Showdown (5 page)

Brooks backed up, putting a few more feet between them. The crowd at the bar stepped away, out of the line of fire.

Frank watched the building confrontation without moving or changing expression. He was sure Brooks had intentionally provoked this moment. He did not know the older gun-handler, had never seen him before.

“Drag iron,” Brooks told the man.

“After you, boy. I ain't never pulled on no damn punk kid and I shore don't intend to start now.”

“You got a big fat mouth, mister,” Brooks said.

“Fill your hand, kid,” the man said.

Brooks was fast, Frank had to give him that much. He pulled and shot the older man before the man could clear leather. The gut-shot gunslick staggered back and fell against the bar, his pistol still in leather.

Brooks giggled like a girl, and Frank concluded then that the young man was possibly about half crazy.

“Damn punk,” the dying man said.

Brooks shot him again, then put another slug into the man's chest. The older man fell to the floor, dead.

Brooks slobbered down his chin and giggled.

The kid is fast, Frank thought. And crazy as a lizard.

Bad combination.

One of the gunslingers that Frank knew casually, name of Fargo, turned and looked at Frank for a few seconds. Frank shrugged slightly, and Fargo nodded, then turned back to the bar.

“You got him good, Brooks!” Martin said. “Man, did you drill him proper.”

“I did, didn't I?” Brooks said as he holstered his six-gun.

He didn't reload, Frank noted.
That's a real bad move, kid. You popped three caps, and now you've got at the most three rounds left in that hogleg . . . two if you're smart. You're an amateur, boy.

“Is the skunk dead?” Martin asked.

“Sure, he's dead. Hell, I put three slugs in him.”

“Let's get out of here,” Martin suggested.

“Naw. I like it in here. Let's have a drink. We got room at the bar now.”

Martin looked around at the room full of hostile faces, then reluctantly joined his cousin at the bar.

Frank finished his coffee and stood. Immediately all eyes in the room turned to him. He slowly brushed back his coat, exposing the butt of his second six-gun. A dozen pairs of eyes were quickly averted. Frank began the slow walk toward the front door.

“Turn around, Morgan,” a voice behind him shouted. “I feel lucky today and I got me a need for that money that I'll get when I plug you.”

Frank paused and slowly turned. He did not know the man who was facing him. The other men on both sides had made room. No one wanted to be caught in a cross fire.

“You sure the hunt has started?” Frank asked calmly.

“Now's as good a time as any to begin it,” the man said.

“You got a name?”

“Why?”

“I need to know what to put on your tombstone, that's why?”

“The name is Tyler. And I ain't figuring on bein' planted any time soon, Morgan. I'm figurin' on bein' a rich man in about a minute.”

“Here now!” a voice called from the hotel entrance to the saloon.

Frank cut his eyes for an instant. It was the man who had been pointed out to him as Horace Vanderhoot.

“The hunt has not yet begun,” Vanderhoot announced. “Good afternoon, Mr. Morgan. I don't believe we have been formally introduced. I am Horace Vanderhoot. And these two men standing behind me, holding sawed-off shotguns, are my bodyguards.”

“You mean those two with shotguns pointed at me?” Frank asked with a half smile playing on his lips.

“Very astute of you, Mr. Morgan.”

“You must be very afraid of me, Vanderhoot,” Frank said.

“Let's just say I believe in taking precautions.”

“When does this here hunt get started?” a man tossed out.

“In a few days,” Vanderhoot said. “I want to wait until the weather clears.”

“Why?” another gunslick asked.

“Mr. Morgan might want to run, and I want to give him the opportunity to do so.”

“Morgan don't run,” a familiar voice called from a darkened corner of the saloon.

Frank cut his eyes. It was Dolan.

“He might,” Vanderhoot replied.

“Not Morgan,” Dolan persisted. “You don't know him. I do. He ain't gonna run.”

Vanderhoot waved a hand in a very effeminate gesture. It was not lost on the room filled with hard-bitten men. Many of them smiled. Including Frank. “Whatever,” Vanderhoot said. He smiled. “Besides, the longer we wait, the more the tension will heighten. And when it reaches its zenith, the fun will really begin.”

“Who the hell is zenith?” a man asked.

“I ain't got no idee,” another said. “I ain't never heard of him.”

A very pained look crossed Vanderhoot's face. “No money will be paid for Frank Morgan's death until I officially announce the start of the hunt.”

“You can be charged for this,” Frank said. “It's against the law.”

