The Drifter (11 page)

“Slowest bullet since the invention of guns, I reckon. Took that writer a whole page to get that bullet from one side of the room to the other."

“You read them, Frank?"

“Parts of some of them. I haven't read any of the newer ones."

“I have a confession to make."

“Oh?"

“The man who writes those novels was a good friend of my husband. He lives in Boston. He used to come over to the house quite often for croquet and dinner."

“Ummm. Is that so? How difficult was it for you to keep a straight face?"

“Terribly difficult."

Their conversation ground to an abrupt halt when they met a gaggle of ladies coming out of Willis's General Store. The ladies had to stop and chat for a few minutes with Vivian and oohh and aahh about her dress and hat. Frank stepped over to one side, rolled a cigarette, and smoked and waited for the impromptu hen party to end.

When the gossiping was over and the town's ladies had sashayed on their way, Viv smiled at Frank. “Sorry about that, Frank."

“It's all right. What in the world did you ladies talk about?"

“You, mostly."

“Me!"

“Yes. They wanted to know how I knew you."

“And what did you tell them?"

“The same thing I told Conrad: that I knew you years ago when you were a young cowboy."

“Conrad doesn't believe that."

“You know something?"

“What?"

“Those ladies didn't, either."

 

* * * *

 

By nightfall, thanks in no small part to the ladies who had chatted with Viv earlier, it was the talk of the town that Mrs. Vivian L. Browning, president of Henson Enterprises, was seeing the town marshal, Frank Morgan. Tongues were wagging in every store, home, saloon, and bawdy house.

Frank and Jerry saw that the prisoners were fed and locked down, and then made their early evening rounds.

“There is the first wagon coming in,” Jerry said, looking up the street. “They must have traveled all night after hearing the news off the wire."

“There'll be a hundred more by week's end,” Frank opined. “We're going to have our hands full."

The sign on the side of the gaily painted wagon read:

 

DR. RUFUS J. MARTIN  
DENTIST EXTRAORDINAIRE

 

“What the hell does ‘extraordinaire' mean?” Jerry asked.

“Extra special, I suppose, would be one definition."

“What's so special about gettin' a tooth pulled?"

Frank did not reply to the question. His gaze was on a man riding slowly up the street. His duster was caked with trail dirt, and his horse plodded wearily. Rider and horse had come a long way.

Jerry had followed Frank's eyes. “You know that man, Frank?"

“Yes. That's Robert Mallory. Big Bob. From out of the Cherokee Strip."

“I've heard of him. He's a bad one, isn't he?"

“One of the worst. He's an ambusher, a paid assassin. He's probably got three dozen kills on his tally sheet ... at least. From California to Missouri. Most of them back-shot. He rides into an area, someone is found dead, he rides out."

“He's never been charged?"

“No proof that he ever did anything. Dead men don't talk, Jerry."

“But I've heard he's a gunfighter."

“He is. He's quick as a snake if you push him. Big Bob is no coward. Believe that. But he'd rather shoot his victim in the back."

“Frank, no one just rides into this town by accident. It's too far off the path."

“I know."

“You think he's after Mrs. Browning?"

“Only God, Big Bob, and the man who is paying him knows the answer to that. But you can bet your best pair of boots he's after somebody."

“Let's see where he lands for the night."

“The best hotel in town—that's where. Bob goes first-class all the way. That's his style."

“Frank ... he might be after you."

“That thought crossed my mind."

“You two know each other?"

“Oh, yes. For many years. And he dislikes me as much as I do him."

“Why?"

“The dislike?"

“Yes."

“We're opposites, Jerry. He'll kill anyone for money. Man, woman, or child. And has. He doesn't have a conscience. There isn't the thinnest thread of morality in the man. And he doesn't just kill with a bullet. He'll throw a victim down a deep well and stand and listen to them scream for help until they drown. He'll set fire to a house and burn his victims to death. He'll do anything for money."

“Sounds like a real charmin' fellow."

“Oh, he is. He swore to someday kill me. Swore that years ago."

“Why?"

