Reprisal (2 page)

A policeman walked by and gave Frank the once-over. Frank stared right back, as was his habit. The policeman stopped and looked squarely at Frank.

“Something on your mind, officer?” Frank asked.

“You look familiar to me, that's all. You ever been in Denver before?”

“Not since it got this big.”

The officer smiled. “It has grown, hasn't it?”

“It's a regular city.”

“Passin' through?”

“On my way into the mountains to the strike. Probably pull out in the morning.”

“Way I hear it, it's a big one. I've heard of nuggets big as your fist found up there.” The officer smiled. “Course, now, I haven't seen any of those. Well, good luck to you.” The policeman touched his hat. “Take it easy.”

“Thank you. I will.”

Frank wandered for a couple of blocks until coming to a saloon. The batwings were pulled back and the front door was closed to keep out the cold wind. Frank stepped inside and stood for a moment, eyeballing the scene. A few men stood at the long bar, drinking alone. About half the tables were filled. Frank walked to the bar and ordered a whiskey. No one paid him more than a cursory glance.

Frank lingered over his drink for a time. He was not much of a drinking man, but did occasionally enjoy a whiskey. The talk was about the recent strike up in the mountains, and if one were to believe even half of what was being said, it was indeed a very big strike.

Frank perked up and listened more carefully when someone said, “And wouldn't you know it? Henson Enterprises has staked out half of the area, and already they own the biggest and best-producing mine.”

“Is that squirt kid who lived here in town for a time running it? The one who took over the company after his mother was killed down in New Mexico?”

“You bet he is. Cocky little bastard too.”

Conrad Browning. Frank's son.

Conrad had escorted his mother's body back East, then returned to the West to oversee the company's business, even though he had told Frank he hated the West and would never return. How interesting.

“You know what? I hear tell that snooty kid is really Frank Morgan's son.”

“Are you serious? The gunslick Morgan?”

“That's what I keep hearin'.”

“Well, roll me in buffalo crap and call me stinky. How in the hell did something like that happen?”

“Beats me. But that's the talk goin' around.”

“You believe it?”

“I kinda do. After hearing 'bout what happened down at that little town in New Mexico . . .”

Frank stopped listening and stared down into the amber liquid in his shot glass. So Conrad was running the show in the mountains. Seeing him again should be interesting, since the young man did not much like Frank . . . and that was being kind, considering Conrad's real feelings toward his biological father.

Frank finished his drink and walked slowly back to the hotel. He wouldn't have to travel far to find the Pine and Vanbergen gangs. Gold would draw them like a powerful magnet. Frank would provision up and pull out in the morning.

The police were waiting for him when he got back to the hotel.

“Frank Morgan?” one of the uniformed officers asked.

“That's me,” Frank replied.

“What's your business in Denver, Morgan?” another asked.

“Passing through.”

“To where?”

“Beats me. I'm just drifting.”

“Might be best if you just drifted on out of this town.”

“Oh, I plan to do just that. First thing in the morning.”

The two officers stared at Frank for a moment. The first officer said, “No offense meant, Morgan. But gunfighters are not welcome in this town.”

“No offense taken,” Frank replied easily. “I'd hate to run into a gunfighter myself.”

Both police officers smiled at that. The second officer said, “Keep your guns in leather while you're here, Morgan. For your own good.”

“I plan to.”

“Good luck to you.”

“Thanks.”

Frank sat in the lobby for a long time after the officers left.
If I had any sense at all,
he thought,
I
'
d stop this plan of revenge and head on to California and start a new life while I have time. If I kill all of the Pine and Vanbergen gangs, that won't bring Viv back.

But,
he thought with almost an audible sigh,
even though Conrad doesn't want my help, he's still my son, and I owe him any help I can give him.

Frank also had a hunch that this gold strike was just about it for that area. Many, many millions of dollars in gold had been mined out of the area since 1860, and now that silver prices had been going up, and new lodes of silver found, Central City and Black Hawk and the other gold-mining towns and camps in the area would soon see a rapid decline. Frank had seen it all before, many times.

