The Last Gunfighter: The Drifter

by William W. Johnstone

  "Test me?"

  "Call you out, boy," the foreman said. "You're the man who killed Luther Biggs. They'll be some lookin' to kill you. Stay ready."

  "I don't want no reputation like that," Frank protested.

  "Your druthers don't cut no ice now, boy. You got the name of a gunman. Now, like it or not, you got to live with it."

  Two

  Frank drifted for a couple of months, clear out of Texas and up into Oklahoma Territory. He hooked up with two more young men about his age, and they rode together. Their parents were dead, like Frank's, and they just plain hadn't wanted to stay with brothers or sisters ... as was the case with Frank.

  By then the story had spread about the shoot-out between young Morgan and Luther Biggs. Frank never talked about it; he just wanted to forget it. But he knew he probably would never be able to do that ... not completely.

  The War Between the States was only a few months away, the war talk getting hotter and hotter. One of the boys Frank was riding with believed in preserving the Union. Frank and the other boy were Southern born. If war did break out, they would fight for the South.

  The trio of boys separated in Arkansas when they received word about the beginning of hostilities between the North and the South. Frank joined up with a group of young men who were riding off to enlist in the Confederate Army. He never knew what happened to the other two boys.

  For the next four years Frank fought for the Southern cause and matured into a grown man. He became hardened to the horrors of war. At war's end, Frank Morgan was a captain in the Confederate Army, commanding a company of cavalry.

  Rather than turn in his weapons, Frank headed west. During that time he had been experimenting with faster ways to get a pistol out of the holster. He had a special holster made for him at a leather shop in southern Missouri: the holster was open, without a flap, and a leather thong slipped over the hammer prevented the pistol from falling out when he was riding or doing physical activities on foot. Frank practiced pulling the pistol out of leather; he worked at it for at least an hour each day, drawing and cocking and dry firing the weapon. The first time he tried the fast draw using live ammunition, he almost shot himself in the foot. He practiced with much more care after that, figuring that staying in the saddle with just one foot in the stirrup might be a tad difficult.

  By the time Frank reached Colorado, his draw was perfected. He could draw—and fire—with amazing accuracy, and with blinding speed.

  And that was where his lasting reputation was carved in stone. He met up with the Biggs brothers—all four of them.

  He was provisioning up in southeastern Colorado when he heard someone call out his name. He turned to look at one of the ugliest men he had ever seen: the spitting image of Luther Biggs.

  "I reckon you'd be one of the Biggs brothers," Frank said, placing his gunny sack of supplies on the counter.

  "Yore damn right I am. And you're Frank Morgan. Me and my brothers been trailin' you for weeks."

  "I got the feelin' somebody was doggin' my back trail. Never could catch sight of you."

  "Our older brother, Billy Jeff, run acrost a man who knowed you. I disremember his name. That don't matter. He said you come out of the war all right and was headin' up to the northwest. Tole us what kind of hoss you was ridin', and what you looked like now that you was all growed up. But here and now is where your growin' stops, Morgan."

  "Take it outside, boys," the store owner said. "Don't shoot up my place. Gettin' supplies out here is hard enough without this crap."

  "Shet up, ribbon clerk," Biggs said. Then his eyes widened when the store owner lifted a double-barreled shotgun and eared both hammers back.

  "I said take it outside!"

  "Now don't git all goosey, mister," Biggs said. "We'll take it outside."

  "You do that."

  "You comin', Morgan, or does yeller smell? I think I smell yeller all over you."

  "Don't worry about me, Ugly Biggs. You go run along now and get with your brothers, since it appears that none of you have the courage to face me alone."

  The storekeeper got himself a good chuckle out of that, and a very dirty look from Biggs.

  "Don't you fret none about that, Morgan. I'd take you apart with my bare hands right now, 'ceptin' that would displease my brothers. They want a piece of you, too. And what is this ugly crap?"

  "You, Ugly. You're so damn ugly you could make a living frightening little children."

  The veins in Biggs's neck bulged in scarcely controlled anger. He cursed, balled his fists, and took a step toward Morgan.

