Reprisal (4 page)

“Comes with practice. Now be quiet.”

Dog growled again, low in his throat, his ears laid back, teeth bared.

“Steady, boy,” Frank whispered. “Let them come on.”

“Who is it, do you suppose?” Jeff whispered.

“Someone up to no good, you can bet on that.”

Frank heard the faint metallic click of a hammer being jacked back, and shoved Jeff backward. “Stay down!” he said, then threw himself to one side just as the late afternoon air was filled with gunsmoke and lead.

Frank's .45 roared five times, so fast Jeff could not count them. Frank rolled to one side, grabbed his .44-40, and cut loose with it.

Dog ran behind Frank's saddle and stayed there.

One of the bullets from the hidden ambushers hit the coffeepot and blew a hole in it, knocking the pot spinning. Another punctured the small pot of beans and knocked it off one side of the rocks and into the fire.

“There goes supper,” Frank muttered. “Damnit!”

“Get 'im!” the shout came from behind the brush.

A man burst out of the brush just to Frank's right, and Frank spun around and drilled him in the brisket. The .44-40 round doubled the man over and sat him down on his butt.

“Oh, God!” the gut-shot man yelled.

“Stupid play,” Frank said, levering another round into his rifle. He waited.

“Cloy?” The one-word question was thrown out from somewhere to Frank's left.

Whoever Cloy was, he either couldn't or didn't reply.

One of my bullets must have hit him,
Frank thought.
Lucky shot.

“Daniel?” the voice called.

“I've had it, Jack. Hard-hit in the belly.” Then Daniel started yelling as the pain struck him, hot and heavy.

“To hell with the kid and to hell with you,” Jack said. “I'm gone outta here.”

“You can't just leave me!” Daniel hollered.

“Watch me,” Jack said.

Frank emptied his rifle where he thought the hidden voice was coming from, and quickly reloaded.

“What kid are they talking about?” Jeff asked.

“You, I reckon. They must have thought you had some money.”

“I wish.”

“I'm a-hurtin' somethang fierce,” Daniel hollered. “Y'all got to hep me!”

“Go to hell,” Frank told him.

“You cain't mean that! We didn't mean you a bit of harm, mister. We was after the kid's money, that's all. Oh, God, I hurt so bad.”

“Tough luck,” Frank told him.

“Jack!” Daniel hollered. “Oh, Jack.”

Jack did not respond.

Frank waited.

“Help me, Jack!” Daniel yelled, his voice much weaker.

A faint groan came from the brush. Then a thrashing sound. Then silence.

“I think Jack is beyond help, Daniel,” Frank called.

Daniel cursed him. “You'll rot in hell for this,” he said. “We didn't mean you no hurt. There wasn't no need for you to shoot us.”

“You're a fool.”

“Now what?” Jeff asked.

“We wait,” Frank told him. “Stay down.”

“Are you going to help those wounded men?”

“Hell, no.”

Several minutes passed in silence. There was no more sound from the brush and Daniel's moaning ceased.

“Stay put,” Frank told the young man.

“What are you going to do?”

“Check it out. Don't move and keep your head down.”

Frank eased out of cover and slipped into the brush. He had taken only a few steps before he found Jack's body. One of his .44-40 rounds had struck the man in the center of his chest. He moved on and found the body of the man called Cloy. He had taken a round from Frank's pistol in the center of his forehead. Frank walked back to the clearing and looked down at Daniel. The gut-shot man stared back at him through pain-filled eyes.

“My pals?” Daniel asked.

“Dead.”

“You an evil man, you are.”

“And you're a fool.”

“What be your name? I got a right to know that much, don't you think?”

“Frank Morgan.”

“Oh, good God!” Daniel said. He sighed and shook his head. “Frank Morgan!”

“You got any kin that might give a damn about your dying?” Frank asked.

“I got a brother and sister up in Oregon. But they disowned me years ago.”

“I don't blame them. Anybody else?”

Jeff walked up, his face pale. Dog had wisely elected to stay behind cover.

Daniel cut his eyes to the young man. He took a deep breath and shuddered in pain. “I hate you.”

“Why?” Jeff questioned. “What did I ever do to you?”

Daniel shifted his gaze back to Frank. “And I hate you too, Morgan.”

“I'm overcome with grief.”

Daniel closed his eyes and never opened them again.

“Is he dead?” Jeff asked.

“Yep.”

“The others?”

“Stone dead.”

