Imposter (22 page)

Frank wiped the bloody blade on Butler's shirt and walked to the front door, opening it. He motioned to the owner.

“Yes, sir?”

“You can have his horse and what's in his pockets if you'll bury that bastard in there.”

“I can do that, Mr. Morgan. Say, that's a right unfriendly dog of yours.”

“He takes after me,” Frank told him, then swung into the saddle and rode away.

Frank made his way slowly toward the campfire, stopping about twenty-five feet away, just at the edge of the clearing. He had been tracking the lone rider for two days, ever since a man in a saloon had told him he recognized the outlaw.

But Frank wanted to be sure the man squatting over the fire was the right man. When the man stood up and half turned, Frank was sure.

“Vaca!” Frank called.

The outlaw known as Breed Vaca stiffened, but kept his hands away from his guns. “You goin' to back-shoot me, Morgan?”

“I'll give you a chance, Vaca. A better chance than you gave the woman and the boy.”

“I never touched that boy, Morgan. I ain't that type. I done the woman some. But not the boy.”

“Are they still alive?”

“They was when I pulled out three days ago.”

“Why did you leave the gang?”

“Jack Rice rode into camp and joined up with Curly Lewis and Booger Bob and the others. Me and Jack don't get on a-tall.”

“There's more, Vaca. Tell it all.”

“Jack claimed the woman for hisself. Freckles give her up right off the bat. No argument. And you know what happens to a woman with Jack.”

Frank felt sick to his stomach. He knew what Jack had done to a couple of women. The man was twisted in the head . . . twisted about as bad as Frank had ever seen.

“Why didn't you kill him, Vaca? You know what he's going to do to her.”

“Wasn't none of my affair, Morgan.”

“You son of a bitch!”

Vaca shrugged his shoulders; did so very carefully.

“Name them all, Vaca.”

“Goody, Big Thumbs, Sam. I told you the rest. Sonny Carter and Hibbs might have joined them by now. I ain't sure.”

“My gun's in leather, Vaca. You want to try it now? It's going to be your only chance.”

Breed Vaca turned and grabbed for his pistol. His hand closed around the butt, and that was as far as he got before Frank's bullet tore into his chest. Vaca stumbled backward and sat down hard on the ground. Then he toppled over and closed his eyes for the last time.

Frank had a cup of coffee and a smoke by the fire. His thoughts were dark and mean, raging through his head. Lara and her son were certainly dead by now . . . and if Jack Rice had claimed Lara, she had died hard. And Frank hoped the boy had died swiftly; he also knew all about Freckles Burton's twisted nature with boys. Somebody should have put a rope around Freckles's neck a long time back.

Frank looked over at the body of Breed Vaca, no emotion in his gaze. One more piece of crap removed from society. Frank finished his coffee and carefully put out the fire. He swung into the saddle and rode away without looking back. The buzzards and varmints would take care of Breed.

* * *

Frank picked up the trail of Jack and the others and followed it southeast. Along the way, Frank found a bit of torn dress and torn pieces of undergarments. Then he found the body of Johnny Whitter. About twenty-five feet from the body of the tortured boy, he found the body of Lara. Both the boy and his mother were naked, and they had been used badly. He hoped Lara had died before somebody—and Frank had a good idea who it was—had used a skinning knife on her.

Frank buried the boy and his mother side by side and covered the graves with rocks. Then he stood over the graves, hat in hand, trying to think of some words to say. He finally remembered some lines about walking through the valley of death, and said them. Then he recalled some words about vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.

“Not this time,” Frank murmured.

* * *

The outlaw/rapists knew they were being followed. When they did stop to rest their horses, they were making cold camps and trying to take routes over rocky ground, and when they could, they took to the water in a futile attempt to lose Frank. But steel-shod horses leave marks on rocks, and taking to creeks won't throw off an experienced tracker.

Frank followed relentlessly, staying constantly alert for an ambush. Frank thought they might be heading for the Sierra Madre Mountains, Jack Rice's old stamping grounds, but then the men turned more east than south, as if they might be riding for the Mojave.

