“Just watch the women for me, boys.” He winked at both men. “Neither of you should have any problem with that. And if one of those folks you talked about shows up and the shootin’ starts, hunt your holes and stay out of my way.”
Chapter 10
Dixie took her time in the bath. It was an incredible experience after the long miles on the trail. She hadn’t realized she’d had so much blood and so many blisters on her. She spent a nickel on a fancy bottle of soap, and hoped the smell of it covered the roughness she still felt when she looked at herself in the mirror. Her once-beautiful auburn hair now looked like broom straw, and her face was chapped and pinked from the sun. She’d done the best she could.
Before the bath, she’d taken the time to buy herself and her girls a new dress each. Nothing fancy, they did have miles and weeks to go before journey’s end—but even practical could look nice if it was new—and fit just so around all the right places.
The other women were content to lounge around in the tubs, talking to each other and trying to cheer up Carolyn, who had yet to say a word since the death of her husband and son. Once Dixie felt clean and relatively pretty, she tied a ribbon around her wet hair and went to search out Frank.
Ed Masterson tipped his hat and told her Morgan was in the bathhouse out behind the barbershop and Chinese laundry. Feeling conspicuously unescorted on the dusty street, Dixie paced back and forth under a huge painted sign, that declared: DODGE CITY TONSORIAL EMPORIUM—HAIRS CUT AND TEETH PULLED. J.F. WILLOUGHBY, PROPRIETOR.
“Beg your pardon, ma’am,” a low voice said behind her. “Have you seen a beautiful, corn-fed lady hereabouts? She’s wearing a ratty old blue dress, not nearly so handsome as the one you have on.”
Dixie rolled her eyes and turned to see Frank Morgan, dressed to the nines, standing in the entry to Willoughby’s tonsorial. The sight of him took her breath away.
He’d changed out of his tattered trail clothes and into a black suit with a blood-red shirt and black kerchief. His boots were freshly polished, and his hat was brushed and blocked.
“Hope you’re going to a wedding and not a funeral,” she said, looking him up and down.
“Either one’d be about as sad for a woman who’d try to stand by a fellow like me.” Frank grinned. “I’m a tough row to hoe.”
“You are a might weedy at that.”
“Well, I must say you are ... I have to choose my words here.” Frank took off his hat. “Ravishing. How’s that for a two-dollar word?”
“You mean it, Frank? Do I look all right?” Dixie didn’t know why, but she needed to hear it from him. She’d been a mother for sixteen years—someone’s wife, for pity’s sake. She hadn’t heard such kind words in a long time, and didn’t realize how starved she was for compliments.
“Of course I mean it. You’re beautiful.”
She tittered and looked at the ground. “You are quite the dashing figure yourself, Mr. Morgan.”
“A bit worse for wear, I’m afraid.” He took her hand and motioned down the street. “Shall we go for a stroll?”
She nodded. “Where’s your dog?” she asked, in order to make idle conversation and take her mind off her heart, which was beating fast at finally being alone with this man. “I thought he never left your side.”
“He’s in the stable where he can stay out of trouble. I told him to stay there and he’ll mind me. You see, Dog likes to gamble too much and he’s a bit of a boozer, so I have to keep him tucked away.” He chuckled softly, squeezing her hand in his as they walked. “I’ve arranged for the liveryman to feed him.”
“Can I ask you a question, Frank?”
He shrugged. “You bet.”
“Are you ever able to take off your gun?” She knew the answer, but wanted to get him talking about it.
“I don’t bathe with it if that’s what you mean.”
“I’ll bet you do too.” She chuckled and elbowed him softly in the ribs. It was an odd thing that she was allowing herself to be so forward with another man mere days after Virgil’s death. But the truth was, without Frank Morgan, the West felt like too big a place for her. Alone, she felt as if she might just blow away on the prairie wind.
