Dead Before Sundown

It was hard to be sure, but Palmer thought the shots were at least a mile west of the area where he was following Joseph and Charlotte.

They heard the guns, too, and seemed to be quite agitated by the shooting, reining in their horses and looking around wildly. Palmer, watching them from the top of a wooded knoll about a quarter of a mile away, wondered if they were going to turn around and ride back the other way to see what all the shooting was about. He supposed that if they did, he would have to follow them.

But the shots stopped after a few minutes, and after a few more minutes during which Joseph and Charlotte talked animatedly, the two of them resumed their wandering. Palmer continued spying on them, staying out of sight.

That went on the rest of the day. As dusk began to settle down over the rugged landscape, the Marats made camp again. Palmer climbed to a ridge where he could watch them.

As he settled down to a cold supper, he told himself, not for the first time on this long day, that he was acting crazy. He should have been twenty miles closer to Calgary by now. Somebody, either his former partner Yeah Mow Hopkins or that vengeful old-timer Stevens, would be on his trail, and lingering around here was just giving them a chance to catch up to him.

But the mystery of those guns Marat had mentioned was an intriguing one, and Charlotte’s beauty was intriguing as well. Often, guns were worth their weight in gold on the frontier, and if that was the case here, Palmer wanted to get his hands on some of that loot.

Marat and Charlotte had stopped where the ground swelled up into a thick stand of pine trees on top of the ridge. Palmer’s horses were on the far side of those pines, picketed so they could graze but not wander off.

The shadows were already thick enough to hide him, so after he had eaten, he crawled over to a spot where he could look down the hill at the camp. He placed his rifle on the ground beside him as he lay on his belly.

They had built a big fire again, just as they had the night before. They wanted to be found, Palmer realized as he avidly watched Charlotte prepare supper.

That was why they had been wandering around all day. Someone was supposed to meet them in this area, but they didn’t know exactly where.

So they just drifted, thinking that sooner or later they were bound to run into whoever was searching for them.

They had built the fire for the same reason, to guide whoever was supposed to rendezvous with them to the camp. That would be the person, or persons, who had the guns, Palmer speculated. The situation made sense now, even though he didn’t know all the details yet.

So all he had to do was sit back and wait, he told himself. When the right moment came, he would make his move.

In the meantime, he had to suffer the torture of watching Charlotte Marat walk around down there. Her long dark hair, the curves of her body in the tight-fitting shirt and jeans, the sensuous grace with which she moved … those were maddening reminders of just how long it had been since he’d been with a woman.

The smell of coffee and bacon didn’t help matters, either. He was hungry for more than Charlotte.

Guns, he told himself. Gold. He tried to keep his thoughts focused on the things that were truly important.

Under the circumstances, he couldn’t help but be distracted. So he didn’t know anyone else was around until the cold, unyielding ring of a gun muzzle suddenly pressed against the back of his neck and a harsh voice ordered in a whisper, “Don’t move, you son of a bitch, or I’ll kill you.”

Palmer’s breath froze in his throat, and his heart seemed to stop dead in his chest. He knew how dangerous it was not to pay close attention to everything around him, and yet he had done that anyway, had let his brain be consumed by thoughts of the woman, the guns, and the gold.

Now he might pay for that mistake with his life.

“Take it easy.” He forced the words out between suddenly dry lips. “There’s no need to shoot.”

“We’ll decide about that,” the man holding the gun against his neck said.

From the corner of his eye, Palmer saw a hand pick up his rifle. At the same time, somebody else plucked the revolver from the holster on his hip.

He still had a knife and a small hideout gun on him, but they wouldn’t do much good if he was outnumbered, as he seemed to be. He put the number of his captors at three, maybe more.

The gun muzzle went away from his neck. He heard men moving around and figured they had stepped back so they could cover him better.

He was thinking about flipping over and reaching for that hideout gun, even though he knew it was a foolish move and would just get him killed, when the man who had spoken before went on in his gravelly voice. “All right, get on your feet.”

Suddenly, something about that voice struck Palmer as familiar. He knew he had heard it before, although not any time recently. As he climbed awkwardly to his feet, well aware that guns were pointing at him while he did so, he wracked his brain in an attempt to figure out who the voice belonged.

The memory burst on his brain like an exploding shell. He started to turn around to see if he was right, but the voice snapped, “Hold it! Don’t try anything funny.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Palmer said. “Owen? Owen Lundy? Is that you?”

He heard air hiss between a man’s teeth in surprise. “What the hell? Who are you?”

Convinced now that he was right, Palmer said, “It’s me, Owen, Joe Palmer. I haven’t seen you since Chicago, but I heard you were up here in this part of the world.”

“Joe Palmer?” The gravelly voice was confused. “Can’t be. I heard Palmer got hisself hanged over in Alaska.”