Dead Before Sundown

Frank, Salty, and Meg took up the trail again the next morning, riding east through the mountains. The terrain was rough enough to make their progress frustratingly slow.

That frustration increased when Salty’s horse pulled up lame in the middle of the day. When the horse began to limp, Salty let loose with a flood of angry exclamations that sounded like curses even though they actually weren’t.

“Take it easy,” Frank told him.

“Take it easy?” the old-timer repeated incredulously after he had dismounted and checked his horse’s bad leg. “We’re gonna have to let this jughead rest a day or two. Wouldn’t do no good to switch out the packs on one o’ the mules and slap a saddle on it. Those supplies weigh just about as much as I do, so it wouldn’t help the hoss to have to carry ‘em.” He jerked his battered old hat off and slammed it down on the ground in exasperation. “That varmint Palmer’s gonna get that much farther ahead of us!”

“We’ll make up the time,” Frank said, “and even if we don’t, we know where he’s headed. We’ll just have to catch up to him in Calgary, that’s all.”

“It’s gonna be that much harder to find him once he gets to a settlement,” Salty pointed out. “Calgary’s big enough he’ll be able to find a place to hide.”

Frank couldn’t argue with that. He just said, “We’ll find him, Salty. You’ve got my word on that.”

They dismounted, unsaddled the horses, and took the packs off the mules.

“If we had to make camp sooner than we expected, this isn’t a bad place to do it,” Meg said as she looked around.

She was right about that. The ground was fairly level and there was an open stretch along the bank of the creek, with evergreens towering above it. The valley was narrow here, running between rocky, steep-sided slopes.

Frank took a can of liniment from one of their packs and massaged the thick, foul-smelling stuff into the tight muscle on the bad leg of Salty’s horse.

“That’ll help,” he said. “In the meantime, we might as well take it easy.”

Salty looked as if that was going to be a difficult task for him. He was still muttering to himself as he sat down, leaned against a large rock, and pulled his hat down over his eyes.

Frank grinned and shook his head at the old-timer’s chagrin. He understood why Salty felt the way he did, but there was nothing that could be done about it.

“I think I’ll take a walk up the creek,” he said as he pulled his Winchester from its sheath. “Might find some game. We could have elk steaks tonight.”

Meg said, “We won’t need a fire tonight, but I suppose I’ll go ahead and start gathering some wood.”

“Keep your eyes open,” Frank advised. “You wouldn’t want to run into a bear.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said with a smile.

With the repeater tucked under his arm, Frank walked along the stream. Between the twists and turns it took and the way the trees closed in, he was soon out of sight of the camp.

In fact, as far as he could tell by looking, he might as well have been the only human being in five hundred miles.

Frank didn’t mind the solitude. In fact, he liked it.

He’d had no choice but to get used to being alone, since so many of his long years had been spent that way. Too many days and nights had been spent far from anywhere and anyone, trying to avoid trouble.

Many times he had been on the run from a posse led by some overzealous lawman who blamed him for crimes he hadn’t committed, simply because he had a reputation as a fast gun. When that happened, he sometimes asked himself … if he was going to be damned anyway, why not go ahead and become the sort of man they thought he was?

But he couldn’t, of course. It wasn’t in him to be an owlhoot. He hadn’t been raised that way.

Folks could think what they wanted. In his heart, he knew who Frank Morgan was, knew what Frank Morgan was … and was not.

And in recent years, things had begun to change a little, slowly but surely. Though in the habit of keeping people from getting too close to him, he had allowed the woman named Dixie to steal his heart.

That had ended tragically, sending him into a spiral that had almost claimed him and left him beyond redemption.

His friendship with the young Texas Ranger Tyler Beaumont had rescued him from that fate. Then, because of Beaumont, he had been reunited with old friends from his past. His estranged son Conrad had reached out to him, in need of help, and that was the beginning of the growing respect and friendship between the two of them.

For a while, Frank had even pinned on a lawman’s badge and served as the marshal of a Nevada mining town, something that ten years earlier, he would have sworn up and down had no chance in hell of happening.

It had taken him a lot of years to learn it, but he had come to the realization that no man can predict the course of his life … and it was a fool’s errand to try.

There was nothing wrong with planning for the future—that was only good sense—but a man had to live with the knowledge that those plans might never come about.

He smiled to himself as he realized how deeply he had sunk into this reverie. Being surrounded by nature had something to do with that, he supposed.

It was beautiful here. These Canadian Rockies were some of the most spectacularly beautiful country he had ever seen.