The Last Gunfighter: The Drifter Page 5

  "All right," Frank said. "Although I was just passing by, and didn't hear a thing."

  "He's calmed down for the moment, but I suspect he'll be lumbering about and swearing again at any moment."

  "Oh? Why do you think that?"

  "Because he's that sort—that's why. Now will you please do your duty and remove that offensive thug?"

  "Lower-class type, huh?"

  "Certainly. He's a laborer. They really should learn their place."

  "Oh, yes, quite." Frank hid his smile and stepped into the offices. The front office seemed as calm as when Frank had first looked in only a couple of moments ago.

  "In the middle office," the snooty kid said. He pointed. "That way."

  "Thank you," Frank said, just as acidly as he could. Just then the shouting started.

  "By God, you owe me a week's wages, and I ain't leavin' 'til I get it, you pukey-lookin' little weasel!"

  "Do you?" Frank asked the young man. There was something about the kid that was vaguely disturbing to Frank. Something ... well, familiar.

  "Do I what?"

  "Do you owe him money?"

  "Heavens! I don't know. Take that up with the accounting department."

  Frank walked to the middle office and shoved open the door, stepping inside. A big man in dirty work clothes stood in the center of the room, shouting at several men seated behind desks. When the door was opened the man paused and looked at Frank, his eyes taking in the star on his shirt.

  "I eat two-bit marshals for supper," the miner told Frank.

  "This one will give you a bad case of indigestion," Frank responded.

  "This company owes me several days' pay," the miner said. "And I'll either get my money or I'll take this office apart."

  Frank looked at one of the bookkeepers. "Do you owe him money?"

  "He was off work for two days," the bookkeeper said. "He was paid for four days, not a full six."

  "I got hurt in the mine!" the miner shouted. "That ain't my fault."

  "Is that right?" Frank asked the bookkeeper.

  "That doesn't make any difference, Marshal. He worked four days. He gets paid for the time he was on the job."

  Frank looked at the miner. "Did you agree to those terms before you took the job?"

  "I knew how it was," the miner said sourly. "But that don't make it right."

  "I agree with you. It doesn't make it right. But you agreed to the terms. You got no quarrel. Get on out of here and cool off."

  "And if I don't?" the miner challenged him.

  "I'll put you out. Then I'll take you to jail. The doctor can see you in your cell."

  The miner laughed. "You and how many others are gonna do that, Marshal?"

  "Just me," Frank said softly.

  "You really think you can do that, huh?"

  "Oh, I know I can."

  "With or without that pistol?"

  "Either way. But if you want to mix it up with me, you'll be liable for any damage to this office."

  The miner laughed at that. "How would you collect the money?"

  "A day in jail for every dollar of damage. You really want to spend months behind bars? Then there will be your medical expenses. And they will be many—I assure you of that."

  "You got a name, Marshal?"

  "Frank Morgan."

  The miner paled under his dark stubble of whiskers. He slowly nodded his head. "I reckon I'll leave quietly."

  "Good," Frank told him. "You know the way out."

  The miner didn't tarry. He nodded in silent agreement, left the office, and walked out of the building without saying another word.

  "You certainly calmed that situation down in a hurry, Marshal," one of the bookkeepers said. "Are you really Frank Morgan?"

  "Yes." Frank no longer wondered how so many people knew about him. He'd seen several of those penny dreadfuls and dime novels that had been written about him. Most of them were nothing but a pack of lies.

  And he had never gotten a nickel for all the words in print about him.

  "Have you really killed five hundred white men and a thousand Indians?" another office worker asked, his eyes big around.

  Frank smiled. "No. Nowhere even close to either number."

  "I do so hate to interfere in this moment of juvenile adoration," said the young man who had first hailed Frank. "But it's time for everybody to get back to work."

  Frank had just about had enough of the kid, and came very close to telling him where to stick his lousy attitude. The only thing that saved the moment was the miner who had just left. He came storming back inside, yelling and cussing.

  "No man orders me around like I was some damn stray dog!" he hollered. "Gunfighter or no, by God, let's see what you can do with your fists!"

