Showdown (10 page)

Miller was either so angry, nervous, or hungover that he was shaking as Frank faced him. Clarabelle and her group had backed up against a far wall. They all stood silent, mesmerized by the scene. Lonesome Howard had stepped back, carefully moving his hand away from the butt of his pistol. Those men who had lined the bar had backed away, dragging Dolan with them. Dolan was conscious, but still addled from the blow on the head.

“Pull, Morgan!” Miller yelled.

“After you, Miller,” Frank calmly told him. “I won't draw first.”

“I knowed it all along. You done lost your stomach for a fight. You've turned yeller, Morgan. You're a damn coward.”

“There's one way to prove that, Miller. And you know what it is. So why don't you stop running your mouth and pull iron?”

“I will!” Miller yelled.

“I'm waiting,” Frank replied.

Miller suddenly yelled like a deranged person and grabbed for his gun. Frank cleared leather as fast as a rattler's strike and fired, the bullet hitting Miller in the chest and knocking him stumbling backward. He held onto his pistol and managed to cock it and bring it level. He was grinning as Frank's .45 boomed again, the heavy slug taking Miller in the side and turning him around, the bullet blowing out the man's back. Miller dropped his six-gun and it went off as it hit the floor, the bullet slamming into the side of the bar. Jack Miller sank to his knees and stayed there.

“Fast as he ever was,” Red Henson said in a low tone.

“Too damn fast for me,” another bounty hunter said. “I just quit this game.”

“Me too,” another said.

“Help me,” Miller said. “I can't get up.”

“Ain't no point in you doin' that, Jack,” Lonesome Howard said. “You best just stay where you is and go on and ex-pire.”

“Hell with you, Lonesome!” Miller gasped.

“You want me to say some words over you?” Lonesome asked. “I can read from the Good Book. That might make your passin' a tad easier.”

“Take your words and the Good Book and stick 'em up your . . .”

“Oh, my heavens!” Clarabelle said, as Jack finished his suggestion.

“You ain't no fittin' man for no words of the Lord,” Lonesome said. “Your soul is on the way to the hellfires.”

“I'll see you there too, you bastard!” Miller told him. “Doc! Come over here and patch me up.”

“I can tell from here no amount of patching will do you any good, Jack,” Doc Raven told the man.

Miller suddenly fell forward on his face. “I can't . . .” Whatever it was he couldn't do was left unsaid as Miller lapsed into unconsciousness.

Clarabelle and her followers began quietly exiting the saloon. Few of the hardened gunslicks even took note of their departing.

Frank sat back down at the table. “Bring me some coffee, will you, Phil?”

“Comin' right up, Frank.”

“What the hell is goin' on?” Dolan asked, sitting up on the floor. He shook his head. “Where am I?”

He was ignored.

“I smell gun smoke,” Dolan said. “Have I been shot?”

“No, you ain't been shot,” a gunny named Nick Bell told him. “But Jack Miller damn shore was.”

“Who shot him?”

“Morgan.”

Dolan's eyes cleared and he looked at Miller, lying on the barroom floor a few feet away. “Damn, boy, you look bad,” Dolan said.

Miller did not reply. His soul was reaching out to shake hands with the Grim Reaper. The Reaper is always a heartbeat away from all of us.

Frank sipped his coffee.

“You want some of us to tote Miller over to your office, Doc?” a gunhawk known only as Stoner asked.

“No point in that,” Doc Raven replied. “He's about dead.”

“How in the hell can you tell that from where you're sittin'?” Red Henson asked.

“From years of experience.” The doctor pushed away his empty glass. “Phil? Bring me a cup of that coffee, will you?”

“You got to be the sorriest doctor I ever had the misfortune to run into,” Red said. “You didn't even git up to look at Miller.”

Miller jerked once and would never move again . . . at least not on this earth and not under his own power.

“I believe Miller just passed,” Lonesome said. “Praise the Lord. Barkeep, bring me a fresh bottle, will you?”

“Let's some of us get him out of here and over to the undertaker,” Fargo suggested. “He smelt bad enough livin'. He'll really be stinkin' in a little while.”

“That there is a natural fact,” a gunslinger said. “Come on, boys. Let's tote him out of here.”

Several men got up and carried Miller outside.

