Imposter (2 page)

Frank sat on the narrow bunk in his cell and pondered his situation. He had to conclude it did not look good.

He wondered about Dog, but he did not dare ask about the big cur for fear one of the locals or deputies would find him and shoot him for sport.

The sheriff did tell him he had stabled Stormy and his packhorse. Frank had thanked the lawman for that. The sheriff had given Frank a very odd look.

Frank knew one thing for sure: He had to get out of jail and find this damn outlaw named Val Dooley.

And Frank wondered about this so-called Montana shootout where he had supposedly been killed. Another rumor about him, he thought, shaking his head in disgust.
It never stops; if anything, it's getting worse.

Frank looked up at the sound of boots in the narrow corridor of the cell block.

Sheriff Davis stepped into view through the heavy bars and stared at Frank for a moment. “What the hell are you up to, Val?” he asked.

“My name is Frank Morgan, Sheriff. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

The sheriff shook his head and sighed. “Frank Morgan is dead, Val. It's been confirmed. Let me show you something.” He took a dodger from his pocket and handed it to Frank. “Look at that and then tell me that isn't you.”

Frank stared at the wanted poster in disbelief. The face on the dodger was his likeness, no question about it. It was like looking into a mirror. “I read somewhere that everybody on earth has a twin, Sheriff. I guess I've found mine.”

“Oh, come on, Val!” the sheriff said, exasperation in his tone. “Give it up, man. You're caught and that's that.”

“My name is Frank Morgan.”

“Damn!” the sheriff said, then turned around and walked out of the cell block. He slammed the door behind him.

Frank sat down on the bunk and stared at the wall.
Now what?
he pondered. He stood up and hollered, “Hey, Sheriff! Sheriff!”

The door opened and Davis again stepped into the corridor. “Now what, Val?”

“Is there a lawyer in this town?”

“Sure. Charles Carter. Why?”

“I want to see him.”

“I'll tell him. But it isn't goin' to do you any good.”

“Why not?”

“Because you're goin' to hang, Val. Just as sure as the sun comes up in the east.”

“You mean I'm not going to get a trial?”

“Of course you're goin' to get a trial. We're not a bunch of savages. It'll all be legal and dignified. We'll hang you right after the trial.”

Frank stared at the man for a few seconds. “That's not very comforting. Are you going to get that lawyer for me?”

“Sure. But there's no hurry. Judge won't be through here for a couple of weeks. So just relax, Val. I'll talk to Lawyer Carter in a few days. One of the deputies will see about getting you something to eat in a little while. My sister, Alberta, cooks for the jail. It'll be a good meal. You can count on that.”

“Sheriff, I can prove I'm Frank Morgan.”

Sheriff Davis smiled. “No, you can't, Val. So stop harping on Frank Morgan, will you? It's gettin' tiresome.”

“Not as tiresome as this is getting for me.”

The sheriff smiled at him and walked away, out of the cell block area.

Frank cussed under his breath and stepped up on a small stool so he could look out of the barred window. Nothing to see. He carefully inspected the bars. They were set solid. Not a chance he could get out that way.

Frank sat back down on the bunk and looked at the picture of the outlaw, Val Dooley. The resemblance was uncanny. Startling. He could certainly understand why he had been mistaken for the outlaw.
But,
he thought as he folded the wanted dodger and put it in his shirt pocket,
that doesn't help me out of this fix.

Frank knew one thing for a fact: No one was going to hang him. He certainly didn't relish the thought of killing some innocent person, but he had learned a long time back that if a man didn't look after himself, no one else would.

Frank stretched out on the bunk and went to sleep.

He was awakened by the slamming of the cell block's outer door. He sat on the edge of the bunk and listened to the soft scrape of footsteps. He could tell it wasn't a man.

“Mr. Dooley?” a woman's voice called.

“I'm not Val Dooley,” Frank replied. “But everyone around here sure thinks I am.”

The woman stepped into view, a tray in her hands. She was just about the homeliest woman Frank had ever seen. She was thin as a rail, her mouse-colored hair was unkempt, there was a big wart on her pointy chin, her long nose and her chin almost met, and if she had taken a bath in the past six months, she had forgotten the soap.

