CHAPTER 33
“Thanks for tryin’, old man,” Leech Davis said when Angus had finished wrapping his leg, cut the cloth, and tied it off tightly enough to stem the bleeding.
To stem it. Angus knew it wouldn’t stop it.
“Can’t say as I’d do the same for you, in a losin’ cause, but I do appreciate it.” The drunk man chuckled drunkenly. “Now how ’bout you fetch my rifle so I can have my revenge before I die?”
He glared at Frannie from San Francisco, ankles and wrists bound where she sat back against a rock at the edge of the scarp, to Davis’s left.
“No,” Angus said. “That’s as much as I’ll do for you. Not quite sure why I even did that.”
“Fair is far,” the girl said. “You wrapped his leg. Cut me loose.”
Angus sat down beside Nate, who had finished tending the horses, unsaddling them all and feeding and watering them, and tying them all to a picket line at the base of the formation, in good grass.
“You know, young lady, cutting you free, a train robber who threw lead at me oh a little around an hour ago, is not at the top of my to-do list, either. All I want is to get this boy back down out of these mountains, safe an’ sound. Along with my own withered carcass. I would do just that even in my less-than-spry condition if it weren’t dark and we likely would never make it. So, I reckon I’ll take my chances right here, an’ we’ll see what tomorrow brings.”
He jerked with a start when loud rifle fire erupted from the valley in which the cabin sat. It was twilight, and Bryce Jackson must have tried taking advantage of the failing light to storm the shack. Men shouted, cursed, their voices nearly drowned by the fusillade—three rifles, it sounded like, being triggered quickly, angrily.
More shouting.
A man belted out a curse.
The shooting became sporadic then ceased altogether.
“Well, well,” Davis said. “Who do you suppose came up the winner.”
“Maybe they all shot each other,” Frannie opined. She curled her nostrils. “None of ’em deserve any better.”
“Well, then, Miss Frannie, all the loot’s ours, I guess.” Davis smiled. “You an’ me can ride down to Mexico, lay back on the sand, kick our boots up, enjoy the high life for a change.”
“Go to hell.” Frannie turned to Nate who regarded her silently, knees drawn up to his chest, his arms around them. “Pardon my French, kid.”
Nate said nothing.
She turned to Angus with a seductive smile. “How ’bout you, old man? Wanna go to Mexico?”
“Nah. I got nothin’ against Mescins. It’s just that their food”—Angus rubbed his belly pouching behind his buttoned jacket—”gives me gas.”
“You’re no fun. Neither are Robbie an’ Bull. They didn’t want to go to Mexico, either. They just wanted to hole up in that nasty, old cabin of theirs—smelled like a coyote den!—play cards, drink rotgut they brewed in a tub, and pinch my a—” She stopped abruptly and glanced at Nate. “Behind.”
She smiled her saucy smile.
She stared at Angus, pensive, amusement growing in her eyes. “Wanna know where the loot is?”
“Where?” Davis said.
She whipped her head toward the wounded outlaw. “Never you mind! I wasn’t talkin’ to you!”
“Excuse me!”
“There’s no excuse for you.” Frannie turned to Angus with that smile again. “Wanna know?”
Nate said, “I’d like to know!”
“Oh, you would—would you? And what would you do with thirty thousand dollars in freshly minted gold coins? Enough payroll money for three separate mines around Salida an’ Gunnison!”
“I’d buy Grandpa a new boiler for his brew barn and a new wagon for hauling it to town.” Nate smiled at Angus, sitting beside him. “One with leather seats so it wasn’t so hard on your behind, Grandpa.” His smile broadened.
Angus smiled back at him. “I don’t deserve you, boy.”
“You deserve me,” Frannie said.
“No, I don’t deserve you, either.”
“A young lady to keep your feet warm at night . . . ?”
Angus glanced at Nate and scowled. “Don’t talk like that.”
“Build a fire,” Frannie said. “I’m cold. Don’t worry about Jackson. I got Jackson wrapped around my little finger.” She smiled again, broadly.
“She’s right,” Angus said to Nate. “We’re gonna need a fire.” He felt the cold down deep in his bones. He didn’t think there would be any more danger here with a fire than there was in the darkness. Whatever would play out tonight would play out either in the light or the dark.
Nate rose and clambered down the rocks. He returned a few minutes later with an armload of dead branches and kindling. Angus laid out a ring of stones and coaxed a fledgling fire to life, which he gradually grew with the branches Nate had gathered.
When a sizable blaze spread its umber light around the sandy, semi-circular area Angus, Nate, Davis, and Miss Frannie occupied, and Angus was about to add another pine branch to it, he stopped suddenly when a shrill scream rose from the darkness of the canyon in which the cabin lay.
The scream was followed by a shrill cry of pleading: “No! Oh, God—Jackson, no!”
“What’s that?” Nate had just returned to the scarp once more and stood holding another armload of wood. staring off toward the canyon.
Davis chuckled.
“Poor Robbie,” Frannie said.
Angus looked up at Nate. “Don’t listen, boy.”
Nate started and gave a slight gasp when another, agonized scream rocketed across the night. It was followed by loud sobbing, pleading.
“Boy,” Davis said. “He’s really goin’ to town on Robbie. Musta killed ol’ Bull.” He laughed and glared at the girl. “That’s what you get for double-crossin’ ol’ Bryce Jackson.”
“He’s tryin’ to get him to tell him where the loot is,” Frannie said. “He could have just asked me.”
“Where is it?” Angus said.
