The Last Gunfighter: The Drifter Page 4

  "They own a mine here in Crossing."

  "The biggest mine, Frank. No telling how many millions of dollars of silver was taken out of that mine. One more shipment to go, and the mine closes."

  "But they can't ship it because of the Pine and Vanbergen gangs, right?"

  "That's right, Frank. And then here you come riding in, getting set to get all tangled up in something that doesn't really concern you."

  "It's a long story, Miss ... ah — "

  "It's still Peters. We were never divorced. And please call me Angie."

  "All right, Angie it is. And I assure you, it does concern me, greatly."

  Angie shook her head. "Because of Mrs. Vivian L. Browning, Frank?"

  "You know a lot, Angie. The question is, why?"

  "Why do I know? I've owned cafes all over the West. People talk in cafes as much or more as they do in saloons." She smiled. "And I am a real good listener."

  "I bet you are." Frank returned the smile as he studied the woman. A good-looking woman. Not beautiful, but very, very attractive. Black hair, blue eyes, and a head-turning figure. Frank bet that when Angie took a stroll men looked ... and wives got mad.

  "How many men do Pine and Vanbergen have?"

  "No one knows for sure. Thirty or forty at least. Probably more than that."

  "Do any of them ever come into town?"

  "Quite often. But never Pine or Vanbergen. The men who come in for supplies are not on any wanted list ... that anyone knows about." Angie looked out the cafe window. "Frank, there are two members of the gang riding into town now."

  Frank followed her eyes, watching as two rough-dressed men rode slowly up the main street. "I know them," he said. "They're related somehow. Cousins, I think. Both of them are wanted in Arkansas on murder charges. If this town had a marshal he'd be a thousand dollars richer by arresting those two."

  Frank smiled and pushed back his chair. "As a matter of fact, I could use a thousand dollars right now."

  "Frank..." Angie's voice held a warning note. "This isn't your fight. Don't get mixed up in this mess."

  "Watch me," Frank replied, slipping the leather thong off the hammer of his pistol.

  Five

  Frank stepped out of the cafe and stood for a moment on the elevated boardwalk. It was built several feet off the ground due to a slope. The two riders stopped in front of the Silver Slipper Saloon and dismounted. They stood for a moment, giving the wide street the once-over. Their eyes lingered for a moment on Frank, and one said something to the other. The second man shook his head, and the pair of outlaws turned and walked into the saloon, apparently dismissing him as being someone who presented no danger to them.

  Frank slipped the hammer thong free and walked across the street, his boots kicking up dust as he walked, his spurs rattling softly. He stepped up onto the old boardwalk and stood for a moment, thinking about his next move. He had some money on him, but he could also use a thousand dollars.

  Frank was not a poor man by any means, but neither did he have money to throw around. He had some savings in a couple of Wells Fargo offices which were available to him by wire. He also had money sewn into a place behind the cantle of his saddle.

  Frank was no stranger to bounty hunting. He'd done his share of tracking down wanted men for the prices on their heads. He did it only when he needed the money. The men he tracked down were always wanted for murder, and it nearly always ended in a shoot-out, for most of them would rather die from a bullet than dangle from the end of a rope with a crowd of gawkers looking on. Then Frank had to tote their stinking bodies back as proof, so he could collect the reward. It could be very unpleasant ... and smelly.

  Frank had been a lawman more than once. It was a job he liked. He'd carried a badge in towns in Kansas, Texas, and several other places. But once he'd cleaned up the towns, seems like the "good" people no longer wanted him around. Frank never argued about it—just collected what money was due him, packed up, saddled up, and rode away without looking back. He understood how they felt, and harbored no malice toward any of them. It was human nature, and Frank understood that well. Frank had done a lot of riding away without looking back in his life—most of his life, as a matter of fact.

  Frank stepped up to the batwings and pushed them open, stepping inside the saloon.

  The two outlaws were at the far end of the long bar, having whiskies. They did not turn around to look at Frank as he walked in. For that time of day the saloon was doing a good business. About half the tables were filled with drinkers and card players. The young man from the livery was seated at a table with several older men. Several heavily painted, rouged, and powdered-up soiled doves were working the crowd—without a lot of luck, Frank observed.

