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  He had loved three women in his life and married two of them. Those two had both died violent deaths. The other had spent most of her life happily married to another man, raising a daughter who might—or might not—be Frank’s. Something had always interfered with his plans for happiness, and he knew what it was.

  The blinding speed of his draw, the uncanny coordination of hand and eye, everything that went into making him one of the deadliest men ever to strap on a gun. . . . That skill, and the reputation it brought with it, had always loomed over Frank’s life ever since he was a young man.

  Other gunfighters managed to escape it somehow. Smoke Jensen was a happily married rancher and had been for many years . . . but from what Frank heard, even Smoke ran into some gun trouble fairly often. Other men, such as Falcon McAllister and Matt Bodine and Frank himself, seemed destined to always wander and never settle down, living their lives on the thin edge of danger and breathing the sharp tang of powder smoke.... And the worst of it was the danger they brought to anyone who got close to them, like Vivian and Dixie....

  “My goodness, Mr. Morgan,” Mildred Duncan said, breaking into Frank’s reverie, “you look positively grim.”

  He forced a smile onto his face. “Sorry, ma’am. I reckon I just haven’t had enough of this fine coffee yet. Not quite woke up good, I guess.”

  “Well, I have Mr. Bonner’s tray ready. I’ll take it in to him.”

  Frank got to his feet. “I’ll come with you.”

  They walked down the hall to the spare bedroom. One man sat on a straight chair outside the door, a rifle across his knees. He stood up and nodded politely to Mildred as she approached. Inside the room were two more guards, both armed with shotguns. Frank was pleased and impressed by the seriousness with which the farmers were taking this matter.

  Bonner was sitting with his back propped against some pillows. He scowled up at Frank and said, “You got no right to keep me locked up here. This ain’t a jail, and you people ain’t the law.”

  “We could have left you out there to bleed to death on that creek bank,” Frank reminded him. “It could still be arranged if that’s what you want.”

  “Oh, now,” Mildred said. “Nobody’s going to bleed to death.” She leaned over to place the tray containing a plate of food and a cup of coffee on Bonner’s lap. “Here, I’ve brought you some breakfast.”

  Frank tensed as he saw the calculating look in Bonner’s eyes. The gunman was trying to figure out if he could grab Mildred and use her as a hostage to get out of there. Then Bonner’s gaze flicked to Frank, who stood there alertly with his hand on the butt of the Peacemaker at his hip. Frank gave a tiny shake of his head, warning Bonner that he would never get away with it.

  Bonner sighed and said, “Much obliged, ma’am.”

  Mildred straightened, unaware of the look that had passed between Frank and Bonner and the moment of danger that had prompted it. “You’re welcome,” she told him. “I suppose I shouldn’t be so gracious to one of Parmalee’s men, but I can’t help it. You’re in my home, after all.”

  “Don’t know nobody named Parmalee,” Bonner said stubbornly.

  Frank didn’t waste his breath telling Bonner not to deny it. There was no point in trying to shake Bonner’s story now. That would have to wait for the law.

  Frank went back to the kitchen with Mildred to have his own breakfast, and as they got there, the back door of the house opened and Horace Duncan came in, wearing overalls, work boots, and a broad-brimmed straw hat.

  “That rain last night did the crops a world of good,” he announced with a smile. He nodded to Frank. “How are you today, Mr. Morgan? Sleep all right out there in the barn?”

  “Just fine. And I thought you were going to call me Frank.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Mildred put a plate of bacon, eggs, biscuits, and gravy on the table next to Frank’s cup of coffee. “Here you go, Mr. Morgan.”

  Horace poured himself a cup of coffee as Frank began to eat. The food tasted as good as it smelled. Horace sat down across the table from Frank and said, “I thought I’d ride into Salina and talk to the sheriff.”

  “That’s what you need to do, all right,” Frank responded with a nod.

  “I was sort of hoping you’d come with me.”

