Imposter (18 page)

“If I ever see you,” Lara said, her voice as cold as frost on a pump handle, “I'll kill you myself.”

“You won't see me again, lady. Bet on that.”

“Let's do it, Dag,” another said. “Let's get gone.”

Frank slipped under the old building and waited until the men had exited the building. He listened as they rode away, taking the same route as Goody and his pals.

Frank stood up, brushed off the dirt from his clothing, and stepped into the building, mentally preparing himself for the worst as he viewed the women close up.

It was even worse than he had imagined.

“Don't say a word,” Frank urged the women in a whispered voice. He was trying to keep the shock he felt upon seeing them from his face. He wasn't at all sure he was succeeding.

“Frank,” Lara said, standing up, holding a blanket around her to cover her nakedness. “I felt sure you'd come.”

Lara's face was swollen and puffy from being beaten. Her lips were twice their normal size. Both her eyes were nearly closed from the swelling. All the women were in very bad shape. Two of them, Frank noted, could not even stand up.

The four men who had hastily pulled out had left behind two rifles, leaning in a corner of the building. Frank picked one up and checked it, then handed the weapon to Lara. “You know how to use this, Lara?”

“Oh, yes.” She took the rifle.

“I've got to clean this place out,” Frank said. “There are still some snakes that need to be stomped on. Lara, if I don't come back . . .”

“I know,” she replied softly, then lifted the rifle. “They won't take any of us alive, Frank.”

Frank took a deep breath, then nodded his head. “All right, Lara.” His eyes touched the blanket-covered body of a woman lying on the floor. “Who is that?”

“One of the women they kidnapped earlier. She died about an hour ago. Val beat her with his fists yesterday. She never regained consciousness.”

“I'll be back,” Frank said.

“We're counting on it, Frank.”

Frank slipped out of the building and stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust once more to the night. He felt his emotions hardened and then turn mean. Mad-dog mean. He reached into the sack hanging from his gunbelt and pulled out a stick of dynamite. Then he walked to the next house and pressed his ear to the outside wall. He could hear the muffled sound of voices. He lit the dynamite and tossed the sputtering stick under the house, then ran for cover.

The dynamite blew and the old building completely collapsed; the walls blew out and the roof came crashing down. People might have survived that, but if they did, they were badly hurt.

Just then, Frank heard the sounds of galloping horses. He looked toward the road and could just make out the shapes of about a half dozen or so horses. The last of the outlaws were pulling out; they were calling it quits.

Frank began walking the town, looking for survivors. The first one he found was the outlaw with the busted knee, Cec.

Frank squatted down and looked at the man. Someone had bashed his head in and turned his pockets inside out, stealing whatever the man had. They had also taken his guns. “Nice friends you had, Cec,” Frank muttered.

He walked on. He found several wounded outlaws and dragged them to a house. He put them inside and closed and locked the door.

“Are you gonna leave us in here to die, Morgan?” one called.

“Yes,” Frank replied. “At least for tonight. I'll turn you loose in the morning and leave you horses to ride out on.”

“This ain't Christian, Morgan.”

“Take it up with God,” Frank told him, and walked away.

* * *

Frank leveled a rifle at the driver of the heavily laden supply wagon, and the men lifted their hands. “I ain't nothin' but a delivery man, mister,” the driver said. “But I know you. You're Frank Morgan. Booger Bob said you was here. I come with the supplies and for my money.”

“I'll pay you. Go to the livery and saddle two horses. Get out. I ought to shoot both of you dead for consorting with the trash that lived here.”

“How 'bout our money?” the other man asked.

Frank tossed him a wad of bills and a sack of gold coins he'd taken from the dead outlaws at first light. “There's your money. Now get the hell gone from here.”

The pair were gone ten minutes later. They did not look back.

Frank drove the wagon down to the livery and unhooked the team. He rubbed them down and forked hay to them, then unloaded the wagon. Lara walked down to the barn and stood in silence for a moment, watching him.

“Is that how we're leaving, Frank, in that wagon?”