“They were going to kill me for the few dollars I have, weren't they?”

“Yep. They sure were.”

“Now what?”

“Have you ever fired a pistol?” Frank asked.

“No.”

“Rifle?”

“No. But I fired a shotgun once.”

“Wonderful. Get the pistol belts from the dead. I'll get their horses.”

“You want me to handle the dead?”

“Do you know of a better way to remove their gunbelts, Jeff?”

“Ah ... no, I guess not.”

“They won't bother you.”

“I suppose not. Very well.”

Frank found the horses about a hundred yards from the clearing. They were all fine animals. Frank wondered if they were stolen. He led them back to the creek and let them drink, then stripped the saddles and bridles from them, then went through the bedrolls and saddlebags.

He found a coffeepot and a cook pot and laid them aside. He found a bill of sale for the chestnut and read it. It looked legitimate enough. Frank could transfer sale to Jeff easily enough.

“What are you going to do with the dead people?” Jeff asked.

“Kick some dirt over them and then start supper.”

Jeff swallowed hard and then cleared his throat. “You're certainly taking this calmly.”

“No point in getting all excited about it. It's over.”

“I owe you my life, Frank,”

Frank shrugged that off. “Life is still pretty cheap out here. Not as cheap as it was ten years ago, but many folks are still fairly casual about killings.”

“I'm beginning to understand that. There was a shooting during a train stop in Kansas. Two men shot it out in the middle of the street.”

“Who won?”

“They both were shot.”

“Happens that way more often than not. Come on. Let's get the dead buried and then see about supper.”

“I'm afraid I've lost my appetite, Frank.”

“You'll get it back.”

* * *

The gunfighter and the tenderfoot drifted southwest. They were in no hurry and stopped often. Dog spent more and more time on the ground now, only occasionally riding along in the pouch on the packsaddle.

The ambushers had had about a hundred dollars between them, and Frank gave that to Jeff, along with a new bill of sale for the horse. “Those old boys won't be needing them, Jeff. First town we come to, I'll sell the other horses and you can have that money. Be a good grubstake for you.”

“Grubstake,” Jeff said. “What an interesting word.”

Once, just once, Frank gave Jeff a lesson in the art of pistol shooting. He backed off about ten paces from a huge old stump, carefully handed Jeff the pistol, and told him to hit it.

Jeff hit everything but the stump.

“I think you better concentrate on learning how to use a rifle, Jeff. You don't need to be wearing a pistol. Out here, somebody is liable to call your hand and make you use it.”

“I think you're right.”

Jeff turned out to be a pretty fair hand with a rifle. After a week of daily practice he could usually hit what he was aiming at.

At a small-town livery, Frank sold the spare horses and gave Jeff the money. “Hang onto that. We'll sell the guns at the next town.”

“I'm going to have a nice reserve of cash.”

“You'll need it in these gold camps. Things tend to be a mite expensive.”

“I'm going to hate to part company, Frank. This has been quite a learning experience for me.”

“Oh, I'll be around, Jeff. Besides, we've got a ways to go yet.”

“I was hoping I'd get to see some wild Indians.”

Frank smiled. “Not many of those still active, Jeff. But believe me, you really don't want to run into any Injuns on the warpath.”

“But you have, right?”

“A time or two.”

“Did you fight them?”

“When I had to. I avoided a fight whenever I could.”

“You did?”

“Damn right. Injuns were mean fighters. Once they got their dander up, they wouldn't cut a man any slack.”

“Where did all the Indians go?”

“On reservations mostly. Those that weren't killed or died from disease or starvation. We're in Ute country now. But it's doubtful we'll see any. They're mostly on reservations down in the southwest corner of the territory.”

“Doesn't seem fair to me. It was their land, wasn't it?”

“It wasn't anybody's land, Jeff.”

“What do you mean?”

“What happened to the Injuns that lived back East when the pilgrims arrived a couple of hundred years ago?”

“Why . . . I guess I don't know.”

“Shoved out of the way, moved west, killed off, died from disease, that's what. Same thing out here. Easterners, some of them, tend to look down their noses at the way the Injuns were, and are, treated out here. But they were done the same way back East, for the most part.”

“I guess they were, at that. But the West is so, well, violent.”

“Blown all out of proportion, Jeff. Because Easterners have a short memory. The West is a new land, just like the East was two hundred years ago. Those early settlers in America fought for their right to be here and make something of this land.”

“You're an educated man, Frank. You've done a lot of thinking about a lot of subjects.”

