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  “The Nortons was good folks an’ they didn’t deserve what happened to ’em,” Burl said, his face grim. “And those ranchers need to be taken down a notch or two if you ask me.”

  * * *

  On the road again, Frank looked at his watch. It was almost noon. “Let’s stop in the shade up here and rest for a time. Like maybe an hour.”

  “Until the nooning is over?”

  “You got it.”

  “Agreed.”

  Both men slept for an hour under the shade of a huge tree. They awakened within moments of each other and exchanged glances.

  “I’m still not hungry,” Claude said. “I might not eat until this time tomorrow.”

  “I know the feeling. Let’s ride.”

  Van and Virginia Calen had just finished lunch when Frank and Claude rode up. Van was sitting outside smoking his pipe, and waved the men to a bench.

  “You boys are too late for lunch,” Van said. “Me and the wife and the kids ate it all up. But we still got coffee that’s hot.”

  Both Frank and Claude sighed with relief, Claude saying, “Coffee would be fine, Van.”

  Over coffee, Claude explained the situation, Frank adding, “If you folks are going to beat the ranchers, you’ve got to get organized, and you’ve got to go armed at all times.”

  “We’re not warriors, Mr. Morgan,” Van said. “I hunt, sure. But I’ve never shot at a man. I don’t know that I could.”

  “Not even if your family was threatened?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Morgan. Yes, I reckon I could if that happened.” He paused. “Sure I would,” he added. “But that ain’t never happened.”

  “Yet,” Claude said.

  “You have weapons?” Frank asked.

  “I got a rifle and a shotgun. I ain’t no hand with a pistol.”

  “Stock up on ammunition,” Frank told him. “And make certain your wife knows how to use the weapons. That’s important. There’ll be many times that you’re away from the house. If you don’t have the money on hand to buy extra ammunition, I’ll help you.”

  “We’re tellin’ everyone this, Van,” Claude said. “It’s war now.”

  “Is this land worth it, Claude?” Van’s wife, Virginia, asked, stepping out of the house to stand by her husband. “Is a piece of ground worth killing people over?”

  “The ranchers sure think so, Virginia,” Claude answered. “Look what they done to the Norton family.”

  The farmer’s wife slowly nodded her head and walked back inside the house. She returned with a coffeepot. “I made fresh.” She filled their cups and went back into the house.

  “You met the new people yet?” Claude asked Van.

  “Yes. Nice folks. They got a bunch of kids too.”

  “You tell them about the situation here?”

  “I laid it out for them. They said they was here to stay. They filed on the land legal-like and it was theirs. They intend to build homes and stay. I think they meant it.”

  “We’ll go see them now,” Claude said to Frank. “We got time.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  As they climbed on their horses, Frank added to Claude, “Let’s just pray that the new people we’re gonna visit haven’t had time to bake any cakes or pies or bread yet.”

  Claude laughed. “Yeah. I’m gonna have to go on a diet after this little trip is over.”

  Seven

  The new settlers were still living in their wagons while they worked on building their homes. When they had all gathered around and Frank was introduced, they were, to a person, clearly in awe at meeting the famous gunfighter.

  “You’re on our side?” Frank was asked.

  “Looks that way,” Frank replied, eyeing all the small children that were busy playing all over the place. He counted nine kids, all of them under ten or twelve years of age.

  “We have weapons,” another man explained. “But we never thought we’d have to fight in order to farm the land.”

  “Welcome to cattle country,” Frank said bluntly.

  “You sound like you agree with the ranchers,” a woman said.

  Frank glanced at the woman. About thirty, he guessed, very attractive. “Ma’am, let me tell you something. When the ranchers came into this area, they had to fight Indians and rustlers. They suffered through drought and blizzards and the occasional flood. But they buried their dead and stuck it out. They tamed this land. No, I’m not on their side. But I can see some things from their point of view. There’s land here aplenty for all of you. And the ranchers have no legal right to keep you out. But they’re going to try to run you out. Bet on that.”

  “Or kill us,” Claude added.

