Frank dropped to the floor just as the two killers opened fire. Their bullets shattered the mirror and numerous whiskey bottles behind the bar. Frank triggered off a snap shot that hit one of the pair in the hip and knocked him spinning into a table.
“I’ll kill the son of a bitch, Jess!” Gene shouted as he jumped up into a chair for a better shot at Frank.
Frank shot him in the belly, then jerked out his spare six-gun from behind his belt just as Jess was crawling to his feet, holding onto the edge of a table with one hand, his other hand filled with a pistol. Frank finished him with one shot to the head, and Jess died with his mouth open and his brains leaking out of the gaping hole in his forehead.
“Somebody kill that bastard!” Gene groaned, on his knees, trying to rise to his boots.
No one stepped up to take the offer.
Frank got to his feet and walked over to Gene, kicking the man’s pistol away from him, then quickly reloaded his Peacemaker.
“Somebody better get the doc,” the bartender said, his voice shaky. “And tell the undertaker he’s got some customers too.”
Frank looked at the pool hall loafers, still standing near the door. “Any of you want to deal into this hand?”
They didn’t.
Frank pointed toward Jess and Gene. “They killed Nick Barton, and any of you that were here when it happened know they did.”
“I knowed it all along,” a man said. “But folks was afraid of them two.”
“Not much to be afraid of,” Frank said.
“Hell with you, Morgan!” Gene gasped. “If that bastard had give us the money instead of makin’ a fight of it, he’d still be alive.”
“Are you saying it’s Nick’s fault he was killed, and not yours?” Frank asked.
“Damn right!” Gene said.
“You all heard him confess he and his buddy killed Nick,” Frank told the gathering. “If he lives, hang him.”
“With pleasure,” another local said.
Gene groaned and fumbled at his boot, coming out with a tiny derringer in his hand. He pointed it at Frank and pulled the trigger. The cartridge misfired and Gene threw the gun at Frank.
“This just ain’t your day, is it, Gene?” a local asked with a snicker.
“My bowels is burnin’ up,” Gene replied. “I hurt somethin’ turrble. And I don’t think they’s a damn thing funny about it.”
Frank motioned for the bartender to hotten up his coffee.
The men who had ridden off to join Sonny’s gang had quietly left the saloon.
“I ain’t seen a good hangin’ in months,” a local said. “Maybe Gene will live long enough to climb the gallows steps.”
“You go to hell!” Gene told him.
“Don’t forget that you owe me five dollars, Gene,” another bar patron called. “I want my money.”
“When hell freezes over,” Gene said. Frank sipped his coffee and waited.
The doctor and the undertaker entered the saloon together. The undertaker checked the dead, the doctor knelt down beside Gene. “Some of you boys carry him over to my office,” the doctor said. “Carry him easy now. He’s badly hurt.”
“Don’t move me!” Gene hollered. “My innards will fall out.”
“Well, then, you can die here on the saloon floor,” the doctor told him. “But it might take several hours or several days.”
“Get him out of here,” the bartender ordered. “He’ll run off all my business waitin’ for him to croak.”
“You’re a foul, black-hearted sot,” Gene told the bartender.
The bartender shrugged his indifference.
Frank sipped his coffee.
The doctor stood up and motioned for some men to carry Gene out. He then turned to Frank. “So you’re Frank Morgan, the shootist.”
“I’m Frank Morgan, yes.”
“You’re very nicely dressed for a depraved killer.”
“Is that what I am?”
“So I’ve heard.”
Frank turned away and watched as the bartender began sweeping up the broken glass behind the long bar.
“Here comes that new young feller from the newspaper,” a man called, just as a bar girl sidled up to Frank and nudged him with a hip.
“I’m available,” she whispered.
“Good for you,” Frank said.
“And reasonable,” the soiled dove added.
“Some other time,” Frank told her.
“Whatever,” she said, and moved away.
The young reporter entered the saloon and took a look at the carnage. “My God!” he said. “This is terrible.”
