The Devil's Legion Page 9

  The rifle cracked yet again. She cried out and stumbled. Frank saw a bloodstain appear on the sleeve of her shirt. She was hit, but the wound didn’t look too bad, maybe just a graze. His long legs covered the ground swiftly, and he caught up with her in a hurry as she continued to stumble. His left arm went around her waist, tugging her into a faster pace. He veered to the left with her.

  Just as he did, he heard another shot and the wind-rip of a bullet past his ear. That one had been close, too damned close. But the trees were only a few steps away now. He lunged toward them and half-carried, half-dragged Laura with him.

  As they entered the growth of pines, Frank slid to the ground and pulled Laura down, too. The hidden rifleman on the other side of the trail fired again, the slug smacking into the trunk of one of the pines. Frank pulled Laura deeper into the undergrowth and told her sharply, “Stay down as low as you can!”

  The bushwhacker couldn’t see them anymore, and the trees grew close enough together so that their trunks afforded quite a bit of cover. Several more shots blasted out, but the bullets didn’t come close to Frank and Laura.

  She whimpered in pain as she lay stretched out on her belly on the needle-covered ground. Her right hand clutched at her upper left arm where she had been wounded. Frank wanted to see how badly she was hit, but that would have to wait until the bushwhacker was no longer a threat.

  The sound of those shots must have carried to the ranch house itself. Somebody had to have heard them and would be coming to investigate. Frank didn’t think the bushwhacker would hang around much longer. The man was more likely to take off for the tall and uncut, rather than risk being discovered.

  Another bullet whistled through the branches of the pines. Laura gasped in fear. From where he lay a few feet away, Frank said, “Take it easy. He can’t see us, and among these trees like this, he’d have to be mighty lucky to hit either of us.”

  “Wh-who is it?” she choked out. “Who’s trying to kill us?”

  “Don’t know. How bad is your arm hurt?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure. All I know is that it burns and aches terribly.”

  That was actually a good sign, Frank told himself. If the bullet had hit bone or torn up the muscles too bad, chances are the arm would still be numb from the impact. The fact that it already hurt probably meant that the wound was superficial.

  Somehow, though, he didn’t figure that Laura would take much comfort from that knowledge right now, so he kept it to himself. Instead he said, “We’ll get you taken care of real soon now.”

  “Are . . . are we going to die, Marshal Morgan?”

  “Not hardly.” There hadn’t been any more shots for the past couple of minutes, and as Frank listened closely, he heard the thud of hoofbeats diminishing into the distance. “In fact, I think that bushwhacker is gone. We’d better wait a few minutes before we move, though, just in case he’s trying to lure us out into the open where he can take another shot at us.”

  If Frank had been alone, he would have stayed where he was for at least another quarter of an hour, just to make sure the silence wasn’t a trick. He didn’t think he could afford to do that, though, what with Laura being hurt and all. After about five minutes, he holstered his gun and scooted over to where she lay.

  “Let me take a look at that arm,” he said.

  Tears streaked her face, but she wasn’t sobbing. She was making an obvious effort to control herself and to be brave. Frank ripped the shirt sleeve at its shoulder seam and slid the bloody fabric down her arm until he exposed the injury.

  As he had thought, the bullet had barely clipped her, leaving a shallow trench a couple of inches long in her upper arm. Blood still oozed from it, but the flow had slowed considerably. If the wound was cleaned and bandaged, probably it would scab over and heal up without any trouble. Laura’s arm would be stiff and sore for a few days, maybe a week, but that would be the extent of it.

  “You’re going to be fine,” he told her reassuringly. He tore a strip off the shirt sleeve and tied it around the wound. Laura winced in pain as he pulled the makeshift bandage tight. “That’ll hold you until we can get you back to the ranch,” Frank went on. “Is there a doctor in San Remo? I don’t recall hearing any mention of one.”

  Laura shook her head. “N-no, the nearest doctor is in Prescott.”

  “No matter. I’ll bet your uncle has plenty of experience at patching up bullet wounds. If he can’t take care of it, maybe the cook can. For that matter, I can do it myself, as long as I’ve got a bottle of whiskey and some clean cloth.”

