddle and jerked his reins loose as he twisted around and threw more lead. Bullets kicked up dust around Frank and forced him to roll behind the water trough again. That gave the second man time to leap onto the back of his horse. Now they were both mounted and ready to gallop out of Buckskin.
Frank wanted to take at least one of them alive. He came up on his knees and drew a bead on one of the killers, aiming at the man’s shoulder. The light was uncertain and a haze of dust hung in the air, but Frank trusted his aim. He pulled the trigger.
At that instant, the other man’s horse, evidently spooked by all the gunfire, danced to one side. That unexpected movement brought his rider directly in line with Frank’s shot. Frank heard the grunt of pain as his bullet thudded into the man’s chest. The bushwhacker was rocked backward and slid out of the saddle.
That left the other man, who by now was leaning forward and raking his spurs against his horse’s flanks as he raced down Buckskin’s main street.
A figure dashed out to try to stop him. “Hold it!” Frank heard this man shout, and he recognized Catamount Jack’s voice. The old-timer must have realized that the bushwhackers were no longer in the alley and doubled back.
The rider didn’t slow down. He fired from the back of his horse, and Frank saw Jack stumble and go to a knee. Fearing that his deputy was hit, Frank leaped to his feet.
The shotgun in Jack’s hands boomed, twin flowers of flame blooming from its barrels. Horse and rider both went down.
Frank ran along the street. He heard someone huffing and puffing behind him, and glanced back to see Clint Farnum trying to catch up. “Check on that one!” Frank called as he waved his gun at the man he had inadvertently shot. Then he dashed on past.
Catamount Jack was getting to his feet by the time Frank reached him. The old-timer leaned on the empty shotgun, using it as a makeshift crutch.
“Jack, are you all right?” Frank asked.
“Yeah. The sumbitch nicked my leg with that shot, but it ain’t nothin’ to worry about. I had a grizzly just about gnaw that leg clean off one time. This ain’t near that bad.”
Frank was willing to take Jack’s word for that, for the time being. He turned toward the man and horse lying in the street. The horse was struggling to get up, and as Frank reached the animal, it made it to its feet. Frank saw several dark streaks on the horse’s hide that he knew were places where buckshot had raked it, but the animal didn’t seem to be hurt too badly.
The same couldn’t be said of its former rider. Most of the double load of buckshot had ripped into the gunman’s body, shredding flesh and shattering bone. Frank felt for a pulse in the man’s neck, but knew he wasn’t going to find one. Jack had blasted the hell out of the hombre.
Sure enough, the man was dead. Although Frank was disappointed, he couldn’t blame Jack for what had happened. In the heat of a gun battle, already wounded, Jack had just obeyed his instincts and blown his enemy out of the saddle. Anybody else would have done the same thing.
Clint Farnum trotted up. Frank turned to him and asked, “What about the other one?”
“He’s dead,” Clint replied. “This one too?”
“Yeah,” Frank said.
Clint shook his head. “That’s a tough break. I know you wanted to take at least one of them alive.”
“Bullets don’t always follow the plan.”
“Yeah,” Clint agreed. “They sort of have minds of their own sometimes, don’t they?”
People came along the street, drawn by the sounds of the gunfight. Frank sent someone to fetch Claude Langley, then told Catamount Jack, “Let’s get you down to Dr. Garland’s and let him patch up that bullet hole.”
“I ain’t sure it’s worth the bother,” Jack protested.
“Come on,” Frank insisted. “You can act like a stubborn old pelican some other time.”
Jack grumbled about it, but he did as Frank said.
The wound was minor, as Jack had said. Dr. Garland cleaned and bandaged it, then said, “Just out of curiosity, is there anywhere on your body that doesn’t have a bullet or a knife scar on it?”
Jack grinned and said, “Only the parts that been chewed on or clawed by grizzly bears, wolves, and mountain lions. You think this is bad, you ought to see an old mountain man I used to know called Preacher. That hombre was nothin’ but a walkin’ scar. Probably still is, if he’s still alive. Wouldn’t doubt it for a second. He’d only be in his nineties by now, and he was always tough as whang leather.”