“Perhaps,” Vanderhoot acknowledged. “If there was any law out here. But the nearest sheriff is a week's ride away . . . in good weather. And you're a murderer, Mr. Morgan. Besides, there are others who have placed a bounty on your head, and you know it.”

Frank looked at the man and remained silent. Vanderhoot had done his homework, for a fact. Frank shifted his gaze to Tyler. “Still want to lock horns with me, Tyler?”

“I'll wait for a spell, I reckon,” the gunhawk said.

“Then get out of my way.”

Tyler stepped aside and Frank walked past him. He stepped out into the cool and rainy night to stand under the boardwalk awning.

Doc Raven appeared out of the darkness. “I was standing just outside the door, listening. Care for a few words of advice?”

“Speak your piece, Doc.”

“Saddle up and get the hell gone from here, Frank.”

“Can't do it.”

“You mean you won't.”

“I reckon.”

“You are a very stubborn man.”

“I been told that before.”

“Where is the body from the second shooting?”

“Still on the floor. Somebody will probably get tired of stepping over him and drag him out before long.”

“Did you know either dead man?”

“No. But I discovered one thing: Brooks is insane.”

“Yes. I've suspected that for several years. Martin is not much better.”

“Brooks is kill-crazy. If you've got any unsolved gunshot murders around here, I'd sure look hard at him.”

“I can't think of any.” Raven checked his watch, then snapped it shut. “I've got to ride out in the country a few miles to check on a patient, Frank. I'll see you tonight.”

“I reckon I'll be here.”

Frank checked on Dog and Horse, and then went back to his room and stretched out on the bed. Within minutes, he was deep in sleep.

* * *

When Frank stepped out onto the boardwalk, it was full dark and pouring rain. He walked to the cafe and had supper, then took a packet of scraps to Dog and sat with him for a time after the big cur ate.

“The doc's right, Dog. We ought to pack up and pull out. But I just don't have it in me to run. I've made it through some hard times, though, so I reckon I'll make it through this mess.”

His quiet speaking to Dog was shattered by a couple of gunshots from up the street. Frank paused, waiting for more shots, but none came. A few minutes later, Bob came stomping and muttering into the livery. Frank stepped out of the stall, and Bob pulled up short when he spotted him.

“Damn crazy gunhands,” the liveryman said. “They keep shootin' each other, your problem's gonna be solved. There won't be none left.”

“That'll suit me just fine, Bob. Who got shot?”

“I don't know his name. Some gunslick from New Mexico Territory. But this one wasn't as slick as he thought. Took two slugs in the belly. He's still alive, but not for long.”

“Doc make it back?”

“Not yet.”

“Fellow's gonna die hard gut-shot.”

“That trouble you?”

“Not really. Who shot him?”

“Don't know him neither. Man ain't been in town more'un two hours. Just rode in. Someone called him Vickers.”

“I know him. He's mean as a rattlesnake and just as quick. He must have just made it through before the slides closed the road.”

“He's here. That's all I know. And walkin' round trouble-huntin'. That ain't all neither.”

“What else?”

“That bodyguard you hit on the noggin with the coffeepot?”

“Sonny. Yes. What about him?”

“He's in the saloon makin' all kinds of mouth 'bout what he's gonna do to you.”

Frank smiled. “He doesn't worry me near as much as all these hard cases gathering in town. Sonny will do what his employers tell him to do.”

“That's just it, Frank. He quit them city folks.”

“He's got the bounty money on his mind, Bob. I can't worry about him any more than I worry about the others. Bob, I may decide to sleep here tonight. I'll make me a pallet in the loft. That all right with you?”

“Sure. Help yourself. I'm going to my shack. See you in the mornin'.”

“I hope so,” Frank replied with a smile.

Bob returned the smile and walked out the rear of the livery; his “shack” was in the back of the stable.

In the glow of lamplight, Frank checked his pistols, loading up the sixth chambers. He usually kept the hammer over an empty chamber. But considering the circumstances in the town, he might need all the firepower he could muster at any time. Telling Dog to stay put, Frank stepped out of the livery and headed for the saloon. He could not show fear. The instant he did that, he would be dead, and he knew it.

He was a man alone, but had to behave as if he had an army behind him.

He did not pass a single local citizen on his walk to the saloon. Apparently they had all settled in their homes for the night.

“And I sure don't blame them,” he muttered a few seconds after lightning licked across the dark skies and thunder rumbled ominously. “A town full of bounty hunters and the weather is lousy.”