“Yes. I'll put hay in the bed to cushion the ride. We'll pull out in the morning.”

“How far is the nearest town?”

“About four days, in this wagon. It isn't going to be a pleasant trip.”

“Neither was the ride here or our stay.”

Frank looked at the woman. “No, I'm sure it wasn't. But it's over now.”

“It will never be over, Frank. Not in our minds, that is. Our bodies will heal. But not our minds.”

“I reckon not, Lara.” He continued forking hay into the bed of the wagon.

“Did you bury the dead men, Frank?”

“I put their bodies in a shack. I'll set it on fire in the morning. That'll have to do.”

“It's more than they deserve.”

“I'm sure of that.”

Lara walked to the front of the livery. “I'll gather up as many blankets as I can, Frank. And those of us who are able will heat some water for a bath of sorts. We have to bathe, Frank. Do I have to explain that?”

“No. I understand.”

“Good.”

“As soon as I get done here, I'll fix us something to eat. A big pot of stew or something. Soup maybe.”

“Whatever, Frank. I made some coffee. It's on the stove.”

“Thanks. I could use some.”

When Frank finished in the livery, he walked the town, making one last check to see if he'd missed any outlaws that might still be alive. He had not. Then he walked back to the building where the women were staying and poured a mug of coffee. He went outside, sat down, and rolled a cigarette. He drank his coffee slowly and smoked. He was tired, very tired. The events of the previous night were catching up to him. Frank was far from being an old man, but he sure as hell was no longer a young buck, full of piss and vinegar.

“Mr. Morgan?” The young girl's voice opened his eyes.

Frank looked into the battered face of young Lydia Wilson. All of fourteen ... now going on forty, Frank thought. “Yes, honey?”

“What am I going to tell my mama and papa?”

“The truth, Lydia. As much of it as you think they can stand to bear.”

“And how much is that?”

“I don't know, honey. Maybe you can talk to Doc Evans and he can help with that. You're going to have to see him.”

“I know. But I don't know what to say to him. It's . . . well . . . so personal and awful.” She ran back into the house, weeping uncontrollably.

Lara came out and sat down beside Frank. “I think,” she said, “I will be heading back East, Frank. I still have some family back there.”

“Might be a good idea.” Frank knew right then and there that once he got Lara back to town, he would never see her again.

“I could never live in Chance again, Frank. I couldn't face the townspeople day after day. I just couldn't.”

“It would be a hard thing, I'm sure.”

“Would you come back East with me, Frank?”

Frank shook his head. “No, Lara. I couldn't live back yonder. Too damn many rules and regulations for me. I like my freedom.”

“People are free back there.”

Again, Frank shook his head. “No, they're not. They just think they are. We've had this discussion before. It wouldn't work for me.”

Lara rose from the step and walked back into the building without saying another word to Frank. Frank experienced a very acute sense of loss for a moment, then sighed and stood up. He would have liked another cup of coffee, but didn't feel like facing the women again . . . not just yet. He was bone-tired, and he was dirty and would have liked a bath and a shave. He looked rough, and probably smelled that way. He just wanted to lie down and go to sleep. But he had promised the ladies he'd fix a pot of stew. Frank went back to the cache of supplies and rummaged through the pile. He decided to fix some bacon and fried potatoes. That would have to do.

Dixie Malone had walked down to the livery, and watched Frank for a moment. “Let me do that, Mr. Morgan,” she said from the doorway.

“You sure?” Frank asked.

“It would help get my mind off ... things.”

“I reckon so. Sure. I'll get a fire going and we'll fix something to eat.”

While the food was cooking, Dixie said, “Those among us who are married are wondering how much we should tell our husbands.”

Frank looked at her. “I can't answer that, Dixie. How strong is your husband?”

“You don't mean physical strength, do you?”

“No.”

“He's a mighty jealous man, I can tell you that.”

Frank hesitated. How to answer her question? In the minds of many, once a good woman had been raped, she was soiled. The husbands—many of them anyway—would always wonder several things. One, could she have prevented it? Two, could she have found a way to kill herself? Death was better than rape. And three, did she secretly enjoy it?

