The Last Gunfighter: The Drifter Page 3

  Frank rode back home, arriving late that night. He did not tell Viv about the shooting—how could he? She wouldn't have believed him. He spent a restless night, wondering how to best handle the wild hate her father felt for him.

  The next day he went to see his father-in-law. Frank tossed the two hundred dollars on the man's desk.

  "There's your blood money, Henson. I left fifty dollars in the man's pockets to bury him."

  The successful businessman/lay preacher looked up from his desk. Frank had never seen such hatred in a man's eyes. "You filth!" Henson said. "Worthless gunman. Oh, I know all about you, Morgan. You're a killer for hire."

  "That's a lie, Mr. Henson. I've killed men, yes. I won't deny that. But it was in self-defense. Not for hire."

  "You're a liar!" Henson hissed. "And you're not worthy to even walk on the same side of the street as my daughter. You're a hired killer, a gunman. You're filth, and always will be."

  Frank stared at the man in silence for a moment. "I'm going to prove you wrong, Mr. Henson."

  "No, you won't. You can't. I've had detectives tracing you all the way back to your miserable, hardscrabble beginnings, you white trash. And I know all about the rape charges that were brought against you in Texas."

  "Rape!" Frank blurted. "What charges? There are no rape charges—there have never been any."

  Henson smiled cruelly at Morgan. His eyes glinted with malevolence. "There will be when my men get through doing their reports."

  Frank got it then. Viv's father was paying detectives to write false reports. He was speechless.

  "Leave," Henson urged. "Leave on your own, and I won't use those reports against you. I give you my word on that. Just saddle up and ride away."

  "Leave? Vivian is my wife. I love her."

  "Love!" Henson's word was filled with scorn. "You don't know the meaning of the word. You're a damned rake! That's all you've ever been. I'll destroy your marriage, Morgan. I will make it my life's work. I promise you that."

  Frank started to speak, and Henson held up his hand. "Don't bother begging, you trash. It won't do you a bit of good. Leave. Get out. Get out of my office, get out of my daughter's life, and get out of town." He smiled. "Before my detectives return and I have the sheriff place you under arrest."

  "I'll tell Viv about this," Frank managed to say.

  "Go right ahead. I'll just tell her I knew all about it and was trying to protect her. See who she will believe. Me, naturally."

  "I can beat the charges."

  "No, you can't. I'll see you tried, convicted, and carried away in chains, just like the wild animal you are. My detectives have found, ah, shall we call them 'ladies,' who will testify against you. And they will be believed."

  Frank was boxed, and knew it. Henson had wealth and power and position, and could very easily destroy him. He sighed and said, "All right. But I have to know Vivian will be taken care of."

  "Of course she will be. I'll see to that personally. She'll never want for anything. You're making a very wise decision, Morgan. Do you need money? A sum within reason, of course."

  "I wouldn't take a goddamn dime from you, you sorry-assed, mealymouthed, self-righteous, sanctimonious son of a bitch!"

  "Get out!" Henson flared. "Get out of town right now. Don't go home. Don't see Vivian. Just get on your horse and ride out of here. For Vivian's sake, if not for your own."

  Frank almost lost it. He balled his big hard hands into fists, and came very close to tearing his father-in-law's head off his shoulders. Henson saw what was about to happen, and paled in fright. But at the last possible second Frank backed off.

  Frank turned and walked out of the office.

  Henson looked down at his trembling hands, willing them to cease their shaking. After a moment, he rose from his chair and got his hat. He just had time to go get his daughter and escort her to the doctor's office. Vivian Morgan was pregnant.

  * * * *

  "Come on," Frank muttered as he rode north. "Put the memories away and close that old door."

  But that was not an easy thing to do. Even though it had been some twenty years since he had pulled out of Denver, twenty years since he had last seen Vivian, the memories were still very strong, and the image of her face was forever burned into his brain.

  Frank had heard little bits of gossip about Henson: the man had become a millionaire through land deals in and around Denver, and a powerful voice in his church. He had sent his daughter, Vivian, back east to live with family. She had gotten married there (somehow her father had had her marriage to Frank annulled). She had a child by her second husband.

