Montana Gundown Page 3

  Of course, at the moment none of the establishments in Pine Knob seemed to be doing much business, Frank noted as he and Salty rode over the bridge that spanned Loco Creek. The shoes of their horses clapped loudly against the planks.

  A few horses were tied up at the hitch racks in front of the boardwalks on both sides of the main street, and a wagon was parked in front of the general store. The heads of the mules hitched to the wagon drooped, and their tails flicked lazily at flies. Frank looked along the boardwalks and didn’t see any other movement.

  “Ain’t what you’d call a bustlin’ settlement,” Salty commented.

  “It’s siesta time,” Frank said.

  “Yeah ... in Mexico. Which is where we were supposed to be headin’, remember?”

  “We’ll get there one of these days,” Frank told him. “And folks like a little nap after dinner anywhere it gets hot in the summer.”

  “We ain’t had dinner yet. Is there somethin’ wrong with your memory?”

  Frank grinned as he brought Goldy to a halt. “No, and my sense of smell is just fine, too. Take a whiff of that.”

  Salty reined in as well and took a deep breath. An expression of awe appeared on his grizzled face.

  “Oh, Lord, where’s that comin’ from? I smell pot roast and taters and fresh-baked bread and ... and ... is that apple pie? Point me to the Pearly Gates, ’cause heaven’s gotta be around here somewheres close!”

  “It’s not exactly heaven,” Frank said, “but those smells seem to be coming from that building over there.”

  It was a frame structure that had been painted the same shade of red that was usually used on barns, and appropriately enough, the name on the sign propped inside one of the front windows was THE FEED BARN.

  Frank and Salty dismounted in front of it and tied up their horses. Frank told Dog to sit and stay, and the big cur obediently lowered his rump to the ground beside the horses. He would watch over them until Frank returned.

  The two men went inside through a door that had plaid curtains over the glass in its upper half. The curtains matched the ones hanging at the sides of the windows and made for a nice homey touch.

  The mouth-watering aromas were even stronger inside. A couple of men sat on stools at the counter to the right, and one of the tables covered with blue-checked tablecloths was occupied. The midday rush seemed to be over, which was fine with Frank. He had never cared much for crowds.

  As domestic and appealing as the surroundings seemed, the man behind the counter wearing an apron was just the opposite. He was tall, but he carried himself hunched over with his head thrust forward so he seemed to be shorter than he was. He was mostly bald, with a fringe of white hair around his ears and several days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks. His left eye was covered with a black patch, and his right glared at the newcomers with suspicion.

  “Well?” he snapped as Frank and Salty came up to the counter. “What do you want?”

  “Couple of meals, whatever you’re serving up will be fine,” Frank said.

  “Damned right it will be,” the man said. “You come in here, think you can push around an honest man—”

  “Whoa up there, hoss,” Salty broke in. “Ain’t no call to get a burr under your saddle. We ain’t tryin’ to push anybody around.”

  The man pushed his head even farther forward, so that he looked more like a buzzard than ever.

  “Are you callin’ me a liar?” he shouted.

  At that moment, the door into the café opened again with a slight tinkle of the bell that hung over it, and a woman came inside. From the corner of Frank’s eye, he saw the startled look that came over her face. She hurried toward the counter, saying, “It’s all right, Solomon. I can take over out here. You just go back in the kitchen.”

  “Better be careful, girl.” Solomon jabbed a finger at Frank and Salty. “These two gunnies came in and started givin’ me trouble. Maybe you better go fetch Marshal Trask.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” the young woman said as she went behind the counter and took the man’s arm. Gently, she steered him toward the open door that led into the café’s kitchen. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

  Still grumbling warnings, Solomon disappeared into the kitchen. The woman paused, took a deep breath, and turned to face Frank and Salty. She rested her palms on the counter.

  “I apologize for my uncle,” she said quietly. “I wasn’t really expecting any strangers to come in at this time of day, so I thought it would be all right if I ran over to the store for a few minutes.”

