Showdown

by William W. Johnstone

  Then Frank heard the very faint scrape of a boot. It sounded as though it came from just outside the livery. Frank eared back the hammer of the .45 and waited.

  After a few quiet moments, he heard boot steps moving away from the livery, slowly fading into the night. Frank did not know what time it was, but he had awakened feeling refreshed, so he knew it must be close to his normal getting-up time. He pulled on his boots and silently climbed down to the floor of the livery. He let Dog out back to do his morning business, and without lighting the lantern, slipped out the front of the stable and stood for a time in the early morning darkness, listening. The rain had slackened off to an irritating drizzle. He could hear no sound except the soft sighing of the cold wind.

  Frank stepped back into the huge livery, silently closing the door, and popped a match into light, checking his watch. The hands read 3:30. He let Dog back in, and the big cur immediately went to the stall with Horse and lay down in a corner.

  “You stay put,” Frank told him.

  Frank walked to the cafe. It was dark. Frank guessed the cook probably wouldn’t show up for another hour. He glanced at the saloon. It too was dark and silent. He turned up the collar of his coat against the chill and walked on until he reached the edge of the short business district, then crossed over and began walking down the other side. He walked slowly, pausing often to listen. He heard nothing out of the ordinary. It appeared he was the only one awake at this hour.

  He wondered where all the hired guns had found shelter to sleep. Then he recalled overhearing one of the gunslicks in the saloon the past night talking about them renting several empty houses in town.

  “I hope the roofs leak and they all catch pneumonia,” he muttered, then smiled at his remark.

  He stopped and stepped back into the darkness of a door stoop at the sounds of several riders coming from the east. He watched as the three men rode up the street, all of them wearing slickers. Their horses looked very tired.

  “My God,” Frank muttered under his breath. “More bounty hunters. Maybe it is time for me to give some serious thought to pulling out.”

  The trio of riders rode down to the livery stable and out of earshot. Frank waited in the darkness. A few minutes later, he saw the faint glow of a lantern. They had rousted Old Bob out of his warm bed. Bob would not be in a very good mood, Frank thought with a grin. He decided to walk down to the livery and see if Bob would put the coffeepot on.

  The men who had just ridden in were stripping the saddles from their horses when Frank walked in. Bob was standing off to one side, looking very unhappy about being rousted out of bed. The trio of riders turned and stared at Frank.

  “Morgan,” one of them said.

  “Roberts,” Frank replied. “Been a long time.”

  “Ten years, I reckon. Down in Louisiana, wasn’t it?”

  “New Orleans, yes. I believe you were beating a woman, weren’t you?”

  Sudden anger flushed Roberts’s face. He momentarily tensed, then smiled and relaxed. “You stepped into a situation you didn’t understand and should have stayed out of.”

  “No woman deserves a beating like that, Roberts.”

  “Whatever happened to that French bitch?” Roberts asked.

  “She died about a week after the beating.”

  Roberts shrugged. “I had a headache for a week after you hit me with that rifle butt. I owe you for that, Morgan.”

  “And now you’re here to collect, right?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Any more guns riding in?”

  “A few more. Small-time gun-handlers. They should be here later on today.”

  “Well, it promises to be quite a show.”

  “You don’t seem to be too worried about it, Morgan.”

  “Last man standing gets the money. And you boys are late getting into the game.”

  “I heard some boys came out of retirement for this hunt.”

  “A few. Lonesome Howard. Vickers. Olmstead. Dolan is here.”

  “No kidding? Well, that’s quite a crew. Lots of old friends around here for a while, right, Morgan?”

  “That’s one way of looking at it, I reckon.”

  “I aim to collect that money, Frank. Me and the boys here.”

  “Who are your friends?”

  “This here is Don Blanchard from West Texas way.” He jerked a thumb. “And that’s Russ Temple. He’s a Wyoming boy.”

  “You ain’t as old as I thought you’d be, Morgan,” Don said. “All the stories told about you, I figured you’d be near’bouts a hundred or so.”

