Reprisal (3 page)

Frank put Dog's bedding on the front porch and told the animal to stay. The dog lay down and looked at him.

“I'll be back,” Frank told him. “Count on it. And if I decide to leave for good, you'll go with me. All right?”

Dog yawned.

“I'll take that as a yes.” Frank mounted up and rode into the mining camp.

The new town—as yet unnamed—was crowded with men seeking their fortune. A few wore pistols; most did not. Frank did not see anyone who looked or dressed like a gunfighter or trouble-hunter. But they would come, he was sure of that.

He went to the same general store he'd stopped at the day before, and bought enough supplies to last him for a week or so. Then he walked over to the land office and filed on his land.

“You sure filed on a lot of land. You find something way out there, mister?” the clerk asked.

“No, and I'm not looking. It's quiet out there and that's the way I like it.”

The clerk looked down at the name, then blinked and looked again. “Are you really? . . .” He swallowed hard and met Frank's eyes.

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, ah ... I mean. Ah ... welcome to Gold Camp, Mr. Morgan.”

“Gold Camp?”

“That what some folks has taken to calling this place.”

“It's as good as any name, I suppose.” Frank looked at the papers he'd just signed. “Is that it?”

“That's it, Mr. Morgan. You now own, if you prove it up and keep the taxes paid, one hundred and sixty acres of the most worthless land in this territory.”

Frank smiled. “It's priceless to me.”

“You plannin' on doin' some pannin'?”

“No. I just want to live quietly.”

“Good luck.”

Frank left the land office and walked over to the nearest cafe. He had an early lunch, which wasn't very good, then decided to walk around the fast-growing town and get a feel for his surroundings.

He hadn't walked fifty yards before he spotted Conrad Browning walking up the newly laid and rough boardwalk on the other side of the street. Frank quickly stepped into a saloon and stood on one side of the batwings, watching his son.

Conrad had two men with him, one in front, one in the rear. Bodyguards obviously. Very capable-looking men, but judging by their dress, not Western men.

Conrad walked on up the street and out of sight. Frank sighed and turned around, walking to the long bar. He really didn't want a drink, but to better fit in with the already crowded bar, he ordered a beer.

Outside, the sounds of hammering and sawing easily penetrated the canvas-covered wooden frame of the saloon. Many of the buildings in the mining camp were canvas and wood. They would last just about as long as the gold strike, Frank figured. Maybe through the winter.

Frank sipped his beer, which was flat-tasting, and listened to the talk all around him. So far, no one had recognized him and pointed him out, but that was just a matter of time, for the man at the land office would be sure to spread the word.

Sipping his beer, Frank thought about making this his permanent home. If he was going to do that—and he was determined to do it—he'd better get busy building a small barn, or adding on to the lean-to, installing windows in the cabin, and building a fence around it.

Frank set his beer mug down on the bar. He'd start with that right now.

Back on the street, Frank stopped to ask questions of a crew working on a permanent structure on the main street.

“Where did you boys get the lumber and nails and such?” Frank asked.

One of the men pointed up the long and busy street. “See that fellow yonder in the lead freight wagon, just stopping in front of the Lucky Lode Saloon? That's Wally Spalding. He runs a sawmill and freight service. He'll fix you right up, for a price, and he ain't cheap.”

“Thanks.”

Frank arranged with Wally for several loads of lumber to be delivered to his cabin. Wally said he had it in stock and would deliver it to his place the next day, along with nails and such. Frank started to pay the man on the spot, and Wally smiled and held up a hand.

“I know who are you, Morgan. I recognized you right off. Your word is good with me. You're going to need a hammer and saw and file and everything else, I reckon. I'll bring it and you can pick it out.”

Frank thanked the man and said he'd see him the next day. Then he walked over to the general store and did some more shopping. His packhorse was loaded down with supplies when he rode out of town.

Dog was so excited to see Frank, he almost spooked the horses with his barking and racing around the yard when Frank rode up to the side of the cabin.

Frank calmed him down and got the horses in the lean-to, then began carrying his supplies into the cabin and putting them away.

“Shelves,” he said aloud. “Have to build some shelves too.” He looked around the cabin. “And have some lady in town fix up curtains for me.” He smiled. “After I replace the glass, that is.”

