The Drifter

by William W. Johnstone

  Frank had a pretty good idea that the “bear” would turn out to be Mrs. Longthrower ... in her drawers. That was not a sight he wished to see again. He told some men to get the body of the outlaw on the second floor and then went to check on Conrad and Jerry over at the doctor's makeshift hospital. Before he could cross the street Reverend Longthrower started hollering for his wife to get off of Otis.

  “I imagine Otis would like that, too,” Frank muttered.

  Conrad had refused to lie down and rest for a while, choosing to go to the office. Frank sat down on the edge of the bunk and talked with Jerry for a few minutes.

  “Doc says the bullet didn't bit nothin’ vital,” Jerry said. “He says I just have to stay off my feet for a couple of days and rest."

  “You take as long as you need, Jer.” He smiled. “I imagine Angie will see that you're well fed."

  Jerry blushed under his tan. “Yeah. I ‘spect she will.” He looked closer at Frank. “You been hit, Frank! Your shoulder's bleedin.’”

  “It's just a scratch. I'm heading over to the office now to clean it up."

  “Take off your shirt, Frank,” Dr. Bracken said from behind him. “Let me take a look at that wound."

  “It's nothing, Doc."

  “Take off your shirt. That's an order. You get blood poisoning, you won't think nothing."

  Doc Bracken cleaned and bandaged the wound, told Frank to take it easy for the rest of the day, and sent him on his way. Frank didn't want to tell the doctor he'd hurt himself worse than that peeling potatoes.

  On his way back to the office, Frank ran into Louis Pettigrew. “Marshal,” the writer said, “I have made up my mind."

  “Oh?” Frank was staring at the man's bowler hat.

  “Yes. I am going to write a series of books about you. Not just one, but perhaps a dozen."

  Frank did not reply, just stared at the man in stunned disbelief. He couldn't keep his eyes off the man's dude hat.

  “I have wired my publisher, and am now awaiting his reply. I shall make it my life's work."

  “Your life's work?” Frank managed to say.

  “Yes, sir. I shall outfit myself and follow you no matter where in the wilds you might decide to go. I shall chronicle the day to day living of the West's most celebrated but least known gunfighter. Won't that be grand?"

  “Words fail me, Mr. Pettigrew.” I gotta get out of here, and do it quickly, Frank thought.

  “As soon as I receive word from my publisher I shall make preparations,” Pettigrew said.

  “To do what?” Frank asked.

  “To make the West my home! I must say, this is very exciting."

  I'll leave in the dead of night, Frank thought. Slip away like a thief.

  “I just thought you would like to know about my decision, Marshal. And I hope you're as excited as I am."

  “Oh, I am, Mr. Pettigrew. I can't begin to tell you how your decision has affected me."

  Pettigrew patted Frank on the arm. “I'm so pleased, Marshal. I really didn't know how you would react to the news."

  “I'm, ah, still trying to get used to the idea of you becoming a citizen of the West, Mr. Pettigrew."

  “I'm really excited about it."

  “I'm sure you are."

  “Well, then, I'll see you later on. We'll make an appointment to meet and start work on the first installment. Ta ta. Marshal."

  “Yeah,” Frank mumbled. “Ta-ta to you, too."

  “What is the writer so happy about?” Mayor Jenkins asked, walking up just as Pettigrew was leaving.

  “He's going to become a permanent resident of the West."

  “Really?"

  “That's what he told me."

  “Well, he's certainly welcome. I just hope he gets rid of that damn silly hat,” the banker said, “before someone shoots it off his head."

  Twenty-Six

  Frank had just finished a fresh cup of coffee and a smoke and had his feet propped up on the edge of the desk when a man walked into his office. “Sorry to bother you, Marshal, but I found a body on the way into town."

  Frank's boots hit the floor. “Where?"

  “Just the other side of where them outlaws had the road blocked. I seen the buzzards circlin’ and went to take a look. It's kind of bad, Marshal. The body's shore enough tore up somethin’ awful. The ants has been workin’ on it, as well as them damn buzzards."