“Self-taught, Jeff. I got through part of grade school as a kid, that's all.”

“But you could have been whatever you wanted to be. I know that. You're a very intelligent man. I've noticed those books you carry around with you.”

“But I settled on being a gunfighter?” Frank said, amusement in his voice.

“Well . . . I really didn't mean it like that.”

“I'm just kidding you, Jeff.”

“Oh ... all right. Frank?”

“Yep.”

“We're running a little low on supplies.”

“Yeah. We're about a day and a half out of Salida. We'll provision up close to there at a little place I know near some springs. Salida used to be called South Arkansas; then some folks renamed it. The whole damn area is tough, so stay close and watch your mouth.”

“Don't you worry about that. I am your silent partner.”

“Still lots of hanging in that area, especially in Buena Vista. That's a mean judge there. I came through there about five years ago and counted five bodies swinging out on the edge of town.”

“Surely you're joking.”

“Nope. His name is Judge Lynch.”

“Now I know you're kidding me!”

“Nope. I sure am not. That's his name. Quite a number of whorehouses in those towns. One-Eyed Sally's got the biggest one.”

“You've been in them?”

“Nope. But I've ridden past them a few times. They do quite a business, let me tell you.”

“Judge Lynch?”

Frank laughed at his young friend. “That's right. But we'll cut south of that town.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. I know a shortcut over to Buffalo Pass and then we'll follow the Saguache for a ways down to a stage stop and tradin' post. After that it really gets into some wild country. You'll see the beauty of the territory. Something you'll remember for the rest of your life.”

“Wilder than this?”

“Son, you haven't seen nothin' yet.”

“I've lost all sense of time out here,” Jeff said. “What is the date?”

“I think it's November,” Frank replied. “But I wouldn't take any bets on it.”

“My word! It'll be Christmas before long.”

“I reckon so.”

“You celebrate Christmas, don't you?”

“Not in a long time, Jeff.”

“I always enjoyed the holidays. It's such a wonderful gay time.”

“You have family back there?”

“Oh, yes. My parents. My brothers and sisters. Uncles and aunts and lots of cousins.”

“Think you'll go back someday?”

Jeff didn't immediately reply and Frank understood: The West could cast a powerful spell on a man. It could be pure hell on a woman, but many men who traveled out here ended up staying. The vastness of the West could be hypnotic.

“I don't know, Frank,” Jeff finally replied. “If I can make some kind of living out here, I believe I'll stay.”

“I thought that might be your answer. Doesn't take long for the West to grab hold on a man.”

Jeff looked up at the sky. “Looks odd.”

“Looks like snow,” Frank told him. “And it might be a heavy one too. Or it might blow past. Anyway, we're only a few miles from the Springs. We'll hole up there until it blows over. Give the horses some rest and we'll provision up. Maybe get us a bath.”

“I itch all over,” Jeff said.

“Cooties.”

“Sounds disgusting. And my clothes are filthy.”

“Welcome to the trail, Jeff. It isn't so bad during the spring and summer. Man with a bar of soap can get himself a good wash in a creek or river. It gets tough during the cold months. We'll get our clothes washed there too. Then the hard pull starts.”

“How far are we from Durango?”

“Couple of weeks.”

“The vastness of the West is very nearly overwhelming. For a couple of days after leaving Denver I saw people. Then . . . nothing.”

“Lots of time for a man to think.”

“Introspection.”

“I reckon.”

The trading post that Frank had mentioned was gone. It had burned down and not been rebuilt.

“Well, I'll just be damned,” Frank said, looking at the old ashes.

“Now what?”

“I reckon we ride into town after all.”

“Buena Vista?”

“No. Salida's closer. 'Bout five miles east of here. Down that road there. And it's a tad calmer. They got a hotel too. We'll get us a couple of rooms and sleep in a real bed.”

“After we bathe, I hope,” Jeff said dryly.

It was midafternoon when the pair rode into town. Just before the ride in, Frank had put Dog in the pouch on the packsaddle and told him to stay put. He took Dog into the hotel with him. The desk clerk at the hotel got real huffy about Dog staying in Frank's room . . . until Frank signed the register, and the clerk stared at his name for a moment, swallowing hard a couple of times. When the desk clerk could finally speak, he allowed as to how it would be just fine for Dog to stay in Frank's room.

“You go on up to the rooms and take Dog with you,” Frank told Jeff. “I've got to do a little banking. It won't take long. Then we'll get us a bath and new duds.”

