Frank gave the outlaws another half a magazine, and that ended conversation on their side for a few minutes.
While Frank was changing out the magazine, Jerry's rifle cracked and an outlaw screamed and fell to the hard road, one leg broken. The .44-.40 slug had busted his knee. Moaning in pain, the man dragged himself out of sight, behind some rocks on the side of the road.
Hundreds of feet above the road, some of the outlaw gang began hurling large rocks down at the road. But the top of the ridge angled outward, and rocks hit nowhere near the wagon. The outlaws gave up their rock throwing very quickly.
For a few moments, the siege became quiet, both sides apparently at an impasse.
Jerry edged closer to Frank. “How are we goin’ to get the dynamite down to the blockade? We sure can't toss it down there. It's too far."
“I've been studying on that, Jer. I think we'll use the spare wheel off the wagon."
“A wheel?"
“Yes. It's a gentle slope down to the blockade, and the road is fairly smooth. We'll tie the charge to the wheel, light it, and roll it down there."
“And if it falls over, or rolls off the edge before it gets there?"
“There are four more wheels on the wagon. And we've got lots of dynamite. The trick is going to be cutting the fuse the right length."
“I'll get the wheel. You handle the charges. Me and dynamite made a bargain a long time back: it leaves me alone, and I do the same for it."
Frank smiled. He was an experienced hand with dynamite, and knew that it wasn't just the charges one should be cautious with, but the caps. He'd seen men lose fingers, hands, and entire arms after getting careless while capping dynamite.
Frank tied together a dozen sticks of explosives and carefully capped the lethal bundle. Jerry rolled the big wheel up and squatted down, watching while Frank cut and inserted the fuse. Then Frank secured the charge to the wheel with a cord and looked at his deputy.
“You ready?"
“If that's a fast-burnin’ fuse, we're in trouble,” Jerry said.
Frank chuckled. “We'll soon know, won't we?"
“You don't know?"
“Nope. You got the dynamite and fuses. Didn't you ask?"
“'Fraid not."
Frank struck a match and lit the fuse. “Roll it, Jer!"
Jerry was only too happy to start the wheel rolling. He breathed a sigh of relief when the wheel was on the road. The heavy wheel bounced and wobbled down the gently sloping road, the fuse sputtering and sparking as it rolled.
“Get the hell out of here!” an outlaw yelled. “That's dynamite comin’ our way."
“Shoot the wheel and stop it!” another gang member shouted.
“You shoot the goddamn thing, Luke. I'm outta here."
For a few seconds it looked as though the wheel was going to topple over before it reached the blockade. Then it straightened up and picked up speed, rolling true.
At the blockade, outlaws were scrambling to get clear. They were running and cussing and slipping and sliding.
The wheel ran into a wagon and lodged under the wagon bed for a few seconds before exploding. It went off with a fury, sending bits and pieces of the wagon flying in all directions. The explosion lifted the second wagon up and over the edge of the road. The chain that had been stretched across the road was blown loose, and fell to the road. A huge dust cloud covered and obscured the area where the blockade had been. When the dust settled, the road was clear.
Several of the outlaws had not gotten clear: there were three men sprawled unconscious on the road. One of them was clearly dead, his neck twisted at an impossible angle. He had been picked up by the concussion and thrown against the cliff.
“Jesus!” Jerry said, his voice hushed. “How many sticks did you lash together, Frank?"
“Twelve."
Jerry cut his eyes to Frank and shook his head in awe. “Warn me next time, will you?"
“I hope there won't be a next time,” Frank replied.
“It ain't over, Frank!” the shout came from high above the road. “You son of a bitch!"
“Vic Vanbergen,” Frank said. “I recognize the voice."
“We'll meet again, you sorry son!” Vic yelled. “You can count on that."
“And that goes double in spades for me, Morgan!"
“Ned Pine,” Frank said. “It's over here, Jer. They're making their brags and threats now."
“Watch your ass in town, Morgan,” Vic yelled. “It ain't over by a long shot."
“He's tellin’ you they've got men in town waitin’ for you, Frank,” Jerry said.
