Showdown Page 3

  “Not many,” Frank said. “But you don’t have to worry about Injuns. Most of them don’t like white women. Y’all smell funny to them.”

  “I beg your pardon!” the woman shouted, stamping her foot.

  “I never seen so much crap in all my life,” Phil said, carrying in a heavy trunk and dumping it on the floor. “It’s gonna take me an hour to tote all this junk in. You men come on out here and give me a hand.”

  The one male passenger who was not dressed as fancy as the others had taken a seat at a table and had said nothing. But his eyes had never left Frank. Frank had singled him out immediately. He was not wearing a pistol . . . that could be seen. Frank didn’t know the man, but he knew the type. The two gunslicks that had been standing at the bar had taken their drinks and moved to another table.

  Conversation waned as the men went outside to help with the luggage. The women waited impatiently.

  The trunks began piling up in the front of the saloon as the men struggled them into the large drinking area.

  “We can’t get them through the door to the hotel lobby,” one of the men complained. “This is the worst hostel I have ever experienced.”

  “With the rudest counter help,” another man added.

  “What counter help?” yet another traveler asked.

  “Where’s the newspapers and magazines?” someone shouted from the outside.

  “I can’t imagine these people actually read,” one of the women said disdainfully. “It’s so primitive here.”

  “Do you suppose we could have something to drink while we’re waiting?” a woman inquired.

  “Coffee or water?” Doc Raven asked.

  “Coffee would be wonderful,” the woman replied. “Two lumps and a splash.”

  “Two lumps and a splash of what?” one of the locals asked.

  “Sugar and cream,” Frank told him.

  The woman looked at Frank, a strange glint in her eyes. “The man actually has some knowledge of genteel behavior, ladies. How curious.”

  “Quite, Margaret. You there!” she called to Frank.

  Frank turned away from the bar. “What do you want, lady?”

  “Don’t speak to Mrs. Dunbar in that tone of voice,” the man at the table warned Frank.

  Frank ignored him and continued looking at Mrs. Dunbar.

  “You seem to possess some level of education . . . rudimentary, I’m sure. What do you do for a living? Are you a cowboy?”

  “No,” Frank replied shortly, and turned back to his coffee. This entire gaggle of Easterners irritated him with their superior attitude.

  “Well,” Mrs. Dunbar pressed, “are you going to answer my question?”

  “I’m independently wealthy,” Frank said with a small smile. The truth was, he was extremely wealthy. He owned railroad stock, holdings in several producing gold mines, and many, many shares in other companies, thanks to his ex-wife, who, after her father had driven Frank away with false accusations, remarried into a very wealthy family. Before Vivian Browning was killed, she’d set Frank up for life . . . as well as a son who didn’t have a whole lot of use for Frank.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Dunbar said haughtily, “you certainly look wealthy.” Then she laughed very mockingly.

  “Do you have a name?” Margaret asked.

  “Frank.”

  “Frank . . . what?”

  “Frank will do.”

  “You’re not very friendly, Frank,” Margaret said.

  The man who had warned Frank about addressing Mrs. Dunbar abruptly stood up. “That’s Frank Morgan!”

  Frank stood quietly at the bar, but he had turned slightly, his right hand dropping to his side, not far from the butt of his .45 Peacemaker.

  The men had just reentered the saloon, burdened with heavy trunks. They froze at the shouted announcement.

  “Is that true?” Margaret asked in a soft voice. “Are you Frank Morgan?”

  “Yes,” Frank said.

  “My God,” Mrs. Dunbar whispered. “Hugh? There he is, in person.”

  “I see him, Colette,” Hugh replied, carefully setting the trunk on the floor.

  Frank cut his eyes to the man. Nothing extraordinary about him. Just another Easterner, all duded up.

  “You want me to take him now, Mr. Knox?” the man who had first recognized Frank asked.

  “No, Sonny,” the Easterner said. “That would spoil the game for everyone.”

  Frank ignored Knox and cut his eyes to Sonny. “Just where are you figuring to take me, Sonny?”