  Bob stepped in and said, “I don’t know where you boys is gonna sleep, but you ain’t sleeping in my livery. I’ll stable your horses, and that’s it.”

  “You a feisty old fart, ain’t you?” Russ said.

  “Keep runnin’ that mouth, boy,” Bob replied, “and you and your horse can sleep under a tree.”

  Roberts held up a hand. “We’ll find us a place to sleep, old man. You just take care of our horses.”

  “I can do that.”

  “When’s the cafe open for business?”

  “Five-thirty or so.”

  Roberts looked at Frank. “You gonna be there?”

  “I plan on it.”

  “We’ll see you there then.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Frank replied sarcastically.

  “Hey!” Russ called from the huge front doors of the livery. “It’s rainin’ again.”

  Roberts cussed and said, “Is this crap ever gonna stop?”

  “Maybe it’s God’s will,” Bob said.

  “What the hell are you talkin’ ’bout, old man?” Don asked.

  “He destroyed the earth once by a flood, didn’t He?” Bob replied. “Maybe He’s gonna do it again.”

  “Why would God do that?” Russ asked, moving back toward the group.

  “Sin,” Bob answered.

  “Ahh!” Roberts said, slashing the air with a hand. “I don’t believe that crap.”

  “You don’t believe in God?” Bob asked.

  “I didn’t say that,” Roberts replied quickly. “Course I believe in God. I was baptized when I was a boy.”

  “In a river?” Bob asked.

  “In a crick behind the church.”

  Bob smiled. “Is the water fit to drink yet?”

  Roberts stared at the liveryman for a few seconds. “I don’t like you, old man. I don’t like you a-tall.”

  “I can live with it,” Bob replied.

  Roberts wheeled around. “Come on, boys. We’ll go sit in front of the cafe. Stinks in this place.”

  Bob muttered something under his breath.

  Roberts turned. “What’d you say, old man?”

  “I said, ’You probably smellin’ your own butt.’ That’s what I said.”

  “I’ll deal with you later,” Roberts said. “After I deal with Morgan.”

  “Want to deal with me now?” Frank challenged.

  Dog was sitting just inside Horse’s stall, taking it all in. He had not barked or snarled, just sat watching and listening very intently. Russ had moved away from Roberts, angling for a clear shot at Frank should it come to that. He had moved very close to Dog, which was not the smartest move he could have made.

  “I put lead in you now,” Roberts said, “I don’t get to collect no money. That’s the way I heard the game is played.”

  “Now or later,” Frank said. “Either way you’re a dead man.”

  Russ’s hand dropped to the butt of his pistol. Dog silently stood up on all four paws, the hair on his back rising.

  Bob moved back a few steps.

  “Do it now or shut your damn mouth,” Frank told Roberts.

  “You’re forcin’ me to kill you, Morgan,” Roberts said. “What’s with you anyways? You lost your mind, or somethin’?” He cut his eyes to Russ.

  Russ’s hand closed around the butt of his six-gun, and Dog leaped and nailed him, his jaws closing around the man’s arm. Russ hollered
and lost his balance as he tried to shake Dog loose. He fell to the livery floor, Dog’s powerful jaws tearing at his arm.

  “I’ll kill that damn dog!” Don yelled, grabbing for his pistol.

  Frank shot him, the bullet ripping into his chest and dropping the man, mortally wounded.

  Dog was busy ripping at Russ’s arm.

  Frank turned to face Roberts. His eyes burned at the man while a small smile played at his mouth.

  Roberts held his hands up and away from his gunbelt. “That’s it, Morgan. I’m out of it for now. Call off your damn dog!”

  Frank spoke one sharp command, and Dog turned loose of Russ’s arm and backed up, his teeth bared in a terrible snarl. Russ lay on the floor and moaned, blood leaking from the multiple wounds on his arm.

  “You’re crazy, Morgan,” Roberts blurted out. “You’ve gone nuts on me.”

  Frank holstered his Peacemaker. “Drag your partners out of here, Roberts. And remember this: The next time you brace me, be ready to die.”

