The Drifter (2 page)

There were several names in the West that caused brave men to sit down and shut up. Smoke Jensen, Falcon MacCallister, Louis Longmont, and Frank Morgan were the top four still living.

Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen had started their careers in crime when just young boys, and both had turned into vicious killers. Their gangs numbered about twenty men each—more from time to time, less at others—and they were not hesitant to tackle entire small towns in their wild and so far unstoppable pursuit of money and women ... in that order.

 

* * * *

 

Frank Morgan's life as a gunfighter had begun when he was in his midteen years and working as a hand on a ranch in Texas. One of the punchers had made Frank's life miserable for several months by bullying him whenever he got the chance ... which was often. One day Frank got enough of the cowboy's crap and hit him flush in the face with a piece of a broken singletree. When the puncher was able to see again and the swelling in his nose had gone down some, he swore to kill the boy. Young Frank Morgan, however, had other plans.

The puncher told Frank to get a gun ‘cause the next time he saw him he was going to send him to his Maker.

Frank had an old piece of a pistol that he'd been practicing with when he got the money to buy ammunition. It was 1860, and times were hard, money scarce.

That day almost thirty years back was still vivid in Frank's mind.

He was so scared he had puked up his breakfast of grits and coffee.

Then he stepped out of the bunkhouse to meet his challenger, pistol in hand.

There was no fast draw involved in that duel. That would come a few years later.

The cowboy cursed at Frank and fired just as Frank stepped out of the bunkhouse, the bullet howling past Frank's head and knocking out a good-size splinter of wood from the rough doorframe. Frank damn near peed his underwear.

Young Frank acted out of pure instinct. Before the abusive puncher could fire again, Frank had lifted and cocked his pistol. He shot the puncher in the center of his chest. The man stumbled back as the .36-caliber chunk of lead tore into his flesh.

“You piece of turd!” the cowboy gasped, still on his boots. He lifted and cocked his pistol.

Frank shot him again, this time in the face, right between the eyes.

The puncher hit the hard ground, dead.

Frank walked over him and looked down at the dead man. The open empty eyes stared back at him. He struggled to fight back sickness, and managed to beat it. Frank turned away from the dead staring eyes.

“Luther had kin, boy,” the foreman told him. “They'll be comin' to avenge him. You best get yourself set for that day. Make some plans."

“But I didn't start this!” Frank said. “
He
did.” Frank pointed to the dead man.

“That don't make no difference, boy. I'll see you get your time, and a little extra."

“Am I leavin'?” Frank asked.

“If you want to stay alive, son. I know Luther had four brothers, and they're bad ones. They will come lookin' for you."

“They live close?"

“About a day's ride from here. And they got to be notified. So, you get your gear rolled up, son, and get ready to ride. I'll go see the boss."

“I'm right here,” said the owner of the spread. “I was having my mornin' time in the privy.” He paused for a moment and looked down at Luther. “Well, he was a good hand, but deep down just like his worthless brothers—no damn good.” He looked at Frank. “You kill him, boy?"

“Yes, sir."

“Luther ain't gonna be missed by many. Only his sorry-assed brothers, I reckon. You got to go, boy. Sorry, but that's the way it has to be. For your sake. You get your personals together and then come over to the house. You got time comin', and I'll see you get some extra."

“I ain't even got a horse to call my own, Mr. Phillips,” Frank said. “Or a saddle."

“You will,” the rancher told him. “Get movin', son. I'll see you in a little while."

Frank rode out an hour later. He had his month's wages—twelve dollars—and twenty dollars extra Mr. Phillips gave him. He still had twenty-five dollars he'd saved over his time at the ranch, too. Frank felt like he was sort of rich. He had a sack of food Mrs. Phillips had fixed for him. He was well-mounted, for the foreman had picked him out a fine horse and a good saddle and saddlebags.

The other hands had gathered around to wish him farewell.

“You done the world a favor, Frankie,” one told him.

“I never did like that sorry bastard,” another told him.

“Here you go, Frankie,” another puncher said, holding out Luther's guns. “You throw away that old rust pot you been totin' around and take these. You earned ‘em, and you'll probably damn shore need them."

