The Last Gunfighter: The Drifter

by William W. Johnstone

"Yes. Me, too. I think someone is using a .32-.20. Another sounds like a .45-.70."

  "Is all that supposed to mean something to me?"

  Frank grinned at her. "When we get out of this pickle I'll give you a short course in firearms."

  "I can hardly wait. In more ways than one."

  The gunmen on the ridges and in the rocks opened up again, and Frank and Vivian could do nothing but huddle behind cover, all thoughts of talk obliterated by the roar of gunfire and the bowling of bullets.

  "This is beginning to make me mad," Frank muttered, when the gunfire ceased for a moment.

  Viv looked at him in astonishment. She had taken off her hat, and her hair was just slightly disheveled. Her white blouse was spotted with dirt and grass stains. "You're just now getting angry, Frank?"

  "Yeah. That bunch of yellow bastards over yonder is really annoying me now." He lifted his rifle to his shoulder and mentally figured the range before squeezing off a round. The bullet was low, and he compensated for that before squeezing off another round. This time the bullet must have come very close to the hidden sniper, for both Frank and Viv heard a yelp of surprise.

  "You hit?" the question was shouted.

  "Naw. But that bastard can shoot."

  "We all knowed that startin' off, Dick."

  There was more conversation between the snipers, but it was so faint neither Frank nor Viv could make out the words.

  Then one of the gunman called, "This ain't workin' out, boys."

  Frank and Viv looked at each other.

  "What do you mean, Rob? We got 'em cold. All we got to do is wait 'em out."

  Another voice was added. "Yeah? But for how long?"

  "That's right. Them two got good cover, and we can't get to them to finish this."

  "He's right 'bout that," another called. "It's all open twixt us and them."

  "Goddamn it, no names, you idgits!"

  "Rob and Dick," Frank muttered. "Remember those names, Viv."

  "Forever," she whispered.

  There was more murmuring of words between the gunmen, again so faint that Frank and Viv could not make them out. They waited in the copse of trees.

  Then there was nothing but the gentle sighing of the wind in the valley.

  "Have they gone?" Viv asked.

  "I don't know, honey. It may be they just want us to think they've left."

  "If wishes were horses..."

  "What?"

  "Nothing," she said with a quiet laugh. "Don't pay any attention to me. I'm babbling."

  "Babble on, Viv. I'm going to ease out of here and take a look around."

  She cut her suddenly alarm-filled eyes to him. "Frank — "

  "Relax. I'm not going far, and I'm not going to take any chances. Take it easy, Viv. I'll be right back."

  "Promise?"

  "Cross my heart. You want to spit in my palm?"

  She smiled, and Frank could see her tension ease. "Get out of here, you nut!"

  Frank eased out of the trees and wormed his way down to and over the creekbank, then worked his way about fifty feet. Easing up behind a clump of weeds, he gave the rocks and ridges a good visual going-over. He could see nothing moving. His and Viv's horses had moved a few yards during the gunfire, but were now grazing calmly. His big horse was showing no signs of being alarmed.

  Frank crawled over the creekbank and quickly got to his feet, running toward the horses. No shots boomed; no lead came howling in his direction. He led the horses over to the thick copse of trees.

  "They're gone, Viv. Come on. I want to take a look at the ridges. I might find some sign that I can use."

  Frank found some brass from a .45-.70 and a .32-.20. But it was the butt-plate markings that caught and held his attention. They were strange looking.

  "What's wrong, Frank?"

  "The butt-plate on this rifle. It's the strangest I've ever seen." He snapped his fingers. "I know what it is. It loads through the buttstock. I'll bet you it's a bolt-action military rifle."

  "Are they rare?"

  "They are out here."

  "And if you find a man in town who has one, it's a good bet he's one of the men who attacked us."

  "That's it, Viv. Come on, let's ride. It's a good hour back to town, and we're not taking the same trail back we used to get up here."

  Frank found the tracks of the men who'd attempted to kill them, and there were four horses. The hoofprints led straight toward town. Frank cut across country, and they made it back to town in just over an hour. Frank saw Vivian back to her house, where Jimmy was waiting on the porch.