  Frank walked to the bar and ordered a beer. He would have preferred coffee, but wanted to blend in for a few minutes without drawing undue attention to himself.

  The talk was mostly about the mines playing out, the town slowly dying, and all the silver that was waiting to be shipped out. Frank could catch a few words here and there as he stood at the bar and sipped his beer.

  Suddenly the talk died out, and the large room became silent. Frank sighed. He knew what had probably happened: somebody had recognized him.

  "Hell," a man said, his voice unnaturally loud in the silence, "his name ain't Logan. I don't give a damn what he told you, Booker. That's Frank Morgan!"

  Booker must be the young man from the livery, Frank thought. Well, it's all out in the open now.

  The two outlaws at the far end of the bar turned to stare. Frank ignored them.

  "Well, well," one of the outlaws said. "If it ain't the man all them books was writ about. I thought you had done up and died of old age, Morgan."

  "Not hardly," Frank said softly, struggling to remember the man's name. Then it came to him: Davy something-or-another. Jonas was the other fellow's name. They were cousins.

  "I know some folks who will be awful happy to hear you're in town, Morgan," Jonas said. He grinned, exposing a row of yellow teeth.

  "I imagine so, Jonas. But how are you going to get the news to them?"

  "Huh? Why I'll just ride out of here, you dummy!"

  "You'll have to go through me to do that. You feel up to that?"

  "They's two of us, Morgan," Davy said.

  "I can count, Davy," Morgan replied, lifting the mug of beer with his left hand. His right hand stayed close to the butt of his .45. "But I don't care if there's five of you. You still won't get past me."

  The men seated at the nearest tables began pushing their chairs back, getting away from what they were sure would turn into gunplay any second.

  "You got no call to do this, Morgan," Jonas said. "We ain't done nothin' to you."

  "Not personally, Jonas. But you both offend me."

  "We both does what?" Davy asked, quickly adding, "What the hell does that mean?"

  "You offend a lot of people, Davy. And you both are wanted by the law for murder."

  "That's a damn lie!" Jonas said.

  "No, it isn't, boys. I've seen the dodgers on you."

  Davy's right hand started moving slowly toward the butt of his pistol. Frank's voice stopped him.

  "Don't do it, Davy. I'll kill you where you stand."

  Davy put his hand back on the bar.

  Without taking his eyes off the two outlaws, Frank raised his voice and said, "One of you men go get the keys to the jail. Right now! Move!"

  Several men rose from their chairs and left the saloon.

  "What do you aim to do with us, Morgan?" Jonas asked.

  "Put you in jail."

  "Mayhaps we don't want to go to jail," Davy said. "What then?"

  "Then I'll kill you," Frank replied, taking several steps closer to the pair of outlaws.

  "You're just foolin' yourself, Morgan, if you think you're man enough to take both of us," Jonas told him.

  Frank just smiled and moved closer.

  "You stop right where you is!" Davy shouted. "We don't
want no trouble, Morgan."

  "That's up to you, boys," Frank said, stepping closer. "But if you don't want trouble, drop those gunbelts and stand easy."

  "You go to hell, Morgan!" Jonas said, and he grabbed for his pistol.

  Frank hit him with a fast, hard left, connecting squarely with the outlaw's jaw and dropping him to the floor.

  Davy cussed wildly, then panicked and tried to run. Frank tripped him as he attempted to push past, and he hit the floor. Frank jerked the outlaw's pistols from leather and, using one of them, popped Davy on the noggin, dropping him into dreamland for a few minutes.

  Jonas was groaning and trying to get to his boots. Using Jonas's gun, Frank laid it against the man's head, and Jonas joined his partner, unconscious.

  Frank took Jonas's gun from leather and laid all three pistols on the bar. The batwings were shoved open, and the men who had hustled from the bar reentered, one of them carrying several sets of handcuffs.

  "The jail's unlocked, Mr. Morgan," one of the men said, placing the cuffs on the bar. "The keys to the cells are on the desk."

