The Last Gunfighter

by William W. Johnstone

  After a while, Stormy started moving a little faster. The gray light from the stars increased, too, and when Frank tilted his head back and looked up, he could actually see some of the little glowing pinpricks in the heavens above him. The tree canopy had thinned. There was a good reason for that. Frank realized that they were on a road now, more than likely one of the logging trails that Chamberlain’s crews had cut into the forest. From what he could see of the stars, he thought he was headed northeast, which would take him toward Eureka.

  Suddenly, he reined in sharply as a sound came from somewhere behind him in the towering trees where he had been until a short time earlier. It was like the howl of an animal, but he had never heard a wolf or anything else that sounded exactly like the guttural scream that floated through the forest. It went on for a long moment, finally trailing off into a series of fading, yelping cries. It wasn’t a howl of pain or anger or anything else that Frank could pin down.

  All he knew was that it was one of the loneliest sounds he had ever heard.

  And that he was damned glad he wasn’t back there in the woods with whatever had made it.

  “Come on, horse,” he said as he heeled Stormy into motion. “Let’s get on to town.”

  Eureka was a large enough settlement so that Frank saw the lights of the place well before he reached it. Located on Humboldt Bay, Eureka was the center of the logging industry in this part of northern California. Frank could tell it was a prosperous town by the number of two- and three-story brick buildings he saw as he rode down the main street. The street was paved with cobblestones. It had to be. Otherwise in this rainy climate, it would be a morass of mud most of the time.

  Frank saw an impressive sign that read CHAMBERLAIN LOGGING COMPANY on an even more impressive brick building. Given the house where Rutherford Chamberlain lived, Frank was a little surprised the company headquarters wasn’t built out of redwood, too.

  He could also tell that Eureka was where the loggers came when they wanted to blow off some of the steam that built up because of their grueling, perilous profession. He passed the Bull o’ the Woods Saloon, the Redwood Saloon, and the High Climber’s Saloon. A place that discreetly called itself the Woodsman’s Retreat had a red light burning in the window, so it was pretty obvious why the woodsmen retreated there. Like any boomtown, no matter whether the cause for the boom was gold, oil, or timber, Eureka was a mixture of high finance and low vice.

  Frank was hungry, but he wanted to find a place for his horses and a hotel room for himself before he went looking for a café. He stopped at the first stable he came to, Patterson’s Livery and Wagon Yard. The proprietor, a stocky man with a short, reddish-brown beard, came out of the barn wiping his hands on a rag and greeted Frank with a friendly nod.

  “Those are some mighty fine-lookin’ horses, mister,” he said. “You lookin’ for a place to keep ’em for the night?”

  “That’s right. You have room?”

  “Sure do. You’ll be gettin’ the last two empty stalls, though.”

  Frank dismounted. “My dog’s used to staying with the horses. Is that all right?”

  The liveryman’s eyes narrowed a little. “Is that a dog or a wolf?”

  “He’s a dog,” Frank said with a chuckle. “In fact, his name is Dog.”

  “Reckon I’ll take your word for it. As long as he’s tame and don’t bother the other horses, he can stay here.”

  Frank nodded. “He won’t cause any trouble.”

  The man reached for Stormy’s reins. “I can unsaddle for you.”

  “Better let me,” Frank said with a shake of his head. “This old hellion’s been known to take a bite out of a man’s hide when he wasn’t looking. He sometimes takes a notion to kick, too.”

  “One-man horse, eh? Well, you go right ahead. Plenty of grain in the bin. We didn’t talk about the price.”

  “No need. I’m sure it’ll be fine. You don’t strike me as a man who’s in the habit of overcharging anybody.”

  Frank led the horses along the barn’s center aisle to the two empty stalls. He unsaddled and rubbed down Stormy, then made sure that both horses had plenty of water and grain. The liveryman watched Frank tending to the animals and commented, “You take good care of those critters, mister. Treat ’em like friends.”

  “They are my friends,” Frank said. “I tend to travel around a lot. Spend more time with them than anybody else.”

  “I live out back. Got a soup bone in the kitchen that dog of yours can have, if that’s all right.”

