At the funeral parlor, Frank walked into the back, where the nude body of the stranger was on a narrow table. Malone was preparing the body for burial. He looked up as Frank strolled in.
“No identification on the body, Marshal. He had fifty dollars on him. Ten dollars in silver, the rest in paper. His gun and clothes and boots are over there on that table next to the wall."
Frank carefully inspected the dead man's boots and gunbelt for a hidden compartment. There was nothing. “I'll pick up the gun and rig in the morning,” he told Malone.
Malone nodded his head and kept working on the body. Frank got out of there. He walked over to the livery and asked if anyone fitting the dead man's description had stabled his horse there. The night holster nodded and pointed to a roan in a stall.
“Where's his saddle?” Frank asked.
“In the storeroom. Saddle, saddlebags, and rifle in a boot. Far right-hand corner."
Frank carried the gear over to the office and stored it as quietly as possible. Jerry was already in his room, in his bunk, snoring softly. Frank would go through the saddlebags in the morning, but he didn't expect to find anything in the way of identification. The grave would be just another unmarked one in a lonely cemetery. The West had hundreds of such graves. On the Oregon Trail, it was said, there were two or three graves for every mile of the pioneer trek westward. And still the people came, hundreds every week.
During his wanderings, Frank had seen countless abandoned cabins. He wondered how many of the pioneers gave up after a few years and went back east.
Frank locked up the office and walked over to the Silver Spoon for a cup of coffee. The place was dark, closed for the night.
He began making his rounds of the town, checking the doors of the businesses. He cut up the alley and came out near the Henson Enterprises building. He watched the building for a moment, then decided to check the windows and back door. The back door was unlocked.
Frank pushed open the door and saw the faint glint of lamplight under the door, coming from Viv's office. Frank put his hand on the butt of his .45.
Then the door opened and Conrad stepped out. He spotted the dark shape of Frank and gasped, “Oh, my God! Don't shoot?"
“Damn, boy!” Frank said. “What the hell are you doing down here this time of night?"
“Marshal! Well ... doing some necessary paperwork. Mother neglected her duties this afternoon. Mr. Dutton arrived on the stage, and was displeased to find mother gone gallivanting about the countryside while so much work was left unattended here."
“Who the hell is Dutton?"
“Our company's chief attorney."
“What business is it of his what the president of Henson Enterprises does in her spare time?"
“I resent your tone, Marshal!"
“I don't give a damn what you resent. Your mother and I are old friends—a friendship that goes back twenty years. If she wants to go riding and relax, that's her business—none of yours, and sure as hell none of this Dutton fellow's. Is that clear, Conrad?"
“If you're such ‘old friends'”—the young man put a lot of grease on the last two words—“why weren't you mentioned before now? Personally, I think you're both lying. What is it between you and my mother?"
“We're friends, Conrad. That's all. As to why I wasn't mentioned years back ... well, after all, I do have something of an unsavory reputation. In very polite Boston society it just wouldn't do for your mother to let people know she was friends with a gunfighter."
“Ummm. Well, you're certainly correct in that assumption. But I still believe there is more ... a lot more than either of you are willing to tell. And I shall make it my business to find out what."
Frank sighed. The young man was a bulldog, no doubt about that. “Whatever, Conrad. Where is this Dutton fellow?"
“At the hotel."
“Come on, then. Close up the place, and I'll escort you back to the house."
“I am perfectly capable of seeing myself home, Marshal. I bought a pistol today."
“God help us all,” Frank muttered.
“Beg pardon?"
“Nothing, Conrad. What kind of pistol?"
“This one,” Conrad said, reaching inside his coat and hauling out a Colt Frontier double action revolver. He pointed it at Frank, and Frank quickly pushed the muzzle to one side and took the weapon.
Frank stepped closer to the light streaming through the open door and inspected the pistol. A .45 caliber. “It's a good pistol, Conrad. Have you fired it yet?"
“Certainly not! And I won't until it becomes necessary."
“I ... see. I think."