“What do you mean, Tom?” Frank asked.

“Frankie ... Luther was a bad one. He's killed four or five men that we know of with a pistol. He's got himself a reputation as a gunman. There'll be some who'll come lookin' to test you."

“Test me?"

“Call you out, boy,” the foreman said. “You're the man who killed Luther Biggs. They'll be some lookin' to kill you. Stay ready."

“I don't want no reputation like that,” Frank protested.

“Your druthers don't cut no ice now, boy. You got the name of a gunman. Now, like it or not, you got to live with it."

 

 

 

Two

 

 

Frank drifted for a couple of months, clear out of Texas and up into Oklahoma Territory. He hooked up with two more young men about his age, and they rode together. Their parents were dead, like Frank's, and they just plain hadn't wanted to stay with brothers or sisters ... as was the case with Frank.

By then the story had spread about the shoot-out between young Morgan and Luther Biggs. Frank never talked about it; he just wanted to forget it. But he knew he probably would never be able to do that ... not completely.

The War Between the States was only a few months away, the war talk getting hotter and hotter. One of the boys Frank was riding with believed in preserving the Union. Frank and the other boy were Southern born. If war did break out, they would fight for the South.

The trio of boys separated in Arkansas when they received word about the beginning of hostilities between the North and the South. Frank joined up with a group of young men who were riding off to enlist in the Confederate Army. He never knew what happened to the other two boys.

For the next four years Frank fought for the Southern cause and matured into a grown man. He became hardened to the horrors of war. At war's end, Frank Morgan was a captain in the Confederate Army, commanding a company of cavalry.

Rather than turn in his weapons, Frank headed west. During that time he had been experimenting with faster ways to get a pistol out of the holster. He had a special holster made for him at a leather shop in southern Missouri: the holster was open, without a flap, and a leather thong slipped over the hammer prevented the pistol from falling out when he was riding or doing physical activities on foot. Frank practiced pulling the pistol out of leather; he worked at it for at least an hour each day, drawing and cocking and dry firing the weapon. The first time he tried the fast draw using live ammunition, he almost shot himself in the foot. He practiced with much more care after that, figuring that staying in the saddle with just one foot in the stirrup might be a tad difficult.

By the time Frank reached Colorado, his draw was perfected. He could draw—and fire—with amazing accuracy, and with blinding speed.

And that was where his lasting reputation was carved in stone. He met up with the Biggs brothers—all four of them.

He was provisioning up in southeastern Colorado when he heard someone call out his name. He turned to look at one of the ugliest men he had ever seen: the spitting image of Luther Biggs.

“I reckon you'd be one of the Biggs brothers,” Frank said, placing his gunny sack of supplies on the counter.

“Yore damn right I am. And you're Frank Morgan. Me and my brothers been trailin' you for weeks."

“I got the feelin' somebody was doggin' my back trail. Never could catch sight of you."

“Our older brother, Billy Jeff, run acrost a man who knowed you. I disremember his name. That don't matter. He said you come out of the war all right and was headin' up to the northwest. Tole us what kind of hoss you was ridin', and what you looked like now that you was all growed up. But here and now is where your growin' stops, Morgan."

“Take it outside, boys,” the store owner said. “Don't shoot up my place. Gettin' supplies out here is hard enough without this crap."

“Shet up, ribbon clerk,” Biggs said. Then his eyes widened when the store owner lifted a double-barreled shotgun and eared both hammers back.

“I said take it outside!"

“Now don't git all goosey, mister,” Biggs said. “We'll take it outside."

“You do that."

“You comin', Morgan, or does yeller smell? I think I smell yeller all over you."

“Don't worry about me, Ugly Biggs. You go run along now and get with your brothers, since it appears that none of you have the courage to face me alone."

The storekeeper got himself a good chuckle out of that, and a very dirty look from Biggs.

“Don't you fret none about that, Morgan. I'd take you apart with my bare hands right now, ‘ceptin' that would displease my brothers. They want a piece of you, too. And what is this ugly crap?"