  Frank nodded. “We’d be obliged. And if you can point me to the best place in town to stay, and to get a good meal, I’d be obliged for that, too.”

  “Sure. The Eureka House is the nicest hotel, or so I’ve heard. They’re supposed to have a good dining room, too, or you can go across the street to Harrigan’s Restaurant. Or if you don’t care about fancy and just want some good food, there’s a hash house down by the Bull o’ the Woods Saloon that’s run by a Chinaman who’s a mighty good cook. You won’t go hungry in Eureka, that’s for sure.”

  “Good to know,” Frank said with a grin. “I’ve kind of gotten in the habit of eating.”

  He got directions to the Eureka House, then left the stable and set off up the street carrying his saddlebags slung over his shoulder and his Winchester in his left hand. He saw a large number of wagons parked in front of various buildings, but not too many saddle horses tied up at the hitch racks. Nor did he pass many people dressed like he was. Most of the pedestrians were either townsmen or loggers. This wasn’t ranching country.

  The looks that he got from the people in the lobby of the Eureka House reminded him of that as he walked toward the desk with his spurs jingling. The men wore expensive suits and had pomaded hair. The women wore gowns with bustles and had their hair piled high on their heads in elaborate arrangements of curls.

  Frank didn’t care. He got the same sort of reaction every time he walked into a hotel in Denver or San Francisco, and those towns were a lot bigger than Eureka.

  Still, if he told the truth, he’d have to admit that he got a little satisfaction out of the expression on the face of the clerk when he set the Winchester on the desk in front of him and said, “I’d like a room, please.”

  The clerk swallowed. “Do you intend to keep that weapon in the hotel?”

  “That’s right,” Frank said. “A room for me and my Winchester.”

  The man turned to glance behind him. “I’m not sure if we have anything available…”

  Frank saw several keys hanging on their pegs. “I’ll bet you do,” he said. He took a fifty-dollar gold piece out of his pocket and slapped it on the desk. “Why don’t you check and see?”

  The man’s eyes widened at the sight of the coin. He pretended to turn and look again, then said, “Why, ah, I believe we do have a room available, sir.”

  “I thought you might,” Frank said dryly.

  The clerk turned the register around. Frank signed his name, and in the space for where he was from, he wrote San Francisco. That wasn’t exactly true—he wasn’t really from anywhere anymore, since he was always on the drift—but some of his lawyers had offices in San Francisco, so that was as good a place to put down as any.

  “Will you be staying with us long, Mister…” The clerk checked the register. “Morgan?”

  “That depends. Keep that fifty and let me know if it runs out.”

  “Of course. Do you have a preference as far as rooms go? We have one overlooking the street…”

  So now the hombre was asking his preferences. The sight of a gold coin usually made quite a difference.

  “If you have anything on the back, I’d rather be there. Quieter, you know.”

  “Yes, sir, certainly. Room Twelve should do you nicely.” The clerk took the key and handed it to Frank. “Do you need any help with your, ah, belongings?”

  “No, thanks.” Frank picked up the Winchester. “I reckon I can manage.”

  “All right then. Take
the stairs to the balcony and go along it to a hallway. You’ll find Room Twelve down that corridor.”

  “Much obliged.”

  “We have an excellent dining room, if you haven’t eaten.”

  Frank nodded. “I’ve heard about that. But I was thinking maybe I’d try the Chinaman’s hash house instead.”

  He ought to be ashamed of himself, he thought as he turned toward the stairs, hoorawing the poor, pasty-faced gent like that.

  He had just started up the stairs when the clerk stopped him by calling, “Mr. Morgan?”

  Frank turned. “Yeah?”

  “Frank Morgan?” From the sound of it, the man hadn’t really paid much attention to his name until now.

  “That’s right.”

  The man reached down to a shelf under the desk. Frank tensed. His right hand never strayed far from the butt of his Colt. Now he was ready to hook and draw if the clerk brought a gun out from under the desk.

  Instead of a gun, the man waved a small, thin book with a gaudy yellow cover in the air. “This Frank Morgan?”