  “Yes,” Frank agreed. “Or kill you.”

  “Would you look over our weapons, Mr. Morgan?” another young settler asked.

  “I’d be happy to.”

  Since the settlers lived so close together, it didn’t take long for them to produce two rifles, three shotguns, and four pistols.

  “This is it?” Frank asked.

  “We’re farmers, Mr. Morgan,” another young man said. “We came here to work the land.”

  Before Frank could reply, a woman said, “Four riders coming. Riding in from the west.”

  “They had to come through the pass then,” Claude said, looking up the road. “’Cause the road ends about two miles west of here.”

  Frank waited until the quartet drew closer. “Gunslicks,” he said.

  “You know them?” Claude asked.

  “I know one of them. That’s Ray Hinkle on the black.”

  “I never heard of him,” Claude said.

  “He’s a back-shooter,” Frank explained. “Shoots from hiding. And he’s a crack shot. The other three must be real trash to be riding with him. Very few people will have anything to do with Ray.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “No one knows for sure. I haven’t seen him in several years. I thought maybe someone had done the world a service and shot him.”

  The four men reined up in the road and stared at the men, women, and children. Ray stared at Frank for a moment, then said, “Morgan. What are you doin’ here?”

  “I live here, Hinkle.”

  “Morgan!” one of the riders blurted out. “Frank Morgan?”

  “You takin’ up farmin’ now, Morgan?” Hinkle asked, a sarcastic tone to the question.

  “Maybe.”

  “They’s money on your head, Morgan,” another of the quartet said.

  “So I hear,” Frank replied, rolling a cigarette. “Somebody back East wants me dead. You want to try to collect it?”

  “I might.”

  Hinkle and the two other men quickly backed their horses away from the mouthy gunman.

  “We’re out of this, Morgan,” one of the men with Hinkle said. “We been hired on at the Diamond. We wasn’t hired to fight you.”

  “What’s your name?” Frank asked the man who thought he might like to collect the bounty money.

  “Harris. Funny thing, Morgan. I heard it was your own son that wanted you dead.”

  “You can hear all sorts of things, Harris.”

  “You must have been a real sorry-assed father to your boy, Morgan. For him to hate you that much.”

  Frank said nothing. He had already been in communication with Conrad, his son back East, through his attorneys. The young man had heard of the money being offered for Frank’s death, but claimed that he personally had nothing to do with it. Private detectives were working to try to find the man, or men, who had put up the money.

  Frank had never believed that Conrad had been involved in any way.

  Harris slowly swung down from the saddle, never taking his eyes off Frank and being careful to keep the horse between them.

  Harris has been over the hill and across the river, Frank thought. He’s damn sure no pilgrim.

  Harris stepped away from the horse to face Frank, his right hand hovering close to the butt of his pistol.

  Claude
and the newly arrived settlers moved swiftly out of the way.

  “Don’t be a fool, Harris,” Frank told him. “Even if you got lucky and killed me, you’d never collect the money.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s against the law to put a bounty on a man’s head. Besides, you don’t know who put up the money, or even if it’s real.” Frank knew what was coming next, and he wasn’t disappointed.

  “That don’t make no never mind to me, Morgan. I’ll be the man who killed Frank Morgan. I’ll be able to name my price after that.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Harris,” one of the men he rode in with said. “Back off, man.”

  “Shut up, Carter,” Harris said without taking his eyes off of Frank. “I can take him.”

  Frank waited.

  “You better listen to Carter, Harris,” the remaining gunslick said. “We’re come a long ways for you to die ’fore you collect your first paycheck.”

  “Shut up, Brown,” Harris told him. “I done told you all I can take Morgan. And I will.”

  “This is crazy,” one of the young settlers said. “You men stop this. Why are you fighting?”

  “Ask Harris,” Frank said.

  “’Cause we is who we is,” Harris said.

  “Well . . . that makes no sense at all to me,” the farmer replied.

  “It don’t have to,” Harris said. “It makes sense to me. Now shut your mouth up.”

