Sons of Some Dear Mother Page 8

  Frank had just nine pistol slugs left in his guns when the tide turned.

  From somewhere beyond the battle zone, rifles spanged sharply and hoofs clattered with a sharp ring on frozen ground. The bad men howled in confusion as they began to fall. They glimpsed the menacing figures of charging horsemen attacking through the snow.

  Nobody called retreat: Henry Lowe and the Murdock Gang simply fled, fighting a rearguard action. A tall and overweight federal lawman led his riders after them, across bloodied snow. As Casey and Hugh Daniels gaped in astonishment, Frank reefed a door open and went charging out, dragging his leg, to join in the rout.

  Somehow, as the bad men fought their way to their horses and mounted up, big Frank worked his way ahead of the lawmen. He slid to a halt in a low crouch, shooting one man out of the saddle and clipping another.

  From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a broad-shouldered rider with tawny hair flowing to his shoulders and a .45 in his fist.

  Frank dived into the snow as Henry Lowe went by, teeth locked, six shooter still blazing. A combination of poor light and the speed of Frank’s spinning roll into a snowdrift prevented accuracy.

  By the time Frank rose, the last hellion was out of range.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE DEAD NUMBERED THIRTEEN

  Marshal John Blythe loved his food. Even at times of high drama or deep depression, he could always set himself down before a big platter of vittles and dig into it as though there was no tomorrow.

  In the wake of the rout of the outlaws, John Blythe felt – well, hungry. He was, of course, pleased that he had been able to save brave men from certain death, and that he had given Henry Lowe and his Murdock Gang some hurry-up before they got away. But being unable to pursue the gang because of the condition of his horses left him a little dejected, even though his deputies kept cheering him by coming into the hotel with reports on fresh casualties.

  The tally stood at seven outlaws since his deputies had found another man dying of wounds in a back alley under a tree. He had not been able to get away – alive, at least.

  Marshal Blythe speared a fat sausage and munched aggressively. Seven, plus the others that the Daniels had killed tallied up to thirteen of the gang killed. Thirteen! He only wished to God he had more men like them, especially big Frank who had virtually fought off the enemy on his own. Too bad the brothers would not be joining him now, when he pushed on after the remnants of the gang, he reflected.

  Blythe glanced up from his plate at sounds from the street. Two of the Daniels brothers wearing crêpe armbands rode slowly into view, followed by a buckboard driven by the large one called Frank.

  The day was bitterly cold, and the brothers were heavily rugged up, Frank with an Indian blanket over his legs. The big man was pale, but the marshal noted that he sat straight. The hands on the reins were firm and steady.

  It took something important to draw Marshal John Blythe away from a half-finished meal, but he rose now to set his hat on his head. Then he went to the rack and shrugged into his greasy sheepskin coat before moving to the double doors.

  The Daniels had turned in to the hitch rail for a word with the deputies. Marshal John Blythe threw a half salute as he walked out into the wet falling snow. The Daniels brothers looked much recovered from the previous day’s shootout, but there was no mistaking the immense grief they were all suffering.

  Marshal John Blythe glanced at the armbands and then said, ‘My men tell me you had a funeral this morning?’

  All the Daniels nodded in response, and Casey said, ‘Virgil’s at peace now. Can we leave it to you to guarantee they don’t plant any of those vermin in the same graveyard as our brother, Marshal?’

  ‘You have got my word, son,’ Marshal Blythe answered sincerely. ‘Headin’ back to Blue Springs Creek, are you then?’

  ‘It will be a spell before I can sit a saddle,’ big Frank conceded reluctantly, and Blythe saw that his face was sheened with sweat. ‘I guess I will need some nursin’ . . . and maybe my brothers will need time to recover from what happened here.’

  ‘Sensible decision indeed, Mr Daniels.’ John Blythe serviced his teeth with a combination toothpick and ear cleaner. His teeth were worn down by a lifetime of heroic performances at the table. ‘At least you can rest easy, knowin’ I will be continuing the hunt for the dirty hellions who killed your brother. You will hear about it if anything happens, and I sure hope to hell it does.’

