Imposter (16 page)

Frank picked up the trail of the gang and began following it, heading south. He felt without any doubt that the gang would soon split up into smaller groups; he also felt they would eventually wind up in the same spot: Val Dooley's hideout in the area known as the Wilderness.

A few hours after the abortive raid against the town, the gang split up into half a dozen smaller groups. Frank kept on the trail of the larger group heading straight south; that was the group he was sure had the women. He felt that Val Dooley would not let any of the others have their way with the women until he personally had raped them. Being the leader of a gang does have its privileges.

Judging from the imprint the horses' hooves made in soft earth, none of the women were doubled up on a single horse. As near as Frank could figure it, he was following sixteen people. Six women and ten of the Dooley gang, including Val.

Then the gang went into a shallow river in an effort to lose any pursuers by hiding their tracks. It's a good trick, and it will throw off dogs and inexperienced trackers, but it seldom works with any experienced tracker.

It didn't with Frank, and he only lost about an hour before he was once more on the trail of the Dooley gang.

Approaching darkness forced Frank to call a halt and to make camp. It was just as well, for Stormy was getting tired.

Frank built a hat-sized fire, and while water for coffee was boiling, he fried some bacon and then thin-sliced a potato into the bacon grease, and had that and some of Paul's fresh-baked bread for his supper. He used another hunk of bread to sop up the grease left in the pan and ate that. Then, over the first cup of coffee and several cigarettes, Frank allowed his mind to think more deeply on the fate of the hostages. The images he conjured up were not pleasant.

He was sure that some, if not all, of the hostages had been assaulted by now. All of them had probably been beaten into submission.

Frank got killing mad at the thought. And he knew in his mind right then, at that quiet thoughtful moment by the campfire, there would be damn little mercy shown to any member of the Val Dooley gang . . . not by him. And he was going to get those women back home. He couldn't guarantee what shape they would be in, but if there was any way short of making a deal with the devil, he would get them back home.

Then he let the golden image of Lara slip into his mind.

Bad mistake. For that only served to make Frank even angrier. He felt his blood run hotter and his emotions get all choked up.

If anything were to happen to her . . .

If she were to be killed . . .

He fought those thoughts away and tried to roll another cigarette. His suddenly trembling fingers made a mess of the first attempt. He angrily threw the wadded-up papers and what remained of the tobacco into the fire and fought back his hot anger.

This won't do,
he thought, steadying his raging mind and calming his white-hot musings.

He sat still for a moment, calming his inner emotions, then, with steady fingers, rolled a cigarette and poured another cup of coffee. He had successfully mentally banked his fires of rage. But he could and would allow the flames to roar into an inferno when the time was right. And God help any Dooley gang member who was in the way when that happened.

God would have to help the outlaw . . . Frank Morgan sure as hell wouldn't.

* * *

Frank doggedly followed the trail of the Dooley gang. At midmorning of the second day out, he found where the gang had camped the night before. He found a piece of torn dress and the remnants of a woman's undergarments.

Frank squatted by the rags of clothing and softly cursed. The attacks on the kidnapped women had begun.

And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. At least, not yet, he thought. Frank put the torn rags in his saddlebags, to keep as evidence, and swung back into the saddle. Three or four hours behind them, he told himself. Only three or four hours. But he knew better than to push Stormy any harder than he already was. The big Appaloosa was as game as any horse on the trail, but he had his limits.

Frank maintained a steady pace, stopping often to let Stormy rest. He nooned by a little creek, taking time to brew a pot of coffee and eat some bread, then was back in the saddle. And he was closing the distance between him and the gang. He could tell by the freshness of the horse droppings. And their horses were getting tired; the gang had been pushing them hard and it was telling on the animals. He was now maybe two hours behind the gang, at most.

A hour later, Frank caught a faint whiff of smoke. A few minutes later, the smell of smoke was mixed in with the odor of bacon frying. He had found somebody. Whether it was the gang or some traveler, he would soon know.

He left Stormy ground-reined and taking his rifle, Frank began cautiously working his way through the timber, following the scent of smoke and bacon frying.

He froze still when he heard someone say, “I don't like this a-tall, Danny. I just don't like sittin' here like a dummy waitin' for Morgan to show up.”

