Chapter 6
Owen managed a few hours of sleep a night for the next three nights.
Clive was going to live. Marley was going to keep his leg.
Boone was sitting up to eat, but was too dizzy to stand, so he spent most of those days flat on his back.
Still, he was talking more and making sense.
He still didn’t remember anything from a few days before he was shot.
Besides Delaney, Boone only knew Owen and the others because he’d been told who they were.
But he knew they were headed for Wyoming and Fort Russell.
He might never remember the time right around the attack.
Tex came into the cabin late in the day, along with Morgan. “I’ve just been watching the trail in, but Morg here, he’s been hunting.”
Owen looked at Morgan, dressed to fade into the landscape. He always wore buckskin and made his clothing himself. His broad-brimmed hat was the same tan color, the color of the earth. Morgan could sneak around in the wilderness without being seen, better than anyone Owen had ever known.
“Hunting men or wild game?” Owen asked.
Morgan gave Owen a narrow-eyed look, smiled but didn’t answer. Owen figured that was his answer.
“We’ll be ready to leave in the morning,” Owen said. “You’ve got a back way down, Morg?”
“Yep,” said Morgan, “but it won’t be morning.
We’ll leave when we get back, whenever that is.
Those varmints are a long distance away.
They got to the top of that first hill, and they’ve been hunting tracks and not making much progress.
I’ve got plans for them. Tex is standing watch with me.
” He and Tex had been taking shifts, but now they’d go together.
Owen didn’t ask because he already knew. At least he knew what he’d’ve done.
“One more thing. I told you there were six of ’em. They’re down to four now. Two rode off.”
“Only four, Morg? Can you round them all up?”
He shook his head. “The way they lay out their camp, they’ve made it real hard to close in on them. There’d be shooting trouble, and there’s no need for that.”
Nodding, Owen said, “Careful on the hunt.”
Delaney had more stew ready, and they all ate fast. Afterward, Marley offered to go along on the watch.
Morgan studied him for a while before saying, “You could handle it if you stayed on your horse, but two of us is enough, so you might as well rest up. Once we set out, we’ll be riding hard.”
Marley nodded. Owen was glad to see the man was ready to get back to work.
Morgan and Tex left the cabin and headed into the encroaching darkness.
Stella had awakened the day after Leland was shot to find Beau and Macon had ridden off in the night.
That made Pa mad. Uncle Gordy complained along with Pa, but to Stella he seemed relieved.
Still, she’d failed to stop her pa, Uncle Gordy, and her brother Johnny from going after the men who’d killed Leland.
She was glad her two cousins had gone. They might’ve just saved their own lives. Her only regret was that they hadn’t told her of their plan or asked her to come along. As for Pa, she’d known he wouldn’t quit, but she’d tried.
They’d waited a full day before Pa went up that steep slope, alone and in the pitch-dark of night. She gave him credit for doing what had to be done. He wasn’t the sort of man who sent his children or his brother to risk their lives when he wasn’t willing to do it himself.
Too bad he was risking his life on a fool’s errand.
Once he’d crested the hilltop, he scouted around until he was sure the lawmen who had Clive had indeed moved on. By then the sun had risen and he’d come back to the cliff and waved them all up.
It had occurred to her to beg Uncle Gordy and Johnny to just ride off while Pa was gone, but she decided not to waste her breath.
Once they were together again, they began picking out a trail, proceeding a few feet at a time. They’d had to divide up and try different directions.
The men who had Clive were good at covering their trail.
Her respect for them grew by the hour. She had no idea if they were getting close, but she thought they were going the right way.
If the lawmen were setting a fast pace and knew a way down out of these peaks, they might be halfway to Wyoming by now.
She hoped they made it without another clash between their groups because she was grimly sure it’d end ugly for everyone.
Morgan slid left and nodded at Tex, who slid right. They’d talked it through and felt sure they knew what to expect. These weren’t the most original outlaws they’d ever seen.
The camp had settled for the night by the time the Marshals had arrived to watch over them. They’d posted two guards, one on each side of the camp, situated so that the guards couldn’t see each other.