“You tell him what you think he needs to know, Dixie. I'm going to talk to the men and tell them what I personally saw and heard . . . tell them up to a point, that is.”

She smiled at that. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”

“Frank. Just Frank. Mr. Morgan is going to get burdensome. We've got a long way to go.”

* * *

Frank set fire to the outlaw town, torching every building. On the morning they pulled out, the outlaw town was blazing.

There were nine women to be transported back home. Six from the town of Chance, and three others from nearby farms. One of them, a woman called Pearl, had seemingly lost her mind. She never spoke a word. She just sat quite still in the bed of the wagon and slobbered down the front of her dress.

“Two outlaws at once took her several times,” Dixie said. “It was awful to watch. Little Ed was among them.”

“I intend to find them all, Dixie,” Frank told her. “I'll see they get justice.”

“After the last assault on her,” Lydia said, “her eyes just sort of glazed over and she never said nothin' else to nobody.”

Lydia and Nellie chose to ride horseback on the way back home . . . astride. Which was sort of embarrassing to Frank, but he declined to say anything about it. The girls had found some men's britches in the town, washed them proper, and put them on, using a bit of rope for belts to keep them up.

“Those two women, Sadie and Bloody Mama,” Lara said, “they were worse than the men.”

“Perverted bitches,” Dixie said.

Then Lara proceeded to tell Frank some of the things the two outlaw women had done. Frank would have preferred she had kept that information to herself. When she finished her rather graphic retelling, Frank felt his ears burning.

“Thank you so much for that information, Lara,” Frank told her, trying without success to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

“You're certainly welcome, Frank,” she replied with an equal amount of sarcasm.

With the burning town behind them, Frank and the women started the long trek home. Frank had no idea what had happened to the whores who lived and worked in the town. They'd either run off into the timber or ridden out with some of the outlaws. Really, he didn't much give a damn what had happened to them. He'd read a line once in a book about how people who lie down with dogs usually got up with fleas. Something like that. Couldn't remember who wrote it. Shakespeare maybe.

Frank had packed enough supplies to last the trip. The women would share the driving chores.

It was going to be a long trip.

* * *

The people of the town of Chance turned out en masse to watch as Frank escorted the women into the town. No one cheered. They all stood in silence and simply watched. Frank reined up in front of Doc Evans's office, and the women quickly got out of the wagon and went into the office. Frank had told a boy who had met the procession outside of town to get into town and make sure Doc Evans was in his office. None of the women said a word to any of the townspeople.

Frank stood outside the office to make sure no one else went in.

Lydia Wilson's father pushed his way through the crowd to face Frank. “Frank? My daughter?”

“She's alive, Will.”

“Thank God! I got to get home and tell her mother.”

“I saw them come in, Will,” Mrs. Hockstedler said, a very smug look on her face. “Lydia was riding a horse . . . astride.”

“I don't give a damn if she was sittin' on the horse's nose,” Will told the busybody. “She's
alive!”

Mrs. Hockstedler sniffed her displeasure at Will's remark and turned away.

Lawyer Whitter walked up. “My estranged wife, Mr. Morgan?”

“She's alive, John. All the women who were taken from this town are alive.”

“After being gone for several weeks and, ah, having been sexually, ah, shall we say,
entertained
numerous times by various men, the women being alive, as you put it, is purely a matter of opinion.”

Frank knocked the lawyer off the boardwalk. John crawled to his knees, his mouth bloody, and then uttered the words that even back in the 1880s were on their way to the de-balling of America, “I'll sue you!”

Frank laughed at him just as Marshal Wright came walking up.

“Go home, John,” Tom told him. “Before Frank tears your head off and hands it to you.”

Doc Evans opened the office and motioned for Frank to step inside. “Go tell the barber to heat up all the water he can and lay out all the tubs, Frank. Then go over to O'Malley's and tell Mrs. O'Malley to give you some good-smelling women's soap.”