Burning Read online

  “No, I didn’t, John. But the valleys are getting populated and that sort of news gets out.”

  “I bet you Perkins and Rogers is both fit to be tied ’bout this.”

  Frank had to smile at that. He felt John was right: The GP and Diamond owners were probably livid with rage.

  “Don’t you ’spect, Frank?” John pressed.

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “The new preacher and the schoolmarm is over to the general store visitin’ with Joe and Theda. That Lydia Carmondy is a good-lookin’ woman. She’s ripe for pickin’, I’d say.”

  “She’s very attractive, for sure.”

  John grinned at Frank. “I figured you noticed.”

  “Be kind of hard not to notice.”

  “I’d say so. For a schoolmarm, she’s a looker for shore.” John sobered, losing his grin. “Probably got a temper like a rattler, though. Woman that pretty’s got to have some mean faults.”

  “I wouldn’t know, John. Any Diamond or GP hands causing any trouble in the valleys?”

  “Not a peep outta none of ’em. And that kinda worries me. I wonder what Rogers and Perkins is up to.”

  “Maybe nothing.”

  “Don’t be believin’ that, Frank. You can bet they’re plottin’ and a-schemin’ somethin’.”

  “Probably.” Frank cut his eyes to a lone rider just reaching the far edge of town. “And there he is.”

  John followed Frank’s eyes. “Who is that?”

  “Bobby Doolin.”

  “You’ve got to be kiddin! I heard he retired ten years ago and bought a ranch down in Mexico.”

  “He did. His gun isn’t for hire; hasn’t been in years.”

  “Then what the hell’s he doin’ here?”

  “He’s been looking for me for years. Takes five or six months off every year just to try to find me.”

  “I gather he don’t like you much.”

  “You might say that.”

  “What the hell did you ever do to him?”

  “I killed his brother.”

  “That might be enough to rile some people. I never heard nothin’ ’bout his brother. Didn’t know he had one.”

  “Jeff was a two-bit thief. Fancied himself a gunhand. He braced me down in Kansas ten years ago. ’Bout this time of year. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen. He pulled on me. He died hard. Took three, four days. Shortly after that, Bobby started tracking me. Now he’s found me.”

  “Doolin was said to be fast.”

  “He is.”

  Doolin reined up in front of the livery and dismounted. He looked at Frank and smiled. The smile was reminiscent of a snake’s grin. “Hello, Morgan,” Bobby said.

  “Doolin,” Frank replied.

  “You’re a hard man to find, Morgan.”

  “I stay on the move.”

  “I been lookin’ for you for a long time.”

  “Now you’ve found me.”

  “I sure have. You didn’t have no call to kill my brother. None at all.”

  “Your kid brother braced me, Doolin. Forced my hand. I didn’t have any choice in the matter.”

  “You don’t now neither.”

  Frank smiled grimly. “You know, that’s what that little piss-ant brother of yours said just before he tried to draw on me an’ got killed ’cause of his big mouth.” Frank hesitated just a second, and then he added, “Guess lettin’ your mouth override your ass runs in the family.”

  Richard and Lydia Carmondy stepped out of the general store with Joe Wallace. Joe pointed toward the livery, and the three of them stepped off the short boardwalk and began walking toward the stable.

  “The preacher and his sister wanted a wheel on their buggy repaired,” John said. “I fixed a loose rim. It’s over yonder on the east side of the barn.”

  “Relax, old man,” Bobby told John. “There ain’t gonna be no trouble right off. I want me a bath and a hot meal first.” Again he smiled at Frank. “Then I’ll deal with you, Drifter. Where’s the bathhouse?” he asked John.

  “What passes for one is behind the hotel, which is on the second floor of the saloon. Ask the clerk.”

  “I’ll do that. You take good care of my horse, old man.”

  “I take good care of all horses,” John said. “No matter who they belong to.”

  “That’s very funny. Just see to my horse, old timer.” Bobby turned away and walked toward the saloon/hotel.

  “Who is that man, Frank?” Joe asked.

  “A retired gunfighter who came out of retirement.”

  “Working for the ranchers?”

  “No. He’s looking for me.”

  “A friend of yours?” Richard inquired.

  “Not hardly. He came here to kill me.”

