Imposter (4 page)

John Whitter and Frank went over to the bank, met with the bank president, and began the process of verifying Frank's identity. It didn't take long. By closing time, Frank's bankers in both Denver and San Francisco, and his attorney, working with John Whitter, had established who he was beyond any shadow of a doubt.

Frank walked over to the marshal's office, and Tom smiled when Frank opened the door. “Coffee's hot and fresh,” he said. “Cups hanging on hooks on the wall.” He pointed. “Help yourself, Frank.”

Coffee poured, Frank sat down and rolled a smoke. “I've decided to take you up on your offer, Tom. Who swears me in?”

“I do. Stand up and raise your right hand.”

The quick ceremony over, Frank pinned on the star and sat back down to enjoy his coffee and smoke.

“You speak to the town council about this?” Frank asked.

“Yes. While you were meeting at the bank. They were all in favor of it.”

“That's very interesting, Tom.”

“How so?”

“I'm a gunfighter, Tom. Not exactly what many would consider a model citizen. And I've only been in town a few hours.”

“You've worn a badge before,” the marshal countered. “Several times. And you've always done right by the job. The mayor says you were pushed into being a gunfighter.”

“I had some help, sure. In the beginning. But in the end it was my decision. I've learned to accept that.”

Tom drummed his thick fingertips on his desktop as he stared at Frank. “Maybe this will be the town that settles you down.”

Frank smiled. “Doubtful.”

“You might meet that special lady here. There are some fine-lookin' widder women around here.”

Lara suddenly popped into Frank's head. He could smell her perfume. He pushed that image away.
Dangerous,
he thought.
Besides, she's a married woman, and it isn't right to steal another man's wife.
“Maybe so, Tom. But I'm not looking for a marriage partner. Especially a grass widow.”

The marshal smiled. “Oh, you'd probably be good with kids.”

Frank's only reply to that was a smile. “What shift do you want me to work, Tom?”

“Same as mine,” the marshal replied. “We're both on call twenty-four hours a day. But not much happens here in Chance. The occasional drunk, a fight now and then, kids acting up, getting into some harmless mischief.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Exciting enough for an old fat man,” Tom replied with a laugh, heaving himself out of the chair. “You got a room at the hotel yet?”

“Yes, I'm all set up.”

“Well, I'm goin' home then. I live on Walnut Street. Everybody knows where. Just ask. I done give Smart-Aleck Ed his supper. Soon as his pa shows up, you can cut him loose.”

“Will do, Tom. See you in the morning.”

Tom waved and left the offce. Frank walked into the cell block area to check on Ed Simpson.

“I'm gonna kill you, Morgan!” the young man said as soon as he spotted Frank. “Just as soon as I get out of here.”

“Don't be a fool, boy. I don't think that bounty on my head is anything but a rumor. Where would you go to and who would you ask to collect it?”

“I'm still gonna make you pull on me.”

“You're gonna have a long wait for that, boy. Why don't you just settle down?”

“I'm faster than you, Morgan. And I'm gonna prove it.”

“You want some coffee, Ed?”

“You go to hell, Morgan! I don't want nothin' from you.”

“Suit yourself. I didn't want to make any for you anyway.” Frank walked into the office, found a ring of keys, and stepped out onto the boardwalk, locking the office door. He walked to the Blue Bird Café and got a plate of scraps for Dog, then strolled down to the livery. He fed Dog, made sure he had a bucket of water, and then walked the main street of town, both sides, greeting people as they passed. Almost all were friendly, some stopping to chat for a moment. A few had disapproval in their eyes as they curtly nodded at Frank's greeting. Frank didn't blame them a bit. His reputation had labeled him a killer, and he had killed. He had killed a lot of men. But what people, some people, failed to understand was that the men he had killed had been trying to kill
him.

Frank stopped in every store and introduced himself. Most people seemed genuinely glad to see him, greeting him warmly. Frank bought a sack of tobacco and some rolling papers at O'Malley's General Store and chatted for a few minutes with the owner, Jack O'Malley, and his wife, Ginny. They had moved west right after the War of Northern Aggression and settled there in Chance. They had two kids still living at home, a boy, Jackie, seventeen years old, and a girl, Amy, fifteen. Frank bought some new clothes, and Jack said he'd take them over to the laundry and have them pressed.

