Imposter (9 page)

“Pitiful,” Frank said, picking up a trunk. “Just plain pitiful.”

It was well after dark when Frank stepped out of the hotel and rolled a smoke. He had gotten Lara settled in and all her luggage toted up to her room. John had cussed and threatened while they were at the Whitter house, but had not thrown any more punches at Frank. The lawyer was still cussing and yelling as they drove away in the buggy.

Frank walked over to the café for supper, then lingered over a last cup of coffee while the waitress fixed a bag of scraps for Dog. With Dog fed and Stormy looked after, Frank went back to the office, sitting down at the desk, wondering if anything else was going to happen this day.

“Lord, I hope not,” he muttered.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than he heard a shot, then another. Frank took a Greener from the gun rack, stuck a handful of shells into his jacket pocket, checked to see if the double-barreled sawed-off was loaded, and stepped outside.

“It come from down that alley 'crost the street, Deputy,” a local told him, pointing.

“Obliged,” Frank said, and stepped off the boardwalk.

“I seen some Simpson hands ride into town a few minutes ago,” the local called.

“Thanks,” Frank called over his shoulder, and walked on into the night.

When Frank approached the dark mouth of the alley, he moved swiftly and unexpectedly to his right, quickly stepping out of any line of fire. It was a good move, for the night was suddenly alive with gunfire, all of it coming from the darkness of the alley.

Frank dived behind a water trough as other guns in the darkness of the alley joined in the barrage, the lead whining all around him. Frank rolled away from the trough and crawled under the raised boardwalk, crawling as fast as he could to his right, all the while staying under the protection of the boardwalk. The boardwalk narrowed down to the point where he could no longer stay under it. He rolled out just as a man stepped out of the alley, both hands filled with six-guns.

Frank cut loose with both barrels, the buckshot catching the gunman in the belly, lifting him off his feet, and flinging him backward, almost torn in half.

“Good God!” a man in the alley yelled as the wall of the building was splattered with blood.

“I'm gone!” another gunslick said.

“You wait just a damn minute, Shorty!” another man said. “You ain't goin' nowheres. You know what the boss said.”

“Hell with you and the boss!” Shorty said. “I ain't goin' up against no Greener at close range. Look what happened to Carl layin' over yonder. He's blowed nearly in two. I think I'm gonna puke.”

“Well, don't puke on me.”

“Shut up, both of you,” a third voice was added. “Shorty, you and Ned circle around the buildin' and see if you can get a shot at Morgan. Move!”

“What the hell are
you
gonna be doin,' Cal?” The question was thrown out of the darkness.

“Holdin' down this position,” Cal said, his voice calm. “Now you and Ned move out and let's settle this mess.”

Frank crawled to the edge of the building and looked into the darkness, waiting for someone to show himself in the narrow space between the two businesses. The locals had quickly vacated the street after the first few shots. The boardwalk on both sides of the street was empty of foot traffic.

Someone kicked a tin can at the rear of the building and cussed. Frank waited, the Greener cocked and ready.

“Damnit, Ned.” Frank heard the hoarse whisper. “Watch where you stick your big feet, will you?”

Ned cussed his friend. Then . . . silence.

Frank caught movement from the mouth of the alley and flattened out on the dirt, trying to see under the boardwalk. He caught a glint of light off a spur and pulled the Greener to his shoulder. Another flash of light off the spur and Frank pulled the trigger. The sawed-off roared in the night, the muzzle blast kicking up dust in the confined space under the boardwalk. The dust was enough to severely limit Frank's vision for a few seconds and cause him to cough.

Cal screamed as his body jerked on the ground in the alley. “My foot!” he yelled. “The bastard blowed my foot off. Oh, God, it hurts. Kill him for me, boys. Kill that damn Drifter. Oh, Christ, I can't stand the pain.”

“Where's your foot, Cal?” Ned hollered.

“Blowed off, you idiot!” Cal hollered, his voice tight with pain. “I ain't got no foot no more. Kill that bastard for me. Kill him, I say.”

“I will, Cal,” Shorty yelled. “Right now!” Shorty came running through the night.

Frank turned and leveled the Greener under the boardwalk. He saw the glint of light off of spurs and squeezed the trigger. Again the sawed-off roared, and Shorty was suddenly facedown on the littered ground, screaming out in pain.

“I'm gone,” Ned said. “Hell with this.”

“Don't leave me, you yeller coyote!” Shorty hollered. “You got to hep me. My leg is all tore up. I cain't git up.”

“Hell with you,” Ned called. “I'm gone.”

“I'll kill you, Ned!” Cal yelled. “I'll skin you alive, you yeller bastard!”

