Rescue

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’ll try, Sheriff.”

  “Good hunting, Frank Morgan.” Sheriff Keal turned and walked away.

  Frank rolled a cigarette and refilled his coffee cup. “This time, I’ll get you, Dooley,” he muttered. “If you get in my way, I’ll kill you.”

  Two

  From long habit, Frank checked his back trail often. It didn’t take him long to pick up on the man who was following him. He didn’t know if it was the cowboy who claimed Frank had killed his brother, or Deputy Barlow, or who. But he got tired of it very quickly.

  Frank reined up, got his field glasses from the saddlebags, and began studying the still-distant figure. After a few moments, the image became clearer and Frank could make out some of the man’s features. He didn’t know who it was; had never seen the man before. But the man was definitely following him. Frank decided to wait for him. He got his rifle from the saddle boot and waited.

  When the man got within a dozen yards from him, Frank stood up and the man reined up.

  “I don’t mean you no harm, Morgan,” the man said. “I just want to talk.”

  “You must have seen me back in town. Why didn’t you talk then?”

  “Couldn’t. Too risky.”

  “You want to explain that?”

  “I was once a friend of Val Dooley. That tell you anything?”

  “Maybe. Go on.”

  “Can I dismount?”

  “Go ahead.”

  The man swung down from the saddle and looked around. “They’s a spot of shade over yonder. Want to talk there?”

  “Lead the way.”

  The men squatted down in the shade and the stranger looked at Dog, sitting close by. “That dog’s got a mean look in his eye. Do he bite?”

  “He’s been known to. What’s on your mind?”

  “You lookin’ for Val?”

  “Not really. But his name keeps getting tossed at me.”

  “I grew up with Val. We was neighbors back when we was boys. Then we become men and both of us hit the hoot-owl trail. But Val was too randy for me and I broke away from him. I’d run into him ever now and then and we’d talk. Val always seemed to have lots of money and he’d give me some; kept wantin’ me to rejoin up with his gang. I never did. Then he told me ’bout six months ago he was gettin’ tarred of California and was thinkin’ ’bout headin’ down to New Mexico-Arizona way. Had him a plan to kidnap women and sell them into whorin’. Then you showed up and Val had to hit the trail a bit sooner than he wanted to. You really busted up his gang, Morgan.”

  Frank nodded his head and waited for the man to continue.

  “And you can bet he knows you was in Los Angeles and knows you done left. He knew it hours ago.”

  “How?”

  “Telegraph wires, Morgan. You know they’s strung all over the West now.”

  “He hasn’t had time to set all that up. I just ran him out about a month ago,” Frank said dubiously.

  “It was already in place. Outlaw by the name of Mason come up with the idea and set it up some months ago.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Val had him kilt and took over his gang. Val’s a mean one, Morgan. And he’s a planner and a schemer too. He plans to become king of the outlaws someday. And the way he’s a-goin’, looks like he might make it.”

  “And you’re going to join him?”

  The stranger shook his head. “Hell, no, Morgan. Not me. I’m headin’ for San Diego. Get me an honest job and try to find me a good woman to marry up with. I just wanted to warn you ’bout Val.”

  “And I thank you for that.”

  “Don’t think nothin’ ’bout it. Val’s crazy, Morgan. And he’s killin’-mean. He’s done brought grief to a lot of people. He’s got to be stopped. I figure you’re the man to stop him. That is, if he don’t kill you.”

  “A lot of people have tried that, stranger. What is your name?”

  “I ain’t a-tellin’ you. Val might capture you and torture it out of you. Then he’d come after me. And he likes to torture people. I’m tellin’ you, the man is crazy.”

  “I’ve had a number of people tell me that.”

  “Well, you can add me to the list. And I know firsthand. I’ve seen some of the things he done. Made me puke. I hope you kill the son of a bitch. If any man on this earth needs killin’, it’s Val Dooley.” The stranger stood up. “You be careful, Morgan. I’m tellin’ you, Val knows you’re on the way.” Without another word, the man turned and walked to his horse. He mounted up and rode off toward the south.