“Relax, Shorty,” Danny told him. “Morgan's half a day behind us. We'll eat and then we'll get in place to kill the bastard.”

“And what if he's only half a hour behind us?”

Danny laughed and Frank worked closer. He could see the two outlaws.

“Huh?” Shorty laughed. “Don't laugh at me, Danny. What if he's closer?”

“He ain't that close, Shorty. I can feel it.”

“You're right about that,” Frank said, stepping into the clearing. “I'm right here.”

Shorty grabbed for his six-gun and Frank put a .44-40 slug in his chest. The bullet knocked Shorty back, shattered his heart. The outlaw was dead before he hit the ground. “Don't kill me, Morgan!” Danny yelled, fear making his eyes wide.

“Oh, I'm not going to kill you,” Frank assured him. “We're going to have a nice long talk, you and me.”

“Huh? What are we gonna talk about?”

“You're going to tell me everything about Val Dooley.”

“No, I ain't, Morgan. I'm more feared of Val than I am of you. I ain't gonna tell you a damn thing.”

Frank walked to the man and gave him the butt of his rifle on the side of his jaw. Danny hit the ground out cold.

When he woke up, he was stripped naked and tied to a tree. He could see Frank squatting by the fire, doing something. “This ain't decent!” Danny hollered.

Frank turned his head to look at the man, contempt in his eyes. “You kidnap and rape women, some of them no more than children, and you talk to me about decency?”

“What are you doin' with that fire, Morgan?”

Frank stood up, a running iron in his gloved right hand. The tip of the running iron was glowing red hot.

“What the hell are you gonna do with that, Morgan?” There was a slight hint of hysteria in the man's voice.

“I told you, Danny. We're going to have a long talk.”

“You ain't gonna burn me, Morgan. You a lawman, you can't do nothin' like that. It ain't legal.”

“Neither is kidnapping and rape, Danny.” Frank took a step toward the naked, trussed-up outlaw.

Danny's eyes bugged out in fear and Frank came closer. Danny's eyes were on the glowing tip of the running iron. He shook his head. “I don't know nothin', Morgan. I swear to you, I don't.”

“You're a liar, Danny. You better talk to me and you better start right now.”

Danny shook his head. “I won't! I won't!”

* * *

Actually, Danny had quite a lot to say to Frank about Val Dooley and his gang and his hideout and how to get there.

Frank touched Danny only once with the hot tip of the running iron, on the leg. After that, the words fairly flew from the outlaw's mouth. He began talking so fast, Frank had to slow him down a couple of times.

All the women had been assaulted, Danny said. But he, of course, denied having touched any of them. It was all the others, but not him.

Frank took Danny to the nearest town, which was a half day's ride away, and told the marshal to lock him up and keep him locked up.

“What happens if you don't come back for him?” the marshal asked nervously.

“Then you can shoot him,” Frank said.

“Oh, hell!” Danny said. “I'll tell you everything, Marshal. You can write it down and I'll sign it. Just get me away from Morgan. That's all I ask.”

“That's good enough for me,” the marshal said. He looked at Danny. “You goin' to prison for a long time, mister.”

“Long as Morgan leaves me alone,” Danny said. “That man's as mean as a damn rattlesnake.”

Frank provisioned up—including a sack full of dynamite—and rode out. He didn't need to pick up the trail; he knew exactly where the hideout was. He knew how many men were in Val Dooley's gang.

What he didn't know was how he was going to rescue the women. He'd work on that little problem once he reached the hideout in the Wilderness . . . and managed to get in alive. And that was something that might prove to be no small feat.

He came up on the remains of a woman. She was lying by the side of the trail, naked, the side of her head bashed in. Rigor mortis had not yet set in, and the buzzards and ground varmits had not yet found her, so Frank figured the body had been dumped no more than an hour or so before. Frank did not recognize the woman, so he could only assume she had been taken on another raid by the gang. Frank had no shovel, so he piled rocks on top of the body, said a few quiet words to the Lord, and resumed trailing the gang.

As soon as he forded a small river, Frank knew he was in the Wilderness, for the country abruptly turned decidedly wild and rough. He also lost the trail he had picked up shortly before finding the body of the woman.

