Imposter (10 page)

Frank laughed at him.

“Don't you laugh at me, Morgan. Don't you do it. I won't stand for that. No, sir, I won't tolerate none of that.”

“Well, now, boy, I sure wouldn't want to do anything to make you angry.”

“Are you funnin' with me, Morgan?”

“You might call it that.”

A crowd had gathered on both sides of the street, staying well out of the line of fire if gunplay should occur.

“I'm ready to kill you, Morgan!”

“What's your name, boy?”

“Ben Hampton. Why?”

“As I have said so many times, Ben, to so many men just like you, a man should have his headstone marked.”

“Huh? The headstone is gonna have
your
name on it, Morgan. And I'm gonna have the fame and glory of bein' the man who killed Frank Morgan.” He paused for a second or two. “What happened to them other men you just mentioned?”

“They're dead, Ben,” Frank said softly.

“Well, you ain't gonna kill me, Morgan. I'm sure of that.”

Frank said nothing in reply.

“Is there a newspaper in this town, Morgan?”

“A small weekly, yes.”

“I want this wrote up so everybody can read about it.”

“I'm sure it will be, Ben.”

“You ready, Morgan?”

“No. But it's your play, Ben.”

“Now!” the young man shouted, and reached for his six-gun.

Just as Ben's hand curled around the butt of his pistol, Frank's .45 boomed. The slug slammed into the young man's right shoulder and he staggered back. He stumbled and fell to the street, landing on his butt. He had pulled his six-gun from leather on the way down. The pistol cracked and Ben shot himself in the right foot, blowing off several toes.

“Oh, God!” he hollered, dropping his pistol to the dirt of the street. “I done shot myself! Oh, Lord. I blowed my own foot off!” He reached for his six-gun again just as Frank approached and kicked the pistol away, out of Ben's reach.

“You've had enough, boy,” Frank told him.

Ben fell over in the dirt and cussed.

Sheriff Davis and his deputies had walked out of the hotel to stand on the boardwalk and witness the entire affair.

Doc Evans came out of his office, carrying his medical bag. He walked out into the street. The doctor knelt down beside the wounded young man, took one look, and called to a group of men standing on the boardwalk in front of the Bluebird Café. “Some of you boys carry this man over to my office, please. Hurry. He's bleeding badly.”

“I ain't got no foot, Doc!” Ben cried.

“Oh, your foot's still there,” Doc Evans told him. “But you're going to be minus several toes, for sure.”

“I'm a cripple!” Ben hollered.

“But you're alive, son,” Doc Evans said. “That's more than most men who braced Frank Morgan can say.”

“It's all your fault,” Ben yelled, looking at Frank. “You're the cause of this.”

Frank said nothing. He ejected the empty brass and slipped in a fresh round.

“Odd way to look at it, boy,” Doc Evans said. “You braced Frank and he tried to talk you out of it.”

Ben yelled in pain as the men picked him up and toted him away to the doctor's office. “Take him to the examining room,” Doc Evans said. “And pull what's left of that boot off his foot, please.”

“This is gonna hurt somethin' awful, ain't it, Doc?” Ben yelled.

“It isn't going to be a lot of fun.”

“Oh, God!” Ben moaned.

“That was good shooting, Frank,” Doc said. “You could have killed him.”

“I didn't want to kill him, Doc.”

The doctor nodded his understanding. “Well, let me go wash up. I've got some cutting and sawing to do.”

“Sounds like a wonderful way to start the day.”

“This is a cakewalk compared to my time in the Army during the Civil War.”

“I imagine so.”

“Did you see a lot of action, Frank?”

“I was at Gettysburg and Antietam, to name only a couple of battles.”

“Enough said. See you, Frank.”

Frank turned just as Sheriff Davis walked out to meet him. “We'll be heading out after breakfast, Frank. My men are provisioning up now.”

“Good luck in finding your sister, Sheriff.”

Sheriff Davis nodded and turned away, then paused and looked back at Frank. “I think you're the fastest gunhand I've ever seen, Frank. And I've seen some of the best. Did you deliberately place that shoulder shot?”

“Yes.”

Davis arched an eyebrow. “Incredible shooting.” He touched the brim of his hat. “See you in a few days.”

