Imposter (20 page)

Frank made a pot of coffee on the stove in the office of the livery and while the water boiled, he packed up and saddled up. It was four o'clock in the morning.

In the quiet of predawn, Frank drank coffee and smoked a couple of cigarettes. Dog lay by his boots, every few minutes getting up and padding to the door, then looking back at Frank. He was ready to hit the trail.

“In a little while, Dog,” Frank told him. “I'm just about ready to head out.”

In his stall, Stormy stamped his hooves impatiently. The big Appaloosa was anxious to get on the trail.

After a moment, Frank finished his coffee, made sure the butt of his cigarette was out, and turned down the lamp. He was ready to go.

Frank led Stormy out of his stall and swung into the saddle. His packhorse was trained to follow; rarely did Frank have to use a lead rope.

Frank rode out of town, heading west. In a couple of days, he would cut due south. He would make inquiries at every town and country store along the way about the men he was hunting. He would find them, he had no doubts about that. The West was a big place, but most areas were still sparsely populated. He knew that some of the outlaw/rapists were from—or called home—parts of Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas. Others were from Southern and Central California. Jack Rice, one of Val's lieutenants, was from the Sierra Madre range. Jack was a bad one, an unusually cruel man who enjoyed inflicting a lot of pain on his victims. Jack was one of the men who had brutalized and helped drive mad the silent woman Frank had brought back.

At noon of the fourth day out, Frank reined up at a small settlement located at a crossroads. It was a two-store, four-house hamlet. The largest store was a combination general store/saloon. Frank looked at the four horses tied at the hitch rail in front, then dismounted, slipped the hammer thong from his Peacemaker, and entered the saloon.

“Howdy, stranger,” the man behind the bar greeted him. “What'll it be?”

“Got any food?”

“You bet I do. Best stew you ever et, and got some fresh-baked bread to go with it.”

“Any coffee?”

“All you can drink. And it's fresh. I just made it. I'm a coffee-drinkin' man myself.”

“Something to eat and a pot of coffee.”

“Comin' right up.”

Frank took a table with his back to a wall, and glanced over at the four men sitting at the rear of the room. They were playing cards, drinking whiskey, and being very careful to avoid looking at him.

The barkeep brought the stew and bread and a pot of coffee, and leaned close to Frank. “Them ol' boys is bad ones, I'm thinkin'. They got that look about them.”

Frank looked up at the man, and the man recognized him and almost recoiled in shock. “Not as bad as I am,” Frank told him very softly.

“Oh, Lordy, Lordy,” the barkeep whispered. “The Drifter. Frank Morgan. Good God A'mighty.”

“You stay ready to hit the floor, partner.”

“Thanks. I done made up my mind to do that.” The man went back behind his bar and busied himself polishing glasses.

Frank ate his stew, and it was very good eating. It was made with beef and potatoes and onions. The bread was indeed fresh, and the coffee was hot and strong. When he had finished his second bowl of stew, Frank poured another cup of coffee and rolled a smoke.

“Good grub, mister,” he called. “Best I've had in a while.”

“Thankee. My wife is a good cook. Got some doughnuts too, if you'd like some.”

“I'll take a sackful,” Frank told him. “A big sackful. You got any scraps for my dog?”

“Shore do. I seen that big animal out there. Does he bite?”

“Sometimes.”

“I'll fight shy of him then.”

“Son of a bitch bites me, I'll kill him,” one of the men at the table said.

“He won't bite until you mess with him,” Frank said in a cold voice. “But you harm my dog, I'll kill you, you and anyone else who wants to buy into the hand.”

“You talk big, mister.”

“I can back it up.”

“I think you gonna have to,” another of the quartet said, pushing back his chair.

“Anytime you're ready.”

“You're crazy!” another one said. “They's four of us and one of you.”

“That's Frank Morgan,” the barkeep said.

Frank picked up his coffee cup with his left hand and took a sip.

The four men were silent for a moment, then one said, “So what? I'm Ted Brown. These boys with me is Hal, Stony, and Slim. Now that we're all introduced, why don't you leave, Morgan? Or whatever your name is.”

“I like it here. And my name is Frank Morgan.”

“I don't believe you're Frank Morgan,” Slim said. “I heard Morgan got killed over in Montana or Wyoming or some damn place.”

“You heard wrong,” Frank told him.

