No Man's Land Read online

  Dixie wept when she thought about it, wept for the unspeakable cruelty of it all—and the uncertainty of her own daughters’ future.

  Everyone had suffered a loss. The wagon train had melded into a tight-knit family over the hundreds of miles they traveled together. Grown men had become uncles and friends, and boys had become brothers and sons to each of the women and girls.

  For the first little while, Dixie had felt nothing but shock. Pure miserable grief had followed, and she had cried just as hard as all the other women. Now, in the back of her wagon, watching her daughters and wondering what would become of them, she just felt hollow—without hope.

  After their mother’s murder, the Fossman girls had been told to shut up and ride in Dixie’s wagon. Now the poor girls had no mother to look after and console them. To their credit, Dixie’s girls dried their own tears and worked to cheer up the newly orphaned twins.

  Virgil’s death had been a hard thing to take. They were not the happiest of all couples, but in Dixie’s mind marriage wasn’t all about bliss and happiness. It was about raising a family and building something good. Now any hope of that was gone.

  The brutality of her husband’s murder, and all the killings, had taken its toll on each of the women. Judith Fossman had gone mad immediately. She had moaned and sobbed and shrieked at her tormentors, until they’d finally decided she wasn’t worth the trouble or the price they might get for her.

  Poor Carolyn Brandon, who’d watched not only her husband, but her ten-year-old son, murdered on the desolate Kansas prairie, hadn’t spoken a word since the incident.

  Paula Freeman wept and tried to console her three daughters at the loss of the father, who’d doted on all four of them like they were his prize, golden-haired jewels.

  Dixie just felt hollow. The fact that she’d lost a husband didn’t bother her as badly as the girls losing a father. That damned Frank Morgan kept popping into her mind.

  For the better part of the morning after the killings, she’d cursed the famous gunfighter for leaving them to fall prey to such a slaughter. But the more she heard Wilson gloat over his victory, the more she was glad Morgan had moved on. There were too many of them, and they’d struck with such speed and force that even Morgan would have surely fallen to their bullets.

  Harry Ellington had killed two of the outlaws. For his bravery, he’d been left to die slowly with the other dead, shot in the belly.

  Dixie had no idea why they’d stopped. Wilson had ridden off shortly after the ambush, and she assumed they were waiting for him. It was miserably hot and stuffy under the canvas awning of the wagon. The sun beat down unmercifully and shone through in dozens of tiny nicks and holes in the gray covering. Some of the holes were from outlaw bullets.

  Dixie tried to occupy her mind by imagining what she might do to Wilson if she ever had the chance. She felt sorry for Carolyn and Betty, who’d lost husbands and sons. For the first time in her life, Dixie Carpenter found herself glad her own son had died of influenza as a small child and been spared from this senseless slaughter. She tried to think back on her departed husband, but on each attempt, Frank Morgan’s face came drifting into her thoughts.

  She wondered where he’d gone. Wondered where he was right now. He was fond of her. A woman could tell these things. There’d been a look in his steel-gray eyes that said he was put on earth to take care of things—maybe even take care of her.

  The rumble of distant thunder shook her from her thoughts. It was noticeably darker outside, and a cool breath of wind drifted in through the back flap. There was a muddy smell of rain on it. She chanced a peek outside, and saw outlaws checking the picket ropes and their horses in advance of the approaching storm.

  A white squall line moved in front of a black cloud to the northwest, kicking up a column of dust in front of it. Lightning rent the gunmetal sky and sent the smell of sulfur ahead on the wind. Thunder shook the ground and the wagons with it, and all the killers looked up at the approaching storm at the same time.

  Instantly, Dixie felt a calm come over her as if she’d been enveloped by a warm quilt. Morgan was coming for her. She knew it. He had to be, for he was their only hope. She looked at the rank killers out with their horses, and smiled at the thought of what the gunfighter would do to them when he came.

  Chapter 5

  Frank watched from his hiding spot in the low draw as a lone rider appeared just after noon. He’d wanted it to be Steve Wilson so he could take care of everything in one fell swoop. No such luck. Frank figured as much. Wilson was the type to let others do his dirty work.

