into the canyon for sure, to find out if anyone was left alive in here.
He looked back over his shoulder. He already knew there was no real cover in the canyon; that was why he and Salty had built the log barricade.
But while the logs would do a fine job of stopping rifle fire, they wouldn’t stand up to an all-out assault from the Gatling gun.
Frank knew that, but he also knew they had no choice but to play the hand they were dealt.
He would try to keep the attackers out of the canyon as long as he could. As long as they couldn’t get a good look at the setup in here, they wouldn’t know what bad shape the defenders were in.
Frank rested the Winchester on top of the logs and nestled his check against the smooth wood of the stock as he peered over the sights. He trained the rifle on the brush they had dragged up in front of the canyon mouth and waited.
Several tense minutes ticked by.
A rifle barrel appeared, pushing some of the branches aside. The rifle’s owner was being cautious. Frank held his fire. He wanted the man to show himself.
A coarse, unshaven face appeared under a floppy-brimmed felt hat. The man started to step through the gap he had made in the brush.
Frank shot him in the head.
The .44-40 slug from the Winchester took the man just above his left eye, bored on through his brain, and exploded out the back of his head. Frank saw the pink spray of blood in the air as the man jerked backward and disappeared.
“Get him?” Salty asked.
Frank worked the Winchester’s lever. “I did.”
He heard angry cursing; then the Gatling gun started up again.
Salty ducked his head and said, “At this rate, them varmints are gonna burn up a thousand bullets before sundown.”
“More than that,” Frank said. “With one of those contraptions, it only takes a few minutes to fire a thousand rounds.”
“That’s a lot o’ lead and gunpowder to spend on just three folks,” Salty pointed out.
Frank nodded. “You’re right. It’s almost like they’ve got a personal grudge against us, whoever they are. Like they’re bound and determined to root us out of here.”
But that didn’t make any sense, he thought. They didn’t know anybody in Canada except …
“Palmer,” he said under his breath.
Salty looked over sharply at him. “What’s that you say, Frank?”
“I was just wondering if maybe Joe Palmer is out there with that bunch. We know from what Hopkins told us that Palmer has friends up here on this side of the border. Maybe he didn’t have to go all the way to Calgary to meet up with them.”
Salty took off his hat and scrubbed a hand over his face.
The Gatling gun fell silent yet again.
“Do you think they’ll try to get in here again?” Meg asked.
“Maybe,” Frank said. He started to lift his head to take a look over the logs.
But as he did so, a rifle cracked and a bullet whipped past his ear to smash into the logs.
They were under attack again … but from a different direction this time.
Chapter 18
Frank spun around, lifting the Winchester. He spotted a man on the rimrock, above the canyon. The man had a rifle in his hands and had already levered another shell into the chamber. Flame spurted from the weapon’s muzzle as he fired a second shot.
Frank’s Winchester blasted a split second later, the sound of the rifle’s report blending with a yelp of pain from Salty. The man on the rimrock doubled over as Frank’s bullet punched into his guts. He dropped his rifle, staggered to the side, and lost his balance.
With a scream, he toppled off the edge and plunged toward the canyon floor. The soggy thud of his body striking the rocky ground silenced the scream.
Gut-shot as he was, he would have died anyway.
The fall had just hurried things along.
Frank turned toward his friend, saying urgently, “Salty, are you all right?”
Salty was clutching his left arm, where blood stained the sleeve of his faded flannel shirt. “I’m fine,” he said. “Dang buzzard just nicked me.”
“Let me see—” Frank began.