  “Oh, Lord,” Frank muttered. “Are they still putting those things out?”

  “Yes, sir. This is the new one. The Drifter and the Battle of Tonto Basin—”

  “Those stories are all made up,” Frank broke in. “I’ve been to the Tonto Basin, but I don’t recall any battle while I was there.”

  That wasn’t strictly true, but he was sure whoever had written that dime novel had done a heap of exaggerating and embellishing.

  “But you are Frank Morgan, the famous gunfighter. I knew you were in the area. I heard some men talking about you earlier this evening.” The clerk could barely contain his excitement now. “You’ve come to hunt down and kill the Terror of the Redwoods!”

  He had told Rutherford Chamberlain to spread the word, Frank thought wryly. Obviously, the timber magnate had done so. Maybe that would put a stop to a bunch of trigger-happy monster hunters blundering around the woods, shooting at each other and anything else that moved.

  “I’m here on business,” he said to the clerk. “My business. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Frank just shook his head and went on up the stairs. He had been dealing with fame—or rather, notoriety—for a long time now, and he didn’t like it any better than he had when he first started getting a reputation as a fast gun.

  He found his room, which appeared to be very comfortably furnished with a four-poster bed, dressing table, mahogany wardrobe, and a couple of armchairs. After washing up with the water in the basin on the dressing table, he left his saddlebags and rifle in the wardrobe and started back downstairs. He didn’t think he would need the Winchester just to eat at the Chinaman’s place.

  When he reached the lobby, the clerk he had talked to only a few minutes earlier wasn’t there anymore. He’d been replaced by an older man with thinning black hair and a mustache. Frank didn’t ask where the other clerk had gone. The fella was probably out telling anybody who would listen to him how the infamous Frank Morgan was staying at the hotel.

  Frank stepped out onto the porch and turned toward the Bull o’ the Woods Saloon, the location of which he had noted earlier as he rode in. The proprietor over at the livery stable had said that the hash house was next to the saloon. Frank hadn’t gone very far, though, when a man who’d been crossing the street stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

  “Hold it right there, Morgan,” the man snapped as his hand hovered over the butt of his gun. “You and me got some business to take care of.”

  Chapter 9

  The man’s aggressive stance made Frank instinctively want to reach for his own revolver, but the sight of the badge pinned to the stranger’s vest prompted him to control the impulse. Despite what many star packers thought of him because of his reputation, he went out of his way to avoid trouble with the law.

  “Marshal,” Frank said with a nod. “What can I do for you?”

  The lawman frowned. He was middle-aged, with a rugged face, slicked-back gray hair under his hat, and the beginnings of a gut under his vest and brown tweed suit.

  “You know who I am?”

  “I can read,” Frank said. “Your badge says Marshal. U.S. or town?”

  “Town,” the man replied curtly. “Name’s Gene Price. I’m the law here in Eureka.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Marshal. I reckon I don’t have to introduce myself.”

  Price snorted. “You sure as hell don’t. It’s all over town how the famous gunslinger Frank Morgan’s come here to hunt down that critter folks say is out in the woods.”

  “You don’t believe in the Terror?” Frank asked, hearing the skepticism in Price’s voice.

  “I believe somebody has killed over a dozen men lately. I saw the bodies with my own eyes, down at the undertaker’s. That’s all I know for a fact. That, and it happened outside of my jurisdiction.”

  “So what do you want with me?” Frank was hungry, and he was starting to get a little impatient. “There’s no law against getting some supper, is there? Because that’s what I was on my way to do.”

  Price shook his head. “No, and I don’t care what you do out in the woods. But I don’t want you starting any gunfights here in my town, Morgan.”

  “Marshal…I never start gunfights.”

  Price’s face flushed angrily, evidence that he understood the implication in Frank’s words. “You know what I mean. You got a heap of blood on your hands. I don’t want you getting any more on them while you’re in Eureka.”

  “I never go looking for trouble. You have my word on that.”

  Price gave Frank a grudging nod. “We understand each other then.” He started to turn away.

  Frank stopped him. “Marshal, what can you tell me about Rutherford Chamberlain?”

