on their ends.
Joseph knelt beside one of them and unfastened the catches that held the lid down. He opened it, revealing the gold bars stacked within.
Palmer let out a low whistle. “That’s mighty nice,” he said. “Where’d you get those bars?”
“That’s none of your business,” Joseph said.
As a matter of fact, it had taken a number of train holdups and bank robberies in various Canadian cities to assemble this much gold. In the eyes of the North West Mounted Police, he and his comrades were simply outlaws, common thieves out for themselves.
The Mounties had no idea that the men who had taken these gold bars were revolutionaries, men who would forge a new nation for their people.
“Open the other chest,” Lundy said.
Mirabeau opened it. Lundy nodded in satisfaction when he saw the gold bars in it.
“Looks like we’ve got a deal. We’ll throw in the pack mules. You’ll need ‘em to carry those Gatlings around.”
Joseph closed the chests and fastened the catches.
“What are you gonna do with those guns, anyway?” Palmer asked.
“That is our business,” Joseph said.
Palmer shrugged. “Sure. I was just curious, that’s all.”
With the transaction complete, there was no need for the two groups to stay together. As soon as everything was loaded up again, they could go their separate ways.
Lundy and his men were ready to leave first, since they only had the two chests of gold to deal with. They mounted up and set off without looking back. They continued heading east, toward the edge of the mountains and Calgary on the plains beyond.
“We will let them get ahead of us,” Mirabeau said. “But not too far ahead.”
Joseph looked at the man and frowned. “What are you talking about? Our business with them is done.”
Slowly, Mirabeau shook his head and smiled. The expression was without warmth.
“Now, Joseph,” he said with a cold chuckle, “you didn’t really think we were going to let them ride off and keep all that gold we worked so hard to steal, did you?”
Chapter 20
The last person Frank had seen dressed in such a gaudy outfit was Buffalo Bill Cody, when he had stopped in Chicago on his way to Boston a couple of years earlier. The old scout and buffalo hunter’s Wild West show and extravaganza had been putting on performances at the Columbian Exposition there.
They were a long way from Chicago now, but the cream-colored Stetson, fringed jacket, tight trousers with fancy stitching, and high-topped boots looked like something Bill Cody might have worn.
Instead, the owner of the duds was a young man with a smiling, friendly face and wavy brown hair under the thumbed-back Stetson. In his left hand he held a Winchester with a gleaming barrel tipped back on his shoulder. An ivory-handled Colt rode in a holster on his right hip.
He didn’t seem offended by Salty’s question. “No circus,” he said. “I was just passin’ through these parts and heard what sounded like a mighty interestin’ ruckus.” His voice held the soft drawl of a Southerner, possibly from Virginia. “Name’s Russell. Reb Russell, they call me.”
“You’re too young to have been in the war,” Frank said.
“Yes, sir. Fact is, I wasn’t even born until a few years after it was over. But my pa, he was an officer in the Confederate cavalry, rode with Jeb Stuart, in fact, so I was sort of brought up in the tradition, you could say.” Russell’s smile widened as he turned to Meg and took his hat off. “We haven’t been introduced, ma’am, but I’m mighty pleased to meet you. Reb Russell, at your service.”
“I’m Meg Goodwin,” she said, looking a little flustered.
“It’s an honor.”
“You ain’t gonna kiss her hand, are you?” Salty asked.
“Not unless the lady asks me to,” Russell said.
Frank stepped forward and introduced himself. “Frank Morgan,” he said as he stuck out his hand. “I reckon that was you up on the rimrock, taking a hand in that fight?”
Russell shook with him. The young man’s grip was surprisingly strong.
“Yes, sir. I was ridin’ back a ways behind this ridge when all the commotion started, so I thought I ought to see what was goin’ on.”
“How did you know which side you ought to take?”
“Well, it’s true I don’t really know who you folks are or why those other folks were tryin’ to kill you, but I just naturally sort of stick up for the underdog.” Russell’s voice hardened slightly as he added, “I guess that comes from growin’ up in the South while the Yankees were havin’ everything their way durin’ Reconstruction.”
As a Texan, Frank had fought for the Confederacy during the Civil War, but he had long since put that conflict behind him. As far as he was concerned, both sides had been so damned stubborn that war was inevitable, and then to make things even worse, the Yankees had proved to be mighty poor winners. Nothing was going to be gained by dredging all that up now, on either side.
