Burning Read online

  “Someone better ride in and notify the sheriff,” Frank said.

  That got him some queer looks from the farmers.

  “Did I say something out of line?” Frank asked.

  “Notifying the sheriff would be a waste of time,” Claude said. “He’s solid on the side of the big ranchers. Besides, he’d just say the fire was nothing but an accident.”

  “There is a bullet hole in the woman’s head,” Frank pointed out.

  “That don’t make no difference,” Hugh said. “He’d say some ammunition in the house exploded and done it.”

  “I’ll go tell the Kalens,” Dan said. “Ask them to spread the word. We’ll have the buryin’ in the mornin’.”

  “Someone has to tell Paul about this,” Mavis said softly.

  Frank was standing away from the group, listening.

  The men turned to look at the woman. Her husband said, “You’re right And I’m not lookin’ forward to that.”

  The group was silent for a moment. Frank took that time to ask, “Is there a town nearby?”

  “There’s a no-name town that’s pretty much owned by the two big ranchers in this area.” He pointed. “They’s rooms for let over the saloon. Right down that road ’bout eight miles.”

  Frank looked at the blanket-covered bodies. “You want some help burying these people?”

  “Why would you volunteer?” Hugh asked. “You don’t have no stake in none of this.”

  “No reason. Just being friendly in a time of need.”

  “We appreciate it, Mr. Frank,” Mavis said. “But we can make do. As soon as we get the word out, they’ll be folks aplenty. We’ll have the buryin’ in the morning.”

  “All right. I’ll just wash up a bit, then be on my way. I wish you people the best of luck.” He turned to walk over to his pack animal for a bar of strong soap, then hesitated and turned around to face the group. “I heard a saying once that fits this situation.”

  “What’s that, Frank?” Dan asked.

  “It’s DLTBGYD.”

  “That don’t spell nothing. What’s all that mean?” Claude asked.

  “Don’t Let The Bastards Get You Down.”

  The men smiled and Mavis blushed. Hugh asked, “What is your last name, Frank?”

  “Morgan.” Frank got his soap and washed up at the trough while the men stood in shock, speechless.

  “Frank Morgan? ” Dan finally found his voice.

  “Yes,” Frank said, drying his hands on an old shirt he’d found on the ground.

  “The Frank Morgan?” Claude asked.

  “I reckon so,” Frank told him. “I don’t know but one and that’s me.” Frank stepped into the saddle and lifted the reins. “You folks take it easy. See you.”

  He rode off in the direction of the no-name settlement, Dog loping along beside his horse.

  As he rode, Frank could understand why there was a fight over the land. The land was lush, the earth rich, suitable for both farming and grazing of cattle.

  The road Frank traveled toward town led through a series of beautiful valleys, and there were several more lush valleys behind him, east of the recently burned homestead. The valleys were long and wide, with snowcapped mountains to the north, green rolling hills to the south. In the valleys ran several creeks and a small river. It was a beautiful place, to be sure. Certainly worth fighting over. It was mostly unspoiled by civilization, with no telegraph wires that Frank could spot.

  Frank rode into the small settlement at midafternoon. He stabled his horses at the livery and Dog immediately settled into the stall with Stormy, Frank’s big Appaloosa. Frank made certain Dog had a bucket of water just inside the stall.

  “Does that dog bite?” the man at the livery asked, putting a wary eye on the big cur.

  “He’s been known to bite,” Frank told the man. “But he won’t if you leave him alone.”

  “I’ll damn shore do that.”

  “No café in this town?” Frank asked.

  “No. Tell the truth, it ain’t much of a town. But they serve food at the saloon. Got rooms there too.” He peered at Frank for a moment. “You look familiar. You been through here before?”

  “No.”

  “Lookin’ for work, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad. They’s plenty of work to be had. I just figured you was lookin’ to hire your gun.”

  “Gun handlers in demand around here, hey?”

  “You bet. The GP spread is hirin’, as is the Diamond ranch. Top wages, I hear.”

  “I’m just passing through. Just looking for a bed and a meal.”