  “Anywhere and anytime I choose, Morgan.”

  “And how are you planning on doing that, Sonny? Fists or guns?” Frank moved his hand to the metal coffeepot Phil had placed on the bar. Frank had poured his own coffee, and guessed the pot was about half full.

  “Sonny ...” Knox said.

  Sonny ignored the man. “I’ll show you people that this so-called tough-as-nails gunfighter is nothing but a washed-up has-been.”

  Sonny took several steps toward Frank, and with one fluid movement, Frank closed his hand around the handle of the coffeepot, took one step, and smacked Sonny in the center of the forehead with the heavy pot. Hot coffee splattered as the pot impacted against Sonny’s head with a dull clunking sound and Sonny stretched out on the floor, out cold.

  Frank put the dented pot back on the bar. “Damn shame to waste good coffee like that,” he said. “But coffee’s easier to clean up than blood.”

  Four

  A wicked cut of lightning flashed outside, followed by a tremendous clap of thunder. The thunder rattled the windows of the saloon.

  “My word!” one of the Eastern men exclaimed.

  “It’s gonna rain like a bull pissin’ on a flat rock,” Bob said. He looked at the women. “ ’Cuse my language, ladies. I forgot you was here.”

  “Clouds have been building all day,” Frank said as Sonny groaned on the floor. “I suspect the storm is going to be a bad one.”

  “How do you know that?” a woman asked.

  “Because it’s building from the east. Anytime a storm blows in here from that direction, it’s a bad one.”

  The stage driver walked in, carrying the last of the luggage. “Startin’ to rain,” he said. He glanced at the man on the barroom floor. “What happened to him?”

  “He got tired and decided to take a nap,” Bob told him.

  “Well, somebody step over him and get me a drink,” the driver said. “I got me a hunch we’re all gonna get to know each other right well if this storm is as bad as it looks.”

  “What do you mean?” one of the traveling men asked.

  “We’re sometimes cut off here after a bad storm,” Doc Raven explained. “Sometimes for a couple of weeks. The passes are closed due to rock slides, and bridges wash out. While your rooms are being readied, why don’t we introduce ourselves and have a drink? You people might be here for several days.”

  “There is a man lying unconscious and perhaps badly hurt on the floor!” a woman said, her voice filled with indignation. “And nothing is being done to help him.”

  “He’s all right,” Doc Raven said. “But he’ll have a headache when he wakes up. What is your name, madam?”

  “Nora Greene. That is my husband,” she said, pointing, “Edmund.”

  Sonny groaned and put a hand to his head. He made no attempt to rise from the barroom floor.

  “I’m John Garver,” a man said. “My wife decided at the last minute not to accompany us on this Western adventure.”

  “The manhunt, you mean?” Raven asked.

  “Well . . . yes.”

  “Are you one of the men who put up money to hunt me like some sort of rabid animal?” Frank asked.

  “Ah . . . well . . . yes,” John said.

  “What kind of people are you?” Frank questioned. “I’m not a criminal. I’m not wanted by any court. What kind of mind considers a manhunt sport?”

  Sonny groaned and managed to sit up on the floor. There was a trickle of blood
and a swelling knot in the center of his forehead. His glazed eyes found Frank. “You bastard! I’ll kill you,” he mumbled.

  “I doubt it,” Frank replied. “Now just sit there and shut up.” He looked at the group of men and women and pointed to Sonny. “Is this dude in your employ?”

  “He is our bodyguard,” Margaret said. “He is one of the finest bodyguards in all of New York City.”

  “Well, if your fine bodyguard isn’t careful, he’s going to be a dead bodyguard,” Frank told her. “This isn’t New York City, folks. Out here, the rules of conduct are somewhat different.”

  “I should have you arrested,” a man blurted out. “I believe I shall summon a police officer right now.”

  “Yeah, you do that,” the stage driver said, looking up from his mug of beer. “I think they’s a deputy ’bout a hundred miles east of here. If the rain was to stop right now, and the telegraph wires ain’t down, and the passes ain’t closed by slides, or the bridges ain’t washed out, I figure he’d get here in ’bout a week or so.”