“Hell with you too,” Ned yelled.

“Frank!” Doc Evans yelled from the darkness of an office window. “Are you all right?”

“I'm all right, Doc,” Frank called. “But I've got two wounded here.”

“Hep us, Doc!” Shorty yelled. “We give up. My legs is tore up and Cal ain't got no foot. Hep us.”

“Throw your guns out, boys,” Frank called as he reloaded the Greener. “Do it right now. Doc? Stay where you are until I get this area safe.”

Two six-shooters were tossed out from the darkness. “We ain't gonna cause no more trouble,” Cal said. “We just want some hep.”

Several locals carrying lanterns walked up, casting light on the blood-soaked ground. Marshal Wright strolled up, carrying a shotgun. He stood in the street as Doc Evans appeared on the scene, carrying his medical bag.

“Look at me first, Doc,” Cal called, his voice weak. “I'm bleedin' bad.”

Frank gathered up the weapons and put them in a gunnysack provided by Jack O'Malley from his general store.

“Some of you men carry the wounded over to my office,” Doc Evans said. “I'm going to have to do some sawing on this man's leg. The bone's sticking out.”

“Oh, Lord!” Cal hollered. “Get me some whiskey for the pain.”

“You know these men, Tom?” Frank asked the marshal.

“They work for Big Ed,” Tom replied tightly. “Some of the gunhands he's hired over the past few months.” He pointed to what was left of Carl in the alley. “He come in here from Arizona, I think.” Tom looked around him. “You men over there!” he shouted. “Get some shovels and bags. Help Pennybaker gather up what's left of Carl. Toss some dirt over the blood.” He looked back at Frank. “Big Ed will deny any part in this, you know that, don't you?”

Frank nodded his head. “Sure.”

“Soon as he's on his feet, Big Ed will come lookin' for you, Frank.”

“I'm not hard to find.”

“Want some help makin' out the reports on this?”

“No. I'll go do it now. Go on back home and relax.”

The marshal thanked Frank and began slowly walking back to his house. Before he could go half a block, four men rode in, walking their horses slowly up the street. Marshal Wright stopped and walked back to Frank. “Trouble, Frank?” he asked.

“Might be. That's Sheriff Davis from Deweyville. One of the men I recognize as his deputy. He's the one I smacked on the jaw getting away. Deputy Tucker. I don't know the others.”

Sheriff Davis rode up to Frank and Marshal Wright. Without dismounting, he said, “I'm lookin' for my sister. You seen her?”

“Get off that horse before I jerk you off and stomp your butt!” Frank told him.

“We all make mistakes, Morgan,” Davis said. “I made a mistake in thinkin' you were Val Dooley.”

“When did you change your mind?”

“The day you busted out I got word that Dooley had robbed a bank fifty miles north of my town. You couldn't hardly be in two places at once. Sorry about the trouble.” Sheriff Davis swung from the saddle.

“All right.” Frank told him about Alberta riding into town and shooting up the place.

Davis sighed. “My sister is”—he sighed—“not quite right in the head, Morgan.”

“You'll certainly get no arguments from me about that,” Frank replied.

Sheriff Davis looked uncomfortable for a few seconds, then said, “Anyway, no hard feelings, Morgan. I am glad to see you're totin' that badge. You've had more than a peck of trouble here, I see.”

“A mite, for sure. Big Ed Simpson's boys. Ed and me had a ruckus a couple of days ago. He came out on the losing end.”

“I've heard of Ed Simpson. Thinks he's the he-bull around these parts, don't he?”

“That's him.”

Sheriff Davis took Frank away from the crowd of locals and said, “I think Big Ed used to be a hired gun. That's the word I get.”

“I heard the same. But he must have changed his name. I never heard of any gunslick named Ed Simpson.”

Davis nodded his head in agreement. “Morgan, do you have any idea where my sister is hiding?”

“No. She got away from the posse. She needs help, Davis.”

“I know. But getting any sort of real help is damn near impossible. The doctors I've taken her to all want to put her in some sort of asylum.”

Flank offered no reply to that, but silently thought that the idea had some real merit. “If she comes into town again shooting up the place, someone is likely to put lead in her.”

“I understand.”

“But I'll do my best to keep that from happening, Davis.”

“Thanks, Morgan. She's . . . well, she's my sister, you know.”

“Yes. That's a nice hotel over yonder.” He pointed. “You boys look like you could use some rest.”

“For a fact. We've been pushing it hard. We'll go get rooms and I'll see you later.”

Watching the sheriff walk away, Frank thought:
Davis might turn out to be a decent sort after all.

