The coffin was lowered into the ground with ropes as the mourners gathered at the foot of the grave. Pastor McCrory opened his Bible and said a few more words, then led a prayer. When that was done, nothing was left to do except for the mourners filing past and dropping a handful of earth from the mound next to the grave onto the lid of the coffin. Buckston didn’t care for that custom—he thought the hollow thudding of dirt landing on a coffin was one of the worst sounds he’d ever heard—but it was tradition. Laura, as Flynn’s only remaining relative, went first. Buckston had to keep a hand on her arm to steady her.
His mouth was a grim line as he dropped dirt on the coffin. “So long, Boss,” he muttered. With that farewell said, he began to think about his next move. He had told Laura that he was going to take her back to the ranch, but now he was leaning toward entrusting that task to Caleb Glover, who had been at the Lazy F even longer than Buckston. Buckston’s saddle horse was tied to the back of the wagon; he could take some of the boys and leave from here, heading up into the hills in search of the killer, Frank Morgan. The sooner they rounded up that lobo wolf, the better.
That was what he was going to do, he decided, even though Laura might not like it. Frank Morgan had better watch his back trail, because Buckston was coming after him.
And the foreman had blood in his eye.
* * *
A keen-eyed man on horseback sat in the thick shadows under a stand of pines atop a hill overlooking San Remo. From where he was he could see the mourners gathered around the grave as the preacher spoke the final words. The rider watched as those down below filed past Howard Flynn’s grave and dropped dirt on the coffin. He wasn’t particularly interested in the burial itself, or the people who attended the service. What he hoped was that someone else would show up, not down there in the graveyard, of course, but perhaps on one of these wooded hills that gave a good view of the cemetery. The watcher lifted his eyes from the burying and slowly scanned all the territory he could see from here, looking for any sign of movement, any telltale clue that someone might be lurking nearby.
Nothing. If Morgan was here, he was doing a damned good job of lying low. And of course, given Morgan’s reputation and the fact that he had survived for so many years in such a dangerous profession, that was entirely possible.
It didn’t matter, the hunter thought with a grim smile. Sooner or later he would find Frank Morgan. It was just a matter of time.
Chapter Twenty
Frank figured that Howard Flynn’s funeral would be held in the morning, or around midday at the latest. So he waited until that afternoon to approach San Remo, when people would be going about their normal business again. He forded the river miles north of the settlement, stopping so that he and Stormy could drink their fill from the cold, clear, fast-flowing stream, and then circled far to the west so that he could approach the town from that direction. He thought he would be less likely to be spotted that way.
Not knowing how many men were already out in the hills hunting him, he hadn’t wanted to fire any shots unless he had to, so he’d had to watch regretfully as Stormy spooked several rabbits during the course of the ride. Frank could have drawn the Colt he had taken from Glover and knocked down any of the critters with ease, and they would have tasted mighty good after he had roasted them over a fire.
But the sound of shots might just bring down more trouble on his head, so he let the rabbits go and remained hungry.
It was early afternoon when he neared San Remo. He was following the trail between there and Prescott, paralleling it about two hundred yards to the north and using every bit of cover he could find. He didn’t emerge from the shelter of one stand of trees and head swiftly for another until he had surveyed the range all around him without seeing anyone. A couple of times he’d had to wait until riders moved on out of sight and earshot before continuing toward San Remo.
This wasn’t the first time Frank had been a hunted man. He hadn’t liked the feeling on those other occasions, and he didn’t like it now.
But eventually he was able to work his way to within a hundred yards of the rear of Jasper Culverhouse’s livery barn. Frank swung down from the saddle and let his gaze rove over the settlement. From there he couldn’t see anything except the backs of some of the buildings and a few cabins. Nobody was moving around, though, so after a while he decided it was time to risk making a move of his own.
Leading Stormy, he walked quickly toward the barn, covering the distance in only a few moments. The back door was closed, but Frank swung it open and led the Appaloosa through it. A feeling of relief washed through him when they were both inside the barn, out of sight.
