Showdown

by William W. Johnstone

  “A man who is rapidly losing patience with a couple of pushy loudmouths.”

  “You think you somebody special or somethin’?” Brooks yelled.

  Frank smiled and said nothing.

  “I’ll tell you who he is,” a saloon loafer said. “He’s Frank Morgan.”

  Brooks and Martin stood silent for a few seconds as that statement sank in. Brooks was the first to speak. “You lie! That ain’t Frank Morgan. Cain’t be.”

  “Well, it damn shore is him,” Bob said.

  “Frank Morgan’s an old man,” Martin said. “That feller sittin’ yonder ain’t old enough to be him.”

  “ ’Sides,” Brooks added, “what would Frank Morgan be doin’ in a dump like South Raven?”

  “Resting and having a cup of coffee,” Frank said. “And minding my own business. Why don’t you two shut the hell up, try minding your own business, and leave me alone?”

  That shut the cousins up for a moment. They looked at one another. Martin opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, then said, “You cain’t talk to me like that, mister, whoever you are. Why ... I’ve called men out for less than that.”

  Not to be undone, Brooks said, “Yeah. Me too.”

  “Go away,” Frank told the pair, a note of weariness in his voice. “I didn’t come here looking for trouble.”

  “Well, now,” Martin said. “That’s some better. Now you’re bein’ smart, mister. Nobody with any sense wants to tangle with us.”

  “I’m sure,” Frank replied. “Now go away.”

  “Maybe we don’t want to go away,” Brooks said. “Maybe we want to stay and have a drink.”

  “Then, damnit, drink!” Frank said, raising his voice. “But do it quietly.”

  “What if we want to talk?” Martin asked, a smirk on his face. “That allowed?”

  Frank slowly pushed back his chair and stood up. He was growing very weary of the Olsen boys, and wanted nothing more than to get away from the pair before the situation deteriorated into gunplay.

  Martin and Brooks tensed, their hands dropping close to the butts of their guns.

  Frank kept his hand away from his .45. “I’ll be leaving now.”

  “Maybe we want you to stay and talk to us,” Brooks said. “I mean, you’re such a famous person and all that.”

  “Yeah,” Martin said. “It ain’t often we get to talk with someone like you. Maybe you can show us how fast you are, Mr. Has-Been. How about it?”

  “I really don’t think you boys want me to do that,” Frank said softly.

  “Oh, but we do, Mr. Famous Gunfighter,” Brooks said. “As a matter of fact, we insist on it.”

  The cousins began to giggle like a couple of schoolgirls.

  Frank stepped away from the table, his hand dropping to the butt of his pistol. From long experience, he knew the situation was very close to a showdown. He didn’t like it, didn’t want it, but there it was.

  “All right, boys,” Frank said. “Here it is. I’m going to walk out that front door. You want to slap iron, do it. Do it right now, or shut your damned mouths.”

  Brooks and Martin suddenly found the situation had lost all humor. They were facing a man who had never been beaten in a hook-and-draw confrontation. The pair exchanged quick glances. “Easy now, Mr. Morgan,” Martin said. “We was only funnin’ with you.”

  Frank offered no reply as he began walking toward the front of the saloon.

  “But we’ll be around,” Brooks said in an effort to save some face.

  “So will I,” Frank said. He opened the door, shoved open the batwings, and stepped out onto the boardwalk. The batwings clicked and clacked behind him.

  “Good thing he left,” Martin said. “I’d hate to have had to put lead in him.”

  “Yeah,” Brooks said. “Him bein’ kind of a legend and all that. You know he’s slowed down to nothin’ with age and all.”

  Liveryman Bob began laughing at that, and the other patrons quickly joined in. Both Brooks and Martin flushed with anger and frustration and turned away, facing the bar. “It ain’t over,” Martin whispered. “Not by a long shot.”

  “Damn shore ain’t,” Brooks said.

  “You boys best settle down,” Bob told them. “And enjoy life. ’Cause if you push Frank Morgan again, they’ll be guns goin’ off ... with the lead flyin’ in your direction.”