No matter,
he thought, taking off his hat and wiping his forehead.
I know where I'm going and how to get there. But caution is going to have to be the key word from this moment on. The gang knows I'm following them, and since Shorty and Danny did not rejoin them, they'll be waiting for me.

Frank deliberately left the trail Danny had outlined for him, and began a wide circle, planning to come up at the rear of the outlaw encampment. He doubted they would be expecting that. At least that was his fervent hope.

This was, so Frank had learned, California's haven for criminals. The Wilderness boasted a little outlaw town consisting of, Danny had been very eager to point out, a saloon, a store, a café, and a hotel where the more affluent outlaws could stay, for a price. If they didn't have the money for a hotel room, they stayed in tents or in one of the many shacks that dotted the “town.”

Danny had also told him that many of the West's most notorious gunslicks, killers, and outlaws called the place home, sometimes for months at a time. When they ran low on money, they would leave to pull a job, then return. Lawmen who had gone into the Wilderness after various desperadoes had never come out.

This was very rugged country, with mountains ranging from six thousand to ten thousand feet, with winding canyons—many of them dead ends—and hundreds of places ideal for a deadly ambush. But that would work both ways, Frank thought with a small smile.

When he drew a few miles closer to the outlaw town, Frank would go in on foot. He could move a lot faster through the rough country that way, and duck into any of hundreds of nature's hidey-holes very easily.

That evening, Frank built a small fire and fixed the last hot meal he would probably have for several days. He fixed bacon and potatoes and made some pan bread and coffee, and then doused the fire. With a pot of hot coffee at the ready, Frank rolled a smoke and leaned back against his saddle. He allowed hard thoughts to once more creep into his mind: thoughts of what had happened and was surely still happening to the kidnapped women. He could but guess at the sheer terror the women must be experiencing. Over his second cup of coffee, Frank made up his mind. Once the women were safe, he was going to destroy the outlaw town.

Blow it up, burn it down, and kill any woman-abusing bastard that got in his way.

Frank rolled another cigarette and took a sip of hot coffee. He felt a lot better now. Now that he had a firm plan in his mind.

He was looking forward to the dawning.

Frank found a dandy spot to leave Stormy: a shady little cul-de-sac with graze and water that was spring-fed. Stormy would have plenty to eat and drink and a good place to roll when he felt like it. Frank rigged some fresh-cut brush in front of the opening, loose enough so Stormy could break out if Frank didn't return. Frank stashed his spurs in his saddlebags, and slung his bedroll and saddlebag and took off walking toward the outlaw town, carrying his rifle in his left hand and the sack of dynamite and caps in the other hand.

Frank enjoyed walking—unlike many Western men of his time—and he was in excellent physical shape. He hadn't walked long, maybe an hour, when he began to smell wood smoke. Another fifteen minutes and he topped a rise and looked down on the outlaw town, and it was a crummy-looking place. Frank softly whistled at the size of it—there must be fifty or sixty men inhabiting the place.

More than Frank had counted on.

He studied the layout of the town for several minutes, then eased off the ridge and into some thick brush to do some thinking. He had not seen any sign of the kidnapped women, and had no idea where they might be held, or even if they were still alive.

He made his way out of the brush and cautiously worked his way around to the rear of the outlaw town, staying on the ridge, which ringed about half of the town, then gently tapered down into flats. He saw no sign of any guards, except on the main road leading into the town. The outlaws were either supremely confident of their inaccessibility from outside forces, or a pack of fools. Frank figured a combination of both.

He began working his way around to the other side of the town, which would put him off the ridge and into brush and timber on the flats. It was dangerous, but he had to learn everything he could about the town before making any plans concerning an attack.

That thought brought a smile to Frank's lips. One man attacking fifty or sixty. Talk about supremely confident!

Frank heard voices and immediately slipped into some underbrush, slithering on his belly like a big snake. Roaming guards, he thought. Good thinking on someone's part, and that someone was probably Val Dooley.

“I wants me some of that young gal,” a man said. “She's prime.”

“Val gonna put them up for bids, I hear tell,” the second man said. “Ain't nobody outside of his personal gang touchin' them women till then.”

“That ain't fair, you ax me.”

“Nobody did.”