  “I'll head on out there. Thanks, mister."

  “No problem."

  Frank picked up a spare horse at the livery and headed out. He was not looking forward to bringing the body back. Several days in the hot sun would have the body bloated and stinking. The ants and buzzards, and probably coyotes and other animals, had been working on it and would have left it in a real mess.

  Frank saw the buzzards long before he reached the body, about a hundred yards off the road, and up a natural game trail. Frank could tell by what was left of the clothing that it was more than likely the body of the young bank teller, Dean Hall, or Hill, or whatever his name was.

  The body was a mess, not at all pleasant to look at, or smell. Buzzards and ants had been at the face and the eyes, and facial identification would be impossible. Buzzards, more than likely, had torn the stomach open, and intestines were stretched out for yards.

  “Damn!” Frank said, trying to breathe through his mouth and not his nose. The stench was awful.

  He found a big stick and beat off the buzzards, some of them so bloated from eating the putrid meat they could not fly. They waddled off and stared at Frank, giving him baleful looks, no fear in them.

  He got the body on the tarp and rolled it up, securing it tightly with rope, closing both ends. That helped with the stench. It was going to be a real job getting the body tied down on the horse, for the animal was not liking the smell at all, and was trying to break loose and back off.

  Frank didn't blame the horse at all.

  Frank was securing a loose end of the tarp, one foot of the body sticking out, when he saw his own horse's head jerk up, the ears laid back, nostrils flared. Frank quickly jerked his rifle from the boot and grabbed the ammo belt he had looped over the horn. The tarp-wrapped body forgotten, Frank jumped for cover, thinking, Setup!

  Someone, maybe Ned Pine and Vic Vanbergen, maybe Dutton, somebody, had set him up for sure. And the setup had worked to perfection. He was damn sure set up, and boxed in.

  Frank had just bellied down behind the rocks when the bullets started flying all around him. All he could do for several minutes was keep his head down and hope that no bullet flattened out against the rocks and ricocheted into him.

  He wriggled into better cover during a few seconds respite in the firing. He hadn't made any attempt to return the fire, for as yet he didn't have any idea where the gunmen were. He didn't know if there were two or ten of them. He knew only that if it lasted for very long he was in for one hell of a mighty dry fight. His canteen was on his horse, and the animal had wandered several dozen yards away—no way he could get to it. And there was little chance he could expect any help.

  The firing began again, and this time Frank could pretty well add up the number of shooters he was facing, for not all of them were using the same caliber rifles. Five shooters, Frank figured. And several of them were slightly above him.

  Two of the four assassins from the ambush in the valley and town were still alive; could they be a part of this?

  Frank didn't believe so. But they could also very well be a part of a much larger picture. Maybe Dutton had hired an entire gang to rid himself of Vivian and Conrad. But why so much emphasis on him? Had Dutton found out that he was now a minor stockholder in the Henson Company?

  “Damn,” Frank muttered. “This is getting too complicated for a country boy."

  Frank got lucky. He caught a quick glimpse of what looked like part of a man's arm sticking out from behind cover and snapped off a fast shot.

  “Goddamn it!” he heard the man holler. “I'm hit. Oh, damn. I'm hit hard."


  “Where you hit. Pat?"

  “My elbow. It's busted. Can't use my arm at all."

  “Hang on. I'm comin'."

  The man who was heading to help his friend jumped up, and Frank dusted him, the .44-.40 round entering the man's body high up on one side and blowing out through his shoulder. The second shooter never made a sound. He folded like a house of cards and went down, his rifle clattering on the rocks.

  Another voice was added. “Nick?"

  Nick would never make another sound on this side of the misty vail.

  “That bastard's got more luck than any man I ever seen,” a third voice called.

  “Yeah,” a fourth voice shouted from off to Frank's left. “Let's get out of here, Mack. Let that damn lawyer fight his own battles. I'm done."