“Sure,” Frank said calmly. “Big Bob Mallory will be back, and Kid Moran. Several others, I'm sure."
The lawmen waited on the road for several minutes more, but there was no more yelling from the top of the ridge. The Vanbergen and Pine gangs had pulled out.
Frank and Jerry made their way cautiously down to the now wrecked blockade. Two of the outlaws who had not cleared the blast were dead, one with a clearly broken neck, the other with a massive head wound caused by the fallen debris. The others were gone.
“I'll hook up the team,” Jerry said. “Bring the wagon down and we'll tote the dead back.” He smiled. “Might be a reward on them."
“You're learning. I'll start clearing away some of this junk."
“Frank?"
“Yes?"
“Pine and Vanbergen knew they couldn't keep this road closed. Why did they even try?"
“I think they were counting on us being dead. Our coming out alive put a kink in their plans."
“You're really gonna have to watch your back careful in town, Frank."
“I've been doing that for many years. It's as automatic for me as breathing. Come on, let's get these bodies loaded up and get back to town."
* * * *
Vivian was in a coma. Dr. Bracken told Frank that she might linger that way for hours, or even days. There was just no way to tell.
The two dead outlaws were both wanted and had a price on their heads. And they both carried some identification on them, which was a lucky break for the lawmen. Frank would wire the states where they were wanted as soon as the telegraph wires were repaired.
Frank filled out his daily report in the jail journal and then went on a walking inspection of the town. The main street was still a mess. The bodies of the dead had long been carried off, and the wounded were in makeshift hospitals. The undertaker had bodies stacked all over the place, overflowing out into the alley behind his parlor. There was just no time to embalm them all, nor did Malone have enough supplies to do so. The funerals were starting as soon as carpenters could knock together caskets.
Some of the caskets were tiny, and that was heartbreaking for anyone with a modicum of feeling.
Frank tried to talk with Conrad, but he refused to see him. After Frank tried twice and was rebuffed both times, he decided to leave his son alone. Frank would be in town and available when or if the young man wanted to talk.
Kid Moran and Big Bob Mallory were back in town. They were doing nothing to help out, just sitting and watching as the town struggled to pull itself out of the wreckage and cope with the heavy loss of life.
Frank didn't push the pair. There had been quite enough killing. But he knew they were there for a showdown. It was just a matter of time. With The Kid it was an ego thing. Kid Moran wanted a reputation. Frank still wasn't certain who was paying Big Bob, but Charles Dutton was at the top of his list.
Dutton was Conrad's shadow that day, all concern and sorrow and sympathy, and the young man was certainly receptive. Frank didn't, couldn't, blame the boy. Conrad didn't have any idea what was going on; apparently Vivian had never gotten around to talking with her son about her deep and dark feelings concerning Dutton.
And now it's too late, Frank thought with a silent sigh. Too late for a lot of things.
He was tired and taking a break, sitting on the bench outside the marshal's office, having a cup of coffee. Late afternoo
n shadows were creeping about the streets of the mountain town, creating little pockets of darkness in hidden corners. This had always been one of Frank's favorite times of the day, when dusk was reaching out to slowly melt and mingle with sunlight. But on this day of tragedy he was filled with various emotions: a hard sense of loss, a feeling of impending doom, a sense that his time in the mining town was nearly over; other emotions that were strong but not yet identifiable. Well ... one of the emotions was certainly familiar—the feeling that he had screwed up his life beyond salvaging.
Frank was a middle-aged man with a very dubious past, and not much of a future.
And damned if he knew how he could change it.
The voice of Dr. Bracken broke into his thoughts. “You mind some company, Marshal?"
Frank looked up. “Not at all, Doc. Glad to have some company.” He scooted over on the bench. “Might improve my disposition."
Bracken looked at the cup in Frank's hand. “That coffee drinkable?"
“You bet. Hot and fresh.” Frank started to rise. “I'll get you a cup."
