The Drifter (9 page)

The men were all asleep—the wounded ones in a laudanum-induced slumber. Frank quietly stepped back and closed and locked the heavy door leading to the cell area. He checked on his horses at the livery and then walked across the street to his rented house and went to bed. He had missed supper, but it wasn't the first time Frank Morgan had missed a meal—nor, he suspected, would it be the last.

He went to sleep and dreamed about Vivian, frowning whenever Conrad entered his dreams. Frank felt no closeness or affection for the young man. He felt nothing, and his sleep became restless because of that. As the boy's father, shouldn't he feel some sort of blood bond, some sort of paternal sense or awakening ... something, anything?

 

* * * *

 

Frank awakened with silent alarm bells ringing in his head. Men who constantly live on the razor edge between life and sudden, bloody death develop that silent warning system—or die very young—in their chosen, violent lifestyle.

Frank lay very still and listened. He could hear nothing. Perhaps, he thought, the sounds of silence were what woke him. No. He rejected that immediately. He didn't think that was it. Then ... what?

Frank slipped from bed and silently pulled on his britches and slipped his bare feet into an old pair of moccasins he'd had for a long time. He picked up his gunbelt and slipped it over one shoulder. Frank had learned years back that it was not wise to run out of ammunition in a gunfight. The loops on his gunbelt always stayed filled. He didn't bother pulling on a shirt.

He padded noiselessly to the rear of the darkened house and looked out through the window. He had not yet purchased material for some seamstress to make him curtains. He could see nothing in the rear of the house.

He walked to the front of the house and looked out. Nothing. He pulled his pocket watch from his jeans and clicked open the lid. A few minutes after four o'clock. This was the time when people were snuggling deeper into bed and blankets for that final hour or so of good, deep sleep. The best time of the night for murder.

He should get going. By the time he heated water and took a shave and a spot bath it would be five o'clock. Then he had to get over to the jail and make coffee and empty and rinse out all the piss pots from the cells. Then he had to see about breakfast for himself and the prisoners. After that, he had to see if there was any reply from Arkansas about the reward money. He would be busy for a couple of hours, at least. And he didn't want to forget to check on any bounty on the men he'd locked up last night and the one he'd killed. Yes, it was shaping up to be a busy morning.

Banker Jenkins, also the mayor, had told him as soon as he received conformation about the reward money he would advance Frank the money and have Arkansas authorities send it directly to his bank. That sounded good to Frank.

Walking about the still dark house, Frank bent down to pick up some kindling wood from the box by the stove. He heard a tin can rattle in the backyard, followed by a soft curse.

OK
, Frank thought.
Whoever you are and whatever you want, boys, you just queered the deal.

Frank slipped to the back door and waited. There was no way he was going to open that door and step into a hail of bullets. He heard the soft creak of boards as someone stepped onto the small back porch. Frank carefully backed up until he could get the large stove between the door and himself. He eased the hammer back on his .45.

Frank heard the sound of someone carefully trying the doorknob. It was loose, and rattled when touched. “Come on in,” he whispered.

But the man on the porch obviously had other ideas. He backed away, stepped off the porch, and silently faded into the coolness of night.

“Now just what in the hell was that all about?” Frank questioned.

The night was silent, offering no explanation.

Frank slipped through the house to the front room and peered out. The street was silent and empty.

He decided he'd shave at the jail. He did not want to risk lighting a lamp. He finished dressing. Then, taking a change of clothing with him, he slipped out the back of his house and cautiously made his way up the side of the house to the street. He neither saw nor heard anyone.

“Strange,” Frank muttered. “Very odd, indeed."

At the jail, he rolled out the prisoners and collected the bed pots. Then he made coffee and shaved and dressed: black trousers, new red-and-white-checkered shirt buttoned at the collar, string tie, and the suit coat he'd bought at the general store the day before.

“How about some coffee and some breakfast, Morgan?” a prisoner called.

“Coffee is almost ready. I'll get your breakfast in a few minutes."