  Frank waited for a few minutes, trying to pick up the sound of horses’ hooves, but could hear nothing. They must have left their horses some distance away. Frank edged out of the rocks and ran a short distance to more cover. No shots came his way. He worked his way toward the higher ground cautiously. He found a blood trail that led off toward a clearing, but did not pursue it.

  Working his way through the rocks, he found the dead man. He rolled the body over and went through the clothing, looking for some identification. He did find a wad of paper money ... several hundred dollars. He shoved that in his back jeans pocket and dragged the man out of the rocks, then went back for the shooter's rifle. He began looking around for the man's horse, and after a few minutes found it. He led the animal back and hoisted the body belly down across the saddle, tying him securely with rope.

  Frank managed to get the bank teller's tarp-wrapped body roped down in the pack frame, then headed back to town.

  Townspeople paused on the boardwalk, watching Frank ride slowly up the main street. Doc Bracken came out of his office to meet Frank in front of the jail.

  “The bank teller fellow's in the tarp,” Frank told him. “I think it is, anyways. The other one is part of a gang that tried to ambush me. It was a setup to get me out of town. You seen that damn Charles Dutton fellow?"

  “The Boston lawyer?"

  “Yes."

  “Not lately. Not since the shoot-out, I'm sure."

  “I'll find him. How is Vivian?"

  “Weaker, Frank. It's down to hours now, I'm sure."

  “Conrad?"

  “Finally accepting the fact that his mother is not going to make it."

  “I'll get those bodies over to Malone.” Frank reached in his back pocket and pulled out the wad of bills. “The shooter had this money on him."

  “I'd give Malone twenty-five dollars and keep the rest, I was you."

  “I'll give it to Jerry.” Frank grinned. “For a wedding present."

  “He and Angie have sure been making cow's eyes at one another of late."

  “He'll make her a good husband, and she'll make him a good wife. Doc, you think this town is going to last after the mines play out?"

  “Yes, I do, Frank. I just heard that a big cattle outfit is going to come in. The town will lose about half its population when the mines go, maybe more than that, but the solid citizens will stay. Why do you ask?"

  “I told you. Doc. I'm pulling out. Jerry will make a fine town marshal."

  “We'll hate to see you go, Frank."

  “I forget the name of the writer who wrote that line about all things coming to an end ... something like that. It's almost time for me to move on."

  Dr. Bracken's nurse came running out of his office and over to the men. “Doctor! Mrs. Browning just slipped away."

  Doc Bracken looked at Frank.

  “Correction, Doc,” Frank said. “It's time to move on."

  Twenty-Seven

  “Mr. Dutton left several hours ago. Marshal,” the clerk at the hotel told Frank. “He had to make a very hurried business trip to Denver."

  “Oh? How did he leave? There was no stage scheduled."

  “Well, he had some rather rough-looking men escorting him. I'd never seen any of them before today."

  “Thanks."

  So much for Dutton, Frank thought, standing outside the hotel. I'll deal with him when I find him ... if I ever find him. Frank had a hunch the Boston lawyer would never again set foot west of the Mississippi River.

  The man who had told Frank about the body of the bank teller had hauled his butt out of town. No one had seen him before, and no one knew where he had gone. Another dead end. Undertaker Malone had stopped all other work to prepare Vivian's body. She was to be taken to the railroad spur line just across the border in Colorado and then to Denver. From there she would be transported back east for burial.

  Conrad was to escort the body all the way back to Boston.

  Frank walked over to Malone's funeral parlor. Conrad was sitting alone in the waiting room. He did not look up as Frank entered.

  Frank took off his hat, hung it on a rack, and sat down beside his son. “Don't you think we'd better talk?"

  “We have nothing to discuss. Marshal."

  “I'm your father, Conrad."

  “Biologically speaking, I suppose I have to accept that as fact. I don't have to like it. Mr. Browning was my father. He raised me."

  “And he did a fine job. I didn't know I had a son until your mother told me just a short time ago.” Just a few weeks back, Frank thought. And now she's gone ... forever. “I want you to believe that."

  “I believe it, Marshal. But it doesn't change anything. I want you to believe that."