  Jimmy saw the dirt and grass stains on their clothing and asked, "Trouble?"

  Frank explained what had happened.

  "I bet that's one of those Winchester-Hotchkiss so-called sportin' rifles," Jimmy said. "The army has some of them, but they're rare out here."

  "Keep your eyes open for one, Jimmy."

  "Will do."

  At the office, while Jerry made a fresh pot of coffee, Frank told him about the events of that afternoon.

  "You think they were after you, or Mrs. Browning?"

  "Both of us. And I'm getting damn tired of it."

  "You think the Pine and Vanbergen gangs were behind the ambush?"

  Frank shook his head. "I don't think so, Jerry. They want to kill me, yes. But I believe there are other forces working to kill both of us."

  "Who?"

  Frank explained in as much depth as he knew about Viv's father and his deathbed desire to have him killed. He ended with, "This attorney, whoever he is—and Viv told me they have a couple of dozen lawyers, maybe more than that, working for the company—has some big ideas, I think. Ideas about controlling the various companies that make up Henson Enterprises. But first he has to get rid of Vivian."

  Jerry slowly nodded his head. "OK. But that still leaves the son."

  "Who is not twenty-one years old, and legally can't do a damn thing until he is."

  "Ah! Yeah. I'm getting the picture now. But you have no proof of any of this."

  "Not a bit. It's all speculation on my part."

  "Now what?"

  "Now I go visit the saloons."

  "You saw the men who attacked you?"

  "No. But if I show up where they are, one of them just might get nervous and tip his hand."

  "Could be. Want me to tag along?"

  "No. You do the early business check on Main Street. I'll handle this on my own."

  The men sat for few minutes and drank a cup of coffee. The cell block area of the jail, for the first time in a long time, was empty. Frank finished his coffee and stood up to leave. He really wanted another cup, for Jerry made good coffee, but he had a lot to do, and wanted to get started. He could get a cup in one of the saloons, although theirs usually tasted the way horse liniment smelled.

  Frank tucked the short-barreled Peacemaker behind his gunbelt, butt forward on the left side, and headed out. He had filed the sight off so it would not hang up.

  His first stop was the Silver Slipper Saloon, and it was doing a booming business. He walked through the saloon, speaking to a few of the patrons. Just as he was about to exit out the back way, he cut his eyes over to a far corner table and stopped. Big Bob Mallory was sitting alone. Frank had thought Big Bob was long gone, for he hadn't seen him in a couple of weeks. He walked over and sat down.

  "Make yourself right at home, Frank," Bob said. "Uninvited, of course."

  "I was hoping I'd seen the last of you, Bob. I thought you'd long rattled your hocks."

  "I been here and there, Frank. But I'll leave when I get damn good and ready."

  "Where were you this afternoon?"

  "Not that it's any of your damn business, but I was playin' poker over at the Red Horse. All afternoon. Check it out if you don't believe me."

  "I will, and I don't believe you. I wouldn't believe anything you had to say even if you were standing in the presence of God."

  Bob smiled at him. "You're not goin' to rile me into pullin'
on you, Morgan. Not now. I'm tellin' you the truth 'bout this afternoon. You'll see."

  "Don't screw up in this town, Bob. I told you before, and I'm telling you now."

  Bob smiled at him and said nothing.

  Frank pushed back his chair and walked away, exiting out the back door, stepping into the night. The darkness was broken only by the faint glint off the many empty whiskey bottles that littered the ground. Someone was grunting in the outhouse. Frank ignored that and walked on, up the alley and back onto the street. He stood in the mouth of the alley for a moment.

  The foot traffic was heavy early in the evening—mostly miners wandering from saloon to saloon to whorehouses located at each end of the town, just past the town limits.

  Frank stepped out of the alley and starting walking toward the Red Horse Saloon. He hadn't gone a dozen steps before three shots blasted the air. The sound was muffled, and Frank knew they came from inside a building. Probably the Red Horse.

  "Here we go again," Frank said, and began running toward trouble.