  The store owner said, "I'll spread you all over the front part of this store, mister. Now back out of here."

  "I'll be right behind you, Ugly," Morgan told him.

  Cursing, Biggs backed out of the store and walked across the street to the saloon.

  "You want to head out the back and get clear of town, mister?" the store owner asked.

  "I would if I thought that would do any good," Frank replied. "But you can bet they've got the back covered."

  "You can't fight them all!"

  "I don't see that I've got a choice in the matter." Frank patted the sack of supplies on the counter. "I'll be back for these."

  "If you say so."

  "I say so." Frank looked at the shotgun the shopkeeper was holding.

  The man smiled and handed it across the counter. "Take it, mister. I don't know you, but I sure don't like that fellow who was bracin' you."

  "Thanks. I'll return it in good shape." Frank stepped to the front door, paused, and then turned around and headed toward the rear of the store. The shopkeeper walked around the counter and closed and locked the front door, hanging up the closed sign.

  At the closed back door Frank paused, took a deep breath, and then flung open the door and jumped out, leaping to one side just as soon as his boots hit the ground. A rifle blasted from the open door of the outhouse, and Frank gave the comfort station both barrels of the Greener.

  The double blast of buckshot almost tore the shooter in two. The Biggs brother took both loads in the belly and chest and the bloody, suddenly dead mess fell forward, out of the outhouse and into the dirt.

  Suddenly, another Biggs brother came into view—a part of him, at least: his big butt.

  That's where Frank shot him, the bullet passing through both cheeks of his rear end.

  "Oh, Lordy!" he squalled. "I'm hit, boys."

  "Where you hit, Bobby?"

  "In the ass. My ass is on far, boys. It hurts!"

  "In the ass?" another brother yelled. "That ain't dignified."

  "The hell with dignified!" Bobby shouted. "I'm a-hurtin', boys!"

  "Hang on, Bobby," a brother called. "We'll git Morgan and then come to your aid."

  "Kill that no-count, Billy Jeff!" Bobby groaned. "Oh, Lord, my ass end burns somethang fierce!"

  "Can you see him, Wilson?" Billy Jeff called.

  "No. But he's down yonder crost the street from the livery. I know that."

  "I know that better than you do," Bobby yelled. "I got the lead in my ass to prove it! Ohhh, I ain't had sich agony in all my borned days."

  Some citizen started laughing, and soon others in the tiny town joined in.

  "You think this is funny?" Wilson Biggs yelled. "Damn you all to the hellfars!"

  Morgan had changed positions again, running back up past the outhouse and the mangled body of Wells Biggs. He was now right across the wide street from Wilson Biggs.

  He had picked up the guns from Wells and shoved them behind his gunbelt. He holstered his own pistol and, using the guns taken from the dead man, he emptied them into the shed where Wilson was hiding. The bullets tore through the old wood, knocking great holes in the planks.

  Wilson staggered out, his chest and belly blood-soaked. The Biggs brother took a couple of unsteady steps and fell forward, landing on his face in the dirt. He did not move.

  "Wilson!" Billy Jeff shouted. "Did you get him, Wilson?"

  "
No, he didn't," Frank called. "Your brother's dead."

  "Damn you!" Billy Jeff called. "Step out into the street and face me, you sorry son."

  "And have your butt-shot brother shoot me?" Frank yelled. "I think not."

  "Bobby!" Billy Jeff called. "You hold your far and let me settle this here affair. You hear me, boy?"

  "I hear you, Billy Jeff. You shore you want it thisaway?"

  "I'm shore. You hear all that, Morgan?"

  "I hear it, but I don't believe it. You Biggs boys are all a pack of liars. Why should I trust you?"

  "Damn you, Morgan, I give my word. I don't go back on my word, not never."

  "Step out then, Billy Jeff."

  "I'm a-comin' out, Morgan. My gun's holstered. Is yourn?"

  Before Frank could reply, Bobby said, "I'm a-comin' out, too. Let's see if he's got the courage to face the both of us!"

