Slaughter Read online

  Gun still in hand, he kicked another torch off the roof. From the corner of his eye, he saw Linderman doing the same thing.

  Suddenly, the foreman spun around and fell, obviously driven off his feet by a bullet. Frank wanted to check on him, but there was no time. He continued to dash back and forth, kicking some of the torches off the roof and tossing others, stomping out the flames that tried to flare up.

  So far, although the shingles were charred in places, the roof wasn’t actually on fire. He couldn’t get rid of all the torches and dodge bullets at the same time, though, and now that the attackers knew he and Linderman were up here, they would concentrate on the barn roof with their shots. Frank knew he was quickly running out of time . . .

  A fresh volley of gunfire blasted out, but these shots came from a different direction. Frank saw muzzle flame stabbing through the darkness and heard the pounding of hoofbeats over the roar of shots. A new group had entered the battle, galloping out of the night to take the fight to the attackers surrounding the barn.

  That proved to be enough to finally tip the delicate balance. Tracking the battle by the muzzle flashes, Frank saw it streaming away from the barn as the attackers fled. Shots died away to be replaced by the frantic rataplan of hoofbeats. The killers had had enough.

  Frank threw the last of the torches off the roof, then hurried over to Linderman and dropped to a knee beside the fallen foreman. Linderman was still conscious and struggling to sit up.

  “What happened?” he asked through teeth gritted against the pain of his wound as his right hand clutched his bloody left arm. “What’s goin’ on down there?”

  “Those bastards who opened fire on the barn are taking off for the tall and uncut,” Frank told him. “We got some reinforcements from somewhere.”

  “I had a dozen men up at the northwest pasture where most of the herd’s gathered. Been tryin’ to keep extra guards where the cows are. They must’ve heard the shootin’ and hustled down here to see what was goin’ on.”

  Frank helped Linderman rise into a sitting position. “How bad are you hit?”

  “Not bad. Feels like the slug just tore through my arm and missed the bone. I’ll be fine.”

  Linderman’s shirt sleeve was sodden and dark with blood. He wouldn’t be fine if he lost too much more of the stuff, so Frank said, “Let’s get you down off of here so that arm can be patched up.”

  He lifted the foreman to his feet. They went over to the trapdoor. Before they climbed down, Frank looked around the roof to make sure that none of the flames from the torches had taken hold.

  Frank went down the ladder first so that he could help Linderman descend one-handed. It was a laborious process, but after a few minutes, they reached the ground in the barn.

  Some of the lanterns had been lit again now that the fighting was over. Dolores Montero spotted the wounded Linderman and ran toward the foreman.

  “Pete!” she cried. “Are you all right?”

  He jerked his head in a nod. “I’ll be fine, ma’am,” he told her as he gripped his wounded arm. “This is just a scratch . . .”

  His eyes rolled up in his head. He slumped, and would have fallen if Frank hadn’t been right beside him to grab him and hold him up.

  “He’s lost quite a bit of blood,” he told Dolores. “He needs to get that arm cleaned up, then be put to bed so he can rest.”

  Dolores nodded. “I’ll see to that,” she declared. She called to a couple of her hands, who hurried forward to take Linderman from Frank. She told them, “Put him in one of the spare bedrooms in the house, and then someone needs to ride to town as fast as they can and bring back the doctor.”

  That was a good idea, Frank thought. Linderman wasn’t the only one who needed medical attention. Quite a few of the men in the barn had been wounded. A couple of them lay motionless, and Frank figured there would be fatalities.

  As the cowboys were helping Linderman to the house, John J. Stafford came over to Frank, hat in one hand and handkerchief in the other. Stafford used the handkerchief to mop sweat from his balding head.

  “A man goes through his entire life never being shot at, and then twice in one night he almost gets killed!” the lawyer said. “I don’t know how you stand it, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Never had much choice in the matter,” Frank said. “You either stand it or you give up, and that means giving up on life.” He shook his head. “I’ve never been in the mood to do that. Are you all right, Counselor?”