A man stepped out of a building stoop and stood silently in the center of the boardwalk, blocking Frank's way.

“Howdy,” Frank said.

“You're Frank Morgan, right?”

“That's me. And your name is ... ?”

“Hill. Dan Hill. That ring a bell with you?”

“No. Can't say that does. Is it supposed to?”

“You don't remember my pa, Daniel Hill?”

“No. Don't think I've ever had the pleasure.”

“Well, you damn sure ought to!”

“Why?”

“You killed him, you son of a bitch!”

Frank peered through the darkness, trying to make out the man's face. He could not. But he did sense the man was no kid. “If I did kill him, he was trying to kill me.”

“That's a damn lie! My pa never tried to kill nobody. He was a farmer in Texas.”

“And I'm supposed to have killed him because he was a farmer?”

“Damn right. You hired your gun out to a big rancher.”

“Wrong, mister. I've never done that.”

“Enough talk, Morgan. I promised my ma on her deathbed I'd hunt you down and kill you. Now I'm gonna do it.”

“You got the wrong man, Hill. I swear to you you have.”

“You're a liar as well as a killer. Now . . . draw!” Hill grabbed for his pistol.

Frank acted instinctively. Hill had just cleared leather when Frank's bullet tore into the man and knocked him back. Hill grabbed for a support post, missed it, and fell off the boardwalk, into the mud, between a hitch rail and the boardwalk.

Doc Raven came running across the street, carrying his black bag. “I just got back into town,” he panted. “Mrs. Perkins delivered twins. Two fine boys, although it was a hard delivery. Who is this man you just shot?”

“Says his name is Hill. Claims I killed his pa down in Texas.”

“Did you?”

“Not to my knowledge. Certainly not under the circumstances he described.”

Doc Raven knelt down beside the man. “He's dead. Your bullet drilled him right through the heart.”

Frank cleared the spent brass and reloaded. “I didn't want to kill him, Doc.”

“I believe you. Well, I'll get some men to carry him over to the undertaker's. Then I'm going to wash up and go to bed. I'm tired.”

“See you in the morning, Doc.”

Frank waited in the shadows until the body of Hill was carried off; then he walked to the saloon. The rain was still coming down: a light drizzle. None of the gunslicks had bothered to come outside to check on the shooting. Heads turned when Frank entered the crowded saloon. He ignored the hard looks and walked to the far end of the bar and ordered coffee.

“Somebody jump the gun on the hunt and brace you, Morgan?” a gunslinger standing close by asked.

“No, this was personal, so he said.”

“You know his name?”

“Said his name was Hill. From Texas.”

“Don't know that one. He dead?”

“They'll plant him in the morning, I reckon.”

The gunhand grunted and took a sip of his beer. “I done made up my mind 'bout this stupid hunt, Morgan.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I'm out of it. I'll stick around till the road is open, then I'm gone.”

“What changed your mind?”

“A number of things. Mainly, though, 'cause this whole thing is sick. I've hired my gun out many times, for a lot of reasons. But never for nothin' like this here. It's stupid. And I just flat don't like them damn Easterners.”

Frank smiled. “Neither do I.”

The gunslick laughed softly. “I reckon you don't.” He looked down at his drink. “I know a way through the mountains. It's a tough ride, but it's passable. I'm headin' out come first light. You want to come along?”

Frank met the gunny's eyes. “I should, I know that. But I just can't. Do you understand?”

The gunslinger slowly nodded his head. “I reckon I do, Frank. I shore do. I ain't much for runnin' myself. Just the thought of runnin' away from a fracas sorta sticks in my craw.”

“That's the way I feel about it.”

The gunfighter lifted his glass. “Luck to you, Frank.”

“Thanks.” Frank watched the man drain his glass and then walk away.

Through the front glass of the saloon, Frank watched lightning dart across the skies, listened as thunder rumbled, and then heard the rain increase in intensity.

“When the hell are we gonna get this show goin'?” a man yelled out. “I'm gettin' damn tired of waitin'.”

“Patience, patience!” Horace Vanderhoot shouted from the doorway leading from the hotel to the saloon. “As soon as the rain ceases, the hunt will begin. Fifty thousand dollars will go to the man who kills the notorious murderer and gunfighter Frank Morgan. But if Frank Morgan is killed before I officially announce the start of the hunt, not one penny will go to that man. Here is something that might peak your interest. With the exception of Frank Morgan, the last man standing will be declared the winner of the hunt. At last count, there were almost sixty of you men in town. Only one will ride out fifty thousand dollars richer. Think about that and act accordingly. For now, I bid you all a very pleasant good night.”