“For a fact.”

“You reckon Morgan's gonna show up?”

“I 'spect he will. One of them young gals said him and that good-lookin' blonde got something goin' 'tween them.”

“Morgan's got good tastes.”

“For a fact.”

“I'd ride into hell for that one.”

“Well, you can forget that. Val's got his eyes fixed on keepin' her for his private use. Ain't nobody else touchin' her.”

“Not even that squirt Little Ed Simpson?”

“Nope. Not even him.”

So Little Ed had linked up with Val Dooley, Frank mused while the two guards stopped a few yards away to have a smoke.
Why doesn't that surprise me?

“Way I heard it,” one of the outlaws said, “Little Ed's been talkin' with Val for a few months, somethin' about the town and his pa's ranch. I don't know all the particulars 'bout that. Sounds interestin', though.”

“Shore does.”

“Well, let's make one more pass and then hand this job over to someone else. I'm gettin' hongry.”

“I'm gettin' itchy for them women.”

“Well, you can just put some horse salve on that itch. You ain't gonna be liftin' no petticoats on none of them gals.”

“Not yet anyways, I reckon.”

“Maybe not never, 'lessen you got the money when the biddin' starts.”

“We'll see 'bout that.”

The men moved on, and Frank crawled out of his hidey-hole and stood up. That was too close. He would have to be much more careful, and would be, now that he knew there were roaming guards.

Frank stayed in the deep timber and brush until he came to a spot where he either had to go back to remain in the timber, or step out into an exposed area. He bellied down, took off his hat, and got his field glasses. Frank adjusted them for range, and began studying the town and its inhabitants more closely.

He spotted half a dozen outlaws that he knew. There was Goody Nolan, a killer from down Arizona way. Big Thumbs Parker, from West Texas. Freckles Burton from Missouri; he was wanted for the brutal killing of an entire family. Breed Vaca, a half-breed from New Mexico. Sam Semple, from Colorado. Finally, Frank spotted a man walking along the side of the road, picking his nose. Booger Bob.

Frank laid the field glasses down and shook his head. “Good God,” he muttered. “Booger Bob. I might have known it.”

If there was a gathering of outlaws anywhere in the far reaches of the West, Booger Bob would surely be among them. Booger was a back-shooter from Kansas who had drifted into California, liked the climate, and stayed. A very dangerous man with a rifle, but only a fair hand with a pistol. He had never been known to stand up and face a man he had been hired to kill. Booger wasn't a coward, he just knew his limitations.

There were rewards out for the men Frank had spotted and knew, and probably rewards out for all the men in the outlaw town. Dead or alive. If he could do it, he'd take as many bodies as he could to the nearest town and make sure the women got the reward money to split among them . . . if he could get them out, he added. And himself, he also added.

Frank again lifted the field glasses and studied the town. He found one of the nicer shacks—this one had a full roof and most of the windows—with alert guards both front and back. “That's where the women are being held,” he muttered. “I'd bet on that.”

The horses of the outlaws were held in a huge corral, which was attached to a very nice barn. The horses got good treatment; better than the men afforded themselves. For a very good reason. The outlaws' lives depended on their horses and they received the best of care.

Then Frank saw Little Ed come swaggering down the street with a man that had to be Val Dooley. Both Ed and Val wore two guns, tied down, and their clothing was nice, their shirts and britches clean. Frank studied Val closely. He did strongly resemble Frank, and Frank could understand how people could get them confused.

“You're a dead man, Val Dooley,” Frank whispered.

Frank slipped back into the timber and waited for nightfall.

* * *

Most of the outlaws were in the town's saloon, talking, drinking, playing cards, or being otherwise entertained—for a nominal fee—by one of the town's half a dozen weary whores. Frank had slipped into town and was crouched by the side of the saloon, listening to the men inside talk. He had already identified half a dozen more outlaws, and two of the West's most notorious women outlaws: Sadie Saunders and Bloody Mama Colson. Both of those women were killers, with at least half a dozen kills each behind them . . . those were the known kills. Rumor had it that Sadie and Bloody Mama had many, many more dead bodies behind them. And both women practiced, so the rumors went, some very strange sexual habits. Frank felt squeamish just thinking about that.