  Frank considered that. “I don’t know if you want me to do that or not,” he finally said. “Sometimes, when a lawman finds out who I am, he gets all stiff-necked and doesn’t want to listen to reason anymore. You saw the way some of your friends reacted last night when they heard my name.”

  “Well, I think that’s just foolish,” Mildred said as she sat down at the table with a cup of her own. “Horace told me that you have a certain, ah, reputation, Mr. Morgan, but you seem like a perfectly nice man to me.”

  Frank smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Duncan. I like to think I am a perfectly nice man. But there’s no getting around the fact that I’m known as a gunfighter, and for good reason.” He deliberately hardened his voice, since he didn’t believe in sugarcoating anything. “I’ve killed quite a few men.”

  “If they were anything like the ones you shot last night, I’m sure they had it coming to them.”

  Frank remembered the way she had offered to shoot Bonner, and he told himself not to underestimate Mildred Duncan. Like her husband, she had sand.

  “I’d still like for you to come with me, Frank,” Horace said. “I’m not that used to talking to lawmen. I could use some help.”

  Frank nodded. “All right.” He smiled. “But not until I finish this fine breakfast.”

  That seemed to be settled, but things didn’t get a chance to play out as Frank and Horace had planned. A minute later, one of the other farmers came hurrying up to the open back door, a little out of breath, and said, “Horace, some riders are coming . . . and one of them is the sheriff!”

  Chapter 8

  Horace frowned and said, “What in the world? Why did the sheriff come out here? He doesn’t even know yet what happened last night!”

  Regretfully, Frank pushed the rest of his food aside and drained the last of his coffee as he got to his feet along with Horace. He had a feeling he knew what was going on.

  Thaddeus Carter hadn’t risen to a position of importance with the railroad by being dumb. Carter wasn’t going to sit back and let the farmers come after him using Bonner as a weapon. He was going to try to strike first.

  But before Carter did that, he had to know for sure what had happened to Bonner.

  Frank put his hat on and followed Horace out the front door of the house. As they stood there waiting and watching the three men who were riding toward the settlement, Frank’s brain worked swiftly. He said to Horace in a quiet voice, “Don’t say anything about Bonner being here.”

  Horace jerked his head toward Frank and frowned in confusion and surprise. “But I thought we were going to tell the sheriff all about what happened,” he said.

  “Not just yet. Let’s see how it plays out.” Frank hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt. “I know you haven’t known me for very long, Horace, but I’m asking you to trust me on this.”

  “Well . . . all right. I’ll follow your lead, Frank.”

  Frank nodded. A moment later, the three riders arrived at the house, reining their mounts to a halt about ten feet from Frank and Horace. Some of the other farmers had gathered behind them. Mildred came out of the house and stood on the porch.

  One of the men was stocky and middle-aged, with a belly that spoke of a lot of time spent behind a desk. He had a bushy black mustache and wore a flat-crowned black hat. A lawman’s star was pinned to his black leather vest.

  The two men with the sheriff wore town suits and didn’t look all that comfortable on horseback. One was older, with a Vandyke beard, while the other wore thick spectacles and a bowler hat, and had the pasty-faced look of a clerk.

  Frank had never seen any of the three men before, but he didn’t like the looks of them, not even the sheriff.

  “M
ornin’, Duncan,” the lawman said.

  “Sheriff Haley,” Horace replied in a cool but polite tone. “What can I do for you?”

  Haley nodded toward the man with the Vandyke beard. “You know Mr. Carter here, I reckon.”

  “Of course.” Horace’s tone was noticeably cooler as he spoke this time.

  “And this fella with him is Mr. Shipworth. He’s a lawyer, works for the railroad like Mr. Carter.”

  Horace nodded to the young man, but didn’t say anything.

  The sheriff was eyeing Frank. He said, “Looks like you’ve got some company.”

  “I’m just an old friend of Horace’s,” Frank said before the farmer could make any reply. “Just passin’ through.”

  The sheriff looked a little dubious, but he let that pass. He said to Horace, “The reason I’m out here is that a fella has disappeared. He was supposed to go to work for Mr. Carter, but he never showed up. Name of Bonner. You wouldn’t happen to have seen him, would you?”