Doc Bracken put a hand on his shoulder. “Sit still. I'll get it.” He walked into the office. A moment later, a mug of coffee in his hand, Bracken sat down on the bench. “You were deep in thought, Marshal, your face a study in emotion. Anything you want to talk about?"
“Oh, not really, Doc. I guess I was just sitting here sort of feeling sorry for myself."
“You do that often?"
Frank smiled. “Not very often, Doc. Looking over the wreckage of this town brought it on, I suppose."
“That and Mrs. Browning,” the doctor said softly.
“Yes. That, too."
“Frank, the West is still a small place, speaking in terms of population. Hell, man, half the town knew that you and Vivian Browning ... ah, Henson ... were once married. Many of those knew that old man Henson trumped up some false charges against you, and you had to leave. The story was all over the West back then. Newcomers, Johnny-come-latelies, don't know it, but we old-timers do. I've had people today, in the midst of all this tragedy, tell me that it's admirable how well you're holding up. Most of the people here in town, the regulars, the permanent residents ... why, they like you, Frank. They've found that all your dark reputation is pure bunk. For whatever it's worth, the town is behind you."
“Doc, I'm going to hunt down that gang—every member—and I'm going to kill them, all of them. My reputation is about to get a lot darker."
“Only one man was cranking that Gatling gun, Frank."
“But they were all involved. And no one tried to stop that one man."
“I can't argue that point.
“Viv and me, Doc, we were picking up the pieces. We were going to start all over. Move to California, maybe, where very few people have even heard of me..."
That got Frank a quick, sharp look from Doc Bracken. Frank Morgan still didn't realize that most people over the age of eight had heard of him. He didn't know that there had been dozens and dozens of newspaper articles written about him. People knew about Frank Morgan's exploits from coast-to-coast and border-to-border. Now many in the press were beginning to call him the last gunfighter—Frank Morgan, the Last Gunfighter.
“All that's gone up in a few minutes of gunsmoke. Vivian is lying in a coma, dying. My”—Frank caught himself, but not before Dr. Bracken picked up on the hesitation—“her son won't speak to me. He blames me for all that's happened. Hell, maybe he's right. Not entirely, but partly. I accept it. What choice do I have?"
“That's nonsense, Frank. She got caught in the line of fire—that's what happened."
Frank sighed. “You don't know the whole story, Doc. And it's best you never do."
“If you say so, Frank.” He took another sip of coffee. “Good. I needed that. It's been a long day, and it's going to be an even longer night."
“I'm sure."
Jerry walked up, a toothpick in his mouth. “Doc,” he greeted Bracken. “You better go put on the feedbag, Frank. Angie's laid out quite a spread at the café."
“Yeah, that's a good idea. I am kinda hungry. Doc, how about you?"
“In a little while. I want to check on a couple of patients first."
When the doctor had gone. Jerry said, “Big Bob Mallory was seen leavin’ the hotel about fifteen minutes ago, totin’ his rifle."
“It's about time for the showdown, men. I've been feeling it coming for several hours. Where is Kid Moran?"
“Disappeared. I looked around and he was nowhere to be seen. Come on, I'll have coffee while you eat."
“Not looking a gunfight in the eyes, Jer. I changed my mind. A big meal slows you down. I'll eat later.” Frank smiled. “Providing I still can eat, that is."
Twenty-Four
With Jerry walking a dozen yards behind him, carrying a rifle and covering his back, Frank strolled down to the café. The front windows had been knocked out, and were now boarded up, but the horrible events of that day had not affected the quality of food. The delicious odors drifting out into the street made Frank's mouth water, bringing home the fact that he had not eaten all day. But he did not want to eat a large meal and then have to face a very fast gunslick. And Kid Moran was very fast.
Frank settled for a piece of pie with his cup of coffee. Then he had a cigarette with his second cup in the Silver Spoon Café. He was stubbing out the cigarette butt when Jerry came in and took a seat.
“Kid Moran's waiting for you, Frank. He's standing on the corner. He's got a third pistol shoved in his gunbelt."
“He must be figuring I'm going to be hard to put down,” Frank said as he rolled another smoke.