  “Thankfully, yes,” Stafford said with a nod. “I got behind that water trough over there and stayed as low to the ground as I could.” He used his hat to brush at the straw and dirt on his suit. “I heard a lot of bullets flying around, but none of them came too close to me.”

  That was a stroke of good luck, Frank thought. The thick sides of the water trough would have protected Stafford from a straight shot, but not from ricochets.

  “What in the world was behind all this . . . this violence?” the lawyer asked.

  “Think about it,” Frank said. “All the big ranchers in the valley are here tonight. If they were all wiped out, Magnusson and the other oilmen would have a free hand. They could drill anywhere they wanted to.”

  Stafford’s eyes widened. “My God, you’re right! I suppose men who would stoop to rustling and bushwhacking wouldn’t draw the line at a full-scale massacre! I know Señora Montero and her brother are all right because I talked to them, but we’d better see if any of the other ranchers are injured.”

  Frank and Stafford went around the barn, checking on the other cattlemen. Dave Guthrie had a bullet burn on his thigh, and Augusto Lopez had fallen and twisted a knee while he was running for cover, but those appeared to be the only injuries among the ranchers.

  Edwin Northam was red-faced and puffing, though, and Frank had to wonder how much more the big man’s heart could stand. Northam blustered, “If I ever needed any more proof that I shouldn’t ally myself with the rest of you, this atrocity confirms it! Dash it all, I could have been killed! We all could have been killed!” He turned to Bartholomew Fox, who was also uninjured. “Let’s get out of here, Fox, before something else happens!”

  Frank didn’t figure the attackers would be back, at least not tonight. He faced the ranchers and said, “This doesn’t change anything. I’m still going to find out who’s responsible for this and all the other troubles you’ve had. Fact is, I’m more determined to do that than ever.”

  Jorge Sandoval glared at him and snapped, “Forget it, Morgan. We don’t want your help.”

  His sister clutched his arm and frowned at him in confusion. “Jorge, what do you mean?”

  Sandoval pulled loose and jerked a hand toward Frank in a curt, angry gesture. “What has this man done since he came to the valley? Brought us here tonight so that Magnusson can kill all of us at the same time! Don’t you see it, Dolores? He’s working for Magnusson!”

  That accusation took Frank so much by surprise that for a moment he was speechless. Then he shook his head and said, “You’ve got it all wrong, Sandoval. I didn’t have anything to do with this attack.”

  Sandoval’s jaw came out in a belligerent jut. “You expect us to take the word of a known gunfighter and hired killer?”

  Ben Patterson said, “You know, Jorge might be on to something there. Morgan’s the one who wanted this meeting. Hell, he brought us here like lambs to the slaughter!”

  Anger surged up inside Frank. He had come to southern California to help these people, and now they were starting to accuse him of being in league with their enemies. That was gratitude for you.

  “And what is the first thing he did when he got here?” Augusto Lopez asked. “He killed one of Señora Montero’s men.”

  “I’ve told you how that happened,” Frank said, his voice cold and flat. “You can ask the señora about it if you want.”

  “You could lie to her as easily as you could lie to us,” Sandoval said.

  Stafford stepped forward and said, “Gentlem
en, I assure you, Mr. Morgan is indeed on your side. Think about this logically. He was in as much danger during the attack as any of you. Quite likely, he was in more danger, because he climbed up onto the roof with Pete Linderman to try to pick off some of those gunmen. If not for his actions, the barn might have burned down with all of us inside it!”

  “We don’t know that,” Ben Patterson said. “Maybe it was all an act, just to make us think that he’s on our side. He ain’t hurt, is he? Maybe those varmints outside didn’t even aim at him any.”

  They were going to believe what they wanted to believe, Frank realized. There had been an element of distrust among them all along, brought on by his reputation and the unfortunate gunfight with Lonnie as soon as he’d arrived in Los Angeles. Even though he had thought that he was starting to win Dolores over, now he saw doubt in her eyes, too.

  “This is insane—” Stafford began.

