Showdown

by William W. Johnstone

  “Howdy,” the man behind the counter said. “You look some tuckered, mister.”

  “I don’t feel like running any footraces, for sure,” Frank replied. “Got a place where a man can get a bath in this town?”

  “No, sir, we sure don’t. Barber died last year. I ’spect the town will be nothin’ but a memory in a couple more years. Minin’ played out, near’bouts everybody left.”

  “Sorry to hear that. How about a cafe?”

  “Don’t have one of those either. But I can offer you a plate of beans and a cup of coffee.”

  “That sounds good to me. Where did the people who left settle?”

  “Over west and some south of here. Winnemucca. I’m headin’ over there myself if I can ever find anyone stupid enough to buy me out.”

  Frank laughed and took the plate of beans and bread, got his cup of coffee, and walked out to the front of the store and sat down. Dog had found a shady spot and was asleep. The store owner walked out and sat down beside Frank.

  “What’s in those other buildings?” Frank asked.

  “Nothin’. I’m all that’s left.”

  “You must not get much business.”

  “Comes and goes. Whole bunch of men rode through here a few days ago. Rough-lookin’ bunch, they was. But they had money and didn’t mind spendin’ it.”

  “Cowboys?”

  “I don’t think so. If I had to guess, I’d say they was runnin’ from the law. But I didn’t ask,” he quickly added.

  “Yeah, that’s best,” Frank said. “Dealing with those types, a man best be careful about the questions he asks.”

  “You mighty right. ’Specially when them crazy Olsen boys is in the bunch.”

  Frank tensed for a few seconds. “Olsen boys?”

  “Horse thieves from up north of here. Both of ’em ’bout half crazy.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “They used come down this way to steal horses.” The man shook his head. “Both those boys are crazy in the head.”

  The store owner left Frank alone for a few moments, and Frank finished his meal, sopping up the juice with a thick hunk of bread and giving that to Dog. Dog ate it, got a drink out of the horse trough, and went back to sleep.

  The store owner returned with a plate of scraps for Dog and more coffee for Frank.

  “Those hard cases who rode through here,” Frank said. “Which way did they head out? I want to avoid running into them, if possible.”

  “I heard one of them say something about Virginia City.”

  “Long ride.”

  “It ain’t bad now. Take the stage road from Winnemucca down to Reno. Several places along the way to stop and provision up. And get a shave and a bath if you like.”

  “I would like that. Anything between here and Winnemucca?”

  “Not a blessed thing. Some sheepherders and a few farmers scratchin’ at the ground is all.”

  Frank poured another cup of coffee, rolled a smoke, and tried to pay the man for the food. “No, sir. You don’t owe me a thing. I’m just thankful for the company. You sure look familiar to me, mister. You been through here before?”

  “Not this way.”

  “You got a name?”

  “Frank Morgan.”

  The man was still sputtering when Frank swung into the saddle and rode away,

  Frank didn’t push Stormy on the way west. He was in no hurry. He had been to Virginia City years back when it was a rip-roaring mining town. Now, so he had heard, the town was only a shell of what it had once been. Frank had also learned that the silver taken out of the mines at Virginia City was forty-five percent gold. When the United States Congress enacted the demonetization of silver, the Comstock Lode was already beginning to play out. By 1880, it was all but over for Virginia City.

  Frank wondered if Molinelli’s Hotel was still there and taking in guests. If it was, he would sure get a room there. It had been a very nice place when he had last stayed there. And Frank wondered if his old friend Nick Barton was still there; that was the reason he was traveling to the mining town.

  Frank sighed as he rode west by southwest. He never figured on Sonny’s bunch having the same destination in mind as his. But Nick was getting on in years, and Frank wanted to see him one more time. The men had been friends for twenty-five years, their friendship dating back to the War of Northern Aggression.

  “To hell with Sonny and his pack of outlaws,” Frank said. “I’m going to see Nick.”

  * * *

  Days after leaving the lonely store owner, Frank was making camp by the stage road, along the banks of the Humboldt River, when he heard the sounds of approaching horses. He straightened up and turned around. Two men were walking their horses toward his camp. He recognized them as two men who had been in town and had ridden out with the bunch who joined Sonny.