  "Bring your bleeding butt on, Biggs!" Frank yelled. "If all your courage hasn't leaked out of your ass, that is." He checked to see his own pistol was loaded up full, then slipped it into leather, working it in and out several times to insure a smooth draw.

  Bobby was hollering and cussing Frank, scarcely pausing for breath.

  Frank walked up to the mouth of the alley and stepped out to the edge of the street.

  Bobby stopped cussing.

  Billy Jeff said, "Step out into the center of the street, Morgan, and face the men who is about to kill you."

  "Not likely, Biggs. The only way scum like you could kill me is by ambush."

  That started Bobby cussing again. He paused every few seconds to moan and groan about his wounded ass.

  The residents of the tiny town had gathered along the edge of the street to watch the fight. Some had fixed sandwiches; others had a handful of crackers or a pickle.

  This was exciting. Not much ever happened in the tiny village, which as yet had no official name.

  "Make your play, Biggs!" Frank called.

  Billy Jeff fumbled at his gun and Frank let him clear leather before he pulled and fired, all in one very smooth, clean movement. The bullet struck Billy Jeff in the belly and knocked him down in the dirt. Frank holstered and waited. He smiled at Bobby Biggs.

  Bobby was yelling and groping for his pistol, which was stuck behind his wide belt. Frank drew and shot him in the chest, and forever ended his moaning and griping about his butt. Bobby stretched out on the street and was still. The bullet had shattered his heart.

  Frank never knew what made him do it, but on that day he twirled his pistol a couple of times before sliding it back into leather. He did it smoothly, effortlessly, and with a certain amount of flair.

  A young boy in the crowd exclaimed, "Mommy, did you see that? Golly!"

  "I never seen no one jerk a pistol like that," a man said to a friend.

  "He sure got it out in a hurry," his friend replied. "And a damned fancy way of holstering that thing, too."

  Frank was certainly not the first to utilize a fast draw, but he was one of the first, along with Jamie MacCallister and an East Texas gunhand whose name has been lost to history.

  Frank looked over at the crowd to his left. "This town got an undertaker?"

  "No," a man said. "We ain't even got a minister or a schoolmarm."

  "We just get the bodies in the ground as soon as we can," another citizen said. "Unless it's wintertime. Then we put 'em in a shed where they'll freeze and keep pretty well 'til the ground thaws and we can dig a hole."

  "They ain't real pretty to look at after a time, but they don't smell too bad," his friend said.

  "If you don't stay around 'em too long," another man added.

  "You can have their gear and guns for burying these men," Frank told the crowd. "And whatever money they have. Deal?"

  "Deal," a man said. "Sounds pretty good to me. They had some fine horses. The horses is included, right?"

  "Sure."

  "I hope they ain't stolen," a townsman said. "Say, I heard them call you Morgan—you got a first name?"

  "Frank."

  "You just passin' though, Frank?" There was a rather hopeful sound to the question.

  "Just stopping in town long enough to pick up a few supplies," Frank assured the crowd.

  "All right. Well, I reckon we'd better get these bodies gathered up and planted."

  "I'll help," a citizen volunteered.

  "I'll get their horses," another said. "I got a bad back, you know—can't handle no shovel."

  "Sure you do, Otis. Right."

  Frank turned and walked away, back to the store to get his supplies and to return the shotgun to the man.

  "Hell of a show out there, Mr. Morgan," the shopkeeper told him.

  "Not one that I wanted the leading role in, though."

  "I suppose not. Where do you go from here?"

  "Just drifting."

  "Back from the war?"

  "Yes." Frank smiled. "My side lost."

  "We all lost in that mess."

  "I reckon so. Thanks, mister."

  "Take care, Mr. Morgan."

  Frank rode out, heading toward the northwest, his growing reputation right behind him....

  Three

  Frank rode on toward the north and tried to put old memories behind him. But there were too many memories, too many bloody shoot-outs, too many killings, too many easy women with powder and paint on their faces and shrill laughter that Frank could still hear in his dreams.

  And of course, there was that one special woman.