  It's too soon to be discussing this, Frank thought. I made a mistake coming over here. The boy is too filled with grief.

  “I know that mother left you a small percentage of the company, Marshal. I will honor her wishes. I won't contest it."

  “I didn't ask her for any part of the company, Conrad."

  “I believe that, too."

  “You want me to leave you alone?"

  “I don't care, Marshal. You have a right to be here."

  “I loved her very much. I never stopped loving her.” Conrad had nothing to say about that.

  “Did Malone say when the”—Frank started to say “body” but he couldn't bring himself to form the word—“when people can stop by here to pay their respects?"

  “In a few hours."

  Frank stood up and snagged his hat off the rack. “I'll leave you alone for a time."

  Conrad met Frank's eyes for the first time since Frank entered the waiting room. “I appreciate that, Marshal."

  “Well, maybe I'll see you in a few hours."

  “All right."

  Frank was glad to leave the stuffy and strange-smelling waiting room of the funeral parlor. He had never liked those places. He stood on the boardwalk and took several deep breaths of fresh air, then looked up and down the street.

  Another town I'll soon put behind me, Frank thought. In a few months they will have forgotten all about me, at least for the most part. The town's residents will settle back into a regular way of life ... and I'll do what I do best—drift.

  No, Frank amended. Not just drift. I have a big job to do. I'll find the men responsible for your death, Viv. I promise you that. If it takes the rest of whatever life I have left, I'll do it.

  The news of Vivian Browning's death spread quickly through the town. People spoke in hushed, sorrowful tones to Frank as he walked back to his office. At his desk he wrote out a letter of resignation, effective when Jerry was able to return to work ... which, according to Doc Bracken, would be in a couple of days. He dated and signed the notice, then sealed it in an envelope.

  He checked on the prisoners, then walked over to his house and began packing up his possessions, leaving out a clean shirt, britches, socks, and longhandles. He went over to the livery and checked on his packhorse. The animal was glad to see him, perhaps sensing they would soon be again on the trail.

  Frank stored his packed up possessions in the livery storeroom and then walked over to the café for a cup of coffee and perhaps a bite to eat. Angle
took one look at Frank's expression and brought two cups and the coffeepot over to his table and joined him.

  She touched his hand. “I'm sorry, Frank."

  “I have to think it was for the best, Angie. Better than her starving to death. It was just her time to follow the light."

  “That's beautiful, Frank. Follow the light. Frank? How is her son taking it?"

  “He's all right. He's tougher than he looks."

  “And you?"

  “Getting ready to pull out. Just as soon as Jerry is on his feet."

  “That quick?"

  “Yes. I have things to do."

  “I don't have to ask what those things are. Is that what Mrs. Browning would want?"

  “It's what I want."

  She lowered her eyes from his cold stare. She struggled to suppress a shiver. Looking into his eyes that day was like looking into a cold, musty grave. Years back, Angie had surprised a big puma feasting on a fresh kill. The puma did not attack, but the eyes were the same as Frank's—cold and deadly. Angie backed away quickly and left the puma alone to eat.

  Frank drank his coffee, declined the offer of food, and walked over to Willis's General Store. There he bought bacon, beans, flour, and coffee. He bought a new jacket for the trail, for his old one was patched and worn. He took everything back to the office. There, he sat and waited.

  * * * *

  Frank did not return to the funeral parlor to view Vivian's body. He respected her wish that he not have that image in his brain.

  The next morning, Jerry came limping into the office about ten o'clock.

  “You supposed to be up, Jer?"

  “Doc said it was all right long as I don't try to run any foot races. Mrs. Browning's body is being loaded into the wagon now, Frank, for transport to the rails."

  “I know."

  “You're not going over there?"

  “No.” Frank stood up. “You ready to be sworn in, Jer?"

  “I reckon so, Frank. If that's what you want."

  “Wait here.” Frank walked over to the bank and got Mayor Jenkins. Ten minutes later, Frank had handed in his badge, and Jerry had been sworn in.