Authors: William W. Johnstone

Reprisal (7 page)

BOOK: Reprisal

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Eleven

Frank's shot was perfectly placed, striking the young man in the right shoulder and knocking him back. The pistol slipped from his suddenly numb hand. Max stumbled into a table and put his left hand out for support. The table tilted under his weight and slid out from under him. Max hit the floor and lay there, groaning in pain.

Frank stepped to one side and pumped two rounds into Phil, who had dragged iron just a second behind Max's unsuccessful effort. Phil staggered backward and tried to lift his .45. His right arm refused to comply with his brain's wishes. Phil squeezed the trigger and the hammer fell. The shot blew off the front part of his right foot and the bounty hunter went down hard on the floor, howling in shock and pain.

Ned held up both hands. “I'm out of this!” he hollered.

“Don't shoot, Morgan!” the young man who was seated with Max yelled. “I ain't havin' none of this.”

“You bastard!” Phil said, both hands holding his perforated belly. “You done killed me.”

“For sure he's gonna save on boots from now on,” the barkeep said, peering over the counter at Phil's ruined foot.

Frank slid his .45 back into leather and waited.

“That's it,” the marshal said, stepping out of the shadows and walking toward the fallen Max. “Everyone stand easy.”

“I'll get the doc,” a man said, standing up and heading for the door. “If he's sober, that is.”

“Do that,” the marshal said. “Drag him over here if he's drunk.”

“Help me!” Max called, waving his one good arm. “Oh, Lord, I believe I'm done for.”

“Oh, shut up, Max,” the marshal told him after taking a quick look. “You got plugged in the shoulder, that's all. Somebody else will have to kill you.”

“Somebody probably will, for a fact,” a patron commented.

“Oh, I cain't stand the pain!” Max complained. “I'm hurtin' something fierce.”

Frank picked up his beer mug with his left hand and took a healthy gulp, easing the dryness in his throat. He motioned for the barkeep to refill it.

“Is it gettin' dark?” Phil called. “I can't see too well no more.”

Frank took a sip of his freshly pulled beer and said nothing.

“Oh, Lordy, I'm hurtin'!” Max hollered.

“Good,” Frank said. “Maybe it will make you think the next time you want to drag iron against someone.”

“I hate you, Morgan!” Max hollered.

“I'm brokenhearted, son. I'll probably lose at least a minute of sleep over it.”

Several of the patrons snickered at that.

“You old farts think this is funny?” Max shouted. “Damn you all to hell!”

That prompted more laughter.

“Don't nobody care 'bout me?” Phil said. “I'm goin' to die and don't nobody give a damn.”

“You got that right,” the barkeep told him. “You got my floor all messed up.”

The town's doctor came in. He appeared sober, but Frank could tell the man was a boozer: His nose was red as a beet and spiderwebbed with broken veins. He knelt down beside Max and ripped open his shirt.

“Sit him up,” the doc said. He looked at the exit wound in the young man's back. “He'll live.”

“Is that all you got to say?” Max yelped. “Give me something for the pain.”

“Later,” the doc told him. “You can stand it, boy. Hell, the way you been strutting around town, I guessed you were tough as wang leather.”

“I'm tough, Doc. But I also hurt like thunder.”

“You'll make it.” The doc moved over to Phil and checked his wounds.

“I'm done for, ain't I, Doc?” Phil asked.

“You sure are.”

“Well, hell, Doc! You don't have to say it like that.”

“How else is there to say it? You've taken your last ride. You're not long for this world. You're going to croak. Is that better?”

“Hell, no!”

“You want me to get a preacher?”

“Why?”

“To help you make your peace with the Almighty.”

Phil coughed for a few seconds. “I don't need no sky-talker. I want you to dig these bullets out and get me well.”

“You're lung-shot, fellow. And it looks like the other bullet poked a hole in your gizzard.”

“You ain't much help, Doc.”

“I don't have a lot to work with, fellow. Are you in a lot of pain?”

“Hell, yes.”

The doctor reached into his bag and hauled out a bottle of laudanum. “Give me a spoon,” he told the barkeep.

“A clean one?”

“It doesn't make any difference.”

“Oh, Lord,” Phil moaned.

Jeff walked into the saloon with a group of other curious citizens and strolled over to Frank. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, Jeff. How's Dog?”

“Sleeping. These the bounty hunters?”

“One of them. The other one is a kid with a big mouth.”

“I heard the shooting. A deputy wouldn't let us in; kept us outside for several minutes.”

“Can I put my arms down now?” Ned asked the marshal.