He went up to his room and stretched out on the bed. He didn't think he would sleep, but when he opened his eyes and lit the lamp to check his watch, it was almost five o'clock in the morning.

“A man could get used to a feather bed,” Frank muttered.

He finished his morning toilet quickly, and was packed up and ready to go in fifteen minutes. The hotel dining room was open. Frank opted for a couple of cups of coffee, which was a tad on the weak side for his taste.

He sat in the lobby until the darkness was slowly pushed away by a dim gray light, then picked up his saddlebags and rifle and walked over to the livery. His horses were glad to see him, and appeared anxious to once more get on the trail.

He saddled up his riding horse, cinched down the packsaddle, and headed out of Denver. He stopped at a small store on the edge of town and bought bacon, beans, flour, and coffee. Then he bought several boxes of ammunition for his pistols and his .44-40 rifle.

He lashed down his supplies, covered them with a tarp, and mounted up. He would take his time going to the mining camp—as yet the place had no name and probably never would.

“Mister.” The store clerk hailed him from the boardwalk just as Frank was lifting the reins.

Frank paused and looked at the man.

“You headin' out for the new gold camp?”

“I was thinking about it.”

“Be careful. Outlaws workin' that area hot and heavy. There ain't no law up there either.”

“The Pine and Vanbergen gangs?”

“You've heard about them, hey?”

“A little.”

“Yep. That's the bunch that's raisin' all sorts of hell up in the mountains. Packs of vicious white trash, that's what they are.”

Frank smiled. “You from the South, mister?”

“You bet. Alabamy originally. I come out here with my folks right after the war. Goddamn Yankees burnt ever'thin' we owned. I still hate 'em. You?”

“Texas.”

“You be careful, Texas. And watch out for them outlaws, you hear?”

“I hear. Thanks.”

Frank rode slowly out of town. Once past the city-limits sign, he stopped and took off his shoulder rig, stowing it in his saddlebags, and belted on his pistol, a Colt .45 Peacemaker. On the left side of his gunbelt, he carried a long-bladed sheath knife, honed to razor sharpness.

Back in the saddle, he pressed on, heading for the mountains that loomed ahead. It was a good two-day ride to the mining camp, but Frank was in no hurry. If it took a week, that was fine with him.

The mountain road was narrow, in most places barely wide enough for two wagons to pass. There were pull-off places cut out for wagons to pull over and wait for an approaching wagon to get clear.

At noon, Frank stopped for a lunch of crackers and cheese and a pickle he'd bought back at the general store on the edge of town, and to let his horses blow and roll. He washed his lunch down with cold water from a fast-rushing stream, and then rolled a cigarette and relaxed. He longed for a cup of good strong coffee, but he had a case of the lazies: He didn't feel like digging out the pot and building a fire.

Several huge wagons rumbled by in a group, under heavy guard by mounted outriders, front and back. Frank counted a dozen heavily armed men on horseback, and the drivers and guards on the wagons were all well armed. They did not wave at Frank, and the mounted men gave him stern looks and suspicious once-overs as they rode past.

“Howdy to you too, boys,” Frank muttered. “Nice day, isn't it?”

The wagons rumbled on out of sight and sound, heading for Denver.

Frank stood up and stretched a couple of times, getting the kinks out of his muscles, and then saddled up and cinched up both animals. He was just about to climb into the saddle when four men rode into view, coming up the trail. They had been about forty-five minutes behind Frank. Frank immediately formed an opinion of the duster-wearing quartet: He didn't like them.

Frank always trusted his initial hunches . . . at least until the subject or subjects in question proved him wrong.

And that didn't occur very often.

The approaching men were well mounted. Frank couldn't tell how well armed they were because of the long trail dusters they wore, but he suspected they were heavily armed. The closer they came, the more Frank's suspicions grew.

Frank retrieved his short-barreled .45 from a saddlebag and slipped it into the left-side pocket of his jacket. His jacket was unbuttoned and he brushed the right side back, clearing his Peacemaker for a draw.