“Luck to you, Sheriff.”

Frank walked back to the Blue Bird Café. Lara was waiting on the boardwalk. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.”

“You might have been hurt.”

“I wasn't.”

“He could have killed you!”

“He didn't.”

She stamped her foot. “Frank, are you always this matter-of-fact after a life-and-death situation?”

“Lara, I've been in a hundred gunfights over the years.” Probably more than that, he thought. A lot more. “I haven't come out of all of them unscathed. But I'm still alive.”

“Unscathed,” she whispered. “Frank, you don't talk like a gunfighter.”

“How does a gunfighter speak, Lara? I've known gunslicks who were illiterate, and I've known some who were educated men. John Holliday, for one. He was called Doc. Then were was Cold Chuck Johnny, Black Jack Bill, Dynamite Sam, Dark Alley Jim, Six-Toed Pete. There are dozens of gunfighters still around, Lara. Some can't read or write. Others have fine educations.”

“And the young man who confronted you just a few minutes ago?”

“I don't know, Lara. I never saw him before today.”

“Yet he wanted to kill you. Why?”

“For a reputation, Lara. He wanted to be known as the man who killed Frank Morgan.”

Both of them watched as a local shoveled dirt over the bloodstains in the street.

“I would love to go back East, Frank. Back to civilization. Would you like to go back East?”

“Not particularly, Lara. I'm a Western man. Born and bred out here. I would be as out of place in the East as a fish out of water.”

“You could change your life.”

Frank shook his head. “No, I couldn't. But don't think I haven't thought about it. I have. I'm a known gunfighter, Lara. The genteel folks would look at me like a scientist looks at a bug. I wouldn't feel right without a gun. Folks don't carry guns in the East. Not legally anyway. You've got uniformed police officers on every corner in New York City, but yet from what I read, New York City still has lots of crime. I think every place that has disarmed the citizens has seen a rise in crime. That's not for me. I don't want to be dependent on someone to protect me—because they usually don't. I can protect myself.”

“You might change your mind, Frank.”

“Don't count on it.”

Lara smiled and stepped off the boardwalk, heading back to the hotel.

Frank went to the livery and saddled Stormy. He swung into the saddle. “Come on, Dog. You need some exercise. Let's hit the trail for an hour or so.”

On the way out of town, Frank saw Marshal Wright walking toward the café. “I'm going for a ride, Tom. I'll be back in a couple of hours. Unless I come up on something I think I need to check out.”

“Be careful, Frank. The Simpson spread damn near circles the town. Get on that range and you'll be a target.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Tom didn't know it, but Frank had carefully studied maps of the country around the town and knew very well the boundaries of the Simpson range. He would avoid the Simpson range if possible, but if he needed to cross any part of that range, he would do so, and if Big Ed Simpson didn't like it, he could go to hell.

Another reason for Frank's wanting to get out of town for a time was that he needed to be alone to think. About Lara. She was in his thoughts much of the time and that bothered Frank. He didn't need a woman in his life at this time. Didn't want a woman in his life.

So what should he do about Lara?

Frank immediately pushed Lara out of his mind as he spotted the approach of several riders, heading straight toward him. He reined up and waited, his right hand near the butt of his Peacemaker.

Frank had seen the men in town and had had them pointed out to him. Three Simpson hands, and Frank sensed them to be primed and cocked for trouble.

“Morning, boys,” Frank said, greeting the trio.

“Morgan,” one of the men said. “You're a little out of your territory, ain't you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You ain't got no authority outside of town,” another said.

“Wrong,” Frank replied. “Since the county sheriff's office is a hard two-day ride from town, Marshal Tom is a county deputy, and so am I.”

“Well, that don't spell horse crap to us,” the third one said. “What are you doin' out here?”

“What I'm doing is none of your damned business,” Frank told him.

“Watch that dog,” the first one said. “If he makes a jump, shoot him.”

“And one second later, the shooter will be dead,” Frank said, considerable heat in his voice. “And two seconds after that, the other two will be dead.”

“Huh?” the Simpson hand blurted out. “You'd kill a man over a damn dog?”