“You, Ugly. You're so damn ugly you could make a living frightening little children."

The veins in Biggs's neck bulged in scarcely controlled anger. He cursed, balled his fists, and took a step toward Morgan.

The store owner said, “I'll spread you all over the front part of this store, mister. Now back out of here."

“I'll be right behind you, Ugly,” Morgan told him.

Cursing, Biggs backed out of the store and walked across the street to the saloon.

“You want to head out the back and get clear of town, mister?” the store owner asked.

“I would if I thought that would do any good,” Frank replied. “But you can bet they've got the back covered."

“You can't fight them all!"

“I don't see that I've got a choice in the matter.” Frank patted the sack of supplies on the counter. “I'll be back for these."

“If you say so."

“I say so.” Frank looked at the shotgun the shopkeeper was holding.

The man smiled and handed it across the counter. “Take it, mister. I don't know you, but I sure don't like that fellow who was bracin' you."

“Thanks. I'll return it in good shape.” Frank stepped to the front door, paused, and then turned around and headed toward the rear of the store. The shopkeeper walked around the counter and closed and locked the front door, hanging up the closed sign.

At the closed back door Frank paused, took a deep breath, and then flung open the door and jumped out, leaping to one side just as soon as his boots hit the ground. A rifle blasted from the open door of the outhouse, and Frank gave the comfort station both barrels of the Greener.

The double blast of buckshot almost tore the shooter in two. The Biggs brother took both loads in the belly and chest and the bloody, suddenly dead mess fell forward, out of the outhouse and into the dirt.

Suddenly, another Biggs brother came into view—a part of him, at least: his big butt.

That's where Frank shot him, the bullet passing through both cheeks of his rear end.

“Oh, Lordy!” he squalled. “I'm hit, boys."

“Where you hit, Bobby?"

“In the ass. My ass is on far, boys. It hurts!"

“In the ass?” another brother yelled. “That ain't dignified."

“The hell with dignified!” Bobby shouted. “I'm a-hurtin', boys!"

“Hang on, Bobby,” a brother called. “We'll git Morgan and then come to your aid."

“Kill that no-count, Billy Jeff!” Bobby groaned. “Oh, Lord, my ass end burns somethang fierce!"

“Can you see him, Wilson?” Billy Jeff called.

“No. But he's down yonder crost the street from the livery. I know that."

“I know that better than you do,” Bobby yelled. “I got the lead in my ass to prove it! Ohhh, I ain't had sich agony in all my borned days."

Some citizen started laughing, and soon others in the tiny town joined in.

“You think this is funny?” Wilson Biggs yelled. “Damn you all to the hellfars!"

Morgan had changed positions again, running back up past the outhouse and the mangled body of Wells Biggs. He was now right across the wide street from Wilson Biggs.

He had picked up the guns from Wells and shoved them behind his gunbelt. He holstered his own pistol and, using the guns taken from the dead man, he emptied them into the shed where Wilson was hiding. The bullets tore through the old wood, knocking great holes in the planks.

Wilson staggered out, his chest and belly blood-soaked. The Biggs brother took a couple of unsteady steps and fell forward, landing on his face in the dirt. He did not move.

“Wilson!” Billy Jeff shouted. “Did you get him, Wilson?"

“No, he didn't,” Frank called. “Your brother's dead."

“Damn you!” Billy Jeff called. “Step out into the street and face me, you sorry son."

“And have your butt-shot brother shoot me?” Frank yelled. “I think not."

“Bobby!” Billy Jeff called. “You hold your far and let me settle this here affair. You hear me, boy?"

“I hear you, Billy Jeff. You shore you want it thisaway?"

“I'm shore. You hear all that, Morgan?"

“I hear it, but I don't believe it. You Biggs boys are all a pack of liars. Why should I trust you?"

“Damn you, Morgan, I give my word. I don't go back on my word, not never."

“Step out then, Billy Jeff."

“I'm a-comin' out, Morgan. My gun's holstered. Is yourn?"

Before Frank could reply, Bobby said, “I'm a-comin' out, too. Let's see if he's got the courage to face the both of us!"