“It shouldn't take too much expertise to discharge a firearm. One simply points the weapon and pulls the trigger. Right, Marshal?"
“Well—"
“So, considering this recent firearm purchase, I shall now take over the job of protecting my mother. Your services will no longer he needed. If indeed they ever were."
“Is that right?"
“Quite."
Resisting a sudden urge to jerk a knot in the boy/man's butt, Frank instead suggested, “Why don't we let your mother decide that, Conrad?"
Conrad didn't speak for several seconds, then said, “Oh, very well, Marshal. Let's don't go into a lot of folderol about it. Now I have to lock up."
“I'll wait for you, Conrad."
“Very well, Marshal. If you insist."
Conrad blew out the lamps and locked the back door. Frank waited in the darkness of the alley. When Conrad turned around, Frank said, “Have you eaten, Conrad?"
The young man looked at Frank. Even in the darkness, Frank could feel Conrad's attitude toward him soften. “Why ... yes, I have, Marshal. Thank you for asking."
“Come on, let's get out of this alley."
On the boardwalk, in a bit more light from newly installed oil lamps along the way, Conrad asked, “Who were those gunmen after today, Marshal—you or my mother?"
“I don't know, Conrad.” Frank knew very little about the why of those wanting Vivian out of the way, but he did know he was not going to discuss it with Conrad. “Has your mother said anything?"
“Precious little. But something is weighing very heavily on her mind. I can tell that. She just won't open up to me. Perhaps she will, in time."
“I'm sure she will, Conrad."
They walked on for a half block. Frank felt his guts tighten as four men stepped out of an alley. They were lurching along as if they were drunk, but Frank wasn't sure about that. When they began singing, he was certain they were pretending.
“When I tell you to run, Conrad, don't argue with me, and for God's sake don't hesitate. Just run like the devil is after you. You understand?"
“Yes, sir. Those men up ahead of us?"
“Yes. I'm sure they're going to pull something. Get ready to flee, boy."
The four men began to separate until they were covering the whole boardwalk. Frank watched as one slipped his hand under his coat. When the hand came out holding a six-gun, Frank yelled, “Go, boy! Run!"
Conrad took off, and Frank snaked his Colt out of leather.
Seventeen
Frank dived behind a water trough just as the quartet opened up, the lead howling all around him. He managed to snap off one shot that brought a yelp of either pain or surprise from one of the gunmen—Frank wasn't sure.
He was astonished when a shout came from the other side of the street.
“You filthy savages!” Conrad shouted. “Damn you all!” Conrad pointed his big .45 in the general direction of the quartet of gunmen and pulled the trigger.
The bullet tore the hat off one of the men and sent him hollering and scampering toward a doorway stoop. “Jesus Christ!” he yelled.
Conrad's next shot knocked the heel off the left boot of another man and sent him sprawling to the boardwalk. “My leg!” he squalled. “I'm hit, boys!"
Jiggs from the apothecary shop came running up the boardwalk, a shotgun in his hand, just as Conrad cut
loose again. The bullet whined past Jiggs's head, missing his nose by about one hot half-inch.
“Oh, shit!” the druggist whooped, and he ran for cover into the general store ... right through the closed and locked front door. Jiggs took the door with him.
“Get that punk!” one of the gunmen yelled.
Conrad pointed the .45 at the man and triggered off another round. The bullet took off a tiny piece of the man's ear, and the assassin started jumping up and down and yelling as if he'd been touched by a hot branding iron.
“I been shot in the head, boys. Oh, Lordy, I'm done for, I reckon."
Conrad shot him again ... or at least came really close to upsetting the man's evenings for a long time to come. The bullet nicked the gunman's inner thigh, just a microscopic distance from his privates.
“Oh, good God!” the man screamed. “I'm ruint, boys. He's done shot me in the balls!"
Conrad took that time to reload with a handful of cartridges from his coat pocket. Fully loaded, he continued his cussing, shouting insults, and firing.
“You rotten scalawags!” Conrad shouted. “You all belong in a cage!"
