The Drifter (3 page)

“Bring your bleeding butt on, Biggs!” Frank yelled. “If all your courage hasn't leaked out of your ass, that is.” He checked to see his own pistol was loaded up full, then slipped it into leather, working it in and out several times to insure a smooth draw.

Bobby was hollering and cussing Frank, scarcely pausing for breath.

Frank walked up to the mouth of the alley and stepped out to the edge of the street.

Bobby stopped cussing.

Billy Jeff said, “Step out into the center of the street, Morgan, and face the men who is about to kill you."

“Not likely, Biggs. The only way scum like you could kill me is by ambush."

That started Bobby cussing again. He paused every few seconds to moan and groan about his wounded ass.

The residents of the tiny town had gathered along the edge of the street to watch the fight. Some had fixed sandwiches; others had a handful of crackers or a pickle.

This was exciting. Not much ever happened in the tiny village, which as yet had no official name.

“Make your play, Biggs!” Frank called.

Billy Jeff fumbled at his gun and Frank let him clear leather before he pulled and fired, all in one very smooth, clean movement. The bullet struck Billy Jeff in the belly and knocked him down in the dirt. Frank holstered and waited. He smiled at Bobby Biggs.

Bobby was yelling and groping for his pistol, which was stuck behind his wide belt. Frank drew and shot him in the chest, and forever ended his moaning and griping about his butt. Bobby stretched out on the street and was still. The bullet had shattered his heart.

Frank never knew what made him do it, but on that day he twirled his pistol a couple of times before sliding it back into leather. He did it smoothly, effortlessly, and with a certain amount of flair.

A young boy in the crowd exclaimed, “Mommy, did you see that? Golly!"

“I never seen no one jerk a pistol like that,” a man said to a friend.

“He sure got it out in a hurry,” his friend replied. “And a damned fancy way of holstering that thing, too."

Frank was certainly not the first to utilize a fast draw, but he was one of the first, along with Jamie MacCallister and an East Texas gunhand whose name has been lost to history.

Frank looked over at the crowd to his left. “This town got an undertaker?"

“No,” a man said. “We ain't even got a minister or a schoolmarm."

“We just get the bodies in the ground as soon as we can,” another citizen said. “Unless it's wintertime. Then we put ‘em in a shed where they'll freeze and keep pretty well ‘til the ground thaws and we can dig a hole."

“They ain't real pretty to look at after a time, but they don't smell too bad,” his friend said.

“If you don't stay around ‘em too long,” another man added.

“You can have their gear and guns for burying these men,” Frank told the crowd. “And whatever money they have. Deal?"

“Deal,” a man said. “Sounds pretty good to me. They had some fine horses. The horses is included, right?"

“Sure."

“I hope they ain't stolen,” a townsman said. “Say, I heard them call you Morgan—you got a first name?"

“Frank."

“You just passin' though, Frank?” There was a rather hopeful sound to the question.

“Just stopping in town long enough to pick up a few supplies,” Frank assured the crowd.

“All right. Well, I reckon we'd better get these bodies gathered up and planted."

“I'll help,” a citizen volunteered.

“I'll get their horses,” another said. “I got a bad back, you know—can't handle no shovel."

“Sure you do, Otis. Right."

Frank turned and walked away, back to the store to get his supplies and to return the shotgun to the man.

“Hell of a show out there, Mr. Morgan,” the shopkeeper told him.

“Not one that I wanted the leading role in, though."

“I suppose not. Where do you go from here?"

“Just drifting."

“Back from the war?"

“Yes.” Frank smiled. “My side lost."

“We all lost in that mess."

“I reckon so. Thanks, mister."

“Take care, Mr. Morgan."

Frank rode out, heading toward the northwest, his growing reputation right behind him....

 

 

 

Three

 

 

Frank rode on toward the north and tried to put old memories behind him. But there were too many memories, too many bloody shoot-outs, too many killings, too many easy women with powder and paint on their faces and shrill laughter that Frank could still hear in his dreams.

And of course, there was that one special woman.

