Rescue

by William W. Johnstone

  “Thanks. You had supper?”

  “Not yet.”

  “After our beers I’ll treat for supper.”

  “Now, that’s mighty white of you, Morgan. Mighty white.” He stuck out a hand. “I’ll shore take you up on that offer. Name’s Pat Mahoney.”

  Frank shook the hard and callused hand. “Pleasure.”

  The two men stood at the bar and drank their beers and chatted of men they had known over the years. Good men and outlaws.

  “But you know, Morgan,” Pat said, “sometimes a man can be an outlaw and still be a good man.”

  “And vice versa,” Frank said.

  “You got that right. Half the lawmen in the country think you’re part outlaw. But Keller knowed right off you wasn’t no such of a thing.”

  Frank and the Ranger stood at the bar and talked for a while longer, then had supper: beefsteak, boiled potatoes, fresh-baked bread, and apple pie for dessert. Later, standing outside the café, they shook hands and parted ways. Frank could not remember when he had had a more pleasurable evening.

  Walking back to the hotel, he became quickly aware that he was being followed. He chanced a quick look behind him and saw one man trailing him. The man lifted a hand in greeting. Puzzled, Frank stopped and stepped into an alleyway.

  The man paused at the darkened mouth of the alley. Still on the boardwalk, he said, “I don’t mean you no harm, Morgan. I swear it. You done me a good turn back at the Crossing. You probably don’t remember it; that was a few years back. But I remember it.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “I used the money you give me back there for a grubstake. I panned out enough to leave that damn place. I come here and opened me up a leather and saddle shop. Been doing all right.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “You familiar with a gun-handler name of Ben Clark?”

  “Yes. He’s a killer. Hires his gun out. Been killing homesteaders up in Oklahoma Territory.”

  “That’s him. Big ugly bastard. He heard you was in town. He’s lookin’ to make a bigger rep for hisself.”

  “By killing me?”

  “You got it.”

  “He’s a damn fool.”

  “I know it. But he’s done made his brags now. He can’t back out.”

  “Or he thinks he can’t.”

  “Whatever. But he ain’t gonna back down, Morgan. He’s gonna come after you. I wanted to warn you. I done it. Take care.”

  The man walked swiftly away.

  “Damn!” Frank swore softly. “Just once I’d like to light somewhere for a few days where somebody isn’t trying to shoot me.”

  But he knew that wasn’t likely to happen. At least not until Frank became an old man. And he also knew the odds of his becoming an old man weren’t all that great either.

  Frank walked to the livery to check on Dog, then returned to the hotel. The night was chilly, so Frank built a fire in the potbelly to warm his room, then sat for a time, smoking and thinking.

  It was too late in the season to make the ride back to his valley in New Mexico . . . property he had picked up for a bargain. He had obtained the land at a steal for several reasons. One, because most people didn’t know it was there. Two, because those that did didn’t want it, not recognizing its potential.

  Someday Frank would return to his valley to live out his remaining years. Someday . . .

  Thirty-five

  Frank lounged around Fort Worth for several days, letting his animals rest, for his horses were tired and Dog was all pooped out from weeks on the trail. Frank bought provisions, a bit at a time, and played some poker at a saloon several times and won five hundred dollars. He gave his winnings to a very surprised and profoundly grateful lady at a local orphanage. And he saw nothing of the gunfighter Ben Clark.

  Sitting in his hotel room one night, drinking coffee and relaxing, Frank had an idea. The next morning, first thing, he wired his attorneys, then waited around for a reply. It came back quickly, and read: ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DO THIS?

  Frank wired back: YES.

  The reply was: WE’LL SET IT UP PER YOUR INSTRUCTIONS.

  Frank left the telegraph office smiling. Many, many years later, long after Frank’s death, the nation’s press would be startled to learn that one of the West’s most famous (some would say notorious) gunfighters had, over the years, anonymously given thousands and thousands of dollars to orphanages all over the nation.

  After Frank’s acts of kindness became known, one reporter noted in a column: “This act of compassion should remind us all that one should not judge a book by its cover.”

