Lee shook his head. “Marshal Price is a windbag. I’m not worried about him. I don’t think Erickson and his cronies will bother us either. You made it pretty clear what would happen if they did.”
Remembering how he’d been bushwhacked at Ben Chamberlain’s old cabin that afternoon, Frank said, “I couldn’t do much about it if I was dead.”
Peter Lee smiled. “Don’t get yourself killed then.”
Frank laughed and reached for his coffee cup. “Words to live by,” he said.
The logger with the broken nose was named Roylston. He sat at a big table in the back of the Bull o’ the Woods Saloon holding a bloody rag to his nose and cursing in a low, monotonous voice.
The other men at the table ignored him. The one who’d been kicked in the groin sat gray-faced and hunched over. Every now and then he grimaced and took a nip from the bottle in front of him. His name was Treadwell, and at this moment, he wanted to kill Frank Morgan more than he had ever wanted anything else in his life.
Big, red-bearded Erickson wanted to kill Morgan, too, but even more than that, he wanted to collect the ten- thousand-dollar bounty on the head of the Terror. With Morgan around, the chances of doing that were slim.
But if Morgan was dead, Erickson thought…
Across the table, Dawson said, “It don’t matter. Let Morgan go after that damn monster. It’ll tear him into little bloody pieces, the same way it’s done with everybody else unlucky enough to run into it.”
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
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
“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.
