"I think they were counting on us being dead. Our coming out alive put a kink in their plans."
"You're really gonna have to watch your back careful in town, Frank."
"I've been doing that for many years. It's as automatic for me as breathing. Come on, let's get these bodies loaded up and get back to town."
* * * *
Vivian was in a coma. Dr. Bracken told Frank that she might linger that way for hours, or even days. There was just no way to tell.
The two dead outlaws were both wanted and had a price on their heads. And they both carried some identification on them, which was a lucky break for the lawmen. Frank would wire the states where they were wanted as soon as the telegraph wires were repaired.
Frank filled out his daily report in the jail journal and then went on a walking inspection of the town. The main street was still a mess. The bodies of the dead had long been carried off, and the wounded were in makeshift hospitals. The undertaker had bodies stacked all over the place, overflowing out into the alley behind his parlor. There was just no time to embalm them all, nor did Malone have enough supplies to do so. The funerals were starting as soon as carpenters could knock together caskets.
Some of the caskets were tiny, and that was heartbreaking for anyone with a modicum of feeling.
Frank tried to talk with Conrad, but he refused to see him. After Frank tried twice and was rebuffed both times, he decided to leave his son alone. Frank would be in town and available when or if the young man wanted to talk.
Kid Moran and Big Bob Mallory were back in town. They were doing nothing to help out, just sitting and watching as the town struggled to pull itself out of the wreckage and cope with the heavy loss of life.
Frank didn't push the pair. There had been quite enough killing. But he knew they were there for a showdown. It was just a matter of time. With The Kid it was an ego thing. Kid Moran wanted a reputation. Frank still wasn't certain who was paying Big Bob, but Charles Dutton was at the top of his list.
Dutton was Conrad's shadow that day, all concern and sorrow and sympathy, and the young man was certainly receptive. Frank didn't, couldn't, blame the boy. Conrad didn't have any idea what was going on; apparently Vivian had never gotten around to talking with her son about her deep and dark feelings concerning Dutton.
And now it's too late, Frank thought with a silent sigh. Too late for a lot of things.
He was tired and taking a break, sitting on the bench outside the marshal's office, having a cup of coffee. Late afternoon shadows were creeping about the streets of the mountain town, creating little pockets of darkness in hidden corners. This had always been one of Frank's favorite times of the day, when dusk was reaching out to slowly melt and mingle with sunlight. But on this day of tragedy he was filled with various emotions: a hard sense of loss, a feeling of impending doom, a sense that his time in the mining town was nearly over; other emotions that were strong but not yet identifiable. Well ... one of the emotions was certainly familiar—the feeling that he had screwed up his life beyond salvaging.
Frank was a middle-aged man with a very dubious past, and not much of a future.
And damned if he knew how he could change it.
The voice of Dr. Bracken broke into his thoughts. "You mind some company, Marshal?"
Frank looked up. "Not at all, Doc. Glad to have some company." He scooted over on the bench. "Might improve my disposition."
Bracken looked at the cup in Frank's hand. "That coffee drinkable?"
"You bet. Hot and fresh." Frank started to rise. "I'll get you a cup."
Doc Bracken put a hand on his shoulder. "Sit still. I'll get it." He walked into the office. A moment later, a mug of coffee in his hand, Bracken sat down on the bench. "You were deep in thought, Marshal, your face a study in emotion. Anything you want to talk about?"
"Oh, not really, Doc. I guess I was just sitting here sort of feeling sorry for myself."
"You do that often?"
Frank smiled. "Not very often, Doc. Looking over the wreckage of this town brought it on, I suppose."
"That and Mrs. Browning," the doctor said softly.
"Yes. That, too."
"Frank, the West is still a small place, speaking in terms of population. Hell, man, half the town knew that you and Vivian Browning ... ah, Henson ... were once married. Many of those knew that old man Henson trumped up some false charges against you, and you had to leave. The story was all over the West back then. Newcomers, Johnny-come-latelies, don't know it, but we old-timers do. I've had people today, in the midst of all this tragedy, tell me that it's admirable how well you're holding up. Most of the people here in town, the regulars, the permanent residents ... why, they like you, Frank. They've found that all your dark reputation is pure bunk. For whatever it's worth, the town is behind you."