  Frank had noticed that the other men in the café hadn’t seemed surprised by Solomon’s hostile attitude. He said, “Your uncle doesn’t cotton to strangers, I reckon.”

  She smiled sadly and shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not. He’s been this way ever since he came back from the war. He was with Grant and was wounded at the Wilderness. My father looked after him for years, but now ... well, we’re all that each other has left. He’s really a very sweet man, once you get to know him.”

  Salty grunted and said, “If it was up to me, we wouldn’t be around that long. But I just got one question, missy.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Is that cantankerous old codger the one who does the cookin’ for this place?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And it tastes as good as it smells?”

  “That’s two questions,” she said with a smile, “but yes, it does.”

  “Well, then, bring it on. Anything that smells that good, I don’t care if ol’ Santy Anny himself cooked it!”

  She nodded and said, “Two pot roast specials, coming up.”

  A few minutes later she emerged from the kitchen and put two plates heaped high with food in front of them. Then she filled two cups with coffee from a pot that was simmering on a small stove and passed them to Frank and Salty as well.

  “By the way, I’m Katie Storm,” she said. “You already met my uncle Solomon.”

  “I’m Frank; this is Salty.”

  Once again Frank failed to provide their last names, but this time there was a reason for it, instead of just happenstance as it had been starting out with Hal Embry. From everything he had heard, the name “Morgan” was bound to raise most eyebrows around here.

  “Are you just passing through Pine Knob?” Katie asked.

  “That was the plan,” Salty said. “For some of us, anyway.”

  Katie looked a little puzzled, but Frank didn’t try to explain. He said, “We’ll probably be here for a day or two.”

  “You’re not ...” She hesitated. “You’re not gunmen like Solomon said, are you?”

  “Who do I look like?” Salty asked. “Wild Bill Hickok?”

  “Not exactly.” Katie rested level blue eyes on Frank. “But you’re different.”

  “We’re not hired guns,” he told her.

  “But you’ve heard about the trouble here in the valley? Between Mr. Baldridge and the Embrys?”

  “We have,” Frank said. He wasn’t going to lie to her. “But it’s not what brought us here.”

  She smiled again, but the expression held a hint of a chill now.

  “But it might be enough to make you stay a while, is that it? Now that you’ve seen you can hire on with Brady Morgan and the rest of Baldridge’s regulators?”

  “Not interested,” Frank said, his voice flat. The food wasn’t going to taste as good now, he sensed. Even though this young woman didn’t know who he was, she was starting to grow suspicious of him.

  Maybe he ought to wear a sign on his back giving the number of men he had killed in his life, he thought. Salty could come along with a rag and a piece of chalk and change the total every time he had to shoot somebody else.

  Katie looked at him intently for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

  “Maybe you’re telling the truth,” she said. “I’ve got a hunch you are.” She shrugged. “But it’s none of my business anyway. Let me know if you need that
coffee heated up.”

  She turned away and went along the counter to talk quietly with the two men sitting at the other end.

  Salty leaned closer to Frank and said, “The folks in this town are crazy or touchy or both. You sure you don’t want to just finish this meal and then leave?”

  “I’m sure they’ll all warm up to us once they get to know us,” Frank said. “Like Solomon there.”

  He inclined his head toward the kitchen door, which was only open about an inch now. But Solomon Storm’s good eye was visible in that narrow crack as he stood on the other side of the door and peered suspiciously at them.

  “Good Lord,” Salty muttered. “That hombre gives me the fantods.”

  The little bell rang again as the café’s front door opened. Frank heard the distinctive sound of booted feet on the floor, along with the jingle of spurs. He looked over his shoulder and saw that three men had come in. One was the leader of the trio. That would have been obvious from the way he carried himself even if the other two hadn’t hung back slightly.

  He was young, in his twenties, but his eyes seemed older than that. His Stetson was thumbed back on a shock of thick black hair. He wore a wine-red shirt, a black leather vest, and dark gray trousers tucked into high-topped black boots. Two pearl-handled revolvers rode in black holsters on his hips.