Then it dawned on Frank where the outlaws might be heading: an old ghost town east and some south of the town of Bakersfield. As a town it hadn't lasted long, maybe five or six years. But there was good water there, and Frank had been told that the buildings were still intact. He couldn't recall the name of the ghost town, not that it mattered. He was sure that was where Jack was leading the gang.

“All right, boys,” Frank whispered to the hot winds. “I'll be there, just about the same time you are.”

Frank rode up to a general store and swung down. He had to rest Stormy and the packhorse and he needed some food and rest himself. Dog got himself a good long drink of water from the horse trough, and then plopped down in the shade of the building. Frank didn't have to tell the big cur to stay put. Dog was tired; he wasn't going anywhere.

Frank stepped onto the porch and stood for a moment, enjoying the shade from the midday suminer's sun. He turned and walked into the small saloon side, and came face-to-face with Sam Semple, standing at the bar.

Sam froze at the sighting. His elbows were on the bar and he knew if he moved an inch, Frank's Peacemaker would roar.

“Sam,” Frank said softly.

“I broke with the gang, Morgan,” Sam said. “I ain't lookin' for no trouble.”

“But you were there when the boy and his mother were tortured and killed, Sam.”

“Yeah, I was, Morgan, but I didn't have no hand in it.”

“You could have stopped it.”

“How, Morgan? One man agin half a dozen?”

“Did you even try to stop it?”

“Morgan . . . listen to me: I couldn't have stopped it.”

“I could have, if I'd been in your boots.”

“I ain't you, Morgan!” Sam screamed.

“Did you have a hand in raping the woman?”

“Yes, damn you. I did. It was . . . I had to. The others would have laughed at me if I didn't. You have to understand that.”

“They would have laughed at you for being decent one time in your miserable life?” Frank asked softly.

“Yes! It was a man thing, Morgan.”

“Men don't rape and torture women and little boys, Sam.”

“Are you really Frank Morgan?” the store owner/barkeep asked. “In my store?”

Frank ignored him. His hard eyes never left Sam. “You believe in God, Sam?”

“You damn right I do. Why?”

“ 'Cause you're about to meet him.”

“Morgan ...” There was an edge of panic in Sam's voice. “The others is goin' to that old ghost town south of Bakersfield. Don't me tellin' you that count for nothin'?”

“My Lord,” the barkeep whispered. “Frank Morgan in my store.”

“I'm fast, Morgan,” Sam said. “I can take you. Don't force me to draw on you.”

Frank smiled. “Consider yourself forced, Sam.”

“I don't want to have to kill you, Morgan!”

“Oh, you won't, Sam.”

“Damn you, Morgan! You just don't understand what happened. All them pressures that was on me.”

“I could maybe get the county sheriff out here,” the barkeep said. “But that'll take a couple of days.”

“We don't need him,” Frank said.

“Yeah, we do,” Sam said. “Get him. I'll surrender to him.”

Frank cussed Sam Semple, cussed him low and long and hard.

“I don't have to take that from you or no man, Morgan!”

“Then do something about it, Sam.”

“Hell with you, Morgan!” Sam screamed. “You want to kill me? Go ahead. But I'll tell you somethin' 'fore you do. That woman was some kind of fine poke. I 'specially liked the way she begged and hollered. Then she got to prayin'. That was funny. She was on her knees. But not in the prayin' position, if you know what I mean. We all got some laughs out of that.” Spittle was oozing out of Sam's mouth and his eyes were wild.

Frank waited, letting him rave and rant his obscenities. Then he began talking about the boy. Frank put an end to it.

He shot Sam.

Sam slammed back against the bar, pulling his pistol. Frank shot him again. Sam twisted, still against the bar. He refused to go down. Sam lifted his six-gun, and Frank put a third round in him. That one put Sam on the floor.

Frank walked through the gunsmoke to stand over Sam Semple.

“I hate your guts, Morgan!” Sam gasped.

“I can live with that, Sam.”

Sam cussed Frank, blood spraying from his mouth. “You'll never git them other boys, Morgan. They'll kill you and I'm glad.”

