'I'm gonna kill you, you old bastard.'
'Make your play. I'll be waiting for you....'
Another soft sound reached Frank's ears, a movement in the snow.
'Keep coming,' he said. 'Keep thinking about all this money I've got in my money belt.'
Now there was silence.
* * * *
Cletus belly-crawled toward the place where he'd seen Morgan go down. In his mind's eye, he could see a leather money belt filled with gold coins. He told himself that Morgan wasn't as good as they said he was ... if his own aim had been just a little bit better a moment ago, Morgan would be dead and all the ransom money would be his.
He continued to inch forward on his elbows, his Greener shotgun clenched in one fist, his Colt in the other. He could almost feel the gold in his hands.
Then he heard a whispering sound. A short arrow with a feathered shaft entered his side, penetrating his liver with a suddenness he'd never known before.
'What the hell ... ?'
He rolled over just in time to see an Indian moving away from him among the pines.
Blood pumped from Cletus's wound. He dropped both of his guns to reach for the arrow shaft, and found it buried in his flesh almost all the way to the hilt.
Shooting pains, like hot branding irons, raced down his body and across his chest. He tried to breathe, and couldn't.
A moment later, Cletus Huling, bounty hunter from Texas, was dead, never knowing who it was that killed him.
* * * *
Victor went to a window of the shack. 'Those were gunshots I heard,' he said, turning to Ken and Harry Oldham, brothers from the Texas Panhandle. 'You boys ride up there. Maybe Huling got Morgan, but I'm gonna make damn sure Huling don't double-cross us. If you find him, bring him down here with that money.'
--------
*Twenty-eight*
Ken Oldham was riding his horse up a steep incline when he heard the thud of a gun. Something entered his abdomen like a hot knife.
'I'm shot!' he shrieked, toppling out of the saddle into a snowdrift.
Another gunshot blasted from a ridge above the lip of the valley.
'Holy shit!' Harry bellowed, gripping his belly as a piece of hot metal passed through him, exiting next to his spine. He threw his rifle into the snow to hold onto the saddle horn with both hands.
Harry jumped off his horse, gripping his wound with one hand. A sharpshooter from above was taking potshots at them in the shadows of dawn.
'Help me, Harry,' Ken called from a dark place between two lines of trees.
Harry didn't answer him. Only a fool would give his position away now.
Ken began to groan somewhere in the forest. 'You gotta help me.'
'Not now,' Harry muttered. The shots had come from more than two hundred yards away. It would take a hell of a marksman to make that kind of shot, and a very large-bore rifle to boot. But he had to go to the aid of his downed brother.
* * * *
'Morgan,' Ken wondered aloud, gripping the stock of his rifle with gloved hands.
He'd been sure they were following Frank Morgan's trail of blood out of the valley, but now he wasn't so sure. Who the hell was shooting at them? Morgan was supposed to be mortally wounded.
'You gotta help me,' Ken cried again. 'I'm shot through the gut. I'm bleedin' real bad.'
From another spot in the pine woods, Harry began coughing until his throat was clear. 'Jesus.'
Ken crawled over to a pine trunk. He was out of breath, and wheezed softly as his gelding galloped away to escape the bang of guns.
'I'm dyin' over here,' he croaked. 'You've gotta help me, Harry.'
Harry was only thinking of surviving the sharpshooter himself. He lay still for a moment.
'Where are you at, Harry?' Ken wondered, pain in his voice.
Harry wasn't about to answer him, making a target of himself, even though the cry came from his brother.
The boom of a rifle came from above.
'Damn! Damn! Damn!' Ken screamed, flipping over on his back.
It was proof that Harry had been wise to remain silent until he knew where the rifleman was.