  “You boys looking for me?” Frank called.

  “We shore ain’t lookin’ for Santa Claus,” a no-account called Burke said.

  Both men swung down from their saddles and stepped to one side, facing Frank, about fifty feet away from him.

  “We been trailin’ you for days,” the other no-account said. Frank recalled that someone had called him Sandy.

  “You found me,” Frank replied. “Now what?”

  “Now we kill you,” Burke said.

  Frank smiled. “You can’t be any plainer than that, I reckon. But killing me won’t be easy, boys. You better give that some thought.”

  “Nothin’ to think about, Morgan,” Sandy said. “You caused us to lose out on thousands of dollars of ransom money. We aim to get some of your hide for that.”

  Dog had moved silently off to one side, watching and listening intently.

  “I’m kind of fond of my hide, boys. I don’t like to part with any of it.”

  “We don’t give a damn what you like, Morgan,” Burke snapped. “When we get done killin’ you, we gonna cut off your head and put it in a gunnysack and collect the bounty for it.”

  “Do tell?”

  “We just tole you, Morgan,” Sandy said. “Are you deef?”

  “No, my hearing is fine. But I think both of you are stupid.”

  “Huh?” Burke asked.

  “Stupid,” Frank said. “As in ignorant. Do you understand that, or would you like me to further explain?”

  “You’re dead, Morgan,” Burke said.

  “Then make your play, Stupid.”

  Burke grabbed for his gun and Frank shot him in the belly. Just as Sandy was leveling the muzzle of his six-shooter, Frank put a hole in his chest. Both men went down in the dirt. Burke lifted his pistol, and Frank drilled him in the head, the .45 slug entering his right eye and blowing out the back of his head.

  Sandy dropped his pistol and hollered, “I’m done, Morgan. I’m finished.”

  Frank walked over and kicked the pistol away from the man. “You’re a damn fool, Sandy.”

  “I know it. But Burke said ’tween the two of us we could take you. I reckon he was wrong, weren’t he?”

  “Sure as hell looks like it to me.”

  “I’m hard hit, ain’t I?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “I ain’t hurtin’ none yet.”

  “That’s good. But get ready, it’s coming.”

  “You a cold man, Morgan.”

  Frank said nothing in rebuttal. A few yards away, Burke farted in death. Sandy grimaced at the sound. “I’m skirred, Morgan,” he admitted.

  “I’m no preacher, Sandy. Far from it. But if there’s something you want to get off your chest, I’ll listen.”

  “What the hell good would that do me now?” The man’s voice was surprisingly strong considering the seriousness of his wound.

  Frank shrugged and stood up.

  “Where are you goin’, Morgan?” Sandy asked, panic in his voice. “You ain’t gonna ride off and leave me here alone, are you?”

  “No. I’m going to get a spade.”

  “To bury Burke?”

&nb
sp; “To bury both of you.”

  “You rotten son of a bitch! You didn’t have to say that.”

  “You asked.” Frank walked to the packsaddle and removed a short-handled shovel. He looked around for a good place to dig the graves. His’eyes noticed a shady spot, and he headed toward it.

  “Oh, God!” Sandy hollered. “I’m hurtin’ somethin’ awful, Morgan.”

  Frank ignored the cries. There was nothing he could do.

  Frank dug two shallow graves. He dragged Burke’s body to one and rolled him in. He did not go through the man’s pockets nor take his boots or gunbelt. He tossed Burke’s pistol into the grave with him and quickly shoveled in the dirt.

  “Ain’t you gonna say no words?” Sandy asked.

  “No,” Frank replied. “There is nothing to say.”

  “He was a good man.”

  “That’s certainly debatable.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Maybe I ain’t gonna die, Morgan.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “You gonna stay with me and see?”

  “If you’re still alive in the morning, I’ll take you into the nearest town and leave you with the doctor.”

  “That’s mighty white of you, Morgan.”

  Frank said nothing. He set about making a pot of coffee and laying out some scraps of food for Dog.