Frank walked across the wide street to the barbershop and got a shave and his hair trimmed, arranging for the barber to have a bath ready for him first thing in the morning. Frank then walked across the street to the Blue Bird Café for some supper.

Just as he was finishing his apple pie and coffee, the waitress said, “Eddie Simpson's father is riding in, Mr. Morgan. And he looks angry.”

Frank looked out the window into the street as four men came riding in, reining up in front of the marshal's office. The bigger of the four men stepped down and said something to the other men.

“Is that Simpson?” Frank asked the waitress.

“That's Big Ed Simpson,” she replied. “Mr. Bull of the Woods himself.”

“Sounds like you don't like him,” Frank said with a smile.

“I don't. He thinks he's better than everybody else. He's got money and a big spread and wants to boss everybody in town.”

“One of those types.”

“Yes.”

“He's a big one,” Frank said, watching Big Ed try the door to the marshal's office, rattling the doorknob impatiently, then turning to his men in frustration.

“He's a bully too,” the waitress said. “He's almost killed several men with his fists. He's crippled one that I know of.”

“I can see how that might happen. He's sure a bull of a man. How old is he, would you say?”

“Oh, early to mid-fifties, I'd guess.”

“Good with a gun?”

“I don't know about that. I did hear someone say once that they thought he used to be a gunfighter years back. Right after the war, I think it was.”

If he was, it was under a different name,
Frank thought.
I never heard of any Ed Simpson. And if he was any good, I would have.

“You going to go let him in the office, Mr. Morgan?” the waitress asked.

Frank looked up at her and smiled. “I'll just let him find me. The exercise will do him good. What do you think?”

She returned his smile, then giggled. “I think I like you, Frank Morgan.” She hottened up his coffee, then walked away, laughing.

Five minutes later, Big Ed Simpson and his men stomped into the café. Big Ed immediately started hollering for service.

“Calm down,” Frank told him. “The waitress will be out in a minute.”

Four pairs of eyes cut to Frank, sitting alone at a corner table, his back to a wall. “Who the hell are you to talk to me that way?” Big Ed demanded.

Frank smiled. “Frank Morgan. And who the hell are you to come in here yelling?”

“That's Val Dooley,” one of the Simpson hands said.

“No,” Big Ed said, staring intently at Frank. “That's Frank Morgan. Man they call the Drifter.” His eyes shifted to the star on Frank's chest. “You a lawman now, Morgan?”

“Brand-spanking-new deputy for this town, Simpson. Just sworn in a few hours ago. You have a problem with that?”

“Since when does this town hire gunslingers as the law?” Big Ed asked.

“Oh,” Frank said, after taking a sip of coffee, “I reckon they figured if a former hired killer can become a respectable rancher, they could hire me as a deputy.”

That remark got to Big Ed. His face flushed a deep red and he balled his big hands into fists. “Who the hell are you talkin' about, Morgan?”

“I'll give you three guesses, Simpson. Now why don't you shut up, sit down, and let me enjoy my coffee in peace? Then we'll go over to the office and get your loudmouthed son out of jail.”

Standing by the counter, the waitress smiled at that. The men with Big Ed tensed at Frank's comments. Nobody, but nobody, ever spoke to Big Ed in such a manner. Not unless they were looking for a good butt-kicking.

Big Ed stared at Frank for a few seconds, disbelief in his eyes. “What the hell did you just say to me, Drifter?”

Frank repeated it, word for word, speaking slowly and clearly. “You understand that now, Ed?”

“I think I'll just rip that tin star off you and kick your butt!” Ed replied.

“I wouldn't try that, Ed,” Frank warned him.

“Oh, I'm not gonna try it, Drifter. I'm gonna do it.”

Frank smiled and again took a sip from his coffee. “You must be really anxious to see your loudmouthed son, Ed.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I'm gonna try to explain it real simple, Ed. I want you to understand. If you take a swing at me, you're going to jail. Is that understood?”

Ed smiled and unbuckled his gunbelt, handing his rig to a cowboy. “You're headin' for the graveyard, Drifter. Nobody talks to me like that and lives. I'm gonna beat you to death with my fists. And I'm gonna enjoy doin' it.”