“Then put me in a cage!” yelled the man who thought he'd been shot in the doo-das. He had both hands between his legs, holding onto his precious parts ... what he thought was left of them. “Anywhere! Just get me away from that crazy kid!"
“I'm out of here,” the fourth outlaw yelled, running up to where Frank lay crouched behind the water trough.
Frank reached out and grabbed the man's ankle, spilling him onto the boardwalk. The man lost his pistol on his way down, banged his head on the rough boards, and knocked himself goofy for a few minutes.
Conrad fired again, the bullet knocking splinters into the face of the man who had lost his hat to Conrad's first shot.
“I yield!” the man yelled, throwing down his gun. “Don't shoot no more."
“Somebody get me a doctor!” shouted the man who thought he'd been violently deprived of his private parts as hot blood from the nick on his thigh ran down his leg. “Oh, Lord, get me to a doctor."
Frank then realized what the man was so upset about. He got to his boots, trying to keep from laughing at the total absurdity of the entire situation, and told the man who thought he'd been shot in the gonads, “What do you think the doctor's going to do, you idiot, sew the sac back on?"
That really set the man off. He began wailing and moaning so loudly windows began glowing with lamplight all up and down the street.
Jiggs stepped out of the general store, his shotgun covering the two would-be kidnappers who were still standing and in one piece, more or less.
Jerry had showed up, and had talked Conrad into giving him his .45.
“Thank God,” Frank muttered.
Doc Bracken walked up. “What in the world is going on here?"
“Here's the doctor, buddy,” Frank told the man who was making moaning sounds ... sort of like a train whistle with a stopped up valve.
“What's his problem?” Doc asked.
“He thinks his balls have been shot off."
“Good Lord! That's terrible. Did you find them?” Doc asked, after glancing at the man's bloody britches. He began looking all around him on the boardwalk and in the street. “I might be able to sew them back on. I've heard it's been done."
“Do they stay on?” Frank asked.
“Not so far. Infection always sets in, and they rot off."
That really got the mournful sounds cranked up from the would-be kidnapper who thought his cojones were gone forever, and they echoed around the mountain town. A dozen hound dogs joined in from various parts of town, and the noise brought a hundred or more people out of their homes and into the street.
Conrad was shaking so much Jerry had to lead him over to the boardwalk on the opposite side of the street and sit him down.
“Oh, my God,” Conrad said, his voice shrill from nervousness. “Did I actually hit somebody?"
“Way I heard it, you shot a feller's balls off,” Jerry told him.
“Oh, my goodness!"
“That's him over yonder, wailing like a train whistle. I reckon he's a mite upset.” Jerry paused and reflected for a few seconds. “I damn sure would be."
“I think I'm going to be sick,” Conrad said, putting a hand to his mouth.
“Let me back up ‘fore you puke,” Jerry said quickly. “These are brand-new boots."
Frank was trying to get matters settled. He finally told everyone not involved in the shooting to go home, clear the street. After a few minutes the crowd began to disperse.
Jerry told Conrad, “You stay right here, boy, until you get to feelin’ better. Then you come over and join Frank and me, OK?"
“Yes, sir,” Conrad said softly. “This has really been a very traumatic experience for me."
“I'm sure it has, son. Whatever that means. You stay put, now.” Jerry walked across the street and handed Conrad's gun to Frank, butt first. “The boy's cannon. That's a hell of a pistol, Frank. Where'd he get it?"
“Bought it today, I think.” Frank smiled. “But he sure played hell with these four rounders, didn't he?"
Jerry grinned. “That he did. How about the feller with no balls? He quieted down in a hurry."
“He's all right. The bullet nicked the fleshy part of his inner thigh just below his privates. Gave him a good scare, that's all."
The four assailants were sitting on the edge of the boardwalk, guarded by several citizens with shotguns, while Doctor Bracken worked on them. All their wounds were very minor ones.
“These the four men who attacked you and Mrs. Browning?” Jerry asked.
“No. These men heard about the attempted kidnapping, and tried a copycat attempt. All they'll be getting out of it is long prison terms."
