Dawson’s voice was thick because his jaw was swollen where Morgan had hit him. Anger burned in his eyes, too, the same way it burned in the eyes of the other men.
Erickson, Dawson, and Treadwell weren’t really friends. They hadn’t even known each other before they came to this area of northern California, drawn by reports of the Terror and the ten-grand bounty. Each of them fancied himself a gunman. They were tough and weren’t above skirting the law when it was advantageous—or profitable—to do so. They had met here in the Bull o’ the Woods, recognized each other as kindred spirits, and formed a rough partnership of sorts…although it wouldn’t have taken much to tempt each of them to double-cross the others. Still, they were as close to being friends as men like them could be.
Erickson had a bottle of his own, like Treadwell, and the other men were sharing a third bottle. Erickson had worried that a couple of his ribs were busted, but the pain that shot through him every time he took a breath had eased a little, dulled by the whiskey he was pouring down his throat more than likely. The whiskey didn’t do anything to ease the anger inside him, though.
“I wouldn’t count on that,” he said in reply to Dawson’s comment about the Terror getting rid of Frank Morgan. “Morgan’s not like most men. He wouldn’t have lived as long as he has, with the rep he’s got, if he wasn’t plenty tough.”
“Those fellas who ran into the Terror were tough, too,” one of the loggers said. “Damn thing tore ’em apart like a wolf with a rabbit. That’s why there needs to be more than one man goin’ after it. It may take an army to get it.”
Erickson shook his head. “Not an army. Just a handful of men…if they’re the right men. Like us.”
Roylston had his head tipped back, trying to stop the trickle of blood that still came from his nose. Now he straightened his head and said, “I’m not goin’ back out there. Not to cut trees for Chamberlain. He’s not payin’ me enough to risk my life with nothin’ but an ax and maybe a six-gun to defend myself.”
“Then come in with us,” Erickson said. He nodded toward the other two loggers. “You and Jenkins and Sutherland. The six of us, we’ll find the Terror and kill it.”
“What’s the point in that?” Roylston asked. “The old man lifted the bounty. He won’t pay ten grand for the monster’s head anymore, not unless Morgan brings it in.”
“He’d put the bounty on it again quick enough if Morgan was dead,” Erickson said, putting into words what he’d been thinking.
The other five men stared at Erickson for a long moment without saying anything. Then Treadwell rasped, “Are you sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’?”
“Once Morgan’s out of the way, there’ll be nobody stoppin’ us from going after the Terror. And Chamberlain’s bound to pay off once we get it.”
The logger named Jenkins shook his head. “Forget it. They say Morgan’s as fast as Smoke Jensen or Matt Bodine. What you’re talking about is a good way to get us killed.”
“Six against one,” Erickson said. “Those are mighty good odds.”
“Yeah. You would have thought so.”
Erickson’s face flushed angrily. “That was different. He had the edge because we couldn’t all rush him at once.”
“And what you’re talking about now is murder.”
Erickson leaned forward and glared at Jenkins. “What I’m talking about is ten thousand dollars, you damned fool. Even split six ways, that’s more money than you can make in three or four years.”
Jenkins thought it over and finally shrugged. “Well…you’re right about that.”
“Of course I’m right.”
“But we’ll be risking our lives going up against Morgan.”
“You’re not already risking your lives by going into the woods where that monster is?”
Roylston took the bloody rag away from his swollen nose and looked at it. “You’re right about that. Count me in.”
“Me, too,” Sutherland said.
Erickson looked at Jenkins. “How about it?” he demanded.
Jenkins sighed. “All right. I’ll throw in with you, too, Erickson. I don’t much like it, but…ten thousand is a hell of a lot of money.”
“It sure is.” Erickson reached over to Roylston. “Let me give you a hand with that,” he said as he took hold of Roylston’s nose and gave it a quick, hard squeeze before Roylston realized what he was about to do.
Roylston howled in pain, making the other men in the saloon look around. They went back to their drinking right away, though, when they saw there wasn’t going to be a fight. Roylston sat there with both hands cupped over his nose, shocked by what Erickson had just done.
“What the hell did you do that for?”
“You don’t want that nose to be all crooked when it heals up, do you?” Erickson asked. “I just straightened it back up. Now you’ll be handsome for the ladies, once you’ve got all that money in your pocket.”
Dawson grunted. “A man with enough money in his pocket is already handsome to the ladies.”
Still muttering curses, Roylston shoved his chair back and stood up. “We’ll have to go out to the camp and get our gear. Then we’ll come back into town. I don’t cotton to the idea of spending another night in those woods.”
“And then tomorrow we’ll start trying to figure out a way to get rid of Morgan,” Erickson said. “Right?”
Roylston nodded. “We’re with you.”
The three loggers left the saloon. Dawson watched them go, then commented, “I liked a three-way split of that reward money better than divvying it up six ways.”
Erickson took a slug from the whiskey bottle. “It’ll still be a three-way split,” he said with a leer. “Those dumb woodsmen will come in handy while we’re getting rid of Morgan and then when we go after the Terror…but once we’ve got the monster’s head, we won’t need them any more, now will we?”
Dawson thought about it for a second, then began to smile. Even Treadwell didn’t look quite as pained as he had earlier.
“Yeah, I think the Terror of the Redwoods is gonna claim at least three more victims,” Erickson said, “before we collect that ten-grand reward.”
Chapter 11
After the long, eventful day, Frank slept well that night. He had the veteran frontiersman’s natural ability to take advantage of any opportunity for some good sleep, and the bed in the hotel room was mighty comfortable. After breakfast the next morning in the hotel dining room—where the food was all right, but not as good as that served up by Peter Lee and his family—Frank headed for Patterson’s Livery and Wagon Yard.
The proprietor was working on a wagon’s broken axle as Frank came up. He gave Frank a friendly nod and said, “Mornin’, Mr. Morgan. I hear you got mixed up in a little excitement last night.”
“You could call it that,” Frank acknowledged with a grin. “I’m getting a mite old for so much excitement, though. I’m a little stiff and sore this morning.”
Dog must have heard Frank’s voice. He came bounding out of the livery barn, tail wagging.
Frank grabbed the big cur by his shaggy ruff as Dog stood up and put his front feet on Frank’s shoulders. He scratched Dog’s ears as he asked, “This old boy give you any trouble last night?”
“Nope,” Patterson said. “Not a bit. Tell you the truth, I slept a little better than usual, knowin’ that he was in the barn. Anybody who’d tried to sneak in and steal anything would’ve been in for a surprise.”
“That’s the truth,” Frank agreed. “I’ll be leaving Stormy here today—that’s the gray I was riding yesterday—and taking Goldy out instead.”