  “Good heavens!” Lydia said, fanning herself with a hanky.

  Frank watched her, hoping the lady had brought an ample supply of little hankies, for she sure gave them a workout.

  “An old grievance?” Joe asked.

  “It happened many years ago, down in Kansas.”

  “It must have been something terrible for a man to carry a grudge for many years,” Lydia said. She was giving her hanky a rest.

  “I shot his brother,” Frank told her.

  The hanky went back into action. “My word! Was his brother a desperado?”

  “He was a loud-mouth piece of crap.”

  The hanky became a blur as Lydia fanned herself. “You certainly do have a unique way with words, Mr. Morgan,” Lydia said, her familiar blush reappearing on her face.

  “I apologize if I offended you.”

  “Them carpenters is comin’ right along,” John said, hoping to lighten the conversation.

  “Yes,” Joe replied. “We’re going to be a regular town very soon.”

  “Lot of riders coming,” Frank said. “From the east and the west.”

  “Diamond and GP men,” John said, shading his eyes with a hand. He looked at Frank. “I don’t like this, Frank.”

  “What does this mean?” Lydia asked. “Why are all those men coming into town?”

  “We’ll soon know,” Frank told her.

  “Your buggy is repaired if you’re ready to pull out,” John told Reverend Carmondy. “And I’d shore suggest you and your sister do that. It’s about to get real touchy here.”

  “No,” Richard said. “I want to speak with the ranchers.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Lydia said. “A voice of peace must be heard.” She looked at Frank. “Guns will not settle this matter. Violence begets violence.”

  “Well said, sister,” her brother said.

  “Suit yourselves,” Frank replied.

  The GP and Diamond riders, about twenty in all, swung in and reined up in front of the saloon.

  “Rogers and Perkins and their foremen,” John said, eyeing the men. “And a whole passel of gunhands.”

  “It’s a show of force,” Frank said. “I’m guessing they’re hoping this will scare off some farmers.”

  “How childish,” Lydia said.

  “Them ain’t children, missy,” John told her. “Those guns they’re packin’ are real.”

  “Who is that young man standing next to Rogers?” Frank asked.

  “That’s his son, Mark Junior,” John replied. “He fancies himself a hand with a gun.”

  “And he’s wearing one too.”

  Frank and the liveryman watched as Richard and Lydia walked across the street and up to the ranchers and their hired guns. They conversation became very heated in only a few minutes.

  “Somethin’s gonna pop over yonder,” John warned.

  “It won’t be a gun. The preacher’s unarmed.”

  “Uh-huh,” John said dubiously.

  “I hope,” Frank added.

  Mark Rogers suddenly slapped the preacher, knocking the man to the dirt.

  “Oh, hell!” John said.

  “You beast!” Lydia screamed, kneeling down beside her brother.

  Eve
n from where he stood across the street, Frank could see that Richard had a bloody mouth.

  “Shut up, you psalm-singing bitch!” Mark Junior shouted at Lydia.

  “That does it,” Frank said, and began his walk across the street.

  Behind him, unknown to Frank, John reached for a Winchester and levered in a round.

  “Morgan’s comin’,” a gunslick called out.

  Across the street, Joe Wallace had picked up a rifle and levered a round into the chamber. His wife, Theda, did the same, stepping to the wide front doors of the business to stand by her husband.

  Inside the saloon, the barkeep picked up a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun, checked the loads, and walked to the batwings.

  “Stay out of this, Morgan,” a Diamond gunhand warned as Frank approached. “This ain’t your affair.”

  “The hell it isn’t,” Frank replied. “Are you all right, Richard?” he asked the preacher, who was getting to his feet, holding a bloody handkerchief to his busted mouth.

  “I’ll live,” Richard said.

  “You buy into this and you’re dead, Morgan!” Rogers called. “You’re outnumbered twenty to one.”

  “And so will you be,” John Platt called from in front of his livery as he drew a bead on Rogers with his Winchester. “I’ll put lead in you, Mark. I swear I will.”

  A look of surprise crossed the rancher’s face. “You’d shoot me, John? After all we went through, you’d shoot me?”

  “And I’ll blow your head off, Grant,” the barkeep said from the batwings. “I’ll get you and several more before it’s all over.”