The quartet slowed as they approached Frank. Frank watched as they all slowly unbuttoned their long dusters, clearing the way for a draw.

“That pretty well tells the story,” Frank muttered. “Bounty hunters. Out to pick up the ten thousand dollars that's on my head.”

The four men stepped their horses off the road and lined up to face Frank. They stared at him in silence for a long moment, then carefully dismounted, taking care never to turn their backs on Frank Morgan.

Frank stepped away from his horse and walked to his right a few paces. The stream was behind him, a solid wall of upward-jutting rock on the other side of the fast-moving mountain creek. A few more yards to his right, there was scrub brush and a pile of rock from the carving out of the roadway. Frank figured he had a chance to make the cover of those rocks . . . maybe.

“Frank Morgan?” one of the men called.

“Who wants to know?” Frank responded.

“That ain't important,” another of the quartet said. “You was asked a question, so answer it.”

“Why don't you go to hell?” Frank told him.

The questioner frowned and flushed darkly. “It's Morgan,” he said. “Smart mouth and all.”

“Has to be,” another man agreed.

“He shore don't look like much to me,” the fourth member of the group remarked.

Frank smiled at that.

“You think I said somethin' funny, Morgan?” the man asked.

“I think you're a fool,” Frank told him.

“Bastard,” the man muttered.

“You boys think ten thousand dollars is worth dying for?” Frank asked.

“Huh?” the first man that had spoken, said. “Ten thousand?”

The other three got a good laugh out of that.

“You way behind the times, Morgan. The ante's done been raised to fifteen thousand.”

“I guess somebody must really hate me to offer that much money. Either that or they're really afraid of me. Which one is it, boys?”

“Don't know, don't care.”

“Then make your play and let's get this dance started.”

“You in that big a hurry to die, Morgan?”

“I have no intention of dying,” Frank told him. “What's bothering me is what I'm going to do with your bodies. Ground around here is too damn rocky to dig in.”

The four men exchanged quick glances.

“I guess I'm just going to have to leave you here on the ground and let the buzzards eat your innards.”

“You got nerve, Morgan,” the man who appeared to be the boss said. “I'll give you that much. But I think you're a fool to boot. Just in case you can't add, let me sum it up for you: There's four of us and only one of you.”

“That's right, Hog Face, but when one of you makes a move to pull on me, I'll kill two of you before the others can clear leather.”

“Hog Face!”

“That's what I said. I call it like I see it, and you look like a hog to me. You are just about the ugliest thing I ever did see.”

“Why . . . damn you to hell, Morgan!”

“You could hire that face of yours out to scare little children.”

Hog Face flushed with anger, but made no move to drag iron. The other three exchanged nervous glances. This was not going as they had been told it would. They had been told that Frank Morgan was an old man who had lost his nerve and his speed.

The bounty hunters suspected that someone had lied to them.

“Go home, boys,” Frank said softly, his words just carrying to the four men. “Give this up.”

“Give up fifteen thousand dollars, Morgan?” Hog Face replied. “I don't think so.”

“Then let's get it going,” Frank said. He jerked iron and shot Hog Face in the belly.

Hog Face doubled over in shock when the .45 bullet slammed into him. His pistol dropped back into his holster and he went down to one knee in pain, both hands clutching his perforated belly.

Frank fired as he ran for the protection of the rocks, one round missing his target, the second round knocking a leg out from another bounty hunter.

Frank jumped into the rocks just as the lead began howling all around him.

Hog Face was out of it. He was stretched out full length on the ground, his life's blood slowly leaking out. The man with the broken leg was crawling away, toward the roadbed, his pistol on the ground where he'd dropped it, the battle forgotten, at least for the moment.

“Lloyd?” someone tossed out. “Are you alive?”

“He's bad hit,” the man with the broken leg called, slipping behind a mound of dirt and rocks. “And so am I. Can't stop the bleedin'.”

“Hang on,” the other man called. “I'm on my way.”