“Ah, Frank . . . I think I'd better save my money.”

“Relax. I have plenty of money. My treat.”

“Are you sure? I don't know when I'll be able to repay you.”

“Don't worry about it, Jeff. I assure you, I have ample funds.”

At the bank, Frank asked to speak to the manager and was shown into his office. There, Frank opened a canvas and oilskin pouch and took out one of several bank drafts he carried with him. “Cash this for me?” he asked the manager.

“This is for a lot of money, sir. Are you sure you want to carry this much cash with you?”

“I'm sure.”

“We'll be happy to honor this draft, of course.” He again looked at the name. “Ah . . . are you really . . .” He pointed to the name on the bank draft.

“I am,” Frank said. “In the flesh. You have a problem with that?”

“Oh, no, sir! Not at all. I shall be right back with your money.”

“Told you it wouldn't take long,” Frank said, walking into the adjoining hotel rooms. “You ready for a bath and some new duds?”

“I am.”

“Bring Dog.”

“Is he going to get a bath too?”

“He sure is.”

Frank bought them both new clothes at a general store; then they walked over to a barbershop that also advertised hot baths. After Frank finished washing off days of dirt, he dunked Dog several times in the hot soapy water. They both smelled better, although Dog didn't seem to appreciate his bath nearly as much as Frank did.

All decked out in new clothes and feeling much better, Frank stashed Dog in the hotel room with a big bowl of stew he'd ordered from the dining room and a washbasin full of water. Then he and Jeff went down to the hotel's dining room for supper.

The desk clerk and the bank employees had spread the word about Frank Morgan being in town, and a crowd had gathered in the hotel lobby, including the marshal and all his deputies.

“You create more of a stir than the mayor of New York City,” Jeff remarked.

“Which is why I try to avoid towns as much as possible. Ignore the people. Let's get something to eat.”

After a few minutes of nothing happening, much of the crowd began to drift away, but the marshal and one of his deputies stayed, seated at a table away from Frank and Jeff, drinking coffee and staying ready for trouble.

Frank and his new partner ate a tough steak and some undercooked potatoes and overcooked bread, and left the dining room, retiring to their rooms.

“They should have given us that meal free, just for eating it,” Jeff said. “That was awful.”

“Sure wasn't anything to write home about,” Frank agreed. “Good night, Jeff. See you in the morning.”

“Are we pulling out then?”

“If we're not stuck here by heavy snow. If so, we'll wait it out.”

Frank took Dog outside to do his business, taking the steps down the back way to avoid any gawkers that might still be in the hotel lobby. The night air was cold but the skies were clear and starry. The clouds had drifted on.

“We might get out of here tomorrow, Dog,” Frank whispered. “I hope.”

Back in his room, Frank built a small fire in the stove, wedged a straight-backed chair under the doorknob, and went to bed. He was up and moving at five in the morning. He took Dog out for a walk in the alley and found the ground snow-free. It was cold, but far from being unbearably so. Frank rolled Jeff out of bed.

“Let's get the hell out of this town, Jeff.”

“Suits me. We going across the mountains?”

“Maybe. Depends on the weather. We'll know in a day or two. Then we'll decide.”

The men were riding out of the town an hour later, Dog resting in his pouch on the packsaddle.

Frank cut south after checking the sky several times. It was flat-looking, had a strangeness to it that Frank didn't like.

“I figure we can make it over the pass in a few hours,” Frank said. “Then we'll pick up the road through the valley. Beats the hell out of being caught in the mountains during a blizzard.”

“How far is the nearest town?”

“Day and a half. Maybe two days of easy riding. But there is a stage stop halfway. I know it's still there 'cause the stage is still running. We can make that easy.”

They made the stage stop by early evening, and got their horses stabled just as the sky began dumping snow: great big wet flakes that clung to a person's clothing for a few seconds before melting. The stage had arrived and was going to be there for a while, maybe all night. A busted axle. The passengers, four men and two women, were just sitting down to supper when Frank and Jeff walked in.

“Howdy, boys,” the stationmaster called. “Come on in. Got beans and beef and biscuits for supper.”

“Sounds good,” Frank said. “Got any coffee ready?”

“ 'Bout a gallon over yonder.” He jerked his head. “Help yourself.”

The stage driver came in rubbing his hands. “Three more men comin' in,” he told the stationmaster. “Better toss some more steaks in the skillet and give the beans another stir. And it's snowin' so hard you can't hardly see your hand in front of your face.”

