Showdown

by William W. Johnstone

  “Sure. Help yourself. I’m going to my shack. See you in the mornin’.”

  “I hope so,” Frank replied with a smile.

  Bob returned the smile and walked out the rear of the livery; his “shack” was in the back of the stable.

  In the glow of lamplight, Frank checked his pistols, loading up the sixth chambers. He usually kept the hammer over an empty chamber. But considering the circumstances in the town, he might need all the firepower he could muster at any time. Telling Dog to stay put, Frank stepped out of the livery and headed for the saloon. He could not show fear. The instant he did that, he would be dead, and he knew it.

  He was a man alone, but had to behave as if he had an army behind him.

  He did not pass a single local citizen on his walk to the saloon. Apparently they had all settled in their homes for the night.

  “And I sure don’t blame them,” he muttered a few seconds after lightning licked across the dark skies and thunder rumbled ominously. “A town full of bounty hunters and the weather is lousy.”

  A man stepped out of a building stoop and stood silently in the center of the boardwalk, blocking Frank’s way.

  “Howdy,” Frank said.

  “You’re Frank Morgan, right?”

  “That’s me. And your name is ... ?”

  “Hill. Dan Hill. That ring a bell with you?”

  “No. Can’t say that does. Is it supposed to?”

  “You don’t remember my pa, Daniel Hill?”

  “No. Don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure.”

  “Well, you damn sure ought to!”

  “Why?”

  “You killed him, you son of a bitch!”

  Frank peered through the darkness, trying to make out the man’s face. He could not. But he did sense the man was no kid. “If I did kill him, he was trying to kill me.”

  “That’s a damn lie! My pa never tried to kill nobody. He was a farmer in Texas.”

  “And I’m supposed to have killed him because he was a farmer?”

  “Damn right. You hired your gun out to a big rancher.”

  “Wrong, mister. I’ve never done that.”

  “Enough talk, Morgan. I promised my ma on her deathbed I’d hunt you down and kill you. Now I’m gonna do it.”

  “You got the wrong man, Hill. I swear to you you have.”

  “You’re a liar as well as a killer. Now . . . draw!” Hill grabbed for his pistol.

  Eight

  Frank acted instinctively. Hill had just cleared leather when Frank’s bullet tore into the man and knocked him back. Hill grabbed for a support post, missed it, and fell off the boardwalk, into the mud, between a hitch rail and the boardwalk.

  Doc Raven came running across the street, carrying his black bag. “I just got back into town,” he panted. “Mrs. Perkins delivered twins. Two fine boys, although it was a hard delivery. Who is this man you just shot?”

  “Says his name is Hill. Claims I killed his pa down in Texas.”

  “Did you?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Certainly not under the circumstances he described.”

  Doc Raven knelt down beside the man. “He’s dead. Your bullet drilled him right through the heart.”

  Frank cleared the spent brass and reloaded. “I didn’t want to kill him, Doc.”

  “I believe you. Well, I’ll get some men to carry him over to the undertaker’s. Then I’m going to wash up and go to bed. I’m tired.”

  “See you in the morning, Doc.”

  Frank waited in the shadows until the body of Hill was carried off; then he walked to the saloon. The rain was still coming down: a light drizzle. None of the gunslicks had bothered to come outside to check on the shooting. Heads turned when Frank entered the crowded saloon. He ignored the hard looks and walked to the far end of the bar and ordered coffee.

  “Somebody jump the gun on the hunt and brace you, Morgan?” a gunslinger standing close by asked.

  “No, this was personal, so he said.”

  “You know his name?”

  “Said his name was Hill. From Texas.”

  “Don’t know that one. He dead?”

  “They’ll plant him in the morning, I reckon.”

  The gunhand grunted and took a sip of his beer. “I done made up my mind ’bout this stupid hunt, Morgan.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I’m out of it. I’ll stick around till the road is open, then I’m gone.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “A number of things. Mainly, though, ’cause this whole thing is sick. I’ve hired my gun out many times, for a lot of reasons. But never for nothin’ like this here. It’s stupid. And I just flat don’t like them damn Easterners.”

  Frank smiled. “Neither do I.”

