The Last Gunfighter: The Drifter

by William W. Johnstone

  Big Bob Mallory had been spotted leaving town. Frank checked his room at the hotel and found it bare. Big Bob was indeed gone, but where and for how long remained unanswered.

  "Maybe he decided not to take me job," Jerry opined. He and Frank were sitting in the jail office, the day after the attack on the town.

  "Don't count on that," Frank replied. "Big Bob demands money up front. If he takes the money, he'll finish the job."

  "Wishful thinking on my part."

  "You ready to take over the marshal's job, Jer?" Frank abruptly tossed the question at his deputy.

  Jerry almost spilled his coffee down the front of his shirt. He stared at Frank, his mouth open; then he shook his head and said, "You goin' somewhere for a while, Frank?"

  "As soon as it's ... over for Mrs. Browning, I'm pulling out. I think you'll make a fine marshal, Jer." He smiled. "You and Angie will be assets to this community, for sure."

  "You goin' after the Pine and Vanbergen gangs, Frank?"

  "Yes."

  "Alone?"

  "Yes."

  Jerry was silent for a moment, staring at the floor. He lifted his head and looked at Frank. "That's crazy, Frank. That's suicide."

  "My mind is made up. You want the job, or not?"

  "Well ... sure, I do. If you leave, and the town council approves it."

  "They'll approve it. You're a good, solid, steady man, Jerry. Both you and Angie are respected by the townspeople. You'll both do just fine."

  "Maybe Mrs. Browning will pull through."

  "I don't believe in miracles. Doc Bracken told me this morning her coma has deepened. She'll starve to death if she doesn't come out of it."

  "What about the outlaws?"

  "They're gone. Packed up, saddled up, and gone. Very doubtful they'll ever be back."

  "Your mind's made up, isn't it?"

  "All the way, Jer."

  "Maybe something will happen that will change your mind. I'd like to see you stay."

  Frank nodded his head in understanding and stood up. "I don't know what that would be, but thanks for saying it. The prisoners are all settled down. It's all quiet. Let's go walk the town."

  "They put The Kid in the ground yet?"

  "I don't think so. I don't think Malone's had time to fix him up yet."

  "To be no bigger than he was, The Kid could sure soak up some lead."

  "He did, for a fact. The Kid was as game as any man I ever faced."

  The two lawmen walked the town, the sounds of sawing and hammering all around them, the smell of fresh-cut lumber strong in the air.

  "This town might be here even when the mines play out," Jerry remarked.

  "Could be. It sure wouldn't surprise me at all. Some cattlemen are gonna have to come in here. Maybe a few people raising horses. When the mines play out, the town will shrink down. But you've got a telegraph office and a bank, and some determined people. That's what it takes."

  "Oh, hell!" Jerry said, "Here comes that writer fellow."

  "Damn!" Frank muttered.

  "Marshal Morgan," Louis Pettigrew called. "Might I have a word with you, sir?"

  "Do I have a choice?" Frank whispered.

  Jerry laughed. "I'll make the rounds. You two have a good time."

  "Thanks, Jer. You're a real pal."

  Jerry waved and walked on, leaving Frank with Pettigrew. Frank noticed Conrad and Charles Dutton walking up the boardwalk on the other side of the street. Even from that distance Frank could tell that Conrad appeared very pale. Boy's under a hell of a strain, Frank thought. Dutton probably got him away from his mother's side to get him out for a walk and some fresh air. Or, Frank amended, maybe the bastard has something else up his sleeve, like setting the boy up for a kill.

  "Ah, Marshal..." Pettigrew said. "I would like to talk with you about doing your life's story. Would you be willing to discuss that?"

  Frank looked at the Boston writer. "I beg your pardon? What did you say?"

  Pettigrew looked pained. He sighed and said, "I wish to write your life story. There are a great many people back east who are clamoring for more information about Frank Morgan."

  "Is that a fact?"

  "Absolutely, Marshal. And it would be a very lucrative venture for you, I must say."

  "I'll sure give it some thought, Mr. Pettigrew."

  "Wonderful, Marshal. And let me say that the, ah, gunfight I witnessed yesterday out there in the street was a magnificent sight. Very dramatic."