He didn't make it.

The bounty hunter jumped up, and Frank drilled him before he had taken five steps. The .45 slug tore into his left side and blew out the right side. The man dropped like a rock and slowly rolled down the slight incline.

The fourth man made a fast run for his horse. Keeping the animal between himself and Frank's gun, the bounty hunter made the road, and was gone without another glance back at the bloody carnage that once was his buddies. He headed down the road, toward the Denver junction.

Frank reloaded before exiting the rocks. Pistol in his hand, he walked over to Hog Face. He was unconscious and dying. Frank carefully edged over to the man he'd dusted side to side. He was stone dead.

“You got to hep me, Morgan!” the third bounty hunter hollered. “I'm bleedin' bad.”

“That's your problem,” Frank said, walking over to him. “You boys wanted this shootout, not me.”

“Fifteen thousand dollars is a powerful lot of money, Morgan. You can't blame us for that.”

“The hell I can't!”

“You gonna leave me here?”

“What do you want me to do, tote you to a doctor?”

“That'd be white of you, yeah.”

Frank knelt down beside the man. His bullet had torn the big vein in the leg. Frank rigged a tourniquet on the wound and stood up.

“That's it?” the wounded man said. “That there is all you're gonna do?”

“That's about it, bounty hunter.”

“That's cold, Morgan. Mighty damn cold of you.”

“I reckon so.”

“I'll kill you someday, Morgan. I promise you that.”

Frank had heard that threat many times over the long years. “What's your name?”

“Jake Miller. And I got kin too.”

“Good for you.” Frank turned away and started to walk off.

“They'll git you, Morgan.”

“They'll try.”

Jake cussed him.

Frank tossed all the pistols he could find into the stream, then gathered up his animals and swung into the saddle.

“Don't leave me here to die, you bastard!” Jake yelled. “That ain't decent.”

“Decent?” Frank looked down at the man. “What the hell would you know about decency?”

Frank rode off without saying another word or looking back. Jake cussed him until he was out of sight.

* * *

Frank rode into the mining camp the next day. What buildings there were in the town were raw, the smell of fresh-cut lumber strong. It was not a smell that was new to Frank. Nor was the sight of the crowded streets new. He had smelled and seen it all before, many times.

The largest and newest building on Main Street had a sign that read: The Henson Company.

Frank bought a few supplies at a general store. He didn't bother inquiring at the only hotel. He knew it would be packed, men sleeping four or five to a room. He rode on out of town and turned down a rutted road that led off to the south. He had usually been able to find a deserted cabin or shack close to these boomtowns, and this time was no exception. He had ridden about two miles—away from the strike area, which was about three miles north of the town—when he came to a fairly decent-looking cabin that appeared to be deserted. There was a lean-to in the rear. He looked inside the cabin. It was bare except for a small stove and a bunk in the main room that was built against the wall.

“Good enough for me,” Frank muttered.

Frank checked the lean-to. Someone had left several bales of hay stacked in one corner.

“Nice of them,” Frank said.

Walking around the cabin, Frank discovered a pile of firewood. He wouldn't have to cut any wood for several weeks . . . if he stayed around that long, which he doubted.

After forking some hay into the two stalls of the lean-to, Frank stripped the load off the packhorse, pulled the saddle off his riding horse, and stabled both his horses. Then he began settling in.

He found a broken-handled broom and swept out the cabin, then cleaned the stove and built a fire for coffee. He paused at a strange sound coming from the outside, then went out to check and found a dog sitting on the ground.

Frank didn't know what kind of dog it was. It was just a dog. Mixed breed . . . very mixed. It was brown and coarse-haired like a wolf. It wasn't a very big dog. Frank figured it weighed about thirty pounds. It didn't appear to be very old, maybe two or three years.

“What's the matter, boy,” he said, squatting down, taking care not to sit on his spurs and jab himself in the butt. “Your people leave you behind?”

The dog wagged its tail.

