Showdown (19 page)

Frank rolled and smoked a cigarette, all the while wishing he had a cup of good strong coffee to go with it. After a few minutes he said to hell with it and went back to his quarters in the livery, added more wood to the potbellied, and put some water on to boil. Just as Frank added the coffee, Bob walked in, carrying a sawed-off double barreled shotgun, a bandolier of shells looped across his chest.

“I reckon the townspeople are as ready as we'll ever be,” Bob said. “Damned if it isn't warmin' up outside. By now we should have had at least one good snow. This is shapin' up to be a strange winter.”

Frank did not ask if any of the outlaws had been spotted. If they had, the air would have been filled with gunfire. “This weather suits me just fine, Bob. I want to get down south some before we get snowed in.”

“I was kinda hopin' you'd stick around, Frank. The town folk like you just fine.”

“I didn't get the nickname of Drifter because I stay very long in one place, Bob.”

“That could change.”

“Probably won't, though. I enjoy wandering, most of the time. I want to see everything I can that lies west of the Mississippi River.”

“How about east of it?”

Frank shook his head. “Doesn't interest me. Too damn settled. Too many laws that are too restrictive.”

“I can shore agree with that. When the war ended, I beat it back to the West as fast as I could. Never had no desire to go back East.” He looked at Frank for a few seconds. “Never had no urge to settle down with a woman and raise kids?”

“Not in a long time, Bob. Besides, I'm too old to be thinking about raising kids.” Frank smiled. “I don't have the patience for it.”

“You didn't have no kids from your marriage?”

“You know about that?”

“Accordin' to the books and articles about you, you was married once.”

“I was married briefly, a long time ago. Had a son. He doesn't like me very much, and really, I don't blame him. We didn't know about each other during his young years. He was raised kind of fancy back East.”

“Went to them fancy schools, hey?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I don't have much use for most Easterners.” Bob punctuated that by spitting on the ground. “Most city folks, that is. I met a lot of good country boys from the East durin' the war. But them damn Eastern city folks give me a pain in the butt.”

Frank laughed softly. “Theirs is a different way of life, Bob. For a fact.”

“And it'll git worser as the years go on, I betcha. They got more damn laws than fleas on a coyote. And they don't know how to deal with criminals neither. Hang 'em or shoot 'em, that's the way I see it. I think if you take a life whilst commitin' a crime, you give a life. I think that's only fair, don't you?”

“Yes, I do. But times are changing, Bob.”

“I hope I don't see them changes out here. Not in my lifetime.” He fell silent for a moment. “Frank? You notice anything sorta queer?”

“What do you mean?”

“It got real quiet all of a sudden. Real still like.”

“Yes, I noticed that.”

“Them damn outlaws is comin', ain't they?”

“I think they're already here, Bob. I think they've probably been slipping in close for several minutes.”

At the other end of town, a dog began barking. Frank and Bob heard the owner calling the animal, and the barking stopped.

“They're here,” Frank said.

Beside him, Frank could sense Bob tensing. “Where? Can you see any of them?”

“Not yet. But they're working their way into town.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know, Bob. I've lived my life on the edge of a knife, so to speak. These things either come to a man naturally, or you're dead.”

“I reckon so, Frank.”

Both of them stepped back into the semidarkness of the barn when they heard a shot coming from the far end of town.

“Take the back, Bob. Get up in the loft.”

“Right.” He paused and turned around. “Good luck, Frank.”

Frank smiled and nodded his head.

Bob climbed up the ladder and disappeared amid the bales of hay.

Frank heard another shot, which was followed by a scream of pain, then the word “No!” shouted out. That was followed by another shot. “Goddamn you!” the man shouted. Then silence.

“That sounded like Martin O'Dell,” Bob called from the loft. “He lives in the last house on the other side of Main Street.”

“Married?”

“Widow. His wife died 'bout three years ago.”

“They're lootin' the O'Dell house!” a man yelled. “I think they've killed Martin.”

“Stay where you are,” another local shouted. “Don't go out into the street.”

“I got to see about Martin! I got to!”

“Who is that?” Frank called up to Bob.

“Jack Harvey,” Bob called.

“If he goes out into the street, he's dead.”

The local ran out of his house and into the street. Half-a-dozen shots immediately slammed the morning. Jack Harvey was stopped cold and turned around by the impacting lead. He fell to the street and lay still.