You bloodthirsty son of a bitch! Frank thought as he watched the foyer door close behind Vanderhoot. You have just opened the gates to hell.

“Well, now,” a gunny said, stepping away from the bar. “Ain't that a kick in the butt?”

“Do that mean what I think it means?” another asked.

“Damn shore does, Jimmy,” a redheaded gunhawk said, stepping away from the bar to face the speaker. “And I'm gettin' tarred of lookin' at your ugly mug.”

Frank quickly glanced around the saloon. There was not a local in sight. They had all quietly left the watering hole. Three soiled doves were standing together, pressed up against a far wall. Fear was evident in their faces.

“You're callin'
me
ugly, Steve?” Jimmy asked. “Why . . . when you was a little boy you was so damn ugly, your momma had to tie a piece of salt pork around your neck so's the dogs would play with you.”

The saloon rocked with rough and profane laughter.

Frank waited and watched, his coffee turning cold in the cup. The laughter slowly faded and the situation turned tense as the two men backed up a few steps, their hands poised for a hook and draw.

“You leave my ma out of this, you piece of coyote crap!” Steve responded.

“Sure will,” Jimmy replied. “ 'Cause you didn't have no human ma. You was borned in a travelin' circus in the monkey cage.”

“I'll kill you!” Steve shouted.

“You got it to do.”

“You're enjoyin' this, ain't you, Morgan?” a gunhand standing close to Frank asked in a soft voice.

“Not really,” Frank whispered. “But I'm glad it's them facing a bullet and not me.”

“Your time is comin'.”

“I'm sure it is. And I'm also sure I'll be here.” Or close by, Frank thought. Like waiting in an old deserted town called Red Rock. Frank had given the old town a lot of thought, and the more he thought, the better it sounded for a showdown.

The violent cursing of Steve broke into Frank's thinking. The man was really working himself into a lather. It wouldn't be long now.

Jimmy laughed at the man. “You cuss real good, Steve. But then, I've heard for years that you always did have a big mouth with no guts to back it up.”

“That does it for me, you butt-ugly peckerwood!” Steve grabbed for his gun.

Jimmy cleared leather first and got off the first shot. The bullet missed Steve and blew a hole through one of the front windows.

Steve fired, the bullet hitting Jimmy in the leg and knocking him back against the bar. Jimmy grunted in shock and sudden pain and lifted his. 44. He squeezed the trigger. The slug hit Steve in the left shoulder and spun him around, throwing him against a table. Cards and chips were scattered all over the floor.

Jimmy cocked and fired again. The bullet missed its mark and blew a leg off a wooden chair.

Down on one knee, Steve leveled his six-gun and fired. His shot was true, the bullet slamming into Jimmy's belly and doubling him over.

Gasping in pain, Jimmy slowly raised his pistol and fired. The slug hit Steve in the center of his face, disintegrating his nose as the bullet ripped into his brain. Steve dropped to the floor like a heavy rock and did not move.

Jimmy slowly sank down to his knees as the pain in his belly intensified. “Oh, God, I hurt!” he hollered.

“I bet he do,” a gunny said.

“Somebody get the doc,” another gunslick suggested.

“Why?” another gun-handler asked. “Steve's dead as a rock and Jimmy ain't gonna be long for this world.”

“That's a damn lie!” Jimmy yelled, one hand covering the bloody hole in his belly. “I ain't gonna die. I'm gonna collect that bounty money.”

“No, you ain't,” a man told him. “So why don't you just do us all a favor? Shut your mouth, lay down and close your eyes, and die.”

“You black-hearted son of a bitch!” Jimmy said.

Frank stood at the end of the bar and watched in silence. It was nothing new to him; he'd seen it all before, many times.

“Did somebody go for the doc?” Jimmy asked.

“Nope,” he was told.

“It's rainin' outside,” another said. “And cold.”

“You bastard!” Jimmy said.

“Well, now, that just might be true. I can't take no offense at that. My pa was a man with a wanderin' eye, for sure.”

Hard waves of pain hit the man, and he trembled at the shock of it, then screamed, “Oh, God, I hurt so bad!”

“That's what you get when you play with guns, Jimmy,” a gunny said in hard, rough humor, and the others laughed.

“Damn y'all to the hellfires!” Jimmy said.

