The Drifter (7 page)

“Mother—"

“Now!"

“Yes, Mother."

“I'm pretty sure it isn't broken, ma'am,” Frank said. “Just get some horse liniment and rub it on the sore spot. That'll take care of it."

“Horse liniment?” Conrad blurted. “I think not. I'll be back in a few minutes, Mother.” He left the middle office, walking gingerly, rubbing his butt, which was probably bruised from impacting with the floor.

Outside, the excited shouting was still going on.

“A new strike, Mrs. Browning?” a bookkeeper asked.

“Yes. A big one. We'll be hiring again. And we need Mr. Owens. If he comes back in, pay him for the days he missed while hurt and put him back to work."

“Yes, ma'am."

“I'll probably see him around town, ma'am,” Frank said. “I'll tell him to check back here."

“Thank you, Marshal. Would you please step into my office? I'd like to speak with you for a moment."

“Certainly, ma'am."

In the office, behind a closed door, Vivian grasped Frank's hands and held them for seconds. Finally she pulled back and sat down in one of several chairs in front of her desk. Frank sat down in the chair next to her.

“It's been a long time, Frank."

“Almost eighteen years."

“You know my father is dead?"

“I heard."

“Frank, I want you to know something. I knew within days that my father made up all those charges he was holding over you back in Denver. I also knew that you left to protect me—"

“Water under the bridge, Viv. It's long over."

“No. Let me finish. I did some checking of my own, and found out father had paid those detectives to falsify charges against you. I confronted him with that knowledge. At first he denied it. Then, finally, he admitted what he'd done. He hated you until the day he closed his eyes forever. He threatened to cut me off financially if I didn't do his bidding. I didn't really have much choice in the matter. Or, more truthfully, I thought I didn't have a choice. When I finally realized father was bluffing, it was too late. You were gone without a trace, and I was pregnant."

That shook Frank right down to his spurs. He stared at Vivian for a long moment. “Are you telling me that ... Conrad is my son?"

“Yes."

Frank had almost blurted out,
You mean to tell me that prissy, arrogant little turd is my son?
But he curbed his tongue at the last possible second. He stared at Viv until he was sure he could speak without betraying his totally mixed emotions. “Did the man you married know this?"

“Yes, Frank. He did. My late husband was a good, decent man. He raised Conrad as if he were his own."

“Does the boy know?"

“No. He doesn't have a clue."

“Your father had a hand in raising him, didn't he?"

“Quite a bit. He spent a lot of time back east with us. Several years before he died, father was with us almost all the time."

“Viv, ah ... the boy...” Frank paused and frowned.

“Doesn't fit in out here? I know. He probably never will. He hates the West. He loves to ride. He's really very good. But he won't ride out here."

“Why not?"

“The way he rides, his manner of dress. He just doesn't fit in."

“He rides one of those dinky English saddles?"

“Yes."

“Don't tell me wears one of those silly-looking riding outfits."

“Yes, he does."

“I bet he got a laugh from a lot of folks the first time he went out in public, bobbing up and down like a cork with a catfish on it."

Vivian smiled despite herself. “I'm afraid he did."

“I can imagine. Wish I'da seen that myself."

Viv's smile faded. “Why'd you come here, Frank? To this town, I mean."

“Oh, I didn't have anything else to do. Besides, I heard you were in trouble up here. Had a lot of silver to ship, and nobody would take it out for you."

“Tons of it, Frank. Tons and tons of it. Worth a fortune. But getting it out of these mountains and to a railroad has proven to be quite a chore."

“How many shipments have been hijacked?"

“Several. You have any ideas on how to get it out?"

“Oh, I imagine I could get some boys in here to take the shipments through. But they don't come cheap."

“I think I can afford them."

Frank smiled. “I ‘spect you can, at that."

“Look into that for me, will you?"

“I sure will. I'll send some wires first thing in the morning."

“I would appreciate it. Frank? How are we going to handle this? You and I, I mean."

“How do you want to handle it, Viv?"

“I ... don't know. I'm not sure."