“He never would listen to no one nohow,” Bob called from the loft. “I got to get back to the rear of the barn. Them outlaws got to show their ugly faces sooner or later.”

“Smoke starting to come from the O'Dell house,” Frank said. “The outlaws have fired the house.” Frank listened as a woman's screaming shrilled the morning air.

“Bob? Was Harvey married?”

“Yeah. I 'spect that's her screamin'.”

“You people in town!” a man's voice shouted. “Listen to this woman holler. You like that? My boys are pleasuring themselves with her.”

“Does that make you big brave men?” a local yelled.

“This is what we're gonna do with all the women in town!” the outlaw hollered.

“That's Sonny,” Frank said.

“We want the Easterners and Frank Morgan!” Sonny yelled. “You give us them and we'll ride out. How about it?”

“Good plan,” Frank muttered. “Turn the locals against us.”

Mrs. Harvey began shrieking and begging for someone to help her as she was brutalized by the outlaws.

“Let's give them the outsiders,” a man called from the middle of the small business district. “We don't owe them folks nothing.”

“Aw, shut up, Chris,” another local called.

“Yeah,” Phil called from the saloon. “Shut your mouth, you damn coward.”

Mrs. Harvey's begging and screaming continued unabated.

“We got some outlaws behind the barn, Frank,” Bob called. “They've ringed the town.” Bob's shotgun boomed. Outside, behind the barn, a man yelled in pain. “I didn't kill him,” Bob called a moment later. “But for shore he's out of the game.”

“How many pistols you have, Bob?” Frank called.

“Two. They might overrun the barn, but they'll pay a hell of a price 'fore they get it done, you can bet.”

“Nothing happening up here. I'm moving to the rear.”

“Come on. I 'spect it's gonna get lively 'fore long. I might need the help.”

Frank walked to the rear of the huge livery and chanced a look outside. He could just make out what he thought might be a man's leg, showing through the slats of the bottom of a chicken coop. Frank took aim and squeezed off a shot.

“Oh, hell!” a man yelled. “I'm hit. My knee is busted.” He started cussing.

Bob's shotgun boomed above Frank, and part of the old coop blew apart, and so did the gunman with the busted leg.

“I thought I might as well put him out of his misery,” Bob called.

“I sure believe you did,” Frank answered.

“Is that you, Morgan?” a man called.

“Yeah.”

“It's me, Red Henson. I'm gonna kill you, Morgan.”

“If I don't kill you first,” another gunslick shouted.

“Who the hell are you?” Frank questioned.

“Paul Hardin, you bastard.”

“I thought I killed you and your buddy, Moses Gunther back at the fort.”

“Naw. You must have been dreamin'. But I'm damn shore gonna put lead in you, Morgan. What do you think about that, Drifter?”

Frank had a suspicion that they were trying to keep him talking so they could better pinpoint his location. He offered no reply, and instead slipped to his left, near to the far wall, and peeked out through a wide crack. He could see just a portion of a man's leg: a boot and part of the leg just below the knee. Frank took aim and let his Colt bang.

The man's leg flew out from under him and he hit the ground hard and rolled. Rolled just enough to present a clear target. Frank squeezed off another shot before the man could get behind cover, and the lead dusted the outlaw, hitting him in the side and blowing out the other side.

“You bastard!” Hardin yelled. “You kilt Harry. Me and him was pards. I'm gonna get you, Morgan.”

Frank did not reply. He hit the floor as the lead started flying through the old boards of the livery. Frank crawled away. He slung his rifle up into the loft, then jumped up and grabbed hold of a rafter, swinging himself up to the loft. He picked up his rifle and moved to a window in the rear of the loft. The outlaws were busy laying down a withering field of fire, all directed at the ground floor, where they believed Frank to be.

Frank sighted in a man about fifty yards from the livery, crouched beside an outhouse behind a store. He squeezed the trigger and the man tried to stand up. His legs wouldn't support his weight and he toppled over. He did not move.

Frank's shot was not noticed by the outlaws behind the barn. It was lost in the roaring of their own gunfire.

The townspeople were fighting back. Up and down Main Street, and in the rows of houses that made up the residential area behind the business area, the sounds of gunfire could be heard. The surprise attack by the outlaws had failed. Now it all came down to which side could outlast the other in this confrontation.