“You'd hang a man for rustling one of your herd of cattle or stealing a horse, wouldn't you?” Frank challenged.

The trio of hands shifted in the saddle. “I reckon so,” one reluctantly admitted.

“You boys go on about your business and I'll go on with mine. Have a nice day.” Frank lifted the reins and rode on without looking back. Dog silently padded along beside him. At a curve in the wagon road, Frank reined up and looked back. The trio of Simpson hands were heading into town. None of them looked back at Frank.

“Some folks just don't seem to like you, Dog,” Frank said to the big cur.

Dog bared his teeth at that.

“Might be your general attitude,” Frank said. “You'll have to work on that some, I reckon. What do you say about it?”

Dog walked over to a bush and relieved himself.

Frank laughed. “My sentiments exactly.”

Frank rode on, deliberately cutting onto Simpson land. He rode for a couple of miles, enjoying the peace and quiet of the morning. Cattle grazed all around him, fat and sleek on the grass. Dog suddenly broke into a short run, getting a few yards in front of Stormy and stopping. Frank quickly reined up, knowing that the big cur had sensed danger. He looked all around him, but could see nothing.

“All right, Dog,” Frank said. “We'll play it your way.” Frank headed into the thick timber and swung down, ground-reining Stormy. He pulled his rifle from the scabbard and knelt down behind a tree, waiting.

Dog came to his side and bellied down. He had done his job.

Frank heard the riders before he saw them. The one in the lead was Little Ed Simpson. Directly behind him was a man with his hands tied behind his back. Behind him rode three Simpson hands.

Little Ed reined up not far from where Frank was kneeling down. “This tree will do,” he said, his voice carrying to Frank. “We'll hang the sodbuster right here.”

Frank stepped out from behind the tree. “No, you won't, Ed.”

Little Ed and the hands from the Simpson ranch froze in their saddles as they looked at Frank standing with his. 44-40 rifle pointed at them. Little Ed was the first to speak.

“You don't have no authority out here, Morgan.”

“Wrong, Ed,” Frank told him. “I've got authority anywhere in this county. Now cut that man loose.”

“You go to hell, Morgan!” Little Ed snapped.

Frank jacked back the hammer on his rifle, the sound carrying clearly in the cool morning air. “Any of you start trouble, you get the first bullet, Ed. Now cut that man loose!”

One of the Simpson hands swiftly released the bound man.

“Ride over here to me,” Frank told the man. “But don't get between us. Come on.”

“My pa will kill you for this!” Little Ed shouted.

“I doubt it,” Frank replied. He cut his eyes to the just-released man. “Who are you and what brought all this on?”

“I was sitting on my front porch having a cup of coffee with my wife,” the farmer said, stepping down from the saddle. “These men come up, slapped my wife around, and tied me up like a hog for slaughter. Said they was gonna hang me for stealing cattle. Deputy, I ain't never stole nothing in my life. This has all got to do with Big Ed Simpson's land grab. He wants all the land in this area.”

“What about that, Ed?” Frank called. “What proof do you have this man stole cattle from you?”

“I don't need no damn proof!” Little Ed said. “He was seen on our land. That's good enough for me.”

“I was hunting for game,” the farmer said. “Nothing more than that. Up until a few weeks ago, the land I was on belonged to Paul Hansen. Big Ed's hands run him and his family off and took the land. And that's the truth. Are you really Frank Morgan?”

“Yes.”

“Heard you was in town. Couldn't believe it.”

“You want to press charges?” Frank asked.

“Would it do any good?”

“Sure, it would.”

“Then I'll press charges.”

“Ed, you and your hands drop your guns on the ground. Do it carefully.”

“Hell with you, Morgan!” a Simpson hand yelled, and grabbed for his pistol.

Frank blew him out of the saddle. The big .44-40 slug hit the man in the chest and lifted him out of the saddle. He flopped on the ground a couple of times, then lay still.

“Anyone else want to get antsy?” Frank asked.

No one did.

“Drop your guns on the ground,” Frank ordered. “Do it right now and do it slowly.”

Pistols were carefully pulled from leather and tossed to the ground.

“Now what, Morgan?” Little Ed asked.

“Gather up their guns, farmer,” Frank said. “Carefully. Including the rifles.”