  * * *

  On the evening before he was to head out for El Paso, Frank’s luck in avoiding a face-to-face meeting with Ben Clark turned sour. Frank was coming out of a leather shop with a sackful of paw boots he’d had made for Dog when he spotting Ben Clark coming out of a café across the street. Ben was just as big and just as ugly as Frank remembered him being . . . maybe even more so, since it had been a few years since last they’d met. Ben spotted Frank and stopped on the boardwalk, staring at him.

  The street was busy with foot traffic and wagons and riders. Far too busy for any gunplay, and Frank hoped Ben would see it the same way. But the instant Ben’s hand dropped to his six-gun and he slipped off the hammer thong, Frank knew his hope would not be realized.

  “Not here, Ben,” Frank called.

  “Why the hell not?” Ben shouted. His shout caused many to stop and see what was going on.

  Frank dropped the sack to the boardwalk. “Too many people, Ben.”

  “They can get the hell out of the way, Morgan.”

  “Morgan?” a man called out. “Hey! That’s Frank Morgan over yonder.”

  “I’m not looking for trouble, Ben,” Frank called across the wide street.

  “Too bad, Morgan. Your time has come.”

  “My time for what, Ben?”

  Ben stepped off the boardwalk and into the street. “I hope you like Texas, Morgan. ’Cause you gonna be buried here right shortly.”

  Frank stepped into the street. “This doesn’t have to be, Ben. Think about it.”

  “I been thinkin’ about it for a long time, Drifter. Ever since you whupped me up in Wyoming that time.”

  “You had it coming, Ben.”

  “That don’t make no never mind. I ain’t forgot it.”

  Each man took a couple of steps toward the other, closing the gap between them in the side street.

  The street was now nearly devoid of people. Most had taken refuge in stores and in the alleyways. A few of the braver or more foolhardy had merely stepped back, away from what they hoped would be the line of fire.

  “Five dollars says the big one can take Morgan,” a man called.

  “I’ll take that bet,” half a dozen others echoed.

  “Where is the law?” a woman questioned.

  “Nowheres around here,” a man told her. “Not with Frank Morgan fixin’ to drag iron.”

  There was now about forty feet between the two men. Frank stopped and so did Ben.

  “I say again, Ben,” Frank called, “this does not have to be. Neither of us have anything to prove.”

  “It ain’t a matter of provin’ nothin’, Drifter. For me, it’s a matter of money. I kill you, my price goes up.”

  “Money’s hard to spend in the grave, Ben.”

  “Well, Drifter, you’ll be in hell a long time ’fore me. You’ll have to tell me all about it when I get there.” He grinned at Frank. “You ready to feel the fires, Frank?”

  Frank’s returning smile was tinged with sadness. “It’s your play, Ben. Drag iron if you’ve a mind to.”

  It was over in a heartbeat. Sunlight flashed off cold steel suddenly turned hot and the day was split with gunfire. Ben staggered, regained his balance for a few seconds, then abruptly sat down in the street, the front of his shirt staining with crimson as his heart pumped.

  “Damn!” Ben said. “You’re quick, Drifter.
”

  “So I’ve been told,” Frank said dryly.

  Ben tried to lift his six-gun, but the effort seemed to require too much strength. He dropped his pistol as numbness crawled into his fingers. He smiled at Frank. “Sometimes I reckon a man tries to chew more than he should. Right, Frank?”

  Frank said nothing as he walked closer to Ben Clark.

  Ben looked up at him. “I had to try you, Drifter. I just had to.”

  “I know, Ben.”

  Ben fell over in the dirt. “I got money for a stone,” he whispered. “Will you see to that, Frank?”

  “I’ll see it gets done, Ben.”

  “Mighty decent of you. Mighty decent.” Ben Clark closed his eyes for the last time.

  “Somebody get the law,” Frank said. “Let’s do this legal.”

  * * *

  Frank changed his mind about El Paso at the last moment, and pulled out for San Antonio instead. His horses were ready to go, and Dog got so excited when Frank began saddling up, he ran around in circles, barking and chasing his tail.

