The Last Gunfighter: The Drifter

by William W. Johnstone

  "Six of them so far. Might be more coming in. We'll keep our eyes open."

  "I'll check the livery and hotel and the roomin' houses, try to pick up some names. Not that it will do much good."

  "For a fact, they'll probably all be false." He glanced at the wall clock. "I've got to meet Mrs. Browning, Jer. I'll be over at her office if you need me."

  "See you later."

  Walking over to Viv's office, Frank noticed that the six men had all stabled their horses at the livery. That means they're not going to pull anything immediately, he decided. They'll check on the town first. And maybe won't, he amended.

  Frank glanced at the bank building. He wondered how much cash Jenkins had in his bank. Thousands and thousands of dollars, for sure. It would be a tempting target for any outlaw gang. Jenkins had a bank guard, but the old man was more for show than effect. Frank doubted the man would be very effective against a well-planned bank holdup.

  He couldn't go to Jenkins with a warning, for he had no proof. The six newcomers might well be looking to invest in mining property or some other business ... but Frank felt in his guts they were outlaws.

  Vivian was not in her office. The office manager said she had sent word she was not feeling well, and was staying home that morning. Conrad was staying home with her. He added that Conrad was still very shaken from the events of the past night.

  Frank walked over to the livery and took a look at the horses the six men had ridden in. Fine horseflesh. Big and rangy, and bred for speed and endurance. The saddles were expensive. The men had, of course, taken their rifles and saddlebags with them. There was nothing else Frank could do, so he returned to the jail.

  "Judge Pelmutter was called out of town," Jerry said. "He left on the stage about ten minutes ago ... some sort of family emergency. Said he'd be back next week ... on the Friday stage. Said unless you want to file charges against those two young punks who killed that man, cut them loose."

  "I figured that much. How about the four we arrested last night?"

  "Said to hold them."

  "All right. Turn the two young hellions loose and tell them to hit the trail and don't come back here."

  "Will do."

  Frank looked out the front window of the jail office. Big Bob Mallory was sitting on a bench under a store awning across the street, staring at the jail.

  "What the hell does he want?" Jerry asked, walking over to stand beside Frank.

  "Me. I'm sure of that. And maybe Mrs. Browning. But he's got enough sense to know he'd better get rid of me first. He knows if he harmed Viv, I'd track him up to and through the gates of hell."

  "Those six got rooms at Mrs. Harris's boardinghouse. Hotel is full up. She said they told her their names were Jones and Smith and Johnson, and so forth."

  "Something is up, Jer. I just don't know what. All we can do is keep our eyes open and stay ready."

  Frank left the office and began walking the town. After a while he walked over to the second livery that had just opened a week before. There were half a dozen fine-looking horses there he wanted to take another look at. They were beautiful animals that the owner had brought in with him. Several people had tried to buy them, but the livery owner had told each prospective buyer he was not yet ready to sell them.

  Frank looked for the horses in the corral, but they were gone. He went inside the old barn and looked around for the owner. He was nowhere to be seen. The six horses were in stalls, all saddled up and ready to ride.

  "What the hell?" Frank muttered.

  Then it dawned on him. Six men ride into town on fine horses. They register at a rooming house under obviously false names. A livery man comes into town a week before, and brings six fine horses with him and opens for business, but won't sell the horses. Now those six animals are saddled up and ready to ride.

  "Real good plan, boys," Frank whispered. "It almost worked out exactly as planned."

  Frank walked swiftly back to the office. Jerry was out doing something. Frank paced the floor, thinking. He had no firm proof the six men were guilty of anything. Everything he had was suspicion, nothing more. He didn't want to alarm the bank personnel and have his suspicions turn out to be nothing. One of the six men was surely watching the bank, and if he spotted any panic, the robbery—if one was planned—would just be put off for another time ... or if it went ahead, a lot of innocent people would be killed.

  "Damn!" Frank muttered, gazing out the window. The town was already getting busy, even though it was still very early. Kids were playing, and women were shopping and standing on the boardwalk talking.