  "And the mayor's on the way to talk to you," another citizen added.

  "What's he want?" Frank asked, bending down and fitting the cuffs on the outlaws.

  "Durned if I know. But he'll be along any minute now."

  "Name's Jenkins," another citizen said, looking down at the two murderers.

  "He's president of the bank," the third man offered.

  "Wonderful," Frank said. "We'll wait until these two yahoos can walk, then escort them to the jail. There's a telegraph office in this town, isn't there?"

  "Oh, you bet, Mr. Morgan. If the wire's up, that is."

  "It's up," a citizen called from the tables. "I seen Mrs. Browning send some wires this mornin'."

  Vivian, Frank thought as something invisible and soft touched his heart....

  "And that damn brat son of hers was with her," the citizen added.

  "Way he keeps that snooty nose of his stuck up in the air, he's gonna drown if he's caught out in a hard rain," another citizen said.

  "Sort of an uppity young man, is he?" Frank asked.

  "Uppity?" one of the men blurted. "Conrad thinks he's better than everyone."

  "Conrad?" Frank questioned.

  "Conrad Browning. Sixteen or seventeen years old, I'd say. Big kid. And doesn't treat his mother with the proper respect, neither."

  Another man summed it up. "He's a turd."

  Vivian's father must have had a hand in raising the boy, Frank thought.

  "You know, Mr. Morgan," a citizen pointed out, "them outlaws is rumored to be part of the Pine and Vanbergen gangs?"

  Frank shrugged. "I know both of those no-counts. Why hasn't the law around here done something about them?"

  "For one thing, the law can't catch them. For another, nobody is willin' to step up and point the finger at any of them. They always wear masks and dusters when they're robbin' people. The third thing is, law is scarce in these parts. We ain't had a marshal here in this town for months."

  "And the pay is real good, Mr. Morgan. I'm Will Moncrief, a member of the town council. The town may not have long to live as a silver boom town. Another two, three months, maybe. But while it does, we pay good money for a badge-toter. Why don't you take the job? You've wore a badge before."

  "And I'm on the council, too," another citizen said. "You want the job, Mr. Morgan?"

  "Maybe. But it'll take more than the two of you to OK me, won't it?"

  "There's four of us on the council, and the mayor," Moncrief said. "And — "

  The batwings were pushed open, interrupting Moncrief. A man stepped inside the saloon. "And I'm the mayor of Barnwell's Crossing," the neatly dressed man said. "Mayor Jenkins. What's going on here?"

  The crowd hushed up, and all eyes turned toward Frank.

  "These two hombres on the floor are wanted men, Mayor," Frank said. "They're both murderers. Rewards out for them. I want to hold them in your jail until they're picked up."

  "Sounds all right to me," Jenkins said. "You took them without firing a shot?"

  "Yes."

  "I know you. Seen your picture. You're Frank Morgan."

  "That's right. You have a problem with that, Mayor?"

  "Oh, no. Not at all. You're not an outlaw. You've never been wanted anywhere for anything, as far as I know. And you've worn a badge a number of times, as I recall."

  "Yes, I have."

  "Want to wear another one?"

  Frank paused dramatically, for effect. "If the money's right, yes."

  "The money will be right—I can assure you of that."

  "Let me lock these two no-counts up, and we'll talk about it, all right?"

  Frank jerked the two members of the Pine and Vanbergen gangs to their feet and shoved them toward the batwings. He would send a wire to Arkansas just as soon as he locked the two down. What the state of Arkansas did after that was up to them.

  Crossing the street, Davy said, "The boys will come in here and tear this town apart, Morgan. They won't let us be held for no hangin'."

  "If Pine or Vanbergen and their gangs come riding into this town hell-for-leather, there's a good chance they'll be buried here."

  "You say!" Jonas's words were filled with contempt.

  "That's right, Rat Face. I say."

  "Rat Face!"

  "Yeah. You look like a rat to me."

  "You go to hell, Morgan!"

  Frank laughed and opened the jail office door. He shoved the pair inside and over to the door that led to the cell block. He carefully removed the cuffs from each and shoved them into a cell.