“You're going to pay for any damage caused to this café, Simpson. You understand that?”

“The only damage is gonna be to you, Drifter!” Ed took a step toward the table where Frank was sitting.

Frank stood up and unbuckled his gunbelt, placing it on the table. “Then come on, you loudmouthed ape. Let's get this over with.”

With a roar of anger and defiance, Big Ed charged Frank. Frank braced himself.

Big Ed tried to ram Frank with his considerable bulk. Frank stepped out of the way and stuck out a boot, tripping the much bigger man. Big Ed slammed into a wall with enough force to shake the building. Frank was all over him, hitting the man on the kidneys with lefts and rights and just before backing off, slugging the rancher on the side of the head with a fist, connecting directly on the man's ear. The head blow staggered Big Ed and his ear immediately began to swell. Frank backed off a step and waited.

Big Ed cussed Frank and slowly turned around. Frank hit him a straight shot to the nose. Blood and snot flew as Big Ed's nose was flattened all over his face. Before he could even begin to recover, Frank hit him four more times: twice to the face with a left and a right, and twice to the belly. Big Ed backed up against the wall, hurt. Frank kept pressing while he had the fight going his way. He pounded Ed's face with lefts and rights, bloodying the man's mouth and nearly closing one eye. Still the big man would not fall. Ed was tough as an oak tree.

Frank bored in, slamming his fists into the man's belly with sledgehammer blows. Big Ed's one good eye was beginning to glaze over, and Frank was panting from the exertion. Frank stepped back, giving himself just enough room, and swung a right, putting everything he had behind it. The fist connected against the side of Big Ed's jaw. Big Ed slowly sank, sliding down the wall, coming to rest on his butt on the café floor.

“Gawddamn,” one of the hands said, his voice low with awe at what he had just witnessed. “Big Ed didn't even hit the man oncet.”

Frank picked up his gunbelt and buckled it, tying down the holster. “You boy . . . pick up . . . your boss.” He panted the words. “Carry him . . . over to the jail. Move, damnit!”

“You gonna throw Big Ed in jail?” one of the hands asked, a note of incredulousness in his tone.

“I sure am. Now pick him up and carry him over to the jail.”

“Big Ed's gonna kill you for sure,” another hand said.

“I doubt it,” Frank replied, quickly getting his wind back. He motioned for the Simpson hands to pick up Big Ed. When they hesitated, Frank dropped his right hand to the butt of his Peacemaker.

“Whoa!” one of them said, seeing the movement. “Take it easy, Mr. Morgan. We'll carry him across to the jail. Don't do nothing hasty now. Come on, boys. It'll take all three of us to tote Big Ed. Let's get to it.”

The three hands managed to get Big Ed Simpson up on his feet. He was only half conscious and not able to help much, but he did manage to put one boot in front of the other and stagger out onto the boardwalk. Then he fell down and rolled off the high boardwalk, landing half in and half out of a horse trough, taking one of his hands with him.

“Oh, Lord!” the hand hollered. “I done sat down in a pile of horse crap! And it's fresh too.”

“Come on, Jimmy,” one of the other hands told his partner. “Let's get the boss out of the trough. He's gonna be plenty pissed enough without gettin' half drowned.”

The third Simpson hand was trying to get the horse crap off his britches. He succeeded only in spreading it all over him.

“You stink, Pete,” Jimmy told the man.

“Yeah,” the second hand said. “Git away from us. Go wash, or something'.”

“Oh, go to hell, Claude,” Pete said.

“What happened?” Big Ed muttered through smashed, swollen, and bloody lips. “Where am I?”

“On your way to jail,” Frank told him. “Now shut up and walk.”

“What's that smell?” Ed mumbled.

“That's Pete, Boss,” Jimmy said. “He sat down in a pile of crap.”

“What the hell'd he do that for?” Big Ed asked, looking around him, trying to get his eyes to focus. “Jail! What'd I do?”

“Assaulted a deputy,” Frank told him. “Now, move, you big ox.”

“Big ox!” the rancher yelled. “You can't talk to me like that.”

“I just did,” Frank said. “Now move your big butt.”