  “We ain’t scared of that has-been!” Martin blurted out.

  “Then you’re a couple of damned young fools,” Bob replied.

  * * *

  Outside, Frank paused for a moment on the boardwalk long enough to roll a smoke and light it. The chilly wind blew around him unnoticed while Frank was deep in thought. A group of Eastern businessmen were going to hire men, or had hired men, to hunt him for sport? Incredible.

  Frank had heard of this happening just once before, but he never knew if it was fact or just some rumor. “I guess it’s true,” he muttered, and walked on. “What am I, some sort of beast of prey?”

  Frank bought some food at the cafe for Dog, and went back to the livery and fed him, making sure he had plenty of water. Stepping outside the livery, he stood and watched as two men rode slowly into town and reined up in front of the saloon. They both stepped stiffly from the saddle and stood for a moment, looking around them. Frank did not recognize them, but he did know the type: gun-handlers. Both of them wore tied-down guns and they were acting wary, carefully looking over the area before moving away from their horses and stepping up onto the boardwalk.

  Frank stayed in the shadows of the livery and watched the pair. They stepped onto the boardwalk and stood for a moment, visually checking all around them before disappearing from sight into the saloon.

  “Well, I’m not going to stand out in the cold because two strangers rode into town,” Frank muttered. He headed for the saloon, intending to go to his room and relax, perhaps read some from a book he’d picked up from a traveling peddler. Frank was not an educated man, in the sense of formal education, but he was well read and always had a couple of books in his saddlebags. He walked back to the saloon. He wanted to avoid trouble, but damned if he was going to sleep in the barn when a warm room was bought and paid for.

  The liveryman stepped out just as Frank approached the side door. “Gunslicks in there, Mr. Morgan,” Bob said, jerking his thumb toward the batwings.

  “I saw them. You know them?”

  “Never seen ’em ’fore. But I know what they are.”

  “They’re trouble-hunters, for a fact. Did you hear a name?”

  “No. They ain’t said nothin’ to nobody ’ceptin’ the bartender. They ordered coffee and asked about someplace to eat.”

  “I imagine the Olsen boys will have something to say before long.”

  “You can bet your bankroll on that. Them boys got mouths that would put an alligator’s snout to shame.”

  Frank smiled at that.

  “You gonna ride out, Mr. Morgan?”

  “No. I probably should, but I want to find out more about this so-called sporting game those idiots back East dreamed up.”

  “You think them two gunslicks that rode in is a part of it?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”

  “I got to see about my animals. Don’t start no shooting till I get back. It ain’t often we get any excitement in this town. I don’t wanna miss nothin’.”

  Frank laughed softly. “I’ll do my best, Bob.”

  Frank stepped inside the saloon and paused for a moment, sizing things up. The Olsen cousins were sitting at a table across the room, the other patrons scattered around the big room. The two gun-handlers were at the bar, drinking coffee. All conversation ceased when Frank entered, all eyes turning to watch him.

  Frank walked to the end of the bar closest to the door and ordered a beer. His eyes touched the two gunhands. “Howdy, boys,” he greeted them.

  Both men nodded their heads in greeting, one saying, “I thought the men in here were joking when they told
us Frank Morgan was in town.”

  “In person,” Frank replied. “You boys looking for me?”

  “No,” the second gun-handler said. “But they’s about fifty people who are lookin’ for you.”

  “So I heard. How close are they?”

  “Hard to say. Damn detectives are all over the West, snoopin’ and askin’ questions, tryin’ to pinpoint you.”

  His friend said, “Big money goes to the man who locates you, Morgan.”

  “You boys interested in that money?” Frank asked casually.

  “We could use it, but it’d be tainted, far as I’m concerned. I’ve hired my gun for a lot of reasons, but”—he shook his head—“this here huntin’ a man for sport is stupid. I ain’t takin’ no part in it.”

  “Nor me,” his saddle partner said. “They’s a little nothin’ town ’bout fifty miles east of here that’s fillin’ up with bounty hunters. I ’spect they’ll be in this area in a week.”