Frank had poured himself a cup of coffee and stepped back into the deep shadows of the big room. He had fixed Dog a place in the stable with the horses, and fed him with chunks of the steak he and Jeff had taken from the dining room the previous night. Frank would take him whatever scraps were left from the supper table.

Frank didn't like the looks of any of the three newcomers. He had recognized their type immediately: trouble-hunters, gunslicks, and probably bounty hunters, out to collect the fifteen thousand that bastard Dutton had put on his head.

Promises to be a very interesting evening,
Frank thought, slipping the hammer thong off his .45, just in case.

“Find a place to sit, boys,” the stationmaster called. “Or squat on the floor if you like. I'll have some food ready for you in a little while.”

“Sounds great to me. But right now that coffee sure smells good,” one of the men said.

“Help yourself. There's plenty. Cups hanging from hooks in the kitchen.”

The three men dumped their bedrolls and saddlebags on the floor by the door, and walked over to the stove in the kitchen just off the main room. Frank was almost hidden in the shadows, and none of the three paid him any mind. Jeff was across the room, sitting on a bench, sipping his coffee in silence. He sensed something was wrong by Frank's behavior.

“Any lone riders come by today?” one of the three toughs asked, walking back into the dining area.

“I haven't seen a soul all day. Course I ain't been lookin' neither.”

The four men seated at the long table were concentrating on eating, paying no attention to anything else. The women were picking at their food. The entire group looked very road-weary.

The three toughs had taken off their heavy coats and hung them from pegs. Frank took note that the trio were all armed. Each man wore a pistol, tied down. One of them wore his pistol on the left side, butt forward for a cross-draw. Only man Frank ever knew who was fast with a cross-draw was Smoke Jensen.

Frank swallowed the last of his coffee and stepped out of the shadows, heading for the pot for another cup just as the two other toughs walked back into the main room. They stood in silence as Frank poured another cup and then stood with his back against a wall. They also took careful note that Frank held the coffee cup in his left hand. His right hand was near the butt of his .45.

“You sure look familiar,” one of the man-hunters said to Frank.

“Is that right?” Frank replied.

“Where are you from?” another bounty hunter asked.

“Here and there.”

“That don't tell me nothin' at all.”

“Maybe it's none of your business,” Frank told him.

The trio exchanged glances at that.

“Just tryin' to be friendly,” the third bounty hunter said. “Goin' to be a long night. We ought to try to get along.”

Frank sipped his coffee and said nothing.

The stationmaster and the stage driver were watching and listening intently, sensing trouble was building.

One of the two women was watching, her eyes on Frank. She was young and very pretty, maybe nineteen or twenty. Heart-shaped face and a pile of dark hair. Her clothing was expensive, and her little hat was about the silliest-looking thing Frank had ever seen. Useless. Wouldn't keep the rain or the sun out. Some silly fancy-pants fashion designer must have gotten drunk and gone hog-wild while working on that little noggin-topper, Frank concluded.

“It's crowded in here, boys,” Frank said softly.

“For a fact,” one of the man-hunters agreed.

“What's that got to do with anything?” the man standing next to him asked.

“You got any pie?” one of the traveling men asked.

“Nope,” the stationmaster told him. “You just et what there was to eat.”

“How about some drinking whiskey?” another traveling man inquired.

“Bar's in the next room. I'll be along to serve you.”

Two of the traveling men stood up and walked into the saloon area of the stage stop/general store.

“Why don't we go in there and have a friendly drink or two?” one of the bounty hunters asked Frank.

“Not much of a drinking man,” Frank replied. He held up his coffee cup. “This is fine with me.”

“Good God Amighty!” the stage driver suddenly blurted out. “That's Frank Morgan!”

All eating and drinking and conversation at the table ceased and all heads turned to stare at Frank in silence.

“Evenin', folks,” Frank said easily. “Don't let me disturb your meal. Go right ahead. I'll just stand here and drink my coffee.”

“I knowed it was him!” one of the man-hunters said.

“Shut up, Gene,” one of the others said.

“Shut up, yourself, Hal. Let's take him.”

“Fifteen thousand dollars, Hal,” the third man said, sticking his mouth into it. “Think about it.”

“Not here, Ben, not now. Too many people.”

“Fifteen thousand dollars!” the pretty lady at the table said. “What about fifteen thousand dollars?”