The Drifter (6 page)

Frank found a rag, sat down at the battered desk in the front office, and wiped the several months' accumulation of dust from the top of the desk. He looked around the big room. Several rifles and shotguns were in a wall rack. He would inspect and clean them later. Frank began opening the desk drawers. He found dozens of dodgers and laid them off to one side. Two pistols and several boxes of .45 ammunition. The jail log book. The last entry was a drunk and disorderly, dated several months back. He found an inkwell, empty, and several pens and pencils. That was it.

The front door opened and the mayor stepped in, followed by a group of men. Frank was introduced to the town council. He shook hands, sat back down, and waited for the mayor to say something.

“We talked it over, Frank,” the mayor said. “And we think you're the right man for the job of marshal."

“I'm honored,” Frank said.

The mayor smiled and named a monthly salary that was astronomically high for the time and place, and Frank accepted the offer. Frank stood up to be sworn in by the mayor, and a badge was pinned to his shirt.

“If you can find a man to take the job, you're entitled to one deputy,” the mayor told him. “Congratulations, Marshal. Welcome to Barnwell's Crossing."

The mayor and town council trooped out, closing the door behind them, and that was that.

“Marshal Frank Morgan,” Frank whispered. “Too bad the town is dying. I might have found a home."

“Hey, Morgan!” Davy shouted from the cell area. “We're hungry. How about some food?"

“I'm cold!” Jonas yelled. “Where's them blankets you promised us?"

Frank ignored them and got up to set and wind the office wall clock. It had stopped at high noon. Frank wondered if that was somehow significant.

 

 

 

Six

 

 

Frank went to Willis's General Store and bought a few supplies for his rented house—coffee, sugar, bacon, flour, and the like—then began strolling the town, letting the townsfolk see him and get used to the badge on his chest. The Crossing was larger than Frank had first thought. There was another business street, angling off like the letter L, and many more houses than Frank realized, at the end of the second business street. The other business street had several smaller stores—including a leather shop, a ladies' store right on the corner, a smaller and rougher-looking saloon, and the doctor's office.

Frank smiled and touched his hat when meeting ladies, and he gave the men a howdy-do. Most of the people returned the greeting; a few did not. At the end of the street, Frank saw a sign for Henson Enterprises dangling from a metal frame.

The building was one story, and nice. Even though it was getting late in the day, with shadows already creeping about, darkening this and that, the office was bustling with people bent over ledgers and scurrying about.

Frank forced himself to walk on. He would run into Vivian sooner or later, and he had very mixed feelings about the inevitable meeting.

Frank had just stepped off the boardwalk when a very demanding voice behind him said, “You there, Constable. Come here."

Frank stopped and turned around. A young man, eighteen at the most, was standing in the doorway of the Henson building, wagging his finger at Frank. “Yes, you!” the young man said. “I'm not in the habit of speaking to an empty street."

Frank stared at me young man for a few seconds, stared in disbelief. He was dressed at the very height of fashion ... if he were in Boston or New York City, that is. In the rough mining town of northern New Mexico territory he looked like a damned idiot.

“Well, come here!” the young man said.

Frank stepped back onto the boardwalk, his hackles already rising at the kid's haughty tone. “Can I help you?” Frank asked.

“I certainly hope so. You're the new constable, aren't you?"

News travels fast in this town
, Frank thought. “I'm the marshal, yes."

“Marshal, constable ... whatever,” the almost a man said, waving his hand in a dainty gesture that would damn sure get him in trouble if he did it in the wrong place. “There is a drunken oaf staggering about in our offices, cursing and bellowing, and I want him removed immediately."

“All right,” Frank said. “Although I was just passing by, and didn't hear a thing."

“He's calmed down for the moment, but I suspect he'll be lumbering about and swearing again at any moment."

“Oh? Why do you think that?"

“Because he's that sort—that's why. Now will you please do your duty and remove that offensive thug?"

“Lower-class type, huh?"

“Certainly. He's a laborer. They really should learn their place."

