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  FAIR WARNING

  Sheriff Keal looked up and met Frank’s eyes. “Morgan, I’ve known some bad ol’ boys in my time. I’ve marshaled in some tough towns. But if just half the things I’ve heard about you are true . . . you’ve got to be one randy gunslinger.”

  Frank chuckled. “Believe about one tenth of what you hear about me, Sheriff.”

  “You pretty well destroyed the Dooley gang here in California.”

  “But I didn’t get Val.”

  “He’s operating in Texas, and New Mexico. Down along the Mex border.”

  “So I heard.”

  “And from here, you’re heading where, Morgan?”

  Frank smiled at that. “New Mexico. But I’m looking for land, not Val Dooley.”

  “But if you run into him?”

  “I’ll finish what I started.”

  “Good luck.” The sheriff pushed back his chair and stood up. “He’s up to his old tricks, Frank: kidnapping women and selling them into prostitution. Young boys too. Val Dooley is one sorry son of a bitch.”

  “I know that only too well, Sheriff.”

  “When you find him, put one bullet into him for me.”

  “I’ll try, Sheriff.”

  “Good hunting, Frank Morgan.” Sheriff Keal turned and walked away.

  Frank rolled a cigarette and refilled his coffee cup. “This time, I’ll get you, Dooley,” he muttered. “If you get in my way, I’ll kill you.”

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  THE LAST GUNFIGHTER: RESCUE

  William W. Johnstone

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  FAIR WARNING

  BOOK YOUR PLACE ON OUR WEBSITE AND MAKE THE READING CONNECTION!

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Epigraph

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  CODE NAME: QUICKSTRIKE

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  850 Third Avenue

  New York, NY 10022

  Copyright © 2003 by William W. Johnstone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Pinnacle and the P logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-3766-7

  Six feet of land was all that he needed.

  —Leo Tolstoy

  One

  Frank rode into Los Angeles and stabled his horses at the best livery in town, telling the stable man to rub them down, wash them, and feed them hay and oats. Dog, the big cur, would stay in the stall with the Appaloosa, Stormy.

  Frank walked to a nearby café and got a sack of scraps for Dog. That done, he got a room, a nice hotel, then dropped off his suit and some shirts at Wo Fong’s Laundry, then headed for the nearest barbershop for a long, hot soapy bath and a haircut and shave.

  A couple of hours later, feeling and smelling a damn sight better, Frank, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and red kerchief, and with his boots polished, stepped out onto the boardwalk and looked around him at the rapidly growing town.

  Frank had been told by a proud desk clerk that the population of the town was about fifteen thousand, and when the railroad arrived in a few years, that would more than double, maybe even triple.

  Frank whistled and shook his head. “That’s too many folks for this cowboy,” he told the clerk.

  Frank was a cowboy, and a damn good one. He’d started off as a cowhand in Texas. Then he’d been forced into a fight when just a boy and killed a man. The dead man’s brothers came after him. Frank killed all four of them. His reputation as a fast gun grew and spread rapidly. He was still in his teens when the Civil War split the country. Four years later, at war’s end, Frank was a captain of Confederate cavalry. Rather than turn in his weapons, Frank headed west to become a part of the untamed frontier. In Colorado, he married a beautiful young lady, but the girl’s father broke it up. It was years later that Frank learned he had a son. But the boy didn’t much care for his father, so Frank left it at that and drifted. That’s how he got his nickname: the Drifter.

  He became a legend: Frank Morgan, the fastest and deadliest gunfighter west of the Mississippi River.

  Frank asked directions to the nearest bank, and after talking with a teller there for a moment, was shown into a private office for a meeting with the bank’s president.

  “Are you really Frank Morgan?” the bank executive asked.

  Frank smiled and laid an oilskin pouch on the desk. “It’s all in there.”

  The executive opened the pouch and studied the contents carefully for a few moments. He smiled and nodded his head. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morgan. I guess the stories are true about your being a wealthy man.”

  “My ex-wife left me some stock in various companies. The stock has increased in value somewhat.”

  “Somewhat?” the bank man said, arching an eyebrow and smiling. “That is an understatement, Mr. Morgan.”

  “I guess it is.”

  “Do you know how much you are worth?”

  “I have a general idea. I have people who take care of that for me.”