“Put your arms down and get the hell out of town,” the marshal told him.

“Now?”

“Right now.”

“Man, it's freezin' cold out there. My horse is tired. Hell, I ain't done nothin'. 'Sides, I got to see about gettin' my buddy buried.”

“I ain't dead yet, goddamnit!” Phil groaned.

“You will be 'fore long,” the doctor told him.

“Thanks a lot,” Phil said.

“You're welcome.” The doctor stood up. “I've done all that I can do.”

“Hell, you ain't done nothin'!” Phil said.

“It's still all I can do.”

“Wonderful,” Phil said weakly. He focused his eyes on Morgan, standing at the bar. “I hope you get gut-shot, Drifter. I hope you die hard, you bastard.”

“Drifter?” the doctor questioned.

“That's what some has taken to calling Frank Morgan,” the marshal said.

The doctor looked at Frank. “Are you really Frank Morgan?”

“Yes.”

“I've been reading about you in an Eastern newspaper I get sent out here.”

“From Boston?” Frank asked.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Articles written by Louis Pettigrew?”

“That's the man's name.”

“Don't believe everything you read.” Frank met the marshal's steady gaze. “You through with me?”

“I sure as hell hope so.”

Frank drained his beer mug. “Come on, Jeff. Let's go back to the hotel.”

“Morgan, I want you out of town come daylight,” the marshal said.

“We'll be gone. Count on it.”

“What about me?” Phil said.

“You'll be gone come morning,” the doctor told him. “And you can count on that too.”

“You 'bout the sorriest damn doctor I ever seen,” Phil told him.

“Feel free to mention that to God,” the doctor said. He paused and added, “Or the Devil.”

* * *

Frank and Jeff were saddled up and ready to ride out just after dawn the next morning. Frank stepped out of the barn into the daylight for a look around. The first person he saw standing in the middle of the street was Ned.

“You, Morgan!” the man-hunter called. “My partner Phil just died.”

“He brought it on himself.”

“He'll soon be cold in the ground and you're walkin' around. That don't seem right to me.”

“Seems fine to me.”

“You a smart-aleck bastard, Morgan. Makin' light of my partner's dyin'.”

“I'm riding out, Ned. Leaving town. So get out of the way. I'm not looking for trouble.”

“I'm fixin' to give you more trouble than you can handle, Morgan.”

“I don't want a fight, Ned.”

“I do.”

The marshal had stepped out of a cafe and was standing under the awning, listening. Listening and watching, but making no attempt to interfere. He had just finished breakfast and was leaning up against a support post, picking his teeth.

“Go on with your life, Ned. Go away and live to be an old man. Don't prod me anymore.”

“Can't do that, Morgan. It's the code.”

“The code? What damn code?”

“Mine and Phil's. We promised to avenge each other if something was to happen.” Ned took a couple of steps closer, his right hand close to the butt of his pistol.

“Don't do this, Ned. I'm telling you, man, it isn't worth it.”

“It's got to be, Morgan. I know Phil would have done the same for me.”

Morgan quickly cut his eyes toward the marshal. But he knew the marshal would not interfere. The West was slowly being civilized, and courtrooms and law books were being used more and more. In many places, legal words and phrases filled the air instead of gun smoke, but this was still the West, and men still settled quarrels with guns.

“I can shoot him from here,” Jeff said softly, standing in the door of the livery, holding a rifle.

“Stay out of it,” Frank told him. “I hope you never have to kill a man.”

“I'm here if you need me.”

“All right.”

“Who you talkin' to, Morgan?” Ned called.

“The ghosts of dead bounty hunters.”

“Huh?”

“I'm getting very weary of this, Ned. I'm trying to ride out and you're standing in my way.”

“One way to move me, Morgan. And you know what that is.”

“I guess that's the way it has to be,” Frank said, resignation in his voice.

The marshal tossed his toothpick into the street and hitched at his gunbelt.

“You stay out of this, Marshal!” Ned shouted. “This ain't none of your affair.” Ned took a couple more steps toward Frank. “I'll kill you where you stand, Morgan. Hook and draw, you son of a bitch!”

“After you, Ned.”

Ned's right hand hovered over the butt of his pistol.

“Having second thoughts, Ned?” Frank asked. “I would, were I you.”

“You ain't me!”

“For a fact. Ned?”

“What?”

“You got enough money on you to pay for your burying?”

“Hell with you, Morgan. I'm gonna have plenty of money once you're down.”

“Think about it, man. Walk away and live.”

“I got a better idea, Morgan. Draw!”