  She and her husband had returned to Denver to take over her father's business when Henson's health began to fail. By that time, Frank had learned, the boy was in college somewhere back east.

  Occasionally Frank ran across a weeks- or months-old Denver newspaper and read it. Sometimes there was something in there about Vivian Browning, and Frank would wonder what she looked like now, and for a time he would be lost in "what ifs?"

  "Crap!" Frank muttered as he made camp for the evening in the timber of the Sangre de Cristos, east and a little north of Santa Fe. "Put it out of your mind, Morgan. Put her out of your mind. She hasn't thought about you in years."

  But as many times as Frank thought that, he always wondered if it was true.

  He certainly had never forgotten her.

  Frank filled the coffeepot with water and set it on the fire to boil. He settled back with a book. Frank always made camp with an least an hour of daylight left him, so he could read. He was a well-read and self-educated man. There were always a couple of books in his saddlebags—history, government, sometimes poetry.

  On this day he dug out a book by John Milton. He had bought the book weeks back from a traveling salesman. And while he would be the first to admit that sometimes he didn't know what the hell Milton was talking about; he nevertheless enjoyed his writings. Frank read for a time from something titled Paradise Lost. But he was not so engrossed that he did not know what was happening around him: the birds that had been singing so gaily had stopped, and the squirrels that had been chattering were silent. Frank put his hand on the stock of his rifle and pulled it close to him. Whenever he made camp for the night, he levered a round into the chamber of his rifle. All he had to do was ear back the hammer and let 'er bang.

  "Easy, friend." The voice came out of the timber. "I don't mean no harm."

  "Then why are you trying to slip up on me?"

  "'cause I know who you are, and how quick you are on the shoot—that's why."

  Frank smiled. "Fair enough. Come on into the camp."

  "Let me get my horses—all right?"

  "Bring them in."

  The man looked to be in his sixties. He carried a rifle and wore a pistol at his side. He carefully propped his rifle against a tree and then saw to his animals. He joined Frank by the small campfire.

  "If you ain't got no coffee, I got some in my gear."

  "I have coffee. Waiting for the water to boil. What's on your mind?"

  "Company for the evenin', that's all. If you don't mind."

  "Not at all. I'm Frank Morgan."

  "Jess McCready. I know who you are."

  The water was boiling and Frank dumped in the coffee. "Be ready in a minute, Jess. What are you doing out here in the big lonesome?"

  "Gettin' away from people, mostly." The older man sniffed at the heady aroma of coffee brewing and smiled. "I do like my coffee, Mr. Morgan."

  "Frank. Just Frank."

  "Thankee. Frank it is."

  "Getting a little bit crowded for you, Jess?"

  "A little bit?" The older man snorted derisively. "The territory is fillin' up. Towns sproutin' up ever'where you look. It's disgustin'."

  Frank smiled and dumped in some cold water to settle the grounds. "I have noticed a few more people, for a fact." He got up and dug another cup out of his pack, then rummaged around and found the bacon and flour. "Stay for bacon and pan brea
d, Jess?"

  "Oh, you betcha, I will. I got some taters we can fry up, and a couple cans of peaches in my gear. I'll fetch them, and we'll have us a regular feast."

  "Sounds good to me."

  Frank watched the man out of the corner of his eye as he got the peaches and potatoes. He made no suspicious moves and sat back down and started peeling the potatoes.

  Jess grinned and held up an onion. "We'll slice this up and stick it with the taters. Gives 'em a good flavor."

  "Sure does. I forgot to get me some onions when I provisioned up last stop."

  "Frank, I ain't tryin' to meddle in your business. Believe me, I ain't. But are you by any chance headin' up toward Barnwell's Crossin'?"

  Frank stopped his slicing of bacon to look at the man. "I never heard of that place."

  "Well, it's called the Crossin', usually."

  "Still never heard of it. What about it?"