Frank held out a hand and the animal came to him cautiously. Frank petted the animal for a moment. The dog was sure enough friendly. Probably glad to see someone who didn't throw rocks at it or yell at it. “You hungry, boy?”

The dog wagged its tail furiously.

“I reckon you are. All right, well, come on in and I'll fix us both something to eat.”

The dog hesitated, then followed Frank into the cabin. Frank fried up some bacon and then made pan bread, and he and the dog ate it all up. Frank poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat down on the unmade bunk and watched as the dog finished up the bread.

“Well, I guess you had a name. But somebody forgot to tell me. So I guess I'll just call you Dog. How's that, fellow?”

The dog looked at him and wagged his tail.

“Dog it is.”

Frank drank his coffee and watched as Dog scratched himself... several times. And that got Frank scratching himself.

“This won't do,” Frank muttered, rising from the bunk. He went outside, Dog following, and began looking around. He found a wooden bucket with a broken handle and a large metal pot in a pile of junk in back of the shed. “You're going to have a bath,” he told Dog.

He filled the bucket with water from the creek several times and toted it inside, filling up the large metal pot. He stoked up the fire in the old cookstove and while the water heated, he got a large bar of soap from his supplies.

Dog sensed what was about to happen and hit the trail. It took Frank about fifteen minutes to coax him back and get a rope on him. “Now you get a bath, Dog.”

By the time Frank finished, they both had gotten a bath. But Dog was free of fleas . . . at least for the time being.

Frank fixed Dog a place to sleep in a corner of the room and pointed to it. “You sleep there,” he told the animal.

Dog looked at him, and promptly dragged the old blanket to a place under the bunk and lay down.

“All right,” Frank said, laughing. “I won't argue with you. Stay put.”

Frank fixed another pot of coffee, and then sat down and made a list of the things he was going to have to buy in town. Then he built up the fire in the fireplace and fixed a cup of coffee. Sitting on the edge of the bunk, he rolled himself a smoke.

“I'm going to have to buy a chair,” he said. “Maybe a rocking chair,” he mused. “Hell, why not just go ahead and file on this place? It's quiet enough. There hasn't been one person ride by since I got here, and this strike probably won't last long. It'll be a place to come back to. Yeah, I'll do that. That suit you, Dog?”

Dog wagged his tail.

“All right. That's settled.”

Frank had money. Vivian had left him a percentage of the Henson Company and Conrad had not contested it. Frank didn't know how much it was worth, but knew it was considerable. He probably would never have to worry about money again.

He smiled at that thought, thinking:
Hell, I've never worried about money in my life.

He got up to pour another cup of coffee, and was walking back to the bunk when he heard a wagon rattle up and the driver whoa his team.

Frank told Dog to stay put and to his surprise, the animal obeyed him. He stepped outside on the small porch.

“Howdy,” the man on the wagon seat called.

“Howdy,” Frank replied.

“You settlin' in, hey?” Before Frank could reply, the man said, “Well, you can shore have it, mister. That damn Henson Company's done got all the good claims sewed up tighter than a miser's purse.”

“I'll just look around and maybe try my hand at panning.”

“Good luck to you.”

“Thanks. Say, you don't know who owns this place, do you?”

“Nobody, mister. Same with my place down the way. I done checked on that. Too far away from the strike. You wouldn't be interested in buyin' some furniture, would you? I'd sure like to lighten this load.”

“Maybe. What do you have?”

Frank bought a table and chairs, a rocking chair, a bed with a nice feather tick, some bedding, a washtub, and some dishes and cooking utensils. It was too late to ride into the nearest land office to check on the property; he would do that tomorrow.

Frank arranged his new purchases, and found that he had suddenly turned a cabin into a home. Dog carefully smelled each new piece of furniture, and then walked over to his place under the bunk, lay down, and went to sleep.

It was full dark outside and a cold wind was blowing. Frank built a fire, made sure there was water in Dog's bucket, then went to bed.

He went to sleep with a smile on his face. He liked this quiet place. Maybe he had found a home after all his long years of wandering.

He hoped so.