Frank built a fire in the cookstove, fixed a pot of coffee, had a couple of cups and a smoke, then started toting in water to heat. He carefully scrubbed and washed all the bedding he'd bought from the mover, and hung it out to dry—although as cool as it was, the bedding would probably take twenty-four hours to dry. Then he heated more water and washed all the dishes he'd bought.

“Damn, a lot of housework,” Frank muttered, sitting down to have another cup of coffee. He pulled off his boots and found his moccasins. “Who says women don't work around the home?” Before he pulled on the soft moccasins, he noticed his big toe sticking out of a hole in his sock. “Something else to repair,” he said. Then he remembered that he didn't have any needles or thread. “Or throw them away and buy new ones,” he decided aloud.

That reminded him that he'd better write a letter to his lawyers and see how much money he had earned from his shares in the Henson Company, and how much he had left. He'd do that right now, and ride into the mining camp after his lumber was delivered and post the letter.

Then he remembered he had no paper or pen or ink. “Damn!” he said. “Something else to buy.”

Dog left his place under the bunk and came to Frank's side by the chair. Frank petted the animal. “Lots of things to do, boy,” he said. “But what the hell? I've got nothing but time.”

Frank stood up and took off his shirt, removing the money belt he wore around his waist. He knew he had ample funds. But the belt was uncomfortable, chafing him. He spent the next hour carefully digging out a rock on the outside far left side of the fireplace, close to the floor. He hid much of his money there and replaced the rock. The cabin could burn down and his money would be safe . . . he hoped.

There was no bank as yet in the town called Gold Camp. But Frank knew if the town lasted for any length of time, someone like Wells Fargo would come in with some kind of banking institution or repository.

The shadows were deepening around the cabin when Frank finally called it quits for the day and started thinking about supper for himself and Dog.

He put some beans on, sliced bacon, and made ready to fix some pan bread. Then he lit the lamps and filled the cabin with welcome light. While supper was cooking, Frank found the book he'd bought in town from a peddler and read for a time. It was a small book of poetry by Robert Browning.

Frank read:

Frank closed the volume and sat for a time. “Yes,” he finally said, as he rose from the chair, walking to the stove to turn the thick-sliced bacon. “That's me. I give up the fight. The Pine and Vanbergen gangs can go their own way as long as they leave me alone.” He had known all along that Vivian would not want him to risk his life for her memory.

And if Conrad is touched by all this?
The thought jumped into his brain.

He's a grown man running a multi-million-dollar company, Frank thought. He can afford to hire an army to fight his battles. Besides, he doesn't want anything to do with me. He made that clear enough several months ago.

No, he's got to learn to stand on his own. Especially if he wants to make it out here in the West. Folks out here still demand that a man saddle his own horse and stomp on his own snakes.

He stirred the beans and added some sliced onions to flavor up the beans. Supper wouldn't be long now.

Dog padded over and sat by the stove, looking up at him. “Won't be long, boy,” Frank told him. “It ain't much but I'm sure gonna share. Fifty-fifty, Dog. Gotta put some weight on you. You're plumb skinny. I figure another ten pounds and you'll be about right.”

That would put the animal at about forty pounds.

Frank and Dog ate supper, and Frank put Dog outside to do his business. It had turned much colder and Frank built a fire in the fireplace, letting the fire in the stove slowly die out. There would be a blanket of frost on the ground come morning. Wasn't long before Dog scratched at the door and Frank let him in. Dog went immediately to his bed, curled up, and went to sleep.

“I won't be far behind you, boy.”

Frank checked on the horses, did a quick walk-around of his place, and then turned in. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day for sure.

* * *

Frank slept deep and dreamless, rising about four o'clock. And it was sure enough cold. He quick-stepped to the privy and back, shivering both ways. He made coffee and fixed some bacon and bread, then sat in front of the fireplace until the chill left his bones.

Spalding's freight wagons were at Frank's place by nine o'clock, the men off-loading his building materials, including hammers and nails, several saws and axes, one of them a broadaxe and another a hand adz.

“Mr. Spalding said you can catch him in his office in town sometime and pay him off, Mr. Morgan. We'll see you. Take it easy and don't work too hard now.”

Frank looked at the huge pile of lumber by the side of the house as the empty freight wagons rattled off down the road. “Of course not,” he muttered.