“Get your hands off me!” Ed yelled to his men. He shook off the hands that were holding him up, and promptly fell down in the street. Big Ed began crawling around in the dirt, trying to get up, mumbling and cussing all the while.

By this time, a large crowd had gathered on both sides of the street, lining the boardwalks. The locals seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in watching Big Ed Simpson get what many felt was his long-overdue comeuppance. Frank would soon learn that Big Ed was not the best-liked person in the area.

“I'll kill you, Morgan,” Big Ed mumbled. “No man does this to me and lives.”

“What in the hell is going on here!” Marshal Tom Wright hollered, shoving his way through the crowds. “Get out of the way.” He stepped into the street and stopped, staring in total disbelief at the sight before him.

“This man assaulted me, Tom,” Frank explained. “I subdued him.”

“You sure did,” Tom agreed, a smile playing on his lips. “Yep, I'd say you done a right good job of subduin' the prisoner.”

“Get him on his feet,” Frank told the Simpson hands. “And get him over to the jail.”

“We'll have to drag him,” Pete said.

“Then drag him.”

The three cowboys lifted Big Ed to his feet and began dragging the cussing rancher toward the jail.

“I'll fire you all!” Big Ed hollered.

“All right,” Jimmy said. “If that's the way you want it.” He turned his boss loose, and Claude and Pete did the same.

Big Ed hit the dirt of the street face-first.

“Now that's plumb disgustin',” Marshal Wright observed. “A man of your position eatin' dirt and horse crap.”

“Shut up, you big fat tub of lard!” Big Ed mumbled, his face in the dirt.

“Stand aside, people,” a local said. “Here comes Doc Evans. Let him through.”

“What in the world is going on here?” a man asked, stepping through the crowd. He stopped when he saw Ed Simpson, finally getting to his hands and knees in the dirt. “You testing the soil for something, Ed?”

“Go to hell, Doc!” Big Ed told him.

“All in due time, Ed.” Doc Evans looked at Frank. “You would be the famous Mr. Morgan, right?”

“I'm Frank Morgan, yes.”

The doctor pointed to Big Ed. “Did you do this to Ed?”

“I sure did.”

“Then you are some man, Mr. Morgan. I don't think Ed Simpson has ever been bested in a fistfight. At least, not since I've known him.”

“He got lucky,” Ed mumbled.

“Somehow, I doubt that, Ed.” Doc glanced at Frank. “You object if I get him over to my office and check him, Deputy?”

“Not at all. But if he can't walk, he'll have to crawl. He just fired the three hands who came in with him.”

“I was only funnin' with them,” Ed muttered. “I didn't mean nothing by it.” Big Ed coughed and spat out blood and a piece of a tooth. “I swear I'm gonna get you, Morgan.”

“Oh, shut up, Ed,” Doc Evans told him. “Take your whipping like a man and forget it. I'm sure you started it.”

“I don't take no lip from any man, Doc, you know that,” Ed said, struggling to get to his feet. He made it, only to fall down again.

“You men get him up and over to my office,” Doc Evans told the three hands. “Go on, hell, he didn't mean it when he fired you.”

Pete, Jimmy, and Claude got Big Ed to his feet and half carried, half dragged him out of the street.

Doc Evans walked over to Frank. “Are you hurt?”

“Not a scratch, Doc.”

“You
were
lucky, Morgan. I hope you know that. Big Ed is pure hell in a fight.”

“He's also overconfident and careless, Doc.”

Doc Evans nodded his head. “I sure can't argue that. Morgan, get some hot water and soak your hands for a few minutes. Help keep down the swelling. I'll see you later.” The doctor walked off to tend to Big Ed.

Marshal Wright made his way to Frank's side. “What happened, Frank?”

Before Frank could reply, his eyes touched those of Lara Whitter, standing alone on the boardwalk, staring at him. She smiled and turned away.

“Frank?” Tom pressed.

“What? Oh ...” Frank briefly explained.

“You've made a bad enemy, Frank,” the marshal cautioned. “Big Ed will never forget or forgive.”

“Where'd he come from, Tom?”

The marshal shrugged his shoulders. “Drove a herd of cattle in here about twenty years ago. Right after the war, I'm told. I wasn't here. I come in in seventy. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“There was some talk about him once bein' a gunfighter. You ever heard of him?”

