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  “I changed my mind, Drifter. When Miss Julie heads back to Santa Fe, you ain’t never goin’ to see her again, right?”

  “That’s probably correct, Dewey.”

  “You got a real pretty valley here, Drifter. Nice house too. Man could run some cattle and horses here. Make himself a good life. If’n that man had some stick-to-it-ness in him.”

  “Maybe someday, Dewey.”

  “Your wife, the one who was kilt a couple of years back. . . you really cared for her, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “A dead woman’s memory ain’t worth a damn on a cold night, Drifter.”

  Frank chuckled. “You just won’t give up, will you, Dewey?”

  “Your son . . . you ever see him?”

  “Not in a while. We don’t get along very well.”

  “I ain’t gonna say no more about you and Miss Julie, Drifter. I’ll be pullin’ out with the posse and the kids come the dawnin’. This here little hoohaw we been on has been right enjoyable. But you’re right, it’s time for me to git on with my life. I’m gonna leave some supplies with you. You might find a need for them.” He stood up. “I’ll see you at first light, Drifter.”

  “Good night, Dewey.”

  * * *

  Frank stood in front of his house and watched the posse ride out just as first light was filtering over the mountains. Julie had waved good-bye to him and Frank had returned the wave. The morning was cool and pleasant as Frank sipped his coffee. The silence settling around him was comfortable.

  Dog padded over to him, and Frank laid a hand on the cur’s big head. Frank and Dog watched the sun burst forth over the mountains. “We’ll come back here one of these days, Dog,” Frank said. “I like it here.”

  Dog looked up at him. If an animal could wear a skeptical expression, Dog did.

  * * *

  Frank went on the hunt. He took his time, never getting into a rush. He stopped at every little town and every country trading post and every lonely farmhouse and asked questions. For a time, it appeared that Val Dooley and his gang had dropped off the face of the earth.

  About twenty miles south of the Colorado line, in the San Juan Mountains, in a small town where Frank had stopped for a meal at the town’s only café, Frank noticed a couple of trail-worn horses tied up outside the saloon. Frank decided to postpone his meal for a few minutes and have him a beer and check out the riders of those tired horses.

  Frank was rough-looking. He hadn’t shaved in more than a week, and his was naturally a heavy beard. His clothing was dusty and he looked like an out-of-work cowhand, just drifting around looking for a job.

  He left Dog with the horses and stepped into the saloon. He stood near the batwings for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the relative dimness of the interior. Two men at the bar seemed to tense at his appearance. They ducked their heads and began speaking in whispers. The bartender picked up on that immediately and looked over at Frank.

  Frank walked to the bar and ordered a beer.

  The barkeep set the beer down in front of Frank and said, “Haven’t seen you around here before, friend. You just passin’ through?”

  Frank took a swallow of beer. “I’m looking for a piece of coyote crap name of Val Dooley, and any low-down buzzard puke who ever rode with him.”

  The two men at the bar stiffened at that.

  “That’s strong talk, mister,” the barkeep said. “This Val Dooley, he’s bad medicine, so I hear.”

  “He’s a kidnapping, child-raping coward,” Frank said, raising his voice so the men seated at the tables in the large room could clearly hear. “And so is any man who ever rode with him. Pure scum, that’s all they are.”

  The two men at the bar stepped back, tossed some coins on the bar, and started to walk out. Frank stepped away from the bar and faced the men, blocking their way.

  “We don’t want no trouble, mister,” one of the men said. “But if you’re a mind to have some, we’ll oblige.”

  “You got a name?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah, I got a name. Do you?”

  “Yeah. Frank.”

  “Frank what?” the second man asked.

  “Morgan.”

  “Oh, hell,” the barkeep muttered.

  “Frank Morgan?” a man at the table said. “Here?”

  Frank ignored the barkeep and the local, keeping his eyes on the two hard cases in front of him. “You boys have names?”

  “I’m Mel and this here is Cec. If it’s any of your damn business.”

  “Raped any children lately, boys?” Frank asked.

  “Done what?” another local asked. “Rape?”

