The Forbidden Page 3

  “This what?” Chubby asked. “This ain’t no whorehouse, Preacher.”

  “Be quiet,” Philpot said. “I’m preparing to ask the Lord to forgive this evil wretch on the floor and allow him entrance into his final home in the great beyond. Ladies!” he yelled. “Some Christian music, if you will.”

  The choir outside began softly singing “When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder.”

  “That’s a little traveling music, Eddie,” Doc Everett said.

  Frank had to grimace and shake his head at that. The doctor certainly had a wicked sense of humor.

  “That isn’t at all amusing, Doctor,” Preacher Philpot admonished him.

  “It wasn’t meant to be.”

  “Quiet now.” Philpot began to pray, and Frank took off his hat in respect.

  Eddie began to gurgle.

  “Won’t be long now,” the doctor whispered.

  Eddie suddenly stiffened and beat his hands on the floor. Then he died.

  “Damn!” Tom said.

  Just then the batwings pushed open and the front of the saloon filled with men.

  “Colonel Trainor,” Tom said.

  “Oh, hell,” Chubby said. “Now it’s shore gonna break loose.”

  “I’ll sure drink to that,” Dr. Everett said.

  “That’s Frank Morgan!” Carl yelled, pointing at Frank. “He’s workin’ for the sodbusters!”

  THREE

  The rancher looked over at Eddie. “Is he dead?”

  “Yes,” Philpot said.

  “Then somebody cover him up until we can remove the body.” He turned his gaze toward Frank. “You’re the infamous Frank Morgan?”

  “I’m Frank Morgan,” Frank acknowledged. “Who are you?”

  “Colonel Trainor. I own the Circle Snake.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Trainor could not miss the sarcasm in Frank’s voice. He smiled. “Thank you, Morgan.”

  Frank turned away, facing the bar. He picked up his coffee cup and took a sip.

  “Don’t turn your back to me, Morgan!” Trainor’s voice held a hard edge.

  “Why not?” Frank asked without turning around. “I don’t have anything else to say to you.”

  “You just gunned down one of my hands.”

  “He started it. I finished it.” He motioned to the bartender. “Some more coffee, Chubby. Hotten this up for me.”

  “You picked the wrong side in this fight, Morgan.”

  “I haven’t picked any side, Trainor.”

  “You say.”

  “No one else speaks for me.”

  “Colonel,” the foreman said. “You want me to hire a buckboard and carry Eddie’s body back to the ranch?”

  “Yes, Tom. Do that. We’ll bury him tomorrow. Go with him, Carl. I’ll question you about this incident in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Trainor walked to the bar and stood beside Morgan for a moment. “A whiskey for me, Chubby.”

  Frank straightened up and looked at the rancher. Colonel Trainor was about Frank’s height, but heavier and stocky, square-jawed and solid. Frank concluded the man would be hard to handle in a fight.

  Trainor was taking that time to size up Frank more closely. He basically reached the same conclusion.

  “You’re younger than I imagined you would be,” the rancher said.

  “I ’spect we’re about the same age.”

  “I was in the war.”

  “So was I.”

  “I was on the winning side.”

  Frank smiled. “I was on the right side.”

  “A damn traitorous Rebel.”

  Frank sipped his coffee and said nothing.

  “You really haven’t hired on with the farmers, Morgan?”

  “No, Trainor, I haven’t. And I don’t plan on hiring on . . . with anybody. I plan on pulling out in the morning.”

  “Have they offered you a job?”

  “Not yet.”

  “They will.”

  “I was going to suggest that,” Dr. Everett said. “Since the Snake brand is hiring gunslicks.”

  Colonel Trainor stiffened at that. He set his whiskey down and looked at the doctor. “I’m hiring hands to work cattle, Doctor. Not gunhands.”

  “When did Jess Malone ever work cattle, Trainor?”

  “Jess Malone?” Frank asked. “From New Mexico?”

  “That’s him,” Everett said. “He rode in with four others a week ago. One of them is called Carson.”