  “This . . . this doesn’t seem like the proper time for a drink,” Laura said as she summoned up a wan smile.

  Frank grinned at her. “You’d be surprised. A slug of Who-hit-John would likely make you feel a little better right about now.” He got to his feet and reached down to grasp her uninjured arm. “Come on.”

  Her smile disappeared and she looked worried. “Is . . . is it safe?”

  “There haven’t been any shots for several minutes now, and I’m pretty sure I heard the bushwhacker riding off. Chances are your uncle or some of his men will be showing up any minute now to try to find out what all the commotion is about.”

  Frank helped her to her feet. She was a little unsteady at first, but she seemed to get stronger as he led her out of the trees toward the trail. The two horses were still there. By now they had drifted over to the far side of the trail and were cropping at the grass growing there. The shooting might have spooked Laura’s horse enough to make it bolt, but evidently Stormy’s presence had been a steadying influence. Stormy had smelled enough powder smoke over the years that such things were second nature to him by now.

  As they reached the trail, Frank heard the swift rataplan of hoofbeats from the direction of the ranch headquarters. When he turned in that direction, he saw a rider sweep around a bend in the trail and gallop toward them. The strap of the rider’s hat was taut under his chin, and the swiftness of his passage pushed the brim up. As the man caught sight of Frank and Laura, he leaned forward in the saddle, raked his mount with his spurs, and raced toward them even faster. Frank recognized the rugged, mustachioed face of Howard Flynn’s foreman, Jeff Buckston.

  Laura was still a little woozy from fear and loss of blood. Frank helped her to her horse and told her, “Hang on to the stirrup for a minute, until your head settles down. Then I’ll help you get mounted.”

  He turned away from her and stepped out into the trail, lifting a hand in greeting to Buckston.

  Frank expected the rider to slow down, but Buckston kept coming at a breakneck pace. By the time Frank realized that Buckston intended to ride him down, it was almost too late. He flung himself aside. Buckston’s horse thundered by less than a yard away as Frank rolled at the side of the trail.

  “What the hell!” Frank shouted in amazement as he came up onto his feet. “Buckston, have you gone—”

  He intended to say “crazy,” but he didn’t get the chance. Buckston had yanked his horse to a sliding, skidding halt and was already out of the saddle. He charged toward Frank, fists swinging.

  Frank barely had time to block the punches that Buckston flailed at him. “Stop it, you damned fool!” he shouted as he gave ground a little. He wanted to reason with Buckston, but the foreman was making it mighty difficult.

  One of the blows slipped through, and Buckston’s bony fist crashed against Frank’s jaw. The impact made Frank drop his guard, and Buckston landed another punch. Frank grappled with him, trying to slow down the flurry of fists.

  At close quarters like this, Frank heard Buckston mouthing curses, caught the name “Laura,” and heard the phrase “hurt that girl!” He realized that Buckston had spotted the bloody bandage on Laura’s arm and thought that he was responsible for whatever injury had befallen her. He said, “Damn it, Buckston, settle down! I didn’t hurt her!”

  The words didn’t penetrate Buckston’s enraged brain. He got his left hand on Frank’s chest and shoved, putting eno
ugh distance between them so that he was able to land another sledgehammer right that rocked Frank’s head to the side.

  Enough was damned well enough, Frank thought. If he had to knock Buckston on his butt to make the man listen to reason, then so be it. He stepped in and slammed a left hook to Buckston’s solar plexus.

  It hadn’t been much more than twelve hours since Frank had engaged in that brutal brawl with Carl Lannigan, and now here he was again, standing toe-to-toe with somebody and slugging it out. Frank and Buckston were more evenly matched as far as size and weight went, and both men had the rawhide strength and iron constitution that an active, outdoor life had bestowed on them. Buckston was younger, but Frank probably had the edge in experience and guile. He feinted, Buckston went for it, and an instant later Frank’s looping right crashed solidly against Buckston’s jaw. Buckston was driven down to one knee by the blow.

  Frank could have kicked him in the face then, but he wasn’t the sort of hombre who would kick a man when he was down. That hesitation gave Buckston the chance to tackle Frank around the waist and bring him down. Both men rolled in the trail, wrestling with each other.