  A frown creased the lawman’s forehead. “What do you want to know? He’s the biggest businessman in these parts. I’m not saying that Eureka would dry up and blow away if it weren’t for his logging operation, but I reckon he’s mighty important around here.”

  “And Emmett Bosworth?”

  Price looked even more suspicious. “Bosworth would like to be where Chamberlain is now. He’s made a good start on it, too.”

  “Any trouble between their crews while they were here in town?”

  “Some,” Price admitted. “Not lately, though.”

  “Since the Terror showed up.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Price treated it like one anyway. “That’s right. Everybody who works in the woods is so nervous about whatever it is, they don’t have the time or energy to squabble with each other.”

  That was interesting, thought Frank, and it agreed with what Rockwell had told him. But it didn’t have any connection with the task he had taken on, at least as far as he could see. He had asked the question out of sheer curiosity. The next one was more pertinent.

  “Do you know Ben Chamberlain?”

  “Ben?” The lawman appeared to be more puzzled than ever. “Sure, I know Ben. Used to see him here in town every now and then, but he was never much of one for socializing. Kept to himself mostly. And I haven’t seen him at all in…oh, hell, a couple of years now, I reckon. I’ve heard that he had some sort of falling-out with his pa and went off to live in San Francisco. That’s just gossip, though. I can’t say how true it is.”

  Frank suspected it wasn’t true at all, but he didn’t say that to Price. It might be better if folks around here continued thinking that Ben Chamberlain had gone to San Francisco after the argument with his father.

  Price went on. “You’re asking a lot of questions, mister, considering that you’re working for Rutherford Chamberlain.”

  “I just like to know what I’m getting into, that’s all.”

  “Whatever you get into, do it somewhere else besides here.”

  This time, Frank let the marshal stalk away without stopping him.

  As he walked on down the street toward the hash house, Frank thought about all the mar
shals and sheriffs over the years who had warned him not to start any trouble in their towns. They knew his reputation, and they weren’t really interested in anything he had to say. He had never really understood that attitude until he had worn a badge himself. The time he had spent being responsible for the safety of his friends in Buckskin had taught him to be a little more tolerant of suspicious lawmen.

  He spotted the eatery next to the boisterous Bull o’ the Woods Saloon, which took up most of a block and had its entrance on a corner. A number of men in the calked boots, overalls, and flannel shirts of loggers stood on the boardwalk in front of the saloon’s big windows. They wore solemn expressions as they talked among themselves, and several of them cast glances toward Frank as he approached. Elbows nudged into sides, and one by one the rest of the men turned their attention toward him, too.

  Frank paused outside the door of the hash house and gave them a friendly nod. “Evening,” he said.

  None of the men responded. They just kept looking at him with blank or unfriendly stares.

  Frank didn’t know what that was about, but he was too hungry to worry about it. He went on into the hash house.

  The place was long and narrow, with a counter on the right and a row of tables along the left-hand wall. Most of the tables were occupied, as were the stools in front of the counter. A swinging door at the end of it probably led into the kitchen.

  A man with a round, friendly face worked behind the counter. He was dark-haired, about thirty years old, and wore a white apron. Except for the slight slant of his eyes, he didn’t really look Chinese. He smiled at Frank and waved him onto one of the empty stools.

  “What can I do for you, mister?”

  Frank glanced at the specials chalked onto a board on the wall behind the counter and said, “I’ll have a bowl of stew and plenty of corn bread. Coffee hot?”

  “You can bet that hat of yours that it is,” the man assured him.

  “Then fill a cup and keep it coming.”

  “Sure thing.”

  The man’s voice didn’t have a hint of an accent, but when he turned to a small open window behind the counter and called through it, he spoke in what sounded to Frank’s ears like fluent Mandarin. Not that Frank was an expert in Chinese dialects, but nearly thirty years earlier, he had spent some time in the Sierra Nevadas while hundreds of laborers from China had been building the Central Pacific Railroad through the mountains, and he had picked up a smattering of the lingo, just like he could speak a little of the tongues of several different Indian tribes, as well as a little German and French. Having grown up in Texas, though, he was better with Spanish than any other foreign language.