That question was momentarily answered when a man shouted, “Let's get out of here. This ain't workin', boys.”

“Hold your ground,” Sonny yelled. “We can do this. Miller, you and Brownie get inside the general store. Fill up that farmer's wagon in the rear. Get everything we need.”

“Grab some wimmin,” somebody else yelled. “I got me an itch I cain't scratch.”

“Yeah,” another outlaw hollered. “I think they're all in the church. Let's go there.”

Sonny quickly reacted. “No!” he shouted. “Seize the town first. Use your heads, men. The women can wait. They'll be here. But kill the men first. And don't forget about the bank full of money.”

“The man isn't entirely stupid,” Frank muttered. He moved to the front of the livery, hoping to get a shot.

An outlaw tried to run across the wide main street. Before Frank could get off a shot, the townspeople opened fire. The outlaw was hit at least half a dozen times by rifle and pistol fire. He spun around in the street like a crazed top before falling to the ground. He tried to rise but could not. He died in the middle of the street.

“Two of you keep Morgan and that old fart pinned down in the barn!” Sonny yelled. “Rest of you concentrate on the stores. Take them one by one by sheer force. Move, damnit. Let's go, boys. Some of you get among the wagons of the Easterners. I want those people alive for ransom. This time we won't screw it up. Move, boys!”

“I want me a taste of them women,” an outlaw yelled.

But the outlaws had not reckoned on the renewed courage of the city men. When the outlaws moved to take the wagons, they were met with a hail of buckshot from shotguns in the hands of angry city men who were quickly adapting to the ways of the West when it came to dealing with outlaws.

“To hell with the dudes!” one outlaw shouted after seeing his buddy cut in half by a shotgun blast at very close range.

“To hell with this town!” another yelled. “This ain't workin'. Let's get gone from here 'fore we all get kilt.”

“Fall back and regroup!” Sonny shouted over the gunfire. “Fall back east to the edge of town and let's talk this over.”

The two men behind the livery slipped away unhurt.

“We won the first battle,” Bob called. “But it ain't over. They'll be back, you can bet on that.”

“That they will,” Frank replied. “And we'd better be ready for anything.”

The O'Dell house blew up, bits and pieces of the structure sent flying through the air by the heavy charge. A large timber landed directly on the body of Jack Harvey, crushing the dead man.

“Dynamite,” Bob said. “Now they're gettin' serious about this fight.”

“Hold your position,” Frank called to Bob after carefully checking out the terrain behind the livery barn. He could spot no one. “I've got to put a stop to this right now.” He climbed down the ladder from the loft.

“You got a plan?”

“No. But I've got to do something.”

“That might mean gettin' yourself killed, Frank. Let's talk about this thing.”

“You see any of Sonny's gang from your position?”

“No one close. They've pulled back toward the edge of town. They's a couple of them hidin' behind that empty building 'bout fifty yards to our left.”

Frank walked to his quarters and knelt down beside Dog, petting the animal for a few seconds. “You stay here,” he said softly. “Be safe, ol' boy. You hear?”

Dog wagged his tail and licked Frank's hand.

Back at the rear of the livery, Frank called up to Bob. “I'm going. You hold down the place and watch your butt.”

“Will do, Frank. You take 'er easy.”

Frank ran from the livery to Bob's small house. His move drew no fire. He took a deep breath and ran to the side of the outhouse, again drawing no fire from the outlaws.

“I don't think them thugs behind the empty building can see you, Frank,” Bob called softly. “But I can't get no clear shot at them. If you can make the ditch, you'll stand a better chance. It's deep, but it's gonna be muddy as hell.”

Frank lifted a hand and ran for the ditch that ran the entire length of the business district. There were a couple inches of water in the ditch, and it was cold. Crouching low, Frank carefully worked his way toward the far end of town, occasionally chancing a quick look over the edge of the ditch. The screams from the Harvey house had ceased. The woman had either fainted, or the outlaws had killed her to shut her up. Frank hoped it was the former.

“You townspeople listen to me!” Sonny shouted from the other side of the block. “We'll blow up your damn town and kill you all if you don't give us the Easterners and Frank Morgan. You hear me?”

“This damn safe is a monster,” a man yelled from the bank. “We'll never get this thing open.”

“Blow it open,” Sonny yelled.