“Don't be silly, Val,” she said. “Of course you're Val Dooley. I'd know you anywhere.”

“Lady, I never saw you before in my entire life.”
And if I had,
Frank thought,
you would have given me nightmares.

“Oh, you're such a card, you are, Val. Look, I brought you a good supper of fried chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy.” She set the tray down on the floor and pushed it under the bars with her foot. “Now, you eat that up.”

“Alberta?” Frank asked.

“Silly!” she simpered. “Of course I'm Alberta.”

“Ah ... sure you are. The food looks good.”

“I want you to enjoy it, Val. I'll bring you meals every day. I remember how you like your food prepared.”

Frank picked up the tray and set it on the bunk.
How do I play this?
he wondered.
Good Lord, this situation is terrible.

“Val?” the woman whispered softly.

Frank turned to look at her.

“Do you remember the times we used to have when we were children?”

“Ah ... how could I ever forget them, Alberta?”

“Especially the times we used to go swimming down at the creek. I'll never forget those good times.”

“Me either, Alberta. I sure won't.”

“Do you ever think about the times we went swimming without clothes?”

Frank stared at the woman.
What a nightmare,
he thought. Then he forced a smile. “Yes, I think about those times often.”
This woman just might be my ticket out of this mess,
he thought.
But I've got to play this close to the vest.

“Me too, Val,” she said with a giggle. “Sometimes I get... well . . . all gooey just remembering them. Do you?”

“Do I . . . get gooey? Ah, well, I guess you could call it that.”

“Alberta?” Sheriff Davis called from outside the cell block. “You all right in there, sis?”

“Of course I'm all right!” she yelled. Frank winced at the sharpness in the woman's voice. “Why wouldn't I be all right, you ninny?”

“Just checking, sis.”

“He doesn't understand,” Alberta whispered. “He doesn't realize that you would never hurt me, Val. We have too many good memories to share, don't we?”

“We sure do, Alberta.”

“Well, I must be going for now, darling. But I'll be back later with a pot of coffee just for you and then we'll talk some more.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“Ooh ... me either.” She giggled as she walked out of the cell block.

Frank sat down on the bunk. Talking with Alberta had cut his appetite down to nothing. Just thinking about the woman prompted him to think that he might never eat again. Frank sighed and pushed those thoughts away. He had to eat. He picked up a chicken leg and took a bite. It was delicious. The woman might look like something the cat dragged in, but she could cook, no doubt about that.

The sheriff stepped into the corridor, walking up to Frank's cell. He stood silent for a moment.

“Something on your mind?” Frank asked.

“My sister,” the sheriff said.

“What about her?”

“I don't want you messin' with her, Val. I know you and her was close when you were kids, but that was a long time ago. So leave her alone.”

“Well, Sheriff, just how in the hell do you think I'm going to mess with your sister if I'm locked up in your damn jail?”

“You been warned, Val. Just leave her alone.” Sheriff Davis wheeled about and stalked out of the cell block.

“Idiot,” Frank muttered as he sat down on his bunk and resumed eating. “Whole damn town is loony as a tree full of monkeys.”

Frank ate his fried chicken, potatoes, and bread and drank the single cup of coffee, then stretched out on the bunk. When he awakened, he could tell by the sun it was late afternoon. He longed for a cup of coffee. He called out for Sheriff Davis, but received no response.

“Hey, Val.” The voice came from outside the stone jail, drifting in through the single barred window.

Frank stood up on the stool and looked out. A small boy was standing in the alley. “Miss Alberta said to tell you she's takin' care of your dog and that she'd be around about dark to bring you a tray of food.”

“Thank her for me, will you, boy? And ask her if she'll bring me a pot of coffee.”

“Shore 'nuff, I will. See you, Val.”

The boy started to leave, then stopped and looked up at Frank. “The men in the town are talkin' 'bout hangin' you, Val. Sheriff Davis is leavin' tomorrow afternoon for a couple of days. I heard the men sayin' that tomorrow night would be a real good time to come get you and string you up.”