“I think you're a liar, mister,” Stony said. “That's what I think.”

“I think you're a fool,” Frank said coldly.

“I've killed men for less than that.”

“You won't kill this man.”

“You 'bout a smart aleck, ain't you?”

Frank smiled and said nothing.

“He's skirrred,” Slim said. “I can see it in his eyes. He's skirred of us.”

“I wish you boys would take this outside,” the barkeep said.

“Shut up!” Ted told him.

“Yes, sir.”

Frank waited, seated in his chair, his right hand close to the butt of his Peacemaker. It would be an awkward draw, but he had done it before.

“You're skirred of us, ain't you?” Slim said.

“No,” Frank said softly.

“He is too,” Slim insisted.

The sound of horses stilled the conversation. Two cowboys walked in and greeted the barkeep.

“Jimmy, Ross,” the barkeep said.

“You heard the news?” Jimmy asked. Neither of them had paid any attention to the tension in the saloon.

“What news?”

“Frank Morgan killed Johnny Vargas 'bout four, five days ago. Little town north and some west of here.”

The barkeep nodded his head and cut his eyes to Frank. Jimmy and Ross turned and looked.

“It's him!” Ross blurted. “That's Frank Morgan. Damned if it ain't him sittin' here drinkin' coffee.”

Ted leaned forward and put both his hands on the tabletop, palms down, signaling he was out of this ... all the way out.

“He tried to tell you boys,” the barkeep said to the quartet. “He shorely did.”

“I'm listenin' now,” Ted said.

“Well, Frank Morgan don't mean skunk piss to me,” Slim said, standing up.

“Me neither,” Hal said, standing up beside his partner.

“I'm out of this,” Stony said. “I'm out of it.”

Frank stood up.

Ross and Jimmy backed up, around the end of the bar. The barkeep made ready to duck down.

“This doesn't have to be, boys,” Frank said. “Let's just call it a misunderstanding that got out of hand, how about it?”

“I told you all he's yeller,” Slim said. “I told you. Now he's a-tryin' to crawfish on us. The yeller dog.”

“Yeah, he's as sorry as that damn ugly dog of his'n outside,” Hal said with a laugh.

Outside, Dog barked.

“I believe he heard you, Hal,” Frank said.

“Huh?” Hal questioned. “You tryin' to tell me that damn dog of yourn can understand people talk? You're not only yeller, you're stupid.”

Frank laughed at the pair.

“You think this is funny?” Slim yelled.

“Yes,” Frank replied. “I think so. And I also think the two of you aren't worth wasting any more of my time. So I think I'll leave, after I pay for my meal.”

“It's on the house, Mr. Morgan,” the barkeep said.

“Don't you turn your ass to me, mister!” Hal said. “I'll plug you if you do. I swear I'll shoot you.”

“So now you're telling me you're a back-shooter?” Frank asked.

“Let it drop, Hal,” Stony urged. “The man is givin' you an out. Take it and let's get the hell out of here.”

“I ain't runnin'!” Hal yelled. “Not from no old chicken fart like this one.”

“You're a fool,” the barkeep said.

“You shet your mouth!” Slim told him.

“No, sir, I won't do no such of a thing,” the barkeep said. “Morgan give you all a way out. You won't take it. Now you're gonna keep pushin' him and he's gonna kill you. Then I'll have me a big mess to clean it. Now, Hal, Slim, you boys sit down and cool off.”

“Shut your blow-hole!” Slim told him. “Draw, Morgan. Draw or I'll shoot you where you stand. You understand?”

“I understand,” Frank said softly.

“Now!” Hal yelled.

Both Hal and Slim and grabbed for their pistols.

Frank's Peacemaker boomed twice, the shots so close together they were almost as one. Hal and Slim fell back, both of them shot in the chest. Without knowing he did it, and it was very seldom he did, Frank twirled his Peacemaker before settling it back into leather.

“Good God!” Ross blurted out in a whisper. “He's fast as lightnin'.”

Hal groaned on the floor. Slim would never make another sound; he was stone dead and cooling.

“Can I see to my pard, Morgan?” Stony asked.

“Go ahead.”

Stony knelt down on the floor and opened his friend's shirt. After a moment, he stood up and said, “He ain't a-gonna make it. He's hard hit.”

“I don't want to die,” Hal groaned.