  Frank was watching Conrad and Dutton. They had stopped on the corner and were chatting. Conrad had his back to the street. "Dramatic, Mr. Pettigrew?"

  "It certainly was. I can truthfully say I have never seen anything like it."

  "You ever witnessed a hanging, Mr. Pettigrew?"

  "Good heavens, no."

  The morning stage was rumbling up the street, a day late due to the road being blocked the day before. The telegraph wires had been fixed, messages had been sent out that the reports of plague in the town were false, and the road had been reopened.

  "A hanging can be very dramatic, Mr. Pettigrew. Especially when the neck isn't broken and the victim jerks around for several minutes, slowly choking to death. It's quite a sight." Frank said this with a very straight face.

  Pettigrew was turning a bit green around the mouth. "I'll take your word for that, Marshal."

  "I can probably arrange for you to witness an execution. If you would like that."

  "Ah ... thank you, Marshal, but no. Your description of the event is graphic enough."

  Frank watched Button put his hands on the young man's shoulders and reposition him, fully presenting Conrad's back to the street, while Dutton was partly shielded by a post holding an oil-fueled streetlamp.

  What the hell? Frank thought. What's going on here? Very strange behavior on Dutton's part.

  "When would be a good time for us to get together for a long talk?" Pettigrew asked.

  "Oh, sometime within the next couple of days, for sure," Frank responded.

  "Wonderful. That will give me ample time to jot down pertinent questions. At your office, perhaps?"

  "That will be fine."

  "I'm so looking forward to it."

  "Yeah, me, too," Frank replied with as much enthusiasm as possible, which was precious little. He had no intention of meeting with the writer. "I'll see you, Mr. Pettigrew. You have a nice day."

  "Oh, I shall, Marshal. Thank you."

  "You're welcome," Frank mumbled, as he began walking toward the corner. He stepped off the boardwalk and started crossing the street, his eyes on Conrad and Dutton.

  "Hi, Marshal," a citizen yelled, catching Frank in the middle of the street.

  Conrad spun around at the shouted greeting just as a rifle cracked somewhere behind Frank. Frank dropped into a crouch and turned around, snaking his .45 into his hand with a blurringly fast motion.

  The rifle slug burned past Conrad, missing him by just a few inches. Had he not turned, the rifle bullet would have split his spinal cord. The slug slammed into a passerby who had just exited the newly arrived stage and was carrying his heavy traveling bag. The bullet meant for Conrad knocked the man off his boots and dropped him to the boardwalk, dead on impact with the dusty boards.

  Frank triggered off a shot at a man in an upstairs window over a boarded-up shop, a man standing with a rifle in his hand, a faint finger of smoke leaking from the muzzle. The .45 round hit the man in his chest, just below his throat, and slammed him backward in the room.

  "Conrad!" Frank yelled as rifle barrels began poking out of several second story windows. "Get out of here, boy. Someone is trying to kill you!"

  Frank ran for the protection of the stage, but the driver was no stranger to gunfire, having experienced it many times in the past, and he wanted no more of it. He yelled at his team, and the six big horses took off.

  Frank sprinted for the dubious protection of an open carriage in front of a shop, running and twisting to afford the snipers less of a target. Bull
ets howled all around him. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Dutton hightailing it alone around a corner. The fancy lawyer and so-called friend of the family was leaving Conrad to deal with the problem on his own. The young man seemed frozen in place on the boardwalk until Jerry came charging around the corner and grabbed him up and off his feet. Jerry turned, and a slug tore into his left leg, knocking him down. Just before he fell heavily, Jerry shoved Conrad to safety inside a corner shop.

  Frank slid on his belly in the dirt and reached the rear of the carriage in time to see Jerry crawl into the shop, dragging his bloody leg, leaving a trail on the boardwalk. At least he was still alive, and Conrad was safe.

  Frank knelt behind the boot of the carriage and began throwing lead at the upstairs windows. It was returned as fast as it was received. One rifle slug knocked Frank's hat off and sent it flying somewhere behind him. Another rifle slug burned a hot crease on his shoulder. The crease turned wet and sticky as the blood began to flow. Frank ignored the burning pain and jerked his second gun from behind his gunbelt.