  "All I can do is wait," he said. "Right now I'm between a rock and a hard place."

  Frank walked over to the gun rack and put his hand on a rifle. Then he pulled it back. He shook his head. If the outlaw lookout spotted him carrying a rifle around town on this beautiful peaceful day, he would alert the others, and they would immediately suspect their plans had been queered.

  Frank loaded up his pistols full, slipping a cartridge into the sixth chamber, which he usually kept empty; the hammer rested on that chamber. He walked out of the office and sat down on the bench on the boardwalk. All he could do was wait. He wondered where Jerry had gotten off to.

  Ladies passed by, and Frank smiled and touched his hat in greeting. Most of them spoke; some did not. Frank did not take umbrage at being snubbed. He was a notorious gunfighter and a few residents of the town still felt a man of his dubious reputation should not be wearing a badge.

  Jerry came strolling up and sat down beside Frank. "Anything happening, Frank?"

  Frank explained briefly what he had found and what he suspected.

  Jerry didn't question Frank's suspicions. "I'll get my other pistol," was all he said. When Jerry returned a moment later, he asked, "Do we alert some other men?"

  "And tell them what, Jer? We don't have a shred of hard evidence to back up my suspicions. Way I see it, all we can do is wait."

  Jerry was silent for a moment. "Frank, one of those six men just sat down across the street. Just to the right of the ladies' shop."

  Frank cut his eyes without moving his head. "I see him. And yonder comes the livery man with one of those fine horses he's been stabling."

  "The seventh man?"

  "Has to be, Jer."

  They watched as the stable owner looped the reins over a hitch rail just few yards from the bank's front door and walked slowly back toward his livery.

  "Two or three of the horses will probably be led around to the alley behind the bank."

  "I'll take me a stroll up the street to the end of the block, howdy doin' and chattin' along the way," Jerry said. "Then I'll cut across to the other side, go into the general store, and take me a look-see out the back door."

  "OK. Stay over there. I think we're going to see some action in a few minutes."

  "Bank's goin' to be crowded, Frank."

  "Yes. Full of people. Let's don't get any innocent person hurt or killed."

  Jerry paused in his rolling of a smoke. "That might be just wishful thinkin', Frank."

  "I know. But we can try."

  "Here comes one of those men ridin' up to the bank big as brass."

  "And not a head on the street is turning in curiosity," Frank observed. "These ole boys are pretty damn sharp in their planning."

  "It's goin' to happen soon, Frank."

  "Yeah. Get going. Jer? Good luck."

  Jerry smiled. "All in a day's work, Frank."

  "Let's hope there aren't many days like this one."

  Jerry walked off up the street, speaking to the ladies as he slowly strolled along.

  Frank watched as the livery man rode another of the fine horses up the street and hitched him to a rail on the other side of the bank. Then Frank watched as two of the newcomers in question came strolling up, paused for a moment, then entered the bank.

  OK, boys, Frank thought as he spotted another of the six men come riding up. Let's do it and get it over with.

  Nine
teen

  Frank walked up the block to the corner before turning and crossing the street. He had already spotted the lookout, and kept on walking past the street intersection. He quickly cut into a very narrow alley and then surprised a couple of ladies who were shopping for bustles or corsets or dainties or something along that line.

  "Pardon me, ladies," Frank said, quickly walking through the store. "There is apt to be a little trouble on the street in a few minutes, so please stay inside. Thank you." He exited the store as fast as possible. Being around a gaggle of women shopping for unmentionables always made Frank nervous.

  Just as Frank closed the door behind him, he heard one woman say, "I think he's so rugged, don't you, Ophelia?"

  "And so capable, too."

  "Oh, Lord!" Frank muttered.

  Frank eased up behind the lookout man and stuck the muzzle of a .45 in the man's back. "Take a hard right, hombre, and step into this store. That's a good boy. You try to give any type of signal and I'll blow your spine around your guts."

  Frank stepped out of the store just in time to see three more of the outlaws enter the bank. That left the livery owner still out somewhere. Frank and Jerry would have to worry about him later.