  "I'll find blankets for both of you before night. And I'll build a fire in the stove that'll get the place warm before I leave."

  "How about some food, you bastard?" Davy asked. "Or are you gonna let us starve to death?"

  "You'll be fed. Probably from the Silver Spoon Cafe. The cook over there fixes good meals."

  Frank took the time to inspect the jail. It was as solid as the rock it was made of—shaped rock two or three feet thick. The bars were thick and solid, set deep in the rocks. Davy and Jonas would not be prying or digging out. That was a dead certainty.

  Frank found a rag, sat down at the battered desk in the front office, and wiped the several months' accumulation of dust from the top of the desk. He looked around the big room. Several rifles and shotguns were in a wall rack. He would inspect and clean them later. Frank began opening the desk drawers. He found dozens of dodgers and laid them off to one side. Two pistols and several boxes of .45 ammunition. The jail log book. The last entry was a drunk and disorderly, dated several months back. He found an inkwell, empty, and several pens and pencils. That was it.

  The front door opened and the mayor stepped in, followed by a group of men. Frank was introduced to the town council. He shook hands, sat back down, and waited for the mayor to say something.

  "We talked it over, Frank," the mayor said. "And we think you're the right man for the job of marshal."

  "I'm honored," Frank said.

  The mayor smiled and named a monthly salary that was astronomically high for the time and place, and Frank accepted the offer. Frank stood up to be sworn in by the mayor, and a badge was pinned to his shirt.

  "If you can find a man to take the job, you're entitled to one deputy," the mayor told him. "Congratulations, Marshal. Welcome to Barnwell's Crossing."

  The mayor and town council trooped out, closing the door behind them, and that was that.

  "Marshal Frank Morgan," Frank whispered. "Too bad the town is dying. I might have found a home."

  "Hey, Morgan!" Davy shouted from the cell area. "We're hungry. How about some food?"

  "I'm cold!" Jonas yelled. "Where's them blankets you promised us?"

  Frank ignored them and got up to set and wind the office wall clock. It had stopped at high noon. Frank wondered if that was somehow significant.

  Six

  Frank went to Willis's General Store
and bought a few supplies for his rented house—coffee, sugar, bacon, flour, and the like—then began strolling the town, letting the townsfolk see him and get used to the badge on his chest. The Crossing was larger than Frank had first thought. There was another business street, angling off like the letter L, and many more houses than Frank realized, at the end of the second business street. The other business street had several smaller stores—including a leather shop, a ladies' store right on the corner, a smaller and rougher-looking saloon, and the doctor's office.

  Frank smiled and touched his hat when meeting ladies, and he gave the men a howdy-do. Most of the people returned the greeting; a few did not. At the end of the street, Frank saw a sign for Henson Enterprises dangling from a metal frame.

  The building was one story, and nice. Even though it was getting late in the day, with shadows already creeping about, darkening this and that, the office was bustling with people bent over ledgers and scurrying about.

  Frank forced himself to walk on. He would run into Vivian sooner or later, and he had very mixed feelings about the inevitable meeting.

  Frank had just stepped off the boardwalk when a very demanding voice behind him said, "You there, Constable. Come here."

  Frank stopped and turned around. A young man, eighteen at the most, was standing in the doorway of the Henson building, wagging his finger at Frank. "Yes, you!" the young man said. "I'm not in the habit of speaking to an empty street."

  Frank stared at me young man for a few seconds, stared in disbelief. He was dressed at the very height of fashion ... if he were in Boston or New York City, that is. In the rough mining town of northern New Mexico territory he looked like a damned idiot.

  "Well, come here!" the young man said.

  Frank stepped back onto the boardwalk, his hackles already rising at the kid's haughty tone. "Can I help you?" Frank asked.

  "I certainly hope so. You're the new constable, aren't you?"

  News travels fast in this town, Frank thought. "I'm the marshal, yes."

  "Marshal, constable ... whatever," the almost a man said, waving his hand in a dainty gesture that would damn sure get him in trouble if he did it in the wrong place. "There is a drunken oaf staggering about in our offices, cursing and bellowing, and I want him removed immediately."