Montana Abbott 3: Gun Song at Twilight

By Al Cody

Forsman had had more than his fair share of trouble. His partner had bushwhacked him, taken his gold and his wife and left him for dead. Then he met Montana Abbott, a quiet man whose gun did the talking for him. When Forsman’s enemies started gunning for him, Montana fought back. And when Montana fights, a whole lot of people get killed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: May 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005756383

Al Cody

Born in Great Falls, Montana, on July 25th 1899, “Al Cody” was a pseudonym of Archie Lynn Joscelyn. Joscelyn went on to become an enormously prolific and popular writer, especially in the western field, but also authoring a number of novels in the detective and romance genres along the way. In addition to the books he wrote under his own name and that of Cody, Archie Joscelyn also used the names A A Archer, Tex Holt, Evelyn McKenna and Lynn Westland.

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Forsman had had more than his fair share of trouble. His partner had bushwhacked him, taken his gold and his wife and left him for dead. Then he met Montana Abbott, a quiet man whose gun did the talking for him. When Forsman’s enemies started gunning for him, Montana fought back. And when Montana fights, a whole lot of people get killed.

MONTANA ABBOTT 3: GUN SONG AT TWILIGHT

First Published by Lennox Hill Books in 1970

Copyright © 1970, 2021 by Running Dog Publishing, LLC

This Electronic Edition: June 2021

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book / Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Cover Art by Gordon Crabb

Editor: Ben Bridges

Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books

Chapter One

MEN SELDOM SAW a smile on the face of Montana Abbott. That was because he rarely smiled except in moments of repose, or when alone. Now he allowed himself a lopsided grin, stretching his big frame in the saddle, squinting about at the narrowing valley. It climbed with the hills, giving an illusion of nearly level ground despite the high country. The patches of juniper had given way to scraggly fir and pine, whose fragrance lay like a benediction on the air. Montana leaned over to rub the glossy neck of his horse.

I don’t know how you feel about it, he observed. And of course I’d never admit officially to being lost. But the way we’ve been climbing and twisting about, I’d have to concede to being just a mite displaced—

He broke off, his eyes sharpening. A recent thaw had left ragged patches of snow, along with slushy puddles underfoot which had turned icy. Crusted remnants of winter storms clung to the boughs of trees, unmoved by the restless prowling of the wind. A hawk coasted at the rim of the peaks, twisting with a nervous beat of wings as though distrusting something which he had spied below. That was the only warning.

Gun song broke the silence, rolling like a clap of thunder. The sound came from one side and higher up, at once concealed and filtered by the banks of trees. Montana’s cayuse jumped nervously, and its shiver was transmitted to his own body. Almost without thinking, Montana classified the sound of the gun. It was a Sharps, heavy calibered, one of the most formidable weapons developed by the firearms industry.

The late winter sunlight seemed to shimmer; then the sound of a distant waterfall became audible again. Almost in the same moment, a wildly threshing object broke loose from a screen of brush less than a quarter of a mile ahead. It was a horse, tumbling through the air with a grotesque pitching and twisting. In the brief look which Montana was afforded, before it vanished again amid a cluster of trees, it seemed possessed of more than the normal complement of legs. That illusion, he realized, was the result of the arms and legs of a rider falling along with the cayuse.

The disturbed trees swayed and tossed, then grew still. As always, at the imminence of battle, Montana’s heart was pumping a reserve of blood, his breath quickening. His glance searched the ragged crest of the horizon, lingering on patches of covering brush or pine. His horse, tightly reined, snorted an uneasy disapproval.

There was no further sound, no motion. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Montana had seen and heard enough to understand. That bullet had been fired from ambush, with deadly purpose. Whether the murderous intent had been accomplished, and the stricken horse and rider were silent now with the stillness of death, or crouching tersely in fearful expectation, it was impossible to know.

The bullet had certainly found its target, or at least a target. For of course the man might have been the intended victim. Either way, it was not likely to matter. Horse and man had tumbled and plunged for more than a hundred feet. Such a fall, along with the weight of the dead horse, could easily make up for a possible error of marksmanship.

Montana pondered. He was traveling on business—to be one of the first in Montana Territory to attend a regular sky-pilot-conducted wedding at the gold camp of Bannack. Honeycutt’s summons to stand up with him at his nuptials had reached Montana a few days before, a request not to be denied. Honeycutt had been a faithful friend as well as a comrade through the years of war.

But whatever he owed to Honeycutt, or to keeping his own skin whole, there was the even more pressing obligation to a man who might still be alive but was certainly in trouble. No one would be the wiser if he pretended that he had neither seen nor heard anything. This was lonely country, and dangerous. It might be prudent not to climb and investigate.

The sun was already setting in the valleys below, twilight beginning to fall, though light still touched the higher peaks. It could be a long night for an injured or crippled man, left alone. Not that there had been any actual question in his mind except as how best to proceed.