  The gunslick laughed softly. “I reckon you don’t.” He looked down at his drink. “I know a way through the mountains. It’s a tough ride, but it’s passable. I’m headin’ out come first light. You want to come along?”

  Frank met the gunny’s eyes. “I should, I know that. But I just can’t. Do you understand?”

  The gunslinger slowly nodded his head. “I reckon I do, Frank. I shore do. I ain’t much for runnin’ myself. Just the thought of runnin’ away from a fracas sorta sticks in my craw.”

  “That’s the way I feel about it.”

  The gunfighter lifted his glass. “Luck to you, Frank.”

  “Thanks.” Frank watched the man drain his glass and then walk away.

  Through the front glass of the saloon, Frank watched lightning dart across the skies, listened as thunder rumbled, and then heard the rain increase in intensity.

  “When the hell are we gonna get this show goin’?” a man yelled out. “I’m gettin’ damn tired of waitin’.”

  “Patience, patience!” Horace Vanderhoot shouted from the doorway leading from the hotel to the saloon. “As soon as the rain ceases, the hunt will begin. Fifty thousand dollars will go to the man who kills the notorious murderer and gunfighter Frank Morgan. But if Frank Morgan is killed before I officially announce the start of the hunt, not one penny will go to that man. Here is something that might peak your interest. With the exception of Frank Morgan, the last man standing will be declared the winner of the hunt. At last count, there were almost sixty of you men in town. Only one will ride out fifty thousand dollars richer. Think about that and act accordingly. For now, I bid you all a very pleasant good night.”

  You bloodthirsty son of a bitch! Frank thought as he watched the foyer door close behind Vanderhoot. You have just opened the gates to hell.

  “Well, now,” a gunny said, stepping away from the bar. “Ain’t that a kick in the butt?”

  “Do that mean what I think it means?” another asked.

  “Damn shore does, Jimmy,” a redheaded gunhawk said, stepping away from the bar to face the speaker. “And I’m gettin’ tarred of lookin’ at your ugly mug.”

  Frank quickly glanced around the saloon. There was not a local in sight. They had all quietly left the watering hole. Three soiled doves were standing together, pressed up against a far wall. Fear was evident in their faces.

  “You’re callin’ me ugly, Steve?” Jimmy asked. “Why . . . when you was a little boy you was so damn ugly, your momma had to tie a piece of salt pork around your neck so’s the dogs would play with you.”

  The saloon rocked with rough and profane laughter.

  Frank waited and watched, his coffee turning cold in the cup. The laughter slowly faded and the situation turned tense as the two men backed up a few steps, their hands poised for a hook and draw.

  “You leave my ma out of this, you piece of coyote crap!” Steve responded.

  “Sure will,” Jimmy replied. “ ’Cause you didn’t have no human ma. You was borned in a travelin’ circus in the monkey cage.”

  “I’ll kill you!” Steve shouted.

  “You got it to do.”

  “You’re enjoyin’ this, ain’t you, Morgan?” a gunhand standing close to Frank a
sked in a soft voice.

  “Not really,” Frank whispered. “But I’m glad it’s them facing a bullet and not me.”

  “Your time is comin’.”

  “I’m sure it is. And I’m also sure I’ll be here.” Or close by, Frank thought. Like waiting in an old deserted town called Red Rock. Frank had given the old town a lot of thought, and the more he thought, the better it sounded for a showdown.

  The violent cursing of Steve broke into Frank’s thinking. The man was really working himself into a lather. It wouldn’t be long now.

  Jimmy laughed at the man. “You cuss real good, Steve. But then, I’ve heard for years that you always did have a big mouth with no guts to back it up.”

  “That does it for me, you butt-ugly peckerwood!” Steve grabbed for his gun.

  Jimmy cleared leather first and got off the first shot. The bullet missed Steve and blew a hole through one of the front windows.

  Steve fired, the bullet hitting Jimmy in the leg and knocking him back against the bar. Jimmy grunted in shock and sudden pain and lifted his. 44. He squeezed the trigger. The slug hit Steve in the left shoulder and spun him around, throwing him against a table. Cards and chips were scattered all over the floor.