“Seriously, Dixie. There are a lot of folks around who’d be mighty happy to see me planted in the ground. There’s not a lot of sense in it, but that’s the way it is, pure and simple.”
She slowed her walk and turned to face him. He was a full head taller than her. “I have to tell you something. Before . . . all this happened . . . all the killing and bloodshed, I didn’t understand you. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure I do now.”
“It’s a hard thing, to kill a man. It changes you, Dixie. You’re learning that firsthand, I fear, and I’m sorry it had to come to that. Sorry for you.”
She tugged at his arm to start him walking again. Stopping made her feel like she might well up and start crying. Movement felt better, kept the tears sifted down. “I feel so stupid. When you first rode in that day and joined the wagons, I thought if you’d just put down your foolish weapons, everyone else would follow suit.” She shook her head. “I thought you could be the one to end all this violence.”
She felt his arm stiffen and he drew his hand away. A young man in a mouse-colored slouch hat stood leaning against a hitching post in front of a dilapidated dram house across the street. He was staring at Frank through mean slits.
“I see him,” she said, stepping away to give Frank room if he had to move.
“Proud of you.” Frank put his left arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. She was amazed at how good it felt. “He’s not quite ready for me yet. Still working his tombstone courage to the fore.”
“You know him?”
“ ’Fraid so. His name’s Jack Miller.” Frank tipped his hat at a passing couple half their age, out for their own evening stroll. “His brother Dan tried to ambush me some months ago down north of Eagle Pass.”
“And you killed him?”
“Had to. Dan Miller wasn’t one for talking things over.”
“Are there many like this one?”
“More than I’d like, that’s for sure.”
“And he’s going to try and kill you too—to avenge his brother—who also tried to kill you?”
“I didn’t make the rules, Dixie. I’m just trying to stay alive.”
“Should I get out of the way?”
“Not yet. He’s still trying to work up the gumption to pull on me. He might still need another beer or two.”
“Will you warn me when he’s worked up the courage?”
Frank smiled and gave her shoulders another squeeze. “You’re learning quickly,” he said. “I think you’ll know. Say, where are your daughters?” He suddenly seemed to push the would-be gunman out of his mind.
“I told them to stay at the bathhouse with the Fossman girls and try to cheer them up.”
“Think they’ll stay there?”
“They’ll mind me as good as Dog minds you, I’ll bet.” She looked behind her. “Miller is following us now.”
“I see him. Step in here and I’ll buy you a phosphate. They’re mighty tasty. Maybe Jack will cool off a bit if I get out of his sight.”
A short time later, Frank ushered her back out onto the sidewalk. He stuck his head out first, then took her hand again to lead her back toward her hotel. She’d learned enough to stay on his left side to keep his gun hand free. Miller still loitered on the other side of the street.
“There’s no way out of this, is there?”
“Nope,” Frank said. “Jack’s worked up a full head of steam. I reckon he’ll be calling me out anytime now.”
Dixie felt as if her head might explode at the stupidity of all this. “Why don’t you call the town marshal or your friend the sheriff and get them to put a stop to this?”
“It might get them killed. Jack might be scared of me, but he’s no slouch. No, if anyone has to die because of this, it has to be him or me.”
Di
xie spied one of Ed Masterson’s deputies leaning against a post a half a block away, watching. He was a lanky fellow, ten years younger than Frank. He had kind eyes. She shot a glance at Frank. “He’s got on a badge. Why won’t he do anything to stop this?”
“Because he’s a man of the West, Dixie. It isn’t the way things are done out here.”
“Then what good are they? This is absolutely no different than it was out on the prairie when that gang of killers were after us. We are still all alone.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. In some ways I suppose we are. Out here a man saddles his own horses and stomps his own snakes.”
She shook her head. “You talk about all this killing so matter-of-factly. Aren’t you afraid you might die?”
