He pitched forward onto his face.
“Reb, did his first shot hit you?” Frank asked sharply.
“No, it went wild,” Reb replied. Smoke curled from the barrel of the revolver in his fist. The ivory-handled gun might be fancier than the Colt that Frank carried, but obviously it was just as deadly. “I reckon you’re all right, too?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Keep him covered while I see how bad Salty’s hurt.”
Frank turned back to the old-timer. Salty was unconscious but still breathing. Frank ran his hands over Salty’s body and found that his shirt was wet with blood.
“Got to have some light,” Frank muttered. He fished a lucifer out of his pocket and snapped it to life with his thumbnail.
The glare from the match showed him that Salty was wounded in the side. Frank ripped the old-timer’s shirt aside to get a better look at the wound. Relief went through him when he saw that a bullet had plowed a fairly deep furrow in Salty’s flesh but hadn’t penetrated to anything vital.
As Frank shook the match out, Reb asked, “Is he gonna be all right?”
“I think so. I’ll get him back over to the fire and see if I can patch him up. You keep an eye on that one.”
Frank slid his arms under Salty’s body and straightened to his feet, lifting the old-timer and cradling him as if Salty was a baby. Salty didn’t really weigh all that much. He wasn’t much more than bones and skin like whang leather.
Gently, Frank placed him on top of one of the bedrolls and then put some more wood on the ashes of the burned-down fire. He kindled a small blaze so he’d have enough light to see what he was doing.
It would have been good to clean the wound with whiskey or some other disinfectant, but Frank didn’t have anything like that on hand. Instead he drew his knife from its sheath and heated the blade in the flames until it glowed red from the heat.
He hated to do this, but he didn’t want that bullet crease in Salty’s side to fester. Without hesitation, he pressed the red-hot knife to the wound.
The steel sizzled as it burned into the flesh. Even unconscious, Salty howled in pain and tried to arch up off the ground, but Frank’s other hand held him down.
Salty sagged back when Frank took the knife away. His breath rasped strongly in and out. Frank thought the old-timer would be all right now, once he’d had a chance to rest.
Frank stood up and went back over to where Reb stood next to the other man, gun in hand.
“Is this one still alive?”
“Not sure. I think so.”
Frank knelt and took hold of the man’s shoulders to roll him onto his back. The man gasped and cursed. His eyes fluttered open. The whole front of his shirt was sodden with blood. The thatch of white hair on his head was wildly askew.
“What’s your name, hombre?” Frank asked. He could tell that the man didn’t have long to live, and he wanted to find out as much as he could.
“G-go … to hell!”
Frank shrugged. “Fine. I just thought you’d like to have your name on the marker we’ll put up after we bury you.”
“D-damn you. You’ve k-killed me.”
“You come into a place with a gun in your hand and start blazing away, folks are going to shoot back at you. You look like you’ve been around enough to know that.”
The man hesitated, air hissing between his teeth as his ruined body struggled to draw breath. Finally he said, “It’s … Lundy. Owen … Lundy.”
Frank didn’t recognize the name, but he hadn’t heard of every owlhoot west of the Mississippi, either.
“You said something about Joe Palmer.”
“He was supposed to … come back for me … after he stole … the horses.”
“But he rode off and left you behind, didn’t he?”
“I was … already wounded…. Guess he thought … I couldn’t keep up.” What might have been a strangled laugh came from Owen Lundy’s lips. “What he really wanted … was to go after that gold … all for … himself.”
“Your gold?” Frank said.
“Y-yeah. B-bastards … stole it back … from us.”
The wheels of Frank’s brain turned rapidly as he made connections between the facts he knew and the things he had guessed.
“They paid you in gold for the Gatling gun you smuggled in from the States, then double-crossed you.”
“Yeah … but it was … guns … four Gatling guns.”
Frank’s jaw tightened. One Gatling gun could do a hell of a lot of damage. Four could wipe out a small town.
“Who are they?” he asked, urgency creeping into his voice. “Who has the guns?”
“Bunch of … breeds. Half-breeds …”
