Savage Country

by William W. Johnstone

  Gomez opened the gate and let Frank into the corral. For the next few minutes, Frank checked over the animal with an experienced horseman’s eye. Everything about El Diablo indicated that he was indeed a fine horse. The fact that he didn’t have a competitive nature couldn’t be held against him.

  “All right,” Frank said with a nod. “I’ll take him.”

  “Your associate will not be disappointed, Señor.”

  Frank thought that he wouldn’t count on that. Conrad didn’t like much of anything about the West. Frank wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t care for El Diablo either.

  From the livery stable, he went to Holtzmann’s Mercantile and gave the clerk an order for enough food, supplies, and ammunition to last him and Conrad until they got to Lordsburg. They could resupply there for the rest of the journey to Ophir. The clerk promised that everything would be delivered to Gomez’s early the next morning.

  With that taken care of, there was nothing left for Frank to do except return to the Grand Central, eat dinner alone in the dining room, and make an early evening of it. El Paso had plenty of saloons, of course, and he could have gone out for a drink, but while he enjoyed an occasional beer or glass of whiskey, booze didn’t hold much appeal for him, and neither did sitting around a smoky saloon.

  So after his dinner he went up to his room, took a book from his saddlebags—a volume of stories by Bret Harte—and stretched out on the bed to read by the light of the lamp on the night table. A smile touched his mouth as he opened the book.

  He wondered what all those folks who had thrilled to his dime-novel exploits would think if they could see him now, leading the dangerous, glamorous life of a gunfighter . . . reading a book in a hotel room.

  * * *

  Frank was up before dawn the next morning. Despite the fact that spring had come, at this hour there was a lingering chill in the air from the night before as he walked to the livery stable. Pablo Gomez and his sons, who worked for him as hostlers, were already up and about, of course. The supplies from Holtzmann’s store had been delivered, and Gomez was lashing them to the packhorse when Frank came in.

  “Buenos dias, Señor Morgan,” the liveryman greeted him. “We will have your Stormy and El Diablo saddled soon and ready for you and your friend.”

  “Gracias, Señor Gomez,” Frank said. “It was a quiet night?”

  “Very much so,” Gomez replied with a smile.

  “I’ll be back in a while, after my associate and I have had breakfast.”

  “All will be in readiness, Señor. On this you have the word of Pablo Gomez.”

  “Good enough for me,” Frank assured him with a grin.

  When he got back to the hotel, Frank looked in the dining room but didn’t see Conrad. He knew the young man’s room number; Conrad’s room, in fact, was just down the hall from Frank’s. So he went upstairs and banged a fist on the door.

  “Wha . . . who the hell . . . ?” Conrad’s voice came sleepily from the other side of the panel.

  “Time to get up,” Frank said cheerfully. “We’ve got a long way to go, so we need to get ridin’.”

  Conrad’s only answer was a groan. Then, after a moment, he said, “I’ll be downstairs. Just give me a few minutes.”

  “Don’t take too long. We’re burning daylight.”

  “Daylight?” Conrad muttered, the word barely audible through the door. “The damn sun’s not even up yet!”

  Smiling, Frank went downstairs to the dining room and ordered breakfast for both of them. The food was on the table and Frank was halfway through his first cup of coffee by the time Conrad entered the dining room. The young man’s eyes were bleary with sleepiness.

  “This is an ungodly hour for anyone to be up,” Conrad complained as he sat down across from Frank.

  “Drink some coffee and get yourself on the outside of some flapjacks and bacon and eggs,” Frank suggested. “You’ll feel a lot better then.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  Despite what he said, Conrad seemed to have a hearty appetite. He dug into the food and almost matched the amount that Frank put away. The coffee was strong and black, and that helped too. By the time they were finished, Conrad looked like he felt halfway human again.

  Frank leaned back in his chair to sip the last of the coffee in his cup. “You’d better go back upstairs and change clothes,” he said.

  Conrad glanced down at the suit and vest and tie he had on. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “I suppose it’s fine if you’re going to be talking to a banker or a politician, but it’s not very good for riding.” Frank leaned a little to the side so he could look down at Conrad’s feet. “You’ll want to put on some boots too, instead of those shoes.”