  “And we’ll get three or four more before the gun smoke is gone,” Joe Wallace called from the front doors of the general store. “Bet on it.”

  The ranchers and their hired guns all took long looks around them. The three rifles were bad enough, but the double-barreled Greener less than twenty feet away would do terrible damage. And they all knew Frank Morgan would not go down easy. He’d kill three or four before he was down.

  “Now just settle down, people,” Grant Perkins said. “Don’t let those fingers get itchy on the triggers.”

  Frank pointed at Mark Rogers. “You! Step out here and face me.”

  “I’m no fast gun, Morgan,” the rancher said.

  “Fists, Rogers. Just you and me.”

  Rogers smiled. “You’re a fool, Morgan. I’ll beat you to death.” Mark stepped out of the crowd and let his gun belt fall.

  Frank unbuckled his gun belt and looped it on a hitch rail. “You got it to do, big mouth,” he told the rancher. He stepped closer and busted the man in the mouth with a hard right fist.

  Thirteen

  Rogers’s head snapped back and he was staggered by the force of Frank’s punch. He sleeved his face and saw the blood from his ruined nose soak into his shirt. Roaring like an enraged grizzly, Rogers shook his head and charged Frank. Frank sidestepped and hammered Rogers’s kidneys with hard blows as he passed, making the big man grunt with pain and fury. Rogers spun around quicker than Frank was expecting and popped Frank on the jaw with a big fist swung from the hips. Frank shook his head and backed up. The man could punch.

  “Kill him, Pa!” Mark Junior hollered.

  Rogers bore in, both fists swinging, blood streaming from his face. Frank ducked and bobbed and weaved; he knew more than a little about boxing. The moving about seemed to infuriate the rancher, especially after a few of his wild punches hit nothing but air.

  “Stand still and fight, damn you!” Rogers yelled, breathing hard through his mouth.

  “Come get me, you big ape!” Frank taunted the man, dancing on his toes from side to side, grinning around a swollen lip.

  Rogers snarled something incomprehensible and rushed Frank. Frank gave the man a left and right to the jaw that stunned the bigger man. Rogers backed up, dazed, and just for a few seconds dropped his guard.

  Frank stepped up to the mark and hammered the rancher. A right to the mouth, a left to the side of his head, a right to the belly, a left to the face. Rogers stumbled backward, grunting with each blow, blood pouring from his mouth and nose. The man was a barroom brawler, but he knew nothing of boxing.

  Frank tripped the big man and punched him twice with short, sharp blows to the face as he went down. When Rogers just lay there, moaning and writhing in the dirt, Frank stepped back. “Get up and fight, you bastard,” Frank told him. “Or would you rather fight women and little children like the cowardly bully you are?”

  On the boardwalk, Bobby Doolin stood and smoked a cigar, watching the fight with interest. He knew from years of studying Frank Morgan that Morgan was an excellent fighter who seldom lost a bare-knuckle fight.

  Rogers slowly got to his feet and stared at Frank from under cut and bleeding brows, his eyes almost swollen shut. He took a deep breath and charged Frank, hoping to get him in a bear hug and crush the life from him.

  Frank nimbly sidestepped and kicked the big man on the side of his knee with the point of his boot. The knee made a sound like a tree limb snapping in half and Rogers went down, hollering in pain.

  “Aw, hell, Pa!” Mark Junior said. “You can do better than this. Get up and whup his ass.”

  If the rancher even heard his son’s words, he did not acknowledge them. He rose to his feet, swaying unsteadily, and lifted his fists slowly up in front of his face.

  Frank had already started a punch from just about knee-high. The blow caught Rogers on the side of the jaw. Rogers’s head exploded in a burst of light and pain as the blow connected. He fell back. Only the hitch rail saved him from hitting the dirt. The man clung desperately to the rail, his legs splayed out crookedly in front of him.

  Frank stepped closer and went to work on the man’s belly, pounding the man with lefts and rights. Rogers gasped with each blow and began to sink slowly to the ground. Frank stepped back, wound up a right fist, and blasted the rancher on the side of the jaw. Mark Rogers went down like a stone. This time he did not get up.