"Doc, I'm going to hunt down that gang—every member—and I'm going to kill them, all of them. My reputation is about to get a lot darker."
"Only one man was cranking that Gatling gun, Frank."
"But they were all involved. And no one tried to stop that one man."
"I can't argue that point.
"Viv and me, Doc, we were picking up the pieces. We were going to start all over. Move to California, maybe, where very few people have even heard of me..."
That got Frank a quick, sharp look from Doc Bracken. Frank Morgan still didn't realize that most people over the age of eight had heard of him. He didn't know that there had been dozens and dozens of newspaper articles written about him. People knew about Frank Morgan's exploits from coast-to-coast and border-to-border. Now many in the press were beginning to call him the last gunfighter—Frank Morgan, the Last Gunfighter.
"All that's gone up in a few minutes of gunsmoke. Vivian is lying in a coma, dying. My"—Frank caught himself, but not before Dr. Bracken picked up on the hesitation—"her son won't speak to me. He blames me for all that's happened. Hell, maybe he's right. Not entirely, but partly. I accept it. What choice do I have?"
"That's nonsense, Frank. She got caught in the line of fire—that's what happened."
Frank sighed. "You don't know the whole story, Doc. And it's best you never do."
"If you say so, Frank." He took another sip of coffee. "Good. I needed that. It's been a long day, and it's going to be an even longer night."
"I'm sure."
Jerry walked up, a toothpick in his mouth. "Doc," he greeted Bracken. "You better go put on the feedbag, Frank. Angie's laid out quite a spread at the cafe."
"Yeah, that's a good idea. I am kinda hungry. Doc, how about you?"
"In a little while. I want to check on a couple of patients first."
When the doctor had gone. Jerry said, "Big Bob Mallory was seen leavin' the hotel about fifteen minutes ago, totin' his rifle."
"It's about time for the showdown, men. I've been feeling it coming for several hours. Where is Kid Moran?"
"Disappeared. I looked around and he was nowhere to be seen. Come on, I'll have coffee while you eat."
"Not looking a gunfight in the eyes, Jer. I changed my mind. A big meal slows you down. I'll eat later." Frank smiled. "Providing I still can eat, that is."
Twenty-four
With Jerry walking a dozen yards behind him, carrying a rifle and covering his back, Frank strolled down to the cafe. The front windows had been knocked out, and were now boarded up, but the horrible events of that day had not affected the quality of food. The delicious odors drifting out into the street made Frank's mouth water, bringing home the fact that he had not eaten all day. But he did not want to eat a large meal and then have to face a very fast gunslick. And Kid Moran was very fast.
Frank settled for a piece of pie with his cup of coffee. Then he had a cigarette with his second cup in the Silver Spoon Cafe. He was stubbing out the cigarette butt when Jerry came in and took a seat.
"Kid Moran's waiting for you, Frank. He's standing on the corner. He's got a third pistol shoved in his gunbelt."
"He must be
figuring I'm going to be hard to put down," Frank said as he rolled another smoke.
"Don't forget he usually misses his first shot," Jerry reminded him.
"Yeah. And sometimes he doesn't. Always expect the unexpected in these things, Jerry. I've learned that the hard way over the years."
"I'll never have a stand up and hook and draw fight, Frank. I know better. I'm as slow as cold molasses."
"I hope you never do, Jer."
"Frank, let's you and me take him alive," Jerry suggested. "We'll get a couple of Greeners from the office and take him that way. How about it?"
"It wouldn't work."
"Why?"
"He'd fight, and we'd both run the risk of getting plugged. What he's calling for right now is still legal out here, and probably will be for some years to come. Have you seen Big Bob anywhere?"
"No. This smells like a setup to me, Frank."
"The Kid drawing me out, and Big Bob shooting me in the back?" Frank shook his head. "No. No, I don't think so. Bob Mallory works alone. Always has."
"There's always the first time."
