“Are you goin’ on foot?” Salty asked.
“Quieter that way,” Frank replied with a nod.
There was nothing else to say. He gave Meg a quick smile, then set off on foot along the creek. Again, it wasn’t long before the camp was out of sight behind him.
When he passed the spot where he and Meg had heard the men and horses earlier, he couldn’t help but think about what had almost happened there.
It was a good thing they had been interrupted. He knew good and well he would have regretted giving in to the impulse, and he figured there was a good chance Meg would have been sorry about it, too.
Such moments of human weakness were something else he had to guard against, along with all the other dangers that seemed to dog his trail constantly.
Frank was able to move quietly enough that he didn’t spook the birds and small animals. When the songs of the birds and the rustling of creatures in the brush suddenly ceased, he noticed it and knew that he hadn’t caused it.
That made him stop short and listen, but it wasn’t his ears that told him someone was nearby. It was his nose. He caught a whiff of tobacco smoke on the breeze.
Whoever they were, they were probably following the creek. That was the easiest way to get through these rugged mountains. Knowing that, Frank moved away from the stream, angling to his left through the underbrush. The trees closed in around him. It was harder to be quiet, but he wasn’t likely to be seen.
A few minutes later he heard voices. A horse nickered. The sounds came from his right, toward the creek. Carefully, he worked his way in that direction again but found a giant slab of rock blocking his path. It must have sheered off from the face of the mountain looming above him and toppled down here sometime in ages past.
The rock sloped away from him and was rough enough that he thought he could climb it without much trouble. Being careful not to let the Winchester strike the rock—the clink of metal on stone could be heard for quite a distance—he began the ascent.
Frank didn’t get in any hurry. In a situation such as this, haste was dangerous. He still heard the men talking and smelled the quirlies they were smoking. They must have stopped to rest their mounts and let the horses drink from the creek.
He reached the flat top of the big rock. It was high enough that the trees didn’t shade it much, so the stone was hot from the sun as he crawled out onto it. He ignored the discomfort and crept stealthily toward the front of the slab.
Before he got there, he stopped and took his hat off, left it lying on the rock with his rifle. Then he inched forward again until he could peer over the edge of the rock without being too noticeable.
From where he was, he could see through the trees to the stream. The trunks and branches blocked his view to a certain extent, so he couldn’t be sure how many men had stopped there on the creek bank. At least half a dozen, he decided as he watched them moving around.
There were that many horses, of course, and some pack animals, too. Frank’s forehead creased in a frown as he spotted several mules with wooden crates lashed to them. He wondered what they were carrying in there. Two more mules were carrying wagon wheels, of all things, but the men didn’t have a wagon with them.
One of the men laughed. It was a coarse sound. From what Frank could see of them, they were roughly dressed, and he spotted several rifles and holstered pistols.
Well-armed hardcases and a caravan of pack mules usually meant one thing: smugglers. Frank had no idea what sort of contraband these men were transporting, but it was none of his business. He knew they probably wouldn’t take kindly to being discovered. It would be better to just let them go on their way. He and Meg and Salty would try to avoid them.
Satisfied that he had found out what he needed to know, Frank edged back until he could no longer see the men. He picked up his hat and rifle and returned to the ground.
Even though he was moving away from the apparent smugglers, he was still careful not to make too much noise as he walked through the woods.
Because of that, he heard the shot plainly when it sounded suddenly from up ahead of him somewhere.
Frank stopped short, every muscle in his body tensing as his hands tightened around the Winchester. He figured he was about halfway back to the spot where he had left Salty and Meg … and that was about where the gun blast had come from.
He broke into a run.
He didn’t worry about being quiet now. That shot had sounded as if it came from Salty’s old Remington. There had only been one shot, so it was possible Salty had blasted a snake or some other varmint.
But it was also possible that Salty wasn’t able to shoot anymore, and that was what worried Frank.
There was also a chance those hardcases had heard the shot and would come to investigate. Frank wanted to get his two companions moving—assuming they were all right—so the smugglers wouldn’t discover them.
A horseman’s high-heeled boots weren’t made for running, of course. That slowed Frank down a little. But he made pretty good time anyway and within minutes began to spot some landmarks that told him he was getting close to the camp.
He stopped to listen again. Rushing blindly into a situation was just plain foolish.
Nothing. No horses, no men, no birds or animals. The single shot had been enough to spook the critters, Frank thought. He began working his way closer to the campsite, using all the cover he could find.
Several minutes later, he crouched in the brush and carefully parted the branches so he could look between them. From where he was, he could see part of the grassy clearing on the creek bank. He didn’t spot Salty or Meg and didn’t hear them talking.
A horse blew loudly through its nostrils, though, so he knew the camp wasn’t completely deserted.