“Did you love him? Your late husband."

She averted her eyes for a few seconds and said, “No. I liked him. But I didn't love him."

“There has never been another woman for me, Viv."

“Nor another man for me, Frank. Not really."

“And there it stands, I suppose."

“I suppose so, Frank."

“It would cause talk if I came calling, wouldn't it?"

“If you don't come calling, Frank, I'll have some of my miners come looking for you."

Frank smiled at her. Vivian had lost none of her beauty. She had matured—that was all. “I'll drop by tomorrow, Viv. What time will you be in the office?"

“From seven o'clock on. We'll be working long hours for a while, now that the new strike is in."

“I'll try to get by at midmorning. You'll be ready for a coffee break by then."

“I'll be here waiting, Frank. And don't be surprised at how I'm dressed."

“Oh?"

“I've set many a tongue wagging in this town by occasionally dressing in men's britches."

“Really?” Frank smiled as he met Viv's eyes. “Now
that
I'd like to see.” Viv was a very shapely lady.

Vivian returned his smile. “Midmorning tomorrow it is, Frank."

Frank picked up his hat from me carpeted floor by his chair and stood up. He looked at Vivian for a moment, then said, “What about Conrad, Viv?"

“Let's just let that alone for the time being. It's much too soon to even be thinking about that."

“As you wish, Viv. Tomorrow, then."

“Yes."

Frank left the office, closing the door behind him, and walked the length of the building to the front, ignoring the curious looks from the office workers. He stood on the boardwalk for a moment, listening to the excited whooping and hollering from the milling crowds on the main street. By this time tomorrow, the town would be filling up again. Closed and boarded-up stores would be reopening, and new merchants coming in. Surely there would be a couple more saloons. And there would be a lot of riffraff making their way to the town.

It was going to be a money-making place for some people for a while and, above all, a place where trouble could erupt in a heartbeat.

Frank had seen it all before, in other boom towns where precious metals were found.

Big strikes were both a blessing and a curse.

Frank's thoughts drifted back to Vivian, and he struggled to get the woman out of his mind. He could dream about her in quiet moments, but now was not the time. He had his rounds to make. And any marshal in any Western town who walked the streets at night and didn't stay alert ran the possibility of abruptly being a dead marshal.

Frank walked up to the corner of the main street and stood for a moment. He rolled a cigarette and smoked it, while leaning up against a hitch rail. It was full dark now, and both saloons were doing a land-office business. Pianos and banjos and guitars were banging and strumming and picking out melodies. Occasionally Frank could hear the sounds of a fiddle sawing away.

Frank walked up to the Silver Spoon Café and ordered supper for the prisoners, then carried the tray over to the jail. While they were eating, he made a pot of coffee and sat at his desk, smoking and drinking coffee. Then he took down the rifles and shotguns from the wall rack and cleaned and oiled them. He took out the pistol he'd found in the desk drawer and cleaned it, then loaded it up full with five rounds. It was a short-barreled .45, called by some a gambler's gun. It was actually a Colt .45 Peacemaker, known as a marshal or sheriff's pistol. Frank tucked it behind his gunbelt, on the left side. It was comfortable there.

A little insurance was sometimes a comfort.

Frank took the tray back to the café, then went over to the general store and bought some blankets for the cell bunks, charging them to the town's account. Back at the jail, he blew out the lamps and locked the front door. He did not build a fire in the jail stove, for the night was not that cool. Besides, if they both caught pneumonia and died that would save the state of Arkansas the expense of sending someone out here to take them back, plus the cost of hanging them.

He walked away, putting the very faint yelling and cussing of the two locked up and very unhappy outlaws behind him. They would settle down as soon as they realized there was no one to hear them.

Frank first stepped into the Silver Slipper Saloon and stood for a moment, giving the crowd a slow once-over. He spotted a couple of gunslicks he'd known from way back, but they were not trouble-hunters, just very bad men to crowd, for there was no back-up in either of them.

Frank walked over and pushed his way to a place at the bar, between the two men. “Jimmy,” he greeted the one his left.

