The Drifter (19 page)

“What was the line you recited? ‘What a tangled web we weave?' I knew several families name of Scott back home when I was a kid. One of them was always quotin' that fellow Shakespeare. Like to have drove the rest of us goofy. You reckon they might be related to that poet?"

 

* * * *

 

The next morning, Frank took a good bath and then carefully shaved. He blacked his boots and dressed in a new suit he'd bought just recently. No special occasion—he just felt like putting on some fancy duds.

He stepped out into a beautiful day in the high country: a blue, cloudless sky and warm temperature. He walked up to the Silver Spoon and took a seat, ordering a pot of coffee and breakfast. Kid Moran was seated across the room, staring at him, smiling at him. The Kid had taken no part in the attempted kidnapping of Conrad and the killing of Hal ... at least, no part that could be proved. Kid Moran could come and go as he pleased.

Frank ate his breakfast and drank his coffee, ignoring The Kid. The Kid left the café before Frank, walking across the street and sitting down on a bench.

Angie came to Frank's table to clear off the breakfast dishes and said, “Be careful, Frank. There's something in the wind this morning."

Frank smiled up at her as he smoked his cigarette. “What do you think it is, Angie?"

“Killing you."

“You a fortune-teller? Maybe you can see the future?"

“Joke if you want to, Frank. But I've served half a dozen hard cases breakfast this morning."

“Sometimes it's difficult to tell a hired gun from a drifting cowboy, Angie."

“And sometimes it isn't.” She refilled his coffee cup and said, “You watch yourself today. This town's become a powder keg, and the fuse is lit."

She turned to leave, and Frank put out a hand. “Angie, what is it you're not telling me?"

“Nothing that I can prove. It's just a feeling I get every now and then. But over the years I've seen the best and the worst out here. I saw Jamie MacCallister go into action once. I've seen his son, Falcon, hook and draw. I personally know Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont. I've been working in Western cafés since I was ten years old.” She smiled. “And I'm no kid, Frank. I've got more than a few years behind me. You just be careful today, all right?"

“All right, Angie."

Frank looked out the window. The Kid was still sitting on the bench across the street, staring at the café.

Frank paid his tab and stepped out onto the boardwalk. None of his mental warning alarms had been silently clanging that morning, so what did Angie feel that he didn't? And why? The Kid was in town, probably to try to provoke a showdown with him. That was something that Frank had felt all along was bound to happen—no surprise there. And it might well come to a head on this day. If so, so be it.

The hard cases she had mentioned? Did she personally know those bad ole boys, or had she just recognized the hard case look?
Probably the latter
, Frank concluded. And Frank knew that many toughs wore the same look, or demeanor.

Frank walked one side of the main street looking at the horses at the hitch rails. There were some fine-looking animals there, and none of them wore the same brand. But what did that prove conclusively? Nothing. Nothing at all.

Frank cut his eyes. Kid Moran was pacing him on the other side of the street. Maybe it was time for Frank to settle this thing. He hated to push it, but damned if he was going to put up with being shadowed indefinitely. It was already beginning to get on his nerves.

He looked up the street. Damned if more newcomers weren't pulling into town. Two wagons coming in, four outriders per wagon. And Frank felt that was odd. Most Indian trouble was over, so what could the newcomers be hauling to warrant eight guards? The wagons weren't riding that heavy.

Frank paused for a moment to watch the wagons as they rolled slowly into town. One wagon stopped at one end of the street; the other one rolled on and stopped at the far end of the main street.

“What the hell?” Frank muttered. He looked over at the bank building. The guard was just unlocking the front door, getting ready for another business day.

“'Mornin, Marshal,” a citizen greeted Frank.

“'Morning,” Frank responded.

The citizen strolled on, whistling a tune.

Frank looked at Kid Moran. The Kid was standing on the boardwalk, directly across the street, staring at Frank, smiling at him. Even at that distance, Frank could tell the smile was taunting, challenging.

“What the hell is with you, boy?” Frank whispered. “What's going on here?"

Jerry walked up, smelling of bath soap and Bay Rum after-shave.