When that was done, Frank told Ed, “You dismount and tie that dead man across his saddle. Snug him down good and tight.” He looked at the farmer, who still had a rather bewildered expression on his face. “What's your name, mister?”

“Asher. George Asher.”

“Well, George. You keep that rifle on those ol' boys while I do something. If they try anything funny, shoot to kill. Can you do that?”

“With a great deal of pleasure, Mr. Morgan.”

Frank stared at him. “I bet that's the truth, for sure.” Frank wrapped up the guns in a blanket and tied that behind his saddle. Once more mounted, he waited until the body of the dead man was secure, then said, “Now we go to town. Lead off, boys.”

“What about my wife, Morgan?” George asked. “She thinks I been hung.”

“Your place far from here?”

“ 'Bout two miles.”

“We'll swing by there and get her. Kids?”

“Four. Two boys and two girls.”

“We'll take them to town too. I'll treat them to some peppermint candy.”

“Kind of you.”

“Move out, boys,” Frank told the Simpson crew. “You all have a date with a jail cell.”

“You got to get us there first, Morgan,” Little Ed said.

“I'll get you there, Ed,” Frank told him. “Or I'll kill you. One or the other.”

Little Ed shut his mouth and kept it shut.

* * *

Practically everyone in town turned out to see the sight, alerted by a group of boys who had been fishing in a creek just outside of town.

Mrs. Asher was driving the wagon, her two boys in the bed of the wagon, the two girls sitting on the seat with her. Following the wagon were Little Ed and his two live hands, the dead one belly-down across his saddle. Bringing up the rear of the parade were Frank and George.

“You going to jail again, Little Ed?” a local called.

“Go to hell!” Ed snapped.

“They tried to hang me,” George called.

“Hang you?” a woman shouted. “Why, Mr. Asher?”

“They caught me hunting on Simpson land and said I was there to rustle cattle.”

A low murmur of rage began from the crowd of locals, soon swelling into a roar of hate.

“Get a rope!” a man yelled. “Let's us have a hangin' of our own!”

“Good idea, Ralph!” a woman yelled.

“Get us into jail, Morgan,” a Simpson hand said, twisting in the saddle and looking back at Frank “These people are crazy.”

“Crazy?” Frank called. “Why? For wanting to hang you? Isn't that what you were planning to do with Mr. Asher?”

“You don't understand?” the cowboy said.

“I reckon not,” Frank replied as he reined up at the marshal's office. “But maybe a judge will. Get down and get into the jail, boys.”

Marshal Wright had stepped outside when the crowds began to gather, a shotgun in his hands. He opened the office door. “Get them inside, Frank. The crowd is gettin' a mite ugly.”

“Yeah,” Frank replied. “We sure wouldn't want a lynching now, would we?”

“You got to protect us!” Little Ed said. “That's your sworn duty.”

“Oh, shut up, Ed,” Tom told him. “And get into jail.”

“My pa will be here 'fore long,” Little Ed said. “With our crew. By God, then he'll show you who's boss around here.”

“Right, Ed,” Frank said, pushing Ed into the office. “Keep hoping.”

“He'll kill you, Morgan!”

“Is killing the only thing you ever think about?”

Little Ed cussed him.

Frank shoved him into a cell and clanged the barred door shut. “Relax, Ed. Take a nap. The rest will do you good.”

“Hell with you, Morgan!”

The Simpson crew safely locked down, Frank closed the door to the cell block and walked into the office. The Asher family was telling Tom what had happened at their farm. Tom was taking notes. Frank poured a cup of coffee and sat down.

“Little Ed slapped you, Mrs. Asher?” Tom asked. “That's how you got that bruise on your face?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bastard!” Tom muttered under his breath.

“Beg pardon, Marshal?” George asked, leaning forward in his chair.

“Nothing, George,” Tom said. “Just talkin' to myself.”

“And the hands threatened to strip Amanda and ... well... you know,” Mrs. Asher said, her face reddening from embarrassment.

“They said that in front of the girl?” Frank asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Frank and Tom exchanged glances. The threat of sexual assault on a good woman was grounds for a sure-enough hanging in the West. If word about that got out, no jail would be strong enough to hold back the folks with hanging on their minds.