Frank could not make out the words of the reply, for just at that instant, someone opened fire from a building on Main Street. Frank didn't doubt the outlaw's words about the safe being a monster, for he'd seen it once when visiting with Doc Raven in the bank/stage office. And he doubted the outlaws had enough dynamite to blow it open. What they would probably wind up doing was destroying the building while the safe remained intact.

“Morgan!” a man yelled behind him.

Frank threw himself to one side just as the out law's gun boomed, the slug tearing up dirt at the lip of the ditch.

The outlaw fired again, and again missed.

Frank didn't miss. His bullet tore into the mans chest and turned him around. Frank was out of the ditch and running before the hard-hit man tumbled to the ground.

“Did you see Morgan, Lucky?” someone yelled.

Lucky didn't reply. His luck had run out.

Frank reached the rear of a building and paused there for a moment, catching his breath.

“Lucky?” the man again shouted. “Lucky! Damnit, you bes' answer me, boy! Did you see Morgan?”

Frank slipped to the side of the building and glanced up the narrow space between the buildings. It was clear except for the broken bottles and other trash that littered the ground. He stepped into the space and carefully made his way toward the street.

When Frank was halfway to the street, a man ran into the space, a rifle in his hands. The unshaven man, dressed in very dirty, trail-worn clothing, stared at Frank for a couple of heartbeats and then yelled, “Morgan!” He lifted his rifle.

Frank shot him. The man stumbled backward, a startled look on his features. He lifted the muzzle of his rifle, and Frank put another .45 slug into him. This time the man went down. He stayed down.

Frank turned and ran back toward the rear of the building.

“Howie, was that you?” a man yelled.

Howie, if indeed that was Howie that Frank had just sent into the cold bony arms of death, did not reply.

A few seconds later the man shouted, “Howie's down and so is Lucky. Morgan's on the prowl. Got to be him.”

“Five thousand dollars and first go at the prettiest woman in town to the man who kills Morgan!” Sonny yelled.

Frank opened the back door of a building, and knew immediately by the smell he had stepped into the back room of the saddle shop. He could also smell the strong odor of fresh blood and relaxed bowels and bladder. He didn't have to see the body of whoever it was to know the man was dead.

He walked through the workroom and into the showroom. There, he saw the sprawled body of the saddle-maker. The man had caught a bullet in the center of his forehead.

“One more local paying a heavy price,” Frank murmured. He wondered if the man was married with a family.

“Where'd the son of a bitch go?” The shouted question came from outside, jarring abruptly into Frank's musing.

Hard gunfire rattled the morning, coming from the stone church's location.

“Leave the church alone,” a man hollered. “That's where all the women is. Don't shoot at the church, you might hit one of them.”

“Well, them damn women is shootin' at me!” a man shouted. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Leave them be,” Sonny yelled. “We can deal with them later. Get that damn bank vault open.”

“Morgan's disappeared,” another outlaw yelled. “I ain't got no idea where he went.”

A shotgun boomed and a man yelled in pain. “The bitch done shot me in the ass!” the man hollered. “Oh, hell, my ass is on far!”

The shotgun boomed again.

“Jesus Jumpin' Christ!” another man screamed. “She's shot
me
in the ass! I'm ruined, boys. Somebody kill that damn woman!”

Frank smiled. He had a pretty good idea who that woman might be.

“Way to go, Clarabelle,” a woman yelled. “Shoot the scum again.”

“I was right,” Frank muttered.

“I want her,” an outlaw yelled. “That's Sister Clarabelle. She's my type of woman.”

“Lonesome Howard,” Frank whispered.

“Well, you can damn sure have her,” a man yelled. “You and her would make quite a pair. Ain't neither one of you got a lick of sense.”

“Shut your blasphemous mouth, Stoner,” Lonesome hollered. “She's a good Christian woman.”

“She's a fat pig is what she is,” Stoner replied. “And you're a damn idiot!”

“I'll kill you when we get done with this town,” Lonesome yelled in reply. “I'll kill you in the name of the Lord.”

“Shut up, the both of you,” Sonny shouted.

Frank chanced a glance out the busted front window of the saddle shop. None of the outlaws were in sight. He had no target . . . yet.

The gunfire in the town had dwindled down to only sporadic firing.

“Whoopee!” an outlaw yelled. “I done found me a high-yeller nigger gal! I likes them young nigger gals. I—”

A shotgun blast shattered the morning, followed by a man's thudding to the boardwalk. Frank smiled. He had a hunch that Grandmother Marvella had given the outlaw a taste of her shotgun.