  "What the hell is going on here, Marshal?" the man blustered as soon as Frank had him inside the store.

  Frank relieved the outlaw of his guns, holstering his own .45. "Mr. Harvey!" Frank called, ignoring the outlaw's question.

  "Marshal," the store owner replied.

  "You have a gun?"

  "I sure do."

  "This man is part of a gang that is right now in the process of robbing the bank. If he tries to move or yell, shoot him. Will you do that for me?"

  Harvey reached under the counter and came up with a Greener—a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun. "Rob our bank? Why that sorry son of a bitch! You bet I'll keep him here and quiet. This here is loaded with nails and screws and bits of metal from the smithy's shop, Marshal. If that man tries to move, I'll spread him all over the store." Harvey jacked both hammers back with an ominous sound.

  The outlaw paled. He wanted no trouble with a Greener. He cut his eyes to Frank. "How'd you make us, Marshal?"

  "Just luck, hombre. Now you be very still and very quiet."

  "I ain't movin' nothin'."

  "Not if you're smart," Harvey warned. "I've fought Injuns and outlaws, and killed my share of both. One more wouldn't bother me one whit."

  "I believe you, mister," the outlaw said. "I do believe you."

  "Where is the man from the livery?" Frank asked.

  The outlaw smiled. "He's out yonder somewheres. Chances are, he'll find you."

  "Play it your way, hombre. See you in a little bit, Mr. Harvey."

  "I'll sure be here, Marshal. And so will this one. Either standin' up or in pieces all over the store."

  "Sit down on the floor and put your hands under your butt," Frank told the outlaw. "That's good. Now stay that way."

  Stepping out of the store but staying on the stoop, Frank peeked around the corner of the stoop. He smiled when he saw the livery man standing in front of the bank, his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt. Frank stepped out and began walking toward the man, whistling a tune as he walked.

  The livery man suddenly got really nervous as he saw Frank and no sign at all of his buddy, who was supposed to be standing in front of the store.

  "Howdy, there, partner," Frank called cheerfully as he drew closer to the man. "Say, you don't have the time, do you?"

  "Don't own no timepiece," the so-called livery man grumbled.

  "Oh. Well. Too bad. Sure is a nice mornin', ain't it?"

  "It'll do." The man cut his eyes to the bank.

  "Bank's open if you're interested in opening an account," Frank told him. "Or maybe you're more interested in a withdrawal?"

  "Huh? Naw. I'm just waitin' on a friend."

  "Fine-looking animals there. All saddled up and ready to go, too. Got saddlebags all filled up with stuff, and bedrolls tied in place. But you have one too many horses."

  "Huh? What are you talkin' 'bout, Marshal?"

  "You have seven horses hitched up. There's only six of you."

  Frank watched the man's eyes flick up the street toward the store where the lookout was supposed to be.

  "He's not there, livery man," Frank told him.

  "Huh? Who you talkin' 'bout?"

  "Your friend. The rider of the seventh horse. He is, well, sort of occupied at this time."

  The so-called livery man was even more nervous. Then he made the mistake of brushing back his coat and touching the butt of his pistol. Frank drove his left fist into the man's belly, knocking the air from him and doubling him over. Frank pushed him off the boardwalk, which was about two feet off the ground at this part of the street. The man bit the ground on his belly, which further knocked the wind from him.

  Jerry ran up and jerked the man's pistol out of leather just as one of the bank robbers stepped into the doorway of the bank and looked out, a pistol in his hand. He leveled the pistol, taking a dead bead at Jerry.

  Frank shot him, drilling the man in the center of his chest. The slug drove the man backward and knocked him into another bank—robber. Both of them staggered back and fell to the floor.

  Frank jumped into the bank, both hands filled with .45's. "That's all!" he shouted. "Give it up. You can't get out of town."

  One of the outlaws cussed him and swung his pistol in Frank's direction. Frank shot the man between the eyes. The bank robber died with a very peculiar expression on his face. He slumped to the floor and remained on his knees for a few seconds before toppling over on his face.

  The others gave it up. They dropped their pistols and stood with their hands in the air. A short, stocky outlaw said, "Don't shoot, Marshal. We yield."