  They came to a stop with Buckston on top. His hands found Frank’s throat and clamped around it, the thumbs digging in savagely. Frank knew he had only seconds to act before Buckston crushed his voice box. He scooped up a handful of dirt from the trail and dashed it into Buckston’s eyes. Buckston roared in pain as the grit stung his eyes and made him recoil. His choking hands slipped off Frank’s throat.

  Frank arched his back and heaved, throwing Buckston off to the side. He went after the foreman, who was pawing at his eyes, and landed with a knee in Buckston’s belly. That drove the air out of Buckston’s lungs and left him gasping and helpless. Frank hit him again, just for good measure and to make sure that he stayed down.

  “Blast it, Buckston!” he panted. “I told you to . . . take it easy!”

  The sudden crack of a shot made Frank’s head jerk up. He saw Laura Flynn standing several yards away, her Winchester in her hands. Smoke wisped from the rifle’s muzzle. She worked the lever, jacking another round into the chamber.

  “Stop it!” she screamed at Frank. “Stop hurting him!”

  What about me? Frank wanted to ask. Buckston had landed several good punches, and Frank had already been bruised and battered from the fight with Lannigan. He wondered suddenly just what had possessed him to come to the Mogollon Rim country. Ever since he’d gotten here, folks had been shooting at him and punching him. It was enough to make a fella think that nobody wanted him around.

  Laura was still wild-eyed and shaky. Frank kept a close eye on the barrel of the Winchester and said, “You’d better put that rifle down, Miss Flynn. You might shoot somebody without meaning to.”

  “If you hurt Jeff again, I’ll mean to shoot you, all right!” she threatened. “Stand up and get away from him.”

  Frank did as she told him, hoping that would be enough to keep her calm. “Buckston misunderstood what he saw when he rode up,” he said. “He thought I was the one who had hurt you. I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “I . . . I know,” Laura said, sounding a little more rational now. “It wasn’t your fault, Mr. Morgan. But I still can’t let you hurt him anymore.”

  The sound of more hoofbeats came to Frank’s ears. “I don’t reckon you have to worry about that,” he said as he looked along the trail and saw half-a-dozen more riders come tearing around the bend. The big, white-haired figure in the lead was unmistakably Howard Flynn.

  Flynn and the handful of punchers galloped up to the three people in the trail—Laura with the rifle in her hands, Frank dusty and disheveled, with blood leaking from the corner of his mouth where Buckston had clouted him, and the Lazy F foreman lying there coughing, still trying to catch his breath. Buckston rolled onto his side and shuddered.

  Flynn’s deep-set, blue-gray eyes took in the scene rapidly. He drew the pistol at his hip, leveling it at Frank and earing back the hammer. The men with him followed suit. The muzzles of six revolvers stared at Frank.

  “You done good, Laura,” Flynn rumbled. “Mighty good, in fact. Get mounted up and ride on back to the ranch now, fast as you can. Acey-Deucy’ll tend to your arm.”

  “Wh-what are you going to do?” Laura asked.

  Flynn stared grimly at Frank over the barrel of his gun. “We’re gonna give this damned gunfighter his needin’s once and for all, that’s what we’re gonna do.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Maybe you haven’t noticed,” Frank said in response to the cattleman’s ominous words. “That’s a marshal’s badge pinned to my chest.”

  “I see it,” Flynn snapped. “Where’d you steal it, gunfighter?”

  “It’s not stolen. The citizens of San Remo gave it to me. I’m working for them now.”

  Flynn’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “You’re the marshal of San Remo now? A man like you?”

  Frank chuckled humorlessly. “Hell of a note, isn’t it?”

  Laura spoke up, saying, “Uncle Howard, you’ve got to listen to me. Mr. Morgan didn’t hurt me. Someone shot at us. If anything, Mr. Morgan saved my life.”

  Flynn scowled and gestured toward his foreman, who was struggling to sit up. “What about Buckston? Looks to me like Morgan jumped him.”

  “It was the other way around,” Frank said. “Buckston rode up and jumped to the same conclusion you did, Flynn. He thought I was responsible for your niece being hurt. So he tried to ride me down and then attacked me.”