Lonesome Howard turned slowly to stare at Frank. “Someday, Morgan, it'll be me and you. Then we'll settle this thing.”

“Nothing between us to settle, Howard. Nothing at all.”

“I think there is, Morgan.”

“What?”

“You're an evil man and you got to be stopped.”

“That'll be my job, Lonesome,” Dolan said, straightening up and setting his hat gingerly on his head.

“Why don't you men stop this?” Doc Raven questioned. “My God! What has Frank done to either of you?”

“He don't have to have done nothin', Doc,” Lonesome said.

“Then I don't understand.”

“He's who he is, and we're who we are,” Dolan said. “That's 'bout the onliest way I know to say it.”

“You men really want this . . . foolishness to happen, don't you?” Doc Raven questioned. “This last man standing nonsense?”

“It's somethin' to do,” Red Henson said.

“Now that is no reason for killing!”

Red shrugged that off and signaled for Phil to bring him another beer.

Frank finished his coffee and pushed back his chair. “I think I'll turn the prisoner loose and tell him to get out of town. The money men are gone; he can't get paid now for shooting me.”

“He might decide to shoot you just for the hell of it,” Bob said.

“I don't think so. Anyway, I'm going to cut him loose. See you men later.” Frank walked out of the saloon, conscious of a lot of hostile eyes on him. But he was accustomed to that sensation and ignored the hot glares.

Frank turned the prisoner loose and told him to get his horse and head out of town.

“I'm gone, Marshal,” the man said. “You'll not see me again.”

“Good.”

Frank emptied the chamber pot and cleaned up the man's cell. Then he washed up a bit and headed for the cafe to get Dog some scraps to eat. That done, he walked back to the saloon and leaned against the bar, drinking coffee and listening to the low murmur of voices around him. He covertly counted heads and realized that about half a dozen of the men were gone. Most of those gunslicks that he knew, or at least whose names he knew, were all present in the saloon. He motioned to Phil.

“Who left, Phil?”

“I know the names of three of them, Frank. Carl Repp, Jimmy Deggins, and Hamp Jennings. Something else too. That gunhawk called Roberts and his buddy with the chewed-up arm, Russ Temple? They pulled out early this morning, so I was just told.”

“Going after the Easterners?”

“Damned if I know. But that would be a good guess.” “

“Thanks, Phil.”

“You going after them?”

“I don't know. Far as I'm concerned, the Eastern folks got themselves into this mess, they can get themselves out of it.”

“That sounds good to me.”

Phil left to go wait on another customer and Frank walked out to stand on the boardwalk. “Yeah,” he muttered. “It sounds real good except for what's probably going to happen to the women traveling with those arrogant men. Damn!” Frank tossed his cigarette into a mud hole in the street and paced up and down the boardwalk for a couple of minutes. Then he made up his mind.

Frank walked over to Doc Raven's office. The doctor was sitting in his office reading a medical book. “What's on your mind, Frank?”

Frank told the doctor what the bartender had told him. “I'm going after those men, Doc.”

Doc Raven laid the medical book aside. “You don't know that they've gone after the Easterners, Frank.”

“I will as soon as I've picked up their tracks.”

“You know, of course, that as soon as that mob of gunslicks in the saloon realize you're gone, they'll be coming after you?”

“That's probably very true.”

“Counting the bodyguards with Maxwell and the others, you'll be facing odds of about fifty to one.”

“You don't want me to go after your old college friends?”

Doc Raven grimaced at that question. “Please, they're not my friends, Frank. Far from it. As far as the women with them . . . well, in a way they're just as guilty as their husbands. Probably in a lot of ways,” he added softly, then fell silent, except for drumming his fingertips on the desk. He opened his mouth to add something, then shook his head.

“But you're worried about Wilma?”

The doctor turned his gaze to Frank and stared at him for a few seconds. “She's married to Maxwell, Frank.”

“But you're still in love with her.”

“I suppose I do still have some sort of ... ah, affection for her.”

Frank smiled. “Sure, Doc. Some sort of affection. That's a very interesting way of putting it.”

“We have had no communication for years, Frank. Not since just after the War of Northern Aggression.”

“I saw the way you two looked at each other.”

Doc Raven said nothing.

“I don't think she's very happy married to Maxwell.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Did they have any children, Doc?”

