Showdown (8 page)

Frank had reloaded his Peacemaker, and Phil had poured another cup of coffee for him. He leaned against the bar, saying nothing.

“Hi, Mama!” Utah Slim suddenly yelled. He closed his eyes and died.

“Some of you men tote him over to the undertaker's,” Raven said. “It'll be a couple of days before he can be buried, unless you want to plant him as is.”

“I ain't diggin' no damn hole in the rain,” a man said.

“Throw him in a ditch at the edge of town,” another suggested.

“So much for the brotherhood of the gun,” Raven muttered.

“Yee-haw!” the soiled dove servicing Sam in the back room yelled.

“Lucille ought to give Sam ten dollars for that pokin',” Phil said to Frank and Doc Raven.

Bob came in with Doc's medical bag. He looked at Utah Slim and shrugged his shoulders. “You want me to take this back to your office, Doc?”

“No, Bob. But thank you. Bring it over to me. Hell, I might need it yet.”

Bob walked over to his friends, carefully stepping over the body of Utah Slim, and waved for Phil to bring him some coffee. He leaned close to Frank and Doc Raven. “Something mighty queer goin' on in town, boys. Seems them hoity-toity Easterners all of a sudden got into a sweat about pullin' out.”

“What do you mean?” Frank asked.

“Seems like they sent a man out to the Lassiter Ranch to buy a bunch of horses and to see about a guide to take them over the mountains out of here. And everything is supposed to be on the hush-hush.”

“How'd you hear about it?” Raven asked.

“The schoolboy who does some work for me down at the livery—Able Stover—overheered them talkin' early this mornin'. He just now told me 'bout it.”

“Well, now, it's slowly coming into place,” Raven said. “My suspicions were quite correct, I'm thinking.”

“What suspicions?” Bob asked.

Doc Raven shook his head. “Let me prowl around some. I want to talk with Maxwell about this. For some reason, he's been avoiding me since they got here. It might be on account of Wilma. But I'll force a conversation with him.”

“Maybe then you'll get around to telling me what this is all about,” Frank said, a sarcastic edge to his voice.

“Oh, I will, Frank,” Doc Raven said with a smile. “You can be assured of that.”

“Thanks so much, Doc.”

“You're certainly welcome.” He picked up his cup and took a sip. “Good coffee.”

“I like it a mite stronger than this,” Bob said.

“I'm gettin' damn tarred of steppin' over Slim,” a man said. “Come on, some of you boys give me a hand and we'll toss him out the back.”

“Oh, hell, I'll hep you,” another gunny said. “We can't leave him there for long. He'll commence to stinkin'. You grab one end, I'll git the other. One of you boys open the back door for us, will you?”

“What lovely people,” Doc Raven muttered.

“In a different way, them damn rich Easterners ain't no better,” Bob opined.

“I have to concur with that,” Doc Raven said. “In fact, I'll add they're worse. Maxwell and his friends all have fine educations that, in the end, seem to have been wasted.”

“We got some families here in town that's moving out for the time bein',” Bob said. “They're goin' to visit friends in the country till this mess in town is straightened out.”

“To hell with you, Nichols!” a gunslick yelled, silencing the conversation in the saloon. “I've had your damn smart mouth!”

“Then do something 'bout it, Jake!” Nichols yelled back, pushing back his chair and standing up. “Git up and fill your hand.”

“Settle down, boys,” another gunhand said. “This damn waitin' is gettin' to us all.”

“You go right straight to hell, Quinn,” Jake said.

“Don't tell me to go to hell, you two-bit horse thief,” Quinn responded.

“Take it easy, boys,” Dolan said from a table in the rear of the saloon. “All of you. We didn't come here to shoot each other.”

“Well, shootin' Morgan seems to be out of the question,” another gun-handler piped up. “I ain't gonna be the one to put lead in no damn federal marshal. So what do we do now?”

That question settled in the brains of all the men in the saloon. Quinn, Jake, and Nichols looked sheepishly at each other and sat down. Dolan stood up and walked over to stand at the bar beside Morgan.