“You should have been here eight or ten years ago,” a man said. “This ain’t nothin’.”
The young reporter turned to Frank. “Sir, are you really Frank Morgan?”
“That’s my name.”
“I would very much like to interview you.”
“I don’t give interviews. Sorry.”
“Hell with him!” Gene hollered as several locals tried to pick him up. “What about me? I’m the one who got shot.”
The reporter ignored him and stepped up to the bar. He maintained some distance from Frank.
“This feller’s hand is stuck in the spittoon,” the undertaker said. “We might have to bury him with the spittoon.”
“The hell you will!” the bartender said. “Them things don’t come cheap. Cut off his damn hand.”
“You have to be joking!” the reporter said, challenging the bartender. “That is barbaric. We’re talking about a human being here.”
“So?” the bartender asked. “Hell, he’s dead. He ain’t gonna miss a hand. But them spittoons come all the way from St. Louis.”
“This is ridiculous!” the newspaperman said. “If you pull hard enough, I’m sure you can free the man’s hand.”
“You want to git down here and jerk, boy?” the undertaker asked.
“I would rather not.”
“Then shut up.”
Frank tossed a coin on the bar. “For my coffee.”
“It’s on the house, Mr. Morgan,” the bartender told him. “It’s been a real pleasure having you.”
“I damn sure tried to do that,” the soiled dove muttered.
A local whispered in her ear.
“A dollar!” she hollered. “Are you joking?”
Frank finished his coffee and turned from the bar, heading for the door.
“I hope you rot in hell, Morgan!” Gene moaned.
Frank stepped out onto the boardwalk and headed for the hotel. A good supper and a night’s sleep and he’d be gone from this place. Virginia City had lost its appeal.
Thirty-four
Frank headed northwest, toward the little town of Reno. After the shoot-out in the saloon, he had visited the grave of his old friend, provisioned up at a general store, and then returned to the hotel. He had left the hotel only once after that, to feed Dog at the livery. He took his supper in his room and went to bed early, pulling out before dawn.
Frank had no specific destination in mind. He was just drifting. He had finally put all thoughts of a permanent home out of his mind ... at least for most of the time. It seemed that no matter where he went, someone was there to challenge him, and he suspected that even should he move to the more civilized eastern part of the nation, even in New York City, it would eventually be the same. More than likely the challenges would not come from gunfighters, but instead from local bullies and loudmouths—people that Frank had long thought really had no useful or productive place in society.
“But where or when, then, is my place?” Frank questioned aloud. “Where the hell do I fit in the overall scheme of things?”
He could come up with no answer to his question.
I’m a rich man, relatively speaking, he thought. I’m no railroad baron or wealthy rancher, but I certainly have ample funds to do whatever I wish to do—within reason, that is. Yet all I do is endlessly drift.
What the hell am I looking for?
“Easy, boy,” he told Dog. “Settle down.”
Dog immediately ceased his snarling.
Frank sat his saddle for a moment, listening and smelling the wood smoke as it drifted through the stand of timber he was in. He figured he was about half a day’s ride from Reno, and had planned on making it that day.
A man appeared out of the brush and timber and stared at Frank for a few seconds, then lifted a hand in greeting. “They’s two of us around a noon fire and we ain’t got much, stranger,” the man called. “But we’ll share if you’re friendly.”
“I’m friendly,” Frank said. “I got bacon and potatoes if you’re hungry.”
“That would hit the spot for sure. Come on in and light and sit.”
The two men were drifting cowboys out of Wyoming, looking for a warmer clime to winter.
“Gets cold in Wyoming,” the one called Jim said. “Right down to the bone.”
“For a fact,” Frank agreed. “I pulled out of Idaho for the same reason.” Frank held out his cup and the man filled it. “You boys got any particular spot in mind to light?”
“Nope,” the cowboy who had been introduced as Curly said. “For once we saved our summer wages and now we’re just seein’ the country. You?”