There was nearly a constant stream of men coming and going to and from the outhouse in the rear of the saloon, some barely able to walk as they staggered about.

“One of the pack trains due in tomorrow with supplies,” one of the more sober men remarked on his way to the crapper.

“I'll be glad to see it,” another said. “I'm shore gettin' tarred of beans.”

“I'm a-gittin' tarred of thinkin' 'bout them fresh women here in camp. Val's gittin' plumb hoggish 'bout them fillies.”

“You want to tell him that, Andy?”

“Nope. I reckon I'll pass on that, Claude.”

“Thought you would. Proves you ain't en-tarly stupid.”

The men laughed and walked, or staggered, on.

Frank waited until the privy was clear and a lone man came staggering out of the rear of the saloon. Frank popped him on the back of the head with a piece of broken board, and dragged the man some distance away from the town. Using the man's belt and bandanna, Frank tied him to a tree and slapped him awake.

“Who the hell are you?” the outlaw demanded. “I cain't see you a-tall. It's so damn dark out here.”

“I'm an avenging angel.”

“Huh?”

“And you're on your way to hell.”

“Say what?”

“I'm one of God's mercenaries.”

“You ain't neither. You're Frank Morgan.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Seemed the thing to do at the time. What do you want with me?”

“I want to kill you.”

The man's eyes bugged out and he struggled against his bonds. “Whoa now, Morgan! Why would you want to do that? I ain't done nothin' to you.”

“It's what you've done to those kidnapped women in town.”

“I ain't personal done nothin' to none of them women. At least, not
them
women.”

“But you have raped other women taken in raids.”

“Well . . . shore,” the man admitted. “So what?” he asked belligerently. “All they had to do was give it up without fightin' and there wouldn't have been no rape. Givin' what they got to a man don't hurt 'em none. They're all built for it, ain't they? Hale-fire, Morgan! That's why they was put on this here earth. To pleasure a man and to cook and clean and have kids.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Shore is.”

“You are a pitiful excuse for a man.”

“Maybe you see it that way. That don't make no never-mind to me. Not a whit, it don't. But you gonna be no kind of man in a few minutes. 'Cause I'm a-fixin' to start hollerin'. And you gonna be dead.”

Frank slipped a long-bladed knife from its sheath on his gunbelt and pressed it against the outlaw's neck. “Go ahead. Open your mouth to yell. Let's see how fast I can cut your throat. You want to see if you can yell before I do that?”

“I didn't say when I was gonna holler, Morgan,” the outlaw whispered. “Be careful with that blade. It feels sharp.”

“Oh, it is. Very sharp.” He reached around and cut the man's bonds. “See how sharp it is? Now get up and start walking.”

“Where to?”

“I'll tell you when we get there. Get in front of me and start walking.” As they walked away from the outlaw town, Frank said, “I've decided not to kill you right now.”

“I shore appreciate that, Morgan. I shorely do.”

“Shut up and listen.”

“Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir. But I'm a-havin' a hard time walkin' and holdin' my britches up.”

“You'll manage. Now shut up and listen to me.”

“Yes, sir. I'm a-shuttin' my mouth rat now.”

“You go back to town and tell that pack of trash down there that exactly fifteen minutes after the dawning, I'm going to start killing every outlaw I see. You understand that?”

“Do I answer now?”

“Yes.”

“I shore do understand it. I shorely do.”

“If any want to ride out, be saddled up and ready to ride at dawn. At sixteen minutes after the dawning, the offer is null and void.”

“It's what?”

“It's off.”

“I know what that means. I will shore spread your message, Morgan. I shorely will do it.”

“Fine. Now get the hell out of here.”

“Does I get my pistol back?”

“What do you think?”

“I reckon not.”

“You reckoned right. Move!”

The man went stumbling off into the night, toward the town. Frank went back and got his saddlebags and rifle and other gear, and moved to a place he had picked earlier: a spot that overlooked the town and gave him good cover. One thing Frank did not believe, and that was that the women had not been raped repeatedly. Probably only a few of Val's personal friends had raped them. That would stop in a few hours.

Either it would stop, or Frank would be dead.

Frank spread his groundsheet on the ground, rolled up in his blanket, and went to sleep.