“How do you want to play this, Morgan?” he asked.

“I don't think it's up to me to decide that,” Frank replied. “That's a decision you men will have to make.”

“I think this was a mess from the git-go,” Dolan said. “I thought about it long and hard 'fore I saddled up for the ride.”

“You think you should have stayed at home?”

“I do, for a fact.”

“But now you believe it's too late?”

“I didn't say that, Morgan. But I'll tell you this. That badge you're wearin' don't mean squat to me. If that thousands of dollars of bounty money is really up for your head, I'll take my chances on collectin' it.”

“But you have doubts about it being real?”

“I'm beginnin' to, yeah. Somethin' smells funny about this deal. And I just flat don't like them damn Easterners.”

“They seem to be laying low, don't they?”

“Yeah, that's for sure. I'm gonna nose around and find out 'bout this thing, Morgan. And if it's on the up and up, I'm comin' for you.”

“I'll be here, Dolan. You got any kin you want me to notify after we plant you?”

Dolan's smile was hard, devoid of any humor. “You can't outdraw me, Morgan. I've had too many people tell me that.”

“You'll be betting your life on it.”

“So I will. See you around, Morgan.”

The gunfighter walked away, out the front door of the saloon.

“Can he take you, Frank?” Bob asked.

“He's fast,” Frank conceded. And that was all he had to say about it.

* * *

Frank stood on the boardwalk as night wrapped her dark arms around the countryside. It was a wet darkness, for the rain continued without any signs of abating. Frank had seen nothing of the Easterners that day, and had no idea where they were or what they might be doing. Neither had he seen Doc Raven since the shooting in the saloon. There were lamps on in the doctor's office, but Frank didn't want to disturb him, figuring he might be busy with patients.

Just as Frank started to pop a match into flame, to light a fresh-rolled cigarette, he caught a glint of light off something in the alley across the muddy street . . . something that appeared to be about shoulder high. Frank quickly stepped back into the shadows and stuck the unlit cigarette and match into his jacket pocket.

He silently made his way down the boardwalk, keeping close to the buildings. He stepped off and ducked into an alley, then made his way behind a couple of buildings and dashed across the street, working his way up to the rear of the alley where he'd seen the flash of light off of metal. He cautiously looked around the corner of the building, and could just make out the dark shape of a man standing near the mouth of the alley, facing the street.

The man was holding a rifle.

Frank eased his way up the alley, the rain covering any small sound he might make. When he was close enough to the man to touch him, Frank said, “You looking for me?”

The man spun around, the muzzle of the rifle coming up. Frank hit him on the side of the jaw with a gloved right fist, and the man dropped to the littered ground. Frank dragged him out of the alley and up onto the boardwalk, then dragged him to the marshal's office and unlocked the door, using the key Doc Raven had given him earlier in the day. Frank had spent some time in the office that afternoon, sweeping it out and building a fire in the potbellied stove. There were living quarters in the jail, and Frank had moved his gear into the small room. Dog came out of the living quarters and sniffed suspiciously at the unconscious man.

Frank slapped the man awake and stood over him. He did not think he had ever seen the man before. “Do I know you?” he asked.

“Hell with you, Morgan.”

“Well, obviously you know me. I hate to tell you but the hunt hasn't started yet. It's doubtful it ever will.”

“Damn the hunt! I didn't come here to collect no money. I been looking for you for months. I aim to kill you.”

“Why?”

“ 'Cause you killed a buddy of mine, that's why.”

“You sure I did it?”

“Damn right.”

“Where and when and why?”

“Huh?”

Frank sighed. “The man's name and where did it happen and why did it happen.”

“Barney Hampton was his name. It happened in Missouri and you called him out into the street and gunned him down.”

“Wrong on all counts, partner. You've been tracking the wrong man.”

“You say!”

“That's right. I say. Now, if I turn you loose, what are you going to do?”

“Git me another rifle and shoot you.”

