Rescue

by William W. Johnstone

  “Well, come on, old man,” Del said. “Let’s do it.”

  Frank slowly shook his head. “If you’re that anxious to die, boy, you know where your gun is. Hook it.”

  The first little faint fingers of doubt crept into Del’s eyes. And Frank saw it. He knew then Del was going to make a mistake. And that mistake was going to cost the young outlaw his life. Frank knew all the signs; had seen them many times over the years of his long, legendary career.

  Del blinked his eyes a couple of times. “You want me to pull on you?” he questioned.

  “That’s right, Del. It’s all your show.”

  “I’m better than you, Morgan.”

  “Prove it.”

  Del’s hand dipped and his fingers closed around the butt of his pistol. He never managed to clear leather. He heard an enormous boom and felt a hammerlike blow slam him in the chest. The next thing he fully realized was his leaning against the bar for support and Frank Morgan walking slowly toward him.

  “Where is Val Dooley?” Frank’s words echoed in Del’s head.

  “He’ll be into town in a couple days,” Del said. His own words sounded very strange to him.

  “I’ll be here,” Frank said.

  “You look funny,” Del said. “And you sound funny. What’s the damn joke? I don’t understand none of this. You’re dead, Morgan. I shot you.”

  “No, you didn’t, Del. And the joke’s on you.”

  “How come? I don’t like bein’ the butt of jokes.”

  “Too bad. You thought you could take me.”

  “Next time, I will, Morgan. That’s a promise.”

  “Sure, Del. Sure.”

  And just before Del closed his eyes for the last time, he heard Frank Morgan say, “Might as well make this legal. You’re under arrest, Del.”

  Del hit the floor.

  * * *

  Four days after Del’s shooting, two hard cases rode into town and tied up outside the saloon. Frank watched them from the general store across the street.

  “That man dressed all in black is one of the men who was with the man who told me he’d be back,” Sally Martin said.

  “Did he have a name you recall?” Frank asked.

  “I think the man you say is Val Dooley called him Lee.”

  “Lee Hart,” Frank said. “No-good out of Arkansas. He’s been staying one jump ahead of a rope for years. You ever see the other one?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I think I’ll walk over there and get acquainted,” Frank said. “Sally, you stay here.”

  The early fall day had turned off cloudy and cool, a preview of the winter that was to come. Frank walked across the wide street, his boots kicking up little puffs of dust with each step. He stepped into the saloon and walked up to the end of the bar. The bartender cut his eyes to the two men standing at the far end of the bar. Frank nodded his head minutely.

  “Let’s have some service here,” Lee’s partner demanded in a gruff tone.

  “Coming right up,” the barkeep said, walking down to the end of the bar. “What’ll it be, boys?”

  “Whiskey,” Lee said. “Leave the bottle.”

  With the outlaws served, the barkeep walked back to Frank. “Coffee,” Frank said in low tones. “Then get out of the way.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that twice,” the barkeep replied. “That one dressed all in black was here with Dooley.”

  Frank nodded his head in understanding.

  The barkeep placed a coffeepot and a cup in front of Frank and started to back off.

  “The sugar bowl,” Frank said, raising his voice so all in the saloon could hear. “When I can get it, I like my coffee with some sweetening.”

  “Well, you’re a real girl, aren’t you, Marshal?” Lee said with a laugh. “You maybe want a little lace napkin too?”

  “What I want is none of your damn business,” Frank told him.

  Lee turned and gave Frank a hard look. “You best curb that tongue, Marshal.”

  “Or you’ll do what?” Frank asked in a hard voice.

  “You don’t really want to know, sweetie,” Lee said, placing special emphasis on the word sweetie.

  Frank smiled at him. “I know what I’ll do, Lee. Believe me, I do.”

  “You know my name, Marshal. How come that is?”

  “Oh, you’re a famous man, Lee. Lawmen all over the West know about you. As a matter of fact, they’d love to find you.”

  “And you think you’re going to arrest me and collect the reward money, right?” Lee asked with a smile.

  “I’m not interested in the reward money, Lee.”

  “Oh?”

  “That’s right. So . . . I think I’ll just place you under arrest.”