  “No, it’s just starting to make sense,” Sandoval cut in. “How did Magnusson know that all of us would be here tonight unless Morgan told him? I certainly didn’t tell him. Did any of you?”

  He sent challenging looks around at the other ranchers, who all shook their heads in answer to the question. Sandoval gave Frank a triumphant sneer and went on. “It had to be you, Morgan. Everything is clear to us now.”

  Stafford mopped his forehead again. “Gentlemen. . . Señora Montero . . . I assure you that you’re wrong. Mr. Morgan wants to help you—”

  Dolores held up a hand to stop him. She said, “Maybe he fooled you, too, Mr. Stafford. You’ve been our attorney for a long time, and I know you would not double-cross us. But Morgan could lie to you, too.”

  Frank’s pulse pounded angrily in his head. He hadn’t expected the ugly turn that the aftermath of the battle had taken. He said, “You’re wrong. I just want to help.”

  Dolores took a deep breath. “We don’t want your help, Mr. Morgan. In fact, we don’t want you in the valley.”

  The others all nodded, even Edwin Northam, who had lingered when Jorge Sandoval began making his accusations against Frank.

  “We’ll deal with the threat of Magnusson and the other oil men ourselves,” Dolores went on. “We don’t need someone who’s supposed to be helping us betraying us instead.”

  Stafford tried again to reason with her. “You’re making a terrible mistake, Señora—”

  “I think you’ve said enough, Counselor,” she cut in. “In fact, I think you and Mr. Morgan should return to Los Angeles now.”

  Stafford drew himself up. “You’re discharging me as your attorney?”

  “No,” Dolores said with a shake of her head. “As I told you, I still trust you. But I believe Morgan has fooled you, too, and you need to think about what’s happened here tonight.”

  Stafford looked like he was on the verge of losing his temper now. Frank took hold of his arm and said, “Forget it. They’ve got their minds made up. We might as well leave. Maybe you can talk some sense into their heads later.”

  After a moment, Stafford jerked his head in a nod. “Very well.” He clapped his hat on. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Señora. I hope all of you don’t have reason to regret this rash decision later on.”

  He and Frank turned toward the door of the barn. Dolores followed them out and called for someone to bring Frank’s horse and Stafford’s buggy. Dog was already trailing at Frank’s heels.

  The sound of horses coming made Frank reach for his gun, but these riders weren’t in a hurry. A dozen men rode into the yard, among them Jeff, and Frank knew they were the Salida del Sol hands who had rushed in from the north pasture to drive off the mysterious attackers.

  “Were you able to grab any of those varmints?” Frank asked before Dolores had a chance to tell the men that he was no longer regarded as an ally on the Montero ranch.

  One of the cowboys shook his head and said, “Nope, they gave us the slip in the foothills.”

  Frank turned to Dolores. “If your men had been able to capture any of them, maybe they would have told us who they’re working for.”

  Sandoval had emerged from the barn as well. He said, “Or perhaps they would have identified you as a traitor, Morgan, so I’m sure you’re glad they got away.”

  Frank just shook his head. It would be a waste of time, breath, and energy to argue any more tonight. Everybody was too upset to listen to reason . . . and after everything that had happened, he couldn’t really blame them. The world they had worked hard for . . . the world that their families had worked for, in some cases for several generations . . . seemed to be falling apart around them, and there wasn’t anything they could do to stop that destruction.

  Frank swung up into Goldy’s saddle, and Stafford climbed into the buggy and took up the reins. They left the Montero hacienda and headed back toward the pass over the Santa Monica Mountains.

  “I’m sorry about what happened back there, Mr. Morgan,” Stafford said over the rattle of hooves and buggy wheels. “I never dreamed they would get such foolish notions in their heads. It’s a shame they don’t want your help anymore, but I’ll tell Claudius that you tried.”

  “They may not want my help,” Frank said, “but they’re going to get it anyway.”

  Stafford drew the team to an abrupt halt. “What? But you heard what they said.”