  Jimmy cocked and fired again. The bullet missed its mark and blew a leg off a wooden chair.

  Down on one knee, Steve leveled his six-gun and fired. His shot was true, the bullet slamming into Jimmy’s belly and doubling him over.

  Gasping in pain, Jimmy slowly raised his pistol and fired. The slug hit Steve in the center of his face, disintegrating his nose as the bullet ripped into his brain. Steve dropped to the floor like a heavy rock and did not move.

  Jimmy slowly sank down to his knees as the pain in his belly intensified. “Oh, God, I hurt!” he hollered.

  “I bet he do,” a gunny said.

  “Somebody get the doc,” another gunslick suggested.

  “Why?” another gun-handler asked. “Steve’s dead as a rock and Jimmy ain’t gonna be long for this world.”

  “That’s a damn lie!” Jimmy yelled, one hand covering the bloody hole in his belly. “I ain’t gonna die. I’m gonna collect that bounty money.”

  “No, you ain’t,” a man told him. “So why don’t you just do us all a favor? Shut your mouth, lay down and close your eyes, and die.”

  “You black-hearted son of a bitch!” Jimmy said.

  Frank stood at the end of the bar and watched in silence. It was nothing new to him; he’d seen it all before, many times.

  “Did somebody go for the doc?” Jimmy asked.

  “Nope,” he was told.

  “It’s rainin’ outside,” another said. “And cold.”

  “You bastard!” Jimmy said.

  “Well, now, that just might be true. I can’t take no offense at that. My pa was a man with a wanderin’ eye, for sure.”

  Hard waves of pain hit the man, and he trembled at the shock of it, then screamed, “Oh, God, I hurt so bad!”

  “That’s what you get when you play with guns, Jimmy,” a gunny said in hard, rough humor, and the others laughed.

  “Damn y’all to the hellfires!” Jimmy said.

  The front door opened and a very irritated and rumpled Doc Raven walked in.

  “The one stretched out on the floor with half a head is dead, Doc,” a man said. “The one on his knees probably ain’t long for this world.”

  “Thank you,” Doc Raven said very sarcastically, pushing his way through the crowd. He knelt down beside Jimmy and tried to pull the wounded man’s hands away from his bloody stomach. He could not. “I can’t help you if you won’t let me look at the wound.”

  “Give me somethin’ for the pain, Doc!” Jimmy begged.

  “Let me look at the wound.”

  “No!” Jimmy screamed. “If I move my hands my guts will fall out.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Raven snapped. “Your intestines are not going to fall out.” He looked up at the men gathered around. “Some of you grab him and stretch him out on the floor. I’ve got to see about this wound.”

  Jimmy was forcefully laid out on the floor and his hands moved away from the bullet wound. Doc Raven looked at the wound and grunted softly.

  “It’s bad, ain’t it, Doc?” Jimmy moaned.

  “It isn’t good.”

  “Am I going to die?”

  “Probably.”

  “Ah ... hell, Doc!” Jimmy cried out. “I’m too young to die.”

  There was really nothing Raven could do. He’d seen men gut-shot live, but they were the exception, not the rule. The entry wound in Jimmy’s stomach was huge and the bleeding was copious. There was no way of knowing what other damage the bullet had done, and no real way of telling for sure. Raven cleaned the wound and packed it closed, then stood up.

  “Is that all you’re gonna do?” Jimmy asked.

  “There is nothing else I can do,” Raven told him. “I’m sure the lining of your stomach has been perforated.”

  “What does that mean?” Jimmy asked with a groan.

  “It has a big hole in it.”

  “Oh, Lord. I’m really gonna die, ain’t I?”

  “You want me to get a minister for you?”

  “Can he fix the hole in my gut?”

  “No. But he can comfort you with prayer.”

  Jimmy very graphically told Doc Raven where he could stick his suggestion.

  Raven shook his head and stood up, disgust on his face and in his eyes. He looked down the bar at Frank, then turned his attention to the bartender. “Get me a cup of coffee, please.”

  “Comin’ right up, Doc.”

  Doc Raven joined Frank at the bar. “What a mess.”

  “And it’ll get worse, Doc. Bet on it.”

