Authors: William W. Johnstone

Showdown (7 page)

BOOK: Showdown

5.78Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

Ten

Doc Raven paused at the door and looked back at Frank. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you, Frank. Stop by my office sometime this morning, will you?”

“Sure, Doc.”

The doctor walked out of the livery into the rain.

“Wonder what that was all about?” Frank mused aloud.

“Beats me,” Bob said. “You want to have that coffee now?”

“I better tag along behind the doc. He might run into trouble. Thanks, though. A cup would have tasted mighty fine.”

“I'll think about you whilst I'm eatin' them biscuits.”

Frank grinned and stepped out into the wet predawn darkness, quickly catching up with the doctor.

“What do you want?” Raven said, hurrying toward his office.

“Keeping you out of trouble.”

“You keeping
me
out of trouble! That's a laugh. Here we are. Come on in while I find my bag. Damn, I sure wanted some coffee.”

“We'll get some at the cafe. It should be open by the time we see what those shots were all about.”

A moment later they were slopping across the street to where a group of men were gathered around two bodies sprawled face-down in the mud.

“They're both dead, Doc,” a local dressed in his nightshirt called from the boardwalk. “They killed each other, I reckon.”

“What a pity,” Doc Raven muttered, kneeling down to check the bodies. “Bring that lantern closer,” he said to a man. “That's it. Thanks.” It didn't take him long to check the men for signs of life. He stood up and wiped his hands on a towel he took from his bag. “They're dead, all right. Both of them belly-shot and one with a bullet in his chest, the other with a bullet hole between his eyes.”

Frank picked up the six-shooters and checked the cylinders. Three shots had been fired from each weapon. “I guess they fired at the same time while they were going down.”

“You know them, Frank?”

“No.”

“Any of you men know them?”

“I seen them ride in 'bout sundown,” a gunslick said, his voice slurry from whiskey. “I never laid eyes on 'em 'fore then.” He ended that with a loud belch.

“Go sleep it off,” Raven told him.

“Somebody gimme a drink,” the hired gun responded.

“Come on, Frank,” Doc Raven said. “I want to talk to you.”

“What about these bodies?” a man questioned.

“Put them behind the undertaker's office,” the doctor said. “And get that body by the side of the livery too. They'll keep in this weather.”

Frank accompanied Doc Raven back to his office, and was waved to a seat. Raven built up the fire in the stove and put on a pot of water to boil. “We'll have us some coffee in a little while. Frank, do you find anything odd about this constant delay in starting off this so-called hunt?”

“Well, other than the obvious, no. Vanderhoot has said the hunt will begin as soon as the rain stops. ”

“He changed his mind again.”

“When?”

“Late last evening. Now he says the hunt will begin when the roads are open.”

“I hadn't heard. Hell, Doc, that might be two or three weeks.”

“Yes. Something is very queer about this entire matter. ”

“I reckon so, now that you bring it up.”

The doctor pulled open a drawer on his desk and tossed a badge to Frank. “I've had that thing for a long time. Never wore it. Didn't want anyone to know I had it.”

Frank looked at the badge. A deputy U.S. marshal's badge. “I don't understand, Doc.”

“I can appoint anyone I choose to help me in time of emergency. That's why I was given two badges. That's the law as I understand it. Well, I'm appointing you, Frank. Stand up and raise your right hand.”

“Are you serious?”

“I sure as hell am. You've carried a badge before. Now you're going to carry another one. Stand up.”

Frank stood up and Doc Raven swore him in, then pinned the badge to his vest, under his jacket.

“This may not be legal, Doc.”

“It is as far as I'm concerned.”

“When were you appointed a deputy U.S. marshal?”

“About ten years ago. I told the federal judge then I wasn't qualified to have the badge. He said I could swear someone in to help should the need ever present itself. The commission has never been revoked. Now go find out what this damn hunt is all about.”

“How about some coffee first?”

“Good idea. With thinking like that you'll make a fine U.S. marshal.”

* * *

Frank and Doc Raven enjoyed a pot of coffee and some good conversation until daybreak. Then they walked over to the cafe to get some breakfast. The place was crowded with Vanderhoot and his Eastern friends and their wives. Frank and Raven took the only table left in the cafe and sat down.

“Take off your heavy jacket, Frank,” Raven whispered. “Let them see the badge. Let's see what reaction we get from those people.”

“Should be interesting,” Frank replied, removing his winter coat and standing up to hang it on a hook.

When he turned around to stand for a moment facing the front, the cafe patrons fell silent, all eyes on the badge pinned to his vest.

Horace Vanderhoot's face flushed a deep red. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it when he could find no words.

“You people suddenly run out of things to talk about?” Frank asked, staring at the crowd of Easterners.

“Where did you get that badge?” Maxwell Crawford asked. “I don't believe it's real.”

“It's real,” Doc Raven said. “Frank Morgan is a legally appointed deputy U.S. marshal.” He smiled. “You people should have done a bit more checking before you embarked on this barbaric hunt.”

“You weren't wearing it before,” Jackson Mills said. “Why did you wait until now to pin it on?”

“Maybe I wanted to see if this so-called hunt of yours was real,” Frank answered, “or if you were just playing some sort of silly game.”

At that remark, Vanderhoot suddenly looked very startled. His hands gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.

Odd, Frank thought, taking in the man's reaction. Now what brought that on?

Vanderhoot suddenly stood up, took his wife's hand, and together they left the cafe.

“Must not have liked the way his eggs were cooked,” Doc Raven said, smiling.

“I guess so,” Frank replied, sitting down. He whispered, “What the hell is going on, Doc?”