  “Was I you, Morgan,” his partner said, “I’d head west, for California maybe. Get the hell out of this area. Your life ain’t worth spit ’round here.”

  “I never was much for running,” Frank said softly, then took a sip of beer.

  “Us neither. But man, they’s a whole damn mob after you.”

  “How much money on my head?” Frank asked.

  “Thousands of dollars. I don’t rightly know the exact figure. We’ve heard everything from ten thousand to fifty thousand dollars.”

  “And that’ll draw the trash out of the garbage pile,” the other gunslick said. “Along with the ants and the flies and the maggots.”

  Frank nodded his head in agreement. “You boys want a drink? On me?”

  “Appreciate it. Right after this coffee. It’s a tad chilly outside. We’re warmin’ our innards some.”

  “Give them what they want,” Frank told the barkeep. “And put it on my tab.”

  “If I knew who was payin’ the money for your dead stinkin’ butt and how to collect it,” Brooks Olsen said, “I’d brace you right now, Morgan.”

  “That’s whiskey talkin’, boy,” the bartender called. “Shut your mouth.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, Pops,” Brooks said. “And mind your own business.”

  “Suit yourself,” the bartender said with a shrug. “It’s your funeral.”

  Frank leaned against the bar and sipped his beer in silence.

  “It’s damn shore gonna be somebody’s funeral,” Martin said. “But it ain’t gonna be ours.”

  The two gunslicks glanced at Frank and smiled knowingly. Frank acknowledged the smile with an arched eyebrow.

  The door opened with a rush of cold wind and Dr. Raven walked into the saloon and up to the bar, taking a position beside Frank. “Getting colder outside,” the doctor said after telling the bartender to bring him a cup of coffee.

  “How’s your patient?” Frank asked.

  “Complaining,” the doctor said. “Which is a good sign.” He glanced at the clock behind the bar. “Stage is due anytime now.”

  “Expecting somebody?”

  “No. Just some newspapers from back East. This time tomorrow we’ll only be a couple of months behind times.”

  “Late for a stage, isn’t it?” Frank asked.

  “It’s a regular stop. They’ll spend the night here. And the driver always has more news. The stage layover is always a big event.”

  “Daily stop?”

  “Twice a week. Sometimes three times a week. Supply wagons roll in twice a month.”

  “You have a telegraph here, don’t you?”

  “When the wires are up. You want to send a message?”

  “Nothing urgent. Just asking.”

  “Maybe he wants to call in some help,” Brooks said. “Like maybe the Army.”

  Doc Raven turned to look at the young man. “You have a big mouth, Brooks. And big ears. Why don’t you mind your own business?”

  “Why don’t you go to hell, Doc?” Brooks popped right back. He stood up, his right hand dropping to his side, close to the butt of his pistol.

  “The doc ain’t armed, Brooks,” the bartender said. “And you know it.”

  “Morgan is,” Brooks said.

  Frank turned to face the young man. “Why are you pushing me, boy?”

  “I ain’t no boy, Morgan. And I’ll tell you something else. I don’t like you at all. What do you think about that?”

  Frank smiled. “I think, boy, that I’ve had all your damn mouth I intend to take. Now either drag iron or shut the hell up. It’s your choice.”

  The saloon became as silent as the grave as the wall clock began chiming the hour.

  Three

  “Stage coming!” someone shouted from outside. “And it’s full of passengers.”

  The tense moment was shattered when all the bar patrons began rushing toward the front door. One of the men bumped into Brooks Olsen. Brooks was wound up tight as a drumhead and lost his balance. He cursed and put out a hand to grab the edge of the table. His eyes were wide, suspecting that Frank would take that time to shoot him.

  Frank leaned against the bar.

  “They’ll be another day, Morgan,” Brooks said.

  “Take your time, boy,” Frank cautioned him. “You’ve got a long life ahead of you.”

  “Hell with you!”

  “Whatever,” Frank replied. He turned his back to the angry young man and signaled the barkeep to bring him a cup of coffee.

  Brooks and Martin stomped out of the saloon.

  “Stage arrival is a big event in this town,” Frank said.