“He shoulda thought of that 'fore he braced Frank Morgan,” the barkeep said.

“It was the whiskey talkin' in all of us,” Ted said. “It was the whiskey that killed him.”

“It's gettin' mighty dark in here,” Hal said. “Is the sun goin' down?”

No one replied.

Frank poured another cup of coffee and, using his left hand, lifted the cup and took a sip. “You want to fix that bag of scraps for my dog?” he asked the barkeep.

“I'll do that right now, Mr. Morgan. You fixin' to leave?”

“Soon.”

“Oh, God!” Hal screamed as the first waves of pain struck him. “Where's Slim? Slim? Where you at, boy?”

“Slim didn't make it, partner,” Stony told him.

“I ain't neither, am I?”

“I don't think so, partner.”

“It's gettin' awful dark in here, Stony. I'm skirred.”

“You want some whiskey for the pain?”

“The pain's done stopped, Stony. What does that mean?”

“I don't know, partner.”

“It's real peaceful in the dark,” Hal said. “Real . . . peaceful . . .” Hal closed his eyes and never opened them again.

“Me and Hal rode a lot of trails together,” Stony said, standing up. “He really wasn't a bad feller. He just had more guts than sense.” He looked at Frank. “I don't hold nothin' agin you, Mr. Morgan. You done what you had to do.”

“Did he have any family?” Ted asked.

“Some back in Missouri, I think. But he ain't heard from them in years and years.”

“How 'bout Slim?”

“I don't think so. None he ever talked about leastways.”

“They's a small graveyard out back,” the barkeep said, walking back in the room with a bag of scraps. “Right next to the woods. Y'all can plant them boys back yonder if you like.”

“You know any words to say over them?” Stony asked.

“I reckon I could come up with a verse or three.”

“You got any shovels?”

“Out back in the shed.”

Frank walked to the bar and picked up the sack of scraps and the bag of bear sign. “Much obliged.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Morgan.”

Frank walked out, tightened Stormy's cinch and the harness to the packsaddle, and rode out, Dog trotting along beside.

He had no wish to stay for the funeral. He'd seen too many of them.

At a county sheriff's office two days after the shootout in the old country saloon, Frank introduced himself and was invited into the office for a cup of coffee and some conversation.

“Heard about your work in busting up the Dooley gang, Frank,” the sheriff said. “Damn nice piece of work. What can I do for you?”

“Tell me where I can find the rest of the gang,” Frank replied with a smile.

The sheriff laughed and slapped his leg. “Well, now, Frank, I can't do that, but I just might be able to put you on the track of Bloody Mama. And wherever you find her, you'll find Sadie. Interested?”

“They close by?”

“Couple of days' ride south of here. Way out of my jurisdiction.”

“Killing a woman doesn't set well with me, Sheriff.”

“Put that thought out of your mind, Frank. Those two ain't of the female species, you ask me. They're cold-blooded and brutal. Vicious as any man you ever heard of. You put one of them in a cage with a puma, you better bet against the cat.”

“So I've heard.”

“Besides, they aren't alone. They've got half a dozen men with them. I'll draw you a map. It's rough country and I sure can't guarantee you'll find them.”

“I'll find them,” Frank said coldly.

The sheriff caught the deadly quality in Frank's tone and looked hard at him, then nodded his head. “Yeah, I reckon you will, at that.”

“What men? Do you know?”

The sheriff shook his head. “I don't have any idea, Frank. But if they're riding with Bloody Mama and Sadie, they're as worthless as a bucket of buzzard puke.”

“You're probably right about that.”

“You bet I am.” The sheriff drew a rough map. “Their hideout is near an old army fort, right on the edge of this range here.” He tapped the piece of paper. “Been deserted for, oh, near'bouts twenty years, I reckon. Maybe longer.” He folded the map and handed it to Frank. “Good luck, Frank.”

Frank stuck the map in his jacket pocket. “Thanks.” He finished what remained of his coffee. “Good coffee.”

“Stop by anytime.”

“You mind if I grab a meal while I'm in town?”

The sheriff shrugged. “Why should I mind? Marshal Tom Wright has wired all over the southern part of the state about you.”

“What about me?”

“You never
officially
resigned your deputy sheriff's commission, Frank. You're still a legal marshal's deputy tracking down criminals that committed a crime in your jurisdiction. You're just as legal as I am.”