  ‘Then our tracks might just cross again, Marshal,’ Frank said. ‘On the trail, I mean.’

  Marshal John Blythe stared.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said with a frown. ‘You are giving up on this foolishness now, aren’t you?’

  It was big Frank’s turn to stare in response.

  ‘Give up? What are you talkin’ about? We will give up when they are all dead, and not a moment before. Understand?’

  ‘But you have lost two brothers already, and you are hurt bad yourself,’ Blythe protested. ‘What is it you want – to keep goin’ until you have all been buried by this gang?’

  ‘You are not suggestin’ we rely on you to finish the gang for us, are you, Marshal?’ Frank Daniels asked coldly.

  This was a harsh thing to say to a man who had just saved your life, but Blythe understood. He had been engaged in the full-time pursuit of Henry Lowe and the Murdock Gang for going on three years now, and yet they were still at large – the majority of them, anyways. If the band was in poor shape at the present moment, it was not due to his efforts, but rather to the five men he had blithely dubbed ‘amateurs’ down in Blue Springs Creek.

  Yet he had to say, ‘You would be a fool even to think of continuin’ this chase, Mr Daniels. I know the Murdock Gang better than you do, especially Henry Lowe. He is alert to you now, and you will never get the jump on him again. And that outlaw is vengeful. It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that he will now come lookin’ for you without waitin’ for you to chase him again.’

  Frank’s smile was serious and grim.

  ‘Now that is something I just hope happens, Marshal. Maybe I will put a piece in the papers, tellin’ him where to find me.’

  Marshal John Blythe realized that the big man really meant what he said.

  Then it hit home.

  He knew who Frank Daniels reminded him of. Himself! Not the slow, graying, overweight John Blythe of Cibola Hills, Wyoming, but the young, remorseless manhunter he had once been.

  Frank Daniels was the marshal as he had been nearly twenty years ago!

  Taken aback by this revelation, the marshal stopped trying to talk the brothers out of their decision. Nobody had ever succeeded in dissuading him from anything he had set his mind to when he was younger. Nor when he was older, either, for that matter, he had to confess. He knew he would still continue to drag his aging body around the West in Henry Lowe’s bloodied boot prints, even though he was more acutely aware than ever that there were younger, better men available for the job.

  He would keep after this man until one of them was dead. Just like Frank Daniels would.

  Marshal Blythe stepped back from the buckboard and saluted once more. ‘Take care, gents. And good luck to you.’

  Some of the iron left big Frank Daniels’ pale and pained face.

  ‘We owe you one, Marshal. We won’t forget. You have my word.’

  ‘You could repay me best by staying out of this. Go home,’ Marshal John Blythe replied, giving it one last try.

  ‘If I ever give up on this, you will know I am dead, Marshal,’ came the uncompromising answer.

  Frank slapped the horse with the reins, and the Daniels were heading for the trail, followed by the admiring eyes of an entire town.

  Marshal John Blythe was deeply sad. Sad to think he might never see any of those brothers alive again.

  CHAPTER 12

  OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES

  Uncle Birch Murdock was coughing harshly. He had been coughing for damn near two days straight now and showed no sign of
letting up. The old bad man had picked up a chill in the Cibola Hills, and he could not seem to shake it off. Of course, being a mean old coot with a rugged image to uphold, he was not about to take good care of himself, either. Nobody could get him to wrap up in front of a roaring fire. His sole concession to pain and lung congestion was to sip continually from a bug jug. The contents brought a flush to his cheek and a tear to his eye whenever he got to thinking of the dead.

  Not the gang’s dead in general. Just his niece, Rhonda. And Solly Murdock. He had had a lot of time for big Solly. Now both were gone. By hell, what he would not do to have big Frank Daniels hogtied for half an hour!

  Uncle Birch coughed again, and Henry Lowe told him to stopper it.

  ‘Just what I always wanted,’ Birch said sourly. ‘A lovin’ boy to look after me when I am ailin’.’

  ‘I don’t know which is worse, old man – that death rattle or your flappin’ tongue. Put a stop to both of ’em – or I will,’ Henry snapped.

