he came up into a crouching run but still stayed as low as he could.
The rifle continued to bang in the night. As Frank circled toward the bushwhacker’s position, something began to nag at him. The light from the moon and stars was too dim for accurate shooting, but even so, it seemed that all the shots had been going too high for this to be a real ambush.
As soon as that thought crossed his mind, he stopped short and started to turn back. The shots were nothing but decoys, he realized, designed to draw him away from the camp.
But as he swung around, something smashed against the side of his head like a giant fist. The terrible impact made rockets go off in his brain. He felt himself falling and tried to catch his balance, but he couldn’t stop.
He hit the ground, and that was the last thing he knew for a while.
Joe Palmer was pretty sure the man had just taken a shot at was Frank Morgan. His heart leaped as he saw Morgan fall.
Palmer didn’t waste any time gloating. He started down the slope, which was steep enough that part of the time he was bounding and the other part he was sliding.
He hoped Lundy remembered the plan and was holding his fire now. Otherwise Palmer might run smack-dab into a bullet from the outlaw’s rifle.
The kid and the blonde were still at the camp. They must have heard the shot from the top of the bluff and they probably heard Palmer making his way down the ridge, so he was expecting trouble. He wasn’t going to give them a chance to get oriented. He pulled one of his revolvers and emptied it in the direction he had last seen them.
He had barely reached level ground when a figure loomed up in front of him. The night was too dark for him to tell which one it was. Since he still had the empty gun in his hand, he lashed out with it.
At the same time, a gun went off practically in his face. The report slammed deafeningly against his ears. Burning bits of powder stung his left cheek. He felt a tearing pain in that ear, as if somebody had just tried to rip it off his head.
The gun in his hand crashed against his opponent’s skull. The figure went down like a poleaxed steer.
Palmer didn’t get any respite, though. Somebody tackled him from behind. They both went to the ground.
As he rolled in the dirt, wrestling with his attacker, Palmer’s hands told him he was fighting with the woman. He had dropped the empty pistol and the rifle when she knocked him down, but that meant he had both hands free. He drove a knee into her body, pinned her arms to the ground with one hand, and landed a punch to her jaw with the other fist. Her head bounced against the ground, and she went limp.
Palmer knew he had no time to waste. The way Morgan had gone down, he hoped the gunfighter was dead. But it was possible that Morgan was just wounded, and the old man was still unaccounted for, too. Palmer scrambled to his feet.
An idea occurred to him as he did so. He leaned down, and working by feel, he pulled the blonde’s belt from the trousers she wore and rolled her onto her stomach while she was still stunned and helpless. He pulled her arms behind her back and used the belt to bind her wrists together.
The horses were picketed. He grabbed a blanket and saddle and threw them on one of the mounts, hurriedly cinching the saddle in place. He risked taking long enough to saddle one of the other horses. The blonde was starting to make angry noises now as her wits returned to her. Ignoring the burning pain in his wounded ear, Palmer scooped her up and put her on one of the saddled horses.
“Don’t cause any fuss or I’ll kill you,” he warned.
She tried to kick him. Palmer dodged it and reached up to punch her in the belly. As the woman groaned and bent over, he used one of the picket ropes to tie her already-bound wrists to the saddle horn.
Now if she didn’t cooperate, she would fall off the horse and probably get dragged to death. So if she knew what was good for her, she would do what she was told.
All too aware that he was working against time, Palmer slung some supplies onto the pack animals, then jerked the other ropes loose, freeing the rest of the horses. An eerie silence hung over the night now that the shooting had stopped.
Where was the old man?
That question was answered just as Palmer picked up his rifle. A shot roared from somewhere close by. Palmer heard the bullet sizzle past his head. He swung around and opened fire, cranking off three rounds from the Winchester as fast as he could work the lever.
Stevens, who had reared up in the grass after crawling back to the camp, went over backward as at least one of the bullets ripped into him. The gun in his hand went off again, but it was pointed toward the stars now as he fell.
Palmer didn’t waste any more time. He leaped onto the other saddled horse, grabbed the reins of the horse carrying the blonde, and kicked his mount into a gallop. Together they thundered away from the campsite, scattering the other horses in the process. He rode close enough to one of the pack horses to reach over and grab its reins as well.
Palmer left the camp and his enemies behind him. He knew all three of the men were hurt, but he didn’t know how badly. All of them might be dead. He hoped fervently that was the case.
But even if they weren’t, they were set afoot now, while he had horses, supplies, guns … and a hostage, if he needed one.
Best of all, if he could get his hands on those chests of gold; now he wouldn’t have to split that fortune with anybody.
A grin stretched across Palmer’s face as he galloped through the night. Things were finally starting to go his way again.
Frank couldn’t hold back a groan as awareness seeped back into his brain. Thundering pain filled his skull.