  “What if I don’t have any?”

  “Then we’ll go over to Holtzmann’s and buy you whatever you need.”

  “I have boots,” Conrad said with a sigh. “I’m just not accustomed to dressing like a . . . a ranch hand.”

  “Better get used to it.” He paused. “Do you have a gun?”

  “Do I need one?”

  “You might,” Frank said. “Out here, it’s better to be ready for trouble.”

  “Yes, I recall how it seems to follow you around.”

  Frank suppressed the urge to point out that Conrad’s trouble was the reason they were going to Ophir. Those sarcastic comments were liable to get mighty tiresome before they got there, though.

  “You didn’t answer me about the gun,” Frank reminded his son.

  “I have one,” Conrad admitted.

  “How about a holster?”

  Conrad nodded. “I remember what it’s like here on the frontier. I thought it prudent to be prepared.”

  “Good. After you’ve changed clothes, strap on that gun belt too. I reckon you didn’t bring a long gun?”

  “You mean a rifle?” Conrad shook his head. “That didn’t occur to me.”

  “That’s all right, I bought a Winchester for you at Holtzmann’s. It’ll be at the livery with the rest of our gear.”

  “So I’m to be decked out as a gunfighter as well.”

  Frank smiled grimly. No matter what sort of clothes Conrad wore, or how many guns he carried, Frank doubted that anybody would ever take him for a gunfighter.

  “Let’s get started. I reckon you’ve got some luggage.”

  “Of course.”

  “Make arrangements to leave it here at the hotel until you get back from Ophir. You won’t need anything except the clothes on your back and your gun.”

  “Not even a change of clothes?” Conrad looked like he could barely comprehend that idea.

  “All right, one change of clothes,” Frank said. “Everything else we’ll need is already on the packhorse.” He stood up. “I’ll head back over to the stable. Join me there as soon as you can.”

  Conrad nodded. Frank stopped at the desk in the lobby to tell the clerk to add what he owed onto Conrad’s bill—that was one of those expenses Conrad was supposed to take care of—and then left the Grand Central.

  The sun was up now, but it was still low on the horizon to the east. El Paso was starting to come alive for another day. Already there were quite a few people on the streets.

  Frank had a long-standing habit of being cautious, of course. That was the only way he had stayed alive so long. His eyes were always moving, checking his surroundings. He saw a loaded freight wagon pull around a corner and start slowly toward him, its cargo piled high in the bed behind the driver.

  What he didn’t see until only about a dozen feet separated him from the wagon was that Simon Callahan was walking behind the vehicle, a shotgun clutched in his hands. Frank didn’t know Callahan was there until the man suddenly stepped out into the open and jerked up the Greener.

  Flame erupted from both barrels as Callahan pulled the triggers, slamming a deadly double charge of buckshot at The Drifter.

  Chapter 4

  Callahan was too close. Years of living on
the edge of danger had honed Frank Morgan’s senses and instincts to a razor sharpness. Even before he was consciously aware of it, before the sight of Simon Callahan pointing a scattergun at him had fully registered on his brain, Frank’s muscles were moving. He threw himself forward in a rolling dive that brought him even closer to Callahan.

  The buckshot was just beginning to spread out as it passed over Frank’s head and through the space where he had been an instant earlier. One pellet stung Frank’s shoulder, but that was all. Behind him, though, the man driving the freight wagon cried out in pain as some of the flying buckshot struck him in the back.

  Frank somersaulted and came up in a crouch, the Colt Peacemaker already in his hand. Frantically, Callahan threw the empty Greener aside and grabbed for the pistol on his hip, but he was too slow by a mile. His hand had barely touched the butt of the gun when Frank’s Colt boomed twice.

  The bullets struck Callahan at a rising angle. The first one tore through his groin and on up into his belly before it shattered his spine. The second slug took him in the middle of his torso and punched a hole through his left lung, barely missing his heart. Even without hitting his heart, the two bullets did more than enough damage. Blood filled Callahan’s mouth as his suddenly nerveless legs folded up underneath him. He hit the ground hard. A crimson pool quickly formed under his body, too much for even the thirsty dust of the street to soak up.