“Oh, yes, quite.” Frank hid his smile and stepped into the offices. The front office seemed as calm as when Frank had first looked in only a couple of moments ago.

“In the middle office,” the snooty kid said. He pointed. “That way."

“Thank you,” Frank said, just as acidly as he could. Just then the shouting started.

“By God, you owe me a week's wages, and I ain't leavin' ‘til I get it, you pukey-lookin' little weasel!"

“Do you?” Frank asked the young man. There was something about the kid that was vaguely disturbing to Frank. Something ... well, familiar.

“Do I what?"

“Do you owe him money?"

“Heavens! I don't know. Take that up with the accounting department."

Frank walked to the middle office and shoved open the door, stepping inside. A big man in dirty work clothes stood in the center of the room, shouting at several men seated behind desks. When the door was opened the man paused and looked at Frank, his eyes taking in the star on his shirt.

“I eat two-bit marshals for supper,” the miner told Frank.

“This one will give you a bad case of indigestion,” Frank responded.

“This company owes me several days' pay,” the miner said. “And I'll either get my money or I'll take this office apart."

Frank looked at one of the bookkeepers. “Do you owe him money?"

“He was off work for two days,” the bookkeeper said. “He was paid for four days, not a full six."

“I got hurt in the mine!” the miner shouted. “That ain't my fault."

“Is that right?” Frank asked the bookkeeper.

“That doesn't make any difference, Marshal. He worked four days. He gets paid for the time he was on the job."

Frank looked at the miner. “Did you agree to those terms before you took the job?"

“I knew how it was,” the miner said sourly. “But that don't make it right."

“I agree with you. It doesn't make it right. But you agreed to the terms. You got no quarrel. Get on out of here and cool off."

“And if I don't?” the miner challenged him.

“I'll put you out. Then I'll take you to jail. The doctor can see you in your cell."

The miner laughed. “You and how many others are gonna do that, Marshal?"

“Just me,” Frank said softly.

“You really think you can do that, huh?"

“Oh, I know I can."

“With or without that pistol?"

“Either way. But if you want to mix it up with me, you'll be liable for any damage to this office."

The miner laughed at that. “How would you collect the money?"

“A day in jail for every dollar of damage. You really want to spend months behind bars? Then there will be your medical expenses. And they will be many—I assure you of that."

“You got a name, Marshal?"

“Frank Morgan."

The miner paled under his dark stubble of whiskers. He slowly nodded his head. “I reckon I'll leave quietly."

“Good,” Frank told him. “You know the way out."

The miner didn't tarry. He nodded in silent agreement, left the office, and walked out of the building without saying another word.

“You certainly calmed that situation down in a hurry, Marshal,” one of the bookkeepers said. “Are you really Frank Morgan?"

“Yes.” Frank no longer wondered how so many people knew about him. He'd seen several of those penny dreadfuls and dime novels that had been written about him. Most of them were nothing but a pack of lies.

And he had never gotten a nickel for all the words in print about him.

“Have you really killed five hundred white men and a thousand Indians?” another office worker asked, his eyes big around.

Frank smiled. “No. Nowhere even close to either number."

“I do so hate to interfere in this moment of juvenile adoration,” said the young man who had first hailed Frank. “But it's time for everybody to get back to work."

Frank had just about had enough of the kid, and came very close to telling him where to stick his lousy attitude. The only thing that saved the moment was the miner who had just left. He came storming back inside, yelling and cussing.

“No man orders me around like I was some damn stray dog!” he hollered. “Gunfighter or no, by God, let's see what you can do with your fists!"

He ran over and took a wild swing at Frank. Frank ducked the blow and stuck out one boot. The miner's forward momentum could not be halted in time, and he tripped over Frank's boot and went butt over elbows to the floor, landing with a tremendous thud. He yelled and cussed and got to his feet.

“You afraid to fight me kick, bite, and gouge, gunfighter?” he threw down the challenge.

“No,” Frank said calmly. “But my warning still holds. Whatever this fight breaks, you pay for."