  “That is incredible,” the man responded.

  “Welcome to Idaho Territory,” Frank said.

  Outside, lightning and thunder hissed and boomed and the rains came pouring down, hammering on the roof.

  “Gonna be a bad one,” Bob said. “Good thing the supply wagons just run. ’Cause we’re damn sure gonna be cut off for a spell.”

  “This is dreadful,” Nora said.

  “Not as dreadful as it’s going to be when some of your gunfighters catch up with me,” Frank said, his voice hard.

  * * *

  “It’s uncommonly warm,” Doc Raven said to Frank the next morning. The men were having breakfast in the cafe. The heavy rains had not abated. “I’ve seen it like this a couple of times over the years. Both times during a heavy rain. The slides are going to be bad—bet on it.”

  The telegrapher walked in, waved at the waitress, and took a seat at the table with Frank and Doc Raven. “Wires just went down,” he said. “That means the slides have started.”

  “We’re cut off?” Frank asked.

  “We sure are. Thirty miles to the east and thirty miles to the west. The last wire I received was informing me that about a dozen or so wagons were on the way from the east. No way of knowing whether they made it through Wildhorse Pass.”

  “Wildhorse Pass is where the slides start?” Frank asked.

  “Not necessarily,” Doc Raven replied. “But it’s the worst place coming from the east. If they made it past that point, they’ll probably be rolling in here late today or tomorrow.”

  “Supply wagons?” Frank asked.

  “Maybe one or two of them,” the telegrapher said. “The others are probably settlers. No way of knowin’ till they roll in.”

  “I didn’t stick to the roads,” Frank said, “and followed old trails over the Divide. I don’t know much about what lies west of here. How about that way?”

  “The way west on the main road is worse,” Doc Raven said. “If any travelers made it to the old trading post about twenty five miles west of here, they can get through to South Raven. If not, they’re stuck.”

  “So there is a possibility this town is going to fill up with men looking to gun me down,” Frank said softly.

  “Could be,” Doc Raven said. “Things might get real interesting about here.”

  “Interesting is not the word I would use, Doc.”

  “You best sharpen your tools, Doc,” the telegrapher said with a smile. “Odds are good that you’re gonna get real busy diggin’ out lead.”

  “Not if I pull out right now,” Frank said.

  “Are you considering that?” Raven asked.

  Frank shook his head. “Not really. It was just a thought.”

  “It would be a tough pull over the mountains in this weather,” the telegrapher said. “And dangerous. No matter which direction you headed.”

  Frank smiled at that. “Any more dangerous than me staying here and possibly facing several dozen guns?”

  “Good point,” Raven said. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to wait until the rains ease up, then pull out.”

  “It’ll be several days at least, maybe even a week or more, after the rains stop before the road is cleared. Believe me, we’ve been through this before.”

  “I’m sure you have,” Frank said. “Say, back about ten years ago, there was a little town north of here. Along the Payette. Is it still there?”

  “The buildings are,” Doc Raven replied. “The last of the people pulled out, oh, five years ago, I guess. Red Rock was the name of the place.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. I stopped there for supplies. Gold-mining town, I recall.”

  “Gold-mining fiasco was what it was. There never was any gold there, except what was salted in a couple of caves by that thieving ne’er-do-well who bilked a lot of people out of their money.”

  “Whatever happened to him?”

  “Some folks down in Utah hanged him a few years ago.”

  Frank smiled. “Don’t tell me he tried to pull something over on the Mormons?”

  “Yes. And he didn’t make it. They were on to him like a weevil to flour. Strung him up.”

  “Probably deserved it.”

  “Ten times over,” Doc Raven said.

  A local stuck his head into the cafe. “Wagons and riders coming in from the east.”

  The three men stepped outside to the boardwalk to watch the arrival of the travelers.

  “Those sure are some fancy wagons,” the telegrapher remarked. “I never seen anything like them.”

  “Made to order,” Frank said. “For the rich to travel in comfort and style.”