Frank didn’t see Culverhouse. He listened for a second and heard the clang of hammer and anvil. Culverhouse was working in the blacksmith shop. Frank turned Stormy into the usual stall and dumped some oats from the bin into the trough for the Appaloosa. Then he went to the barn’s entrance, where the big double doors stood open on this warm, sunny day.
Staying back in the shadows, he looked across the yard between the livery barn and the blacksmith shop. The doors in the front and back of the smithy were open to let the heat from the forge escape. Frank saw Culverhouse working at the anvil, sparks flying through the air as he smashed the heavy hammer against whatever he was fashioning.
Dog sat in the back door, his head tilted in interest, watching the burly blacksmith.
Frank smiled. The wind was out of the east, or Dog would have already caught his scent. Frank gave a low whistle. Dog’s ears shot up, and the big cur jumped to his feet and whirled around. He bounded across the yard toward the barn and raced inside the building, rearing up on his hind legs to rest his front paws against his master’s chest. His tongue lapped against Frank’s face.
Culverhouse had noticed Dog’s sudden reaction, as Frank had hoped he would. Still holding the hammer, the blacksmith stepped toward the shop’s back door and looked across at the barn, frowning. Frank ruffled the fur on Dog’s head with one hand and waved the other at Culverhouse, whose eyes bulged in surprise when he saw who was standing there just inside the barn, at the edge of the shadows.
Culverhouse set his hammer aside and started quickly across the yard. He opened his mouth to call out, but Frank made a gesture that silenced him. The blacksmith didn’t say anything until he had stepped into the barn.
“Good Lord, Frank, what are you doin’ here?” Culverhouse asked. “The whole country’s after you for killin’ Howard Flynn!”
“I didn’t kill Flynn,” Frank said.
“Jeff Buckston said—”
“Buckston’s wrong,” Frank cut in. “It’s true enough that he and some other hands from the Lazy F rode up and found me standing beside Flynn’s body, holding a gun, but that doesn’t mean I shot him.”
Culverhouse’s frown deepened. “Buckston said you told some story about another man who was there, who happened to be wearing the same sort of slicker you were. . . .”
“That’s the truth. I’m convinced it was Vern Riley or one of Sandeen’s other hired guns who killed Flynn. I just came along and got the blame for it.”
Culverhouse looked skeptical. “I don’t like doubtin’ you, Frank, but that’s a mighty hard story to swallow. If it’s true, why’d you jump Caleb Glover and then take off for the high lonesome like you did?”
“Because I knew Buckston would never believe me no matter how many times I told him what happened,” Frank said. “Probably most of the other people around here wouldn’t have, either. I’ve got to have proof if I’m going to convince anybody that I didn’t kill Flynn, and I couldn’t get that if I was locked up somewhere.”
Culverhouse rubbed at his heavy jaw and was obviously thinking hard about what Frank had said. After a moment he asked, “Why’d you come back here?”
“Because I need food and supplies. I’m going to have to make myself pretty scarce around the settlement for a while. Also, I wanted to talk to you and maybe Mayor Donohue. I want somebody in these parts to
know that I’m innocent, at least of shooting Howard Flynn. That’s why I’m asking you to believe me, Jasper.”
“Well . . . I reckon it could have happened the way you said. Lord knows there are plenty of fellas around here who own yellow slickers. I’ve got one myself, and I know several others in town who do. Why don’t you tell me the whole story?”
Frank did so, backing up to start with his visit to Sandeen’s ranch and Sandeen’s denial that he’d had anything to do with sending Carl Lannigan to kill San Remo’s new marshal. By the time Frank finished telling Culverhouse about the mysterious gunman he had swapped lead with immediately following the shooting of Howard Flynn, the blacksmith was beginning to look more convinced that he was telling the truth.
“I reckon nobody could prove that it didn’t happen that way,” Culverhouse said. “But you got to admit, it looked mighty bad the way Buckston and the others rode up and found you there.”