  “What the hell am I ’posed to do with a dead body at four o’clock in the mornin’!”

  “Prop him up and look at him,” Frank told him. “I don’t give a damn what you do with him. Just drag him out of here.”

  “Russ is hurt bad.”

  “That’s his problem. ’Sides, I don’t think he’s hurt too bad. The doc’s will be open about dawn. He’ll live till then.”

  Roberts helped Russ to his feet, and together they dragged the body of the dead man outside into the rain.

  “This ain’t right,” Russ said. “It ain’t decent.”

  “What the hell do you know about anything decent?” Frank asked, following the men to the front of the livery. “If there was a ounce of decency in you, you wouldn’t be hanging around scum like Roberts.”

  “My arm is tore up bad,” Russ griped. “And it’s hurtin’ something fierce. That damn dog probably give me hydrophoby, or somethin’.”

  “No, he didn’t. But I’ve got to be sure and wash his mouth out good. I don’t want him getting sick after chewing on you.”

  The hired guns dumped the body of Don by the side of the livery and walked away, up the boardwalk.

  “Man, you are quick,” Bob said. “I never even seen that hook and draw. God blessed you with a gift, for a fact.”

  “God?” Morgan asked, punching out the brass and reloading. “You think God gave me the ability to kill people?”

  “The Good Book says God works in mysterious ways, Frank.”

  Morgan had no reply to that as he found a rag and wiped the blood from Dog’s mouth. Bob forked hay into the stall for Horse. Morgan combed his thick brown hair with his fingers, using a piece of broken mirror to gaze into. Was there a bit more gray in his hair? Sure looked that way.

  “You studying ’bout how handsome you are?” Bob asked with a grin, returning from his shack out back, now dressed for the day.

  “Yeah, I’m a real lady-killer for sure,” Frank replied sourly, settling his hat on his head. “Women just can’t keep their hands off me,” he added with a smile to soften the acid reply.

  “You probably ain’t been lookin’ too hard for a good woman to settle down with,” Bob told him. “I know for a fact they’s hard to find.”

  “You told me you were married once. What happened?”

  “Didn’t work out. She took the young’uns and went back East. I ain’t heard a word from her since. Probably never will.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be. I ain’t. Things usually work out for the best. I put on the coffeepot. Should be ready to swaller in a few minutes. I got some biscuits makin’ too.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  They both turned as Doc Raven strolled into the livery. “Morning, boys,” he said.

  “What are you doin’ up so early, Doc?” Bob asked.

  “Couldn’t sleep. Did I hear you say you’ve got coffee, Bob?”

  “For a fact, you did. Come on, we’ll have us a . . .”

  Half a dozen gunshots ripped the early morning and cut off Bob’s statement.

  Doc Raven sighed. “I guess I’d better get my bag. The day’s starting off bloody.”

  Ten

  Doc Raven paused at the door and looked back at Frank. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you, Frank. Stop by my office sometime this morning, will you?”

  “Sure, Doc.”

  The doctor walked out of the livery into the rain.

  “Wonder what that was all about?” Frank mused aloud.

  “Beats me,” Bob said. “You want to have that coffee now?”

  “I better tag along behind the doc. He might run into trouble. Thanks, though. A cup would have tasted mighty fine.”

  “I’ll think about you whilst I’m eatin’ them biscuits.”

  Frank grinned and stepped out into the wet predawn darkness, quickly catching up with the doctor.

  “What do you want?” Raven said, hurrying toward his office.

  “Keeping you out of trouble.”

  “You keeping me out of trouble! That’s a laugh. Here we are. Come on in while I find my bag. Damn, I sure wanted some coffee.”

  “We’ll get some at the cafe. It should be open by the time we see what those shots were all about.”

  A moment later they were slopping across the street to where a group of men were gathered around two bodies sprawled face-down in the mud.

  “They’re both dead, Doc,” a local dressed in his nightshirt called from the boardwalk. “They killed each other, I reckon.”