  Lee laughed at that. “You hear that, Eddie?” he said to his partner. “Marshal Nobody is goin’ to arrest me.”

  “That ain’t nobody, Lee,” Eddie said. “I just now figured out who he is. That’s Frank Morgan.”

  Lee’s smile faded. “You got to be wrong, Eddie. What the hell would Frank Morgan be doin’ in a jerkwater town like this?”

  “Totin’ a badge is what he’s doin’,” Eddie replied. “And I ain’t wrong neither. That there is Frank Morgan.”

  “You boys are under arrest,” Frank said. “Keep your hands away from your guns and start walking toward the door.”

  “And if we don’t?” Lee asked.

  “I’ll kill you both. Kill you just as dead as Del Davis. He’s buried up on the hill.”

  “Del’s dead?” Eddie asked.

  “Cold and stiff in the ground,” Frank said.

  “I’m done,” Eddie said. “I ain’t goin’ up agin Frank Morgan.”

  “They’s two of us, Eddie,” Lee reminded him.

  “I don’t give a damn if they’s ten of us. I know men who’ve seen Morgan face four or five pretty good gun hands. They’re all dead and he’s standin’ here lookin’ at us. You want dead, you draw on him, not me. I’m unbucklin’ my gun belt, Morgan. I’m out of it. Take me to jail if you want to. I ain’t got no warrants out on me.” Eddie laid his gun belt on a table and stepped back away from the bar.

  “Sit down, Eddie,” Frank told him. “Take your drink with you. Sit and relax and enjoy the show.”

  “This ain’t no damn show, Morgan!” Lee blustered.

  “It’s going to be a short one, for a fact.”

  “Huh?”

  “Won’t take me but half a second to put lead in you.”

  “You got it to do, Morgan.”

  “You coming to jail peacefully, Lee?”

  “Hell, no.”

  Frank cleared leather before Lee could blink. The outlaw stared in disbelief at the Peacemaker in Frank’s hand. “Now are you coming along with me?” Frank asked.

  “I reckon so,” Lee said. “And I reckon you’re as fast as rumor says you are.” He stared at Frank for a moment. “You could have killed me, Morgan. Why didn’t you?”

  “I have something else in mind, Lee. Move it!”

  * * *

  The small jail had only two cells, each with two bunks. Frank put Lee Hart and Eddie in one cell.

  “What happens now, Morgan?” Eddie asked.

  “We wait for Val Dooley to show up.”

  “You figure on puttin’ Val in jail?” Lee asked.

  “No. I plan on killing him.”

  “You ain’t gonna put him in jail or kill him,” Lee said. “He’s just as fast with a hogleg as you.”

  “And when you’re dead,” Eddie said, “we’ll have our way with the women in this town and then burn the damn place to the ground.”

  “There’s only one hitch to your plan,” Frank told him.

  “What’s that?”

  “Me. And I’m hard to kill.”

  “Val’s smarter than you, Morgan,” Lee informed Frank. “He’s the smartest man I ever seen. He’ll figure out a way to kill you and then bust us out of this jail.”

  “Keep dreaming, boys. I’ll live
to see both of you dance at the end of a rope.”

  “When do we get somethin’ to eat?” Eddie asked. “I’m hongry.”

  “You’ll get supper. Relax, boys. Enjoy your time left on earth. I figure in about two months you’ll be looking at the hangman.”

  Both outlaws cussed Frank.

  “I want somethin’ to eat now, Morgan,” Eddie said.

  “Later, boys. Right now, I have something much more important to take care of.”

  “What?” Lee asked.

  “Feed my dog.”

  Thirty-two

  The general store served enough customers to stay in business, Frank noted, as did the saloon. There were probably a dozen or so small farms and ranches in the area, and it seemed as though each farmer had about six kids.

  “Where do they go to school?” Frank asked Ed Martin the morning after placing Lee and his pal in jail.

  “Used to have school over yonder in the church house. But the schoolmarm up and got married last year. Moved away. Now it’s up to the parents.” He looked up the street. “Riders coming, Marshal. Four of ’em. Can’t make ’em out from here.”