Twelve

Ned was knocked to the ground when Frank's bullet slammed into the bounty hunter's hip . . . exactly where Frank had intended the .45-caliber slug to strike. Ned lost his grip on his pistol. The marshal was in the center of the street before Ned could grab his pistol. He kicked the gun away.

“It's over, mister,” the marshal told him. “The Drifter let you live. Be thankful for that and let it go.”

“I'll kill him someday!”

“You're a fool.”

Jeff led the horses outside and Frank mounted up. Dog was in his pouch on the side of the pack animal, only his head poking out of the pouch, safe and comfortable, taking in all the sights.

“I'll kill you someday, Drifter!” Ned hollered.

Frank ignored the threat and lifted a hand in farewell to the marshal.

“Good luck, Drifter,” the marshal called.

“I need me a doctor!” Ned hollered. “And get me somebody 'sides that damn quack that fumbled around and let Phil die. You hear me? I'm gonna kill you, Morgan!” he shouted. “Damn you! That there's a promise. You can count on it.”

Frank and Jeff rode out of town without looking back. Jeff did not say anything about the daybreak shooting, and Frank never mentioned it. But for several hours after riding out of the town Jeff looked often over his shoulder, checking their back trail.

* * *

In the mid-1880's Durango was a rip-roaring, wide-open town, with saloons operating twenty-four hours a day and “shady ladies” offering their favors quite openly.

“Oh, my God!” Jeff said, as the pair reined up on the outskirts of the mining town and Jeff got his first close-up look at Durango. “Are those men laying in the street dead?”

“No. Just drunk and passed out. Come on. Let's stable our horses and check this place out.”

“I would like to have a bath. As a matter of fact, both of us could use a bath.”

“You think you might run into Colleen?” Frank asked with a smile.

“Dog smells better than we do,” Jeff replied, avoiding the question.

“It would be my luck to run into Martha Overhouser,” Frank said, lifting the reins.

Jeff was still laughing as they reined up in front of the nearest livery.

Durango was in its heyday, and the town was still growing, but the growing pains would ease up a lot over the next few years. By the early 1900's, Durango would fall on hard times as the mines began to play out.

The first thing Frank noticed was a freshly painted sign hanging outside a new building: “The Henson Company.”

The boy sure doesn't let any grass grow under his feet when it comes to business,
Frank thought. Then he smiled secretly, inwardly, thinking:
The more money you make, son, the more money I make.
That thought amused him.

“You have a funny look on your face, Frank,” Jeff said. “Kind of like the cat who ate the cream.”

“Nothing important, Jeff. Come on. Let's find us a place in one of the hotels.”

“And if we can't?”

“Then we'll find us a shack outside of town and live there.”

There was no room in any of the hotels nor in any of the rooming houses, and it was late in the day.

“We'll sleep in the livery,” Frank said. “Up in the loft. Tomorrow we'll have our baths.”

“When do we get something to eat? I'm hungry.”

“Right now, if you're that hungry.”

“I am.”

The men found a cafe and had supper: beef, beans, potatoes, bread, and a piece of pie. Frank got a big sackful of scraps for Dog.

“I feel better,” Jeff declared as the men stepped out onto the boardwalk.

“You should feel terrible. You ate enough for two people.”

Jeff belched. “Excuse me.”

On the way back to the livery, the men approached the marshal, walking the boardwalk. The marshal paused and looked hard at Frank for a long moment. Frank watched the man's face tighten and his eyes narrow as he recognized him.

“Evening, Marshal,” Frank greeted him.

The man nodded his head, still not quite sure he was looking at the legendary gun-handler.

Frank gave the sack of scraps to Jeff. “Feed Dog, will you, Jeff. I'll be along in a few minutes.”

“Sure. I want to pull off my boots and wriggle my toes for a while anyway.

Frank pulled out the makings and rolled a smoke, then offered the sack and papers to the marshal. “Smoke, Marshal?”

“Don't mind if I do.” Rolling his cigarette, the marshal asked, “Are my eyes playing tricks on me? Are you really Frank Morgan?”

“In person.”

“Damn!”

“I'm not here to cause any trouble.”

“I'm sure you've heard this before, Morgan: Trouble follows you.”

“I've heard it a time or two.”

The marshal popped a match into flame, lit his cigarette, and waited.

“Marshal, I met up with a young fellow wandering around on the trail. He was from New York City, first time out here, and was lost as a goose. I told him he could ride along with me. That's all there is to my being here.”

“I believe you, Morgan. But it still puts you here. You know, I reckon, about the bounty on your head?”