Frank was no expert carpenter, but he knew the fundamentals of building. He went to work.

Frank worked sunup to sundown for the next several weeks, riding into town only twice during that period, once to arrange for a load of hay to be delivered. He built a small barn for the horses, adding it on to the lean-to. He added a room to the cabin and then built a fence around the cabin, taking in about an acre. The glass for the windows arrived and Frank installed that. His carpentry work was not expert by any means, but it was functional. Frank had recalled and kept in mind what a workman had told him years back, “Measure twice and cut once.”

On his second trip into town, Frank picked up a letter posted to him by attorneys representing the Henson Company. Frank sat for a long time digesting the contents of the letter detailing just how much money he had earned from his stock in the company. It was difficult for him to accept, for it was a staggering amount.

Frank was a moderately rich man for the times. He would never again have to worry about money.

With ninety percent of the work done, Frank decided to take a day off and ride into town for supplies. He was running out of essentials.

When he returned late that afternoon, his cabin had been burned to the ground and Dog was lying still in the front yard. He had been shot. There was a note nailed to the gate.

It was signed Ned Pine and Vic Vanbergen.

Passing by the still form of Dog, Frank saw one of the animal's back legs twitch. Dog was still alive. Frank knelt down and inspected his pet. There was a wound on Dog's side, and the top of his head was bloody. Frank got his canteen, wet a bandanna, and cleaned the head wound. A bullet had creased Dog's head, leaving a gash, and knocking the animal unconscious, but Frank did not think it was serious. Then he looked at the wound in Dog's side. A bullet must have ricocheted off something, tearing the lead apart. A small piece of lead was imbedded in Dog's side. Frank popped it out with the point of his knife. He picked Dog up and carried him back to the lean-to, placing him on a pile of hay. Dog would either come out of his stupor, or he would not. There was nothing else Frank could do.

Frank looked at the still-smoking and hot embers that were once his cabin. He had lost everything.

He walked over to the fireplace, thinking he would dig out his money from the fireplace stones, but it was still too hot. The log cabin would have burned quickly, so Frank figured the fire had been set no more than a couple of hours ago. Maybe less than that. It would probably be another hour before he could dig out his money.

He walked back to check on Dog. The animal was still breathing but still unconscious.

Frank unloaded his supplies, stashing them in the new addition to the lean-to, then stabled his horses. He could spend the night in the small new addition. It would be cold, but he had experienced worse in his time. He got a shovel and dug a hole in the ground, in the center of the barn, lining the outside area of the hole with rocks, then built a small fire. It would knock the chill off and keep a man warm, if he stayed close enough to the fire.

He heard Dog whimper, and knelt down beside the animal. “Well, ol' boy,” he said. “Glad to see you alive. You just lay still for a time and you'll be all right.”

Dog licked his hand and Frank carefully petted him. “You want some water, boy. I'll get you some.”

Frank found Dog's outside bowl and filled it with water. Dog drank half the bowl's contents, then laid his head back down on the hay and closed his eyes.

“Rest is good for you, Dog. I know. I been shot a few times myself.”

Frank found the small coffeepot he used on the trail and started water boiling. He had eaten a good meal in town and wasn't hungry. But he was getting mad.

He sat for a time, letting hot anger wash over him. Frank drank a cup of good strong coffee and glanced over at Dog. The animal was awake and looking at him. Dog wagged his tail, and Frank smiled at him. “I been told that more men have died fighting over God and animals than have been killed fighting over women. I believe it. They shouldn't have shot you, fellow. I can rebuild a cabin. But you . . . that's another story.”

Frank leaned back against a support post and sipped his coffee. He thought:
I was going to live and let live, boys. The hunt was going to end right here. But you boys don't want that. All right. Suits me. But you better bear one thing in mind: You started this dance. Now, by God, you'd better be ready to pay the band.

Frank dozed lightly through the night, awakening often to check on Dog and to build up the small fire. Come daylight, Dog was standing up on his own. He was a bit shaky, and hobbled around with a limp, but he was going to make it.

Frank dug out the stones around the base of the fireplace and retrieved his money. Some of the bills were a bit crispy around the edges, but spendable.

Frank found a skillet in the rubble and cleaned it up. Then he sliced some bacon and started it frying. Frank and Dog had bacon and pan bread for breakfast.