“Take a lit branch,” Frannie said, nodding to indicate the overhang.
Angus plucked a burning branch from the fire, then, drawing a deep breath against the tightness in his chest, crawled into the overhang, thrusting the burning end of the branch out ahead of him. Nate crawled in beside him. Angus studied the overhang’s back wall.
“See it?” Frannie said. “A big rock, almost square. It comes out if you dig around it with a knife. I found it when I was on the scout up here and crawled into the overhang for a nap. Just foolin’ around; then I noticed the rock looked loose.”
Angus saw the rock she’d described. It protruded roughly a half inch from the otherwise solid stone wall.
Both Angus and Nate started as another scream of raw pain and terror vaulted across the night in which more and more stars were kindling.
Behind them, Davis chuckled.
Angus pulled his Bowie knife from the scabbard on his right hip, thrust it at Nate.
“Dig around it, boy. Try to wedge it out.”
Chewing his bottom lip, Nate sawed around the side of the stone with the knife. He worked with the knife with one hand and pulled on the rock with the fingers of his other hand. He grunted softly as he worked. He grunted more loudly when a pistol blast caromed out of the dark canyon housing the cabin.
Just one blast then silence.
Nate looked at Angus in the flickering firelight. Angus returned the look with a dark one of his own, then lifted his chin, silently prodding Nate to continue his work.
The boy did. Ten minutes later, he’d worked the rock free of the wall, set it aside, revealing a black hole in the same shape at the rock that had covered it. Nate slid to one side and let the firelight seep into the hole.
His eyes widened when he saw the contents of the hole.
Angus nodded at him.
Nate reached inside and pulled out a large burlap pouch, setting it on the ground between him and Angus. He reached into the hole again and pulled out a second burlap pouch that rattled with the coins inside it.
Davis must have been able to see into the overhang between Angus and Nate; suddenly, he laughed. It was a high, queer, jaded laugh. A deeply cynical laugh.
“It didn’t need to be this hard,” Davis said, looking at Frannie. “Didn’t need to be so complicated, Frannie.”
“Tell that to Bryce,” Frannie said, coldly.
“Well, now you’re just gonna die.” Davis chuckled. “No way he’s gonna let any of us get down off this mountain. Oh, sure, he’ll keep the old man and the boy alive long enough to show him the way down, but after that . . .” He ran his index finger across his throat. “Me? I don’t mind. I’d never get down, anyway . . . with this leg.”
“Let’s pull ’em out,” Angus said to Nate.
Crawling out from under the overhang, the pair each pulled a money sack out into the firelight. Angus untied the twine holding one of the bags, reached in and pulled out a handful of coins. He dropped them onto the sandy ground by the fire.
The gold coins glowed like miniature suns.
“Holy cow!” Nate said.
“Look at that,” Davis said, the reflected light from the coins dancing in his eyes. “Look at . . .”
His voice trailed off.
He smiled. His head sagged to one side. His chest fell still after one, last, raking sigh.
“Gone,” Frannie said, staring at the dead man. She turned to Angus sharply. “Cut me loose. Let’s go out of here. Quick! Before he comes back!”
“He’s back.”
A large shadow emerged from the rocks behind her.
Jackson’s shadow stepped into the firelight and revealed his mustached face beneath his Stetson’s brim. He aimed his Winchester straight out from his right hip. A dark line of blood streaked down over his ear and neck to disappear under the collar of his jacket. His eyes glittered darkly as he stared down at the freshly minted payroll coins.
He squatted down beside the fire, rested the rifle across his knee.
Staring at the loot, his eyes black, his face stony, he shook his head slowly, fatefully. “Coulda all been ours, Fran. If you’d thrown in with the right fella. Now . . . hate to tell you this . . . but you come to the end of the road, my dear.”
He turned to her, smiled grimly.
Frannie stared up at him, fear in her eyes.
Jackson rose, slowly slid the Winchester toward her.
Frannie closed her eyes.
A rifle blasted.
Frannie gasped and jerked her head up with a start.
She looked down at herself, searching for blood. Not seeing any, she looked up at Jackson once more. His hands opened, and the rifle dropped from his fingers. Blood spread a stain across his chest. He turned his head and looked down at the smoking Spencer angled up from Angus’s lap.
Disbelief showing in his face, he staggered backward, nearly fell, then caught himself. He glared down at Angus, and said bitterly, “Damn fool. I . . . woulda . . . paid you well . . .”
“Yeah,” Nathan said, on his knees beside Angus. “With a bullet.”
Jackson convulsed then fell in a pile, jerked out his life, and died.
Frannie stared at the dead man in disbelief. Slowly, a smile shaped itself on her full, wide mouth. She turned to Angus, grinning. “Cut me loose, old man. Once we’re down out of these mountains, I’ll give you an’ the boy a cut!”
Angus regarded her sadly, shook his head slowly.
“You’ll remain tied until we’re out of these mountains, Miss Frannie . . . an’ you’re locked away in the Tigerville jail while this loot gets returned to its rightful owners. That’s a lotta money, but I haven’t lived all these years to turn outlaw now.”
Frannie’s face twisted into a mask of raw fury. She cursed him bitterly.
Angus chuckled and turned to Nate. “Close your ears, boy. Try to get some sleep. We’ll get an early start tomorrow.”
“You gonna be all right, Grandpa?”
“I’ll be all right, Grandson.” Angus chuckled. “At the moment, I’m too rich to die.”
He rested back against a rock and pulled his hat brim down over his eyes. “Time to go home.”