  Not only Uncle Birch Murdock, but every man present was silent after that. They could read the signals. Henry Lowe was primed to blow. He had never taken defeat well. It was not in his nature. And Cibola Hills had been a defeat, and no mistake. The outlaws had failed to pry the Daniels brothers loose from their house, and then had failed to anticipate the arrival of the lawmen. That added up to failure, no matter how you looked at it.

  Henry Lowe would never admit to blame, but he secretly blamed himself for the Blythe incident. In his growing preoccupation with the Daniels, the outlaw had all but forgotten plodding Marshal John Blythe. The outlaw had made Blythe look foolish so often that he expected to do it all the time. After their last run-in, down in the Indian Nations, Blythe was left wandering in the badlands with no idea where the gang had gone.

  If Henry Lowe had thought of Blythe at all after that incident, it had been only to picture him floundering around somewhere down South, sniffing around jail houses, dives and backwater hideaways in a vain search for a lead. But Marshal John Blythe had been able to follow the Daniels. They had left pretty clear tracks, and corpses, too. . . .

  Henry Lowe leaned from the window of the Cheyenne Hotel and fixed a sour stare on the winter landscape. How he hated the cold! The South called to him, but something else was more insistent. He surveyed deserted railroad yards and acres of empty cattle pens. An urge to ignore common sense or even sanity nagged him to return to Cibola Hills and finish what he had begun. He wanted all the Daniels brothers dead, and he wanted to be the man to kill each and every one of them.

  The outlaw was arguing with himself. There was a bank to rob over at Big Horn, and then a clean getaway all the way to the sun-washed Southwest, and then another big job that might net more in one stroke than all their other jobs put together. Excitement, action, success – and sunshine. He wanted it all, and he wanted even more than that. He wanted to flirt with dark-eyed women, and maybe even help the old man of the gang, his uncle, to stop coughing his insides out.

  Opposing all this was the almost overpowering compulsion to act like a fifteen-year old punk hard case and head back to Cibola Hills.

  Henry Lowe shivered. He had fought this battle before, and if he was lucky enough to live a long life, he would no doubt fight it again and often. He lunged from the overheated building and went trudging through the snowdrifts behind the hotel to allow his brain to cool.

  He was without a coat or hat as he stood on a corner, freezing in the icy wind while he thought about the dead family and gang members he had lost. He would miss them, especially big Solly. It made his blood congeal each time he thought of how Frank Daniels had anticipated Solly’s movements and waited for him to take the bridge over the river.

  Seeing Daniels’ face again in his mind’s eye, he lived with the certain knowledge that one of them would not make it through the river. That made him realize that at least subconsciously, he had reached his decision. Already he was thinking in the long term, not the impetuous here and now.

  Every man in the Murdock Gang was relieved to see the change in him when he returned from his sub-zero walk. He even half apologized to his uncle before announcing that they would push on west, for the bank job, in about an hour’s time.

  ‘We are goin’ to have us a fine old time down South after that, you and me, Uncle Birch. We’ll give those law dogs hell,’ he promised with a smile, ‘and just you wait until you see the job I got in mind. You will be rich and healthy, and we’ll forget the bad things that have happened to us up here.’

  ‘You are a good man, Henry,’ Uncle Birch Murdock grinned. ‘Would you like some of the special stuff I got hold of, to drink a toast to the South?’

  The moonshine Uncle Birch produced was a far cry from the Tennessee bourbon they drank when things went their way, but it was real whiskey with a robust, masculine fire that settled in the stomach in a way to make any man feel good.

  Uncle Birch was full of pep and good nature by the time they set out nearly an hour later, but he kept right on coughing, and all through the following week, when they successfully robbed the Big Horn bank.

  Then the old hellion took a turn for the worse in a little Colorado cowtown, and they buried him the next day. That was a signal mark of respect from a gang where even a man’s best friend could be left to rot where he fell dead.

  Henry Lowe, Doc and Gila all took the old man’s death especially hard.

  Henry put the blame for Uncle Birch’s death on the Daniels, and vowed that after just one more job, the gang would be going back to Blue Springs Creek, Missouri.