  “What a pity,” Doc Raven muttered, kneeling down to check the bodies. “Bring that lantern closer,” he said to a man. “That’s it. Thanks.” It didn’t take him long to check the men for signs of life. He stood up and wiped his hands on a towel he took from his bag. “They’re dead, all right. Both of them belly-shot and one with a bullet in his chest, the other with a bullet hole between his eyes.”

  Frank picked up the six-shooters and checked the cylinders. Three shots had been fired from each weapon. “I guess they fired at the same time while they were going down.”

  “You know them, Frank?”

  “No.”

  “Any of you men know them?”

  “I seen them ride in ’bout sundown,” a gunslick said, his voice slurry from whiskey. “I never laid eyes on ’em ’fore then.” He ended that with a loud belch.

  “Go sleep it off,” Raven told him.

  “Somebody gimme a drink,” the hired gun responded.

  “Come on, Frank,” Doc Raven said. “I want to talk to you.”

  “What about these bodies?” a man questioned.

  “Put them behind the undertaker’s office,” the doctor said. “And get that body by the side of the livery too. They’ll keep in this weather.”

  Frank accompanied Doc Raven back to his office, and was waved to a seat. Raven built up the fire in the stove and put on a pot of water to boil. “We’ll have us some coffee in a little while. Frank, do you find anything odd about this constant delay in starting off this so-called hunt?”

  “Well, other than the obvious, no. Vanderhoot has said the hunt will begin as soon as the rain stops. ”

  “He changed his mind again.”

  “When?”

  “Late last evening. Now he says the hunt will begin when the roads are open.”

  “I hadn’t heard. Hell, Doc, that might be two or three weeks.”

  “Yes. Something is very queer about this entire matter. ”

  “I reckon so, now that you bring it up.”

  The doctor pulled open a drawer on his desk and tossed a badge to Frank. “I’ve had that thing for a long time. Never wore it. Didn’t want anyone to know I had it.”

  Frank looked at the badge. A deputy U.S. marshal’s badge. “I don’t understand, Doc.”

  “I can appoint anyone I choose to help me in time of emergency. That’s why I was given two badges. That’s the law as I understand it. Well, I’m appointing
you, Frank. Stand up and raise your right hand.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I sure as hell am. You’ve carried a badge before. Now you’re going to carry another one. Stand up.”

  Frank stood up and Doc Raven swore him in, then pinned the badge to his vest, under his jacket.

  “This may not be legal, Doc.”

  “It is as far as I’m concerned.”

  “When were you appointed a deputy U.S. marshal?”

  “About ten years ago. I told the federal judge then I wasn’t qualified to have the badge. He said I could swear someone in to help should the need ever present itself. The commission has never been revoked. Now go find out what this damn hunt is all about.”

  “How about some coffee first?”

  “Good idea. With thinking like that you’ll make a fine U.S. marshal.”

  * * *

  Frank and Doc Raven enjoyed a pot of coffee and some good conversation until daybreak. Then they walked over to the cafe to get some breakfast. The place was crowded with Vanderhoot and his Eastern friends and their wives. Frank and Raven took the only table left in the cafe and sat down.

  “Take off your heavy jacket, Frank,” Raven whispered. “Let them see the badge. Let’s see what reaction we get from those people.”

  “Should be interesting,” Frank replied, removing his winter coat and standing up to hang it on a hook.

  When he turned around to stand for a moment facing the front, the cafe patrons fell silent, all eyes on the badge pinned to his vest.

  Horace Vanderhoot’s face flushed a deep red. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it when he could find no words.

  “You people suddenly run out of things to talk about?” Frank asked, staring at the crowd of Easterners.

  “Where did you get that badge?” Maxwell Crawford asked. “I don’t believe it’s real.”

  “It’s real,” Doc Raven said. “Frank Morgan is a legally appointed deputy U.S. marshal.” He smiled. “You people should have done a bit more checking before you embarked on this barbaric hunt.”

  “You weren’t wearing it before,” Jackson Mills said. “Why did you wait until now to pin it on?”

  “Maybe I wanted to see if this so-called hunt of yours was real,” Frank answered, “or if you were just playing some sort of silly game.”