  “I ain’t never raped no child!” Mel blurted out, his face suddenly sweaty.

  “Me neither,” Cec said, his right hand hovering near the butt of his pistol.

  “You’re both liars,” Frank said. “Man I left to die down in Arizona mentioned two men name of Mel and Cec.”

  “What was his name?” Cec asked.

  “Carter.”

  The two men exchanged quick glances but said nothing.

  “Is Mel and Cec all you want on your headstones?” Frank asked.

  “We ain’t planned on dyin’, Morgan,” Mel said.

  “You better change your plans, boys. ’Cause you’re dead. You just don’t know it yet.”

  “We left Dooley’s gang, Morgan,” Cec said. “We ain’t no part of it no more.”

  “Where is he?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mel said after a quick look at his partner.

  “You’re lying again,” Frank said coldly.

  “You got to understand, Morgan,” Mel pleaded. “No one rats out Val and lives very long. That’s the way it is.”

  “You have a chance of living if you answer my question, boys. Lie to me and you die right here on this barroom floor.”

  “That ain’t fair, Morgan,” Cec said. “We ain’t got nothin’ to do with Val no more.”

  “Where is he?” Frank asked, his voice filled with impatience.

  “You go to hell, Morgan!” Mel yelled. “I ain’t squealin’ on Val. That’s the way it is. If you don’t like it, that’s tough.”

  Frank took a step toward the two outlaws, and Mel and Cec took a step backward. Cec held out a hand.

  “We don’t want no trouble with you, Morgan. Just leave us be.”

  “Val Dooley,” Frank persisted. “Where is he?”

  “Damn you!” Mel yelled. “Damn you to the pits of hell!” He grabbed for his six-gun.

  Frank’s Peacemaker roared. His draw was so smooth, so fast, if anyone in the saloon had blinked, they would have missed it. Mel’s pistol slipped back into leather as he slumped against the bar.

  “Good God!” a local said in hushed and reverent tones. “I ain’t never seen nothin’ so fast.”

  Mel lost his grip on the bar and fell to the floor, one hand holding his punctured belly. “Kill him, Cec,” he said.

  “I don’t think so,” his partner replied.

  “He shot me!” Mel gasped. “You got to avenge me, Cec.”

  “Val Dooley,” Frank said. “Where is he, Cec?”

  “I don’t know for shore,” the outlaw said quickly. “And that’s the truth, Morgan. He moves around a lot. He’s runnin’, tryin’ to build up his gang.”

  “The last time you saw him?”

  “He was camped over on the Vermejo. Near the headwaters. I swear to you, that’s the truth, Morgan.”

  “Kill him, Cec,” Mel begged, his voice growing weaker as his life blood leaked out of him. “Do it for me.”

  “Not a chance, partner,” Cec said, looking down at Mel.

  “Then get me a doctor,” Mel said. “I’m beginnin’ to hurt something awful. My guts is on fire.”

  “There ain’t no doctor here,” a local said. “Nearest one is fifty miles away.”

  “And he’s drunk near’bouts all the time,” another local said.

  “How many men does Val ha
ve with him?” Frank asked.

  “Not many,” Cec said. “Most of his gang quit him.”

  Mel stretched out on the floor, his head resting on a cuspidor. His face had turned ghostly white.

  “How many is many?” Frank asked.

  “Maybe ten,” Cec said.

  “Get me a preacher,” Mel said.

  “We ain’t got one of them either,” a local said. “Not since he run off with Otis Farnworth’s wife, Mavis.”

  Mel cussed, then closed his eyes and died.

  Twenty-nine

  “You ride,” Frank told Cec. “And don’t ever run into me again.”

  Cec didn’t need a second invitation. He walked out of the saloon without looking back and rode away.

  Frank had no idea whether Cec would try to warn Val, and he didn’t much care one way or the other.

  “Whoever wants to plant this one,” Frank said, pointing to Mel, “can have what’s in his pockets and his guns and horse and saddle.”

  Two locals stood up and without a word began dragging the body of the outlaw out the back door.

  “Those two old rummies just might drop him down a privy pit,” the bartender said.