  A lot of men who dressed like that were just putting on a show, Frank knew. They wanted people to think they were more dangerous than they really were.

  That wasn’t the case here. The eyes were the giveaway. This man’s eyes were cold and reptilian.

  “Those horses who are tied up out front,” he snapped. “The sorrel, the gray, and the pinto. Who do they belong to?”

  Frank turned on the stool and stood up, his movements easy and deliberate, nothing that would spook a man into drawing.

  “Who wants to know?” he asked, although he was certain he already knew the answer.

  “Brady Morgan, old man, and if those are your horses, you better get ready to die.”

  Chapter 5

  Frank said to Katie Storm, “Ma’am, you’d best go back in the kitchen.”

  The café’s customers had gotten to their feet already and were edging toward the back door.

  Her face tense with worry, Katie said, “Mr. Morgan, I don’t want any trouble in here—”

  Frank knew she was talking to the younger man. So did Brady, because he grinned and said without looking at her, “It won’t be any trouble to kill this pair of old fools, sweetheart.” The grin vanished almost as soon as it appeared, to be replaced by a sneer as Brady went on. “Well, what about it? I asked you a question, mister.”

  “Those are our horses,” Frank said.

  “I thought so. I don’t know if it was you or one of those worthless Boxed E hands who killed Jack Simmons, and I don’t care. I’ll settle with them later. I’ve got you here right now.”

  “You ambushed those cowboys on their home range,” Frank pointed out. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Salty had shifted slightly on the stool so that he could get his gun out quickly if he needed to. “They were just defending themselves, and we gave them a hand.”

  “Home range,” Brady repeated with a contemptuous snort. “That claim Jubal Embry filed is phony as all get-out! Mr. Baldridge will prove it in court, too. He owns all this valley, and the Embrys are nothin’ but damn squatters!”

  Hal Embry hadn’t said anything about there being a legal dispute over the claim, but it didn’t really change anything. Fifteen men trying to gun down four was still going to raise Frank’s ire.

  “Ma’am, I sure would appreciate it if you’d go out into the kitchen,” he said again to Katie.

  He didn’t look at her as he spoke. Instead he searched the face of Brady Morgan, hunting for any sign of resemblance to the face he saw in the mirror every time he shaved.

  Frank looked for other resemblances as well, to women he had known twenty-five to thirty years earlier. The problem was, he wasn’t sure if he could remember all of them, and even the ones he did, their faces had faded in his memory.

  Brady didn’t really look like him, he decided, but the young man was of a similar size and build, and although Frank’s hair was graying now, in his youth it had been dark like Brady’s. And there was something else, a vague familiarity ...

  “What the hell are you starin’ at, old man?” Brady demanded. “Trying to memorize the face of the man who’s gonna kill you?”

  “That’s enough,” Katie said. “Nobody’s going to kill anybody, at least not in my café.”

  Frank heard fear in her voice, but he heard resolve, too. She was stubborn and wouldn’t back down.

  Neither would Brady Morgan, and Frank knew he was about to kill a man who just might be his son ... or die at the hands of that same man if Brady was fast enough. That was doubtful, but Frank couldn’t rule it out.

  The last customer to slip out the café’s back door had left it open, so Frank didn’t know anyone was there until he saw Brady’s eyes flick past him in that direction. It wasn’t a trick. Brady looked distinctly annoyed.

  “Like the lady said, nobody’s killin’ anybody,” a voice spoke harshly, “unless you hombres force me to use this Greener.”

  Brady snapped, “This is none of your business, Marshal.”

  “The hell you say. Blood bein’ spilled anywhere in the town limits is exactly my business.”

  Somebody must have scurried down to the marshal’s office and told him there was trouble brewing at the Feed Barn, Frank thought. Gage Carlin had told him the lawman wasn’t taking sides in the feud between the Boxed E and the B Star, but obviously the man intended to maintain law and order inside his jurisdiction.