  “Yes,” the banker said dryly. “
The most prestigious law firms in San Francisco and Denver.” He sighed. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  Frank pushed a piece of paper across the desk. “I want a couple of bank drafts in those amounts and a thousand dollars in cash.”

  The banker glanced at the amounts written on the paper. “That will be no problem at all.”

  “I’ll pick them up sometime tomorrow.”

  “At your convenience, sir. Mr. Morgan?”

  Frank looked at him.

  “May I say something of a personal nature?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Your son, Conrad Browning, is becoming quite the entrepreneur. He’s branching out in all directions. Were you aware of that?”

  “No,” Frank said. “My son does not much care for me. We are not close and never correspond.”

  “I see. I heard as much. I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be. He has his life, I have mine.”

  “Mr. Morgan, forgive me for becoming personal, but I have to ask: What kind of life do you have?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You drift, sir. You don’t have a home . . . that I am aware of. You just, well, wander.”

  Frank smiled. “I enjoy wandering, seeing the country. I’ve done it for years.” Frank pushed back his chair and stood up. “I’ll pick up the bank drafts tomorrow. Thank you, sir.” He walked out of the office.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Spencer,” a man said from the open doorway, seconds after Frank had exited.

  “Yes, Blanchard?”

  “Was that Frank Morgan the gunfighter?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “What did he want, a loan?”

  Spencer laughed and shook his head. “Not hardly, Blanchard. He was arranging for some bank drafts.”

  “And you honored the request?”

  Spencer waved the man to a chair. “Blanchard, you’re fresh from the East, new to the West, so learn this now: Don’t judge a man by the clothes he wears or the rumors you might have heard about him. Frank Morgan is a very wealthy man. He owns stock in factories, gold mines, railroads, and numerous other businesses.”

  “I didn’t know, sir.”

  “Now you do. Close the door on your way out.”

  * * *

  Frank walked down the street until he came to a saloon. But the place was filled with fancy men in suits and high collars and polished shoes. Not a pair of boots in the place. Frank walked on until he found a cantina on a side street. He stepped inside and stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the sudden dimness. When he started his walk to a table in the rear of the cantina, the patrons fell silent. Frank didn’t fool himself; everyone in the place knew who he was. Every eye was on him. Only when he was seated did the buzz of conversation resume.

  A man came to his table and said, “Señor?”

  “Beer,” Frank said. “And something to eat.”

  “Beans and tortillas?”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  Frank sat sipping his cool beer, waiting for his food to arrive. He was conscious of the furtive glances he received from many of the men in the saloon. It didn’t bother him. He was used to it. He was also sure that sooner or later, someone in the place would approach him. Hopefully, for conversation and not gunplay.

  Frank had eaten only a few bites of food when he heard a chair being pushed back not far from where he was seated. Boots clumped across the floor and the man stopped in front of Frank’s table.

  “You’re Frank Morgan, ain’t you?” The question was tossed at him.

  “That’s right.”

  “You got a lot of nerve, showin’ your face around here.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You kilt my brother, that’s why!”

  Frank sighed and laid down his spoon. “What was your brother’s name?”

  “Jim Elgart.”

  “I never heard of him. Now go away.”

  “You kilt him, damn you!”

  Just one time, Frank thought. If I could spend a few days in some town without being confronted by someone . . . “Where am I supposed to have done this?” Frank asked.

  “Texas. Early last year. Down along the border.”

  “Sorry, friend,” Frank told him. “But it wasn’t me.”

  “The hell you say! I was told it was you. I been lookin’ for you ever since. Now stand up and settle this.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Frank insisted.

  “You done turned yeller, Morgan. Git up, damn you!”

  Frank shoved the table hard, the corner of it catching the man in the belly. The irate stranger grunted and doubled over, all the air driven out of him. Frank shoved the table again, and the man sat down hard on the floor. Frank rose quickly, jerked the man’s pistol from his belt, and tossed it on the table, then sat back down.

  “Hell,” a man said. “I was wantin’ to see Morgan in some gun action.”

  Frank ignored him. The man Frank had put on the barroom floor was helped to his feet and led off, cussing Frank as he went.

  “Thought I might finally get to see the famous Frank Morgan in action,” a man said from the open doorway of the cantina.

  Frank looked up as a deputy stepped inside and walked to the bar.