  Sixteen

  Just before Frank reached the entrance to the Red Horse, a man staggered out, both hands holding his bloody stomach and chest. The gut-shot man fell off the boardwalk and collapsed on the edge of the street. He groaned in pain and tried to rise. He didn't make it. He died in the dirt before Frank could reach him.

  Frank pushed open the batwings and stepped inside the smoky saloon. The large crowd had shifted away from the bar, leaving the long bar empty except for two young men dressed in black, each of them wearing two guns, tied down low. Frank guessed them to be in their early twenties. The music and singing had ceased; the crowd was still, and gunsmoke hung in the air.

  Trouble-hunting punks, Frank thought. Well, they've damn sure found it. "What happened here?" Frank said.

  "Who the hell are you?" one of the young men at the bar asked belligerently.

  "The marshal. I asked what happened here."

  "He got lippy and wanted trouble—that's what. We gave it to him."

  "Both of you shot him?"

  "Yeah," the other young trouble-hunter mouthed off. "What's it to you, Mr. Marshal?"

  "Sonny boy," Frank said, taking a step closer to the young men. "I've had all the mouth I'm going to take from either of you. I'll ask the questions, you answer them. Without the smart-aleck comments. Is that understood?" Frank took a couple more steps toward the pair.

  One of the punks feigned great consternation at Frank's words. "Oh, my! I'm so frightened I might pee my drawers! How about you, Tom?"

  "Oh, me, too, Carl. The old-timer's words is really makin' me nervous."

  Both of them burst out laughing.

  Frank took several more steps while the pair were braying like jackasses and hit Tom in the mouth with a hard straight left. The punch knocked the punk clean off his boots and deposited him on the floor. Frank turned slightly and drove his right fist into the belly of Carl. Carl doubled over and went to his knees, gagging and gasping for air.

  Frank reached down and snatched the guns from Tom, tossed them on a table, and then pulled Carl's Colts from leather. He backed up, holding the punk's twin pistols, and waited.

  Tom got to his feet first, his mouth leaking blood. He stood glaring at Frank.

  Someone out on the boardwalk yelled, "Here comes Doc Bracken. Get out of the way, boys!"

  "Get your friend on his feet," Frank told Tom. "Right now!"

  Jerry pushed open the batwings just as both young trouble-hunters were on their feet, wobbly, but standing.

  "Jerry," Frank said, "I want you to get statements from as many people as you can about this shooting. Get their names and tell them to drop by the office in the morning to verify and sign all they told you."

  "Will do, Frank."

  Frank motioned with the muzzle of the right hand Colt. "Move, boys. To the jail."

  "It was self-defense, Marshal!" Tom shouted. "He was pesterin' us."

  "That's a damn lie," a miner said. "It was them pesterin' the other guy. They goaded him into a gunfight. They pushed him real hard. I wouldn't have tooken near'bouts as much as that other feller took. He had to fight. That's all there was to it. They didn't give him no choice in the matter. None a'tall."

  "Yore a damn liar, mister!" Carl said.

  "Give your story to my deputy," Frank told the man. "Move, boys."

  "You're makin' a mistake, Marshal," Carl said.

  "Shut up and move. If the other man started the trouble, you can ride on out of town."

  "You son of a bitch!" Tom cussed him.

  "Be careful, boy," Frank warned him. "Don't let your ass overload your mouth."

  Frank locked the pair up and once more hit the streets. He began prowling the new makeshift saloons, and there were about a dozen wood-frame, canvas-covered drinking spots that had sprung up since the new silver strike and the rumors of a major gold strike.

  The evening's rambling and searching produced nothing. Frank could flush no one. He finally gave it up and returned to the office.

  "Any luck?" Jerry asked.

  Frank shook his head as he poured a mug of coffee. "If I did see them, they're mighty cool ole boys. I didn't produce a single bobble."

  "I might be on to something," Jerry said.

  "Oh?"

  "Four men are living in a tent 'bout a mile out of town." He pointed. "That way. Off the west trail. They staked a claim, but no one's ever seen them working it. Man I've known since I come to town told me about them. Only reason he brought it up was 'cause those ole boys is real unfriendly and surly like. I questioned him some and he said he seen them ride out 'bout noon today, and they didn't come back 'til late afternoon."