  Frank shrugged his total indifference and picked up his mug of beer, taking a swallow. “The café serve good food?”

  “It’s been shut down for six months,” the barkeep said. “This town is dryin’ up and blowin’ away. But I got some pretty good stew on the stove and the wife just made some bread. And she’s a good cook.”

  “Dish it up,” Frank said. “And bring me some coffee.” He looked around and found a good spot near the front window with his back to a wall. “I’ll be sitting over there.”

  The two old drunks were outside in the street, arguing over who would get the horse and who would get the saddle.

  Frank relaxed in the chair. He was tired. He’d been on the trail now for three weeks. His horses were tired and Dog was tired. “Is the livery open?” he called to the bartender.

  “Oh, yeah, it’s still in business. I own it.”

  “I’m going to stable my horses there. You got a man to rub them down and feed them?”

  “Sure do. Ol’ Bob is there now. He’s a good man. Treat you right. You can pay him.”

  Frank ate two bowls of the stew and polished off a loaf of hot bread smeared with butter. Then he sat and drank coffee and smoked and relaxed. Dog had caught and killed and eaten two rabbits that day, so Frank wasn’t worried about him. He was full of fresh rabbit meat.

  “If you need a place to bunk tonight, Mr. Morgan,” the barkeep called, “you can sleep in the loft of the stable. There ain’t no hotel nor boardin’house no more.”

  “Thanks. I’ll take you up on that.”

  “Nights gettin’ cool this time of year, but the hay is fresh and comfortable.”

  “No barbershop or bathhouse?” Frank asked.

  “Not since the barber died last year. I figure a couple more years this town will be nothin’ but a memory.”

  Frank finished his coffee and saw to his horses. Then he bought a few supplies and returned to the stable. He filled a pail with fresh water for Dog. Before the sun went down, Frank was rolled up in his blankets, asleep in the hay in the loft.

  Dog’s low growling awakened Frank. Dog had been sleeping in Stormy’s stall. Frank’s hand closed around the butt of his Peacemaker and he silently slipped out of his blankets. In his stocking feet, he made his way to the edge of the loft and peered over the side. He could see two shadowy figures standing just inside the open front doors. Frank had no idea what the time was, but he had awakened alert and feeling very refreshed, so he figured it must be sometime in the very early morning. He felt he had slept seven or eight hours.

  Dog had sensed Frank was awake and had ceased his growling.

  Using his left hand to cover the sound, Frank eared back the hammer of his .45. “Stand easy, boys,” he said.

  A roar and a flash of flame tore the darkness as one of the men below fired in the direction of Frank’s voice. The bullet hit the edge of the loft, sending splinters flying. Frank returned the fire. His bullet hit human flesh and brought a grunt of pain. Frank rolled to one side, away from his original position, just as the second man fired.

  Frank’s .45 slug knocked the second man sprawling to the floor just as the first assailant fired again. The bullet grazed Frank’s upper left arm, and Frank felt the warm flow of blood leaking down his arm, the wound stinging.

  Frank fired, and heard the thud of a body hitting the ground. He groped around in the darkness and found his boots, tugging them on. Then he went down the short ladder to the ground floor and quickly slipped to one side.

  One of the fallen men groaned and moved, the movement just visible in the dim light through the huge open doors. The other man neither groaned nor moved.

  Frank waited, doing a slow silent sixty count, just in case there might be a third man lurking in the darkness.

  Nothing. Only silence greeted him. No lights in the tiny town flickered on.

  Frank walked up to the fallen men and kicked their guns away. Then he prodded the men. One made no sound or movement. He was either unconscious or dead. The second man moaned and stirred.

  “Your partner’s dead,” Frank said. “You feel any urge to join him?”

  “No,” the man said.

  “Can you get up?”

  “I’m belly-hit. I hurt bad.”

  “No doctor in this town. If you got anything to say, you’d better say it now.”

  “I ain’t got a damn thing to say to you, Morgan.”

  “Then lie there and die, partner. As for me, I’m going to find a coffeepot and make some coffee.”