  “Why would I have seen him?” Horace asked. “People don’t come and check with me before they go to work for the railroad.”

  “Well, no, that’s not what I meant. But this fella Bonner, he was reported to have been seen in this area yesterday. Thought he might have stopped here.”

  Horace shook his head. “No. No one has been here other than the people who live here.” He spoke in a fairly loud voice so the others would hear him. Frank hoped they would realize they needed to keep quiet about Bonner’s presence.

  “What about your friend here?” the sheriff asked with a nod toward Frank.

  “Well, except for him,” Horace said.

  Carter spoke up for the first time, saying briskly, “Sheriff, I think you should take a look around.”

  Horace bristled. “Are you calling me a liar, Carter?” he demanded.

  “I feel like this man Bonner is my responsibility,” Carter shot back, “and if something has happened to him, I want to know about it.”

  Horace scowled at Carter, but he said to the lawman, “I told you, Sheriff, we haven’t seen the man and don’t know anything about him.”

  Shipworth, the lawyer, said tentatively, “Sheriff, if you, ah, if you believe there’s the possibility of, ah, foul play, you have a legal right to conduct a search. . . .”

  “Who said anything about foul play?” Horace thundered, clearly angry now.

  “Nobody,” Sheriff Haley answered quickly. “But when a man disappears, I can’t rule it out.” He sighed. “Still, I don’t know that I’ve got a good enough reason to search around here.”

  “What about me?” Carter snapped. “As a private citizen I can do as I please, can’t I? Isn’t this still a free country?”

  “You’re not welcome here, Carter, and you know it,” Horace said. “Try to step down from that horse and you’ll regret it.”

  Carter sniffed and said haughtily, “You heard him, Sheriff. He threatened me.”

  Haley looked mighty uncomfortable, and Frank could understand why—the hombre was stuck between trying to uphold the law and wanting to curry favor with an important, powerful man.

  “I know you two have had your differences in the past—” Haley began.

  Carter gestured to Shipworth, who lifted his hat and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief he drew out of the breast pocket of his coat. The day wasn’t all that hot yet. That was a signal if Frank had ever seen one.

  Sure enough, a moment later he heard hoofbeats coming quickly toward the farmhouses. Carter had had men posted somewhere nearby, watching for Shipworth’s signal.

  “Yes, we’ve had our differences,” Carter said, “but it’s a private dispute, Sheriff, and if you’re not going to do your duty, I’ll thank you not to interfere either.”

  Haley’s face flushed. “I don’t have to stand for that sort of talk,” he snapped. “I’m goin’ back to town.”

  With that, he wheeled his horse and rode away.

  Frank knew exactly what Haley was doing. The sheriff suspected that something was about to happen here, and he didn’t want any part of it. He wanted to be able to deny that he knew anything about it.

  In other words, he was leaving the farmers on their own.

  Frank couldn’t say that he was surprised. He’d had a feeling as soon as he saw Haley that the sheriff was more interested in feathering his own nest than he was in enforcing the law. Now that hunch had been confirmed. If Horace Duncan and his fellow farmers wanted help from the law, they would have to go farther than the local sheriff. They needed a U.S. marshal.

  Four riders cantered up. They were tough, gun-hung hombres. As they came to a halt beside Carter, Frank saw that he knew one of the men. He gave the man a curt nod and said, “Howdy, Chadbourne. Been a while.”

  Carter’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You’re acquainted with this man?” he asked.

  The man called Chadbourne nodded. “I sure am, Boss. That’s Frank Morgan.”

  The name didn’t mean anything to Carter. “I don’t care who he is. I want the four of you to search these buildings and make sure Bonner isn’t here anywhere. If he is, they’re holding him against his will, and that gives us a legal right to find him and rescue him.”

  As Frank smiled thinly, Chadbourne gave a slow shake of his head. “No, sir, I don’t think so,” he said.

  Carter’s face reddened with anger. “What do you mean? I gave you an order, by God!”