“Johnny!” a man yelled. “Johnny!”

“Johnny's dead on the boardwalk,” a man yelled. “He caught a full load of buckshot in the belly. Damn near tore him in two.”

“Who killed him?”

“Some damned old nigger woman. Looked like she was about a hundred years old.”

“You shoot her?”

“Naw. I couldn't get a shot off.”

Frank wondered briefly why Marvella didn't take Bessie to the church. He didn't have to wonder long. Clarabelle suddenly hollered, “You damned godless heathens! Leave this town, all of you!”

“If we don't?” Frank recognized the voice of Brooks Olsen.

“Marvella and me will wipe out the whole filthy lot of you!”

Clarabelle had hooked up with Marvella. Frank smiled at that. Now
that
was quite a pair, for sure.

“You fat pig!” Brooks hollered. “I'm gonna shoot you personal. Right in your big fat ass just to see you jump and holler.”

“Then I'm gonna hop on and poke that good-lookin' high-yeller girl!” Martin yelled.

“The hell you will!” Bessie yelled.

Frank finally got a chance to put lead in an outlaw when one showed himself near the mouth of an alley. Frank lifted his rifle and sighted the man in, squeezing the trigger. The outlaw rose up on tiptoe for a couple of seconds, then pitched forward onto the boardwalk. He drummed his boots for a moment, then passed on into eternity.

“Where'd that shot come from?” Sonny hollered.

“I don't know,” a man shouted. “I couldn't tell. Somewheres acrost the street.”

“Where's that doctor who lives here?” Sonny yelled. “I got two men with buckshot in their asses.”

“I ain't seen him, Sonny,” Brooks called. “I reckon he's out of town.”

“And we have plenty more buckshot where that came from, you sorry pieces of buffalo turd!” Clarabelle yelled.

“Ain't she somethin'?” Lonesome Howard shouted. “I mean to tell you boys, that there is my kind of woman.”

“And you're a damned old hypocritical fool!” Clarabelle yelled.

“I think I love you, Sister!” Lonesome hollered.

“That makes me want to puke!” Clarabelle quickly yelled.

“I'm gonna grab you up and tote you off into the woods, Sister,” Lonesome shouted. “We can be the modern-day version of Adam and Eve.”

“Now I
am
gonna puke!” Clarabelle said.

“You'll learn to love me, Sister. I'll grow on you.”

“Like a big ugly wart!” Clarabelle shouted.

“My God, ain't she somethin'!” Lonesome said. “Talk dirty to me some more, Sister. I'm gettin' all excited.”

“Crazy son of a bitch!” Frank muttered.

“You fellas ready to blow that safe?” Sonny yelled.

“Not yet,” came the reply.

“What the hell's the holdup?”

“A fuse long enough for us to get clear.”

“Hurry up, will you!”

“We just about got it. Couple more minutes and she'll blow.”

“Get clear, everybody!” Sonny yelled.

Frank slipped back outside and headed for the ditch behind Main Street. He didn't want to be close to the bank/stage office when the dynamite blew. He had a hunch the explosion was going to take out several buildings and kill or maim anyone close to the blast. And he suspected the huge safe would still be intact.

Frank made the ditch without being spotted, and found a relatively dry part of the depression in which to belly down. Wouldn't be long now.

“You better hunker down, Sugar Bugger,” Lonesome called to Clarabelle. “When that dynamite blows, it's gonna be like the end of the world for a few seconds. I wouldn't want nothin' to happen to a single hair on your precious head.”

“Sugar Bugger!” Clarabelle hollered.

“Yep. You my precious Sugar Bugger,” Lonesome yelled.

Clarabelle then told Lonesome to kiss a certain part of her rather vast anatomy.

“I'm gettin' more and more worked up, my precious flower.”

Frank couldn't make out Clarabelle's reply, but he was certain it was less than complimentary. “You're an idiot, Lonesome!” an outlaw yelled.

“I'm in love!” Lonesome hollered. “Praise the Lord.”

In the ditch, Frank grimaced at the words from the Bible-quoting killer.

“Everybody ready for the big blow?” an outlaw yelled.

“Everybody get down!” Sonny called. “Light the fuse!”

“It's sputterin'!”

Frank braced himself.