“Cal just died,” Doc Evans said, walking up to Frank. “Shock, loss of blood.”

“How's the other one?”

“He'll probably live. But I'm not giving any guarantees about that. A shotgun is a nasty weapon.”

“It does the trick, for a fact.”

Doc Evans cut his eyes upward, toward the hotel. “Mrs. Whitter is watching you, Frank. Not us,
you.”

Frank turned and looked at the second floor of the hotel. Lara was standing at the window, looking at him. She lifted a hand in greeting, and Frank returned the gesture.

“You two have something going on between you, Frank?” the doctor asked.

“Not yet,” Frank answered truthfully. “But there is sure something in the air that keeps circling around us.”

“So I noticed,” the doctor replied dryly.

“I haven't done anything to encourage it, Doc.” He hesitated. “At least not much.”

“Uh-huh,” the doctor replied dubiously.

“I swear to you, Doc.”

“Okay, Frank. Whatever. Let me go see about the one who lived through this shootout. Talk to you later.”

As Doc Evans walked away, Johnny Vargas walked up to Frank. “I see your luck's still holding, Drifter.”

“Looks that way, Johnny.”

“Carl and Ned was riding pards, Drifter. Ned will get his nerve back and come looking for you.”

“Not if he's smart.”

“I never said he was smart.”

“I'll be here for him, if that's the way he wants it.”

“So will I, Drifter.”

“What's that mean, Johnny?”

The gunslinger shrugged his shoulders. “Just that, Drifter. It might be a good show and I wouldn't want to miss it.”

Frank looked at him and said nothing.

“See you around, Drifter,” Johnny said with a smile. He lifted a hand and turned away, walking back to the saloon.

Frank stood in the street for a few moments, watching as a group of locals gathered up bits and pieces of Carl and then scrubbed down the side of the building and shoveled dirt over the blood spots.

“Hell of a way to die,” one said.

“Name me a good way,” another challenged.

The locals walked away, and Frank turned to go back to the office. He looked up at Lara's room in the hotel. She was still standing there, staring at him.

Frank lifted a hand in greeting and turned away. He was getting himself into a real bad situation, and he realized it.

Trouble was, he was sort of looking forward to it.

After Frank had breakfast, he took a sack of scraps down to the livery for Dog and filled up the big cur's water bucket.

“You're getting fat, boy,” Frank said, smiling at the animal as he ate. “All this inactivity is making you lazy.”

Dog looked at him for a few seconds, then resumed his eating. After taking a long lap at the water bucket, Dog lay down in the stall and promptly went to sleep.

Frank stepped out into the growing light of early morning and looked around. Both saloons were still closed; the swampers had not yet arrived for work. He walked to the office and unlocked the door. Frank built a fire in the potbelly, put on water to boil for coffee, then sat down at the desk and began writing up the report about the shooting of the previous night. That done, he fixed a cup of coffee, rolled a smoke, and sat back down behind the desk. Lara Whitter came sashaying into his thoughts, all bright and blond and smiling . . . very inviting.

Frank quickly got up, deciding to take a stroll around town. He wasn't going to sit in the office and entertain thoughts about Lara . . . as pleasing as they were.

He had walked only a few steps from the office when Doc Evans hailed him from across the street. Frank waited for the town's doctor to join him.

“Had breakfast yet, Frank?”

“ 'Bout a hour ago, Doc. How's the patient?”

“He'll live. But he'll probably have a limp for the rest of his life. The buckshot broke his leg in several places.”

Frank said nothing. He wasn't exactly overcome with grief concerning the health of the man who'd tried to kill him.

“Seen Mrs. Whitter this morning?” the doctor asked.

“No. She's probably still asleep.”

“The town is, as the saying goes, buzzing with gossip about you and Lara.”

“Let them buzz. There is nothing going on with us.”

“Yet.”

Frank smiled at that. The doctor was a very astute man. “If you say so, Doc.”

Doc Evans took his arm. “Come on. I'll buy you a cup of coffee.”

Seated at the Blue Bird Café, the doctor said, “John Whitter came to see me last evening. He admitted to striking Lara, but says he loves her and wants my help in persuading her to come back home. He thinks they can work it out.”

“And?”

“I told him to forget it. Personally, and I'm not telling you anything I didn't tell him, I think the beatings have been going on since the beginning and he's not going to change.”

“What was his reply to that?”

“He didn't deny it.”

“How could he? Some of the bruises we both saw were days or even weeks old. Bruises on top of bruises. The son of a ...” Frank bit the last word back.

Doc Evans smiled at the expression on Frank's face and the heat in his voice. “And there is no attraction between the two of you at all ... right?”