  Within minutes of the new arrival, the outlaws had their cinches tightened and the mules re-harnessed. They looked to be making for a stand of cottonwoods about two miles away. Cottonwoods generally meant water and with the approaching storm, the train might have to hole up for a while.

  Dixie and the rest of the women had been herded back inside the wagons shortly after the Fossman woman was killed. Frank hadn’t seen Dixie since.

  He stayed well back, to keep from being spotted, but the outlaws looked to be a lot more worried about the storm ahead of them than anyone who might be on their trail.

  It took the better part of an hour for them to reach the line of trees. Frank left Stormy and the packhorse tied to an abandoned wagon wheel, and ran forward a quarter mile at a half crouch to watch the outlaws make camp.

  He was pleased to see they circled the wagons, for although it made a neat fortress against marauding Indians, it would also group most of his entire quarry together making his job a little easier. He doubted they would even post much of a guard.

  From the snake-level vantage point of his belly, Frank could see the women had been allowed out of the wagons again. The wind was in his face, and occasionally he could hear the gruff barks and shouts of the outlaws as they harassed and cajoled the prisoners into making a hasty supper before the rain got to them.

  Frank estimated there were seventeen men. Some of them moved with the cocksure swagger of boys in their teens; others moseyed like they had a few years’ experience. Frank made it a point to watch where the older men spent their time, planning to spend his first rounds on them. With any luck, he could spook some of the boys and run them off.

  He’d been motionless for so long, forming the battle plan in his head, that Frank didn’t notice the ambling coyote until it was almost on top of him. Rolling onto his side, the gunfighter hissed between his teeth. The poor animal, startled out of his skin, nearly turned inside out trying to turn and run the opposite way. Dog gave chase, but luckily the hapless coyote turned away from the wagons. Luckily for Frank, that is. With Dog after him, the coyote didn’t stand a chance.

  Frank made his way back to his horses and prepared for an attack at nightfall. He didn’t so much have a concrete set of plans as an attitude. He’d ride in slowly, loaded for bear, and see what transpired. After what he’d seen, he didn’t intend to give any quarter, and that made his job a heck of a lot easier.

  If he had any kind of a plan it all, it was only a vague one, and it involved saving Dixie Carpenter if there was any way at all to get it done.

  By and large, outlaws were an easy bunch to spook in the dark. They lived a life that had them constantly looking over their shoulders, constantly on guard. It was a tiresome existence, and made them prone to jerking the trigger instead of taking careful aim.

  The rain started about dark. Huge drops at first, far apart enough that a body could ride between them if he took the time. They were warm, and Frank wouldn’t have minded getting a little wet if they hadn’t stung so hard each time they struck. Stormy pinned his ears back in annoyance, but pushed along into the storm as Frank pointed him in a wide circle so he could approach the wagon camp from the north, along the swollen creek.

  About two hundred yards away, he dismounted in the trees and made ready for his assault. First he changed into a pair of moccasins so he could move more quietly and with greater speed. He tucked his boots into the pannier
on the packsaddle and took out his two spare.“45 Colts. Each was well oiled for storage. He wiped off some of the excess grease as he loaded each firearm, shielding them from the rain with his body. He hung one of the side arms in a holster in on his left side, in front of his razor-sharp sheath knife. The other he hung around the horn of Stormy’s saddle, securing the holster with a leather whang in case things turned rodeo.

  He left the 44-40 rifle tucked in its scabbard in the saddle. It might come in handy if he got pinned down, but Frank didn’t intend to let that happen. Instead, he got the double-barreled coach gun out of the packsaddle. He cracked it open to make certain each tube was free of any blockage, dropped in two paper shells of buckshot, and snapped it shut with a quick flick of his wrist. The sound of the street-cannon clicking shut made his heart feel good. It was the perfect weapon for wanton killing, and Frank intended to give no quarter. He dropped a handful of extra shotgun rounds into the pocket of his hip-length leather coat. He’d save as many of the women as he could, but only the outlaws who ran stood a chance of getting out of this alive.