  Flynn looked at Laura, who nodded and said, “That’s the way it happened. I fired a shot into the air to break up the fight because I didn’t want Mr. Buckston to be hurt badly, but Mr. Morgan’s telling the truth about none of it being his fault. Marshal Morgan, I should say.”

  With a dubious grunt, Flynn said, “I still ain’t sure about that part.” But he lowered the hammer on his gun and slid the iron back into leather. Once again, the men with him followed his example.

  Flynn went on. “All right, Morgan, I’m a big enough man to admit it when I was wrong. Don’t expect me to apologize, though.”

  “I wasn’t planning on holding my breath,” Frank said. He looked around, spotted his hat lying on the ground a few feet away, and stepped over to it to pick it up. He knocked the dust off it and put it on.

  Meanwhile, Flynn had dismounted and gone over to Laura. “How bad’re you hurt?” he asked.

  “Not bad. Marshal Morgan can tell you. He bandaged it.”

  Flynn glanced at Frank. “You did that?”

  “Of course. When somebody bushwhacked us from that knoll over there”—he pointed to indicate where he was talking about—“Miss Laura got nicked by one of the bullets. But it just needs to be cleaned up, and it should be fine.”

  “Bushwhacked, eh? You see who done it?”

  Frank shook his head. “Didn’t even get a glimpse of him.”

  One of the Lazy F punchers suggested, “Maybe it was a trick, Boss. Maybe it was one o’ Morgan’s outlaw pards doin’ the shootin’, to make him look good by savin’ Miss Laura.”

  “And what would the purpose of that be?” Frank snapped.

  “Get me to trust you, maybe,” Flynn said speculatively, “so you could get close enough to kill me and collect your payoff from Ed Sandeen.”

  “I’m close enough to kill you now, Flynn,” Frank said in a quiet voice.

  Flynn’s jaw clenched angrily. “Yeah, but you’d never get away from my boys.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that.”

  Several of the cowboys looked nervous, as if they thought the notorious Drifter was going to throw down on them at any second. Instead, Frank went on. “We’re wasting time. You need to get Miss Laura back to the house so that wound can be tended to properly.”

  “Yeah, you’re right about that,” Flynn said. “All right, fellas. A couple of you help Buck get on his horse. Looks like Morgan whaled the tar out of him.”

  Buckston sc
owled at that. He had been almost friendly the day before, but Frank knew that likely wouldn’t be the case in the future. Buckston would feel like he had a score to settle with Frank now.

  Two of the men lifted Buckston to his feet. He shook them off and growled, “I’m all right, damn it.” Somewhat shakily, he managed to get his foot in the stirrup, grasp the saddle horn, and swing up into his saddle.

  Flynn helped Laura mount and then climbed onto his own horse. When he saw that Frank was mounted as well, he said, “Where in blazes are you goin’?”

  “With you,” Frank said. “I rode out here to talk to you, and I intend to do it.”

  “Even if I don’t want you settin’ foot on my land?”

  “I’m stubborn,” Frank said with a thin smile.

  “Huh. As if I hadn’t noticed. Well, come on, then. No point in sittin’ around here jawin’.”

  The group of riders moved off toward the ranch house. Laura rode close beside Buckston, as if she wanted to be ready to reach out and steady him with her good arm if she needed to. She seemed to have forgotten about her own injury, although Frank knew her arm still had to hurt pretty badly. At the moment, though, she was more concerned with Buckston.

  The Lazy F foreman was a lucky man, Frank mused with an inward smile. Laura Flynn was a beautiful, intelligent woman. She might not have been born and raised out here in the West, but she was doing her best to fit in.

  Frank brought his horse alongside Flynn’s and said, “I reckon you heard the shooting and rode out to see what was going on.”

  “That’s right. Buck got there first because he was already part of the way in this direction, I guess.” Flynn scowled. “You didn’t have to beat the hell out of him.”

  “I did if I wanted to make him listen to me,” Frank said. “He was the one who called the tune.”

  “Yeah, well, it may wind up bein’ one you don’t want to dance to.” Flynn was silent for a moment, then he asked, “Do you think that bushwhacker you told us about was shootin’ at you . . . or at Laura?”