  “Be quiet, Mosby,” Claude told the young farmer. “Stay out of this.”

  “Draw, Morgan!” Harris said.

  “It’s your play,” Frank told the man. “If you’re in such a hurry to die, you start it.”

  “You a damn coward!” Harris yelled.

  Frank said nothing.

  “I’m tellin’ you to drag iron, Morgan!” Harris said, the sweat suddenly popping out on his face.

  “After you, Harris,” Frank said softly.

  “You nothin’ but a yeller dog!” Harris said.

  Frank smiled.

  “I want to take the children away from here,” a woman spoke. “I don’t want them to see this.”

  “Then get your damn brats clear,” Harris said. “Go on, do it.”

  The woman herded the kids away, behind a wagon, the children protesting all the way.

  “I want to watch,” one young boy said.

  “No. Be quiet,” the woman admonished him.

  “Now then, Morgan,” Harris said. “You better hook that hog leg. I’m fixin’ to kill you.”

  “I told you, Harris, it’s your play. I won’t pull on you.”

  “Damn you, Morgan!” The sweat was really popping out on Harris’s face.

  Frank stood very still, very calm. His eyes never left Harris. Nothing else mattered. Frank did not hear dogs barking or birds singing. His heart thudded slow and steady in his chest. He waited.

  “I’ll kill you, Morgan!” Harris yelled, and grabbed for his gun.

  Frank’s draw was cat-quick and his shot was deadly accurate. The .45-caliber slug hit Harris in the chest. Harris’s boots flew out from under him and he landed flat on his back, dead.

  “Jesus God!” a farmer behind and to one side of Frank whispered. “I never even seen the draw.”

  “Harris never even got his pistol clear of leather,” another farmer said.

  “I wanna see!” a boy hollered from behind the wagon.

  “Hush!” a woman told him.

  “Is that man dead?” a farmer’s wife asked.

  “Dead as a rock,” her husband replied.

  “Lord have mercy,” the woman said.

  Frank walked over to where Harris lay on the ground and looked down at him. Then, without a word, he holstered his Peacemaker and walked back to the group of farm families.

  “We’ll bury him, Frank,” Hinkle said. “And he was wrong. He had no call to challenge you.”

  Frank nodded, and watched as Harris’s body was laid across his saddle and tied down.

  “We’ll be goin’ now, Frank,” Hinkle said. “I hope we don’t run into you durin’ this little dispute over land.”

  “I hope so too, Hinkle,” Frank said.

  Frank waited a few minutes, giving Hinkle, Carter, and Brown time to get gone, then turned to Claude. “We best be getting back. It’s a long ride to your place.”

  “That’s a beautiful horse, Mr. Morgan,” a girl of about ten said, looking at Stormy. “What kind of horse is that? I ain’t never seen one like it.”

  “It’s an Appaloosa, honey. The Nez Percé Indians raise them.”

  “He’s beautiful.”

  Frank looked at the group of farm families. “You folks be watchful and go armed. When you go into town for supplies, go in a group. I’ll check back with you in a few days.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” a woman said. “And we’re glad you’re on our side.”

  “Yes, I guess I’ve crossed the line now,” Frank replied. He stepped into the saddle and lifted the reins. “See y’all.”

  Back at his house, Frank stabled, rubbed down, and fed Stormy. Then he fed Dog. That done, he sat down on the bench by the front door and relaxed. He wasn’t hungry and gave no thought to supper. He felt no emotion about the killing of the hired gun Harris. Harris had bought into the game and lost. No one forced him to do so.

  Frank was very sorry the women and kids had to be there. But that was something entirely beyond his control.

  With a sigh, he stood up and went into the house, Dog padding along with him. He stoked up the kitchen stove and put on water for coffee. He lit the lamps in the living area, for dusk was fast approaching. The coffee made, Frank sugared his and took the steaming cup outside, once more sitting on the bench, Dog on the ground beside him.