  “You gonna see to your dog ’fore you see to me?” Sandy asked.

  “There is nothing I can do for you.”

  “I hate dogs.”

  “Your option, I reckon.”

  Frank listened to Sandy bitch and moan while the water boiled. He made his coffee and poured a cup, then rolled a smoke.

  “Morgan?” Sandy said, his voice suddenly very weak.

  “What is it?”

  “They’s blood a-comin’ out of my mouth.”

  “And you want me to do what about that?”

  “Pray for me, Morgan.”

  “The next time I talk to the Lord, I’ll be sure and mention you, Sandy. I sure will.”

  “I think you’re lyin’ to me, Morgan. I don’t think you’ll say nothin’ ’bout me to the Lord.”

  Sandy began gasping for breath. He tried to sit up and could not. “Morgan!” he shouted, then was still.

  Frank laid his coffee cup on the ground and told Dog to stay put. He walked over to Sandy and knelt down, trying to find a pulse. He could not. He watched for some sign of breath. There was none. Frank buried the man beside his buddy, then looked heavenward.

  “Here’s two more for You, Lord. Do with them as You see fit. I said I’d mention Sandy to You. And I did it. Amen.”

  Frank stripped saddles and bridles from the horses and turned them loose. He kept the men’s rifles and several boxes of .45 and .44-40 ammo. He left the rest of their gear in the open. Somebody would be along who needed it. Sandy and Burke damn sure didn’t need it any longer.

  Frank fixed some supper, and just as the last light was fading, he rolled up in his blankets and went to sleep. He pulled out for Virginia City the next morning.

  * * *

  “Sorry, stranger,” the bartender said. “I hate to tell you, but Nick was killed a couple of years ago.”

  “Gunfight? Nick?”

  “Oh, no. Nick wasn’t no hand with a gun. Robbers killed him and took his poke. Left him in an alley. It was a right nice funeral, though. Lots of folks liked Nick.”

  “I’m sure they did,” Frank replied. “Did they catch the men who did it?”

  “No,” the bartender said, eyeing Frank closely, his gaze suddenly wary. “But ever’body knows who done it. Just couldn’t prove it.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “What’s your name, mister?”

  “The name is Frank Morgan and I asked you a question.”

  “Ah ... yes, sir! Couple of fellows name of Jess Center and Gene Dale.”

  “They still around?”

  “Yes, sir. They’d be shootin’ pool right about now, I reckon. The billiard parlor is right down this street.” He pointed. “Thataway.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Mister?”

  Frank turned around to face the bartender. “Yes?”

  “Are you really Frank Morgan? The Frank Morgan?”

  “That’s my name.”

  The bartender gulped a couple of times. “I thought you was dead, Mr. Morgan. I mean . . . that’s the word I got a few months back.”

  “Somebody lied.”

  “I guess so.”

  Frank walked out of the saloon and headed for the marshal’s office across the street. Frank shoved the door open and stepped inside. The marshal was seated at his desk, and stared at Frank for a few seconds.

  Before the marshal could speak, Frank said, “Were you wearing that badge when Nick Barton was killed?”

  “What? Ah ... I mean, yeah, I was. Terrible thing about Nick. Who the hell are you?”

  “Frank Morgan. Why didn’t you arrest the men who killed him?”

  “Frank Morgan!”

  “Nick was a good, decent man. He’s grubstaked a hundred men and never asked for a penny in repayment. If Jess Center and Gene Dale killed him, why in the hell didn’t you arrest them?”

  “Frank Morgan!”

  “Is your tongue stuck, Marshal? I asked you a question.”

  The marshal shook his head. “The men alibied for each other, Mr. Morgan. Was Nick a friend of yours?”

  “Yes. He was. Let me see the report on the killing.”

  “Well, now, say . . . I don’t have to show you anything. I ...”

  “Let me see the goddamn report!”

  The marshal gulped a couple of times and went to a filing cabinet. He rummaged around for a moment and handed Frank a couple of sheets of paper. Frank read the report and tossed the papers on the desk. “That is a bunch of crap. The men were bloody and had hundreds of dollars on them when they were questioned. They didn’t have jobs and couldn’t explain where they got the money. Everything points to them being guilty.”