Frank shook his head. “Thought I’d check out parts of California. Hadn’t been there in some time now.”
“You got a name, mister?”
“Frank.”
“You look sort of familiar,” Jim said. “I know I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
“Could be,” Frank said. “I do get around.”
“Are you the law?” Curly asked.
Frank laughed. “No. Although I have worn a badge from time to time.”
Curly looked at him for a few seconds, and then set his cup down on a flat rock by the fire. “You’re Frank Morgan. Good God! You’re Frank Morgan!”
Jim spilled half of his hot coffee on his leg, and jumped up hollering and slapping at his leg. “Frank Morgan!” he finally said, settling down. “You’re jokin’!”
“That’s my name, boys.”
“Are you after someone, Mr. Morgan?” Curly asked.
“No. And the name is Frank. Not Mister. I’m just drifting, boys. Just trying to keep out of trouble, that’s all.”
“Well, we’re right glad to howdy and shake, Frank,” Jim said. “We’ve been hearin’ stories ’bout you for years.”
“You can believe about one out of every ten,” Frank said with a smile. “Those big-city writer fellows tend to exaggerate a mite.”
“I read me an article ’bout you just a few weeks ago in some magazine,” Curly said. “I disremember who wrote it. Said you’d killed seven or eight hundred men.”
Frank chuckled. “Not quite, Curly.” He stood up. “Let me get some bacon and potatoes from the pack and we’ll get some food cooking. You boys want some pan bread?”
“Hey, now,” Jim said. “That sounds great. We can have us a regular feast.”
Frank spent the night with the two drifting cowboys, talking and drinking coffee for hours after an early supper. He pulled out the next morning, heading for Reno. In Reno, he decided to satisfy his growing curiosity about how things had worked out back in South Raven and sent a wire to Doc Raven.
“I’ll be back in a few hours to check on any reply,” he told the telegraph agent.
To his surprise, Doc Raven replied quickly. The body of Fuller Ross had been discovered hanging in an old barn just outside of town. The man had committed suicide. He had left a note saying how sorry he was for what he had done. Wilma was staying in South Raven. She and Doc would be married after a respectable mourning time for her late husband had passed. The Easterners had all gone back to New York City. Marvella and her granddaughter, Bessie, would be staying in town. Bessie was attending school there.
Doc hoped that Frank would someday return to South Raven. He would always be welcome there.
Frank folded the paper and put it in his wallet. “Things worked out,” he muttered. “I reckon they always do.”
The local law, all armed with shotguns, were waiting for Frank when he returned to the hotel. Their message was very brief and to the point.
“We don’t want you in this town, Morgan,” the sheriff said. “Buy what supplies you need for the trail and get out.”
“I haven’t caused any trouble here,” Frank said, “and I don’t intend to.”
“Trouble follows you, Morgan,” the sheriff said. “We’ve got a couple of hotheads in town. They don’t amount to much, but I don’t want them shot down in the street. And that’s exactly what will happen if they brace you. And they will.”
“You know that for a certain?”
“They’re over at a saloon now, getting liquored up and making their brags. Move on, Morgan.”
“My horse is tired, Sheriff.”
“I feel sorry for your horse. Make your camp a few miles out of town. Get going, Morgan. Right now.”
“All right, Sheriff.”
The sheriff and his deputies escorted Frank back to the livery, and waited and watched while he saddled up, rigged up the packsaddle, and rode out of town.
“I kinda feel sorry for him, Sheriff,” a deputy said. “All he wanted was a meal and a bed.”
“He chose his life,” the sheriff replied. “He could get out of it any time he wanted to.”
“How?” another deputy asked.
“All he has to do is quit gunfightin’,” the sheriff replied. “It’s easy. But men like that don’t want to quit. Hell with him.”
* * *
At a tiny crossroads hamlet on the California /Nevada border, Frank had stopped to rest and water his horse and get himself something to drink. When he stepped out, the outlaw Russ Temple was waiting. Russ had a pistol pointed at him, the hammer back.