  Frank was under no illusions about the gunfighter Cory Raven. Before he pulled out, he had Ranger Mahoney send out a couple of wires to friends of his. The reply came back quickly. Word was that Cory Raven had been hired to kill Frank Morgan. But no one seemed to know who hired him or why.

  “I’ll just be sure to keep an eye on my back trail,” Frank told the Ranger.

  “For a fact, Morgan,” the Ranger said. “You do that. Cory Raven is a bad one.”

  Frank took his time, for he certainly was in no hurry. No one was anxiously awaiting his arrival. Hell, no one knew where he was going. Frank wasn’t even sure he wouldn’t change his mind halfway to San Antonio and head out in another direction.

  He spent the night in a hotel in Waco and kept mostly out of sight, avoiding any saloons and eating his supper in a small café just off Main Street. He pulled out before dawn. The days were pleasant and the nights cool, great for sleeping, wrapped in his blankets, his saddle for a pillow.

  In Austin, Frank stabled his horses in a nice, well-maintained livery, got some scraps for Dog, and filled a bucket with water, setting it just inside Stormy’s stall. Taking his bedroll, his saddlebags, and his rifle, Frank went in search of a hotel.

  Frank sent his suit out to be pressed, a couple of his shirts to be laundered, and his good boots to be polished. While that was being done, Frank visited a barbershop-bathhouse and got himself slicked up. So far, no one had recognized him.

  That welcomed anonymity did not last long.

  When Frank walked down the hotel stairs to the lobby the next morning, there were several newspapermen and two photographers waiting for him. He missed breakfast that morning, and never did learn who had recognized him. For several hours, he patiently answered all their questions and allowed several pictures to be taken of him. During a break, Frank slipped back to his room, packed up his possessions, and headed for the livery. An hour later, he had put Austin several miles behind him. Frank headed west, deciding not to try for El Paso because of all the publicity there would be when the newspapers hit the street the next day. And for sure, the telegraph wires would be humming about him. West Texas would be his best bet. Out there, all he would have to worry about was bandits, Indians, a few Comancheros, and rattlesnakes.

  Frank spent several peaceful and very restful days in the German town of Fredericksburg. The marshal there knew who he was but left him alone, as did many of the locals, who also knew who he was. While he was there, Frank ate his fill of traditional German foods, including some of the best breads and pastries he had ever eaten. Dog gained about five pounds.

  The time spent traveling out into West Texas was the most relaxing Frank had experienced in recent memory. He almost forgot about Cory Raven.

  And that slip in vigilance almost cost him his life.

  Thirty-six

  “Keep your hands where I can see them, Morgan,” the cold voice said from the bluff above the creek bank. “And don’t turn around.”

  Frank paused, the bar of soap still in one hand.

  “I like a man who washes up before he eats,” the voice said. “A fellow can get awful dirty on the trail.”

  “Cory?” Frank asked.

  “You got it, Morgan.”

  “Now what?”

  “Now you die, Morgan.”

  “You going to shoot me without telling me who hired you?”

  “I don’t know who hired me, Morgan. All I know is a voice comin’ from a dark hallway told me seein’ you dead was worth ten thousand dollars. Somebody must hate you mighty powerful, Morgan.”

  “I reckon so.” Frank cut his eyes, looking for Dog. The big cur was nowhere to be seen.

  “But I want to see you sweat and beg, Morgan.”

  “That will never happen.”

  “Oh, I think it will.”

  “So you’re going to shoot me in the back, Cory? You don’t have the guts to face me?”

  The hired gun was silent for a few seconds. “Oh, I’m better than you, Morgan. I don’t have any doubts about that. But why take the chance of something happenin’? This way is easier.”

  “The coward’s way. Cory? I’ve always heard you were a brave man. I guess I heard wrong.”

  “I got my share of guts, Morgan. Don’t you ever think otherwise ’bout that.”

  “I think you’re yellow, Cory. You’re nothing but a low-down, back-shooting coward.”

  “Don’t you call me that, Morgan! Damn you! Don’t you say I’m yellow.”

  “I have one request, Cory.”

  “Name it.”

  “Don’t hurt my dog. Let Dog run free.”

  “I can do that. Where is that damn dog?”

  “Dog!” Frank yelled.