“Jerry,” Frank greeted him.

“Frank,” Jerry replied. “You're lookin' spiffy this mornin'. You're duded up mighty fancy."

“And you smell like you're goin' on a date,” Frank said with a smile. “You got you a lady friend?"

Jerry laughed. “Well ... me and Miss Angle might go for a walk this mornin'. We both been makin' goo-goo eyes at each other here of late. She's a nice lady."

“Yes, she is. And a damn good cook, too."

Jerry patted his belly. “I know!"

“Going to get serious, Jer?"

“I don't know. Maybe. Luckily we're both adults, and have been up and down the road a time or two. It isn't something new to either of us. So we're cautious.” Jerry paused and looked at the wagons that had just rolled into town. “What the devil are those wagons doing, Frank? Looks to me like they're going to block both ends of Main Street. My God, they
are
blocking both ends."

Frank looked first at one end of the street, then the other. The wagons were not long enough to completely block off the wide streets, even with the teams, but it looked as if they were sure going to cause some major problems for other wagons trying to get past.

“Frank, they're folding back the canvas on both wagons. Heck, maybe it's some sort of circus come to town, or some minstrel show. You reckon?"

“I don't know what's going on, Jer. But I damn sure intend to find out."

“I'll take this end,” Jerry said, pointing. “You take the other."

“Marshal Morgan,” Jiggs said, walking up. “What in the world is happening? Those wagons are blocking the street. That can't be allowed."

“We were just about to straighten out this mess, Jiggs."

“I swear, Marshal, some people have no consideration for others, do they?"

Before Frank could reply, Jerry said, “Frank, what is that machinery those guys are uncovering? I never seen no minin' equipment that looked like that."

Frank looked and felt cold sweat break out on his face. He blinked, thinking he was surely mistaken. He stared. No doubt about it: his first look was correct. “Those are Gatling guns, Jer!"

“Gatling guns?” Jiggs blurted. “Good God! Are you joking?” He stared at first one wagon, then another. “By the Lord, you're right, Marshal. What are those people going to do? Put on some sort of a demonstration?"

A couple of seconds after Jiggs asked his question, a tremendous explosion rocked the town. A huge cloud of dust enveloped the road leading out of the main street and up to the mines. The immense explosion was so powerful it cracked windows and sent some people stumbling off the boardwalk and into the street.

“The road's blocked!” an excited man yelled from the other end of the street a few seconds after the explosion. Then he started coughing when the enormous cloud of dust began settling over the main part of town, covering everything.

The men in the wagons began cranking the Gatling guns, and lead started flying all up and down Main Street. Several men and women were hit and knocked spinning by the gunfire.

Pistol fire joined the rapid fire from the Gatling guns.

On his belly on the boardwalk, Frank watched as half a dozen men, all carrying guns and cloth bags, entered the bank.

“Bank robbery!” Frank yelled, and rolled off the boardwalk and into the street just as the carriage from the Browning estate turned onto the main street from a side street. Frank could do nothing except stare in horror as a dozen rounds of lead raked the carriage. Vivian was knocked out of the carriage to lie still and bloody in the dirt.

 

 

 

Twenty-One

 

 

Frank snapped off a lucky shot that hit the gunner in one of the wagons in the shoulder, knocking him back. But in a heartbeat another man had taken his place and was cranking out the lead, spraying death in all directions. Frank tried to get up and make his way to Vivian, but the intense fire from the Gatling guns forced him back. He crawled behind a water trough as the bullets howled and whistled all around him.

Frank glanced over to where he'd last seen Jerry. The deputy was apparently all right, and had taken shelter in a store, returning the gunfire as best he could whenever the hail of bullets ceased for a few seconds. All the stores up and down the street, on both sides, were missing windows. The wounded were moaning, and many were crying out for help. There were men and women and a few children among them.

One of the bank clerks staggered out of the bank, his chest bloody, and fell facedown on the boardwalk. A young child, a girl, sat in the dirt beside her fallen mother and cried. Many of the horses that had been tied at hitch rails in front of various stores had broken loose and bolted. Others were badly wounded, screaming and thrashing on the ground, unable to get up because of their grievous wounds.

