were no handy canyon walls to collapse on the dead men.
Even though the gap through which they rode marked the end of the really rugged mountains, they were still miles from the actual plains. In between were foothills, many of which were almost as tall and rocky as the peaks behind them.
As the sun lowered toward the Canadian Rockies, the four riders found a place to camp at the foot of a ridge. Frank and Reb tended to the horses while Salty and Meg gathered wood for a fire and got started on supper.
Sensing that they were still in hostile territory, Frank suggested to Salty that they keep the fire small tonight. The old-timer agreed and used a flat rock to scrape out a small depression where he arranged the wood. More rocks piled around the shallow pit would serve to shield the flames from easy view. Once they had boiled up some coffee and cooked bacon and biscuits, the fire could be allowed to burn down.
While they were eating supper, Frank indulged his curiosity and said to Reb, “You sound like you’re from Virginia. Is that right?”
The young man shook his head. “No, but my ma and pa were, and they raised me, of course.” He grinned. “My pa had a farm near a little place in Virginia called Culpeper, not far from Bull Run. He fought in the war, fought all over the place, in fact, and when it was finally over and he got back home at last, he found that the farm was ruined. The Yanks had burned down everything and tore up the fields. He might’ve tried to rebuild the place, but some carpetbagger judge took the land away from him on account of taxes.”
Frank nodded. “That happened a lot. Same thing went on in Texas, where I’m from.”
“I know. It was all over the Confederacy, I reckon. Anyway, my pa had himself a sweetheart, a gal who lived on one of the farms close by, and when he decided to leave Virginia and light out for some place where he could make a fresh start, he asked her to marry him and come with him. Her daddy didn’t like the idea, but they ran off and got hitched anyway.”
“That’s very romantic,” Meg said.
“Maybe so, but it was a hard life for ‘em, for a while, anyway. They wound up in Arkansas and eventually moved on to Texas. Settled in a place called Cross Plains.”
Frank nodded. “I’ve been there.”
“That’s where I was born,” Reb said. “I saw plenty of carpetbaggers there while I was growin’ up, but Pa said it wasn’t as bad as it was back in Virginia. He worked on a ranch and saved up his money until he could afford a place of his own. I was ridin’ a horse before I could walk, so naturally I helped him out as much as I could. Had a handful of little brothers who pitched in, too, as soon as they were old enough. We got by. More than that, really. The Russell spread wound up bein’ one of the best ranches in that part of Texas.”
“That’s a nice story,” Meg said. “I’m glad your mother and father finally had a happy ending.”
“Yeah. When they didn’t really need me around anymore, I decided to do some travelin’. I was always a mite fiddle-footed. That’s how I wound up goin’ around to all the rodeos.”
Reb Russell clearly didn’t mind the sound of his own voice, Frank mused. But the talkative young man seemed friendly enough.
The problem was that Frank’s instincts still told him Reb was lying about something, or at least not telling the whole truth. But when he tried to figure out how Reb might be connected to that Gatling gun, or to Joe Palmer for that matter, he couldn’t make the pieces of the picture fit.
He would just stay on his guard, he decided. He would be doing that anyway, as a matter of habit.
When it came time to turn in, Frank said, “Salty and I will take turns standing watch.”
“You really think we need to do that?” Reb asked.
“You saw those bodies back there. This can be dangerous country.”
“Yeah, I reckon you’re right about that. I can take my turn.”
Frank shook his head. “Salty and I can handle it.”
“You’d get more sleep if you let me help out.” Reb paused, and when he went on, his voice had taken on a harder edge. “That is, unless you don’t trust me, Frank.”
“Nobody said that,” Meg put in. “You trust Reb, don’t you, Frank?”
“He hasn’t given me any reason not to,” Frank replied, which didn’t really answer the question.
“We can share a turn,” Meg suggested.
Reb smiled in the fading light of the fire. “I never turn down the company of a pretty gal,” he said.
Frank was uneasy about the arrangement, but he didn’t want to press the issue. He nodded and said, “All right. I’ll stand the first watch, Salty the middle one, and the two of you can finish out the night. That agreeable to everybody?”
The others all nodded.
“Better roll up in your blankets and get some sleep, then,” Frank went on. He reached for the coffeepot. “I’ll just finish off this Arbuckle’s.”
If it hadn’t been for the faint smell of wood smoke lingering in the air, Palmer might have missed the camp. He was alert for that very thing, though, and when he caught a whiff of the smoke, he followed it to a long, low ridge. Owen Lundy limped along behind him, grunting now and then from the pain in his wounded side.
It had been a long walk out of the mountains from the spot of the ambush. They’d had to hide once when a group of riders too large for them to attack had ridden past, heading west. A short time later, what could have been the same bunch rode past again, this time going east.
Damned mountains were turning out to be as busy as State Street back in Chicago, Palmer thought disgustedly.
Now, Palmer put a hand on Lundy’s arm to stop him and whispered, “I smell a campfire, or what’s left of one,