The Duncans were closing very slowly on Morgan’s cabin. They’d been at it for days, and frankly, Morgan was impressed they’d come the right way. The guards took two-hour shifts, and it wasn’t uncommon for at least one of them to set himself up for sentry duty, then fall asleep.
There were rumors about the Duncans, and yet Morgan, who’d spied on this band, couldn’t identify the men from any wanted posters. The only crimes Morgan knew of for sure were the jailbreak and opening fire on a group of Marshals. Killing Stan was something the Duncans couldn’t run away from.
There’d been some outlaw Duncans, and Morgan figured these were the men, but he couldn’t be sure.
Some men named Duncan had stirred up a good portion of Colorado and Wyoming in the last three years.
Morgan suspected the older two brothers who’d brought their sons into the gang had been outlawing for most of their lives.
When they’d caught Clive Duncan, they hoped to reel in the rest of the gang by questioning him. There’d even been talk of letting Clive off with prison instead of a hanging if he helped bring in his family.
Before they got any information out of him, though, Clive had been busted out of jail in Cheyenne—although busted was the wrong word because busting was noisy.
The Duncans had slipped in real quiet-like, gotten through locked doors and gates, past the guards, and slid out silent as ghosts.
Clive had been missed only when one of the guards brought him breakfast and found the stockade door standing wide open.
There weren’t many tracks, but enough they were sure he’d had help. Naturally his family was suspected.
Clive and whoever helped him had vanished into the night.
Then, over a year later, Clive had rode into town to have a drink at a Denver saloon like the blamed fool he was.
Two town sheriffs had recognized him, arrested him, and then deputized ten men to stand guard over him, considering his earlier jailbreak.
They’d held Clive until Morgan and the other U.S.
Marshals had arrived to transport him. Five Marshals should have been enough, especially when they were asked to transport two travelers to Cheyenne since they were going there anyway with the prisoner.
The son and daughter of Colonel Lionel “Grizzly” Bridger were plenty wise to western ways and tough enough to make things easier, not harder.
But they all knew now how that had turned out.
Seven men in the gang had come chasing after Clive.
Morgan had picked one off as they tried to charge up the cliff, hot on their trail.
Morgan should have brought the ten men along on the ride to Fort Russell. It might’ve headed off their troubles. He inched along, searching for the night watchman.
Finally, the guard came into view. In the dark, Morgan took a while to make out who he was dealing with and decided it was one of the older brothers. The outlaw stood there slouched against a tree.
The man rolled tobacco into a scrap of paper, making himself a smoke.
In the flare of the match, which he should’ve known would give away his position, Morgan saw a big man but lean, as folks tended to be in the West, where they worked hard.
He’d heard these two brothers ran the gang.
He hoped both took this watch. If they captured the leaders, it might send the rest of the group into disarray.
Morgan watched and waited. The man wasn’t on edge. He never moved from the tree, which made it hard to sneak up on him. After finishing his smoke, he slid down the tree and leaned his head back against it.
Five minutes later, Morgan heard snoring.
Asleep on watch.
With cold satisfaction, Morgan eased closer.
He wondered how Tex was doing but wasn’t about to lose focus on this man. It was almost too easy, and that made him nervous. He kept a sharp eye out in case someone came to relieve the sleeping man, but the shifts were two hours long and they never varied.
When he was near enough, Morgan, silent as a striking snake—not a rattler—rammed the butt of his gun against the man’s head with one wicked blow, then tied him up fast and tight like a calf at branding time.
Once he’d gagged the man, Morgan lowered him to the ground and headed for where the Duncans staked out their horses.
When he’d untied all their horses, holding his breath that none of them made enough noise to wake anyone, he led the animals to where he’d left the old man, loaded the varmint up, then headed for his own horse.
He met Tex there with a bundle. Tex draped the other sentry over one of the horses Morgan had brought, and then they made a saddle string, with Tex bringing up the rear. They rode out quick and quiet.
They were well down the trail when Morgan heard thrashing and glanced back. One of the prisoners was awake. They were out of hearing distance, so Morgan said, “Tex, your varmint is conscious. You should have put him into a deeper sleep.”
Tex was a hard man and had liked Stan, so Morgan had expected his friend to apply a sturdier blow to the man he’d caught.