  The quietness of Blue Springs Creek seemed more noticeable than at any time ever before that day. Leaning on a cane, Frank Daniels limped the length of the main street to the empty cattle pens, crossed the street and started back.

  No snow had fallen in that part of the country since the brothers’ return, and the cold was unrelenting. Frank was still pale, and even though he wore a heavy, wool-lined coat, it was clear that he had lost weight since Wyoming. Blood poisoning from the bullet had set in and he had been laid up for nearly ten days upon his return. He had had a suite at the hotel with the medico calling on him twice a day, and Marlene Welch and Lucy Keller taking turns to nurse him back to health.

  Nothing had been heard of Henry Lowe and the Murdock Gang since Cibola Hills. There was a rumor circulating that Lowe and his uncle had both died from wounds sustained in the Cibola Hills siege. Frank, of course, did not buy it. He would not count Henry Lowe dead until he saw the corpse, riddled with his own lead.

  Marlene glanced up from her paperwork and saw only one person visible in the chill, rutted street. Her heart was in her eyes as she watched the way Frank Daniels leaned on the cane and swung his right leg. She had seen his pain, nursed him through raging fevers, and calmed him when the nightmares tormented him. He would never know how gentle she had been to him when he was out of his head, and she treasured the intimacy they had shared without his knowledge.

  Marlene Welch was storing up memories. She knew what would happen when Frank Daniels was well enough to shed the cane again.

  She would be alone . . . alone once more.

  At the sound of a quick, light step, she lowered her head and pretended to be engrossed in her work. Lucy Keller appeared at her side. She wore a simple gingham dress with lace at the wrists and throat, looking more like a young schoolmarm than ever. Lucy could sing like a bird, and the paying customers loved her, but Marlene knew the girl did not belong in a saloon.

  ‘Miss Marlene?’ Lucy’s voice was tense.

  ‘What is it, honey?’ Marlene replied.

  ‘Do you have a minute?’ the girl politely asked.

  For as long as she could, Marlene continued to stare down at her ledger. She sensed what was coming, and she was not sure of what to say. Marlene was not the only woman in Blue Springs Creek in love with a Daniels, and the feeling between Lucy and Casey had deepened since the brothers’ return. The boy was a constant visitor from the spread.

&nbs
p; ‘Miss Marlene?’

  With a sigh, Marlene set down her pen and looked out again. The towering figure in the bulky overcoat was leaning against the hitch rail outside Percy Claymore’s dry goods store, setting a light to a cigar. She felt for the man, and she was angry, too – angry that she had fallen in love with a man like Frank Daniels.

  ‘What is it, honey?’ she finally asked, leaning back and turning her swivel chair.

  ‘Miss Marlene, Casey is in the kitchen eating hotcakes. . . .’

  ‘He’s a growing boy,’ Marlene replied. ‘Nothing wrong with him eating, is there?’

  ‘No,’ Lucy said. ‘Please, Miss Marlene, this is no joking matter. What I mean to say is that he just said Frank told him and Hugh to get ready for a trip, maybe a long one. Did you know about that?’

  Marlene Welch glanced away as she said. ‘I knew they would be going sooner or later.’

  ‘But they can’t, Miss Marlene. It was a miracle Casey wasn’t killed before. I am not going to stand and watch him ride off again, probably to his death. I won’t!’

  ‘Calm down, Lucy. Nobody said they are going to die,’ Marlene reassured the girl.

  ‘You are thinkin’ the same thing I am!’ Lucy accused.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Marlene snapped.

  ‘You are not so hard to read as you might think. I’ve seen you fretting. You know what Frank has in mind, and you are just as fearful as I am, but you don’t want to admit it. You don’t want Frank Daniels to know how much you worry about him, or how you dread what might happen if they hunt those outlaws again. Don’t you see, Miss Marlene? We are both the same. The only difference is that you won’t admit it. But I want you to. And I want you to go to Frank and tell him how you love him, and how crazy it would be for him to take Casey and Hugh away again. Will you do it, Miss Marlene? Will you do it for both of us?’