“Don't forget he usually misses his first shot,” Jerry reminded him.
“Yeah. And sometimes he doesn't. Always expect the unexpected in these things, Jerry. I've learned that the hard way over the years."
“I'll never have a stand up and hook and draw fight, Frank. I know better. I'm as slow as cold molasses."
“I hope you never do, Jer."
“Frank, let's you and me take him alive,” Jerry suggested. “We'll get a couple of Greeners from the office and take him that way. How about it?"
“It wouldn't work."
“Why?"
“He'd fight, and we'd both run the risk of getting plugged. What he's calling for right now is still legal out here, and probably will be for some years to come. Have you seen Big Bob anywhere?"
“No. This smells like a setup to me, Frank."
“The Kid drawing me out, and Big Bob shooting me in the back?” Frank shook his head. “No. No, I don't think so. Bob Mallory works alone. Always has."
“There's always the first time."
Again, Frank shook his head. “No. The Kid's looking for a reputation, and Bob is getting paid by somebody—probably Dutton—to kill me.” Frank paused in his lifting of his coffee cup. “Or maybe it's Conrad he's after. Jer, go check on Conrad. Keep an eye on him for me, will you?"
“If you order me to do so, Frank, I will."
“Do I have to order it done?"
“No. Of course not. I'm gone."
Frank finished his coffee and stood up, slipping the hammer thong off his .45. Angie was watching, and frowned.
“Frank, isn't there another way?"
“No, Angie. There isn't. Not with The Kid. He wants a reputation."
“He's lightning fast."
Frank smiled. “I'm no tenderfoot, Angie."
She returned the smile. “Of course, you're not. I didn't mean to imply—"
Frank held up a hand. “I know what you meant. Angie. Keep the coffee hot, will you?"
“Just for you and Jerry. And I'll have some supper for you, too."
Frank picked up his hat, settled it on his head, and stepped out of the café. He looked to his left. There was The Kid, waiting at the end of the block.
“Might as well get this over with,” Frank said, thinking: One way or the other. He touched the brim of his hat in a salute to The Kid, a signa
l that he was ready, and stepped off the boardwalk and into the street.
Kid Moran did the same.
The word had spread about the pending gunfight. The main street was deserted of carpenters and other workmen. In only a few more years, stand up, hook and draw showdowns such as this would be mostly a thing of the past, but for now, it was still legal in most small towns in the West. If not legal, at least accepted by many.
Louis Pettigrew, the book writer from the East, was standing in the lobby of the hotel, watching it all and scribbling furiously in his notebook. He had written about dozens of shoot-outs, but this was the first actual gunfight he had ever witnessed. It was enthralling and exciting. What a book this would make: the aging king of gunfighters meeting a young, but fast, upstart prince in the dusty street for the title of the best of the fast guns. Wonderful!
Conrad was not watching the slow walk toward death in the street. He was sitting quietly beside his mother's bed.
Charles Dutton was watching from the hotel, a faint smile on his lips.
“Ride out of here, Kid,” Frank called. “Don't throw your life away for nothing."
“It ain't nothin’ to me, Morgan,” The Kid called.
“Boy, the day of the gunfighter is nearly over. And as far as I'm concerned, it's past time."
“What's the matter, Morgan?” The Kid taunted. “You gettin’ old and yeller?"
Getting old, for sure, Frank thought. He's damn sure right on one count. “Don't be a fool, boy. You know better than that."
“Frank Morgan done lost his nerve,” The Kid yelled. “By God, it's true. You beg me to let you leave and you can ride out of here, Morgan. Beg for your life, old man."
The Kid's been drinking, Frank thought. Where else would he get such a silly idea? “Forget it, boy,” Frank called. “That won't happen."
The distance between them was slowly closing. Little pockets of dust were popping up under their boots as they walked toward sudden death and destiny.
“Why don't you draw, old man?” The Kid yelled. “Come on, damn you. Pull on me!"
“It's your play, Kid,” Frank said calmly. “You're the one challenging the law here in town. I'm ordering you to give this up and ride on out."
The Drifter Page 17