  Jerry opened up from the doorway of the shop, and at that point the hidden gunmen above the street decided they'd had enough. The gunfire ceased, and the street fell silent.

  Horses tied at hitch rails had bolted in panic when the rifle fire began, running in all directions. One horse ran into Nannette's Boutique for the Discriminating Woman, and one lady (who was nearly the same size as the horse) ran out into the street dressed only in her bloomers, shrieking to high heaven. The sight of her stopped one man cold in his tracks.

  "My Lord!" he hollered.

  The panicked woman ran right over the man, knocking him into a horse trough. She kept right on running, and disappeared into the Silver Slipper Saloon. Men began exiting the saloon through all available avenues, preferring to face gunfire rather than confront the ominous presence of Mrs. Bertha Longthrower, wife of Reverend Otis Longthrower, pastor of Heaven's Grace Baptist Church ... in her bloomers.

  Bertha took one long look at her surroundings, her eyes lingering on the rather risque painting on the wall behind the bar (which featured three naked ladies and a midget ... in height only) and let out a whoop that would have shamed a Comanche Dog Soldier. She headed for the rear of the saloon, ran out the back door, and collided with a man just stepping out of the privy. Both of them were propelled back into the privy, which promptly turned over, trapping the scantily clad woman and the terrified man (who was certain he had been attacked by an enraged albino grizzly bear) in the narrow confines of the outhouse.

  Back on the main street, Frank ran across the street and into an alley that led behind the line of shops, hurriedly reloading his guns. He caught a glimpse of a man with a rifle charging out of a back door, and yelled at him to halt. The man turned and fired at Frank, the bullet just missing his head. Frank drilled the man, the .45 slug striking the assassin in the chest, killing him instantly.

  Frank cautiously made his way up to the downed and dead sniper. The rifle beside the body was a bolt-action Winchester-Hotchkiss. He had found one of the men who had ambushed him and Viv in the valley.

  Two more of the men were still at large, but Frank suspected they were gone, having left ahead of the man on the ground. He picked up the rifle and walked back to the street. He wanted to have a long talk with Charles Dutton, but had no physical evidence at all with which to confront the man. Dutton was, so far, still in the clear.

  Conrad was unhurt, and Jerry's wound, while painful, was not serious. The deputy would be off his feet for a few days, but was not in danger.

  The passerby who had taken the bullet meant for Conrad was dead.

  The horse who had invaded Nannette's had been led out and away, and the search was on for Mrs. Bertha Longthrower.

  "Where is my wife?" Reverend Longthrower demanded.

  "I think she's in the saloon," a citizen told him. "I seen her goin' in there ... in her bloomers."

  "In her what?" Reverend Longthrower thundered.

  "Her drawers."

  "Never!" the reverend roared.

  "Hey, ever'body!" a man yelled from the saloon. "Otis is in the privy yellin' that he's bein' attacked by an albino bear. Come on."

  Frank had a pretty good idea that the "bear" would turn out to be Mrs. Longthrower ... in her drawers. That was not a sight he wished to see again. He told some men to get the body of the outlaw on the second floor and then went to check on Conrad and Jerry over at the doctor's makeshift hospital. Before he could cross the street Reverend Longthrower started hollering for his wife to get off of Otis.

  "I imagine Otis would like that, too," Frank muttered.

  Conrad had refused to lie down and rest for a while, choosing to go to the office. Frank sat down on the edge of the bunk and talked with Jerry for a few minutes.

  "Doc says the bullet didn't bit nothin' vital," Jerry said. "He says I just have to stay off my feet for a couple of days and rest."

  "You take as long as you need, Jer." He smiled. "I imagine Angie will see that you're well fed."

  Jerry blushed under his tan. "Yeah. I 'spect she will." He looked closer at Frank. "You been hit, Frank! Your shoulder's bleedin.'"

  "It's just a scratch. I'm heading over to the office now to clean it up."

  "Take off your shirt, Frank," Dr. Bracken said from behind him. "Let me take a look at that wound."

  "It's nothing, Doc."

  "Take off your shirt. That's an order. You get blood poisoning, you won't think nothing."

  Doc Bracken cleaned and bandaged the wound, told Frank to take it easy for the rest of the day, and sent him on his way. Frank didn't want to tell the doctor he'd hurt himself worse than that peeling potatoes.