Frank had been expecting some talk along those lines. So the news came as no surprise. “Thanks for warning me, boy.”

The boy disappeared.

Frank sat back down on the bunk and rolled a cigarette. “Time to start making some plans,” Frank muttered. “Before time runs out.”

“Hello, my secret love,” Alberta whispered from outside Frank's cell.

Frank suppressed a shudder as he rose from the bunk.

“I brought your evening meal,” she said. “Even though I'm not supposed to.”

“That's, ah, very nice of you, Alberta.”

“It's roast beef, with gravy and potatoes. I know you like that.”

“Yes, I sure do,” Frank said as she passed the tray to him. “Alberta, where is the sheriff? I need to speak to him.”

“Oh, he's out of town for a few days. But Deputy Tucker is in charge. He's sort of new at the job, but my brother has faith in his ability.”

“That's, ah, nice, Alberta. I'm sure glad to hear that. Alberta, can we trust each other? Really, really trust each other?”

“Of course we can,” she replied, smiling at him, adding, “darling.”

Frank could feel his stomach churn at that, and he almost puked. He fought that back and said, “Alberta . . . ah, dear, I've got to get out of this jail.”

“I know, darling. I'll do anything I can to help.”

“You will?”

“Certainly. Then we'll be free, and together forever.”

Frank thought about that for a few seconds as he stared at the woman. Just for a few seconds, the gallows seemed awfully appealing. “I need a pistol, darling. Preferably my pistol. I give you my word, I won't hurt anyone.”

“You promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Spit in your hand to seal the pact.”

Good God!
Frank thought. Then he spat in his hand. “All right?”

She pulled his Peacemaker out of the folds of her dress and smiled. “This pistol, Val?” she said impishly.

“That's the one.” Frank took the .45 and checked the cylinder. Full up. “You get out of here, Alberta. I want you clear when I make my move.”

“I brought your horses around a few minutes before I got your food. They're around back. In that stand of trees behind by the creek. Your dog is there too.”

“You go back to your house and wait for me. Pack a few things. I'll be over to get you at eight o'clock this evening. All right?”

“Oh, yes. I'll be waiting impatiently for you.”

You'll wait a long time,
Frank thought.
By eight o'clock, I plan on being about ten miles from this crazy town.

Frank sat down on the bunk, his Peacemaker beside him. He wondered for a few seconds if this was all a nightmare, a really bad dream. Was he really asleep back on the trail, and would he wake up in a little while and have a good laugh about it?

“No,” he whispered. “I'm not asleep. But it is a nightmare. A real, living nightmare.”

And,
he silently added,
that noose waiting for me is damn sure real.

And, he added with a frown,
so is Alberta.

With that, Frank experienced a slight pang of conscience about the way he was manipulating the woman. He wondered how, once he was free, he could possibly make it up to her.

He shook that away. He would think of something . . . once he was out of this lockup and far away from this town.

Frank looked up as Deputy Tucker walked into the cell block. He walked to Frank's cell and stood staring in.

“You want something?” Frank asked.

“The great Val Dooley,” the deputy said, a sneering tone to his words. “You don't look so damn tough to me.”

“I'm not Val Dooley. I keep telling you people that. My name is Frank Morgan.”

“You're a liar. Frank Morgan is dead.”

Frank sighed and shook his head. He cut his eyes to the single window of his cell. It was dusk. Time to make a move. He looked back at the deputy. The jail keys were hanging from his belt.

“I'm surprised the sheriff would leave an idiot like you in charge,” Frank said. “You don't appear to have sense enough to come in out of the rain.”

“What!” Deputy Tucker blurted out. “What the hell did you say?”

“I said you're a fool. You want me to repeat it?”

Deputy Tucker cussed Frank as his face reddened. He sputtered and spat the obscenities while Frank sat on the bunk and smiled at him.

“Why don't you go somewhere and play with dolls, Tucker,” Frank suggested. “You're not man enough to take charge of me.”

“I'll stomp you flat, Dooley!” Tucker hollered.

