That wasn’t much of anything. The forest was quiet and seemingly peaceful again. Frank knew better, though. He knew the fear and death that lurked in these trees. He had seen it with his own eyes. How many men had died in the past two days? Close to two dozen? He couldn’t even keep track anymore. The deaths blended into a succession of grisly images.
Finally, satisfied that whatever had done this was no longer nearby, Frank swung down from the saddle and hunkered on his heels next to the body. He held the rifle in one hand, took hold of the dead man’s shoulder with the other, and rolled the corpse onto its back. The man’s face was smeared with blood, but not a lot of it. The blood looked like it had come from a gash in the man’s forehead. Other than that, his face was unmarked.
It was a horrifying sight anyway, because it was frozen and twisted in lines of such fear that the man must have died feeling sheer terror all the way down to his soul. Frank’s jaw tightened as he studied the man’s face. He tried to put aside for the moment the fear and the blood and concentrate on what the man must have looked like in life.
After a moment, he came to the conclusion that he had never seen the dead man before.
He had seen the type plenty of times, though. The narrow, unshaven face, the weak mouth and chin, the small, deep-set eyes…This man had been a hired killer. Frank was sure of it. And it didn’t take much to figure out from there that he’d been a member of the gang of gun-wolves that had massacred the men back there at Chamberlain’s logging camp and then mutilated their bodies.
He wondered if Marshal Gene Price would recognize the gunman. Still hunkered beside the body, he began looking around for some broken branches he could use to fashion a travois using one of his blankets. He wasn’t going to load the gruesome corpse onto Goldy’s back, but would drag it back to Eureka on a makeshift sled instead. The blanket he used would be ruined, but Frank could afford to buy another.
Spotting some branches that might work, he straightened to his feet.
And just as he did, a rifle cracked. Frank heard the high-pitched whine of a bullet whistling past his ear.
Chapter 13
Instantly, more shots rang out. Slugs smacked into the tree, spraying bark and splinters into the air.
Frank was already moving, though, his superbly honed reflexes taking over at the first sign of danger. He called, “Dog! Cover!” and threw himself into a dive that carried him behind the tree. He heard bullets thudding into the redwood, but they had no chance of penetrating all the way through the massive trunk.
He glanced over and saw that Dog had darted behind another tree. It was smaller than the one where Frank had taken shelter, but big enough to shield the shaggy, wolflike creature from any harm. And Goldy, he was glad to see, had dashed off out of sight among the trees. The horse was smart, and a quick learner. He hadn’t traveled with Frank Morgan for very long without realizing what those loud, unpleasant noises meant and what he should do to avoid them.
Frank was surprised that neither Dog nor Goldy had scented the bushwhackers creeping up on them. He supposed that the smell of freshly spilled blood—and the stench of whatever had done this—might have masked any other scents, at least enough to keep the animals from noticing anything else unusual. As Frank lay there on the carpet of needles, he wondered who was shooting at him.
Of course, it was possible the riflemen were the same ones who had attacked the logging camp. But they had been headed the other direction, toward Eureka. They might have gotten behind him, but Frank considered it unlikely.
The only other explanation, though, was that there were
The woods were getting a mite crowded, Frank thought with a grim smile as he cradled the Winchester’s smooth stock against his cheek and crawled to one side so that he could risk a glance around the trunk.
The sound of the shots told him that this was indeed a different group, or at least a smaller one. He estimated that five or six men had opened fire on him. The larger gang could have split up, but again, he couldn’t see any reason why they would have done that and why some of them would have circled around to get behind him. Checking their back trail maybe? He couldn’t rule it out.
The bushwhackers stopped firing. They must have realized that they could throw lead at that tree all day without doing any real damage. Frank looked over at Dog. The big cur was trained to respond to hand signals, too, as well as Frank’s voice. Frank made one of those signals now, a gesture that meant
Staying on his belly, Dog crawled out from behind the tree where he had taken cover. Either the bushwhackers didn’t see him, or they didn’t care that he was on the move.
If it was the latter, they might have reason to regret their carelessness in a few minutes, Frank thought.
Dog disappeared into the brush. Frank waited. He knew how to be patient. The ability to remain still and silent had saved his life on numerous occasions.
He heard the crackle of broken branches, and knew that at least some of the bushwhackers were on the move. Dog wouldn’t make that much racket while he was hunting, not on his worst day.
The sounds continued, moving to Frank’s left now. He twisted in that direction and snugged the Winchester’s butt against his shoulder. His eyes narrowed as he searched for any sign of movement that would give him a target. Some of the brush swayed a little, and then he caught a glimpse of a rifle barrel.
Frank opened fire, cranking off three rounds as fast as he could work the rifle’s lever. The bullets lashed through the brush. A man cried out in pain, and then someone returned the fire. They hurried their shots, though, and the slugs just hit the tree several feet above Frank’s head as he crawled backward, out of the line of fire.
At the same time, a man yelled in surprise and pain, and Frank figured that Dog had found his quarry. He knew it a second later when he heard snarling and snapping. Somebody shouted, “Son of a bitch!” and another man added, “Let’s get out of here!”
Frank stood up and pressed his back against the tree trunk. When he heard hoofbeats, he stepped out and triggered several more rounds in that direction. He couldn’t see the fleeing bushwhackers, so he didn’t have any real