“Two. A boy and a girl. The boy is in business in New York City. The girl is married and living”—he waved a hand—“somewhere.”

“So you've spoken with Wilma since her arrival here.” It was not put as a question.

“A couple of times. Briefly.”

“Will you take care of Dog for me, Doc?”

“Of course I will. But will he stay with me if you ride out?”

“If I tell him to. Especially if I don't take Horse with me.”

Doc Raven sighed and smiled. “Dog and Horse.” He laughed softly. “Couldn't you have come up with something a bit more original?”

“It fits them.”

“I have a big mountain-bred Appaloosa. You saw him in the stable.”

“Yes, I did. A beautiful animal.”

“You can take him. He'll go all day and he certainly needs the exercise. His name is Stormy.”

“I appreciate that.”

“A bit of warning, Frank. He'll try you when you first swing into the saddle. Just to show you who's boss.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way.”

“When do you plan on pulling out?”

“Just as soon as I supply up.”

Doc Raven was silent for a few seconds. “If you stay on the road, you'll find plenty of deserted cabins to spent the night. Most of them are in pretty good shape. Red Rock itself is deserted. Past Red Rock, the way is rough. It will be very slow going for Vanderhoot and his party.”

“I'm counting on that, Doc.”

“I'll have Bob put your rig on Stormy. Then I'll meet you behind the general store. How long do you plan on being gone?”

“As long as it takes, Doc.” Frank turned and headed for the door. Raven's voice stopped him. “Yes, Doc?”

“Bring Wilma back to me, Frank.”

Frank nodded his head and walked out of the office.

Frank waited until the store was empty of customers, then bought several boxes of cartridges for pistol and rifle, and bacon, beans, coffee, flour, and salt. He took the supplies out to the rear of the store and waited for Doc to show up. He did not have a long wait.

Stormy was a big Appaloosa, about seventeen hands high, which is somewhat larger than the average Ap. He had the typical markings for that breed: light gray in color with dark gray spots on his hips. And Stormy was a stepper with a lot of spirit; Frank could tell that just by looking at him. And he was young. The Ap cut his eyes to Frank as Frank approached him. But Frank had a way with horses; a gift, some would call it. After a few moments of gently talking with the big Ap, stroking the horse's nose, Frank swung into the saddle.

“He likes you, Frank,” Doc Raven said. “He doesn't like many people. Sort of like your horse. And your horse is getting along in years too.”

“He isn't a colt, that's for sure.”

“Oh, I agree with you on that. He needs riding. However, there are a lot of trails Stormy would like to see. It's a shame I can't ride him more than I do. I just don't have the time.”

“What are you getting at, Doc?”

“Horse likes me.”

“Horse doesn't like anybody,” Frank said.

“He likes me. I can assure you of that. I've been going down there when I could and feeding him bits of apple.”

“He took it out of your hand?”

“Sure did. After I talked to him a bit.”

“Damn wonder he didn't take your hand off.”

“I've still got both hands,” Doc Raven said with a smile.

“Again I ask, what are you getting at?”

“You want to trade horses, Frank?”

“Are you serious?”

“I sure am. You're a man who knows horses and you like horses. You're sitting on Stormy as though you two have known each other for years. Now . . . before you say no, I understand that Horse is not old; he's got a lot of years left in him. But he's also seen a lot of trails. He needs a good rest. Surely you'll agree with that.”

“I will for a fact.”

“You try Stormy on the trail. See how you two get along. Then make up your mind.”

“I'll do that, Doc. See you when I get back. And”—he smiled—“I'll do my best to bring Wilma back with me.”

“I hope so, Frank.”

Frank lifted a hand and rode out of town. He had ridden only a few miles before his mind was made up. Horse was going to get himself the rest he so richly deserved. Stormy was born to the trail. The rain had stopped and the sun was finally shining after days of rain and drizzle and gloomy skies. Frank came to a spot in the old road that was not a mud pile and let Stormy have his head. The big Ap could almost fly, and loved strutting his stuff. Frank reined him in and swung down from the saddle, letting Stormy blow for a moment.

“You and me, Stormy, are going to get along just fine.”