“Don't count on them doing that, Sam.”

Sam didn't reply. He closed his eyes and died on the saloon floor.

Frank looked at the bartender, standing with wide eyes. “Where's his horse?”

“Out back, Mr. Morgan.”

“You can have it and all his gear if you'll bury him.”

“That sure sounds more than fair to me. I'll do it, sir. I promise I will.”

“I'm going to provision up now. You want me to help you carry him out?”

“Oh, no, sir. I'll just drag him out back and plant him there.”

“Fine. You do that.” Frank stepped over Sam's body and went into the store section of the old place. He began picking up supplies and setting them on the counter. When the store owner returned, Frank paid for his goods and asked, “You have a place where a man can bathe?”

“Yes, sir. But I ain't got no water heated for it.”

“I'll bathe in cold water then. Get some of this crud off me.”

“Whatever, sir.”

“Then I want something to eat.”

“I got salt pork and taters.”

“Coffee?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Lots of coffee. And I got some biscuits I made this morning.”

“That'll do.”

“I'll get started. Say, that dead man had some money on him, Mr. Morgan.”

“Keep it. It's yours.”

“That's right nice of you. What do I tell the sheriff or the deputies if they come by?”

“Tell them his name is Sam Semple. They'll know who he is ... or was.”

* * *

After a good night's sleep, Frank pressed on. He didn't bother trying to keep to the trail; he knew where he was going. And he damn sure knew what he was going to do when he got there. Frank knew he was riding a vengeance trail; knew that no matter what he did, it would not bring back Lara and Johnny, nor would it lessen the horrible pain of their dying. But he also knew the West was slowly changing in its treatment of criminals; knew that the evidence against these bags of crap was circumstantial, now that Lara and Johnny were dead and could not testify against them. No way they would get the rope. They might not even get prison time. Frank could not allow that to happen, so he would mete out the appropriate justice for the crimes committed.

And that penalty was death.

But for one of them, it was going to be a hard death. Frank would personally see to that. When Frank got through with him, the man would be begging to be released from life.

“Bet on that, Jack Rice,” Frank muttered.

Frank made a lonely camp near a spring that night. After letting the horses roll and drink, Frank hobbled them on some graze and then fed Dog. He put on water to boil for coffee and fried some salt pork and potatoes, cutting up a bit of wild onions for added flavor.

Dog came to him and lay down by his side. Frank put a hand on the big cur's head. “Won't be long now, Dog. And I got me an idea about where to go next. I know of a valley down in New Mexico that is so pretty it'll take your breath away. It's in the mountains, and it's isolated. We just might be able to make that place a home. Would you like that?”

Dog growled softly.

Frank turned his head, and Dog grabbed a piece of bacon out of Frank's plate and ran off into the shadows.

The wind shifted and Frank smelled the food cooking. He reined up, whispered to Dog to stay, and made his way on foot toward the smells of bacon frying and the aroma of fresh-made coffee. Two men were sitting with their backs to him. Frank didn't think he knew either of them. He stepped closer and said, “Take it easy, boys.”

Both men turned around, still sitting on the ground. “Morgan!” one said.

“I knew he'd find us, Sonny,” the other one said.

Sonny stood up. “Shut up, Hibbs,” He looked back at Frank. “You ain't killin' me without a fight, Morgan.”

The other one remained sitting on the ground.

“Why would I want to kill you?” Frank asked.

“I didn't kill that woman or that boy,” Sonny said. “I done the woman some. But I didn't kill her.”

“How about you, Hibbs?” Frank asked.

“I didn't touch neither one of them. I don't hold with rapin' women or abusin' children.”

“That's the truth, Morgan,” Sonny said. “He ain't lyin' 'bout that.”

“You both were there when they were killed?”

“Yeah,” Hibbs said softly. “And I ain't proud of that.”

“I told you, Morgan,” Sonny said. “We didn't kill neither of them. That was Freckles who done the boy and Jack Rice who done the woman. Not us.”

Hibbs started crying softly.