  Frank had heard of killers and rapists going free back East after slick-talking shyster lawyers pleaded their cases for them with half-truths and twisted facts. There was no room for that here. If there was any pleading to be done for these men, it was going to have to be outside the gates of hell, because they’d never have time to see the inside of a courtroom.

  Stormy was as good as they came when on the attack. The stout Appy was brazen in the face of gunfire and went boldly wherever Frank pointed him.

  Two hours after dark, the rain fell in sheets. Frank, drawing his leather coat up around him, moved on the horse like a ghost through the wind-whipped cottonwoods. Lightning periodically flashed across the plain. At each strike, Frank memorized the scene before him and made ready for his attack. So far as he could tell, there was only one guard, sitting with a piece of canvas pulled up over his face. The rest of the men had taken shelter in the wagons, leaving the women crowded into one.

  Lantern light and cigarette smoke poured from the three wagons where the men joked and played cards. The women’s wagon was dark and quiet.

  They were making this much too easy.

  The wind slashed at the trees and the wind blew rain with such a fury, Frank was able to ride to within feet of the dejected canvas-covered guard. A flash of lightning split the darkness, and the gunfighter coughed quietly under his breath, causing the guard to turn and face the gaping barrels of the 12-gauge.

  The outlaw’s head evaporated like an exploding melon. The shotgun’s roar mingled with a roll of earth-shaking thunder.

  Frank dismounted before the body hit the ground, his eyes on the lighted wagons. He snapped open the Greener’s breech and dropped two fresh rounds into the tubes.

  He threw Stormy’s reins around the back wheel of the dark wagon, and poked his head under the flap, his finger to his lips. Both the Fossman girls screamed when they saw him, in spite of his warning. Dixie lit a match and held it up in tiny fingers, looking at him with pleading green eyes. Frank couldn’t remember ever wishing a match would burn forever.

  “I knew you’d come back,” she said when the wagon was dark again.

  “You bet.” Frank tried to hush the girls. “Quiet now and we can all get out of this alive.” He handed Dixie the dead guard’s rifle. “You know how to use one of these?”

  Dixie nodded in the darkness. “I do.”

  “Good. Stay tough. When the shooting starts . . . ”

  “Ferg, everything okay?” One of the other outlaws had come to investigate. No doubt because of the Fossman twins’ screaming.

  Frank put a finger to his lips again and handed the shotgun to a trembling Paula Freeman. His knife hissed from the scabbard at his side. “Around here, checking on the prisoners,” he mumbled.

  “Huh? Ferg, what the hell you doin’ . . . ” The outlaw’s face widened in fear and his hat blew off as he walked into Morgan’s blade.

  It was Judith Fossman’s killer.

  Frank pushed the knife in sharp edge up, and drew the surprised man to him, ripping up through gut and lung. “Little tougher when it’s not a helpless woman, isn’t it, partner?” Frank whispered in the dying man’s ear. He lowered the body to the ground.

  He poked his head back inside the wagon flap. “Are all you women accounted for?”

  Paula nodded and handed back the shotgun as if it might bite her. She was definitely out of her element.

  “Good,” Frank said. “That makes my job a heck of a lot easier.”

  “What job is that?” a wide-eyed Brandon girl asked.

  “Slaughter,” Frank whispered to the frightened redhead. “I intend to kill every last one of these murdering scum.”

  A murmur went through the dark wagon.

  “Good,” Betty Ellington said.

  * * *

  The way the wagons were circled, Frank was able to position himself halfway in between the two that looked to hold the largest number of outlaws. He slogged up in the mud and measured the distance, then took four extra shells out of his pocket for the shotgun. Two he put in his left hand, two he held in his teeth.

  Taking a deep breath, he aimed at the wagon to his left about a foot above the sideboard. He had the element of surprise on his side, and he figured he could get four shots off before he had to face anyone.