“I whipped him in a fight. With my fists. Beat him bloody after he set a little dog on fire one night up in Wyoming. He still carries the scars of that fight on his face, and will until the day he dies. And I hope I'm the person responsible for putting him in the grave."

“Why did he do that? That's sick, Frank. Decent people wouldn't even think of doing that."

“Because he wanted to do it—that's why. He's filth, and that's all he'll ever be. Besides, I like dogs. If I ever settle down somewhere I'll have a dozen mutts."

“I've had a couple of dogs over the years. Last one died about five years ago. You know, it's funny, but I still miss that silly animal."

“I know the feeling. What was his name?"

Jerry laughed. “Digger. That was the durnedest dog for diggin' holes I ever did see.” Jerry was silent for a moment. “Let's take a walk over to the hotel and see what name Mallory registers under,” he suggested.

“His own. He always does. He's an arrogant bastard. He knows there are no dodgers out on him. He likes to throw his name up into the face of the law."

“If he isn't after you, Frank, I'm surprised he came here, knowing you're the marshal."

“I doubt if he knows."

A man came running up. “Trouble about to happen at the Red Horse, Marshal,” he panted. “Gun trouble."

“Go home,” Frank told him. “We'll handle it."

“I'm gone. I don't like to be around no shootin'."

The man hurried away.

“Let's go earn our pay, Jerry,” Frank said.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a single shot rang out from the direction of the Red Horse Saloon.

“Damn!” Jerry said, and both men took off running.

 

 

 

Twelve

 

 

Frank and Jerry pushed open the batwings and stepped into the smoke-filled saloon. A man lay dead on the dirty floor. Another man stood at the end of the bar, a pistol in his hand. Frank noted that the six-gun was not cocked. The crowded saloon was silent. The piano player had stopped his playing, and the soiled doves were standing or sitting quietly.

“Put the gun down, mister,” Frank ordered.

“You go to hell, Morgan!” the man told him.

“All in due time. Right now, though, I'm ordering you to put that gun away."

“And if I don't?” The man threw the taunting challenge at Frank.

“I'll kill you,” Frank said softly.

“Your gun's in leather. I'm holdin' mine in my hand, Morgan."

“You'll still die. Don't be a fool, man. If I don't get you, my deputy will."

Jerry had moved about fifteen feet to Frank's right.

“What caused all this?” Frank asked the shooter.

“He called me a liar, and then threatened to kill me. I don't see I had no choice."

“He's right, Marshal,” a customer said. “I heard and seen it all."

“All right,” Frank replied. “If it was self-defense, you've got no problem. Why are you looking for trouble with me?"

“'Cause you ain't takin' me to jail—that's why."

“I didn't say anything about jail, partner. I just asked you to put your gun away."

“You ain't gonna try to haul me off to jail?"

“No. Not if you shot in self-defense. Now put that pistol back in your holster."

“All right, Marshal,” the shooter said. “I'm doin' it real easy like."

The man slipped his pistol back into leather and leaned against the bar. Frank walked over to the dead man on the floor and knelt down. The dead man's gun was about a foot from the body, and it was cocked. Obviously he had cleared leather when he was hit. Frank stood up. “I need some names."

“My name's Ed Clancy,” the shooter said. “I don't know the name of the guy who was trouble-huntin'."

“Anybody know who he is?” Frank asked. “Or where he's from?"

No one did.

“Get the undertaker. Jerry,” Frank said.

Jerry left the saloon, and Frank walked over to the shooter by the bar. “Where are you from, Ed?"

“Colorado. I come down here to look for gold."

“Gold?"

“Yeah. But there ain't none. Not enough of it to mess with, anyways."

The bartender was standing close by, and Frank ordered coffee. “You have a permanent address, Ed?"

“Not no more. You want me to stick around town for a day or so?"

“If you don't mind."

“I'll stay. I don't mind. Reason I got my back up was I figured you was gonna kill me, Morgan. I'm sorry I crowded you."

“That's all right, Ed. I understand. Where are you staying in town?"

“Over at Mrs. Miller's boardin' house."

“Thanks, Ed. I'll probably have all the paperwork done by tomorrow, and you can pull out after that if you've a mind to."