  “Miss Storm, you need to either get down behind the counter or go out in the kitchen,” the marshal went on. “If I touch off both barrels, it’ll be a clean sweep in here.”

  “And it’ll do a lot of damage and get blood all over the floor and everything else,” Katie said.

  A grim chuckle came from the lawman.

  “You can always go through their pockets and collect enough to pay for your trouble,” he said. “I expect the magistrate would approve that. The money might be a little bloodstained, but it’ll still spend.”

  With the air still thick with the tension of impending gunplay, the sudden jingle of the bell over the front door made Salty jump a little and exclaim, “Jehosaphat!”

  Frank kept most of his attention focused on Brady Morgan, but he glanced over Brady’s shoulder at the man who stood in the open doorway. The newcomer was medium height and very slender, with long, snow-white hair and a close-cropped beard of the same color. He wore a black suit and black bowler hat. When he spoke, it was with a British accent so faint as to be almost indiscernible, as if he had been in America for most of his life.

  “Brady, I’ve been looking for you and your men. I saw your horses outside.”

  Brady’s mouth tightened into an angry, frustrated line. “Sorry, Mr. Baldridge,” he said. “The boys and I were on our way back to the store from the saloon when we spotted those horses at the hitch rail. I recognized them. They belong to the men who helped Hal Embry earlier today.” Brady’s lip curled again. “The men who shot Jack Simmons.”

  “We didn’t shoot anybody,” Frank said. “We were just trying to spook you and make you turn tail.” He paused. “Which you did.”

  He probably shouldn’t have added that last comment. He knew it would just fan the flames of Brady’s anger. But it was the truth, and anyway, Frank was tired of this standoff.

  “I’m ready to go back to the ranch,” Baldridge said with an impatient tone in his voice. “It’s your job to accompany me. Go outside, and I’ll join you in a moment.”

  “Mr. Baldridge—” Brady began.

  “Now, please, before Marshal Trask loses his patience and creates an incredible mess in here.”

  Brady dragged in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. He turned to the other
two men, jerked his head toward the door, and said, “Let’s go.”

  The three of them trooped out as Baldridge stepped aside to let them pass. Brady Morgan was the last one out the door, and he paused long enough to glare over his shoulder at Frank.

  “This isn’t over, old man,” he said.

  “I figured as much,” Frank replied.

  When the three gunmen were gone, the marshal circled around Frank and stepped in front of him. The lawman was stocky and middle-aged, with a well-fed look and gray hair above a broad, florid face. Again the eyes were the most telling sign, Frank thought. This badge-toter wasn’t as soft as he appeared to be at first glance.

  The marshal had the double-barreled shotgun in his hands pointed at the floor now. He looked at Frank and Salty and grunted.

  “I saw you fellas ride in a while ago. Didn’t take you long to land in hot water, did it?”

  The white-haired cattleman came forward and said, “I apologize for the part my men played in this near disaster, Marshal. Brady is a fine young man, but a bit impetuous at times.”

  “Like I’ve told you before, Mr. Baldridge,” the lawman said, “you and Jubal Embry can work things out between yourselves or in court, that’s none of my business. But I won’t tolerate any gunplay here in town.”

  “Yes, and I’ve spoken to Brady and the other men about that,” Baldridge said. “I shall do so again and attempt to reinforce their understanding of the issue.”

  “You do that,” the marshal said with a curt nod.

  The rancher turned his level, gray-eyed gaze on Frank. “My name is Gaius Baldridge,” he said. “I own the B Star Ranch.”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Baldridge,” Frank said.

  “I want to extend my apologies to you as well, sir.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Oh, I think they are.” Baldridge regarded Frank for a moment with a keen, speculative look. “Do you happen to be looking for work at the moment?”

  The question brought a humorless laugh from Frank.

  “I don’t think that young fella who just left out of here would be interested in working with me.”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t make the decisions,” Baldridge said with a hint of ice and steel in his voice. “I do.”