  He ran over and took a wild swing at Frank. Frank ducked the blow and stuck out one boot. The miner's forward momentum could not be halted in time, and he tripped over Frank's boot and went butt over elbows to the floor, landing with a tremendous thud. He yelled and cussed and got to his feet.

  "You afraid to fight me kick, bite, and gouge, gunfighter?" he threw down the challenge.

  "No," Frank said calmly. "But my warning still holds. Whatever this fight breaks, you pay for."

  "I boxed in college," the haughty kid said. "And I was quite good. Allow me to settle this dispute. I can do it rather quickly, I assure you."

  Frank and the miner looked at the young man, then at each other, and born suddenly burst out laughing, all animosity between them vanishing immediately.

  "Are you laughing at me, you lumbering oaf?" the young man asked the miner.

  Frank verbally stepped in. "Boy, this isn't a boxing match with rules. Out here there are no rules in a fight. It's kick, gouge, bite, and stomp. I don't think you understand."

  "I can take care of myself, Marshal. And I don't appreciate your interference."

  "Fine," Frank said. "Then by all means, jump right in, boy."

  It wasn't a long jump, and the young man didn't have but a few seconds to realize he had made a horrible mistake. He didn't even have time to get his feet planted and his dukes up before the big miner hit him twice, left and right. The young man bounced on the floor and didn't move.

  The miner backed up and looked at Frank. "What else could I do?"

  "Nothing. He attacked you." Frank knelt down and checked out the young man. He was all right, pulse strong and breathing normal. He was just unconscious, and probably would be for several minutes.

  Frank stood up and told the miner, "Get out of here and stay out of sight for a few days. You might want to hunt for another job."

  "I've 'bout had enough of this town, anyways," the miner replied. "At least for a while, even though I don't believe anyone's found the mother lode yet. It's out there. I know it is. I can feel it. But you're right. I'm gone for a while. No hard feelin's?"

  "None at all."

  "See you around, Morgan."

  The miner left, and Frank looked at the office workers. They were all smiling, looking down at the young man sprawled unconscious on the floor. Frank was sure the kid was the son of Vivian—had to be. And he wasn't well-liked, for a fact.

  Suddenly there was a shout coming from the street, followed by several other very excited shouts. Someone yelled, "They found it! Found it at the Henson mine. It's big. My God, it's big!"

  "What's big?" Frank asked.

  "They've hit another vein," one of the office workers said. "Has to be it. Our engineers said it was there. Said it was just a matter of time."

  "Who is this kid?" Frank asked, pointing to the young man on the floor, who was just beginning to moan and stir.

  "Conrad Browning," a man said. "Mrs. Vivian L. Browning's son."

  "I thought so. Snooty, isn't he?"

  "That's one way of putting it, for a fact."

  "Where is Mrs. Browning?"

  "She should be along any moment now. She always comes in just at closing time to check on things."

  "Let's get Junior
on his feet and walking around," Frank suggested. "If Mrs. Browning sees him like this she'll likely have a fit."

  "Doubtful," an office worker said. "Mrs. Browning is well aware of her son's predilection for haughtiness. Conrad has been a sour pickle all his life."

  Frank smiled as he heaved Conrad Browning to his feet. "A sour pickle ... that's a very interesting way of putting it."

  "Mrs. Browning's carriage just pulled up at the rear," a man said.

  Frank plopped Conrad down in a chair and turned to make his exit—too late. The door to the rear office opened and Vivian stood there.

  She recognized Frank instantly and gasped, leaning against the doorjamb for a moment.

  Conrad broke the spell by blurting, "Mother, I have been assaulted by a hoodlum. I am injured."

  "Oh, horsecrap!" Frank said.

  Seven

  Frank and Vivian stood for several silent seconds, staring at each other, before Frank took off his hat and said, "Ma'am. Your son is not hurt much. He just grabbed hold of a mite more than he could handle, that's all."

  "It was not a fair contest," Conrad objected. "That thug struck me before I was ready."

  "What thug?" Vivian asked.