“I boxed in college,” the haughty kid said. “And I was quite good. Allow me to settle this dispute. I can do it rather quickly, I assure you."

Frank and the miner looked at the young man, then at each other, and born suddenly burst out laughing, all animosity between them vanishing immediately.

“Are you laughing at me, you lumbering oaf?” the young man asked the miner.

Frank verbally stepped in. “Boy, this isn't a boxing match with rules. Out here there
are
no rules in a fight. It's kick, gouge, bite, and stomp. I don't think you understand."

“I can take care of myself, Marshal. And I don't appreciate your interference."

“Fine,” Frank said. “Then by all means, jump right in, boy."

It wasn't a long jump, and the young man didn't have but a few seconds to realize he had made a horrible mistake. He didn't even have time to get his feet planted and his dukes up before the big miner hit him twice, left and right. The young man bounced on the floor and didn't move.

The miner backed up and looked at Frank. “What else could I do?"

“Nothing. He attacked you.” Frank knelt down and checked out the young man. He was all right, pulse strong and breathing normal. He was just unconscious, and probably would be for several minutes.

Frank stood up and told the miner, “Get out of here and stay out of sight for a few days. You might want to hunt for another job."

“I've ‘bout had enough of this town, anyways,” the miner replied. “At least for a while, even though I don't believe anyone's found the mother lode yet. It's out there. I know it is. I can feel it. But you're right. I'm gone for a while. No hard feelin's?"

“None at all."

“See you around, Morgan."

The miner left, and Frank looked at the office workers. They were all smiling, looking down at the young man sprawled unconscious on the floor. Frank was sure the kid was the son of Vivian—had to be. And he wasn't well-liked, for a fact.

Suddenly there was a shout coming from the street, followed by several other very excited shouts. Someone yelled, “They found it! Found it at the Henson mine. It's big. My God, it's big!"

“What's big?” Frank asked.

“They've hit another vein,” one of the office workers said. “Has to be it. Our engineers said it was there. Said it was just a matter of time."

“Who is this kid?” Frank asked, pointing to the young man on the floor, who was just beginning to moan and stir.

“Conrad Browning,” a man said. “Mrs. Vivian L. Browning's son."

“I thought so. Snooty, isn't he?"

“That's one way of putting it, for a fact."

“Where is Mrs. Browning?"

“She should be along any moment now. She always comes in just at closing time to check on things."

“Let's get Junior on his feet and walking around,” Frank suggested. “If Mrs. Browning sees him like this she'll likely have a fit."

“Doubtful,” an office worker said. “Mrs. Browning is well aware of her son's predilection for haughtiness. Conrad has been a sour pickle all his life."

Frank smiled as he heaved Conrad Browning to his feet. “A sour pickle ... that's a very interesting way of putting it."

“Mrs. Browning's carriage just pulled up at the rear,” a man said.

Frank plopped Conrad down in a chair and turned to make his exit—too late. The door to the rear office opened and Vivian stood there.

She recognized Frank instantly and gasped, leaning against the doorjamb for a moment.

Conrad broke the spell by blurting, “Mother, I have been assaulted by a hoodlum. I am injured."

“Oh, horsecrap!” Frank said.

 

 

 

Seven

 

 

Frank and Vivian stood for several silent seconds, staring at each other, before Frank took off his hat and said, “Ma'am. Your son is not hurt much. He just grabbed hold of a mite more than he could handle, that's all."

“It was not a fair contest,” Conrad objected. “That thug struck me before I was ready."

“What thug?” Vivian asked.

“Mr. Owens,” one of the office workers said. “He was in here again about his money."

“The man I spoke with yesterday?” Vivian asked.

“Yes, ma'am."

“Did you give him his money, as I instructed?"

“Ah ... no, ma'am. We didn't."

“I told them not to pay him,” Conrad said. “He was adequately compensated for the work he performed."

Vivian closed her eyes just for the briefest second and shook her head. “Conrad, you go see Dr. Bracken. Your jaw is bruised and swelling a bit."