While the gunners were changing magazines on the Gatlings, Frank dropped one of the outlaws, who was exiting the bank with a bagful of money. Frank shot him twice, once in the belly, once in the chest, ending the man's outlawing days forever.

Jerry shot another one leaving the bank, shot him in the throat with a hurry-up shot. The .45 round almost took the man's head off. He fell back against the front of the bank building and lay kicking and jerking and trying to push words out of his ruined throat, the bag of money beside him forgotten in his horrible agony.

Frank rolled away from the trough and under the raised boardwalk, squirming his way a few yards closer to one of the death wagons. He shot the gunner in the head just as another charge of dynamite was lit and tossed. The barber shop exploded in a mass of splintered wood and broken glass. The peppermint-painted barber pole was blown a hundred feet into the air. It came down in the alley behind the barber shop and landed on the slant roof of a privy, crashing through and almost conking a man on the head who had taken refuge in there. He jumped out of the privy and took off, running toward the edge of town.

The main street was once more covered in dust and smoke and confusion. The Gatling guns resumed their spitting out of misery and destruction. Frank nailed another outlaw coming out of the bank, his shots turning the robber around and around in a macabre dance on the boardwalk. He dropped his bulging sack of money just before he slumped to the street and died beside the bag of money that cost him his life.

Frank heard a shotgun boom inside the bank, and an outlaw was knocked through the big front window, dead from the shotgun blast before he hit the boardwalk.

Frank took that time to jump up and make a run closer to one of the wagons. He made it to a dead horse and jerked the .44-.40 rifle from the saddle boot. Before he went belly down on the ground, he chanced a look toward Vivian. She had not moved. Frank was suddenly filled with a terrible rage. He levered a round into the chamber of the rifle and sighted in the new gunner cranking the Gatling gun. Frank shot him in the chest and knocked the man out of the wagon. No new gunner came forward to take his place. The bank robbers were running out of men.

Frank ran toward the wagon and jumped in. He swiveled the Gatling and began cranking, the rounds literally tearing the wagon at the end of the block to splinters, all mixed in with the blood and shattered bone of the two outlaws who were inside the wagon.

The outlaws who were not dead or wounded, or being held prisoner by various townspeople, were in the saddle and riding hell-for-leather out of town, toward the pass.

Doc Bracken was busy working on the wounded citizens, pointedly ignoring the calls for help from the wounded outlaws.

“Help me, Doc!” one called.

“Go to hell, you bastard,” Doc Bracken told him without looking up from the bloody little girl he was working on in the middle of the street.

“I'm hard hit, Doc,” the outlaw pleaded.

“Good,” Bracken replied. “Go ahead and die. Rot in hell."

Frank hurried over to Vivian and knelt down. She had taken two rounds in the chest from the big-bore Gatlings, but she was still breathing.

“Hang on, Viv,” Frank said. “Doc Bracken's coming over soon as he can."

“Tell him not to waste his time, love. I'm all torn up inside."

“Hush, now, Viv. Don't talk like that."

“Talk while I have time to talk. I'm in no pain, Frank. It's all numb inside of me, but it's difficult to breathe. I've been lung shot, haven't I?"

Frank had seen the pinkish-looking fluid she'd coughed up. “I don't know for sure, Viv."

“I think I am. Let me talk while I still can, Frank. Don't interrupt, please?"

“I won't, Viv."

“You own five percent of Henson Enterprises, Frank. I saw to that just last week. The papers are filed, and it's all legal. Dutton can't do a thing about it except gripe. Money will be deposited in your name in a bank in Denver every month. It's all spelled out in the papers. Mayor Jenkins has them. He's a good, trustworthy man."

Frank waited while Vivian coughed up more fluid. It was pinkish in color. Holding her, he felt his hand at her back grow wet. He lifted one side of her jacket and found another bullet hole. He knew that unless the slug had veered off, it had probably blown right through a kidney.

“Is the sun going behind a cloud, Frank?” she asked. “It's getting darker."

“Yes, love. Clouds are moving in. It's going to rain, I reckon."