  Frank didn’t know whether to believe the man or not, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. He mounted up and headed out, this time more to the east than to the south. Val Dooley could be somebody else’s worry for now. Right now, Frank wanted to get into Northern New Mexico and check out some land. He would follow the stage road east into Arizona and then cut some north to Wickenburg. Frank loved the northern parts of Arizona and New Mexico, and had always thought that someday he’d like to settle there. Maybe this trip would be the one that would hold him in one place. He hoped so.

  But for now, he had days of long, hot riding ahead of him.

  * * *

  Weeks later, a very tired and hot and dirty Frank Morgan rode into Wickenburg. His horses were tired and Dog was just about pooped out. All Frank wanted was a long, hot soapy bath, a change into clean fresh clothing, and something to eat. Then to sleep in a bed, on a nice feather-tick, for about ten hours.

  What he got, almost right out of the saddle, was trouble.

  Frank had just left the livery, after arranging for the care of his animals, and was carrying his saddlebags, stuffed with dirty clothes, heading for the laundry and then a bathhouse. A shout stopped him in the street.

  “Turn around and face me, Morgan. I been waitin’ a long time for this.”

  Frank immediately dropped his saddlebags and slowly turned around, his pale eyes narrowing at the sight before him. He knew the man as Ray Hayden. He was a gunfighter, so called. But mostly he was a paid assassin.

  “Ray,” Frank called as people scurried to clear the street. “When did you crawl out of your hole?”

  “I’m gonna kill you, Morgan. I ain’t forgot the last time we met.”

  “Oh, yeah, Ray. I remember now. That’s when I took your guns away from you and used them to pistol-whip you.”

  Ray Hayden cussed him loud and long.

  Frank laughed at him. “Is that the best you can do, Ray? Or are you just trying to work up enough nerve to pull on me?”

  “I said I aim to kill you, Morgan!” the man shouted.

  There were no locals left visible in the line of fire in front of Frank. He had no way of knowing about any behind him.

  “Do you want me to turn my back to you, Ray?” Frank said with a smile. “Would that make it easier for you?”

  “Damn your eyes, Morgan!” Hayden shouted.

  The day was very hot in the high Sonoran Desert, and Frank could see that Ray Hayden’s shirt was soaked with sweat. It was hot, but not intensely so. The man’s scared, Frank thought. Then he mentally added: But that might only serve to make him even more dangerous. And Frank knew that while Hayden normally was a back-shooter, he was a fast gun when pushed.

  “The marshal and his deputies are out of town, Morgan,” Hayden called, stepping a few feet closer. “Some trouble out in the country.”

  “Here, now!” a citizen called from a store entrance. “You men stop this right now!”

  “Shut up!” Hayden shouted. “I aim to kill Frank Morgan.”

  “Frank Morgan!” another citizen shouted. “Here in Wickenburg?”

  “He’s gonna be buried here too,” Hayden said. “So you best advise the undertaker to get ready.”

  Frank waited for Hayden to make his move, something the man did not seem in any hurry to do.

  “Hayden,” Frank said, “I’m hot and tired and hungry. And I’m tired of your big mouth. Now either make your play or give this up.”r />
  “Draw, Morgan!” Hayden shouted.

  “This was your idea, Hayden. It’s up to you.”

  “I’ll buy the winner a drink,” a woman called from a saloon.

  “Then you better uncork the bottle,” Hayden called. “I’m a-gettin’ thirsty.” Ray Hayden’s hand closed around the butt of his pistol and he pulled.

  Frank shot him.

  The bullet hit Ray in the belly and knocked him down to the boardwalk. He tried to get up, and managed to roll off the boardwalk into the street. He clawed for his gun and closed his hand around the butt.

  “Don’t do it, Ray,” Frank called.

  “Hell with you!” Hayden said. He tried to lift and cock his pistol just as the shock wore off and the pain hit him. He yelled in agony and pulled the trigger. The .44 boomed and the bullet tore into the dirt, sending a huge cloud of dust into the air. Ray began coughing and gagging. “I can’t see nothin’!” he finally said. “Somebody point out Morgan. I want to kill him.”

  “Get a doctor,” a local said.

