The Forbidden (5 page)

“You're right,” she said, holding out a hand for Frank to help her up. “I'd better get back and see to the kids. They have chores to do.” She stood up and stood very close to Frank. Close enough to make Frank sort of uncomfortable, for Julie was a very well endowed woman. “And you know kids: they can find all sorts of ways to shirk their chores.”

“Yes,” Frank said. “I was the same way when I was a kid.” Frank stood looking at her for a moment. Julie Wilson was really a beautiful woman. Smelled good too. He was reluctant to release her hand, and didn't until Marshal Handlen called again for him.

“Come on, Frank. I spotted the bodies.”

“Be right there, Marshal.”

“I hope I see you again, Mr. Morgan,” Julie said. “And my children would be just thrilled to meet you.”

“Perhaps we'll see each other again, Miss Julie.”

“Bye, Mr. Morgan.”

Frank walked over to the ruins of the house and picked up one of the shovels Handlen had found.

“Right over there,” Phil Wilson said, pointing to a spot in the ashes and still-smouldering rubble.

“Let's do it,” Frank said.

T
he bodies were finally dug out—the entire family and the dog. The smell was awful, and the men had to stop several times to bathe their faces in cold well water to refresh themselves. Wilson and Marshal Handlen both got sick, and had to stop and vomit when the body of Mrs. Jefferson literally fell apart while they were picking it up. Frank dragged the several sections of the woman to the side of the burned-out house and covered the pieces with a blanket.

“I hope to God I never see anything like that again,” Wilson said.

“I hope the men who did this burn in hell forever,” Handlen said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Goddamn them all to the hellfires.”

“Mount up and go get your wagon, Phil,” Frank said. “We'll load them up and take them into town for burial.”

“Good idea,” the farmer said. “I'll be back in a few minutes.”

“Go with him, Marshal,” Frank said softly. “I'll wrap the bodies in that old sacking you found in the shed.”

“You don't mind, Frank?”

“I've seen worse, Marshal. Much worse.”

“We'll be back as soon as possible.”

“Take your time. I'm going to take mine in doing this, believe me.”

Handlen gave him a wan smile and walked to his horse and mounted up, following Wilson back to his farm.

Frank gathered up the raggedy blankets and sacking from the shed and went to work. He almost lost his biscuits and coffee several times, but managed to get the job done just as the Wilson wagon came rattling up the road, Handlen riding along beside the wagon.

“I'm sure glad you left your wife at home,” Frank told the farmer. “This is not something she should see.”

“That's what I told her,” Phil said. “Then we had sort of a fuss about it. She will be coming into town later on. Riding with some of our neighbors. Several of the older boys and girls in the area will keep all the kids safe.”

“Word's already gone out through the south end of the valleys,” Handlen said. “They'll be a big town meeting tonight.”

“Better leave some men behind with the kids,” Frank cautioned. “Men who know how to use guns.”

“Good idea,” Phil said. “I'll see to it personal.”

The men loaded the burned bodies in the bed of the wagon, and Wilson and Marshal Handlen made ready to head back to town.

“Coming with us?” Handlen asked Frank.

“Not yet. I'll be a few minutes behind you,” Frank told him. “I'm going to look around a little more.”

Frank slowly circled the cleared area around the burned house and barn, and found a couple more hoofprints that stood out from the others. He would be able to recognize them if he ever saw them again. There was nothing else for him to do, so he mounted up and headed back to town, catching up with Handlen and Wilson a few miles later.

They met half a dozen farm families standing solemnly by the road as they rolled along toward town. The men and women didn't say a word, just stood silently and watched as the death wagon rolled past, the men standing with hats in hand.

Wilson pulled the wagon behind the undertaker's office. Frank headed back to the hotel to wash up and get the smell of death off him, then shave and get into some clean clothes.

“They all dead, Mr. Morgan?” the desk clerk asked.

“All dead,” Frank said. “Including the dog and some of the horses.”

“Damn!” the clerk whispered.

“Get some hot water up to my room, please,” Frank requested.

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

A half hour later Frank was cleaned up, packed up, and ready to go. He figured Horse would be rested enough for the trail and Dog would be ready to go. Now all he had to do was buy a packhorse and packsaddle, provision up, and get moving. He stopped by the cafe and bought a half dozen biscuits for Dog.