  "You did good, Jerry. I appreciate it."

  "There's more, Frank. My friend thinks one of them has a bolt-action rifle."

  Frank sugared his coffee and stirred slowly. "I'll pay those ole boys a visit first thing in the morning. Going up there tonight would be asking for trouble."

  "It sure would. And it isn't against the law to be unfriendly."

  Frank smiled. "You're right about that. If it was, half the population would be in jail. How did the questioning over at the saloon go?"

  "Those two trouble-hunters we have locked up started the whole thing. They needled the other fellow into pulling on them. But the other guy did go for his gun first."

  "They'll probably get off, then. If the other man drew first, I don't know of any major charges that could be brought against them. But we'll keep them locked up until the judge opens court. It's his mess to deal with now. You go on to bed, Jerry. I'll make the late rounds."

  "You sure, Frank?"

  "Oh, yeah. I'm not a bit sleepy. Besides, I need to go over to the funeral parlor and find out what I can about the dead man."

  "See you in the morning, Frank."

  "'Night, Jer."

  At the funeral parlor, Frank walked into the back, where the nude body of the stranger was on a narrow table. Malone was preparing the body for burial. He looked up as Frank strolled in.

  "No identification on the body, Marshal. He had fifty dollars on him. Ten dollars in silver, the rest in paper. His gun and clothes and boots are over there on that table next to the wall."

  Frank carefully inspected the dead man's boots and gunbelt for a hidden compartment. There was nothing. "I'll pick up the gun and rig in the morning," he told Malone.

  Malone nodded his head and kept working on the body. Frank got out of there. He walked over to the livery and asked if anyone fitting the dead man's description had stabled his horse there. The night holster nodded and pointed to a roan in a stall.

  "Where's his saddle?" Frank asked.

  "In the storeroom. Saddle, saddlebags, and rifle in a boot. Far right-hand corner."

  Frank carried the gear over to the office and stored it as quietly as possible. Jerry was already in his room, in his bunk, snoring softly. Frank would go through the saddlebags in the morning, but he didn't expect to find anything in the
way of identification. The grave would be just another unmarked one in a lonely cemetery. The West had hundreds of such graves. On the Oregon Trail, it was said, there were two or three graves for every mile of the pioneer trek westward. And still the people came, hundreds every week.

  During his wanderings, Frank had seen countless abandoned cabins. He wondered how many of the pioneers gave up after a few years and went back east.

  Frank locked up the office and walked over to the Silver Spoon for a cup of coffee. The place was dark, closed for the night.

  He began making his rounds of the town, checking the doors of the businesses. He cut up the alley and came out near the Henson Enterprises building. He watched the building for a moment, then decided to check the windows and back door. The back door was unlocked.

  Frank pushed open the door and saw the faint glint of lamplight under the door, coming from Viv's office. Frank put his hand on the butt of his .45.

  Then the door opened and Conrad stepped out. He spotted the dark shape of Frank and gasped, "Oh, my God! Don't shoot?"

  "Damn, boy!" Frank said. "What the hell are you doing down here this time of night?"

  "Marshal! Well ... doing some necessary paperwork. Mother neglected her duties this afternoon. Mr. Dutton arrived on the stage, and was displeased to find mother gone gallivanting about the countryside while so much work was left unattended here."

  "Who the hell is Dutton?"

  "Our company's chief attorney."

  "What business is it of his what the president of Henson Enterprises does in her spare time?"

  "I resent your tone, Marshal!"

  "I don't give a damn what you resent. Your mother and I are old friends—a friendship that goes back twenty years. If she wants to go riding and relax, that's her business—none of yours, and sure as hell none of this Dutton fellow's. Is that clear, Conrad?"

  "If you're such 'old friends'"—the young man put a lot of grease on the last two words—"why weren't you mentioned before now? Personally, I think you're both lying. What is it between you and my mother?"

  "We're friends, Conrad. That's all. As to why I wasn't mentioned years back ... well, after all, I do have something of an unsavory reputation. In very polite Boston society it just wouldn't do for your mother to let people know she was friends with a gunfighter."