Stormy turned to look at Frank, and a bond was formed between the horse and Frank. After a few minutes, Frank stepped back into the saddle and headed for the ghost town of Red Rock. He didn't figure on making the town before dark, so after several hours on the trail, he began looking for a place to make camp for the night. He found some old wagon ruts deeply embedded in the almost indiscernible old road that led off to the east, and took it. About a quarter of a mile later he came to an old cabin in the timber, with a lean-to-type stable built off to one side. The roof looked to be in good shape, so Frank decided this was as good as he was apt to find and dismounted to check out the place.

Looking around, he could find no signs that anyone had visited the place recently. He put Stormy in the old stable and went inside the cabin.

Whoever had vacated the place had pulled out in a hurry, leaving some of the furniture behind. There was a rocking chair that looked to be in good shape. A table and three chairs. A bed frame with no mattress and a chest of drawers and a trunk. There were ample signs that small animals had frequented the place.

“It'll do for a home for the night,” Frank said.

He looked around for a broom, found a piece of one with a broken handle, and used that to sweep out the place as best he could. He found some old boards and sticks in one side of the lean-to, and used that to build a fire, then put on water to boil for coffee. He'd bought some crackers and tins of beef and some pickles at the general store; he'd have those for supper.

Frank let Stormy out and hobbled him so he could graze and not go far from the cabin. He tried the water in the well and it tasted sweet. He filled up his canteen with that. The water was boiling when he got back to the cabin, and the day was getting colder. “Well, it's time for that,” Frank said. “I just hope it doesn't snow.”

Frank drank a cup of coffee and had supper. He went out and gathered up enough wood to last him the night, then went back to the cabin. He poured another cup of coffee, then rolled a smoke and enjoyed the quiet of late afternoon.

He heard Stormy whinny and stamp his feet and snort. Frank grabbed up his rifle and went out the back door. Stormy had not moved far from where Frank had hobbled him at the rear of the cabin. Frank led him close to the house and tied him there, so he would be safe from any bullets coming from the front.

“You stay here and be safe,” Frank told the big Ap, stroking his nose. “I'll be back.”

Frank headed for the timber and circled around, moving swiftly and soundlessly through the timber. There was just enough light left for him to see, but he knew that would not last for long. He reached the edge of the clearing, far in front of the old cabin, and squatted down, his eyes moving, scanning all around him.

He caught a glimpse of red across the clearing and lifted his rifle, easing back the hammer.

“You see anything, Charlie?” a voice called.

Frank froze; the voice couldn't be more than a dozen yards away from him, to his right.

“Nothing, Rich. But somebody's in there, they's smoke a-comin' from the chimley.”

Chimley?
Frank thought. Man either has a speech defect or he's ignorant.

“But is it Morgan?”

“How the hell does I know?” Rich called. “Them guys we met comin' from town said he would prob'ly be headin' thisaway. Mayhaps it is, mayhaps it ain't.”

“Where's his damn horse, I wonder.”

“I dasn't know that neither. But I heared him whinny.”

“They's big bounty money on Morgan's head, Rich. And not from them uppity Easterners, neither. I heard about another bounty when I was over in Wyoming. Big money too. I never thought I'd get me a chance to collect it. But here it is.”

“I wants me some of that money,” Charlie called softly. “I shorely does. Hell, let's just shoot up the cabin. There ain't nobody gonna hear us.”

“What if that ain't Morgan yonder?”

“You really give a damn?”

“No. But we ain't got no money to buy no more shells with.”

“So we'll kill this traveler and take his gear and horse and sell it.”

“That there's good thinkin', Rich. Mighty good thinkin'. Let's do it.”

“You do it, Charlie. I'm out of cartridges for my rifle. All I got's my pistol.”

Nice folks, Frank thought. He lifted his rifle and drilled the spot of red across the way, then before the sound of the rifle had stopped echoing, Frank had hit the ground and bellied down.

“Oh, Lordy, Rich!” Charlie called. “I'm hit. Oh, hell, Rich. I'm hit hard. I'm a-bleedin' something fierce, I is.”

The air above Frank's head was filled with hot lead for a few seconds as Rich emptied his pistol. Frank counted six. Then he returned the rifle as fast as he could lever his Winchester. He rolled away and quickly reloaded.

“Rich!” Charlie called. “Is you hit?”

There was no reply.

“Rich?” Charlie called. “I got to have me some help, Rich. I'm bleedin' real bad.”