Dog was glad to see him and the biscuits, and Horse looked fit and trail-ready. The liveryman did not question Frank about the Jefferson family, sensing that Frank did not want to talk about that morning's events. Frank bought a packhorse and then walked over to the general store for supplies. He bought coffee, beans, salt, bacon, potatoes, flour, and cartridges for pistol and rifle. Back at the livery, he paid his bill, then packed up and was ready to swing into the saddle.

“You're not going to stay with us, Mr. Morgan?” the liveryman asked.

“No.”

“Heaven's a nice town.”

“Yes, it is. Very pleasant.”

“Be a nice place to settle down in.”

“I've sure seen a lot worse.”

“Maybe you'll come back.”

“Might do that.”

Frank mounted up and headed out without another word. People gathered on the boardwalk on both sides of the street to watch the gunfighter ride out. A few raised their hands in fare-well, including Marshal Handlen.

“Come back and see us, Frank,” the marshal called.

Frank touched the brim of his hat in reply and headed for the crossroads, putting the town of Heaven behind him. There was nothing else for him here. Nothing else for him to do ... except get involved in a war, and that was not something he wanted.

He looked down at Dog, padding along beside him. “Let's go see some country, Dog.”

* * *

Weeks later found Frank in the copper and gold mining town of Butte. The town was wide-open and roaring, with dozens of saloons that stayed open around the clock. Painted-up soiled doves were hanging out of windows above the saloons and in homes with a red lantern on the front porch, inviting any and all to come sample their wares.

Frank was camped on the edge of town, since there were no hotel rooms to be had at any price. But that was all right with Frank, for he didn't plan to spend much time in the town; just long enough to buy supplies and then get away from all the smoke and noise and hustle and bustle of too damn many people. Frank had found a couple of very nice families who were opening businesses in Butte. Due to the housing shortage, both families were living in and under their wagons until houses could be built for them. The women and kids agreed to look after Dog while Frank went into town for a bath, a haircut, and supplies.

“And new boots,” Frank reminded himself as he rode into town. His old boots were literally coming apart on his feet, and Frank decided to treat himself to a new pair, and a new hat as well.

“Might as well,” he muttered. “I can damn sure afford it.”

Frank bought his supplies, told the clerk he'd be back for them, then toted a sack full of dirty clothes over to a laundry. He had himself a shave, a haircut, and a bath, dressed in clean long handles, jeans, and shirt, then went in search of a boot and hat shop. He bought new boots and a new Stetson. He felt like a brand-new man as he walked over to a saloon to have a drink before he found a cafe and had something to eat.

The saloon had plenty of customers but there was room at the long bar, and Frank bellied up and ordered a whiskey—the first drink of whiskey he'd had in weeks—and listened to the gossip around him. It was mostly about mining, and Frank paid no attention. Then he heard his name mentioned and he perked up and listened.

“I heard some big rancher down some south and east here run Frank Morgan out,” a man said.

“Do tell?” his drinking companion said.

“Yes, sir, he did. Man by the name of Colonel Trainor. Runs the Circle Snake spread. Made ol' Frank Morgan tuck his tail 'tween his legs and run, he did.”

“Where'd you hear that?”

“Some cowboy passin' through yesterday. Seems this Trainor feller is hirin' guns for his spread. Payin' big money too. Gonna run all the farmers and sheep herders out of the valley.”

“Hard to believe that Frank Morgan would run from anybody.”

“Well, hell . . . Frank's gettin' old, I reckon.”

“ 'Bout forty-five, so I understand from an article I read once. That ain't old.”

“Maybe he just lost his nerve. It happens, you know.”

Frank smiled into his shot glass. The rumor came as no surprise to him. Others like Trainor, full of arrogance and self-importance, had made the same type of claim against other men. A few, a very few, had laid those remarks on Frank in the past. Frank had always ignored them. But this time the charge of cowardice rankled in him. Perhaps it was because he had taken such an instant dislike to Colonel Trainor.

“I'd like to run into that damn Morgan!” another voice shouted, rising above the crowd of men at the end of the bar.