  Her name was Vivian. Frank had met her in the town of Denver early in '66, and had been taken by her charm and beauty. Frank was a very handsome young man, and Viv had been equally smitten by him. She was the daughter of a businessman and lay preacher.

  Frank was working at the time on a ranch in the area, and doing his best to stay out of any gun trouble.

  Theirs was a whirlwind courtship, and they were married just a few months after meeting. Viv's father did not like Frank, and he made no attempt to hide that dislike. But after the wedding, Frank felt there was little Viv's father could do except try to make the best of it.

  Frank was wrong.

  Six months after their marriage, Frank found himself facing a drifter hunting trouble.

  "I heard about you, Morgan," the drifter said. "And I think it's all poppycock and balderdash."

  "Think what you want to think," Frank told him. "I have no quarrel with you."

  "You do now."

  There were no witnesses to the affair. The drifter had braced Frank on a lonesome stretch of range miles from town. Frank had been resting after a morning of brush-popping cattle out of a huge thicket. He was tired, and so was his horse.

  "How'd you know I was working out here?" Frank asked.

  "I heard in town. I asked about you."

  "No one in town knew."

  "You callin' me a liar?"

  "This isn't adding up, friend."

  "I ain't your friend, Morgan. I come to kill you, and that's what I aim to do."

  "Who paid you to brace me?"

  The drifter smiled. "You better make your mind up to stand and deliver, Morgan. 'cause if you don't, I'm gonna gut-shoot you and leave you out here so's the crows and buzzards can eat your eyes."

  "That isn't going to happen, friend. Now back off and ride out of here."

  "I keep tellin' you, Morgan, I ain't your friend."

  "Tell me who paid you to do this madness."

  The drifter smiled. "On the count of three, you better hook and draw, Morgan. One —"

  "Don't do this, friend."

  "Two—"

  "I don't want to kill you!"

  "Three!"

  The drifter never even cleared leather. As his hand dropped and curled around the butt of his pistol, Frank's Colt roared under the hot summer sun. The drifter's mouth dropped open in a grotesque grimace of pain and surprise as Frank's bullet ripped into his chest. He dropped his pistol and stared at Frank for a couple of seconds, then slumped to his knees.<
br />
  Frank walked the few paces to stand over the dying man. "Who paid you to do this?"

  "Damn, but you're quick," the drifter gasped. "I heard you was mighty fast, but I just didn't believe it."

  "Who paid you?" Frank persisted, hoping the name would not be the one he suspected.

  But it was.

  "Henson," the drifter said. "Preacher Henson." Then he fell over on his face in the dust.

  Vivian's father.

  Frank turned the man over. He was still breathing. "How much did he pay you to brace me?"

  "Five hundred dollars," the drifter gasped. Then his eyes began losing their brightness.

  "You have the money on you?"

  "Half of it. Get ... the other half ... when you're dead." The drifter's head lolled to one side.

  "Talk to me, damn you!"

  But the drifter was past speaking. He was dead.

  "Dear father-in-law," Frank whispered, rage and disgust filling him. "I knew you disliked me, but I didn't know your hatred was so intense."

  Frank went through the drifter's pockets and then loaded the man's body across his saddle and lashed him down. Leading the skittish horse—who didn't like the smell of blood—Frank rode into the nearest town and up to the marshal's office. The much smaller town was miles closer than the fast-growing town of Denver.

  Frank explained what had happened, sort of—leaving out who hired the drifter, and why.

  "Any reason why this man would want to kill you, Morgan?"

  "No. I don't have any idea. I've never seen him before. As you can tell by looking at me, and smelling me, I suppose, I've been working cattle most of the day."

  The marshal smiled. "Now that you mention it..." He laughed. "All right, Morgan. Did you go through the man's pockets?"

  "Yes, I did. Trying to find some identification. I didn't find any papers, but he had fifty dollars on him. The money is in his front pants pocket."

  Frank had taken two hundred and left fifty to bury the drifter and to throw off suspicion.

  The marshal did not question Frank further on the shooting. "We'll get him planted, Frank. Thanks for bringing in the body. Most people would have just left him."