“Keep that to yourselves,” Tom told the Asher family. “How old is the girl now, George?”

“Thirteen last month.”

Tom cut his eyes to Frank, and Frank nodded his head in understanding at the silent glance. Threatening to strip naked and assault a good woman was bad enough, but to threaten to do that to a young girl would be enough to cause the locals to riot and charge the jail.

Frank got a cup of coffee, sat down, and drank it while Tom wrote down the rest of Asher's story and the farmer and his wife both signed it.

“No bond for this, Frank,” Tom said, closing the ledger and putting it away in the safe. “But you can bet broke ribs or not, Big Ed will be comin' into town, raisin' hell about his son.”

“And Little Ed's mother?”

Tom grimaced. “Lord, I hope not. Not that foul-mouthed hellion.”

Frank smiled at the marshal's expression. “I'm going over to O'Malley's and get some candy for the kids, Tom.”

“Get some for me too while you're at it.”

Frank bought a sack full of various types of hard candy for the kids and a big peppermint stick for Tom. The kids and Tom were delighted. Tom immediately started sucking on the peppermint stick.

“You folks hungry?” Frank asked the Ashers.

“I could eat,” George said. “How about you, Mother?”

“Tom?” Frank asked.

The marshal waved the peppermint stick. “This'll do me till my noonin'.”

While the Ashers ate an early lunch, Frank had coffee. “How many of the farmers will stand up against the Simpson crew?” he asked.

“Near 'bout all that's left will, I reckon,” George answered. “Them that didn't have the stomach for it have already been buffaloed and pulled out.”

“Stock up on ammo and watch for night riders,” Frank warned them. “And I'll have a chat with Big Ed about any more rough stuff.” Frank finished his coffee and pushed back his chair. “Your meal's on me. See you later.”

“Much obliged, Mr. Morgan,” George said, and his wife smiled her thanks at Frank.

Walking along the boardwalk, Frank noticed a man wearing a very natty suit and bowler hat putting up posters. He stopped to read one. An opera company was coming to town. They would be performing arias from operas whose names Frank could not pronounce and wouldn't even try.

“You have to see this show, Deputy,” the fancy-dressed man said, observing Frank's interest. “It's a good one. We just finished two sellout weeks in San Francisco.”

“Is that right?”

“Certainly is. I'm proud and happy to say that we're bringing sophistication to the once-wild West.”

“Do tell?”

“Absolutely. Do you like opera music?”

“I can't say one way or the other. Never been to an opera concert.”

“You'll enjoy it. I guarantee it. Here, let me give you these.” The man reached into his suit pocket and handed Frank a couple of tickets. “You and a friend come to the show on us. Is that fair, Deputy?”

“Sounds fair to me. Thanks.”

“Don't mention it. Just enjoy the music and singing.”

“I'm sure I will.” Frank walked on, cutting across to the hotel. He saw Lara sitting in the lobby, reading the local newspaper. He took a seat beside her and she smiled at him. The smile brightened his entire day.

“Morning, Frank.”

“Lara.”

“I saw you bringing in Little Ed and some of his hands. One across his saddle.”

“Yes.” He told Lara about the incident.

“How horrible for the Asher girl!”

“Keep what I said to yourself, please. I don't want a lynching in town.”

“I won't say a word.” She smiled again. “Who would I say it to? Most women in this town won't even speak to me.”

“Their loss, Lara.” He told her about the opera company coming to town and showed her the tickets. “Would you like to attend?”

“With you, Frank?”

“Why . . . ah, sure.”

“I would love it.” Again, she smiled. “That will really set tongues wagging.”

“Let them wag. We haven't done anything wrong.”

“Yet,” she said, and this time she wasn't smiling.

“Yes. Yet.” Frank looked up the street at the sound of many horses. A dozen Simpson riders were riding into town, a half dozen in front of a buggy, a half dozen behind. Big Ed Simpson and a woman were in the buggy.

“Stay in the hotel, Lara. Big trouble just rode in.” Frank stepped out onto the boardwalk.

“You!”
Big Ed yelled, pointing at Frank. “I want to talk to
you!”