  “You watch yourself in the saloon, mister. They’s a lot of randy ol’ boys in town.”

  “Trouble-hunters, hey?”

  “You bet.”

  “I’ll be careful. Take care of my horses, will you?”

  “Like they was my own. And I’ll fight shy of that damn dog too.”

  Frank walked over to the saloon/hotel and got a room. The clerk didn’t even look up after Frank signed his name. The room wasn’t much, but the bed looked comfortable enough and the sheets were clean. He washed up as best he could in the hand basin, then walked down into the saloon section of the building. A dozen or so men were idling away their time, most of them seated at tables. Two were standing at the bar. Even though he did not recognize any of them, he could tell all of them were hard cases. They gave Frank a long once-over as he walked to the bar and ordered a beer.

  “Just gettin’ into town?” the man closest to Frank asked.

  “Just got here.”

  “You pulled in at the right time, for sure. The GP and the Diamond are hirin’. Payin’ good wages too.”

  “Fighting wages?” Frank asked.

  “You bet. The best.”

  “The two spreads fighting each other?”

  The gunhand gave Frank a quick curious look, then shook his head. “Naw. Sodbusters are movin’ in. Takin’ all the good land. Got to get rid of them. You must have ridden in from afar not to know that.”

  “New Mexico,” Frank told him.

  The gunhandler whistled softly. “That’s afar, all right, for a fact. Say, you want me to put in a good word for you?”

  Frank shook his head. “I think I’ll pass on this one. But thanks just the same.”

  “That might be wise of you. They’s some bad ol’ boys hirin’ on.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Jess Stone and Paco Morales is here. They don’t get no badder than them two. Lessen Frank Morgan was to ride in. Now, that would be somethin.”

  Frank smiled. “Yeah, that would be something, wouldn’t it?” Frank cut his eyes to a man standing at the far end of the long bar. The man was dressed all in black and wearing two guns, slung low and tied down. “Who’s that one?” he asked.

  The man followed Frank’s eyes. “That’s Rod Harley,” he whispered. “He’s near’bouts as bad as them two I mentioned. That feller standin’ next to him is Bob Campbell. You heard of him?”

  “Yes. He’s from down around El Paso.”

  “That’s him, for a fact. I don’t know the third man standin’ there. All I ever heard him called was Steve.”

  “Could be Steve Nesbett. Came out of Missouri after shooting a man in the back over a woman.”

  “Might be, I reckon. Say, you got a name?”

  “Frank.”

  “I’m Dave Moore.”

  “Pleasure.”

  Dave took a second look at Frank, and Frank saw his right hand tighten around the handle on his mug of beer. “Frank Morgan?” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Dear God!” Dave whispered. “And you’re not buyin’ into this fight?”

  “No. I’m just passing through.”

  “Does anyone around here know you’re in town?”

  “Some farmers. I helped them look for bodies, searching through the ashes of a homestead that was burned out last night.”

  “I hadn’t heard about that. Did you find
any bodies?”

  “Four. Man and his wife and their two sons.”

  “Damn!” Dave muttered. “I knew there might be some killin’. But not women and kids.”

  “Range wars are dirty business, Dave. If both sides would just sit down and talk, maybe each side give a little, they could usually be avoided. But that don’t often happen.”

  “I reckon it don’t,” Dave said. “And it damn shore ain’t gonna happen this time neither.”

  “After seeing what was left of the Norton place, I tend to agree with you.”

  “Dick Norton?”

  “Yes.”

  Dave was silent for a few seconds. “I knowed them. They was nice folks. Damn!” he cursed softly.

  “Sort of changes things around in your mind, hey?”

  “Damn shore does. I just don’t hold with killin’ women and kids.”

  “Nobody decent does, Dave.”

  Dave cut his eyes to Frank. “I never heard it put just like that, Frank.”

  “There aren’t but two kinds of people in this world, Dave. Decent people and indecent people.”

  “There ain’t no in-between?”

  “Not in my mind.”

  “I reckon not,” Dave admitted.

  “So, are you going to stick around and get hired on?”