“Thanks, Marshal. You're all right in my book."

Undertaker Malone came in, and Frank and Jerry watched as he went through the dead man's pockets looking for some identification. There was nothing.

Malone stood up. “He's got enough money to bury him proper, Marshal. But no name."

Jerry had circulated through the crowd in the Red Horse, asking about the dead man. No one knew who he was.

“Put his gun and everything you found in his pockets on the bar, Malone,” Frank said. “I'll hold it at the office."

“How ‘bout his boots?” Malone asked. “They're near brand-new."

“Bury him with them on."

“That seems a shame and a waste to me. Marshal."

“Did I ask you?"

“No, sir."

“Then get him out of here. Jerry, start poking around and see if you can locate the man's horse. I'll be here for a few more minutes."

Frank drank his coffee and watched while the body was carried out. The saloon swamper came over and mopped up the blood, then sprinkled sawdust over the wet spot. Frank waited by the bar until Jerry returned.

“Man's horse was over at the livery, Frank. But no saddlebags, and no rifle in the boot."

“All right. We'll check the hotel and the rooming houses tonight. If we don't have any luck there, we'll start checking the empty houses and tents in the morning."

“Might not ever know who he is,” Jerry opined.

“That might very well be true. Jerry. The West is full of unmarked graves.”
I've put a few men in those unmarked graves myself
, Frank added silently.

Frank and Jerry drew a blank at the hotel and the town's several rooming houses. At the hotel, Frank pointed out a name on the register: Robert Mallory.

“Big as brass,” Jerry said.

“He's proud of his name, for sure. Loves to flaunt it in the face of the law. Let's call it a night, Jerry. We'll start checking the town tomorrow."

“OK, Frank. You off to bed?"

“In a little while."

“You want me to make the late rounds? I'll be glad to do it."

“No. I'll do it. Thanks for the help tonight, Jer. See you in the morning."

Frank stepped into the Silver Slipper Saloon and ordered coffee. He stood at the far end of the bar and drank his coffee, looking over the now thinning-out crowd—a quiet crowd, as many had gone home for the night. A few people spoke to Frank; most gave him a wide berth, accompanied by curious glances. By now everyone in town, newcomer and resident alike, knew that one of the last of the west's most famous, or infamous, gunfighters was marshal of the town.

Frank stayed only a few minutes, and when he left he used the back door, stepping out into the broken bottle and trash-littered rear of the saloon. He stood for a moment in the darkness, further deepened by the shadow of the building.

He heard the outhouse door creak open and saw a man step out, buttoning up his pants. Frank knew who it was, for few men were as tall as Big Bob Mallory.

“Big Bob.” Frank spoke softly.

Bob paused for just a couple of seconds, then chuckled. “I know that voice for sure. Heard you was law doggin' here at the Crossin', Morgan."

“You heard right, Bob. What are you doing in town?"

“None of your goddamn business, Morgan—that's what!"

“I'm making it my business. Now answer the question."

“Takin' a vacation, Morgan. Just relaxin'."

“A vacation from what? All you do is back-shoot folks a couple of times a year. Doesn't take much effort to pull a trigger. I don't think you've ever had a real job."

“Ain't nobody ever proved I shot anyone, Morgan. And you damn sure can't do it. And I do work now and then, and can prove it. I do odd jobs here and there to get by. Doesn't take much for me to live on."

“Don't screw up in my town, Bob. You do, and I'll be on you quicker than a striking snake."

“You go to hell, Morgan!"

“If you've a mind to, we can sure settle it right now."

“You must be tired of livin', Morgan."

“Anytime you're ready to hook and draw."

“I think I'll let you worry and stew for a while longer."

“What's the matter, Bob? Would it help you reach a decision if I turned my back?"

Frank watched the big man tense at that. For a few seconds, he thought Bob was going to draw on him. Then Mallory slowly began to relax.

“Good try, Morgan,” Bob said. “You almost had me goin' then."

“What stopped you?"

Bob refused to reply. He stood there, silent.

“Don't cause trouble in this town, Bob. Any bodies show up without explanation, I'll come looking for you and I'll kill you on sight."