  "Mr. Owens," one of the office workers said. "He was in here again about his money."

  "The man I spoke with yesterday?" Vivian asked.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Did you give him his money, as I instructed?"

  "Ah ... no, ma'am. We didn't."

  "I told them not to pay him," Conrad said. "He was adequately compensated for the work he performed."

  Vivian closed her eyes just for the briefest second and shook her head. "Conrad, you go see Dr. Bracken. Your jaw is bruised and swelling a bit."

  "Mother — "

  "Now!"

  "Yes, Mother."

  "I'm pretty sure it isn't broken, ma'am," Frank said. "Just get some horse liniment and rub it on the sore spot. That'll take care of it."

  "Horse liniment?" Conrad blurted. "I think not. I'll be back in a few minutes, Mother." He left the middle office, walking gingerly, rubbing his butt, which was probably bruised from impacting with the floor.

  Outside, the excited shouting was still going on.

  "A new strike, Mrs. Browning?" a bookkeeper asked.

  "Yes. A big one. We'll be hiring again. And we need Mr. Owens. If he comes back in, pay him for the days he missed while hurt and put him back to work."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "I'll probably see him around town, ma'am," Frank said. "I'll tell him to check back here."

  "Thank you, Marshal. Would you please step into my office? I'd like to speak with you for a moment."

  "Certainly, ma'am."

  In the office, behind a closed door, Vivian grasped Frank's hands and held them for seconds. Finally she pulled back and sat down in one of several chairs in front of her desk. Frank sat down in the chair next to her.

  "It's been a long time, Frank."

  "Almost eighteen years."

  "You know my father is dead?"

  "I heard."

  "Frank, I want you to know something. I knew within days that my father made up all those charges he was holding over you back in Denver. I also knew that you left to protect me — "

  "Water under the bridge, Viv. It's long over."

  "No. Let me finish. I did some checking of my own, and found out father had paid those detectives to falsify charges against you. I confronted him with that knowledge. At first he denied it. Then, finally, he admitted what he'd done. He hated you until the day he closed his eyes forever. He threatened to cut me off financially if I didn't do his bidding. I didn't really have much choice in the matter. Or, more truthfully, I thought I didn't have a choice. When I finally realized father was bluffing, it was too late. You were gone without a trace, and I was pregnant."

  That shook Frank right down to his spurs. He stared at Vivian for a long moment. "Are you telling me that ... Conrad is my son?"

  "Yes."

  Frank had almost blurted out, You mean to tell me that prissy, arrogant little turd is my son? But he curbed his tongue at the last possible second. He stared at Viv until he was sure he could speak without betraying his totally mixed emotions. "Did the man you married know this?"

  "Yes, Frank. He did. My late husband was a good, decent man. He raised Conrad as if he were his own."

  "Does the boy know?"

  "No. He doesn't have a clue."

  "Your father had a hand in raising him, didn't he?"

  "Quite a bit. He spent a lot of time back east with us. Several years before he died, father was with us almost all the time."

  "Viv, ah ... the boy..." Frank paused and frowned.

  "Doesn't fit in out here? I know. He probably never will. He hates the West. He loves to ride. He's really very good. But he won't ride out here."

  "Why not?"

  "The way he rides, his manner of dress. He just doesn't fit in."

  "He rides one of those dinky English saddles?"

  "Yes."

  "Don't tell me wears one of those silly-looking riding outfits."

  "Yes, he does."

  "I bet he got a laugh from a lot of folks the first time he went out in public, bobbing up and down like a cork with a catfish on it."

  Vivian smiled despite herself. "I'm afraid he did."

  "I can imagine. Wish I'da seen that myself."

  Viv's smile faded. "Why'd you come here, Frank? To this town, I mean."

  "Oh, I didn't have anything else to do. Besides, I heard you were in trouble up here. Had a lot of silver to ship, and nobody would take it out for you."

  "Tons of it, Frank. Tons and tons of it. Worth a fortune. But getting it out of these mountains and to a railroad has proven to be quite a chore."

  "How many shipments have been hijacked?"

  "Several. You have any ideas on how to get it out?"