“Shut up with that damn blubberin'!” Sonny told him. “It ain't manly.”

“I'll never get that sight out of my mind,” Hibbs said. “It was awful. I hope to God I never see nothin' like it again.”

“Shut up, damn it!” Sonny yelled.

“Let him talk,” Frank said.

Sonny stepped away from Hibbs. “I think I can take you, Morgan. But by God, at least I'm gonna try.”

“Did I say anything about fighting you?” Frank asked.

“You ready, Morgan?” Sonny yelled.

“This doesn't have to be, Sonny. I . . .”

“Draw, goddamn you,
draw!”
Sonny grabbed for his gun.

Frank drilled him in the belly. Sonny's feet flew out from under him and he fell backward, losing his pistol when he hit the ground. He tried to grab his six-gun. Hibbs kicked it out of his reach.

“It's over, Sonny,” Hibbs said.

Sonny cussed his riding pard.

Hibbs looked at Frank. “You goin' to kill me, Morgan?”

“No. See to your pardner. I'm riding on.”

“Freckles Burton and Jack Rice are evil men, Morgan. Made me sick to my soul what they done to the woman and the boy.”

Sonny groaned in pain, both hands holding his perforated belly. “I'm thirsty, Hibbs. Gimme a drink of water.”

“You're belly-shot, Sonny,” Hibbs told him. “You know it ain't right to drink no water.”

“Gimmie some damn water, Hibbs!”

“Give him a drink,” Frank said, squatting down and pouring a cup of coffee. “He's done for anyway.”

“Damn you, Morgan!” Sonny hissed.

“Whatever,” Frank replied, taking a sip of coffee.

“I'm gonna head on back to Nebraska,” Hibbs said. “See if my pa needs some help on the farm.”

Sonny cussed his riding pard, calling him all sorts of vile names.

“I think that's a good idea,” Frank said.

“I'm done with this outlaw business. I was a fool to get mixed up in it.”

“Least you're smart enough to realize that,” Frank said.

“I'm dyin' and you two are talkin' 'bout farmin',” Sonny said. “Ain't you got no laudanum, Morgan?”

“No.”

“I hope you burn in the hellfires forever, Morgan,” Sonny said. “I hope Jack Rice and Freckles shoot you full of holes. I hope . . .” Sonny ranted and raved on until he was out of breath. He spat out a mouthful of blood and gasped for breath.

Hibbs began talking, telling Frank everything that had been done to Lara and her son. Frank listened and fought back waves of nausea. When Hibbs finished, the outlaw was crying, tears streaming down his face. “Goody Nolan held a gun on me toward the end,” Hibbs said. “They all knew I wanted to kill those men. I rode out right after that. Sonny hooked up with me later.”

“I wish they'd a-shot you, Hibbs,” Sonny gasped. “You're nothin' but a yeller coward.”

“Ride on, Hibbs,” Frank told him. “Go on back to your pa's farm and live a decent life. I'll take care of Sonny.”

“I don't need no second invite, Morgan. Thanks.” A few minutes later, the Nebraska farm boy turned outlaw was riding north.

“You gonna sit there drinkin' coffee and watch me die, Morgan?” Sonny asked.

“I reckon so, Sonny.”

“You gonna bury me?”

“I'll plant you.”

“That's white of you, Morgan.” Sonny closed his eyes and did not open them again.

Frank dug a shallow grave, wrapped Sonny in a blanket, and rolled him into the hole. After covering the body with dirt, he looked at Dog. “Let's get the hell gone from here, Dog.”

* * *

From a ridge about three hundred yards away, Frank studied the ghost town through the lenses of his field glasses. It certainly looked deserted . . . except for a small finger of smoke coming from the chimney of a building in the center of the old town.

“We end this right here,” Frank said. “Right now.” He returned to his horse and stripped the saddle off him. Stormy could graze and would not go far. Not after Frank told Dog to stay put. Dog would keep the horse close to where Frank had made a cold camp. Dog might be a cur, but he was very smart and easy to train.