Frank nodded. “Yes, it looked bad. But it’s not proof that I’m guilty.”
“No, it ain’t.” Culverhouse took a deep breath and nodded firmly, as if he had reached a decision. “I believe you, Frank. And I’ll help you if I can. What do you want me to do?”
“If you’ve got anything around here to eat, I could sure use some food. My backbone’s about to poke out the front of my shirt.”
Culverhouse smiled. “Stomach thinks your throat’s been cut, eh? Yeah, I got some grub in the room where I sleep next to the shop. I’ll fetch it to you. Just stay back here where nobody’ll see you. It’d cause a hell of a commotion if folks knew you were right here in town.”
Frank nodded in agreement and waited while Culverhouse brought some biscuits and a slab of salt pork and an opened can of beans from his living quarters. Frank tore eagerly into the vittles.
“I put some coffee on to boil, too,” Culverhouse said. “It won’t be as good as what you’d get down at the café—”
“I don’t care about that,” Frank said, “as long as it’s coffee.”
By the time a half hour had gone by, with his belly now full of food and coffee, Frank felt almost like a new man. He and Culverhouse sat on a couple of stools, and the blacksmith asked, “What are you gonna do now?”
“My plan is basically the same one I had before,” Frank said. “I still have to get my hands on one of Sandeen’s men and make him talk. But now I not only have to get him to admit that Sandeen sent Lannigan after me, but also to reveal who really killed Flynn.”
Culverhouse shook his head. “That won’t be easy. All those boys who ride for Sandeen are tough hombres.”
“I’m tougher,” Frank said. “It’s my life that’s at stake.”
* * *
Not surprisingly, weariness caught up to him once his belly was full. He and Culverhouse agreed that he would climb up into the hayloft and get some sleep until night fell. They also decided not to bring Mayor Donohue in on this just yet. The fewer people who were aware that Frank was back in San Remo, the better.
“I’ll head for Saber once it’s dark,” Frank said as he paused at the bottom of the ladder leading up to the loft. “That’s where the answer to this problem is going to be found.”
“I sure hope you’re right, Frank. And whatever you do, I hope you can do it without bein’ spotted. There are a lot of hombres around here who would be more than happy to shoot you on sight.”
“I had the same thought myself,” Frank said with a grim smile as he began to climb the ladder.
He bedded down in the hay and slept soundly, not waking until the aroma of coffee drifted up to him. When he opened his eyes and sat up, he saw through the open hayloft door that it was dark outside. He moved to the edge of the loft and cautiously looked down into the barn. The front doors were closed now, and Culverhouse had lit a lantern that hung from a hook on the wall. The blacksmith looked up at the loft and called softly, “Come on down, Frank. It’s all clear.”
Frank descended the ladder and found that Culverhouse had brought more food and coffee for him, including a bowl of stew and a slab of apple pie from Mary Elizabeth Warren’s café. “If eatin’ that pie don’t raise a man’s spirits,” Culverhouse said with a grin, “then nothin’ will.”
“What excuse did you give her for bringing the food back here instead of eating it there at the café?”
“Told her I had a horse about to foal and that I had to keep an eye on it.”
Frank nodded. “Good idea.”
“I packed you some more biscuits and salt pork, too, to take with you in your saddlebags when you leave. Anything else I can do for you?”
Frank shook his head as he swallowed a spoonful of the savory stew. “No, because I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I may get hold of what I need tonight, or it might take several days.”
“Somebody willin’ to testify against Sandeen, you mean.”
“That’s right.”
Culverhouse sighed and shook his head. “Still seems like a long shot to me.”
“When it’s the only shot you’ve got, it doesn’t matter how long it is. You just have to make it.”
“Yeah, I reckon.”
Frank polished off the food, smacking his lips over the delicious pie, and drank the last of the coffee. Then he shook hands with Culverhouse and said, “I’m much obliged for all your help, Jasper. And I thank you even more for believing me. You don’t know how much that means.”