Her name was Vivian. Frank had met her in the town of Denver early in ‘66, and had been taken by her charm and beauty. Frank was a very handsome young man, and Viv had been equally smitten by him. She was the daughter of a businessman and lay preacher.

Frank was working at the time on a ranch in the area, and doing his best to stay out of any gun trouble.

Theirs was a whirlwind courtship, and they were married just a few months after meeting. Viv's father did not like Frank, and he made no attempt to hide that dislike. But after the wedding, Frank felt there was little Viv's father could do except try to make the best of it.

Frank was wrong.

Six months after their marriage, Frank found himself facing a drifter hunting trouble.

“I heard about you, Morgan,” the drifter said. “And I think it's all poppycock and balderdash."

“Think what you want to think,” Frank told him. “I have no quarrel with you."

“You do now."

There were no witnesses to the affair. The drifter had braced Frank on a lonesome stretch of range miles from town. Frank had been resting after a morning of brush-popping cattle out of a huge thicket. He was tired, and so was his horse.

“How'd you know I was working out here?” Frank asked.

“I heard in town. I asked about you."

“No one in town knew."

“You callin' me a liar?"

“This isn't adding up, friend."

“I ain't your friend, Morgan. I come to kill you, and that's what I aim to do."

“Who paid you to brace me?"

The drifter smiled. “You better make your mind up to stand and deliver, Morgan. ‘cause if you don't, I'm gonna gut-shoot you and leave you out here so's the crows and buzzards can eat your eyes."

“That isn't going to happen, friend. Now back off and ride out of here."

“I keep tellin' you, Morgan, I ain't your friend."

“Tell me who paid you to do this madness."

The drifter smiled. “On the count of three, you better hook and draw, Morgan. One—"

“Don't do this, friend."

“Two—"

“I don't want to kill you!"

“Three!"

The drifter never even cleared leather. As his hand dropped and curled around the butt of his pistol, Frank's Colt roared under the hot summer sun. The drifter's mouth dropped open in a grotesque grimace of pain and surprise as Frank's bullet ripped into his chest. He dropped his pistol and stared at Frank for a couple of seconds, then slumped to his knees.

Frank walked the few paces to stand over the dying man. “Who paid you to do this?"

“Damn, but you're quick,” the drifter gasped. “I heard you was mighty fast, but I just didn't believe it."

“Who paid you?” Frank persisted, hoping the name would not be the one he suspected.

But it was.

“Henson,” the drifter said. “Preacher Henson.” Then he fell over on his face in the dust.

Vivian's father.

Frank turned the man over. He was still breathing. “How much did he pay you to brace me?"

“Five hundred dollars,” the drifter gasped. Then his eyes began losing their brightness.

“You have the money on you?"

“Half of it. Get ... the other half ... when you're dead.” The drifter's head lolled to one side.

“Talk to me, damn you!"

But the drifter was past speaking. He was dead.

“Dear father-in-law,” Frank whispered, rage and disgust filling him. “I knew you disliked me, but I didn't know your hatred was so intense."

Frank went through the drifter's pockets and then loaded the man's body across his saddle and lashed him down. Leading the skittish horse—who didn't like the smell of blood—Frank rode into the nearest town and up to the marshal's office. The much smaller town was miles closer than the fast-growing town of Denver.

Frank explained what had happened, sort of—leaving out who hired the drifter, and why.

“Any reason why this man would want to kill you, Morgan?"

“No. I don't have any idea. I've never seen him before. As you can tell by looking at me, and smelling me, I suppose, I've been working cattle most of the day."

The marshal smiled. “Now that you mention it...” He laughed. “All right, Morgan. Did you go through the man's pockets?"

“Yes, I did. Trying to find some identification. I didn't find any papers, but he had fifty dollars on him. The money is in his front pants pocket."

Frank had taken two hundred and left fifty to bury the drifter and to throw off suspicion.

The marshal did not question Frank further on the shooting. “We'll get him planted, Frank. Thanks for bringing in the body. Most people would have just left him."