  "Good God!" another bank robber whispered. "That's Frank Morgan!"

  Jenkins and two of his tellers now had pistols in their hands, as did three men who were in the bank doing some early-morning transactions, and all were damn sure ready to use them.

  "Outside," Frank told the outlaws. "And keep your hands in the air."

  "Wonderful work, Marshal!" said Mayor Jenkins, the banker. "By God, it certainly was!"

  What was left of the outlaw gang was marched over to the jail through a gathering crowd of citizens, a few of whom had ropes in their hands and were making crude suggestions as to what should be done with the would-be bank robbers ... immediately.

  "There'll be none of that!" Frank shouted, momentarily stilling the demands of the crowd. "These men are in my custody, and I'll see they'll get a fair trial. Now break this up and go on about your business."

  "The marshal's right, folks," Mayor Jenkins shouted. "The excitement's over. Let's all settle down now."

  Doc Bracken pushed through the crowd. "Anyone hurt over at the bank?"

  "Two dead," Frank told him. "Somebody go fetch Mr. Malone and tell him he's got some business."

  "I'm right here, Marshal," the undertaker called from the rear of the crowd. "I'll see to the departed immediately."

  Two well-dressed men stood on the boardwalk on opposite sides of the street. One was watching through very cold and cunning eyes. The other one was scribbling furiously in a notebook.

  "Very impressive," said the man with the cold eyes. "Very impressive, indeed."

  "What a story this will make," said the other man. "Where is the telegraph office, friend?" he asked a citizen standing next to him.

  Frank and Jerry locked up the survivors of the attempted bank robbery and Jerry set about making a fresh pot of coffee while Frank logged the events of the morning in the jail book. The coffee was ready just about the time Frank finished his report, and the men settled down to enjoy a cup.

  The door to the jail office opened and a short, stocky man wearing a suit stepped in. "Gentlemen," he said. "I'm Louis Pettigrew. Marshal Morgan, it is indeed a pleasure to meet you ... finally."

  "Finally?" Frank asked.

&n
bsp; "I'm the author of the books about you, sir."

  "Wonderful," Frank muttered.

  * * * *

  Frank finally got rid of the writer after assuring him that he would give some thought to helping the man write the story of his life ... something that Frank had absolutely no intention of doing.

  "I've seen those books from time to time, Frank," Jerry said with a smile.

  "Don't start, Jer."

  Jerry laughed at him and got to his boots. "Maybe this writer fellow could arrange for you to go back east on a tour. You could do some trick shootin' and twirl your guns. That ought to give the folks back there a real thrill."

  Frank picked up an inkwell and moved as if to throw it at Jerry. Laughing, Jerry left the office. Luckily for Frank, the inkwell was empty.

  Frank locked up the office and walked over to the Henson Office building. He walked in just in time to see and hear a well-dressed man really browbeating one of the office workers. Frank listened for as long as he could take it and then walked up and deliberately bumped into the man, almost knocking him down.

  The man caught his balance and turned on Frank. "You damned clumsy oaf!" he raged.

  "Back off, mister," Frank warned him, "before you step into something you can't scrape off." He looked at the employee who had been the brunt of the Eastern man's rage. "You go get a cup of coffee and relax, partner."

  "You stay right where you are, Leon!" the dude told the employee. "Now you see here, Marshal!" the man said, turning to Frank. "I am Charles Dutton, Mrs. Browning's attorney. And I resent your interference in a company matter."

  Frank smiled and pulled out his second pistol. "You ever fired a pistol, Leon?"

  "Yes, sir. During the war. I was a sergeant in a New York regiment."

  "Take this pistol."

  Leon took the pistol and held it gingerly.

  "Now you go get a six-gun," Frank told Dutton.

  "I beg your pardon?" the lawyer questioned.

  "You speak to this man like he's some sort of poor cowed dog, mister, and you expect him to take it without him biting back or even showing his teeth in a snarl. That ain't the way it works out here. Now you go get a six-gun and meet this man in the street out front."