Montana Abbott 9 by Al Cody

Author:Al Cody [Cody, Al]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: action hero, American Frontier, Colt.45, ebook, fiction, Gunfighters, Piccadilly cowboys, Pulp fiction writing, the Old West, Western series
Publisher: Piccadilly
Published: 2022-05-31T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

TOO LATE TO take part, Montana glimpsed the tableau, with no trouble in understanding. In the gloom, Lefty Hoag had mistaken his intended victim, lured by the white hat and its brief change of wearers. If Partridge was not already dead, he was certainly unconscious and would quickly drown.

The killer, satisfied with what he had accomplished, was gone in the night. There was nothing to see when Abbott reached the creek bank. The waters below flowed dark but unbroken. Partridge had gone down, and to find him would be a chancy job, in which luck must play as big a part as effort. There was no time to waste in looking around, either above or below the surface.

Montana hit the water in a clean dive. It closed over him with a chill warning that winter was almost at hand. Leaves on trees and brush were frost twisted, ice filmed the fringes of ponds at higher elevations.

There was no light to serve, nothing to go by except what his hands might find. The first moments of exploration revealed an added hazard.

For years on end, the creek flow had been bitter and turgid, its waters made the receptacle for all the pollution of the camp, by the men who scrambled for gold along its banks. As pressure and population both eased, it was returning almost to a clear flow, so that the sun, sparkling through, glinted on rusted and dented tin cans, broken bottles, wastes ugly and lethal.

At this hour there was neither sun nor moon, only the hazards, natural and man-made, which could trap and hold a helpless or unwary victim. A thin layer of sand and mud had overlain the yielding mass, concealing the mire.

Flailing about, Montana’s hand encountered a bit of cloth, then his fingers closed on an arm. It yielded slightly at his pull, but weight or hold more stubborn than the body alone anchored the other man. Twisting about, Montana planted his feet on the swaying bottom, securing a grip with both hands, and heaved upward. Something came loose, and lifting was easy with the buoyancy of the water, but Abbott’s right foot drove deeper, the muck closing, clinging.

He was upright now, but the water was deep, the surface above his head. He jerked desperately, and one foot loosened, while the other sank deeper.

If he used both hands for swimming, relinquishing his hold on Partridge, he might be able to tear himself free. But holding fast to a dead weight left him anchored, without purchase.

A stubbornness of spirit rebelled. To save his own life by sacrificing another’s would be bitter victory. He tore in a springing double kick, knowing relief as his legs tore loose, the thrust propelling him upward. He drank in air as his head cleared the water, then, holding his limp burden, floundered to shallow water. Staggering and more nearly spent than he cared to think about, he collapsed to his knees, sprawling half on the bank, half in the creek.

Panting like a

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