  “Beer,” the deputy told the bartender. He turned around to look at Frank. “I was sorta lookin’ forward to arrestin’ you, Morgan.”

  “On what charge?”

  The deputy smiled. “Oh, I ’spect I could think of somethin’.”

  Frank returned to his beans and tortillas without replying.

  The deputy walked over and sat down at the table.

  “Please have a seat,” Frank said very sarcastically.

  The sarcasm was lost on the deputy. “Thanks, Morgan.”

  “What do you want, Deputy?”

  “You out of town.”

  “I’ll be leaving about midday tomorrow.”

  “You’ll leave when I tell you to leave, and I’m tellin’ you to leave right now.”

  Frank knew a roust when he heard one, and he didn’t like to be rousted. “Deputy, you go right straight to hell,” Frank said softly, so only the deputy could hear.

  The deputy flushed. “No one talks to me like that.”

  “I just did. Now why don’t you drag your butt out of that chair and leave, so I can finish my meal in peace?”

  “When I get you in jail, I’m going to teach you a lesson. You’re under arrest, Morgan!” the deputy hissed at him.

  “Try to take me in,” Frank tossed back at him.

  For a moment, Frank thought the bigmouthed deputy was going to try him. But the wind suddenly left the man and he slumped in his chair. “You bastard!” he said to Frank in a very low voice. “I’ll see you again. Bet on that. No man talks to Vince Barlow like that.”

  “Hang up that badge, Vince. If you don’t, it’s going to get you killed. You’ve got the wrong attitude to wear it.”

  “I don’t need any advice from you, Morgan.” Vince pushed back his chair and stomped out of the cantina.

  Frank finished his beans and tortillas, then signaled for a refill. While he waited for his second helping, he sipped his beer. He was just finishing his second plate of beans and sopping up the juice with a tortilla when a big man with a star on his vest strolled in. He asked the bartender something. The barkeep pointed at Frank, and the lawman nodded and headed toward Frank’s table.

  Frank sighed and waited.

  “Frank Morgan?” the man asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “I’m Sheriff Keal. Mind if I sit down?”

  “Not at all, Sheriff. I was about to order a pot of coffee. Want some?”

  “Sounds good.” Keal motioned for the barkeep to bring them both coffee.

  The bartender nodded and in a couple of minutes, set cups and a fresh pot of coffee on the table. Keal sugared his coffee, tasted it, and smiled. “I do like a good cup of coffee. Morgan, I spoke with Spencer over at the bank. He told me you were in town. I al
ways wanted to meet you.”

  “Well, thank you, Sheriff. I was thinking you were here because of your deputy.”

  “Which one? No, let me guess. Barlow? Has he been in here?”

  Frank told him what had transpired between the two.

  “That dumb, hammerheaded peckerwood!” Sheriff Keal said. “He had no call to speak to you that way. I’ll talk to him. Or fire him. I think I’ll fire him. He’s not working out.”

  “Wait until I leave town, please. I don’t want to have to face the man in a shoot-out.”

  Sheriff Keal smiled. “No. I don’t want to have to bury the fool.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  “You in town long?”

  “Leaving tomorrow. Early afternoon probably.”

  “I’ll wait until you’re gone before I fire him.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sheriff Keal fiddled with his nearly empty cup for a few seconds. He looked up and met Frank’s eyes. “Morgan, I’ve known some bad ol’ boys in my time. I’ve marshaled in some tough towns. But if just half the things I’ve heard about you are true . . . you’ve got to be one randy gunslinger.”

  Frank chuckled. “Believe about one tenth of what you hear about me, Sheriff.”

  “You pretty well destroyed the Dooley gang here in California.”

  “But I didn’t get Val.”

  “He’s operating in Texas and New Mexico. Down along the Mex border.”

  “So I heard.”

  “And from here, you’re heading where, Morgan?”

  Frank smiled at that. “New Mexico. But I’m looking for land, not Val Dooley.”

  “But if you run into him?”

  “I’ll finish what I started.”

  “Good luck.” The sheriff pushed back his chair and stood up. “He’s up to his old tricks, Frank: kidnapping women and selling them into prostitution. Young boys too. Val Dooley is one sorry son of a bitch.”

  “I know that only too well, Sheriff.”

  “When you find him, put one bullet into him from me.”