  “I heard,” Frank said with a grim, determined nod. “But this isn’t over, Counselor. Fact of the matter is, I reckon it’s just getting started.”

  Chapter 17

  Nobody took any shots at Frank and Stafford on their way back over the mountains to town, which was a relief considering how hectic this long day had already been. Stafford was curious about Frank’s comment, but he didn’t press for answers and Frank didn’t volunteer any.

  A number of things had happened that puzzled Frank, going all the way back to the attempt on his life the first night he was in Los Angeles. They formed a picture of sorts in his mind, but he needed a lot more information to fill in the missing pieces.

  He had an idea how he might be able to get at least some of that information.

  When they reached the Nadeau Hotel and Dog and the horses had been left at the livery stable, Stafford invited Frank to have a drink with him.

  “No, thanks,” Frank replied with a shake of his head. “I’m a mite tired. I think I’ll go ahead and turn in.”

  “Suit yourself,” Stafford said. “After everything that happened tonight, I need something to steady my nerves a little. I’ll see you in the morning?”

  “Sure,” Frank said.

  He claimed his room key from the clerk and went upstairs, again deciding not to use the elevator. What would happen, he wondered, if the blasted thing got stuck between floors? Or if the cable that lifted it were to snap?

  No, good old-fashioned stairs were plenty good enough for Frank Morgan, thank you very much, he thought with a smile.

  When he reached his room on the third floor, he paused in front of the door and studied it for a moment. More than once in his life, somebody with a grudge against him had hidden in a hotel room, waiting for him to return so that they could shoot through the door at him.

  That had gotten Frank in the habit of walking quietlike whenever he approached a hotel room. Not only that, but he had wedged a small piece of a broken matchstick between the door and the jamb, low, close to the floor, where it wouldn’t be noticed easily. Nobody could open the door without dislodging the matchstick.

  Frank’s jaw tightened as he saw the matchstick was no longer where he’d left it. Instead, it lay on the floor, just in front of the door, where it had fallen when somebody went into his room.

  Frank had a pretty good notion that whoever it was still lurked inside the room, probably holding a gun. He knew he hadn’t made much noise as he approached the door, thanks to the thick carpet runner in the hallway. He moved on past the room, being careful to proceed even more quietly now.

  The Nadeau didn’t have balconies on its upper floors, but Frank had noticed a narro
w ledge that ran below the windows of the rooms. He went to the end of the corridor and opened the window there. When he leaned out into the night air, he heard the clank and clatter of the drilling rigs and smelled the brimstone odor that went with them.

  It looked like a long way down to the concrete sidewalk three stories below him, but Frank had ridden along narrow mountain trails with yawning drops of several hundred feet only inches away. Plus he had faced the guns of countless men who wanted to kill him. Steady nerves was one thing The Drifter had in abundance.

  So he climbed out through the window, onto the ledge.

  It was no more than six inches wide, but that was enough. Facing the wall, Frank began inching along the ledge. Most of his weight was on the balls of his booted feet, but the rough bricks provided a few handholds as well.

  He didn’t look down. No point in tempting fate. The tricky part came when he reached the corner of the hotel and had to navigate it. He got his right foot around the corner, planted his toe on the ledge, reached around with his right hand and dug his fingers into the small gap between the bricks, and took a deep breath.

  Then he swung himself around the corner, holding on for a second with only one hand and one foot.

  He planted his left foot on the ledge and found a grip for his left hand, then paused for a moment to rest. Despite the steadiness of his nerves, his pulse was pounding a little harder than usual.

  When it had calmed down, he started moving again. He had counted the rooms along the hallway, so he knew how many windows he had to pass before he came to the one that opened into his room.

  Some of the windows along the way had gas lamps burning in them, and the curtains were open enough for Frank to see through them if he wanted to. He wasn’t interested in prying into other folks’ business, though, so he looked through the windows only enough to make sure nobody was standing right there to see him making his way past on the ledge. He didn’t want to raise a ruckus, and he sure didn’t want anybody throwing a window open right in front of him while he was so precariously balanced.