  “You bet,” the barkeep replied, pouring Frank a cup of coffee. “Although it usually don’t amount to a hill of beans when it comes to people gettin’ off. Newspapers is what the folks want. News is mighty scarce around here.”

  The front door opened and the liveryman, Bob, yelled, “They’s two stages this run, boys. Both of them full of folks. Git some rooms ready, Phil.”

  “Phil?” Frank asked.

  “That’s me,” the barkeep said. “Help yourself to the coffee, boys. I got to get some rooms ready for the crowd.”

  “We’ll look after the bar, Phil,” Doc Raven assured him.

  “Trusting person,” Frank remarked.

  “Small town, Frank. Full of good people.”

  “For a while, Doc. But they’ll get tired of me pretty fast.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “You’ll see. I’ve been through it many times. If it’s one thing I know, it’s human nature.”

  “We’ll see. Frank, where is your home?”

  “The West, Doc. Wherever I choose to hang my hat.”

  “I hear you’re a man of some means.”

  “I’m not going to miss any meals because of lack of funds.”

  Doc Raven laughed. “That’s an interesting way of putting it.”

  “You hustling cash for your bank, Doc?” Frank asked with a smile.

  “Hell, yes!” the doctor responded with a matching smile.

  The conversation came to a close as the batwings squeaked and the front door opened, the entrance filling up with passengers from the two stages. Six men and four women trooped into the saloon. The passengers were all dressed to the nines: all but one of the men in suits and stiff collars, the women in fancy traveling dresses.

  “Easterners,” Frank said in a low voice. “Most of them.”

  “City folks for sure,” Doc Raven agreed.

  “I am exhausted,” one of the fancy men exclaimed. “I insist upon a hot bath immediately. Where is the proprietor of this wretched hovel?”

  “Bringin’ in all your damn travelin’ bags,” Phil said, dumping a pile of luggage on the floor. “Sort it out, folks. I got to bring in all them trunks now.”

  “Well!” one of the women said in a huffy voice. “Hospitality is very thin here.”

  “What the hell is a wretched hovel?” Bob asked, walking up to the bar. “Is that somethin’ good?”

  “Y
ou there!” a passenger said, waggling a finger at Frank. “Get us something to drink and be quick about it.”

  “Go sit on a cactus,” Frank told him.

  “You obviously don’t realize whom you are addressing,” the man said.

  “Nope. I sure don’t. And furthermore, I don’t care.”

  “What an impudent fellow,” another passenger said.

  Doc Raven smiled at the exchange. He turned to face the weary travelers. “I’m Dr. Raven,” he announced. “Welcome to South Raven. But I must warn you, this is not New York City. There are no doormen or valets here.”

  “That much is quite obvious,” one of the ladies said. “You’re Dr. Raven and the town is South Raven. The . . . village is named after you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How wonderful,” another of the ladies said. “Perhaps you could tell us where we register for our rooms?”

  “Through that door right over there,” Doc Raven replied, pointing. “Just sign your names to the register and grab a key.”

  “And tote your own luggage,” Frank added.

  “You, sir,” one of the men said, “are a most disagreeable fellow.”

  “There is a saying out here, folks,” Frank replied. “You stomp your own snakes and saddle your own horses.”

  “How quaint,” another of the men said. “I’m sure I will treasure that rather pithy remark forever.”

  Frank started to tell him where he could shove his reply, then decided against it. He turned his back to the Easterners and sipped his coffee.

  “There are bathing facilities in the rooms?” one of the ladies inquired hopefully.

  “No,” Doc Raven told her. “Sorry. You can have a bath behind the barbershop. If you don’t want to share the water, you’d better tell the barber now so he can get ready.”

  “Share the water?” a man said. “How primitive.”

  “Save some water for me,” Frank said, hiding his smile. “I got to bathe my dog.”

  “Bathe your dog?” a woman almost shouted.

  “He don’t have many fleas,” Frank replied, fighting back his laughter, his back to the travelers. “They’ll be dead ’fore you strip off anyways.”

  “Civilization has not yet reached this outpost,” a man said.

  “Do you have savage red Indians here?” a woman questioned.