At the café, which was doing a brisk business, he asked Angie to fix some trays—beef, fried potatoes, cornmeal mush—and to cut up the meat and leave only a spoon for each prisoner to eat with.

“You going to feed them lunch, Frank?” she asked.

“Biscuits and coffee. I'll be back around noon."

The prisoners fed, Frank turned up the lamps, sat down at his desk, and brought his jail journal up to date. Then he wrote several wires to send about his new inmates and the dead man.

Dawn was busting over the mountains when he finished. Frank checked on the prisoners, then walked over to the café for his own breakfast. He took the empty trays with him, after carefully checking to make sure all the spoons were there. With a little work a spoon could be turned into a deadly weapon.

It was past six now, and the café had cleared out some.

Frank ordered breakfast and sat at a corner table, drinking coffee until the food arrived. It was pointless to ask Angie if she'd seen any strangers in town, for the town was full of newcomers. And during the next few weeks, there would be hundreds more streaming in.

Frank made up his mind to hire a deputy, and he asked Angie if she knew anyone.

“Yeah ... I think I do, matter of fact. He ought to be coming in here anytime now. He's a man in his mid-fifties, I'd guess, and he's steady and dependable. I think he's done some deputy work in other places."

“Sounds good to me. What's his name?"

“Jerry. Jerry Dobbs."

“Introduce me when he comes in."

“I'll do that."

Frank was just finishing his breakfast when Angie called out, “'Mornin', Jerry. Got someone here who wants a word with you."

“Oh?” the big man said just as Frank was pushing his chair back and rising to his boots.

The men shook hands, and Jerry sat down at the table with Frank. A few minutes later, Frank had hired a deputy.

“I'm no miner,” Jerry explained while eating his breakfast. “Didn't take me long to figure that out. I've worked a lot of things in my life, but lawing is something I enjoy the best."

“It can be rewarding,” Frank said. “Until the town is cleaned up. Then the people want to get rid of you."

“For a fact,” Jerry agreed. “I've sure seen that happen a time or two."

“This town is going to boom for a while,” Frank said. “I'm going to ask the mayor if I can hire a second deputy."

“Might not be a bad idea. I've seen these boom towns go from a hundred people to five thousand in a matter of days. The way I heard it, this is a major strike, too."

Frank liked the older man almost instantly. Jerry was big and solid and well-spoken. Frank could sense he had plenty of staying power, and once he made up his mind it would take a steam engine to move him.

Frank told Jerry about the planned kidnapping attempt against Vivian and his hiring of two bodyguards for her.

“Hal and Jimmy are known throughout the West as men who'll brook no nonsense,” Jerry replied. “Not killers, but damn sure quick on the shoot. They'll take care of her."

“I'm counting on that. Jerry, there's a small living area in the jail. You want to use it?"

“Yes,” the big man said quickly. “Sure beats payin' a weekly rate for a room with two other guys."

“As soon as you finish your breakfast we'll go over to the jail and see what you need for your living quarters, then go to the store for provisions."

“Sounds good to me."

“By that time the mayor should he in his office at the bank, and we'll get you sworn in. Jerry, you haven't asked about salary."

Jerry smiled. “I know what boom towns pay their lawmen. It will be more than adequate, I'm sure."

“I'll see that it is."

Angie came over and refilled their cups. The customers all had been served and were chowing down, and no one was calling for anything, so she pulled out a chair and sat down.

“Gonna be a law dog again, Jerry?” she asked.

“Beats the mines, Angie."

“I'm sure. Unless you're the owner."

“Frank Morgan!” the shout came from out in the street. “Get out here, you bastard!"

“What the hell?” Jerry asked.

Frank got up and looked out the window. A man was standing in the center of the wide street. He was wearing two guns, something that was becoming a rarity in the waning days of the so-called Wild West.

“You know that man, Frank?” Angie asked, standing just to Frank's left.

“I never saw him before, but he sure as hell is no kid."

Jerry joined them at the window. “I've seen him around town a time or two. Don't know his name."