  Dave shook his head. “I think I’ll stick around. But as far as gettin’ hired, I got to give that some more thought.”

  “I thought you would.”

  “Did you now?”

  “Yes. I think deep down you might be a decent person. Say, you had supper?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m hungry. You want to join me for a bite? I’m buying.”

  “Nice of you. Yeah, I’m kinda hungry myself.”

  Frank finished his beer and stepped away from the bar. As he did, a man stood up from a table and called to him.

  “Morgan!”

  Frank turned to face the man.

  “Thought that was you, Morgan. I been studyin’ you since you come in the saloon. Remember me?”

  “Can’t say as I do,” Frank replied.

  “George Cummings, Drifter. Now you remember me?”

  “Nope,” Frank said.

  “Down on the strip ’bout ten years back. You pistol-whipped me. Treated me like crap, you did.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Frank said. “I recall now. You were beating that Indian woman. I stopped you.”

  “She was my woman, Drifter. I owned her. I had me a right to do anything I wanted with her.”

  “Slavery officially ended back in ’65, George, remember? It was after that conflict called the Civil War.”

  “That was about niggers, Drifter. Not squaws.”

  “Is there a point to this conversation, George?”

  “Yeah. Point is I’m gonna kill you, Drifter.”

  “Doubtful, George. Real doubtful.”

  George pushed a chair out of his way and stepped away from the table. “I owe you a bullet, Drifter. And I’m gonna give it to you right now.”

  “Then make your play, George,” Frank said, his words tinged with ice. “You’re keeping me from supper.”

  Two

  A man laughed at that, and George flushed in anger. “I don’t like to be made light of, Drifter.”

  Frank said nothing.

  Beside him, Dave eased away a few feet—out of the line of fire, he hoped.

  “Did you hear me, Drifter?” George demanded.

  “I’m not deaf, George. Are you going to drag that smoke-pole or talk me to death?”

  “I want you to sweat a little bit.”

  “The only thing I’m doing is getting sleepy,” Frank told him. “Now I’m both hungry and sleepy.”

  “Damn you, Drifter!” George swore.

  Frank turned his back to the man and signaled for the barkeep to bring him another beer.

  “Don’t turn your ass to me!” George yelled.

  Frank ignored him.

  “What’s going on in here?” a new voice added, speaking from the batwings.

  “Nothin’, Jim,” a man said quickly.

  “The foreman out at the GP,” Dave whispered. “Jim Knight. He’s a bad one.”

  Frank nodded his head in understanding.

  “What are you all puffed up about, George?” the foreman asked.

  “Nothin’, Jim,” George said. “Nothin’ at all.”

  “That’s Frank Morgan standin’ at the bar, Jim,” another GP hand said.

  Jim walked over to Frank and leaned against the bar. “So you’re the living legend, huh?”

  “I’m Frank Morgan. I wouldn’t know about the living legend.” Frank took a sip of beer and set the mug on the bar. He turned his head to look at Jim Knight.

  He was a bear of a man. About Frank’s height. Barrel-chested with plenty of hard-packed muscle under his shirt. Frank figured him to be between forty and forty-five. Somewhere close to Frank’s age.

  “Something you want?” Frank asked. “Or are you just going to stand there and stare at me?”

  The foreman blinked at that. Clearly, he was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner. “You got a mouth on you, don’t you, Morgan?”

  “I asked a question, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Did you come in here lookin’ for work, Morgan?”

  “My gun is not for hire,” Frank told him. “Not now, not ever. Now go away and leave me alone.”

  “Mister, I think you need a lesson in manners.”

  “And you think you’re the man to teach me?” Frank asked with a slight smile.

  “I sure do. Keep pushin’ me and you’ll find out.”

  Frank chuckled. “You haven’t been pushed yet, Knight. But I can damn sure oblige you if you’ve a mind for it.”

  The foreman gazed into Frank’s eyes for just a few seconds. He saw something there that made him want to back up. Jim Knight was not a coward, there was not a streak of yellow in him. But he was an experienced man, a man of the West.

  “Just passin’ through this area, Morgan?” Knight asked in a softer tone of voice.