  "There was a silver strike there 'bout three years ago. Big one. Millions of dollars was taken out of them mines. But it was short-lived. Mines are about played out now."

  "So? I've never mined for gold or silver."

  "Ned Pine and Vic Vanbergen drift in and out of there from time to time."

  That got Frank's attention. "Well, I see. You know about the bad feeling between Ned and Vic and me, eh?"

  "Yep. I was there that time you made Vic back down. I know he's swore to kill you. And so has Ned."

  "Those are old threats, Jess."

  "But still holdin' true, Frank. Point is, one of the big company mines hit another strike. Got tons of damn near pure silver out and melted down. They're waitin' to transport the bars out. And the Pine and Vanbergen gangs are waitin' for them to try it."

  "Why don't they hire some people to guard the shipment?"

  "Don't nobody want the job. Ned and Vic done passed the word."

  "I still don't see what that has to do with me, Jess."

  "Well, I'll tell you. The minin' company is the Henson Mine Corporation. It's owned by Mrs. Vivian Browning. Old man Henson's daughter."

  Four

  The next morning, Jess headed south and Frank headed north, toward Barnwell's Crossing. When Frank questioned the older man, Jess told him he had learned about Frank's marriage years back, from a pal of his who had worked for a man in Denver who knew Henson. Henson, Jess said, had not been well-liked. He was ruthless in his business dealings, and few had mourned his passing some years back.

  Jess had told him that Barnwell's Crossing was a dying town, although it still had a couple of hundred people eking out a living there. The silver was just about all played out.

  Frank didn't know how he would handle matters once he got to the Crossing. He sure didn't know how he would react if he came face-to-face with Vivian. He wondered if Vivian had told her husband about him.

  Probably. Frank felt that a marriage built on a lie would not last.

  Jess had given him directions on how to get to Barnwell's Crossing. After listening to the twisted route, Frank had commented that it sure seemed to be in a very isolated section of the territory ... not in an area that he was at all familiar with.

  "Wait until you get there," Jess had said. "You'll think you've fallen off the earth into hell."

  "That bad, eh?"

  "Worser. One way in, one way out"

  "A perfect setting for Pine and Vanbergen."

  "You betcha."

  After a week of hard riding after leaving the company of Jess McCready, Frank reached a narrow, twisty road that led off into the mountains. Miles later, at a crossroads, he saw a crossing sign. A crudely painted arrow pointed off toward the west. The road was literally cut out of the mountains in some spots, and some of the drop-offs were hundreds of feet, straight down.

  Frank remembered some long-ago campfire talk about the town as he rode. He had forgotten it until now. The town had been established some thirty-five years back.

  Frank couldn't recall the original name. The Apaches had raided the tiny town and burned it to the ground. It had been rebuilt, and the Apaches had raided and burned it once more. It had sprung to life again, Frank guessed, when silver had been found.

  Frank had no idea where the name Barnwell came from, unless it belonged to the man who hit the latest strike of silver.

  After he rode for several miles on the twisty road the town came into view. A dozen or so stores had not been closed and boarded up: a hotel, a large general store, a saloon, a doctor's office, a barbershop/undertaker's, a livery, and several other false-front stores. On all sides of the town the hillsides were dotted with mine entrances and narrow roads, all leading down to the town and the mill. Frank stared at the mill for a moment. It was still operating.

  Frank rode into town, looking at the homes on either side as he rode. Some were very nice. Others were no more than shacks, thrown together. There were tents of varying sizes scattered among the houses and shacks.

  No one paid the lone rider the slightest bit of attention as he rode slowly up to the livery and swung wearily down from the saddle. He wanted a hot bath, a shave and a haircut, and some clean clothing; his shirt and jeans were stiff with the dust and dirt from days of traveling.

  "Take care of my horses," Frank told the young man, handing him some money.

  "Yes, sir. Rub them down, curry, and feed?"

  "Yes." Frank looked across the street. The livery was the last still operating business at this end of town. The reasonably nice houses across the street looked empty. "Any of those houses over there for rent?"