“Not under the name he's now using.”

Tom looked at him, questions in his eyes. “You got suspicions, Frank?”

“Not really. But if Big Ed gets up in my face again, there'll probably be a killing. I won't take a lot of crap from his type.”

“He's a pushy one, for a fact. Used to gettin' his way. And he's got some randy ol' boys workin' for him. Real hardcases, I'd say.”

“Is he married?”

“To a woman that's just as mean as he is ... maybe more so. Elsie's her name.” Tom shuddered. “Don't nobody like that woman, and I mean
nobody.
She's stuck up and got a dirty mouth on her. Pretty woman, until she opens her mouth.”

“Sounds like she and Ed were made for each other.”

“I reckon that's one way of lookin' at it.”

“I'm going to toss his big butt in jail, Tom.”

“Might do him some good. But I doubt it.”

“You don't have any objections to my doing that?”

Tom shook his head. “Nope. You're the law. You're wearin' a badge and people have to respect that. If they don't, well, then, we've got a breakdown in the system, don't we?”

“Yes.”

“Toss his butt in jail.”

“Has he ever bowed up on you, Tom?”

“Once. I told him if he ever done it again, I'd go back to my office, get a Greener, and spread his guts all over the street. He don't like me, I don't like him. But he's polite around me since that happened.”

There was some real sand in the fat man's craw, Frank thought. When push came to shove, Tom would stand.

Frank looked around in the waning light of late afternoon. It would be dark soon and he still had not checked out the town's two saloons.

“What's worryin' you, Frank?” Tom asked.

“Nothing, really. Just thinking about the two saloons in town, that's all.”

“The Gold Nugget and the Purple Lily. The Lily is the tough one. Sorry 'bout that, Frank. I should have told you. You kinda got that badge shoved on you real quick.”

“No problem, Tom.”

“You want some backup?”

Frank shook his head. “No. I'm just going to walk in, look around, and walk out.” He smiled. “I hope.”

“Shouldn't be any trouble in the middle of the week. On Friday and Saturday nights it's mostly drunks who act up a little.”

“I'll see you in the morning, Tom. Have yourself a nice quiet evening.”

“Take care, Frank.” The marshal walked slowly away, blending quickly into the gathering dusk of fast-approaching night.

Frank flexed his hands a couple of times. They didn't hurt and did not appear to be stiffening up. A few hours might make a difference, but for now they were all right. He crossed the street and walked down to the Purple Lily Saloon. A piano player was hammering out a fast tune, and there were several tables of cardplayers and a half dozen or so men dressed in rough range clothing standing at the bar.

Frank pushed open the batwings and stepped inside. The piano player spotted him and stopped playing. The men at the bar turned to stare at him. The cardplayers stopped their games and stared.

“Don't let me interrupt, boys,” Frank told the group. “I'm just looking around and getting acquainted.”

“Don't bother in here, Morgan,” a man standing at the bar said. “Don't nobody here want to meet you.”

Frank looked at him for a moment, recognition slowly lighting in his eyes. “Hello, Slick. It's been a long time.”

“Not long enough, Morgan. I heard you got killed over in Montana. I celebrated that news for two days. Now you come show up and spoil everything.”

“Sorry to spoil your celebration, Slick.”

“Not as sorry as I am. My shoulder still bothers me where that doc dug out the lead you put in me.”

“I had to hurry that shot, Slick. It was my intention to kill you.”

Slick turned back to the bar and picked up his drink.

Frank walked to the end of the bar closest to the batwings and signaled to the bartender. “Coffee, please.”

“My, my,” a man said from a card table. “Ain't he the po-lite one?”

“Hello, Curly,” Frank said. “You didn't think I recognized you, did you?”

“Hell with you, Morgan!” Curly replied.

“You're a long way from Wyoming,” Frank said.

“Free country.”

“Yes, it is. You working around here, Curly?”

“I might be.”

“How about you, Slick?”

“I been thinkin' 'bout signin' on with the ES spread.”

“Ed Simpson's brand?”

“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”

“You real sure you remember how to rope and brand?”

Slick did not reply, just stared at Frank with open, unbridled hate in his eyes.