“I really don't know for sure,” Raven whispered in return. “But I have some strong suspicions.”

“Want to share them with me?”

“Not yet, Frank. Give me a little while.”

“All right.”

They watched as the Easterners left the cafe en masse, their food uneaten. The waitress set their own food on the table before them. It smelled delicious.

“It's coming together in my mind,” Doc Raven said. “I'm going to have a chat with Horace after I eat. I think the man set a very dangerous game into motion. And if I'm correct, the man is a damned fool.”

“I could have told you that on the first day you told me about the hunt,” Frank said, buttering a biscuit and taking a bite.

Doc Raven nodded his head and glanced outside. It was raining again.

* * *

When Frank walked into the saloon later that day, one could have heard a pin drop, even though the place was filled with gunslicks. Horace Vanderhoot and his Eastern cohorts were nowhere to be seen. Not a word was spoken as Frank made his way to the far end of the bar and told Phil to bring him a cup of coffee.

“Coming right up, Marshal,” Phil said with a smile and a twinkle in his eyes. Obviously, the word had spread very quickly throughout the town.

“I never knowed you was a federal marshal, Morgan,” a gunny called from across the room.

“Now you do,” Frank replied.

“And that's supposed to make a difference to us?” another asked.

“Only if you're smart.”

“Well, it don't make a damn to me,” Fargo said from the other end of the bar where he was nursing a mug of beer.

“That's your option, Fargo,” Frank told him. “This town's still got a nice big jail, right, Phil?”

“Sure does. Got four big cells in it.”

“You ain't puttin' me in no damn jail!” Fargo said.

“Keep runnin' that mouth and I just might.”

“By God, I'll stand up to this tin badge if none of the rest of you ain't got the guts!” a man said, pushing back his chair and standing up.

“Who are you?” Frank asked.

“I'm called Utah Slim.”

“Never heard of you,” Frank said, and using his left hand, lifted his cup and took a sip of coffee.

“Folks is gonna hear about me plenty after I put lead in you, Morgan.”

“You ain't gonna get no money, Slim,” a gun-handler reminded him.

“Hell with the money! I want the reputation. The man who kills Frank Morgan can write his own ticket anywheres in the West.”

“That there is a natural fact,” a man Frank knew as Nils Finley said. “Slim's shore enough got a point.”

“You kill a federal marshal and they ain't never gonna stop lookin' for you,” another gunny said.

“The West is a big place,” Slim replied. “ 'Sides, my mind is made up. Step out here and face me, Morgan.”

“You mind if I finish my coffee first?” Frank asked. “I'm a coffee-drinking man and this is fresh brewed.”

“Step out here, badge-toter!” Slim yelled. “I ain't in no damn mood for a mess of jawin'â”

“In a minute,” Frank said softly.

“Now!” Slim yelled.

“Are you in that big a hurry to die, Slim?” Frank asked.

“Hell with you, Morgan. I think you've gone yeller on me. I think I'll just shoot you right now and listen to you beg.”

Frank stepped away from the bar just as Doc Raven and Bob walked into the saloon. They saw what was happening and immediately stepped to one side, out of the way of any stray bullets.

“I don't beg for anything to any man, Slim,” Frank said, ice in his tone. “Never have, never will. So either make your play or shut your damn mouth and get out of here . . . while you're still able to walk.”

Utah Slim grabbed for his six-gun. Just as his hand closed around the butt, he heard the boom of Frank's Peacemaker and felt a hammerlike blow slam into his belly. He doubled over and grabbed for the bar. He held on and tried to clear leather, finally managing to fumble his Colt from leather. He eared back the hammer and raised the pistol.

“Now die, Morgan,” he gasped.

Frank's second shot hit the Utah gunfighter in the chest and knocked him away from the bar. Slim dropped his pistol and fell against a table. “I got kin who'll git you, Morgan,” he said. “They'll track you down and kill you.”

“Not if they're no better than you were,” Frank said. “And I stress
were.”

“Damn, Morgan,” a gunhawk said, being careful to keep his hands away from his guns. “You're a cold-hearted man.”

“You want to find out how really cold I am?”

“Nope.”

“Wise of you.”

Utah Slim lost his grip on the table and fell hard to the saloon floor.

“You want to look at him, Doc?” a bounty hunter asked.

“Not really,” Raven said. “But I suppose I should.”

“Gimme something for the pain,” Slim said.

“You probably won't be hurting much longer,” Raven said, pushing through the crowd. He called to Bob. “Get my bag for me, will you, Bob?”

“Comin' right up, Doc,” the liveryman said, heading for the door.

Doc Raven knelt down beside the fallen gunman and opened the man's shirt. He looked at the wounds and grunted softly. Already, pink froth was forming on Utah Slim's lips. A sure sign that the man had been lung-shot.

“How's it look, Doc?” Slim asked. “I'm a-feared to look.”

“Bad,” Raven told him. “You're hard hit.”

“I'm I gonna die?”

“Let's just say if I were you, I wouldn't be worried about lunch today.”

“Oh, Lord!” Utah Slim hollered.

“You want me to get a minister for you?” Raven asked.

“What the hell good would he do?” Slim questioned.

“He could pray for your soul.”

“The preacher is stuck on the other side of the slides,” a local said. “Might get Sister Clarabelle to call on the Good Lord for him.”

“Clarabelle wouldn't set her feet in a saloon,” another local said. “She don't hold with drinkin'.”

“Well, so much for that,” Raven said, standing up.

“Do somethin', Doc!” Slim yelled weakly.