Frank walked over to the stove, poured a cup of coffee, and sat down in a wooden swivel chair at the battered old desk. He stared at the man sitting on the floor. “That's unacceptable, partner.”

“Then you're gonna put me in jail?”

“I don't see where I have a choice.”

“I'll kill you when I get out.”

Frank sighed, wondering how in the world he had allowed his life to become so complicated. He pointed toward a row of cells in the back. “Get in that front cell and close the door. I've got to lock you up until I can decide what to do with you.”

“You gonna feed me supper?”

“Get in the damn cell and be quiet!”

Surprisingly, the man obliged without another word. Frank locked the door, and went back into the office and stood for a moment. He put the man's rifle in a rack and his gunbelt and pistol in a desk drawer. Then he shook his head in disgust and walked out into the rainy night. “Incredible,” he muttered. “This is the damnest situation I believe I have ever been in. Fifty people wanting to kill me for bounty money and more showing up trying to avenge a killing I didn't do ...”

“Who are you talking to, Frank?” Doc Raven asked, walking up and breaking into his thoughts.

“Myself, Doc.” He quickly and briefly brought the doctor up to date.

“Did you kill this Barney Hampton?”

“I never heard of any man called Barney Hampton. And I never called any man out into the street in Missouri.”

“The price of fame, Frank.”

“I guess. What did you learn from your college friend?”

“Nothing substantive. He carefully avoided directly answering any question I asked.”

“So he's hiding something.”

“Yes. Without a doubt.”

“I got all the bodies carried over to the undertaker,” Frank said. “The streets and alleys are clear of dead men—for the time being, that is.”

“That will certainly please Sister Clarabelle. She came to see me today, complaining about the drinking and cussing and immoral behavior of the gunmen in town. She plans to lead a march up and down the boardwalks tomorrow. In the street if it stops raining.”

“A march for what?”

“To protest the gunmen being in town . . . among other matters. The church has a band . . . of sorts: a man who beats the bass drum, a tuba player, a trumpeter, a trombonist, and a chorus of ladies. Very ample ladies,” Doc Raven added drily.

“Sounds wonderful and, ah, spiritually uplifting,” Frank said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Doc Raven smiled. “If the boardwalk doesn't collapse. Yes, it will be entertaining, I assure you.”

“I'm sure it will be. Doc, does the town have a budget for feeding prisoners?”

“Sure. Get the food at the cafe and keep a record.”

“I'd better do that now.”

“All right, Frank. I'll try to speak with Maxwell again in the morning. For all the good it will do.”

“Let me know if you find out anything.”

“I certainly will, Frank. Good night.”

“Night, Doc.”

Frank walked the streets of town as the rain continued to fall. He went to the cafe and got a plate of food for his prisoner and a sack of scraps for Dog, carrying the food back to the jail.

“Morgan,” the man in the cell called. “I want to talk to you.”

“We'll talk while you eat. You want a cup of coffee?”

“I'd 'preciate it.”

Frank pulled a chair over to the cell and sat down.

“There never was no shoot-out in Missouri,” the prisoner said.

“I know.”

“And I ain't got no kin named Barney Hampton.”

“Then why were you laying in ambush for me?”

“Money. A man give me two hundred and fifty dollars to kill you.”

“What man?”

“I don't know his name. He never told me. He talked to me whilst stayin' in the shadders. I couldn't see him.”

“Was there anything unusual in his voice?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. Did he stutter or have a foreign accent? Anything like that.”

“No. But he talked kinda funny.”

“How do you mean?”

“I don't rightly know how to say it. He talked, well, real prissy, sort of. If you know what I mean.”

“Prissy?”

“Not like no Western man.”

“Like maybe he was well educated, a big-city man?”

“Yeah, that's it!”

“Thanks. You've been a help.”

“You gonna keep me in jail?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you'd better. I sort of like it. It's warm and dry in here and the grub ain't bad.”

Frank nodded and left the cell area. He let Dog out in the back for a few minutes while he locked up and turned down the lamps. Then he went to bed.

“Just gets more and more curious,” he muttered.