Again, Frank shook his head. "No. The Kid's looking for a reputation, and Bob is getting paid by somebody—probably Dutton—to kill me." Frank paused in his lifting of his coffee cup. "Or maybe it's Conrad he's after. Jer, go check on Conrad. Keep an eye on him for me, will you?"
"If you order me to do so, Frank, I will."
"Do I have to order it done?"
"No. Of course not. I'm gone."
Frank finished his coffee and stood up, slipping the hammer thong off his .45. Angie was watching, and frowned.
"Frank, isn't there another way?"
"No, Angie. There isn't. Not with The Kid. He wants a reputation."
"He's lightning fast."
Frank smiled. "I'm no tenderfoot, Angie."
She returned the smile. "Of course, you're not. I didn't mean to imply — "
Frank held up a hand. "I know what you meant. Angie. Keep the coffee hot, will you?"
"Just for you and Jerry. And I'll have some supper for you, too."
Frank picked up his hat, settled it on his head, and stepped out of the cafe. He looked to his left. There was The Kid, waiting at the end of the block.
"Might as well get this over with," Frank said, thinking: One way or the other. He touched the brim of his hat in a salute to The Kid, a signal that he was ready, and stepped off the boardwalk and into the street.
Kid Moran did the same.
The word had spread about the pending gunfight. The main street was deserted of carpenters and other workmen. In only a few more years, stand up, hook and draw showdowns such as this would be mostly a thing of the past, but for now, it was still legal in most small towns in the West. If not legal, at least accepted by many.
Louis Pettigrew, the book writer from the East, was standing in the lobby of the hotel, watching it all and scribbling furiously in his notebook. He had written about dozens of shoot-outs, but this was the first actual gunfight he had ever witnessed. It was enthralling and exciting. What a book this would make: the aging king of gunfighters meeting a young, but fast, upstart prince in the dusty street for the title of the best of the fast guns. Wonderful!
Conrad was not watching the slow walk toward death in the street. He was sitting quietly beside his mother's bed.
Charles Dutton was watching from the hotel, a faint smile on his lips.
"Ride out of here, Kid," Frank called. "Don't throw your life away for nothing."
"It ain't nothin' to me, Morgan," The Kid called.
"Boy, the day of the gunfighter is nearly over. And as far as I'm concerned, it's past time."
"What's the matter, Morgan?" The Kid taunted. "You gettin' old and yeller?"
Getting old, for sure, Frank thought. He's damn sure right on one count. "Don't be a fool, boy. You know better than that."
"Frank Morgan done lost his nerve," The Kid yelled. "By God, it's true. You beg me to let you leave and you can ride out of here, Morgan. Beg for your life, old man."
The Kid's been drinking, Frank thought. Where else would he get such a silly idea? "Forget it, boy," Frank called. "That won't happen."
The distance between them was slowly closing. Little pockets of dust were popping up under their boots as they walked toward sudden death and destiny.
"Why don't you draw, old man?" The Kid yelled. "Come on, damn you. Pull on me!"
"It's your play, Kid," Frank said calmly. "You're the one challenging the law here in town. I'm ordering you to give this up and ride on out."
The Kid suddenly stopped in the middle of the street. Frank stopped his walking. There were maybe fifty or so feet between them. Plenty close enough.
"Suspenseful," Louis Pettigrew muttered. "I never knew it could be like this."
"Insane," Mayor Jenkins muttered, watching from inside his bank. "When is this going to stop?"
Angie stood in the doorway of her cafe, a just poured cup of coffee forgotten in her hand.
Undertaker Malone was watching from an alley. He was taking a much needed break from his work. The bodies of that day's tragic events were still stacked up inside his parlor and outside behind his establishment. Many had already been buried without benefit of Malone's services.
Willis was watching from his general store. He had sent his wife and kids into the rear of the store, safe from any stray bullets.
"Draw on me, you old bastard," Kid Moran yelled, "so's I can kill you and have done with this."
"Drag iron, son," Frank replied. "I told you this is your play."
The Kid stared at Frank, then shook his head. "You yeller son of a bitch!" The Kid hollered. "You're afeared of me. I knowed you had a yeller streak up your back."