  Chadbourne made sure his hands remained in plain sight as he said, “Morgan’s the man they call The Drifter, Mr. Carter. He’s a gunfighter. I was there at Lady Arabella’s place in Tascosa the night he killed Shad Wilkerson and Shad’s two brothers, in less time than it just took me to tell you about it. I ain’t crossin’ him.” Chadbourne looked directly at Frank. “You hear me, Morgan? I’m foldin’ my hand.”

  “I hear you,” Frank said. “Probably a wise thing to do.”

  “You’re through, Chadbourne,” Carter said coldly. “Come by the office later and I’ll pay you the wages you have coming.”

  “No, thanks. It ain’t enough to worry about. I suddenly recollect that I got business elsewhere, like maybe Idaho or Montana.”

  With that, Chadbourne turned his horse and rode quickly away from Elysium. He didn’t look back.

  With a sneer, Carter said to the other three men, “Are you afraid of this fellow as well? Or are you going to do your job?”

  The three gunnies looked warily at Frank, who stood there impassively with his thumbs still hooked in his gunbelt, seeming utterly unconcerned.

  “He don’t look like such a much to me,” one of the men said. The others nodded as the lure of money overcame common sense. “If you want us to take a look around, Mr. Carter, I don’t reckon he’ll stop us.”

  “Good,” Carter said. “Start with this house.”

  “Frank . . .” Horace said in a tone of quiet worry.

  Frank straightened from his casual pose as the three gunmen swung down from their saddles and started toward the house. “Don’t worry, Horace,” he said.

  He moved to get in the path of the three gunnies. They stopped and glared at him. “You boys see that lady on the porch?” he asked.

  “What about her?”

  “She’s the lady of this house, and if she doesn’t invite you, you’re not going in there.”

  The nearest of the gunmen, an hombre with bright red hair under his battered Stetson, said, “No? How are you gonna stop us?”

  Frank didn’t make any bold declarations. He just hit the redheaded gunnie in the mouth as hard as he could with a fast, straight left. The punch landed so cleanly and with so much force that the man was lifted off his feet and thrown backward to come crashing down on his back.

  Frank was confident that he could have killed all three men in a gunfight, but he didn’t want a bunch of stray lead flying around while there were so many folks standing by who could get hit by it. So even before the redhead landed, Frank was pivoting toward another of the gunmen. He sank his
right fist in that man’s stomach, all the way up to the wrist. As the man grunted in pain and doubled over, Frank put a hand on the back of his head and shoved down hard. At the same time his knee came up. Knee met nose—and nose lost. The impact flattened it and blood spurted across the man’s face as he toppled onto his side, senseless.

  That left only one of the gunmen upright, and he’d had time to get his hand on the butt of his Colt as he yelled in anger and alarm. But before he could draw the gun, Frank’s left hand closed around his wrist, locking it in place. Frank hit the man twice with his right hand, the blows striking so fast they were hard to follow. The first one caught the gunman in the solar plexus and drove the wind out of his lungs; the second landed flush on his jaw and slewed his head around to the right. When Frank let go, the man fell to his knees and swayed there for a second before he pitched forward onto his face. He lay there motionless, like his two companions who were sprawled nearby.

  In a matter of heartbeats, Frank had put all three men on the ground, out cold. He was breathing a little hard, but that was the only sign that he wasn’t quite as young as he used to be.

  Carter stared at the fallen gunmen, then turned to Shipworth and sputtered, “Do something!”

  The pasty-faced young lawyer was even paler now. “What do you expect me to do?” he practically wailed. “I’m no barbarian to go brawling in the dirt!”

  Carter pointed a finger at Horace. “You! You’ve brought in a . . . a gunman to fight your battles for you, you . . . you insurrectionist rabble-rouser!”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong about everything you just said, Carter,” Horace said. “Now, I’ll thank you to get off our land. You’re not wanted here.”

  “You haven’t heard the last of this,” Carter warned.

  “No, I expect I haven’t . . . and more’s the pity about that.”