  Fire spit from the short-barreled Greener. Frank shot one barrel at a time, spinning to put one round into each of the two wagons to throw them into pandemonium before reloading to repeat the process. He was able to use up all six rounds before wounded and frightened outlaws began to fall and swarm out of the canvas like bees.

  “It’s a posse,” one of the younger kidnappers shouted above the storm and gunfire. Frank dropped the shotgun and cut him down with a round from his .45 as the man started for the horses.

  “Posse my ass,” one of the older men shouted. “It’s Morgan come back for the women just like Wilson said he would. Somebody locate that son of a bitch and kill him.”

  Frank rolled under a wagon full of dead outlaws as a volley of gunfire kicked up the mud at his feet. Evidently, two or three of the older men had been sleeping in one of the dark wagons away from their more boisterous partners. Frank thanked his lucky stars he’d picked the right wagon to look for the women.

  One of the gunmen came rushing around the wagon to the same side as Frank. He was obviously confused by the gunfire and storm. Frank gave the surprised man a smile and drilled him in the belly. The outlaw flailed frantically in the mud, crying out in pain. Another quick shot shut him up for good.

  Rifle fire erupted to his right, and Frank realized Dixie had found a clear shot. Horses squealed in the darkness and hoofbeats echoed through the wind as the remaining outlaws fled into the night.

  After a few minutes, Frank climbed to his feet and counted the dead and wounded men. If his original estimate was correct, three had gotten away. Fourteen men lay in various stages of dying and death in and out of the tattered wagons.

  Once he felt certain the kidnappers had truly run off, he went to check on the women.

  “Hello, the wagon,” he called out well in advance so Dixie didn’t shoot him in the darkness. “It’s me, Morgan.”

  Dixie stuck her head out the canvas. “Is it over?”

  Frank nodded. “For now. Three slipped away, but I don’t think they’ll be back until they get some help. Do you ladies think you could help me get these mules harnessed? I believe we should put a little distance between us and this place just to be on the safe side.”

  All the women nodded, looking relieved to have something productive to do.

  In less than an hour, the four wagons with intact canvas were hitched and eight outlaw horses were tied to the tailgates, their saddles and other tack stowed inside out of the weather.

  Mrs. Freeman sat in the driver’s seat of the last wagon in line. “What about the wounded?” She looked down at Frank and Dixie, who stood besid
e him. “I can still hear them moaning.”

  “They’ll soon be quiet enough,” Frank told her before he turned to Dixie. “We were lucky here. Very lucky. But his isn’t over. They’ll likely be back, this time in force.”

  “They’ll not take us again,” Betty Ellington said, patting the shotgun on the seat beside her. “I’ll shoot my own daughter before I let her fall into the hands of those . . . ” She began to sob.

  Dixie reached up and put a hand on the woman’s knee. “Hush now. Don’t speak of such things. Mr. Morgan has a plan. It won’t come to that.”

  A minute later, nearer Dixie’s wagon, she turned and looked Frank in the eye. “You do have a plan, don’t you, Frank?”

  He nodded. Then he did something he rarely did. He lied. “A plan? You bet.”

  * * *

  Three of the wounded outlaws were still alive and propped up against one of the wagons.

  “If I had time, I’d hang you proper, boys. But trees are in short supply out here,” Frank said, squatting beside the youngest-looking of the bunch. “I reckon there’s a slim chance some of you might survive your wounds, and I’m willin’ to trade you that chance for some information.”

  “That’s a piss-poor excuse for a trade,” an older outlaw with a bloody hand over a hole in his belly groaned from where he lay against a wagon wheel.

  Frank gave a solemn nod. “Well, sir. You’re a piss-poor excuse for a human being, so it all evens out. The way y’all treated those women . . . I ought to plug each of you right now—or let the woman have a go at you. The way I see it, it’s not just Indian women who got a knack for slowly hurtin’ a man. It’s women in general—especially women who’ve been wronged.”

  “I never laid a hand on them women,” the boy moaned at Frank’s feet. “We was under orders not to touch ’em. Swan said they was worth too much money to spoil ’em.”

  “Who’s Swan?” Frank kicked at the young outlaw to keep his attention.