Frank rode back home, arriving late that night. He did not tell Viv about the shooting—how could he? She wouldn't have believed him. He spent a restless night, wondering how to best handle the wild hate her father felt for him.

The next day he went to see his father-in-law. Frank tossed the two hundred dollars on the man's desk.

“There's your blood money, Henson. I left fifty dollars in the man's pockets to bury him."

The successful businessman/lay preacher looked up from his desk. Frank had never seen such hatred in a man's eyes. “You filth!” Henson said. “Worthless gunman. Oh, I know all about you, Morgan. You're a killer for hire."

“That's a lie, Mr. Henson. I've killed men, yes. I won't deny that. But it was in self-defense. Not for hire."

“You're a liar!” Henson hissed. “And you're not worthy to even walk on the same side of the street as my daughter. You're a hired killer, a gunman. You're filth, and always will be."

Frank stared at the man in silence for a moment. “I'm going to prove you wrong, Mr. Henson."

“No, you won't. You can't. I've had detectives tracing you all the way back to your miserable, hardscrabble beginnings, you white trash. And I know all about the rape charges that were brought against you in Texas."

“Rape!” Frank blurted. “What charges? There are no rape charges—there have never been any."

Henson smiled cruelly at Morgan. His eyes glinted with malevolence. “There will be when my men get through doing their reports."

Frank got it then. Viv's father was paying detectives to write false reports. He was speechless.

“Leave,” Henson urged. “Leave on your own, and I won't use those reports against you. I give you my word on that. Just saddle up and ride away."

“Leave? Vivian is my wife. I love her."

“Love!” Henson's word was filled with scorn. “You don't know the meaning of the word. You're a damned rake! That's all you've ever been. I'll destroy your marriage, Morgan. I will make it my life's work. I promise you that."

Frank started to speak, and Henson held up his hand. “Don't bother begging, you trash. It won't do you a bit of good. Leave. Get out. Get out of my office, get out of my daughter's life, and get out of town.” He smiled. “Before my detectives return and I have the sheriff place you under arrest."

“I'll tell Viv about this,” Frank managed to say.

“Go right ahead. I'll just tell her I knew all about it and was trying to protect her. See who she will believe. Me, naturally."

“I can beat the charges."

“No, you can't. I'll see you tried, convicted, and carried away in chains, just like the wild animal you are. My detectives have found, ah, shall we call them ‘ladies,' who will testify against you. And they will be believed."

Frank was boxed, and knew it. Henson had wealth and power and position, and could very easily destroy him. He sighed and said, “All right. But I have to know Vivian will be taken care of."

“Of course she will be. I'll see to that personally. She'll never want for anything. You're making a very wise decision, Morgan. Do you need money? A sum within reason, of course."

“I wouldn't take a goddamn dime from you, you sorry-assed, mealymouthed, self-righteous, sanctimonious son of a bitch!"

“Get out!” Henson flared. “Get out of town right now. Don't go home. Don't see Vivian. Just get on your horse and ride out of here. For Vivian's sake, if not for your own."

Frank almost lost it. He balled his big hard hands into fists, and came very close to tearing his father-in-law's head off his shoulders. Henson saw what was about to happen, and paled in fright. But at the last possible second Frank backed off.

Frank turned and walked out of the office.

Henson looked down at his trembling hands, willing them to cease their shaking. After a moment, he rose from his chair and got his hat. He just had time to go get his daughter and escort her to the doctor's office. Vivian Morgan was pregnant.

 

* * * *

 

“Come on,” Frank muttered as he rode north. “Put the memories away and close that old door."

But that was not an easy thing to do. Even though it had been some twenty years since he had pulled out of Denver, twenty years since he had last seen Vivian, the memories were still very strong, and the image of her face was forever burned into his brain.

Frank had heard little bits of gossip about Henson: the man had become a millionaire through land deals in and around Denver, and a powerful voice in his church. He had sent his daughter, Vivian, back east to live with family. She had gotten married there (somehow her father had had her marriage to Frank annulled). She had a child by her second husband.