  "All of them. See Mr. Willis at the general store, and he'll fix you up." The young man pointed. "That one is the best. Its got a brand-new privy just a few steps out back, and the man who just left installed a new hand pump right in the kitchen. It's nice."

  Frank thanked the young man. "My gear be safe here, boy?"

  "For a dollar, yeah. I can lock it up."

  Frank smiled and gave him a couple of coins. "See that it is."

  "You bet, sir. I'll do it. What's your name?"

  Frank hesitated and then said, "Logan."

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Logan."

  Frank walked up to the general store and made arrangements to rent the house for a time, after making sure the place had a bed and a cookstove. While at the store, Frank bought some new clothes: underwear, socks, britches, shirts, and a suit coat that fit him reasonably well. He took his new purchases and walked over to the barber shop. There, he had a hot bath and a shave and a haircut while his old clothes were being washed and his new clothes pressed to get the wrinkles and creases out. He also had his hat blocked as best the man could do it.

  Feeling like a new man, having washed away days of dirt and probably a few fleas, Frank walked the town's business district. The marshal's office was closed and locked, and showed signs of having been that way for a long time.

  "Haven't had a marshal for several months now," said a man passing by. "Can't keep one."

  "Why?" Frank asked.

  "They get shot," the miner said, and walked on.

  "That's one way to get rid of the law," Frank muttered, and walked on.

  Frank stepped into the small apothecary shop and asked if there was anything new in the way of headache powders.

  "You got a headache, mister?"

  "No," Frank said with a smile. "But I might get one."

  "We don't have anything new here. But I hear there is something being developed over in Germany. Supposed to be some sort of wonder."

  "Oh. What's it called?"

  "Don't know. Big secret. Being developed by the Bayer Drug Company. It'll be available in a few years, so I'm told. I got some laudanum, if you want it."

  "Maybe later," Frank said. "Thanks."

  Frank walked on down the street, stepping carefully along the warped old boardwalk that still showed signs of the times when the town had been destroyed by fire. He came to a cafe called the Silver Spoon and went inside for a bite.

  Frank had the Blue Plate Special: beef and bea
ns and a piece of pie. He lingered at the table for a few minutes, enjoying a pretty good cup of coffee and a cigarette, watching the people in the small town as they went about their business.

  "You working a claim here?" the cook asked, coming out to lean on the counter. There was only a handful of people in the cafe, for it was not yet time for the supper crowd.

  "No," Frank replied. "Just passing through."

  "You sure look familiar to me. I know you from somewheres?"

  "Could be."

  Frank was sitting at a corner table, his back to a wall, as was his custom. He had a good view of much of the street and everyone in the cafe.

  A woman came up and whispered in the cook's ear. The cook's mouth dropped open, and his eyes bugged out for a few seconds. He stared at Frank for a couple of heartbeats. "Good God! It really is him!" the cook blurted, then beat it back to the kitchen.

  The woman—Frank assumed she was the waitress—looked over at him and smiled. "Remember me, Frank?"

  "Can't say as I do. You want to hotten up this coffee, please?"

  "Sure." The woman brought the pot over and filled his cup, then sat down uninvited across the table from Frank.

  "I was married to Jim Peters," the woman said softly.

  Frank paused in his sugaring and stirring. His eyes narrowed briefly; then he nodded his head. "I recall Jim Peters. He tried to back-shoot me up in Kansas."

  "That's him," the woman said with a sigh. "Coward right to the end. I left him a couple of years before that shooting. Moved to Dodge. He followed me. I still wouldn't have anything to do with him. You did me a favor by killing him."

  Frank sipped his coffee and waited, sensing the woman was not finished.

  "That was five years ago, Frank. But the man who offered up five thousand dollars to see you dead is still alive, and the money is still up for your death—to anyone that's brave enough to go for it."

  Frank set his cup down on the table. "I never knew anything about any five thousand dollars on my head."

  The woman studied Frank's face for a moment. "You really don't know, do you?"

  "No."

  "He's a lawyer. Works for the Henson Enterprises."