  Frank straightened from his crouch and strode toward Callahan as the echoes of the shots died away. Callahan gasped for breath, unable to draw any air into his body. All he managed to do was to produce a grotesque whistling and bubbling. Gun still in hand, Frank looked down at him and said, “You had to try to even the score, didn’t you, Callahan? And all it got you was killed.”

  “Y-you . . . bastard!” Callahan managed to grate, the words thick and garbled because of the blood in his mouth. “You ain’t . . . heard the last—”

  His head fell to the side, and more blood spilled from his mouth.

  “I’ve heard the last of you,” Frank said, even though Callahan was dead and couldn’t hear him.

  He holstered his gun and turned toward the freight wagon, hurrying forward to check on the wounded driver. The man had dropped the reins when he was hit, and the team of mules pulling the wagon had come to a stop in the middle of the street. The driver was hunched forward. Blood dotted the back of his vest.

  “How bad are you hit, mister?” Frank asked as he came up and put a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “Don’t know,” the driver replied. “All I know is it hurts like hell!”

  Several townspeople were approaching, drawn by the shots. “Somebody fetch a doctor,” Frank snapped at them, and one of the men turned and ran in the other direction. Frank didn’t think the driver was seriously wounded, but the man definitely needed some medical attention.

  It was damned lucky that no one else had been close enough to be hit by the shotgun blast. The rest of the buckshot had harmlessly peppered the street and a nearby water trough. If Callahan had made his move a few seconds earlier, enough distance would have separated him from his target so that Frank wouldn’t have been able to get out of the way. As it was, it had been a mighty close thing.

  Pablo Gomez came up to Frank. “Señor Morgan, you are all right?” the liveryman asked anxiously.

  Frank nodded. There was a little bloodstain on the left shoulder of his shirt. He pulled the garment back and saw that the piece of buckshot had scraped the skin, leaving a little gash. The wound stung, but wasn’t serious at all.

  “Come to my stable,” Gomez urged him. “I have some medicine I can put on that scratch.”

  “Something you use on your horses?” Frank asked with a smile.

  “It is better than anything you will get from a regular doctor,” Gomez insisted.

  “All right. Let’s go.”

  They had taken only a couple of steps, however, when an angry voice demanded, “Stop right there, Morgan!”

  Frank recognized the voice, so he wasn’t surprised when he turned slowly and saw John Selman standing there. The constable glared at him, looked at Callahan’s body, and then glared some more at Frank.

  “You just couldn’t keep from killin’ somebody else, could you?”

  “Seemed like the thing to do at the time, since Callahan had just let loose at me with both barrels of a Greener and was reaching for his pistol.”

  “Sí, Señor Selman,” Gomez put in. “Es verdad. I saw it happen. So did my sons, and there must have been twenty or thirty more people along the street who saw Señor Callahan attack Señor Morgan.”

  “If I want your opinion, greaser, I’ll ask for it,” Selman growled. “Didn’t I tell you to get out of town, Morgan?”

  “That’s what I was trying to do. I was on my way to the livery stable to get my horse.”

  “How come you didn’t ride out yesterday?”

  “Because I had things to do,” Frank said curtly. “I still do. Now either arrest me, Selman, in which case I’ll hire the best lawyer in town and get any charges thrown out as soon as a judge hears what happened, or stay out of my way.”

  Selman looked like he was just itching to hook and draw, but he had the sense not to try it. He was a gunman, but not a fast draw. The craven shot from ambush was more his style.

  “You say you’re leavin’?” he asked.

  “As soon as I can.”

  “Reckon I could make you stay for the inquest on this fella, and on his brother too.”

  “Again, try it,” Frank said. “I’ll put the best lawyer in El Paso to work right away.”

  Selman glowered for a moment longer, but then he jerked his shoulders in an angry shrug and said, “All right, as long as you’re leavin’, I don’t reckon it matters all that much. There were enough witnesses to both shootin’s so that the coroner’s jury won’t have no trouble comin’ back with a verdict.”