  "Oh, I imagine I could get some boys in here to take the shipments through. But they don't come cheap."

  "I think I can afford them."

  Frank smiled. "I 'spect you can, at that."

  "Look into that for me, will you?"

  "I sure will. I'll send some wires first thing in the morning."

  "I would appreciate it. Frank? How are we going to handle this? You and I, I mean."

  "How do you want to handle it, Viv?"

  "I ... don't know. I'm not sure."

  "Did you love him? Your late husband."

  She averted her eyes for a few seconds and said, "No. I liked him. But I didn't love him."

  "There has never been another woman for me, Viv."

  "Nor another man for me, Frank. Not really."

  "And there it stands, I suppose."

  "I suppose so, Frank."

  "It would cause talk if I came calling, wouldn't it?"

  "If you don't come calling, Frank, I'll have some of my miners come looking for you."

  Frank smiled at her. Vivian had lost none of her beauty. She had matured—that was all. "I'll drop by tomorrow, Viv. What time will you be in the office?"

  "From seven o'clock on. We'll be working long hours for a while, now that the new strike is in."

  "I'll try to get by at midmorning. You'll be ready for a coffee break by then."

  "I'll be here waiting, Frank. And don't be surprised at how I'm dressed."

  "Oh?"

  "I've set many a tongue wagging in this town by occasionally dressing in men's britches."

  "Really?" Frank smiled as he met Viv's eyes. "Now that I'd like to see." Viv was a very shapely lady.

  Vivian returned his smile. "Midmorning tomorrow it is, Frank."

  Frank picked up his hat from me carpeted floor by his chair and stood up. He looked at Vivian for a moment, then said, "What about Conrad, Viv?"

  "Let's just let that alone for the time being. It's much too soon to even be thinking about that."

  "As you wish, Viv. Tomorrow, then."

  "Yes."

  Frank l
eft the office, closing the door behind him, and walked the length of the building to the front, ignoring the curious looks from the office workers. He stood on the boardwalk for a moment, listening to the excited whooping and hollering from the milling crowds on the main street. By this time tomorrow, the town would be filling up again. Closed and boarded-up stores would be reopening, and new merchants coming in. Surely there would be a couple more saloons. And there would be a lot of riffraff making their way to the town.

  It was going to be a money-making place for some people for a while and, above all, a place where trouble could erupt in a heartbeat.

  Frank had seen it all before, in other boom towns where precious metals were found.

  Big strikes were both a blessing and a curse.

  Frank's thoughts drifted back to Vivian, and he struggled to get the woman out of his mind. He could dream about her in quiet moments, but now was not the time. He had his rounds to make. And any marshal in any Western town who walked the streets at night and didn't stay alert ran the possibility of abruptly being a dead marshal.

  Frank walked up to the corner of the main street and stood for a moment. He rolled a cigarette and smoked it, while leaning up against a hitch rail. It was full dark now, and both saloons were doing a land-office business. Pianos and banjos and guitars were banging and strumming and picking out melodies. Occasionally Frank could hear the sounds of a fiddle sawing away.

  Frank walked up to the Silver Spoon Cafe and ordered supper for the prisoners, then carried the tray over to the jail. While they were eating, he made a pot of coffee and sat at his desk, smoking and drinking coffee. Then he took down the rifles and shotguns from the wall rack and cleaned and oiled them. He took out the pistol he'd found in the desk drawer and cleaned it, then loaded it up full with five rounds. It was a short-barreled .45, called by some a gambler's gun. It was actually a Colt .45 Peacemaker, known as a marshal or sheriff's pistol. Frank tucked it behind his gunbelt, on the left side. It was comfortable there.

  A little insurance was sometimes a comfort.

  Frank took the tray back to the cafe, then went over to the general store and bought some blankets for the cell bunks, charging them to the town's account. Back at the jail, he blew out the lamps and locked the front door. He did not build a fire in the jail stove, for the night was not that cool. Besides, if they both caught pneumonia and died that would save the state of Arkansas the expense of sending someone out here to take them back, plus the cost of hanging them.