After some food, Frank checked Dog's wounds and cleaned them, applying some antiseptic . . . which Dog did not like at all, showing his teeth in protest. But he made no attempt to bite Frank.

Frank lounged around the ruins of his cabin for several days. When he was sure Dog was well on the way to healing, Frank packed up. He fixed Dog a place to ride on one side of the packsaddle, and on a very cold and frosty morning, pulled out. He headed first into the mining camp and bought supplies and new clothing. Then he had a bath and shave and haircut.

“You ready to hit the trail, boy?” he asked Dog, resting in his perch on the packsaddle.

Dog barked.

“Let's do it then.”

In the saddle, Frank glanced across the street. His son, Conrad, was standing in front of a tent cafe, looking at him. Frank smiled and lifted a hand in greeting. His son nodded his head curtly and without expression, then turned and walked away, his bodyguards with him.

The coldness of the young man neither surprised nor upset Frank. Conrad did not like his father and had never made any attempt to hide his feelings. Frank lifted the reins and rode on out of the mining camp. He did not look back.

Frank also had a hunch that Conrad would haul his ashes out for a warmer clime before icy winter locked up everything.

Frank had received word on the way to Denver that the Pine and Vanbergen gangs would not winter in the deep Rockies. It was just too damn cold and the gangs ran the risk of getting snowed in and trapped. Frank did not know whether to believe that or not, but without a warm place to hole up, he had no desire to stay in the middle of the high country when the temperature dropped to thirty below zero.

Frank headed southwest. He had him a hunch, and he often played out his hunches. Besides, Frank had learned that the southwest part of Colorado Territory was Pine's old stomping grounds. He had kin down there. Ned had not been born there, but came to that part of the territory when he was run out of wherever the hell he did come from . . . and the stories about that were many and varied. The stories about Vic were also many and varied. No one really knew what to believe about either of the gang leaders, except that they were both vicious killers without a shred of morals or conscience.

The area around Durango had more than its share of gold and silver mines that were still producing, there was lots of money floating around, and that would be a good place for the gangs to winter. Although Frank knew that the winters down there could be tough.

Frank was in no hurry, and he stopped often to check his back trail and to let Dog limp around, stretch his legs, and tend to business. Dog was healing fast and putting on weight, each day spending more time on the ground and less time riding the pack animal.

Frank was astonished at the number of people he saw on his way south. The country was filling up fast and settling.

Indian trouble was, for the most part, over. There would occasionally be a band of young bucks jumping the reservation and causing some trouble, but that was happening less and less as more settlers moved in.

Frank spent a lot of time wondering why Pine and Vanbergen would do such a stupid thing as hunt him down and burn him out, then leave a direct challenge for him to come get them.

“Arrogance, I reckon,” Frank muttered. He had been on the trail for a week, and had just entered the high grassland basin in the center of Colorado Territory, on the east side of the Platte. He had made camp for the evening with a lot of daylight left and had just dumped in the coffee and pulled the pot off the fire, setting it on the rocks that circled the small fire. He added a bit of cold water to settle the grounds, and leaned back against his saddle. Dog was lying by him when the animal suddenly raised his head and uttered a low growl.

“Easy,” Frank said, putting a hand on Dog's head. “Quiet now, boy.”

“Hello, the fire.” The shout came out of the brush. “I'm friendly. That coffee sure smells good.”

“Come on in,” Frank called. His hand was on the butt of his .45.

A young man stepped into the small clearing, leading his horse. The man looked to be in his mid-twenties and was not wearing a pistol . . . at least none that Frank could see.

“Howdy,” the young man said. “Name is Jeff Barton.”

“Glad to meet you,” Frank said. “I'm Frank. Come on in. Coffee will be ready in a few minutes.”

“Let me take care of my horse,” Jeff said. “He's tired.”

“Looks it. There's a little crick over there.” Frank pointed. “Come a long way?”

“A fair distance,” Jeff replied. He let his horse drink a little, then pulled him back, stripped the saddle from him, and hobbled the animal. He got a cup from his saddlebags and walked over to the fire, settling down with a sigh of contentment.

Frank hid his knowing smile. Jeff was no horseman. He was butt-sore. “Weary some?”

“You bet. It's that obvious, hey?”

“Somewhat. New to this country?”