  “Horace Vanderhoot has opened Pandora’s box, Frank.”

  “I’ve read about that, Doc. Yes. You’re right. The undertaker is going to be very busy for a time.”

  “I’ll suggest this one more time, Frank. Get clear of here.”

  “Doc, you’re the man who runs this town. If you order me to leave, I’ll do so. But not until then.”

  “I won’t order you out, Frank. I’ve told you that.”

  “What if locals start getting hurt, or killed?”

  “The people will handle it then.” Raven smiled at Frank’s expression of doubt. “Frank, this town is filled with veterans of the War Between the States, ex-buffalo hunters, Indian fighters, and early settlers. Believe me, when the locals get enough, they’ll handle it. Have you ever heard of a Western town being totally buffaloed?”

  “Not many, for a fact.”

  “This one won’t be either.”

  The gut-shot Jimmy began moaning and hollering in pain. “Doc! It’s hurtin’ real bad. Help me.”

  “Can you do anything for him?” Frank asked.

  Doc Raven shook his head. “No. Nothing. Probing for the bullet would be useless, even if I could locate and remove it. I can’t cut him open and repair his stomach.”

  “Somebody get that crybaby out of here,” a gunslick said. “I’m gettin’ tarred of listenin’ to him holler.”

  “You know that insensitive lout?” Raven asked in a whisper.

  “Jack Miller,” Frank replied. “Back-shooter out of Arkansas. I thought he was long dead.”

  “Somethin’s wrong with me, Doc!” Jimmy yelled. “It’s gettin’ hard for me to breathe and the light is fadin’.”

  “Good,” the Arkansas back-shooter said in a too-loud voice. “Go on and die.”

  “Shut up, Jack,” another gun-handler said. “Let the man die in peace.”

  “You want to try to shut me up?” Jack challenged.

  “Doc!” Jimmy yelled.

  “Blood’s a-pourin’ out of his mouth, Doc,” a man standing close to Jimmy said. “I don’t think he’s long for this world.”

  Raven left Frank’s side and knelt down beside Jimmy for a moment. Jimmy began to convulse on the floor.

  “What the hell’s he doin
’ now, Doc?” a man asked.

  “Losing consciousness,” Raven replied.

  “Why?”

  Raven’s sigh was evident even where Frank stood. “The bullet probably traveled upward and nicked a lung . . . or both lungs.”

  Jimmy’s legs began jerking, his boot heels drumming on the dirty floor.

  “What a horrible way to die,” one of the bar’s soiled doves said, moving closer to where Jimmy lay.

  “How much for a good hump?” a man asked her.

  She leaned down and whispered in his ear.

  “It better be a good one for that price,” the man said, standing up.

  She led him toward the rear of the saloon, and they disappeared into the darkness of a hall.

  Jimmy yelled once more and then was silent, his body ceasing its jerking and convulsing. His head lolled to one side.

  “That’s all,” Raven said. “He’s gone.”

  “ ’Bout damn time,” Jack Miller said. “Gimmie another beer,” he told the barkeep.

  “Some of you men carry these bodies out of here and over to the undertaker’s,” Raven said. The bodies were dragged outside, sawdust was sprinkled over the blood spots, and the card games and talking resumed.

  Doc Raven finished his coffee and picked up his black bag. “See you in the morning, Frank.”

  “I sure hope so, Doc.”

  Frank stood at the bar for a few moments, then pushed his way through the crowd and walked out of the bar. He stood for a moment on the boardwalk, breathing in the cold wet air of fall and mulling over his situation. What had Vanderhoot said? As soon as the rain ceased the hunt would begin.

  Frank walked down the boardwalk toward the barn. He’d sleep in the loft this night. He was sure the saloon would be noisy until the wee hours. There were few lamplights shining; the locals had gone to bed.

  “Good idea,” Frank muttered. In the livery, he got his blanket roll and climbed up into the loft. He was asleep in the hay a few minutes after closing his eyes.

  Nine

  Frank awakened at Dog’s low, almost inaudible growl in the stall beneath where he slept in the loft. He lay still, listening, his right hand silently closing around the butt of his Peacemaker. Dog did not repeat his growl.