Frank smiled. “Well . . . he's right. I guess I didn't.”

“Good luck, Deputy.”

* * *

The sheriff was sure right about this being rough country, Frank thought as he stopped by a creek to water his horses and fill his canteen. Bloody Mama and Sadie picked a great spot for a hideout. Frank bellied down on the bank to get himself a drink, Dog beside him, lapping at the cool water. Refreshed, Frank squatted under the shade of a tree to escape the fierceness of the noonday sun, and rolled a cigarette. He figured he was only a couple of miles from the old abandoned army fort, and was on high alert for any signs of trouble.

Dog's ears suddenly perked up and he growled low in his throat.

“Easy now, boy,” Frank whispered. “Be quiet.”

Then Frank heard the sounds of walking horses, followed by a low murmur of voices.

“Damn, it's hot,” a man said.

“Yeah,” another replied. “Let's stop and get a drink and rest some.”

“Good idea.”

Frank laid his hand on Dog's head. Dog understood and was quiet, sensing the tenseness in Frank's touch.

“I been seein' Sadie givin' you the eye lately, Leo. I reckon she's got plans for you this evenin'.”

“She can go to hell too, Tanner. I'd sooner bed down with a damn hog than with that woman.”

Leo laughed. “Well, that leaves Bloody Mama.”

“That's even worser. That woman makes me wanna puke. I think it's time we pulled another raid and got us some good-lookin' young stuff.”

“Bloody Mama says we gonna do that next week sometime. Town about forty miles south of here.”

“No foolin'?”

“No foolin'. We gonna hit a church whilst Sunday services is a-goin' on. The men won't be armed and the women will be aplenty.”

“That there's a damn fine idee.”

The men were silent for a couple of minutes. Frank could see them through the sparse brush along the creek bank. Stage a raid on a church, he thought. What a sorry, no-good, worthless pack of trash.

Frank took off his spurs and silently made his way toward the men. When he was about forty feet away, he stepped out into the clear. “Howdy, boys,” he called.

Both men grabbed for iron, Tanner hollering, “Morgan!”

Frank drilled Tanner in the belly first, then shifted the muzzle of his Peacemaker toward Leo and put a .45 round into his belly. The entire matter took about two seconds. Leo and Tanner never got off a shot. The outlaws were stretched out on the ground, alive and moaning in pain. Frank walked over to them and kicked away their guns.

“You boys are a couple of sorry pieces of trash,” Frank bluntly informed them.

“You ain't got no call to talk to us like that, Morgan,” Tanner said. “Not after what you just done.”

“I want a drink of water,” Leo moaned.

“With a stomach wound?” Frank asked. “You know that's not good for you. That might make you worse and you'd end up dying.”

“Your bullet tore up my innards, Morgan,” Tanner said. “I'm hard hit and ain't gonna make it. They's some whiskey in my saddlebags. Would you fetch the bottle for me?”

“Why should I?” Frank asked coldly.

“Because it's the Christian thing to do.”

Frank laughed at him. “You were looking forward to raiding a church on Sunday morning, killing some men, kidnapping women to rape them, and then possibly selling them into prostitution . . . and you dare to speak the word Christian to me?”

“You go to hell, Morgan!” Tanner told him.

Frank laughed at him.

“Damn you, Morgan!” Leo groaned. “You're just as bad as you claim we are.”

“Maybe,” Frank agreed. “But I'll make a deal with you.”

“Deal?” Tanner moaned the words. “What kind of deal?”

“You tell me everything about your hideout, the people there, and I'll get you all the whiskey and water you want, string a groundsheet over you for shade, and then ride out and let you die in peace.”

“And if we don't?” Leo asked.

“I'll leave you here and let the ants and snakes have you.”

“You'd do it too, wouldn't you, Morgan?”

“Try me.”

“I'll tell you, Morgan,” Leo said. “And it'll be the truth too.”

“I'm listening.”

* * *

Two hours later, Frank was hidden in a jumble of boulders, studying the layout of the old army fort. The crumbling buildings were about seventy-five yards away. He could see no activity. Sadie and Bloody Mama and the others were staying inside, out of the heat of the early summer day. And Frank sure couldn't blame them for that.