  “I think that damn mutt is as yellow as you, Morgan,” Cory said with a laugh.

  Cory did not see or hear the big cur coming up fast behind him, running hard on silent paws. Frank heard a grunt and a yell and he spun around, Peacemaker leaping into his hand.

  Dog had leaped and thrown his entire weight on Cory. All four paws hit the gunman in his back. Cory’s pistol flew from his hand, and the man lost his balance and tumbled down the short bluff, rolling butt over elbows. Frank was on him in a heartbeat. He hit the man a short, chopping right that connected solidly with Cory’s jaw, stunning the already dazed man.

  Frank’s fists were big, hard, callused, and flat-knuckled. Fighter’s hands. Frank hit Cory half a dozen times. The last blow broke Cory’s jaw and dropped the hired gun into unconsciousness.

  Frank looked up toward the bluff. Dog was sitting there, looking down at him.

  “Good boy,” Frank said.

  Dog stood up, wagged his tail, and barked.

  “I owe you,” Frank told the big cur. “I really owe you.”

  Frank pulled Cory’s gun belt from him and tossed the man’s pistol into the creek. Then he walked around until he found the man’s horse, and stripped the saddle and bridle from him. He led him to the creek and let him drink.

  Frank quickly got his own gear together and swung into the saddle. He looked down at Cory Raven. The man was still out.

  “I’ll see you again, Cory,” Frank told the unconscious man. “But the next time, I’ll kill you.”

  * * *

  Frank drifted for several weeks, avoiding all human contact. Finally, almost out of supplies, he rode into a small town in West Texas. He was unshaven and trail-worn.

  His part in the rescuing of the kidnapped children and the smashing of the Val Dooley gang had long faded from the news, and Frank was happy about that. Frank stabled his horses and made sure Dog had water to drink. No one seemed to recognize him as he got a room in the hotel. The clerk merely gave his name a quick glance and a nod as he handed Frank the room key.

  A bath and a haircut and shave later, Frank was feeling better, even with the knowledge that he could not chance staying more than a couple of days in the town. Any longer than that and someone wo
uld be sure to recognize him. That always seemed to be the case.

  Frank had a relaxing meal at a café, and was enjoying a cup of coffee and a cigarette when two lawmen entered the café. They glanced at him, took a longer second look, then walked over to his table and sat down.

  “Frank Morgan?” one asked in low tones.

  “Yes.”

  “You on the hunt for someone, Morgan?”

  “The only thing I’m hunting is peace and quiet,” Frank replied.

  “Well, this is a peaceful and quiet town,” the other lawman stated. “And we intend to keep it that way.”

  “And that means what?” Frank had to ask, even though he knew perfectly well what was coming next.

  “It means you go.”

  “You have any objections to my finishing my coffee and getting a good night’s sleep in a real bed?”

  “Not a bit, Morgan,” the older of the two lawmen said. “You can even have you some breakfast in the mornin’. Just be gone right after that and stay out of the saloon tonight.”

  “Oh, I can do that, boys, with a great deal of pleasure. And my horses and my dog thank you for letting them get some rest.”

  “What kind of a dog is that mean-lookin’ dog of yours?” the younger lawman asked.

  Frank smiled. “He’s just a dog. But I have some suspicions that he might have some wolf in him.”

  “You’ll get no arguments from me about that. He didn’t growl at us, but he wasn’t all that friendly either.”

  Frank laughed. “He’s a good watchdog, for a fact.” Frank decided against making any mention of the run-in with Cory Raven.

  The older man smiled at that. “I am sorry about givin’ you the boot Morgan. But trouble seems to follow you.”

  Frank returned the smile. “I do know that for a fact . . . far better than you.”

  The lawman signaled the waitress for coffee. “We’ll just sit here and palaver with you for a time . . . like old friends. That’ll ease any curiosity of a couple of jabber-mouths here in the café.”

  “Good idea. What I don’t need is any publicity or gunplay while I’m in town.”

  “Glad you see it that way.”

  The three men sat and drank coffee, smoked, and chatted of men they had known, good and bad. The older lawman asked, “You know a man by the name of Cory Raven?”