  “I can,” Sally Martin said, standing in the doorway to her father’s store. “That man in the red shirt is the man who told me he was comin’ back. Is that Val Dooley? He sorta resembles you, Mr. Morgan.”

  “That’s him, Sally,” Frank said, slipping the hammer thong off his Peacemaker.

  “Flashy dresser, ain’t he?” Ed said.

  “More than that,” Frank replied. “He’s either got more nerve than a wolverine, or he’s a damn fool, riding into town this way.”

  “He’s challengin’ you to arrest him, Marshal.”

  “I have no intention of arresting him, Ed.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. I intend to kill him. I’m going to put an end to this once and for all. Close up your store, Ed. You and your family get into the back and stay there. And if you don’t mind, take Dog with you.”

  “Consider it done,” Ed said, and walked into his general store. Frank told Dog to follow, and the cur reluctantly followed Ed. The store owner shut the door and pulled the blinds.

  Frank waited, fully exposed on the short boardwalk in front of the store. He didn’t think Val would try to shoot him from ambush. Val was too vain for that. He wanted a rep: the man who killed Frank Morgan. It would be a stand-up, look-you-in-the-eyes, hook and draw. And that suited Frank just fine.

  Val and the three men with him stopped at the far end of the short street, and sat their horses while they eyed Frank, standing on the boardwalk.

  Frank waited alone.

  After a moment, the four riders began walking their horses up the street, finally reining up in front of the saloon and dismounting. Val Dooley looked over at Frank, smiled, and then walked into the saloon, his men behind him.

  Frank stepped off the boardwalk and walked across the street, stepping up onto the short boardwalk in front of the saloon. His holstered Peacemaker was loaded up full, as was his short-barreled Peacemaker, tucked behind his gun belt, worn butt-forward, covered by his coat. He pushed open the batwings and stepped inside.

  Val was standing alone at the bar, a bottle of whiskey and a glass in front of him. His men were seated at a table near the rear of the saloon, off to Frank’s right. Val looked at Frank and smiled. “Well, well, the famous Frank Morgan. Come in, Morgan, have a drink on me.”

  “It’s a little early for me, Dooley,” Frank replied, walking to the end of the bar nearest the entrance. “Bring me a cup of coffee,” he said to the barkeep.

  “Put it on my tab,” Val said.

  “I’ll pay for my own,” Frank said.

  Val laughed. “What’s the matter, Morgan? My money’s no good?”

  “Not for me, Dooley.”

  “Now why would that be?”

  “I don’t like the way you got it.”

  “Money’s money, Morgan. But”—he sighed—“I’ll respect your decision. A man who is about to die should have some rights, I suppose.”

  Frank smiled. “You planning on dying today, Val?”

  Val’s smile faded. “No,” he said softly.

  “Oh? That’s very strange, Val.”

  “Why is that, Morgan?”

  “Because I plan on doing the world a favor by killing you.”

  Val’s smile again creased his lips. “And you think you’re a fast enough gun to do that, Morgan?”

  “Oh, yes, Val. I sure do.”

  “Funny thing, Morgan. I don’t think you are.”

  “Then I guess that leaves us only one thing to do.”

  “I guess so, Morgan. But . . . for right now, I’m going to enjoy a couple of drinks. It’s awfully dry out, and I need something to cut the dust.”

  “You go right ahead, Val. Enjoy your whiskey. I’m going to enjoy my cup of coffee.”

  “I must say, Morgan, you’re rather a friendly sort. Everyone else I talked to told me you were a surly sort.”

  “They must have caught me in a bad mood.”

  “I suppose that could be it. And you’re in a good mood this morning?”

  “Wonderful mood.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I’m finally going to rid society of you.”

  “I don’t find that particularly amusing, Morgan.”

  “I don’t give a damn how you find it.”

  Val took a sip of whiskey. “You know, Morgan, you have been a real pain in the butt these past few months.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Val chuckled. “I had a real good thing going until you interfered.”

  “Good thing? I wouldn’t call raping children a good thing.”

  “None of them died from it. As a matter of fact,” he said smugly, “I would say that a great many of them enjoyed our, ah, dalliance.”