“New to the West,” Jeff admitted with a smile. “Tell you the truth, Frank, I'm sort of lost.”

Frank chuckled. “Heading for the goldfields?”

“Yes. You?”

“I'm going that way. But I'm no miner. Doesn't interest me.”

Jeff looked at him. “Gold doesn't interest you?”

“Not unless I can find it laying on top of the ground, within easy reach. I guess the gold bug never bit me. Where did you get your horse?”

“My horse? Oh ... in Denver. Something wrong with him?”

“It isn't a him, it's a mare. Where are you from?”

“New York City. I, ah, don't know much about horses. But I did know it was a mare. I guess I'm what you Westerners call a tenderfoot.”

Dog walked over and smelled the newcomer, then backed away and lay back down beside Frank.

“Do I pass inspection?” Jeff asked.

“He didn't bite you.”

“I see. Why did you ask about my horse?”

“She's a very tired animal. Needs a day or two of rest. That's an awful lot of stuff you had hanging off of her.”

“Oh. Well . . . I'll just do that then.”

“Need to get you a packhorse.”

“I wonder why the livery man in Denver didn't tell me that.”

“Did you ask about one?”

“Ah . . . no.”

“Have some coffee. It'll cheer you up. You hungry?”

“Come to think of it, I am.”

“I'm going to have bacon and beans and pan bread. How's that sound?”

“Sounds very good. I'm not much of a cook.”

Or much of a horseman,
Frank thought, eyeballing the piece-of-crap saddle Jeff had stripped from his horse.
Somebody saw you coming, boy.

Frank put the beans on to cook and settled back with his cup of coffee. “You know anything about mining, Jeff?”

“I read some books on the subject.”

“Well, that's a start, I reckon.”

“I really wanted to get out of New York and start over here in the West.”

“You're not wanted by the law, are you?” Frank asked with a smile.

“Oh, no!” Jeff said quickly, then realized that Frank was kidding him. “My fiancée decided she didn't want me either.”

“Ahh, I see. Affairs of the heart. I can certainly understand that.”

“I was devastated.”

“Drink your coffee, you'll feel better.”

“It's amazing, really. But in the weeks I've been gone, her face is becoming dimmer in my mind.”

Then it wasn't love, boy,
Frank thought.
Vivian's face is as fresh in my mind now as it was twenty years ago.

“If you don't mind me saying so, Frank, you look familiar to me. I could swear I've seen you somewhere. Have you ever been to New York?”

“Never have, Jeff.”

“You certainly remind me of someone.” Jeff stared at Frank for a moment, then softly exclaimed, “Oh, my God!”

“What's wrong?”

“You're Frank Morgan!”

“That's my name, boy.”

“I saw a likeness of you on the cover of a book I read. You're the gunfighter!”

“I been called that, Jeff.”

“You've killed five hundred white men and a thousand Indians! Good Lord! I'm actually sitting here conversing with the most famous gunfighter in all the West.”

Frank chuckled as he poured another cup of coffee. “Those figures are a tad high, Jeff. Don't believe everything you read in those dime novels.”

“I thought you would be a lot older, Mr. Morgan.”

“I do sometimes feel a lot older, for a fact.”

“I did not mean that as a slur, sir.”

“I know it. And stop calling me sir. My name is Frank. How's your coffee?”

“What? Oh. It's delicious.”

“Want another cup?”

“Yes, please. I'm afraid I haven't discovered the knack of making good coffee on the trail.”

“Boil the water and dump it in. Then add some cold water to settle the grounds.”

“I'll remember that. What is your dog's name, sir . . . ah, Frank?”

“Dog.”

“Well . . . that certainly fits him.”

Frank laughed at that. He liked this young tenderfoot, and wondered how he'd gotten this far without running smack into danger. “Tell you what, Jeff. You can tag along with me. I'm heading down your way.”

“You mean that?”

“I said it.”

“That would be grand!”

“All right, then. Let's have another cup of coffee and I'll show you how to make pan bread.”

“I'm very grateful to you, sir . . . ah, Frank. That means a lot to me.”

Dog raised his head and growled, looking off toward the north. Frank's .45 appeared in his hand, hammer back. Jeff sat staring, his eyes bugged out.

“My word!” the young man said. “I didn't even see you pull the gun out.”