  “More Easterners,” Doc Raven said. “You suppose those are more of the men who put up the money for the hunt, Frank?”

  “Probably. And the outriders are hired bodyguards.”

  “You know any of them?”

  Frank shook his head. “No.”

  “Tough-looking bunch.”

  “Wonder where they’re gonna stay,” the telegrapher declared. “There ain’t no more rooms to be had at the saloon.”

  “Who cares?” Doc Raven replied.

  Frank leaned against a support post and rolled a smoke as the fancy wagons rolled slowly past. The men on horseback all gave Frank hard looks. Frank returned the looks.

  “They’re sure giving you the once-over,” Doc Raven said.

  “They know who I am,” Frank replied. “I suspect they’ve been thoroughly briefed. I imagine it won’t be long before some of the good citizens of the town will approach me, or you, asking that I please leave town.”

  “There might be a few who will ask that,” Doc Raven replied softly. “But they will be in the minority.”

  “Wait until the streets get bloody,” Frank said.

  The telegrapher walked back to his small office as the wagons continued to roll slowly through the town.

  “Maxwell Crawford!” a man shouted, walking out of the saloon/hotel and waving to a wagon.

  The wagon lurched to a stop.

  “Maxwell Industries,” Doc Raven said. “I don’t believe it.”

  “You know him?” Frank asked.

  “We went to school together back East. Both of us sparked the same girl for a time. Wilma Lewis. I heard they got married right after the war.”

  “My, my. This might turn out to be quite a reunion for you.”

  “Maxwell was a pacifist, or so he claimed at the time. I heard he bought his way out of serving in the war.”

  “A lot of men did.”

  “More in the North than in the South,” Raven challenged.

  Frank did not reply. He was not interested in the politics of the War of the Northern Aggression. The war was over and the country had healed many of the open wounds that lingered after that violent upheaval.

  “Bernard!” a man shouted, climbing out of the wagon. “I’m glad you made it. Where is Margaret?”

  Maxwe
ll Crawford stepped up onto the boardwalk and the two men shook hands. Their conversation did not carry across the street to Doc Raven and Frank.

  Frank watched as a lone rider stepped his horse up the street. “Now, there is a man I do know.”

  “Where?”

  “Riding into town. His name is Dolan. Damn! I thought he was dead. Rumor has it that he was killed in a range war.”

  “Gunfighter?” Doc Raven asked.

  “One of the best.”

  “Better than you?”

  “I don’t know. He’s quick. I’ll give him that.”

  Raven studied the man as he drew closer. “You two are about the same age, I’d guess.”

  “Just about.”

  Dolan reined up in front of the cafe and sat his saddle, staring at Frank for a moment before saying, “Morgan. It’s been a few years.”

  “About ten years, Dolan. I heard you finally caught some lead and got planted.”

  “It was close, for sure. But I fooled the Reaper again.”

  “I’ll leave you two to reminisce about old times,” Doc Raven said. He walked away after a curt nod to Dolan.

  “Friend of yours, Morgan?” Dolan asked.

  “The town’s doctor and namesake. Raven.”

  “Interesting name. Wonder if it’s really his.”

  Frank shrugged. “It’ll do. You know how it is out here, Dolan.”

  “For a fact, I do. I’ve plumb forgot the name my parents give me.” He smiled. “Ah ... you do know that we’re cut off here, Morgan?”

  “So I’m told. With a bunch of rich men from back East and their hoity-toity women.”

  “They all put up money for this hunt, Morgan, and yet here you are, standing around like nothing important is taking place.”

  “How much money is on my head, Dolan?”

  “I ain’t sure. Thousands of dollars, I’m told. The last man standin’ after you hit the ground is the winner, so I’m told.”

  “So it’s not just me that’ll have to watch his back.”

  “What do you mean, Morgan?”

  “You said it yourself, Dolan. ’The last man standing.’”

  Dolan frowned. “Yeah. That do put a different light on things, don’t it?”

  “I would say so.”

  “I reckon I better start clearin’ the herd some.”