Jerry took off his hat and wiped his brow with a bandanna. “Stupid of them."
“Very stupid. I'll send some wires in the morning, see if they're wanted anywhere else. But I doubt they are. How's Conrad?"
“Scared, shook up some, and sort of sick to his stomach. But he's not hurt. I told him to stay put over yonder until he got to feeling better."
“Here come Vivian and Jimmy,” Frank said, looking up the street as a carriage came rolling up. A servant was handling the reins, and Jimmy was sitting in the back with Viv.
Frank walked out into the street as the carriage came to a halt. “Conrad's all right, Vivian. He didn't get a scratch. Actually, he was the hero this night. Did you know he had bought a pistol?"
“Conrad?” she asked, her eyes wide. “My God. Conrad bought a pistol?"
“Yes."
“I had no idea. He's never fired a gun in his life."
“Well, he sure busted a few caps this night. He didn't kill anyone, but he sure gave a couple of those ole boys sitting over there on the boardwalk a fright.” Frank couldn't help himself. He started laughing, and Vivian gave him a strange look.
“You find this funny, Frank?"
“Well, Viv,” Frank said, wiping his eyes. “Yes, I do. If you'll pardon the crudeness, one of those attackers thought Conrad shot his ... well, privates off."
Jimmy almost swallowed his chewing tobacco.
Vivian tried to look stern, but just couldn't pull it off. She fought back laughter. “Well,” she finally managed to say, having a terrible time attempting to control her mirth. “Did he shoot the man's balls off?"
That did it for Jimmy. He swallowed his chew. “Mrs. Browning!” he gasped.
“No,” Frank said. “But I have to say the man had a few anxious moments."
Jimmy got out of the carriage and was coughing and hacking and spitting.
“What's the matter with you, Jimmy?” Viv asked.
“Swallered my chew,” Jimmy gasped.
“I'll get Conrad for you, ma'am,” Jerry said. “And you can take him home. He's some shaky."
“Thank you, Deputy.” Vivian looked at Frank in the flickering streetlamps. It was past time for them to be s
nuffed out. “I believe I've had quite enough excitement for one day, Frank."
“I agree, and I'm pretty sure Conrad will say the same."
“Quite. And another thing: I shall make sure he puts away that pistol."
Frank smiled. “That's wise, Vivian. At least until he puts in some long practice hours. Although I have to say it was his shooting that broke up the assault tonight."
“No, Frank. His days as a pistol shooter are over. He starts his second year at Harvard this fall. I'm tempted to send him back right now."
“That also might be wise. Viv, what about this Charles Dutton?"
“Here's Conrad. I'll talk to you about Charles tomorrow, Frank. And we must talk."
“All right. There are some things I want to tell you, Viv. No proof, just pure suspicion."
Frank watched the carriage until it was out of sight and then turned to Jerry. “Is Doc Bracken about through with those boys?"
“I think so. None of them was hurt bad."
“Let's lock them down and hit the sack."
“If I can get back to sleep,” Jerry said with a smile.
“The way you saw logs, Jer, I don't think you'll have all that much trouble."
“Are you tellin’ me I snore, Frank?"
“Either that, or there's a railroad runnin’ through the office."
“Maybe it's my snorin’ that wakes me up sometimes. You reckon?"
“Could be."
“Doc!” The voice carried to the men across the street. “Are you sure I ain't been shot in the precious parts? It's all numb down there."
“On second thought,” Frank said, “if he keeps that up, maybe you won't get much sleep."
“No, damn it, you haven't been shot in your parts. Good God, man. I've told you ten times. Why don't you look for yourself, you ninny?"
“I'm afeared to. Are you real sure, Doc?” the man persisted. “You won't lie to me about that now, would you?"
“If you don't shut up about it,” Doc Bracken said, clearly irritated, “I can fix it so you won't have to worry about your precious parts ever again."
“How would you do that, Doc?"
“I'll cut the damn things off!"
The man started howling again, and that started the dogs in town answering him.
The Drifter Page 12