After watering Stormy and Dog and the packhorse, Frank had left them a few hundred yards back. He had taken his rifle and a bandolier of cartridges and walked to his present position. Leo had died before Frank had left the creek, and Tanner had slipped into unconsciousness. Leo had told Frank that besides Bloody Mama and Sadie, there were six men hiding out in the crumbling buildings of the old fort. And only one had been a part of Val's gang . . . other than Bloody Mama and Sadie. A man called Wilder.

“Wilder?” Frank had mused aloud. “I know a Lou Wilder. A no-good from New Mexico. Has a knife scar on his cheek.”

“That's him,” Leo said. “He's a bad one. How's Tanner?”

“Still alive.”

“I guess it won't be long for me.”

“Probably not.”

A few minutes later, Leo closed his eyes and did not open them again. At least not on this earth.

“Did Leo croak?” Tanner asked.

“Yes. Just then.”

“I hope one of them boys at the fort gut-shoots you, Morgan. I hope you die hard, you sorry son of a bitch.”

“So nice of you to care,” Frank replied.

Tanner moaned a couple of times and then slipped into unconsciousness.

The corral where the outlaws' horses were being held was about fifty yards behind the only building where a very faint whisper of smoke was coming out of the stone chimney. Probably used to keep the coffee hot, Frank thought.
If they try to run for their horses, I'll nail at least some of them.

As that thought was fading from Frank's mind, a man stepped out of the large building and looked toward the north.

Probably looking for Leo and Tanner, Frank thought.

The man turned and said something to a person standing inside. A few seconds later, Bloody Mama stepped out, dressed in men's bib overalls. Frank recognized her by her big butt. As Frank had once heard a man say, “Bloody Mama do drag some ass behind her.”

Frank lifted his rifle and started to sight her in, then shifted the muzzle. He just couldn't do it. Even though Bloody Mama was just as bad as, or worse than, any of the men who rode with her, shooting a woman just simply went against the grain for Frank.

Of course, if she ever started shooting at him, that was quite a different matter.

Frank shot the man standing next to the woman.

The man was knocked to the ground by the .44-40 slug, and Bloody Mama leaped for the open door, hollering at the top of her voice.

“It's a raid!” she squalled, her voice carrying clearly to Frank. “Lawmen have found us.”

“Lawmen, your butt!” a man yelled. “I'll bet you that's Frank Morgan.”

“Kill that bastard!” Bloody Mama yelled. “Kill him, I say!”

“You kill him, Mama!” another voice shouted from the other side of the building.

“Don't you argue with me, Willis!” she shouted. “Go get him. Avenge your partner, Jerry. He's layin' out yonder in the sun, dead and startin' to stink.”

What a nice woman,
Frank thought.
So ladylike.

“You hear me, you turd?” Mama shrieked. “Go get him.”

What Willis then said to Bloody Mama was something that could not be repeated in a San Francisco brothel.

Willis's comments didn't phase Bloody Mama. “Blow it out your ass, Willis,” Mama retorted in a shout.

“And that goes double for me, Willis!” Sadie yelled. “You sorry piece of buffalo crap.”

“Open fire on that shooter!” a man yelled.

Frank hunkered down in the boulders as the lead began howling all around him, hoping that no bullet would hit the rocks behind him, flatten out, and ricochet into him.

“Santos!” Sadie yelled. “You and Neal go left and right and get behind that shooter. Move it!”

“You
go left or right, Sadie,” Santos shouted. “Get your ass shot off.”

Sadie cussed the outlaw, coloring the hot air with profanity, ending with, “Mama, we sure hooked up with some yeller-bellies this run.”

“Damn straight we did,” Bloody Mama yelled. “I reckon you and me are gonna have to handle this ourselves.”

“I ain't never seen a man that was worth a crap for anything other than a good hump,” Sadie hollered. “And most of them ain't even good for that.”

Bloody Mama laughed at that, her shrill braying echoing out of the building.

Crazy,
Frank thought.
Both of those women are crazy.

“This gunfire will bring Tanner and Leo back here,” a man said.

“Tanner and Leo are dead, you stupid bastard!” Bloody Mama yelled. “Morgan—and you can bet your stinkin' drawers that's Morgan out there—killed them both.”

Frank fed a couple more cartridges into his rifle and waited.

“We'll wait him out,” Sadie said. “Come dark, we'll get him.”

Suits me,
Frank thought. He settled into a more comfortable position in the boulders and waited.