Frank bellied his way through the brush and peered through a bush. But there was no need for being careful. Rich was sitting up, his back to a tree. He was very still. He had taken a round in the center of his face.

“Rich?” Charlie called. “My guts is on far, Rich. I'm hurt bad.”

Frank made his way through the timber back to the cabin, then around to the wounded man, being careful not to expose himself. Charlie was probably badly wounded, but the man could still pull a trigger.

Frank approached the man slowly and silently. Charlie was stretched out on the ground, his rifle a few feet away from him. Frank walked over and kicked the rifle away, then looked down into Charlie's pain-filled eyes.

“Is you Morgan?” Charlie asked.

“Yes,” Frank said, noticing that the man's front teeth were missing.

“You a son of a bitch,” Charlie said.

“I've been called worse.”

“Help me.”

“Where'd you come from?”

“Huh? I was borned in Arkansas.”

“Where did you come from today?”

“The ghost town up the road a few miles.”

“Red Rock?”

“I reckon.”

“Did you see a group of men and women up that way?”

“Shore did. Fancy men and women. All duded up to the nines.” Charlie paused for a few seconds as intense pain hit him. He clutched at his belly with bloody hands. “You carryin' anything for pain?”

“No. How about a group of men, all traveling together?”

“I seen them. Seemed like they had all joined up with the fancy people. Hard-lookin' bunch of people. The fancy people didn't look like they liked it none a-tall.”

“Did you talk to them?”

“Rich did most of the talkin'. They didn't want nothin' to do with us, so we lef' right quick.” Charlie groaned. “Can you git me to a doctor?”

“No. The nearest doctor is miles away. Can you ride?”

“I don't think so. It hurts to move. My guts is on far.”

“You want me to say I'm sorry?”

“To hell with you, Morgan. You ain't a damn bit sorry you shot me, is you?”

“Not a bit.”

Charlie cussed Frank until he was out of breath. “Is Rich dead?”

“He took a bullet in the center of his face.”

“He's got kin back in Fort Smith. They'll git you, Morgan.”

“They'll be at the end of a long line.”

“Huh?”

Frank concluded that Charlie was a bit on the slow side. “Forget it. Can you walk?”

“I ain't gonna move. If I stand up my guts will fall out.”

“If you don't try, you can die alone right here in the timber.”

“One place is as good as any, I reckon.” Charlie's voice was weak and his eyes held a strange, faraway light.

Frank squatted down, staying a few feet away from the man. “Do you want me to get a bedroll from your horse?”

Charlie could not reply. He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue could not form the words. He looked at Frank for a moment, then closed his eyes and was still. Frank watched him for a couple of minutes, then stood up.

It was too dark to try and bury the men, so Frank left them where they had fallen and walked over to the road and up to the main road. He found the men's horses and shook his head at their condition. They had not been cared for and were in bad shape. He stripped saddles and bridles from them, turning the horses loose. He took the hobbles off Stormy and stabled him, then took the saddlebags back to the cabin and lit a couple of candles. He poured a cup of coffee and then went through the saddlebags. He could not find a thing that would tell him anything about any relatives of the men. The saddlebags contained nothing except wads of filthy clothing and a handful of gold teeth. Obviously the men had been robbing graves, knocking out the gold teeth of the dead to sell later.

In disgust and revulsion, Frank threw the gold teeth into the shadows of the cabin. “Sorry damn bastards,” he swore. “A couple of worthless lowlifes.”

Frank rolled a smoke and leaned back in the rocking chair. He made up his mind then and there that he would not bury the two come morning. He would leave them for the animals.

“They don't deserve any better,” he muttered. “Trash and scum.”

He tossed the filthy clothing into the fire and sat and watched it burn. He missed the company of Dog, but the animal was better off staying in town with Horse. Doc would make sure the dog was well fed and loved.

He smiled, hoping Dog would not get too attached to Doc Raven.

Frank lifted his head. What was that sound? Or was it a noise at all? Yes. He was sure he'd heard something. Something that was not a normal sound of the night.

He listened intently. There it was again. A human sound, he was certain of that.

He picked up his rifle and went out the back of the cabin, standing for a moment, listening.

“Help!” The night carried the cry for help. “Help me, please.”

“What the hell?” Frank muttered, just as the cry came again. Frank stepped around the corner and began walking toward the sound.

The night closed around him.