Frank got his rifle and a canteen of water, slung a bandolier of ammunition across his chest, and headed for the old town. He would circle the town and come in from the south, a direction the outlaw scum he knew were waiting for him would not expect. It would probably take him a good two hours of careful going to reach the other end of town, for there wasn't a lot of good cover.

Frank paused for a brief rest and counted nine horses in the old livery corral. Figuring a couple of the animals were packhorses, that meant he was up against seven guns. He'd sure gone up against greater numbers in his time.

Frank began walking toward the front of the livery. He got midway there, and a man he didn't know walked up. The stranger's hand dropped to his pistol and he yelled, “Morgan!”

Frank put a .44-40 slug into the man's chest. The bullet turned the man around and sent him out into the weed-grown and tumbleweed-littered street. He sat down hard, a dazed look on his unshaven face. Then he toppled over and died. Frank ran to the livery's front and waited.

Booger Bob stepped out of what used to be the saloon and onto the warped boardwalk, a Colt in each hand. He was yelling obscenities at Frank, about Frank. The Drifter dropped him with one well-placed shot. Booger hit the boards and rolled off into the street. He kicked and cussed and then was still.

A man ran out of another building, both hands filled with pistols. He was shooting as he ran, trying to run across the wide street. He didn't make it. Frank's shot sent him tumbling to the dirt. The man lay still, his life's blood leaking out of him.

“Hey, Morgan!” a man yelled. “It's me, Goody Nolan. Can we make a deal?”

“Yeah, Goody, we can.”

“We can?”

“You bet. You stick a pistol in your mouth and pull the trigger. That way, I won't have to shoot you.”

“That ain't a bit funny, Morgan.”

“That's the only deal you'll get from me, Goody.”

“Hey, Morgan!” another man yelled. “It's me, Big Thumbs Parker.”

Frank located where the voice was coming from: the second floor of the old hotel. He wanted to keep Big Thumbs talking so he could pinpoint his location. “I hear you, Parker.”

“You don't want me, Morgan. I didn't kill that woman or the kid.”

“You were there and didn't stop it.”

“Yeah . . . I was. But I didn't kill neither of 'em. 'Sides, it wasn't none of my affair.”

Frank put four fast rounds to the left of the second window. Big Thumbs screamed in pain. Frank heard a thump. No way of knowing if his shots were killing ones.

Goody Nolan decided to make a run for it. He didn't get far. Frank lined him up in the sights and dropped him.

“Dumb move, Goody,” Frank yelled.

Goody struggled to get to his feet, flailing around in the street, kicking up dust. He cussed Frank until Frank fired again. The cussing stopped and the dust began to settle around Goody's still body.

“I'll kill you, Morgan!” The shout came from the second floor of the old hotel. Big Thumbs was still alive.

Frank shoved fresh rounds into his .44-40 while he waited.

Big Thumbs suddenly showed himself in the broken window. Frank drilled him. Big Thumbs seemed to rise up on tiptoes, and then did a header right out what was left of the window. He crashed through the old awning to the boardwalk and did not move.

“Just us left,” Frank called.

“Hell with you, Morgan,” a man called. “You're crazy. That boy wasn't nothin' to get all excited about. Hell, he liked what I done.”

“You're a damn liar, Freckles,” Frank yelled.

“It's true, Morgan! I just got tarred of his whining and broke his damned neck.”

“Hey, Morgan! It's me, Jack Rice. Your woman was a-prayin' and a-beggin' for you to come rescue her whilst I was pleasurin' myself. When I commenced to skinnin' her, she really got to carryin' on. That was fun.”

Frank had left the livery and had run up behind the old stores to the saloon. That was where Freckles and Jack were. He slipped into the rear of the saloon and carefully made his way toward the front. The door from the rear was missing, and he could see Freckles and Jack near the front. Frank didn't hesitate. He lifted his rifle and shot Freckles Burton right in the center of his ass. Freckles dropped his rifle and began howling and thrashing around on the floor.

Jack spun around and Frank shot him in the shoulder. Jack's rifle hit the floor.

Frank stepped out of the darkness and smiled. “Now, Jack. I deal with you.”