“Yeah, well, I like to think I’m a pretty good judge of when a man’s lyin’ and when he’s tellin’ the truth.” Culverhouse gripped Frank’s hand hard. “Don’t let me down, Marshal.”
Frank glanced down at the badge that was still pinned to his chest. He hadn’t even thought about it lately. “I don’t guess I’m the marshal of San Remo anymore,” he said.
“Nobody’s fired you, have they?”
“Well . . . no.”
Culverhouse nodded. “Then as far as I’m concerned you’re still the marshal.”
Frank slapped him on the shoulder and grinned, then brought Stormy out of the stall and began saddling up.
When Frank was ready to ride, Culverhouse blew out the lantern, plunging the barn into pitch darkness. Culverhouse knew the place like the back of his hand and was able to find the rear door and swing it open. Silvery light from the moon and stars demarcated the rectangular opening. With a wave that he didn’t know if Culverhouse saw or not, Frank rode out of the barn into the night.
He didn’t plan to cross the river here; too much chance that the sound of the Appaloosa’s hooves on the plank bridge would draw attention. Culverhouse had told Frank there was another place where the Verde could be forded about five miles south of San Remo. That was Frank’s destination, and then from there, Ed Sandeen’s Saber spread.
The moon was only a thin crescent, and that was just fine with Frank. There was enough light for him to see where he was going, but not so much that he would be readily visible if anybody was looking for him. He hoped that the search for him had been called off with the coming of night. If there were a bunch of trigger-happy cowboys blundering around in the darkness, somebody would probably get shot before morning—but it wouldn’t be Frank Morgan.
He found the ford Culverhouse had told him about with some difficulty, having to cast back and forth along the river a couple of times before he finally located it. The stream widened out a little here, and the level dropped enough so that Stormy could swim across without much trouble. With the legs of his jeans dripping from being soaked in the river, Frank turned the Appaloosa eastward, knowing that would take him onto Sandeen’s range.
So far he hadn’t seen or heard anyone else abroad in the darkness, but as he approached Sandeen’s headquarters, Stormy suddenly lifted his head, his ears pricking forward. Frank knew that something had alerted the Appaloosa, so he pulled back on the reins and brought the horse to a halt. Then he sat there in the saddle, listening intently.
After only a couple of seconds he heard the sound of hoofbeats; a whole passel of
them, in fact. Frank estimated that at least a dozen riders were on the move, maybe more.
And they were coming in his direction.
Chapter Twenty-one
Frank reined Stormy into the thick shadows under some trees. He swung down from the saddle and stood close against the horse’s side. His hand came up and closed over Stormy’s nose. The Appaloosa knew from experience that gesture meant for him to stay quiet and not call out to the other horses that would soon be passing.
In all likelihood, the men were members of one of the makeshift posses combing the hills for Frank Morgan, the notorious Drifter, the gunslinger who had shot down Howard Flynn. They firmly believed that they had right on their side and that bringing a murderer to justice was their only goal.
But Frank wasn’t a murderer, and he knew how easy it was for a posse to turn into a lynch mob or a firing squad. He stayed where he was in the shadows and waited for the group of riders to pass.
But when they did, a few minutes later, he was immediately struck by something odd about them. He couldn’t see them all that well, since the light wasn’t very good and the men trotted their horses past at least fifty yards from where Frank was hidden, but he thought something was wrong with their faces. There were more than a dozen riders—Frank now estimated twenty—and they were almost all past him before he realized what had made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
They were all wearing masks.
Bandannas were pulled up over the bottom halves of their faces, and their hat brims were tugged down low to obscure their features even more. No posse, even an unofficial one, was going to be gallivanting around the range at night with masks over their faces.
So if they weren’t looking for the fugitive, where were they going?
Frank didn’t have an answer for that, and the question strongly stirred his curiosity. He thought about the directions involved and realized that the masked riders could have come from Saber. And if they kept going the way they were headed, their route would take them pretty close to the headquarters of the Lazy F.
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