  “That would be Peck Carson,” Frank said. “He runs with a man name of Rondel. No-goods, both of them. Backshooters. Jess is not much better.”

  “You know them?”

  “We’ve crossed trails a time or two. They generally fight shy of me.”

  “I’ll be sure and tell them you said that, Morgan,” Trainor said.

  “You do that.”

  The foreman pushed open the batwings. “We’ve got Eddie loaded up, Colonel.”

  “All right, Tom. We’ll all ride back together.” Trainor drained his glass and glared at Frank. “You be gone by noon tomorrow, Morgan.”

  “You go to hell, Trainor.”

  “You’ve been warned, Drifter.”

  “And you heard my reply.”

  Trainor pushed away from the bar and walked out of the saloon, his men trooping out behind him.

  Frank made no mention of it, but he had recognized one of the Circle Snake hands as a paid gun who sometimes went by the name Brooks. There certainly was no doubt in Frank’s mind that Trainor was hiring gunfighters . . . but was that any concern of his?

  “We need a town marshal, Morgan.” Dr. Everett broke into Frank’s thoughts.

  “Sorry, Doc. I don’t want the job. You have a telegraph here in town. Start sending wires around. You’ll find a man for the job.”

  “We are a prosperous town, Morgan.” Everett just wouldn’t give up. “We could pay you well.”

  Frank smiled at that. “I really don’t need the money, Doc.” Frank carried several thousand dollars in paper and gold in a money belt. He also had money stashed away in a secret pocket in his saddle.

  “So what I heard from some lawyer friends of mine over in Denver is true?”

  “Depends on what you hard.”

  “That you’re a rich man.”

  “I’m very comfortable.”

  “Yet you drift aimlessly.”

  “I like to see the country. While I still can. Won’t be many more years before barbed wire will be strung up all over the place.”

  “I see. So you just drifted into this part of Montana?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I did. I never dreamed anyplace like this was in this part of the territory.”

  “It’s unique, Morgan. And so are the people. About ten or so miles farther on south, there is a colony, or settlement if you will, of Hutterites.”

  “A settlement of what?”

  “Religious people. Nice folks, but they don’t socialize much and they don’t bear arms. At all.”

  “They’ll be the first to go then, if or when the shooting starts.”

  “And that will be sad, for they’re good people, model citizens. You’ll know them when you see them . . . when they come to town. The men are dressed in suits and the women in dark dresses and scarves. Good people. I like them.”

  “Have any of them been harmed?”

  “Not yet. But it’s coming.”

  “I wish you lots of luck in dealing with this problem.”

  Dr. Everett smiled. “Well, to tell the truth, I was sort of hoping I could change your mind about leaving.”

  Frank shook his head. “It isn’t my fight, Doctor.”

  “Well, if I don’t see you again, best of luck, Drifter.”

  “Same to you.”

  Frank checked on Dog and Horse and then walked over to the hotel. He sat in a chair on the boardwalk in front of the hotel for a time, smoking and watching the town slowly shut down for the rapidly approaching night. A prett
y little town, Frank thought. Probably filled with good, hardworking people, here and in the southern section of the valleys.

  But it isn’t my fight and I don’t want to get involved in it. I’ll just keep . . . keep doing what, Frank? Drifting aimlessly?

  Yeah.

  Why? Wouldn’t this be a nice place to settle down and build a home?

  Probably.

  Then?

  I’d get myself involved in the middle of this damn war, Frank realized, adding: And I don’t want any more trouble in my life.

  That’s a good reason to leave, another silent inner voice said. Just ride off and leave these good people at the not-sotender mercies of Colonel Trainor and the other ranchers in the valleys.

  “Damn!” Frank muttered, pushing himself out of the chair. He decided to take a walk around town; maybe that would clear his head. He looked across the street at the marshal’s office and saw the old marshal standing out front. He’d go have a chat with the man.

  The shadows were getting long as he stepped off the boardwalk and walked across the street. “Marshal,” Frank said in greeting.