Frank yawned at him. “Not a chance, little boy. Or are you a girl all dressed up in man's clothes?”

Tucker reached for the keys hanging from his belt. “By God, I'll teach you a hard lesson, Dooley. I'll show you a thing or two, I sure will.”

Frank showed his contempt by spitting on the floor and then making a very obscene hand gesture toward the deputy.

Deputy Tucker's face flushed even deeper as he jerked the keys from his belt and opened the cell door, stepping inside.

When he drew close, Frank stood up and cringed, “Oh, please don't hurt me, Deputy,” he whimpered. “I was only funning with you.”

“You yellow skunk!” Deputy Tucker said with a laugh. Then he slapped Frank across the face.

Frank suddenly drove his left hand into the deputy's belly and followed that with a right fist to the man's jaw. Deputy Tucker folded like a house of cards and hit the hard floor, unconscious. Frank quickly handcuffed and gagged the man and shoved him under the bunk. He locked the cell door and pocketed the keys, then walked out of the cell block into the main office.

Frank retrieved his gunbelt and pocket watch, and then locked the front door from the inside and pulled down the blinds. Then he walked out the back door and locked it, using a key he found on the key ring taken from Deputy Tucker.

Frank ambled along nonchalantly, looking like a man just out for an evening stroll. Stormy, his packhorse, and Dog were waiting for him in the stand of timber by the little creek. Frank petted Dog for a few seconds, then swung into the saddle and lifted the reins.

“Let's get out of here,” Frank said. “I think we've overstayed our welcome in this part of California.”

* * *

Frank headed south for a few miles, then cut due west, riding deeper into the Sierra Nevada range. He had no particular destination in mind . . . just getting away. But he had a plan: He was going to find this damn Val Dooley, hand him over to the authorities, and clear his name. But first he had to contact his attorneys in Denver and establish his own true identity. He could do that with a bank code that only he, his attorney, and the bank knew.

However . . . that would have to be done in a town that was a bit more friendly than Deweyville. Frank had never been that close to a rope before, and didn't ever want to experience that sensation again.

He rode for several hours, rested his horses for a few hours, then headed out again, carefully avoiding roads. A couple of hours before dawn, Frank made a cold camp and slept for a time. He was awakened by Dog's soft growling. Frank opened his eyes as he closed his right hand around the butt of his Peacemaker.

As soon as Dog saw that Frank was awake, he ceased his growling and was silent, lying a few feet away from Frank.

Frank hoped this was not a posse after him; he did not want to kill anyone who was chasing him under the mistaken idea that he was this Val Dooley. But he also knew he was not going to be taken prisoner and face a hangman's rope.

“Ride on, boys,” he muttered. “Just ride on and live a long and happy life.”

The group of riders drew closer and slowly passed Frank's location in the timber without stopping. Frank breathed a bit easier as he holstered his .45

He longed for a cup of hot, strong coffee but knew that even a small hat-sized fire would be a danger now. He would stop after a few miles on the trail and make some coffee. He saddled up and rode on, constantly keeping a wary eye out for riders. He skirted a small community in a green valley, keeping to the timber. Frank knew he should turn around and head back east, get the hell out of California, but running away had never appealed to him, and damned if he was going to start now.

Frank rode on, heading west. Dog stayed close, never more than a few yards away on either side of the trail. It was as if the big cur sensed his master was in a great deal of danger. And if Frank was in danger, so was he. About midmorning, Frank stopped by a small creek and built a fire, boiling some water for coffee and for a skillet of salt pork. He drank his coffee and ate the last of his bread with the bacon, sopping up the grease with the last chunk. He rested for about an hour, then rode on.

Just as the sun was slowly sliding into afternoon, Frank came to a crossroads and had to make a decision. He was slap out of supplies—everything. He was down to just enough tobacco to maybe very carefully roll a couple of cigarettes. That was it. He had to buy some supplies. He lifted the reins and rode out onto the road, following the westward telegraph wires. He then thought of a plan, realizing immediately it was a chancy one. But if he was going to clear his name, it was a chance he had to take. He came to a road sign: CHANCE, I MILE.