  “Just passing through,” Frank replied. “But in the short time I’ve been here, I haven’t liked what I’ve seen.”

  “Oh? What is it that you’ve seen?”

  “A farmer and his family burned to death.”

  “What?” Knight asked. “What family? What are you talkin’ about?”

  Frank met the man’s eyes, and instantly felt he was telling the truth. The foreman of the GP spread didn’t know. “The Norton homestead was burned out last night. Man and his wife and two kids were killed.”

  “No GP hand had anything to do with that. I want the sodbusters off of grazin’ land, yeah, but we haven’t killed anyone.”

  “Somebody ordered it.”

  Knight signaled the barkeep for a drink. A bottle and a glass were placed in front of him. Knight poured a shot glass full of whiskey and stood for a moment, staring down at the amber liquid before downing it neat. He set the glass on the bar and cut his eyes to Frank.

  “We had no hand in any killing, Morgan. Not that it makes a damn to me whether you believe me or not.”

  Frank shrugged. “I’m just passing through, Knight. I’ll be gone in the morning. Fight your battles your way and live with your conscience.”

  The foreman poured another whiskey and slugged it back. He grimaced and said, “My conscience don’t bother me at all, Morgan. It’s clear as a cold winter’s mornin’.”

  “Glad to hear, Knight. Now then, is there anything else you want to talk to me about?”

  “You’re hirin’ your gun, Morgan. ’Cause that’s what you are. Did the Diamond bring you in?”

  “Nobody brought me in, Knight. And I told you, my gun is not for hire. Put that out of your mind.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Frank took no umbrage at the foreman’s remark. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t give a damn what you believe, Knight. This
time. Just don’t call me a liar again.”

  Knight stiffened for a few seconds, then relaxed. “Did you and George have a beef?”

  “He did. I didn’t.”

  “He’s good with a short gun, Morgan.”

  Frank looked at the man and softly said, “So am I, Knight. So am I.”

  The foreman shoved the whiskey bottle away from him and turned to face the crowded saloon. “All GP hands—let’s go. Back to the ranch. Right now.”

  No one argued, and the saloon quickly cleared. Only a few men remained seated at tables.

  Frank glanced over at Dave. “Now we can have supper.”

  * * *

  Frank stepped out of the saloon/hotel just after dawn, and walked down to the livery with a sack of scraps for Dog. The cook was a person who liked dogs, and he had been more than generous. Frank filled Dog’s water bucket and fed the big cur. The liveryman showed up and asked if Frank would like some coffee.

  “I sure would.”

  “Be ready in a few.”

  While the coffee was making, Frank said, “Sure is pretty country.”

  “Be a lot prettier if folks would get along,” the stable man opined. “I understand the Norton family will be buried this afternoon.”

  “I hadn’t heard.”

  “Grave diggers workin’ as we speak.” The man pointed out the window to a hill just outside of town. “Right up yonder.”

  “I didn’t see a church in town.”

  “The farmers got a lay preacher amongst ’em. Preacher Wright. He’ll be handlin’ things.”

  “Is this the first time anyone’s been killed over land?” Frank asked.

  “No. I’m sorry to say there’s been others. Nothin’ this bad, though.” The liveryman dumped in the coffee, then added some cold water to settle the grounds. “Probably be more,” he added.

  “Farmers aren’t giving up, hey?”

  “Nope. And I don’t blame them. They filed on this land legal and worked it up. They built homes and by God, they’re gonna stay, or die tryin’.”

  “Sounds like you’re on their side.”

  The man looked at Frank and smiled. “I ain’t on anybody’s side, Mr. Morgan. Just like you say you are, I’m in the middle.”

  “Sometimes that’s a dangerous position.”

  “So I been told. Coffee’s ready.”

  Over coffee and cigarettes, the men chatted. “I’m John Platt, Mr. Morgan. Been here for years. I come here with Mark Rogers as a cowhand. He owns the Diamond spread. A couple of years later, Grant Perkins showed up and claimed the rest of the land as his own. He’s an arrogant bastard, but then, so is Rogers. They get along.”