  “Morgan,” the marshal said. “Taking the air?”

  “Yes. It’s going to be a nice night. What is your name, Marshal? No one told me.”

  “Handlen.”

  “Been marshal long?”

  “Too damn long. It’s just a part-time job. I can’t work the land no more so the people hung this badge on me and gave me a livable salary. My wife died some years back. No one but me to worry about.”

  “This job is likely to get dangerous before long.”

  “I know it. And I’m too damn old for a lot of rough stuff.”

  “I told the doc to start sending out wires to find a man for the job.”

  “So he didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “We’ve been trying to hire a new marshal for several months. No one wants to lock horns with Colonel Trainor.”

  “I see. What is Trainor’s first name?”

  “Colonel is all I ever heard.”

  “If he was a colonel in the war, he’s got to be a few years older than me. I was in the war too.”

  “I think he’s fifty. I’ve heard that a couple of times. Did the doc ask you if you wanted the marshal’s job?”

  “Yes. I told him no.”

  “I don’t blame you. This end of the valley is filled with good people, but they’re not fighters. They’re farmers, and good ones too, but they’re family men, with wives and kids to worry about. Most of them don’t even own a pistol. I’ve never seen any carry one.”

  “And you’ve got that religious bunch.”

  “The Hutterites. Yes. Good hardworking folks. But they won’t fight. They don’t believe in it.”

  “Don’t believe in defending themselves?”

  “Don’t believe in taking a human life.”

  Frank had heard of those types of religious people, but had never actually met any. Personally, he didn’t believe that any-one would just stand by and let another person kill him or a loved one . . . unless he was some sort of a fool.

  “Are there any ranchers in the north end of the valleys who want to live in peace?” Frank asked.

  “Oh, sure. Most of the smaller spreads. But the Snake is the biggest spread and the colonel is the top dog. No one wants to buck him.”

  “What are some of the others?”

  “The Lightning spread is just about as big as the Snake. It’s owned by Ken Gilmar. The Diamond .45 is right up there too. It’s owned by Don Bullard. Those are the big three. And all three men are greedy and mean as hell.”

  “And those three you named are gobbling up the smaller ranches.”

  “You got it. Just as fast as they can grab them.”

  “Nice bunch of men. Are they married, have families?”

  “All of them. They’ve got a whole passel of kids.”

  “Do any of the wives or kids ever come to town? This town, I mean?”

  “They used to. But now?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Not very often. Too much hard feelings on both sides for that”

  “A couple of Snake riders came here today.”

  “Looking for trouble.” Marshal Handlen smiled. “And they found it, didn’t they?”

  “One of them sure did.”

  “I’m going to make my early rounds, Morgan. Nice talking with you.”

  “See you around, Marshal.” Frank watched as the marshal walked slowly away. An old man caught up in a really bad situation that was sure to get worse. “But it’s none of my business,” he muttered.

  Frank walked around the small town until it was full dark, then decided to make one final check on Horse and Dog before heading back to the hotel and an early turn-in.

  He was walking past an alley when he caught a glimpse of someone standing in the darkness. Frank tensed, his hand closing around the butt of his pistol.

  “Stand still and listen and live or grab iron and die, Morgan,” the voice said. “It’s your choice.”

  FOUR

  “I’m standing easy,” Frank said.

  “Stay that way, Morgan. I’ll do the talkin’.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You done me a good turn once, way back years ago, down in Texas. It don’t matter what my name is, or was back then. I ain’t forgot the favor. Now it’s my turn to do you a favor, and this is it. You listen up good.”

  Frank waited, standing in the mouth of the alley.

  “There ain’t nothin’ but trouble for you here, Morgan. These valleys is fixin’ to bust wide open with trouble.”

  “I know that,” Frank said.

  “Good that you do. I heared you was fixin’ to pull out come mornin’. You do that. Ride out and don’t look back.”

  “That’s my plan.”