  “I know that. But I wasn’t the investigating officer, Mr. Morgan. The county done that. I had nothing to do with it. The deputy who questioned them is gone. He quit and took off for somewhere else. I don’t know where he is.”

  Frank stared at the marshal for a few seconds.

  “That’s the truth, Mr. Morgan. I swear it.”

  “All right. I believe you.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “First off, I’m going to take a bath and get a haircut and a shave. Then I’m going to change clothes. Then I’m going to get myself a good meal. That’s going to take a couple of hours. Then I’m going to look up Jess and Dale.”

  “That’s about the time I was plannin’ on ridin’ out and servin’ papers on a fellow.”

  “I think that might be a real good idea, Marshal. Why don’t you do that.”

  “I will. I sure will. Two hours, you say?”

  “Just about.”

  The marshal looked at the clock on the wall. “That would be right at two o’clock.”

  “Close enough.”

  “I’ll be back in town in time for supper. Say . . . six o’clock or so.”

  “I’m sure I’ll see you then. Have a pleasant ride, Marshal.”

  “You enjoy your stay in town, Mr. Morgan.”

  “I plan to do just that.”

  Thirty-three

  Frank bought a new black pinstripe suit, a white shirt, and a black string tie, then went to the barbershop for a bath and haircut and shave. He walked over to a cafe and had a very tasty plate lunch and several cups of coffee. He stood on the boardwalk outside the cafe for several minutes, smoking and watching the foot traffic come and go, then crossed the street and entered the billiard parlor. After a couple of minutes of watching the games, he walked up to several loafers.

  “I’m looking for Jess Center and Gene Dale. Will somebody point them out, please.”

  “Ain’t we the p
olite one, though?” a loafer said, a nasty tinge to his voice. “Dressed up to the nines too.”

  Another loafer took a long look into Frank’s eyes and said, “Uh, they ain’t here, mister. You’ll probably find them over at saloon ’crost the street.”

  “Thanks,” Frank said. “Appreciate it.”

  “You’re so welcome,” the mouthy one popped off.

  Frank glanced at the young man, then decided not to push it. The smart-mouth wasn’t worth the time or effort. He walked out of the pool hall, taking note that the loafers were following him. He walked over to the saloon, the billiard parlor ne’erdo-wells a dozen steps behind him. Stepping inside, he spotted the Olsen boys, Brooks and Martin, standing at the bar. Several other men who had chosen to ride off with Sonny were scattered around the huge saloon.

  This is going to be interesting, Frank thought.

  “Frank Morgan,” a man seated at a table said. “Good God!”

  “Where?” another asked.

  “He just walked in.”

  “Somebody go fetch the marshal,” another suggested.

  “I seen him ride out of town about an hour ago.”

  “Damn!”

  “Morgan!” Brooks Olsen said, turning and spotting Frank.

  The saloon fell silent, all eyes moving toward Frank as he walked to the end of the bar. A suddenly very nervous bartender took Frank’s order for coffee.

  “You made a bad mistake followin’ us here, Morgan,” Brooks said.

  “I didn’t follow you,” Frank said. “I don’t make a habit of following a trail of coyote crap.”

  “Huh?” Brooks stepped away from the bar. “You callin’ me a turd?”

  “If that’s the way you choose to take it, yes.”

  “I should have killed you back in South Raven.”

  “Try it now, Brooks,” Frank said, his words cold.

  “You callin’ me out, Morgan?”

  “Yeah,” Frank replied softly. “That’s what I’m doing, you crazy bastard.”

  Brooks grabbed for iron and Frank shot him. Brooks’s boots flew out from under him and he hit the cigarette- and cigar-littered floor. Martin jerked his six-gun, the muzzle just clearing leather when Frank’s bullet tore into his chest. The Olsen cousins died on the floor. Martin’s hand was stuck up to the wrist in a spittoon.

  One of the loafers from the billiard parlor yelled, “Look out, Jess! He’s in town after you and Gene.”