  “Get the undertaker,” another said. “He’s done for, I ’spect.”

  “I ain’t neither!” Ray yelled as a large crowd began gathering around him. “Git out of my way. I ain’t done yet.” He tried to lift his pistol, and a man reached down and jerked it from his hand.

  “Give it up, mister,” the local said. “Here comes the doctor.”

  “Hell with the doctor,” Ray mumbled.

  “The preacher’s comin’ too,” another citizen said.

  “Hell with him too,” Ray muttered, the side of his face pressing against the dirt, his breath kicking up dust.

  “That ain’t a nice thing for a man about to meet his Maker to be sayin’.”

  “Hell with you too,” Ray replied.

  The citizen shook his head and stepped back onto the boardwalk. He looked at Frank. “Are you really Frank Morgan?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you’d be older.”

  “It’s my clean living,” Frank told him. “Keeps me young.”

  The citizen shook his head. “Town’s gettin’ plumb filled up with smart alecks.”

  The preacher knelt down beside Ray Hayden. “Would you like for me to pray for your soul?”

  “I’d druther you get me a drink of whiskey,” Ray told him. “After that you can get me a whore to pull her dress up.”

  “For shame, for shame,” the preacher admonished him.

  The doctor elbowed his way through the gathering crowd and knelt down beside Ray, pulling the man’s hands away from his bloody stomach. He quickly checked him. “Bullet went right through the liver. Make your peace with God, mister.”

  “Gimme my pistol. I wanna kill that damn Frank Morgan.”

  The doctor stood up. “Some of you men carry him over to my office. He can die in peace there.”

  Ray groaned in pain and then said, “You ain’t much of a doctor, you quack! Why can’t you fix me up?”

  The doctor looked at Frank. “You should have shot him in the head, Morgan. It wouldn’t have hurt him. There apparently is nothing up there to hurt.”

  Three

  Frank lounged around the town for a couple of days. He provisioned up and bought another packhorse and packsaddle. He bought another water bag for the trek across the dry country. At first the new packhorse, called Buster, didn’t seem to want to get along with Stormy. All that was settled after Stormy kicked him once and bit him twice. Buster got the message.

  Frank bought a dozen boxes of .45s, half a dozen boxes of .44-40s, and another bandolier. Then he sat around the town’s many saloons and listened to the talk.

  “That damn Val Dooley is on the rampage again,” he heard one man say. “He’s all over New Mexico.”

  “He knows better than to mess around in Texas,” his drinking buddy replied. “The Rangers have make it public that they’ll shoot him on sight.”

  “Somebody damn sure needs to.”

  In another saloon, Frank heard a man say, “I heard the Dooley gang was operating wide open up in Northern New Mexico Territory.”

  “I heard the same thing,” another man said. “Stealin’ little girls and sometimes little boys and sellin’ them into slavery.”

  Both men looked at Frank. “You goin’ after Val Dooley, Mr. Morgan?” one asked.

  “Not directly,” Frank replied.

  “What do that mean?” the other asked.

  “It means if he gets in my way, there’ll be trouble.”

  “Way I heared it,” the first local said, “Val Dooley don’t like you. Seems he’s been makin’ big brags ’bout how he’s gonna kill you.”

  “Then I reckon he’s got it to do.” Frank drained his beer and walked out.

  Outside on the boardwalk, a young man ran up to Frank. “The sheriff wants to see you, Mr. Morgan. He give me a nickel to find you and tell you.”

  Frank smiled and gave the boy a silver dollar. The boy’s eyes widened. “You found me, son. Thanks.”

  “Have you really killed a thousand men?” the boy asked.

  Frank laughed and put a big hand on the boy’s shoulder. “No, son. Those are just stories people have made up about me.”

  “Five hundred?” the boy asked hopefully.

  Again, Frank laughed and patted the boy’s shoulder. “No, boy. Not five hundred either. You run along now. Thanks for telling me about the sheriff.”

  At the sheriff’s office, the sheriff was quite blunt and came right to the point. “I want you out of this town, Morgan.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I just got word that some of Ray Hayden’s friends are making plans to kill you. I don’t want a bloodbath on my streets.”