Frank waited, silent and steady—a man alone in the middle of the street, the tin star on his coat twinkling faintly in the last rays of late-afternoon sun. Frank sensed The Kid was getting nervous, and that emotion would be a plus for him.
"What's the matter, boy?" Frank called. "You sound real edgy."
"Ain't nothin' the matter with me, you old fart! Are you gonna draw, or rattle that jaw of yourn?"
"I keep telling you, boy, it's your play. Are you deaf, or just plain stupid?"
"Goddamn you!"
Frank waited patiently.
Someone standing in the doorway of the saloon laughed.
The Kid cut his eyes away from Frank for just a split second. "Are you laughin' at me?"
Frank could have drawn and fired during the half second The Kid had averted his eyes. But he didn't. Frank really didn't want to kill The Kid. He knew, though, that The Kid wasn't about to give him any other option.
The Kid settled that quickly. "You damned yeller belly. I'm countin' to three. You better draw on me, Morgan. Sometime durin' the count. If you don't, that's your hard luck. It don't make no difference to me nohow. I'm gonna kill you anyways. I'm tared of all this jibber jabber."
"You're under arrest, Kid Moran," Frank called, making what he knew he had to do legal.
"Huh? I'm whut?"
"You're under arrest"
"Whut charge?"
"Threatening the life of a peace officer. Now come along peacefully or suffer the consequences."
"You go to hell, Morgan!"
"That's the last chance I'm giving you, boy."
Kid Moran cursed and grabbed iron. He just thought he was quick on the shoot. Frank beat him to the draw and shot him in the belly.
"Damn!" The Kid gasped, doubling over. But he held on to his gun.
"Drop your gun, boy!" Frank called.
"Hell with you, Morgan." The Kid lifted his .45 and jacked back the hammer.
Frank shot him again. The impact turned The Kid around in the street. He stumbled a couple of times, but he just wouldn't go down.
Kid Moran straightened up and grinned at Morgan.
"Now you're dead, Morgan," he gasped. "Now it's my turn."
The Kid lifted his pistol and Frank drilled him aga
in. This time The Kid went to his knees, but didn't stay down long. He dropped his pistol and, bracing himself with that hand, struggled to his feet, drawing his second pistol.
"Damn you to hell, Morgan!" The Kid managed to spit out the words. Then he turned to one side and lifted and cocked his left-hand gun.
Frank dusted him with his fourth round, the bullet slamming into The Kid and blowing out the other side. This time Kid Moran went down and stayed down. He tried to rise, but just couldn't make it. His pistol slipped from his hand to lie in the dust.
Frank unconsciously twirled his pistol before holstering it. He walked over and looked down at the bullet-riddled young man. "Sorry about this, Kid. I really am."
"You really are ... fast, Morgan. I never ... seen nobody fast as you."
Frank knelt down beside The Kid.
Kid Moran struggled to speak, then gave it up, gasping for breath. "I'll get the doc, boy." Frank looked around. Dr. Bracken was walking toward the fallen Kid, his black bag in his hand.
Frank stood up and met the doc halfway. "I put four rounds in him, Doc. I don't see how he's still alive."
"I saw and heard it all, Frank. You gave him every opportunity to surrender. You only did what you had to do."
The men walked over to where The Kid lay. "Let me take a look at him," Bracken said.
"Forget it," The Kid gasped. "I'm done for and I know it. I'm fillin' up with blood. I feel it. Don't move me."
"All right, boy," Doc Bracken said.
"You got any kin, Kid?" Frank asked.
"Nobody that gives a damn."
"Your mother and father?"
"Wherever they are"—The Kid coughed up blood—"they can both go to hell!"
"You want some laudanum?" Doc Bracken asked.
The Kid didn't reply. His eyes were wide and staring in death.
Malone walked up. "I know The Kid had money," the undertaker said. "What do you want on his tombstone?"
Frank thought for a moment. Then he said, "Put on it: He died game."
Twenty-five
The bloody, bullet-riddled body of Kid Moran was carried off and stored with other bodies behind Malone's funeral parlor. The undertaker would get to Moran when time permitted.
The Last Gunfighter: The Drifter Page 17