  “I’m obliged,” Frank said with a nod.

  “Just don’t let the sun go down on you again in El Paso.”

  “Don’t worry . . . it won’t.”

  Selman turned and barked at the crowd, “Ain’t nobody sent for the damn undertaker yet?”

  Frank saw that one of the local doctors had arrived and was tending to the wounded wagoneer. Satisfied that the man was going to be taken care of, Frank walked on down the street to the stable with Pablo Gomez.

  “Never have I seen a man move so quickly, Señor Morgan,” Gomez said. “I stepped out of my barn and saw that man Callahan with a shotgun, walking along behind the wagon. Then I saw you coming toward us, and I remembered what I had heard about you shooting that Jud Callahan yesterday. But before I could call a warning, everything began to happen at once.... My apologies, Señor Morgan.”

  “There’s nothing for you to apologize for, amigo,” Frank assured him. “There was nothing you could have done. Anyway, you helped me out with Selman, and I’m grateful for that.”

  “Selman!” Gomez repeated. He made the sign of the cross. “Dios mio, that one is a bad hombre. If he is your enemy, it is wise to have eyes in the back of your head, I am thinking.”

  Frank couldn’t argue with that.

  Dog bounded out of the stable with plenty of canine enthusiasm to greet Frank. The big cur was getting on in years, but he still acted like a puppy at times. Stormy tossed his head, also obviously glad to see Frank. The three of them, man, horse, and dog, were trail partners and would be as long as they all lived.

  El Diablo and the packhorse were ready to travel also. Gomez dabbed some of the medicinal ointment on Frank’s wounded shoulder, and Frank put on a clean, faded blue shirt from his saddlebags. Once that was done, all the party was waiting on was Conrad.

  He showed up about ten minutes later, wearing boots, jeans, a flannel shirt, a canvas jacket, and a brown Stetson. A gun belt was buckled around his hips, and in the holster was a pistol that Frank recognized as a .38 caliber Colt Lightning. It was a good gun, even though he preferred the added
stopping action of a .44 or .45.

  Before Frank could say anything, Conrad said, “I noticed the undertaker’s wagon down the street, and it came as no surprise when I heard some of the bystanders talking about how Frank Morgan had killed another man.”

  “He didn’t give me much choice,” Frank said.

  “Who was he, the brother of the man you killed yesterday?”

  “As a matter of fact . . . yes.”

  Conrad regarded him coolly. “What if they had other brothers?”

  “I reckon I’ll deal with that when and if the time comes. Wouldn’t be the first time such a thing has happened.”

  “No, I imagine not.”

  Frank’s jaw tightened in anger at Conrad’s obvious disapproval. “You know,” he said pointedly, “if I wasn’t good with a gun, you never would have come to me for help with your railroad problems, now would you?”

  “No, I suppose not.” Conrad looked around, unperturbed by what Frank had said. “You mentioned something about having a horse for me?”

  Pablo Gomez led El Diablo forward. “Here you are, Señor. A finer mount you will not find in El Paso . . . except, of course, for Señor Morgan’s Appaloosa.”

  Conrad eyed the big black horse dubiously. “He’s an evil-looking brute. I’m not sure I trust him.”

  Despite El Diablo’s name—which had probably been wishful thinking on the part of the horse’s previous owner, Frank had decided—the animal appeared placid, not the least bit skittish or troublesome. Frank took the reins and handed them to Conrad. “Give him a try.”

  Conrad was still suspicious. “Is this one of those tricks you Westerners play on greenhorns? As soon as I mount up, is this animal going to go wild and start bucking and trying to throw me off?”

  “This horse has never bucked anyone off, to my knowledge, Señor,” Gomez said. “El Diablo is a friendly horse.”

  Conrad grunted, obviously still not convinced. But he put his foot in the stirrup and swung up into the saddle, every muscle tense as he awaited some sort of explosion underneath him.

  The explosion didn’t come. El Diablo simply sat there, waiting.

  “All right, maybe the horse isn’t wild,” Conrad said after a moment. “That still doesn’t mean I trust it.”