  “Hayden died?”

  “Just after dawn this morning.”

  “You worried about whose blood getting spilled, Sheriff: mine or theirs?”

  The lawman smiled. “I seen you back in ’67 or ’68, Morgan. At that old tradin’ post in Colorado. When them five gun-handlers from West Texas braced you. When the smoke cleared, they was all dead or dyin’ and you had a little nick on the left leg and a cut on your cheek from flyin’ glass. I’m not a damn bit worried about your blood, Morgan. But when the lead starts flyin’, innocent people tend to get hurt.”

  Frank nodded his head in agreement. “I agree, Sheriff. All right. I’ll pull out later on this afternoon. Soon as I can pack up.”

  “Thanks, Morgan. That’s mighty white of you. You really goin’ to New Mexico to try to buy some land and settle down?”

  “News gets around,” Frank said with a grin. “Yes, I am.”

  “Good luck to you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Frank was packed up and riding out of Wickenburg two hours later.

  * * *

  Frank fixed an early supper the first night out, and then rode on for a few more miles, using up another couple of hours of daylight, all the while checking his back trail. He made a cold camp just before dark, and slept the night through without being disturbed. Dog sounded no alarms during the night. Indeed, the big cur was still asleep when Frank awakened.

  Frank fried some bacon and ate that, then sopped up the grease with a hunk of store-bought bread, then had a pot of coffee and a couple of cigarettes. There was not a single cloud in the sky when Frank saddled up and pointed Stormy’s nose north, toward Prescott. Frank didn’t anticipate any trouble in Prescott, for that was Arizona’s territorial capital and was well policed. Prescott was the territorial capital first in the early 1860s; then the capital moved to Tucson for a time, then back to Prescott in 1877.

  At noon of the second day out, after checking his back trail every ten minutes or so, Frank knew he was being followed, and grew tired of it very quickly. “Probably Ray Hayden’s pals,” Frank muttered, and began looking for a good place to set up an ambush. It didn’t take him long to find the ideal spot.

  If those behind him were merely travelers on the road to Prescott, and they might well be, they coul
d ride on and never know they were in his gun sights. If they were trouble-hunters, they would know instantly where Frank had left the trail and would know just as quickly they were in big trouble.

  Frank left his horses in the shade of some pines just off the trail, and taking his rifle, took up a position on the crest of a rocky upthrust. He waited motionless and watched as four men came riding slowly into view. When they drew closer, Frank could recognize one of the riders: Till Brackman. Frank grunted softly. Till was a bad one, for a fact, quick and deadly. He didn’t know the other three. And Till was a longtime friend of Ray Hayden . . . or had been, that is, now that Ray was busy rolling dice with the devil.

  The four men reined up abruptly almost directly below Frank’s position in the rocks.

  “He’s left the road,” one of the men said, his words carrying clearly to Frank.

  “No shit?” Till said sarcastically. “Well, I’ll tell you boys what you’d better do. You’d better keep your hands away from your guns, ’cause you can believe Morgan’s got us in gun sights right now.”

  Frank had edged closer to the rim and was looking down on the riders. “Believe him, boys,” he said. “Sit your saddles easy now.”

  Four sets of eyes looked up into the cold gray eyes of Frank Morgan, looking down at them over the barrel of a. 44-40.

  “Can’t a man even ride a road in peace, Morgan?” Till asked.

  “Not if you’re following me,” Frank told him.

  “Who says we are?” one of the riders with Till asked.

  “I do,” Frank replied. “You have a name?”

  “Mack.”

  “Mack . . . what?”

  “Mack Smith, Jones, Johnson. Whatever suits me at the time.”

  “These other two are the Crow brothers,” Till said. “Todd and Boyd.”

  “Heard of them,” Frank said. “Montana gunhands. Like to shoot farmers in the back, so I’m told.”

  “You ain’t never heared of me?” Mack asked.

  “Can’t say as I have. You famous, Mack?”

  “I got a rep,” Mack said sullenly.

  “Where would I find it, carved on the walls of whorehouses and outhouses?”

  “I’ll get you for that, Morgan,” Mack flared right back.