“A very fitting name,” Frank muttered. “I'm taking a chance with my life.” He headed for the town of Chance.

About a quarter of a mile outside of Chance, Frank spotted a young boy, maybe eight years old, walking along the side of the road. Frank reined up. “Howdy, boy,” he greeted the lad.

“Howdy, mister.” The boy smiled up at him.

“You know if there is a lawyer in town, son?”

“Sure is, mister. One. My daddy. Lawyer Whitter.”

“Well, how about that. You reckon he's in his office?”

“Should be. You want to see him?”

“I sure do. Say . . . is there a bank in Chance?”

“Sure is. Can you give me a ride into town?”

Frank smiled and held out his right hand, and the boy grabbed hold, Frank swinging him up behind him.

“That's a mean-looking dog you have, mister,” the boy said, looking down at Dog, who was looking up at him.

“Not really. He's just suspicious of strangers, that's all. You look after him while I see your daddy, all right?”

“He won't bite me?”

“No. Just let him make the first move toward being friends.”

As Frank rode into Chance, he attracted little attention at first. Then someone hollered out, “It's Val Dooley! He's got Lawyer Whitter's boy!”

A woman yelled, “Get the marshal! It's Val Dooley!”

“Are you really Val Dooley?” the boy asked.

“No, son. I'm not Val Dooley. I'm Frank Morgan.”

“The gunslinger?”

“Yes.”

“Creepers! You wouldn't tell me a fib, would you?”

“No, son. I wouldn't. I'm Frank Morgan. Now where is your daddy's office?”

“Right down there on the right,” the boy said, pointing. “That's his buggy in front of the office.”

A crowd was rapidly gathering on both sides of the street, the men armed with rifles and shotguns. And it was a very unfriendly crowd.

“Don't shoot yet!” a man called. “You might hit the boy.”

“Halt that animal and dismount with your hands in the air,” a fat man with a large silver badge pinned to his vest yelled, stepping into the street.

“I'm not Val Dooley,” Frank said, walking Stormy past the marshal. “I'm Frank Morgan and I can prove it. Give me a minute or so with Lawyer Whitter and some time at the telegraph office and you'll see I'm telling the truth.”

“You're Val Dooley!” the marshal yelled. “I know who you are.”

“You're wrong,” Frank called over his shoulder as he reined up and he and the young boy dismounted. Frank tied the reins to a hitch rail and stepped up onto the boardwalk, turning to face the marshal and the crowd. “I'm Frank Morgan,” he called. “Just give me a few minutes and I'll prove it to you all.”

“Frank Morgan!” a citizen yelled. “The gunfighter?”

“Yes,” Frank said calmly.

“Thirty years ago, I lived down in Texas with my brother,” said the citizen, “That's 'fore I got smartened up and moved out here. You was just a snot-nosed kid then. 'Bout fourteen or fifteen.”

“That's right, I was. I was working for the Phillips spread.”

“That's right, you sure was. You killed a man and had to take off.”

“Yes. His name was Luther Biggs.”

“You're Frank Morgan, all right. He's who he says he is, folks,” the citizen shouted. “That's Frank Morgan.”

“Well, he shore looks like Val Dooley to me,” a woman yelled.

“He's Frank Morgan,” another man yelled. “Here's a book that'll show his picture. Look at it.”

The crowd of locals gathered around the older man and stared at the penny dreadful, passing it around until everyone had an opportunity to look at the picture, then glance up at Frank, standing on the boardwalk, visually comparing the two.

“I reckon you're who you say you are, Frank,” the town marshal said, holstering his pistol. “But you and Val Dooley shore resemble.”

“What's going on out here?” a man asked, stepping out of the office behind Frank and the boy. “Johnny? What have you been up to now?” he asked the boy.

“Nothing, Pa,” the boy replied. “This here is Frank Morgan, the gunslinger.” He jerked a thumb toward Frank.

“You look like Val Dooley,” the lawyer said, peering closely at Frank. “But I can see a subtle difference.”

“Thank you,” Frank said. “I'd like to have a few moments of your time, if I may.”