The front door opened and a very irritated and rumpled Doc Raven walked in.

“The one stretched out on the floor with half a head is dead, Doc,” a man said. “The one on his knees probably ain't long for this world.”

“Thank you,” Doc Raven said very sarcastically, pushing his way through the crowd. He knelt down beside Jimmy and tried to pull the wounded man's hands away from his bloody stomach. He could not. “I can't help you if you won't let me look at the wound.”

“Give me somethin' for the pain, Doc!” Jimmy begged.

“Let me look at the wound.”

“No!” Jimmy screamed. “If I move my hands my guts will fall out.”

“That's ridiculous!” Raven snapped. “Your intestines are not going to fall out.” He looked up at the men gathered around. “Some of you grab him and stretch him out on the floor. I've got to see about this wound.”

Jimmy was forcefully laid out on the floor and his hands moved away from the bullet wound. Doc Raven looked at the wound and grunted softly.

“It's bad, ain't it, Doc?” Jimmy moaned.

“It isn't good.”

“Am I going to die?”

“Probably.”

“Ah ... hell, Doc!” Jimmy cried out. “I'm too young to die.”

There was really nothing Raven could do. He'd seen men gut-shot live, but they were the exception, not the rule. The entry wound in Jimmy's stomach was huge and the bleeding was copious. There was no way of knowing what other damage the bullet had done, and no real way of telling for sure. Raven cleaned the wound and packed it closed, then stood up.

“Is that all you're gonna do?” Jimmy asked.

“There is nothing else I can do,” Raven told him. “I'm sure the lining of your stomach has been perforated.”

“What does that mean?” Jimmy asked with a groan.

“It has a big hole in it.”

“Oh, Lord. I'm really gonna die, ain't I?”

“You want me to get a minister for you?”

“Can he fix the hole in my gut?”

“No. But he can comfort you with prayer.”

Jimmy very graphically told Doc Raven where he could stick his suggestion.

Raven shook his head and stood up, disgust on his face and in his eyes. He looked down the bar at Frank, then turned his attention to the bartender. “Get me a cup of coffee, please.”

“Comin' right up, Doc.”

Doc Raven joined Frank at the bar. “What a mess.”

“And it'll get worse, Doc. Bet on it.”

“Horace Vanderhoot has opened Pandora's box, Frank.”

“I've read about that, Doc. Yes. You're right. The undertaker is going to be very busy for a time.”

“I'll suggest this one more time, Frank. Get clear of here.”

“Doc, you're the man who runs this town. If you order me to leave, I'll do so. But not until then.”

“I won't order you out, Frank. I've told you that.”

“What if locals start getting hurt, or killed?”

“The people will handle it then.” Raven smiled at Frank's expression of doubt. “Frank, this town is filled with veterans of the War Between the States, ex-buffalo hunters, Indian fighters, and early settlers. Believe me, when the locals get enough, they'll handle it. Have you ever heard of a Western town being totally buffaloed?”

“Not many, for a fact.”

“This one won't be either.”

The gut-shot Jimmy began moaning and hollering in pain. “Doc! It's hurtin' real bad. Help me.”

“Can you do anything for him?” Frank asked.

Doc Raven shook his head. “No. Nothing. Probing for the bullet would be useless, even if I could locate and remove it. I can't cut him open and repair his stomach.”

“Somebody get that crybaby out of here,” a gunslick said. “I'm gettin' tarred of listenin' to him holler.”

“You know that insensitive lout?” Raven asked in a whisper.

“Jack Miller,” Frank replied. “Back-shooter out of Arkansas. I thought he was long dead.”

“Somethin's wrong with me, Doc!” Jimmy yelled. “It's gettin' hard for me to breathe and the light is fadin'.”

“Good,” the Arkansas back-shooter said in a too-loud voice. “Go on and die.”

“Shut up, Jack,” another gun-handler said. “Let the man die in peace.”

“You want to try to shut me up?” Jack challenged.

“Doc!” Jimmy yelled.

“Blood's a-pourin' out of his mouth, Doc,” a man standing close to Jimmy said. “I don't think he's long for this world.”

Raven left Frank's side and knelt down beside Jimmy for a moment. Jimmy began to convulse on the floor.

“What the hell's he doin' now, Doc?” a man asked.

“Losing consciousness,” Raven replied.

“Why?”

Raven's sigh was evident even where Frank stood. “The bullet probably traveled upward and nicked a lung . . . or both lungs.”