Frank sipped his coffee and said nothing.

Doc's breakfast platter came, and Frank ordered more coffee while the doctor ate. The place was filling up with hungry locals, and both the cook and the waitress were busy. Frank received a few curious looks and a lot of greetings of “How do” and “Good mornin'.” It was while he was drinking coffee that something he had
not
noticed at the livery finally dawned on him: The stable was practically empty of horses. All the hired guns that had been drifting into town were gone.

Frank set his coffee mug down on the table hard and Doc Evans looked up. “What is it, Frank?”

Frank told him.

“Good riddance,” the doc said.

“Maybe not for long.”

“What do you mean?”

“They might be gathering somewhere to plan out a raid.”

“Against this town?”

“Yes.”

Doc Evans laid down his knife and fork. “I don't like the sound of that, Frank. Not one little bit.”

“Marshal Tom and I discussed it. I told you, didn't I?”

“If you did, I forgot.”

“So much has happened the past few days, I probably forgot to mention it.” He told the doctor about Tom organizing the town's men in case they were needed.

“Good idea. And did he?” Doc Evans asked, buttering a biscuit.

“He said they were ready to go.”

“There are some good men in this town. And they won't hesitate to protect what they've worked for.”

Frank waited until the waitress had hottened his coffee and moved away. “I wonder if Ed Simpson is involved in this.”

Doc Evans quickly shook his head. “No. I'd bet my poke on that. Why would he steal his own money? He's a major depositor in our bank.”

“That answers my question then. How about the new hands he's hired? Many of them are hardcases. Why did he do that?”

“That is something I can't answer, unless . . .” Doc Evans paused.

“What is it, Doc?”

“A rumor, Frank. Just a rumor, that's all.”

“About what?”

“Big Ed wanting to take over this entire area. That's a rumor that's been floating around for about a year.”

“What would he do with it, Doc? From what I've seen, much of this area is not suitable for running cattle.”

“I understand he wants the area that is suitable.”

“Same old story, Doc. Greed.”

“That's about it, Frank. Ed has more money than he could spend now. But he's a man who is power-hungry. He wants to be king and everyone else to be his serfs.”

Frank smiled at that. “From what I've seen of the people in this town, I don't think Ed will get his wish.”

“Oh, he won't try to gain control of the town. But he has tried to run off some of the small farmers.”

“Tried or succeeded?”

“He's intimidated a few of them. They pulled out.”

“The rest of them?”

“They've resisted . . . so far.”

“Big Ed Simpson, King of the County,” Frank said with a smile. “Has quite a ring to it, doesn't it?”

“It's nauseating . . . don't even think it. Oh, something else you need to know about, since you have no interest in Lara Simpson . . .” The doctor paused to chuckle.

“Very funny, Doc. See me laughing? What is it I need to know?”

“Big Ed Simpson wants Lara Whitter.”

“He
wants
her?”

“Yes, he . . . ah . . . well, lusts for her. You get the picture now?”

“I get it. Talk about laughable. Beauty and the Beast.”

Doc Evans almost choked on his sip of coffee. He coughed for a moment, then said, “That, Frank, is a very apt description. Yes indeed.”

“Does Lara know about Ed's, ah, lusting after her?”

“Oh, yes. He acts like a lovesick boy whenever he gets around her. Or, as Marshal Tom put it, like a lost calf in a hailstorm.”

Frank got a laugh out of that. “That must be a sight to see. Not that I care to see it. What about Ed's wife?”

“Elsie? That foul-mouthed female scorpion. She doesn't care. She has her own lovers. Doesn't bother to hide it from Ed. He doesn't care. Hell, he whores around. I don't think they've slept in the same room for fifteen years . . . or longer.”

“What a wonderful couple.”

“Oh, yes. The picture of marital bliss.” Doc cut his eyes to the street. “Here comes Mrs. Whitter now. My, my, doesn't she look nice this morning?”

Frank looked. “Yes, she does. But then, I've never seen her when she didn't look nice.”

“I do believe she's coming in here, Frank. Yes, she is.” As soon as the door opened, Doc Evans waved Lara over to their table, and Frank held the chair for her.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Lara said. “I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

“Not at all, Lara,” Doc Evans assured her. “Would you care for some breakfast?”

“Yes. I am hungry.”

The waitress was hailed and poured Lara some coffee, then left to put in her order. Doc stood up. “I must go and see to my patient. Nice to see you, Lara. Frank will sit with you during breakfast, won't you, Frank?” The doctor's eyes twinkled with mischief.