  “Dooley,” Frank replied, his tone filled with disgust, “you are indeed one sorry worthless son of a bitch.”

  “I take great offense at that, Morgan.”

  “Good.”

  “You’re pushing me hard. I thought you wanted to enjoy your last cup of coffee.”

  It was an old game; one that Frank had played many times. Each man trying to rattle the nerves of the other.

  “I am enjoying it, Val. And I plan on enjoying many more cups over the course of my long life. Right now, though, I’m enjoying watching you sweat and squirm.”

  “Huh? Me, sweat and squirm over facing the likes of you? You’re dreaming, Morgan. Just dreaming.”

  “Am I, Val?” Frank asked softly. “You’ve never seen me work. No man who ever seriously faced me has lived to tell about it. Not a one.”

  Val carefully refilled his shot glass and knocked back the drink in one gulp. “I could say the same, Morgan.”

  “Really, Val? Funny thing is, I’ve never seen any of your graveyards. Where are they?”

  “All over the damn West, Morgan!” Val snapped.

  “Filled with men you ambushed or shot in the back?”

  “Goddamn you, Morgan!”

  “What’s the matter, Val? Getting itchy?”

  Val didn’t immediately reply. He carefully refilled his shot glass and stood for a moment, staring down at the whiskey. “It won’t work, Morgan. I know what you’re trying to do. You can’t rattle me. But you’re pretty good, I have to admit that. You came close.”

  Frank took a sip of coffee. He offered no reply. He waited.

  “You have a couple of my men in jail, Morgan,” Val said. “I want them out.”

  “How do you know I have them in jail?”

  Val’s only reply was a smile.

  “They stay in jail until I hear back from the authorities in various states and territories.”

  “I said I want them out, Morgan. Release them, and we ride out of here. Nothing happens to this village or its people.”

  “And if I don’t release them?”

  “We take the town and kill everyone in it .
. . after the more attractive women and girls entertain us.”

  “Never happen, Val.”

  “You going to stop us?”

  “That’s right.”

  Val turned to face Frank. “Well, Morgan, I guess you’d better get to stopping us. The time for conversation is over.”

  “Your play, Val.”

  Val and Frank pulled iron. Val was fast, getting off the first shot. But his bullet tore up the floor in front of Frank’s boots. Frank was only the blink of an eye slower, but his bullet ripped into Val’s belly and knocked him backward.

  Frank didn’t hesitate. He spun, drawing his second Peacemaker as he turned, and began putting lead into the three men seated at the table, just as they were jerking guns out of leather. The booming of Frank’s guns was enormous, the sound rattling glasses behind the bar. Frank felt the sting of a bullet creasing the side of his head; another bullet drawing blood as it sliced through the fleshy part of his left thigh. Frank stayed on his boots, firing both .45s until they were empty.

  “Marshal!” the barkeep yelled.

  Frank turned in time to catch the Greener the barkeep tossed at him. He whirled around, cocking the sawed-off shotgun as he turned. Val had pulled his second .45, and was struggling to jack back the hammer when Frank pulled the triggers. Both barrels of the Greener spewed fire and smoke and buckshot.

  The double load of buckshot caught Val Dooley in the belly and literally cut him in two.

  What was left of Val Dooley fell to the floor with twin slopping sounds, making a big mess on the freshly mopped saloon floor.

  Frank leaned against the bar for a moment as his own blood dripped onto the floor.

  “You’re hurt, Marshal!” the bartender said.

  “Nothing serious,” Frank told him as the batwings opened and a crowd of locals surged in.

  “My God!” Ed Martin said, looking at the carnage that lay before him, all the outlaws in various postures of sudden death.

  “Dear Lord, have mercy,” another man said in hushed tones.

  “Somebody haul off those bodies,” Frank said, taking off his bandanna and using it to bind up the wound on his leg. “You can split the money in their pockets and their guns and horses for your trouble.”

  “Do you know who they are, Marshal Morgan?” another local asked.

  “I don’t have a clue as to their names. But I can tell you what they are: They’re kidnapping, child-raping white slavers. Pure worthless scum. And that,” he said, pointing to the twin mounds of glob on the floor, “is what is left of Val Dooley.”