  The rancher stayed on his hands and knees for a few seconds, watching the blood pour from his face to stain the dirt under him a bright red, and then he collapsed face-first into the bloody dirt.

  “Aw, Pa,” Mark Junior said. “Get your face outta the horse crap. That ain’t dignified.”

  “Get him up and put some water on him,” the Diamond foreman ordered. He looked at Frank. “This ain’t over, Morgan. Not by a long shot.”

  “Anytime, anywhere,” Frank panted in response.

  Mark Rogers was dragged over to a horse trough and dunked in, face-first.

  “Oh, my!” Lydia exclaimed breathlessly, giving her little hanky a workout. “That was . . . quite exhilarating.”

  “What the hell did she say?” a hired gun whispered to his partner.

  “Damned if I know,” his partner replied. “Sounds plumb nasty to me.”

  Mark Rogers pulled his head out of the trough. He coughed and sputtered for a moment, then tried to stand up. He could not. His wobbly legs simply would not support him. He sat down hard, clinging to the side of the horse trough.

  “I’ll kill you, Morgan,” the rancher said through busted, bleeding, and swollen lips.

  Frank ignored him and buckled on his gun belt. He looked up into the cold eyes of Bobby Doolin. Doolin smiled at him, then abruptly turned away and walked back into the saloon.

  Frank glanced at the preacher. “Go over to the store and get you something to put on that busted mouth. Go on, Lydia. You go with him.” Frank pushed through the crowd of gunslicks and entered the saloon, walking up to the bar. The bartender had put away his Greener.

  “Give me a beer,” Frank told him.

  “Hell of a good fight, Frank,” the barkeep said, pulling Frank’s beer. “Rogers had it comin’ to him.”

  “It isn’t going to change anyone’s mind.”

  “Probably not. But it was damn sure worth seein’.”

  Frank took a long swing of the cool beer. Tasted good. “Thanks for your backup
,” he told the barkeep.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “You made some enemies today, for sure.”

  The bartender shrugged his shoulders. “They’ll get over it.” He smiled. “If they want a drink, that is. Nearest other waterin’ hole is a two-day ride away.”

  Frank smiled, then grimaced at the pain in his swollen lip where Rogers had hit him. “In that case, I think they’ll get over it quickly.”

  “You’re pretty good with your fists, Morgan,” Bobby Doolin said from the shadows of a rear table. “Remind me not to tangle with you bare knuckles.”

  Frank slowly turned around. “Fists or guns, Doolin, either way, you’ll lose.”

  “You’re a very confident man, Morgan.”

  Frank grinned at Doolin. “Some have even called me arrogant, Bobby, but I prefer to think of it as knowing the limitations of my enemies.” He turned his back to the gunman and picked up his beer—with his left hand. He let his right hand hang down next to his hip.

  “Your right hand sore and getting stiff, Frank?” Bobby questioned.

  “My right hand is fine.”

  “That’s good, Frank. I wouldn’t want you to have to try and beat me with a bum hand.”

  “Worry about yourself, Bobby,” Frank told him, watching the gunman’s image in the big mirror behind the bar.

  Bobby smiled. “Relax, Frank. I won’t brace you today. When I do, I want it to be on the up-and-up. Not like when you killed my little brother.”

  “That was as fair a fight as it could be, Doolin.”

  “He didn’t have a chance, Morgan,” Bobby said, his words tinged with bitterness. “My brother was no gunhand.”

  “Then he shouldn’t have braced me.”

  “He had his pride.”

  Frank sighed and reached into his vest pocket for the makings. He rolled a cigarette and popped a match into flame.

  “You understand pride, don’t you, Frank?” Doolin pressed the issue.

  Frank did not reply. He drank his beer and smoked.

  “Answer me, Morgan,” Doolin said, standing up.

  Frank turned to face the man. He’d had enough of his jawing. “Don’t talk to me about pride, Doolin. Your brother didn’t have nothin’ to be proud of. He was an asshole, just like you, an’ it was that that got him killed. He thought ’cause his big brother was good with a gun, then he should be too, but he wasn’t.” Frank paused and stared into Doolin’s eyes. “If you’re ready to meet your Maker an’ be judged, we can call out the band and dance right now,” he growled.