  Frank lit a lantern hanging from a nail on the post, turning the wick down. Then he gathered up the gunmen’s pistols and laid them on a small table near the front of the livery. Then he stoked up a stove in the tiny office and filled a pot with water, setting it on the stove to boil. Frank returned to the fallen gunman and rolled him over on his back, taking a look at the wound.

  “I hurt real bad, Morgan,” the outlaw groaned.

  “You won’t hurt for very long,” Frank told him. “If you’ve got anything to say to me, you better get it said.”

  “You messed up a real good thing we had goin’, Morgan.”

  “You call kidnapping and raping children a good thing?”

  The dying outlaw had no reply to that.

  “Where’s Val Dooley?”

  “He’ll kill you, Morgan. He’s the fastest gun I ever seen.”

  “We’ll see about that. Where is he?”

  The outlaw laughed, and blood sprayed from his mouth. Lung shot, Frank thought. The bullet must have angled up after tearing up his innards and nicked a lung.

  “Where is Dooley?”

  “He’ll find you, Morgan. Or some of his gang will. You got a bunch of hard ol’ boys on your trail.”

  “If they’re like you and your partner, I don’t have much to worry about, do I?”

  The outlaw moaned his reply.

  “You got a name you want on your marker?” Frank asked.

  The outlaw cussed him.

  “I don’t think all that will fit,” Frank said, squatting down and rolling a cigarette.

  “Dave Morris,” the man said. “My partner’s name is Dallas.”

  “Just Dallas?”

  “That’s all I ever heard him called. Can I have a smoke, Morgan?”

  Frank struck a match and lit up, then placed the cigarette between the man’s lips.

  “Thanks. Dooley changes camps every two, three days. He’s always on the move. Has maybe five or six men with him all the time.”

  “Any hostages?”

  “No. They done all been sold. Is Dallas really dead?”

  “Cold as a hammer in January.”

  “You’ll see that we’re buried proper, Morgan?”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “I’m gettin’ real cold, Morgan. It’s c
lose, ain’t it? I mean, I’m bein’ touched by the darkness, ain’t I?”

  “I reckon so, Dave.”

  “I think I’ll . . .” Dave never finished whatever he was going to say. He closed his eyes and stiffened slightly; then life left him.

  Frank took the cigarette from the man’s lips and heeled it out.

  Frank went into the office and fixed his coffee, then sat down in the only chair and smoked and drank a cup of the strong brew. He found a couple of horse blankets and covered the bodies of Dave and Dallas. He popped open the lid to his pocket watch and checked the time. Two o’clock. It was going to be a long wait until the dawning.

  * * *

  Four days later, Frank eased his way into brush on a slight rise and looked down at the outlaw camp. Or one of the outlaw camps, at least, he realized grimly.

  A Mexican family had told him about the camp of some very bad men who had some children with them. The Mexican family could not understand why such evil-acting men would have such nice young girls with them.

  “Anglo girls?” Frank had asked.

  “Sí, sí,” the man had replied. “Very unhappy-looking Anglo girls.”

  And there the girls were, Frank saw after inspecting the camp more closely through field glasses. Three girls. Frank watched one of the men walk over to one of the girls, jerk her to her feet, and slap her. She fought back and he struck her with his fist, knocking her to the ground. She did not move.

  “Damn little whoor!” the man shouted, his words reaching Frank clearly. “When I tell one of you to git nekked, I mean strip now!” He pointed at another young girl just as Frank was adjusting the sights on his .44-40. “Shuck them clothes!” he yelled.

  Three other men were lounging around a fire, drinking coffee and laughing at the scene before them.

  They stopped laughing when Frank’s bullet knocked the first man spinning to the ground. Five seconds later, only one man was left alive in the camp, and he was on his knees, his hands in the air, yelling for whoever it was on the ridge to stop shooting. He surrendered.

  Frank stood up and walked to the camp. “One of you girls rinse out a coffeepot and make some coffee.”

  “Yes, sir,” the three girls replied in unison.

  “Frank Morgan?” the man on his knees asked. “Oh, God!”

  “His name is Curly,” one of the girls said. “And he’s done some really terrible things to all of us.”