“Oh, hell, Rob,” a man said. “What do you think you'd do if you did see him? You think you'd maybe crowd him into a fight?”

“Damn right I would,” Rob said. “I'm tired of reading all them books and newspaper stories about him. I want to see firsthand if he's got the backbone to face a really fast gun.”

“Like you, Rob?” yet another citizen asked.

“Yes, sir, just like me. I'm the fastest gun in these parts and you all know it. Anybody here want to say I ain't?”

Frank was hemmed in by the crowd at the other end of the bar. If he tried to leave, this punk Rob might recognize him and call his hand. Frank decided to nurse his drink and try to blend in with the crowd around him.

“Ain't nobody callin' you nothin', Rob,” a man said. “We're just tryin' to relax and have a drink, that's all.”

“Fine,” Rob said, an edge of anger in his voice. “Gimmie another beer, Jake.”

“Comin' right up, Rob,” the bartender called. “Keep your pants on.”

“Yeah, please do that!” a burly man dressed in dusty miner's clothing said with a laugh.

“Who said that?” Rob yelled amid all the sudden and raucous laughter from others in the saloon.

Damn!
Frank thought.
The crowd is going to make this fellow mad, and that
'
s the wrong thing to do at this time.

Frank took a tiny sip of his drink.

The barkeep slid a foamy mug of beer down the bar toward Rob.

“I wonder how much this Trainor guy is payin',” Rob tossed out. “If the money's right, I might take me a ride down there and sign on.”

“Then you're not goin' to run into Frank Morgan, Rob,” a drinker said. “Not if this Trainor run him off.”

“Oh, hell,” Rob replied. “Frank Morgan's probably in Texas by now, runnin' like a scared rabbit.”

“I wouldn't count on that, boy,” a voice called from a table close to the door.

“Oh?” Rob turned to face the man. “How come you say that?”

“Morgan ain't never run from no one in his life, that's how come. This Colonel Trainor is just blowin' smoke, that's all.”

“You know Frank Morgan?” Rob asked.

“I seen him a time or two, yeah.”

“What's he look like?” Rob laughed. “Raggedy and gray-headed and probably a damn drunk too?”

“I wouldn't say that,” the man replied. “But was I you, I'd back off with the mouth some. Frank just might hear about your comments and come here and make you eat them.”

“Huh?” Rob yelled. “If he ever come to Butte, I'd kick his ass from one end of town to the other.”

“I'd give a hundred dollars to see you try that, Rob!” a patron said.

“I wouldn't try,” Rob said. “I'd do it.”

The saloon customers all burst into laughter at that.

“By God, I would!”

That brought even more laughter.

Rob turned around and picked up his beer, all the while muttering vile obscenities. “I ever run into Morgan,” Rob whispered, “I'll show all of you. I swear I will.”

Frank waved to the bartender for another shot of whiskey. The barkeep walked down, filled his glass, and then locked eyes with Frank. His mouth dropped open as his eyes widened with sudden recognition. “Jesus Christ!” he muttered.

“Keep it to yourself,” Frank told him in a low voice. “I'm not looking for any trouble.”

But his words came too late. Jake stepped back and stared at the West's most famous gunfighter for a few seconds. “My God, boys!” he hollered. “It's him. He's here. Right in this saloon.”

“Who's here?” someone called.

“Who's him?” another yelled.

“Frank Morgan!
” Jake shouted. “Standin' right in front of me at this bar.”

The men on both sides of Frank suddenly moved to one side in a hurry. The men standing by Rob did the same. Only the long, empty expanse of bar was now between the gunfighter and the bigmouth.

Frank sipped his whiskey and stared straight ahead.

“Well, there he is, Rob,” a man called. “Poor old gray-headed, raggedy Frank Morgan.” He began to laugh. “Are you drunk and shaking in your boots, Mr. Morgan?”

“Not likely,” Frank said softly.

“Well, I think you're a coward,” Rob said. “What do you think about that, Morgan?”

“I think you ought to run back home and get your mama to change your diaper and tuck you into your little bed,” Frank said, turning to face Rob. “Either that, or shut your goddamn flapping mouth.”