  On his way back to the office, Frank ran into Louis Pettigrew. "Marshal," the writer said, "I have made up my mind."

  "Oh?" Frank was staring at the man's bowler hat.

  "Yes. I am going to write a series of books about you. Not just one, but perhaps a dozen."

  Frank did not reply, just stared at the man in stunned disbelief. He couldn't keep his eyes off the man's dude hat.

  "I have wired my publisher, and am now awaiting his reply. I shall make it my life's work."

  "Your life's work?" Frank managed to say.

  "Yes, sir. I shall outfit myself and follow you no matter where in the wilds you might decide to go. I shall chronicle the day to day living of the West's most celebrated but least known gunfighter. Won't that be grand?"

  "Words fail me, Mr. Pettigrew." I gotta get out of here, and do it quickly, Frank thought.

  "As soon as I receive word from my publisher I shall make preparations," Pettigrew said.

  "To do what?" Frank asked.

  "To make the West my home! I must say, this is very exciting."

  I'll leave in the dead of night, Frank thought. Slip away like a thief.

  "I just thought you would like to know about my decision, Marshal. And I hope you're as excited as I am."

  "Oh, I am, Mr. Pettigrew. I can't begin to tell you how your decision has affected me."

  Pettigrew patted Frank on the arm. "I'm so pleased, Marshal. I really didn't know how you would react to the news."

  "I'm, ah, still trying to get used to the idea of you becoming a citizen of the West, Mr. Pettigrew."

  "I'm really excited about it."

  "I'm sure you are."

  "Well, then, I'll see you later on. We'll make an appointment to meet and start work on the first installment. Ta ta. Marshal."

  "Yeah," Frank mumbled. "Ta-ta to you, too."

  "What is the writer so happy about?" Mayor Jenkins asked, walking up just as Pettigrew was leaving.

  "He's going to become a permanent resident of the West."

  "Really?"

  "That's what he told me."

  "Well, he's certainly welcome. I just hope he gets rid of that damn silly hat," the banker said, "before someone shoots it off his head."

  Twenty-six

  Frank had just finis
hed a fresh cup of coffee and a smoke and had his feet propped up on the edge of the desk when a man walked into his office. "Sorry to bother you, Marshal, but I found a body on the way into town."

  Frank's boots hit the floor. "Where?"

  "Just the other side of where them outlaws had the road blocked. I seen the buzzards circlin' and went to take a look. It's kind of bad, Marshal. The body's shore enough tore up somethin' awful. The ants has been workin' on it, as well as them damn buzzards."

  "I'll head on out there. Thanks, mister."

  "No problem."

  Frank picked up a spare horse at the livery and headed out. He was not looking forward to bringing the body back. Several days in the hot sun would have the body bloated and stinking. The ants and buzzards, and probably coyotes and other animals, had been working on it and would have left it in a real mess.

  Frank saw the buzzards long before he reached the body, about a hundred yards off the road, and up a natural game trail. Frank could tell by what was left of the clothing that it was more than likely the body of the young bank teller, Dean Hall, or Hill, or whatever his name was.

  The body was a mess, not at all pleasant to look at, or smell. Buzzards and ants had been at the face and the eyes, and facial identification would be impossible. Buzzards, more than likely, had torn the stomach open, and intestines were stretched out for yards.

  "Damn!" Frank said, trying to breathe through his mouth and not his nose. The stench was awful.

  He found a big stick and beat off the buzzards, some of them so bloated from eating the putrid meat they could not fly. They waddled off and stared at Frank, giving him baleful looks, no fear in them.

  He got the body on the tarp and rolled it up, securing it tightly with rope, closing both ends. That helped with the stench. It was going to be a real job getting the body tied down on the horse, for the animal was not liking the smell at all, and was trying to break loose and back off.

  Frank didn't blame the horse at all.

  Frank was securing a loose end of the tarp, one foot of the body sticking out, when he saw his own horse's head jerk up, the ears laid back, nostrils flared. Frank quickly jerked his rifle from the boot and grabbed the ammo belt he had looped over the horn. The tarp-wrapped body forgotten, Frank jumped for cover, thinking, Setup!