“I know.”

“Fifteen thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

“For a fact.”

“This town is full of trouble-hunters. When the word gets around that you're here, and it will, real quick, there'll be men looking to call you out. And not just for the bounty. There are always some who'll be hunting a reputation. I'd say the same thing to Smoke Jensen, Falcon MacCallister, Louis Longmont, and a dozen other fast guns.”

“I know, and I don't blame you.”

“But you're still going to stay here in Durango?”

“I am.”

“I figured you'd say that. How long are you going to be in town, Morgan?”

“Quite a spell.”

“I figured you'd say that too. Well, I reckon I'd better tell the undertaker to get ready for some business.”

“Not necessarily. I won't start any trouble.”

“But you won't back down from any either?”

“I'll do my very best to try to talk my way out of it, if possible. But I won't back down from any man. I never have and I never will.”

“That's about all I can hope for, I guess.”

“That's best I can do.”

“All right, Morgan. I'll take your word for it. You seem like a straight shooter to me.” The marshal smiled faintly. “Bad choice of words, wasn't it? Anyway, welcome to Durango.” He brushed by Frank and walked on down the boardwalk.

“Seems like a nice enough fellow,” Frank muttered. He looked across the busy street and met the eyes of his son, Conrad. Frank lifted a hand in greeting. Conrad stared at him for a moment, then turned away without acknowledging the greeting in any way.

Boy blames me for getting his mother killed,
Frank thought.
Well, he'll either come around to thinking straight, or he won't. There isn't a damn thing I can do about it.

Frank felt eyes on him and looked down the street. The marshal was watching him. Frank held up a hand, signaling the marshal to wait, and walked down toward him.

“Got a question for you, Marshal.”

“All right.”

“The Pine and Vanbergen gangs around?”

“I heard about that woman getting killed up north a few months back, and I also heard she was your exwife. Any truth in that?”

“Yes.”

The marshal sighed. “Oh, brother. Word around town is that young uppity rich dude, Conrad Browning, is your son. Any truth in that?”

“Yes. Although I'm sure it would hurt Conrad's mouth to admit it.”

“I ... guess I understand that.”

“He didn't know until a few months ago.”

“Ahh. Well, in answer to your question, yes, the Pine and Vanbergen gangs are around. But Vic and Ned never come into town. At least I've never seen either of them come in.”

“You can expect them to now.”

“Because of you?”

“Yes.”

The marshal frowned and then shrugged his shoulders. “You have any more good news you want to tell me?”

“The gangs just might be after Conrad too.”

“Have you seen those bodyguards of his?”

“Two of them.”

“He has four. Big bruisers.”

“But they're not Western men.”

The marshal gave that a few seconds' thought. “No, they're not. I see what you mean.”

“They're not going to react the same.”

“No. Probably not. Damn! I'll have to keep an eye on young Browning's girlfriend too.”

“Conrad has a girlfriend?”

“Yes. She came to town a few days ago on the stage. From back East somewhere. The two young people seemed to hit it right off . . . even though personally I think Conrad is a stuck-up, fancy-pants little turd. She's a real pretty little thing. Colleen something or another.”

* * *

“Well, it certainly didn't take her long to find herself a beau,” Jeff remarked after Frank broke the news to him.

“Conrad has a good eye for the ladies,” Frank said.

Jeff sighed as the two men prepared for sleep on the hay in the loft of the livery. “Colleen is sure a pretty girl.”

“Go to sleep, Jeff. She isn't the only fish in the ocean. You'll feel better in the morning.”

“I suppose so. Have you ever seen the ocean, Frank?”

“What?”

“The ocean. Have you ever seen it?”

“I've seen the Pacific Ocean a couple of times. It was beautiful.”

Dog padded softly through the thick hay, and lay down between the two men and curled up. Frank reached out and petted the animal. Dog licked his hand and moved closer to him.

“She sure is a pretty girl,” Jeff repeated.

Frank smiled in the darkness. “She'll be just as pretty in the morning, Jeff. After we get a good night's sleep.”

Jeff didn't take the hint. “You've told me about your wife, Frank. Now tell me this, if you will ...”

Frank waited. And waited. Finally he asked, “What it is, Jeff?”

“Was there ever another lady you cared for?”

“No.”

“You've been in love just the one time?”

“I reckon so, Jeff. There have been other women, yes. But they were just passing interests.”

“Ships that pass in the night.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Longfellow.”

“Oh. Go to sleep, Jeff. Tomorrow is going to be a very busy day.”