“Morgan.” Jimmy looked at the star on Frank's chest and smiled. “I won't cause trouble in your town, Frank."

“I know it. I just wanted to say howdy. Hal,” he greeted the other one.

“Frank. Back to marshalin' again, huh?"

“Pay's good."

“I don't blame you, then."

“You boys bring your drinks over to that table in the far corner—if you've a mind to, that is. I may have some work for you both."

“If it's marshalin', count me out, Frank,” Hal said.

“It isn't."

“OK, then. I'll listen."

At the table, Frank laid out the problem of getting the shipments of silver to the spur rail line just across the border in Colorado.

“I heard Vanbergen and Pine was workin' this area,” Jimmy said.

“Big gangs,” Hal added.

“That worry you boys?” Frank asked.

“Hell, no,” Jimmy said. “You let me get some boys of my choosin' in here, and let us design the wagons, we'll get the silver through. Bet on that."

“All right. Get them in here."

“It'll take a while. They're all scattered to hell and gone,” Hal said.

“We've got the time. And Mrs. Browning's got the money."

“Who is this Mrs. Browning, anyways?” Jimmy asked.

“Old Man Henson's daughter. He died some years back, and she's running the business."

“Any truth in the rumor I heard years back, Frank?” Jimmy asked. “'bout you and Old Man Henson's daughter?” He held up one hand before Frank could say anything. “I ain't pushin' none, Frank, and I sure ain't lookin' for trouble. But the rumor is still floatin' around."

“Whatever happened was a long time ago, boys. Her father hated my guts. Now he's gone, and she's in a spot of trouble. That's why I'm here."

“That's good enough for me,” Jimmy said. “I won't bring it up no more."

“I'll get some wires sent in the mornin',” Hal said. “Then we'll see what happens."

“Good deal,” Frank said, pushing his chair back. “Where are you boys staying?"

“We got us a room at the hotel,” Jimmy told him. “We picked us up a bit of money doin' some bounty huntin' work. Brought them two in alive, we did."

Hal grinned. “'Course they was sorta shot up some, but they was alive."

“What happened to them?” Frank asked.

“They got hanged,” Jimmy said.

Frank smiled and stood up. “See you boys tomorrow."

“Take it easy, Frank,” Hal told him.

Frank left the saloon, very conscious of a few hostile eyes on him as he walked. He had spotted the young trouble-hunters when he first pushed open the batwings: three of them, sitting together at a table, each of them nursing a beer.

Frank did not want trouble with the young hotheads who were—more than likely—looking for a reputation. All three were in their early twenties—if that old—and full of the piss and vinegar that accompanies youth. But the youthful piss was going to be mixed with real blood if they tangled with Frank Morgan.

Frank walked up and down both sides of the main street of town. All the businesses except the saloons, the two cafés, and the hotel were now closed for the night. Frank turned down the short street that angled off of Main and paused for a moment, standing in the shadows.

The street and the boardwalk were busy, but not overly crowded with foot traffic. Judging from the noise, the Red Horse Saloon was doing a booming business. A rinky-dink piano was playing—only slightly out of tune—and a female voice was singing—also out of tune. Everything appeared normal.

But Frank was edgy. Something was wrong, something he couldn't quite put his finger on, or name. He had learned years back to trust his hunches. Over the long and violent years, that sixth sense had saved his life more times than he cared to remember.

Frank stepped deeper back into the shadows and waited, his pistol loose in leather, his eyes moving, watching the shadows across the street.

There! Right there! Frank spotted furtive movement in the alley between two boarded-up buildings across the street.

Frank squatted down in the darkened door stoop, presenting a smaller, more obscure target. His .45 was in his hand, and he did not remember drawing it. He eared the hammer back.

He watched as the shadows began to move apart and take better shape. Frank could first make out the shapes of three hats, then the upper torsos of the men as they stepped out of the alley and onto the boardwalk. He could not hear anything they were saying, if they were talking at all, because of the music and song from the Red Horse Saloon.

But he did catch a glint of reflection off the barrel of a rifle.