“That damn dog of yourn like to have caused me to lose my arm back yonder in the livery, you son of a bitch,” Russ said. “Now, I’m gonna kill you and then I’m gonna kill that damn dog of yourn.”
“You’ve got the gun,” Frank said.
“Damn right, I have. And I’m gonna enjoy this moment for a mite longer. I like to see you sweat, Morgan.”
“Don’t count on that, Temple. It’s a cool day.”
“I think I’ll gut-shoot you, Morgan. Just to see you cry and beg.”
A cat suddenly darted into the wide road, a dog running after it. The cat yowled, and Russ cut his eyes for an instant. That was all the time Frank needed. He drew and fired, the bullet hitting Russ in the lower belly and doubling him over. Frank’s boot hung up in a broken board and he lost his balance, falling backward and landing on his butt just as Russ fired, the slug digging up splinters and driving them into Frank’s cheek.
Frank fired again, this time from a very awkward position. The bullet hit Russ in the neck and almost decapitated the gunslick. He died in the dirt in front of the general store.
“Bastard!” a man yelled, running out of the barn next to the store. Frank recognized him as a gunhand he knew only as Post.
Post snapped off a shot at Frank that missed. Rolling to one side, Frank got off a shot that hit Post in the leg and knocked him down.
Another gunny ran out of the barn and fired, the bullet hitting Frank in the fleshy part of his left arm. Frank returned the fire and the third man went down, a bullet in his chest, just as Frank was reaching for his short-barreled Peacemaker.
Frank tried to get up, and found that he had broken the heel off his left boot. He sat up and looked at the men sprawled in the street. Russ was dead and from the way they looked, the other two weren’t far behind him. The entire shooting episode had taken about fifteen seconds.
“My God, mister!” the store owner shouted as he came rushing out. “What in God’s name brought all that on?”
“I guess they didn’t like my looks,” Frank replied as he took of
f his bandanna and tied it around the wound in his arm.
“It’d been a damn sight easier on them if they’d just told you that.” He stared at Frank for a moment, then yelled, “Ophelia! Come quick. I told you this man looked familiar. It’s Frank Morgan. It really is him.”
Ophelia rushed outside, followed by two kids, a boy and a girl, in their mid-teens. They stood in the doorway and stared first at the bodies in the street, then at the man sitting on the edge of the porch, a bloody bandanna tied around the wound on his arm.
“We don’t have a doctor here, Mr. Morgan,” the store owner said. “Closest one is about a two-hour ride away.”
Frank shook his head. “I’ve got some medical supplies in my pack. The wound isn’t that serious. I’ll be all right.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. You wouldn’t happen to have any coffee made, would you?”
“We sure do, Mr. Morgan,” Ophelia said. “Julie, you run go get Mr. Morgan a cup of coffee. Move, girl.”
“Damn you to hell, Morgan!” Post groaned. “I can’t stop the bleedin’ in my hip. It’s a-gushin’ out.”
“Probably hit a vein,” Frank told him.
“The bullet traveled up into my innards,” Post said. “My guts is on fire.”
“Your face is bleeding, Mr. Morgan,” the teenage boy said. “I’ll get some liniment from the store.”
“I’d appreciate that, boy. Thanks.”
“Somebody get me to a doctor,” Post yelled as several of the tiny hamlet’s residents gathered in the street to stare and point and whisper.
“You got a horse,” Frank told him. “Go look for a doctor.”
“I’m bad hurt!” Post hollered. “I cain’t go by myself.”
“That’s your problem,” Frank said, taking the cup of coffee from Julie. “Thank you, miss.”
“I got a wagon,” a local said. “I reckon I could haul him over to the doc’s office.”
“I can pay,” Post said.
“You damn sure will,” the local replied.
“Load him up and tote him off,” the store owner said. “Some of you others help me tote off the dead. Looks bad havin’ them in the road like that. Bad for business.”
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