  Frank drank his coffee as the night began to slowly settle around him. Several riders passed by, slowing to a walk as they approached Frank’s place, but not stopping. Frank sat on the bench and watched the dark shapes of the horses and riders until they were out of sight. Then he fixed another cup of coffee and rolled himself a smoke.

  A lone horseman came up the road, coming from the direction of the settlement. The horseman reined up in front of the house.

  “Frank?” a familiar voice called.

  “Right here,” Frank said. “Who am I talking to?”

  “Dave Moore. We met in the saloon, remember?”

  “I remember. What’s on your mind?”

  “I’m pullin’ out, Frank. I ain’t gonna have no part in killin’ women and kids.”

  “Is it getting down to the wire, Dave?”

  “Real soon.”

  “You know anything about farming, Dave?”

  “Sure. Hell, I was raised on a farm. Why do you ask?”

  A smile formed on Frank’s lips. “Tell you what. Why don’t you spend the night here? You can bunk in the barn. Lots of hay in the loft. Hell, you don’t want to be ridin’ at night. Nearest town is miles away. Be dawn ’fore you got there. We can talk some and I’ll tell you what I got on my mind. I think you’ll go for it.”

  Eight

  Dave was laughing so hard, Frank thought he might bust the buttons on his shirt. The gunhand finally wiped his eyes and nodded his head in agreement with Frank’s suggestion.

  “Hell, why not, Frank? I don’t like neither one of those damn snooty ranchers. I might actually like farmin’. Yeah, by God! Gettin’ back to the land sounds good to me.”

  “I had a hunch it would, Dave.”

  “You got a piece of property in mind?”

  “Two sections just up the road. Family pulled out last year, Claude told me. No one’s filed on it.”

  “Has it got a house on it?”

  “Yes. But it’s not completed yet. Needs a little work to get it ready.”

  “I can do that. My daddy was a fine carpenter.”

  “And Claude told me the man left some equipment behind too.”

  “Sounds better and better, Frank. Come the mornin,’ we’ll ride over and take a look.
If it’s anything at all like you was told, I’ll take me a ride over to the county seat and file on it.”

  “Sounds good to me. Now then, how about some coffee?”

  “I could do with a taste.” Dave chuckled. “Imagine me a farmer!”

  * * *

  “He did what?” Grant Perkins yelled at Jim Knight, his foreman.

  Jim repeated what he’d heard in the saloon.

  Grant began cussing, and didn’t stop until he was out of breath.

  “You through now?” Jim asked calmly.

  “Yes, goddamnit, I’m through.”

  “Good. Grant, why get so upset about one man filing on farmland?”

  “Because he came into this area to work for us.”

  “So did Harris, but he got stupid and tried to take Frank Morgan. So what?”

  “I didn’t like Dave Moore first time I laid eyes on him,” Perkins muttered. “Jim, get my horse saddled, will you? I’m goin’ to ride over and have me a talk with Rogers. It’s time for us to make a move.”

  “Seems like a move has already been made, Grant. The Norton family is dead, ain’t they?”

  “I didn’t have a damn thing to do with that, Jim. But by God, I’m glad it was done.”

  “Killing women and kids, Grant?” Jim asked softly.

  “If it has to be that way, yes. This land belongs to me and Mark Rogers. All of it.”

  Jim’s eyes narrowed momentarily and he nodded his head. “I’ll get your horse saddled, Grant.”

  * * *

  Frank and Claude met with the rest of the farm families homesteading in the long series of rich fertile valleys. Claude deliberately left Paul Adams for the last one on the list.

  “I wondered when you were going to get around to me, Claude,” Paul said. “Have a seat over there in the shade.” He called to one of his boys. “Bring us a pot of coffee.”

  “Right away, Pa.”

  The men sat on cane-bottomed chairs in the side yard, under the shade of a towering old tree. Paul looked at Frank. “So you’re going to play at being a farmer now, right, Morgan?”

  “I filed on some land, yes, Adams.”

  The rich farmer gave Frank a sharp look at the use of his last name. Then he slowly smiled. “You plan to really farm it, Frank?”