More pines clustered ahead on the trail he followed, these taller, freer of snow. Tying his horse within their shelter, Montana proceeded on foot.

The thought nagged him that he might become the target for another bullet. Men who murdered in such fashion would do so again.

Despite his bigness and a tendency to limp from an old wound, Montana moved with the flowing grace of a prowling cat. The war years had honed him to bone and sinew, but subsequent good eating had restored strength with no excess of fat.

Ahead, there was open ground to cross. Above, the trees and brush swayed and twitched, strongly suggesting that the rider was alive but trapped, trying to free himself. The horse was lodged grotesquely amid the remnants of a sapling pine. Its fall had sheared off branches, snapped off the top. Now the cayuse hung a few feet above the ground. The burdened tree stump sagged outward, threatening to break off.

Gaining a better view as he approached, Montana saw that the man hung below the horse, head down. One foot was still held by a stirrup, caught so that it refused to slip loose. Should the stump of tree give way, the full weight of the horse would pile over him.

Slowly but surely, the weight of the dead animal was beginning a fresh slide. Panting from the climb, Montana reached it, but there was no time to take careful measure, to insure his own safety. Grabbing the imprisoned foot with both hands, he gave a twist, jerking.

Every rule of reason was violated as he was forced to stand below the slipping animal, aggravating the movement by pulling. His effort freed the imprisoned foot, but at that same moment the bending tree trunk snapped like a gunshot, releasing half a ton of weight. Montana threw himself backward, still holding to the foot, and together with the other man, rolled and slid a dozen feet, while the dead horse went past, sliding another score of feet.

The tumble was doubly lucky. In that same moment the invisible rifle thundered again, a venomous snarl which came a fraction too late. It growled again as they sprawled, and the lead kicked dirt in Montana’s face. As he scrambled on hands and knees to reach the shelter of trees just at the side, the other man was right beside him.

Such agility seemed to indicate that he had suffered no serious hurt in that plunge with his horse. On the other hand, terror could inspire an injured man to almost superhuman feats.

The rifle tried again as they plunged among the trees, then lay flat, panting. The sequence was understandable. Nervous with haste, the gunman was forced to reload for each shot, and up to now they had won the race.

Montana could take small comfort from that. These were scrubby trees at best, none being of a size to hide behind. The heavy bullets of a Sharps could rake and chop, deadly as an axe.

If they remained, it would be only a question of time.

But making a break for better cover, crossing open ground, would leave them equally vulnerable. In most war games, attack was the best defense. Here it was the only chance. Montana swung about, and his companion spoke for the first time.

Watch your step, friend. He’ll have a six-gun.

That was probably true, and now the range might be close enough for the revolver. But the last couple of shots had given him a good idea where the gunman lurked. Sure, Montana agreed. So do I. You wait.

With the words he was gone, bent low, running, gun in hand.

The last of the sunlight, flickering along the ridge tops, caught a steel barrel and reflected back. Montana fired at the flash, and again he blessed his luck. The hunter had been running to narrow the gap, and Montana’s shot had spoiled his own.

Montana returned, a quarter of an hour later, to where the other man waited.

Seems like he didn’t hanker for a shoot-out on even terms, he reported laconically. He beat a fast shuck out of there, keeping to cover. Now he’s on his horse again and persuading himself about the better part of valor.

He’ll live to bushwhack another day, eh? Well, I’ll settle for that. Somehow I don’t hanker for a gun lullaby to put me to sleep.

Montana regarded him more closely, able to get a good look for the first time. In the words he sensed a kindred spirit, a man who was equally scared of the realities, but able to laugh in the face of danger.

That plunging fall with his stricken cayuse, smashing through brush and tree branches, had taken a toll. The victim resembled a beefsteak, beaten and ready for the pan. He was of average size and build, scratched and bloody, his clothing torn. Whether he was pushing middle-age or it was crowding him, he had the look of a veteran of the long trails; his black hair was liberally salted with gray. Coming upright, he grinned wryly, limping, and essayed to take a few tentative steps.

Reckon I’m in better shape than I look, he decided, thanks to you.

Montana gave him an arm for support.

Guess we’d better keep moving, he suggested, ’fore you get too stiff to stir. You can ride my horse. The bearded face grimaced, but accepted the offer. There was a likable quality to the man.

In turn, he was taking note of the bigness of his rescuer, the easy-muscled power which all but carried him as they descended the hillside. There was a jaunty uptilt to the sweep of mustache above a stubborn jaw, a glint of humor in otherwise frosty eyes. The guns in twin holsters were striking, pearl-handled, inlaid with gold.

Make me look like a gunman or a fool, don’t they? Montana observed, noting his glance. But they shoot straight, and I sort of inherited them.

Guns are an extension of the man who owns them, was the surprising retort. They can be fangs to rip and kill—or serve as peacemakers.

Your philosophy matches mine, friend. And where would you find a more peaceful setting—as of the moment?

Crimson touched the crests above; then the sun