  “Good. ’Cause if you stay, them big ranchers up at the north end is hirin’ gunhawks. And you’ll be in a world of trouble. They’ll kill you, Morgan. You probably still ’bout the fastest man in the West with a short gun. But the odds will be stacked way agin’ you in this fight. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they’s still big money on your head and some folks lookin’ for revenge for things long done and over.”

  “I know that too.”

  “Then get out of this part of Montana, Morgan. Rattle your hocks, Drifter. This just ain’t your fight. This ain’t nothin’ but a death trap waitin’ to spring on you. Now, I done you a favor. We’re even. I’m gone:”

  Frank heard a whisper of movement that quickly faded away.

  He walked on past the alley and stepped up to the boardwalk. There he paused for a moment. Frank did not try to recall the favor the voice had mentioned. He had done a lot of favors for a lot of people over the years, everything from a simple handout for someone down on his luck to saving a life. Nor did he feel he would ever know the identity of the voice. Not that it really mattered, for if didn’t.

  Frank watched as the street lamps were being lighted. They cast a very pretty glow on the pleasant evening.

  He walked over to the livery and once again checked on Horse and Dog, then returned to the hotel and went to bed. He planned to buy a packhorse, provision up, and be gone by midmorning.

  * * *

  Frank was jarred out of bed by the sounds of shouting in the street below his hotel room. The shouting increased in intensity. He lit the lamp and checked his watch. Four o’clock. He bathed his face and slicked his hair down, then dressed quickly, put on his hat, and buckled his gunbelt around his waist, stepping out into the hall.

  “What’s going on?” a sleepy traveling man dressed in a long nightshirt called from his open room door.

  “Don’t know,” Frank replied. “But you’d better get some clothes on.”

  The door closed.

  Frank walked down the stairs and into the dark lobby. He looked around, could find no one, and stepped out to the boardwalk. The street was rapidly
filling up with men, in various stages of hurried dress.

  “What’s going on?” Frank asked a citizen.

  “The Jefferson family,” the citizen replied. “They been burned out. They’re all dead. Killed by night riders.”

  “The bastards killed the kids too!” another citizen said, walking up. “Looks like the night riders set the house on fire and burned up the whole family.”

  It’s started, Frank thought. All hell’s going to break loose now.

  “The Jeffersons had a little baby,” the citizen said, slipping his galluses straps up on his shoulders. “’Bout five months old.”

  “The baby’s dead too?” the other man asked.

  “Burnt to a crisp, I was told.”

  “Who found them?” another man asked.

  “A neighbor heard the shots. By the time he could get dressed and saddled up and get over there, it was too late. He couldn’t do nothin’ ‘ceptin’ watch it burn.”

  Frank moved on up the street, listening to the men talk. Handheld torchlights flickered up and down the street. By now a number of women had joined the crowd, and they were crying and kicking up a fuss. Frank stepped back and melted into the darkness as Preacher Philpot joined the milling crowd.

  “It’s time to fight!” the preacher shouted. “Gird your loins and pick up your sword and shield.”

  “We’ve got to do something!” a woman shouted. “Those murdering night riders will attack the town next.”

  Frank sat down on the edge of the boardwalk and rolled himself a smoke. What he really wanted was a hot cup of coffee, but the Blue Moon Cafe was still dark.

  “Where is Marshal Handlen?” a man shouted.

  “He rode out to the Jefferson place,” someone called.

  “Alone?”

  “I reckon so.”

  “That ain’t smart. Them night riders might be layin’ for him.”

  Frank turned away and spotted the man who ran the livery stable. He walked over to him. “Can you rent me a good horse? Mine is tired and I don’t like the idea of Marshal Handlen out by himself after all that’s happened this night.”

  “That’s a good idea. Come on. You can take mine. He’s a good one.”

  Frank was gone in five minutes, after telling Dog to stay put and then getting directions from the livery owner out to the Jefferson place. The liveryman was sure right about his personal mount: He was a good one and liked to travel. Frank let him trot for a while and then slowed him down. He caught up with the old marshal several miles before the turnoff to the Jefferson farm.