“Ah . . . sure. Of course. See you, Doc.” As soon as the doctor had left the café, Frank leaned close and said in low tones, “This will really get tongues wagging, Lara.”

“I don't care. Do you, Frank?”

“No. Not a bit, Lara.”

“Good. Pass the cream pitcher, please.”

For a lady her size, Lara had a hearty appetite. She cleaned her plate and the waitress filled her coffee cup. Frank asked, “So what do you have to do today, Lara?”

“Avoid my husband mostly,” she said with a smile. “But I do want to see Johnny and try to explain to him what happened.”

“He's seen your husband strike you?”

“Many times.”

“I hate to hear that.”

“He tried to come to my defense several times, and John knocked him to the floor. Not even Dr. Evans knows that.”

“Then I suggest you tell him.”

“All right. I will.”

Frank fiddled with his coffee cup for a few seconds.

“What's the matter, Frank?”

He looked up, meeting her eyes. “Lara, are you aware about Ed Simpson's feelings toward you?”

She grimaced. “Oh, God, yes! That man is a pig! He's getting bolder and bolder every time I let him get near me... which isn't often. He scares me, Frank. I'm afraid he's going to do something really rash.”

“Like what, Lara?”

“Oh, I don't know. Kidnap me, or something equally awful.” She smiled and shook her head. “I'm being silly and I know it. But he really frightens me.”

“More than your husband?”

“Much more. John is out of my life now, and I intend to keep him out. I shall file for a divorce as soon as possible.”

“Is there another attorney in town?”

“No. But I can go over to another town and file. Perhaps you could escort me, Frank. Would you do that?”

“Sure. If you don't mind getting the town's gossips really going.”

“I don't care. A lot of them already think of me as a scarlet woman.”

“I'm sure they're wrong.”

“Are you, Frank?”

“Yes.”

“You've known me only a few days, Frank. Which means you don't know me at all. How can you be so sure?”

“I trust my instincts.”

“And what do your instincts tell you about... well, us?” Her eyes were unblinking as they met his.

“I honestly don't know how to answer that, Lara. Not yet.”

“You'll tell me when you have a clear answer?”

“Oh, yes, Lara. You may be assured of that.”

She dabbed at her lips with a napkin and reached for her purse.

“Your meals are on me, Lara. I've arranged for the waitress to put them on my tab. She likes you a lot.”

“Clemmie is a nice person. We've been friends since the first day I arrived in town.”

“Morgan!” The shout came from the street.
“Morgan!
Get out here.”

“Who is that?” Lara asked, looking at the man standing in the middle of Main Street.

“I don't know,” Frank said. “Never saw him before.”

“I know you're in there, Morgan,” the man yelled. “Come out here and face me.”

Frank pushed back his chair and stood up. “I'd better go see what he wants, as if I didn't know.”

“What do you mean?” Lara asked.

“He's a gunslick. Or he thinks he is. He wants a reputation, or he thinks he does.”

“I don't understand, Frank.”

“He wants to kill me.”

Every man in the café was silent, listening to Frank, watching him, wondering what Frank would do.

Frank turned to the café patrons. “Anybody know that fellow?”

“I never saw him before, Mr. Morgan,” the waitress, Clemmie, said. “He's not from around here.”

“Stay inside, Lara,” Frank said. “This won't take long.”

Before Lara could respond, Frank was walking out the door. He walked to the edge of the boardwalk and looked out at the man standing in the street. Mid-twenties, Frank figured. Tied-down gun. Looking for trouble.

“I'm Morgan,” Frank said. “What do you want?”

“You!” the young man yelled.

“Why?”

“To kill you!”

Frank shook his head at that. “I don't know you, boy. Why do you want to kill me?”

“ 'Cause you're Frank Morgan, that's why.”

“You have something against my name, boy?”

That seemed to confuse the young man. He frowned for a few seconds. “You know what I mean, Morgan.”

“I really don't, boy. Perhaps you might explain it.”

“I heard from the stage driver you was here in town. I come lookin' for you. Does that make it clear?”

“No.”

“Well, what the hell else do you want me to say?” the young man hollered. “Damn, are you dumb or somethin'?”

“I'm a deputy marshal, boy. Not an outlaw. Even if you did succeed in killing me—which you won't do, I can assure you of that—it would only bring you grief. Why don't you get back on your horse and ride out of here?”

“Step out into the street, Morgan!”

“I don't have the time nor the inclination to mess around with you, boy. Now, go away and leave me alone.”

“Why would killin' you bring me grief, Morgan?” Before Frank could reply, the would-be gunhawk said, “I think it would bring me lots of fame and glory. That's what I think. And women too.”