“Morgan!” the man called. “You murderin' pile of coyote puke. Get out here and face me!"

“I don't think that fellow out there likes me very much,” Frank said.

Jerry looked at Frank and smiled and shook his head at the marshal's calmness. “I think you'd be safe in sayin' that, Frank."

“Did you see anyone with the guy, Jerry, anyone at all?” Frank asked.

“No. Never. I never even seen him talkin' to anyone."

Both sides of the street had cleared of people within seconds. The few horses at hitch rails that early in the day had been quickly led away by their owners in anticipation of lead flying about.

“You either come out and face me or I'm comin' in there and drag you out, you yellow bastard!” the man in the street hollered. “By God, I mean it, Morgan!"

Frank slipped his pistol in and out of leather a couple of times. He didn't have to check to see if it was loaded. He knew it was. “Time to go see what that fellow wants,” Frank said.

“Hell, Frank!” Jerry blurted. “You know what he wants. He wants to kill you!"

“Lots of people have tried that over the years, Jerry. I'm still here."

Angie put a hand on Frank's arm. “He may have someone in hiding, Frank. Not many men would face you alone. It's something to consider."

Frank cut his eyes to her. “I always take that into consideration. That's one of the reasons I'm still alive. But I'm marshal here. I can't afford to let something like this get out of hand. And it could, very easily. If it did, that would be the end of law and order in this town."

Angie opened her mouth to speak. Jerry held up a hand. “He's right, Angie. I know you've got a shotgun behind the counter. Give it to me, and I'll back him up."

“All right.” Angie hurried behind the counter and returned with a long-barreled scattergun.

“It's got light loads in it,” the cook said. “But at close range they'll sure put someone out of commission."

“Good enough,” Jerry said, breaking open the scattergun to make certain both chambers were loaded up. He looked at Frank. “You ready?"

“You sure you want to do this, Jerry? Hell, man, you're not even on the payroll yet."

Jerry grinned at him. “Maybe you can arrange a bonus for me."

“Count on it."

“Come on out, you chicken-livered has-been!” the loudmouth in the street hollered.

“That does it,” Frank muttered through suddenly clenched teeth, and moved toward the café door.

None of the principals noticed the young man across the street stop on the boardwalk and stand and stare. Dressed in his stylish business suit, he was as out of place as a buffalo turd in a crystal punch bowl.

“What in the world is going on?” he asked a clerk who had been sweeping the boardwalk.

“There's gonna be a gunfight."

“Why doesn't someone call the marshal?"

“Someone just did, boy. That fellow standin' in the street."

“My word!” Conrad said.

 

 

 

Ten

 

 

Frank stepped out the front door of the café, taking his time while Jerry hustled out the back door and made his way to the street, coming up the narrow space between the two buildings. The small crowd that had gathered on the boardwalks moved left and right, out of the line of fire ... they hoped.

Frank looked more closely at the man in the street. He did not recognize him, and did not believe he had ever seen him before. “What is your problem?” Frank called.

“You! You're the problem, Morgan."

“Why? I've never seen you before. I don't know you."

“I know you."

“How?"

“You killed my brother up in Wyoming. Jim Morris was his name ... remember?"

“Can't say as I do. What's your name?"

“Calvin. The man who's gonna kill you, Morgan."

“Doubtful, Calvin, very doubtful."

“You callin' me a liar? Damn you, you back-shootin' lowlife!"

“I never shot anyone named Morris. Not in the back or anywhere else."

“You're a liar, Morgan. You ambushed him one night and shot him in the back!"

“Not me, Calvin. You have the wrong man."

“You're both a liar and a coward, Morgan!"

“You're wrong on both counts. Think about it. Don't throw away your life."

“Enough talk, Morgan. Walk out here and face me if you've got the guts."

That settled the question in Frank's mind about a second, hidden gunman. He and Morris were in full, open view of each other. So the hidden gunman must not, as yet, have a good shot at Frank. He hoped Jerry got the message.

“What's the matter, Calvin?” Frank asked. “Can't you see me? You need glasses, maybe?"