“Never was before.” He kept a wary eye on Miller. “Truth be told, until just a few days ago, I didn’t have all that much to live for.” He gave her a sly wink that made her knees go wobbly. He scooted her out of the way behind a pile of crates. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to stand over here. I believe young Mr. Miller is about to make his play. I can see in his eyes he’s made up his mind he can kill me.”
* * *
“Morgan!” Miller called from the middle of the rutted street. “Get out here and face me, you back-shootin’ son of a bitch.”
Frank shook his head. He felt so tired from all this. Jack Miller was an amateur, filled with too much alcohol-induced bravery. It would be a senseless death.
“Dan gave me no choice,” Morgan said.
“That ain’t the way I heard it, Drifter. Now step out here and let’s get to it.” Miller’s voice was unsteady, hollow.
“All you’re gonna do is get yourself killed, Jack.” Frank stepped on to the street. The sun was to his back. Stupid kid. “How’ll that help your brother?”
“You’re getting a little long in the tooth, Drifter. I reckon I can take an old man like you easy.”
“Here I am then.” Frank’s voice went stone cold. “Anytime you’re ready, kid.”
Chapter 11
It was over in an eye twitch. There was a rocking boom, Frank’s Peacemaker belched fire and smoke, and he was left standing alone in the middle of the street.
Miller never fully cleared leather, and his gun slid harmlessly back into the holster, as if it had never even been drawn. The wounded man lay writhing in the street, a red stain on his right shoulder, blood spilling into the street and mingling with a pile of green horse manure.
“Good Lord in heaven,” Dixie breathed.
The tall deputy strode over from his hiding place behind the dram house. Frank holstered his revolver and raised his hands.
“I saw it all, Mr. Morgan, sir,” the deputy said. He beamed like a young boy talking to his hero. “I saw he prodded you into it. Left you no choice. I need to warn you, though, Miller has cousins.”
“Don’t they all?” Frank lowered his hands and checked back over his shoulder at Dixie, who still had her hand over her open mouth.
“My kin’ll get you, Drifter. I’m sorry I couldn’t take care of you for Danny’s sake, but someone will.”
Frank walked over to the panting man. “You’re a mighty bold talker for a man bleeding in a pile of horse shit.” He looked the wound over and shook his head. “You’re lucky this time. I generally don’t have time to aim. If you’ll quit thrashing around like this, you might make it. Let this drop and no more of your family has to die.”
“You go to hell, Morgan. If I could still use my arm, I’d kill you right now.”
Frank drew his gun and ejected the empty brass. He slid another round in the cylinder to take its place, then squatted down next to Miller, looking him square in the eye. In Frank’s experience, if he ever had a chance to let a man look into his eyes, see what was behind them, their will to fight him had a way of evaporating.
“Son,” he said, tapping the barrel of his Peacemaker on his bent knee. “If you’d still been able to use your arm, you’d be dead right now.”
Miller’s face went white—maybe from loss of blood, more likely from a sudden rush of understanding.
The deputy whistled two men and a wagon out of the alley by the saloon. He’d done his planning well. The two men loaded a now-quiet Miller into the bed of the wagon. Once they clambered aboard, the wagon rattled off down the dusty street. The deputy followed.
“Is that it?” Dixie asked, still wringing her hands. “Is that all there is to it?”
Frank shrugged. “Oh, there might be some papers to sign over at the marshal’s office, but other than that, I think it’s over.”
“No hearing in front of a magistrate?”
“Reckon not.”
“I’m smack in the middle of the Wild West. The dime novels about you are not far off the mark.”
Frank lowered his gaze. “I thought you didn’t read such nonsense.”
“I bought one to take to the bath with me today. It’s called Frank Morgan: Notorious Gunslick and Cold Blooded Killer.”
Frank sighed. “No wonder so many folks want to brace me.”
* * *
The ladies asked if they could stay in Dodge another day. Frank didn’t mind. It was still early in the season, and he had nowhere else pressing he had to be. Might as well drift with a bunch of women as by himself.
He saw to the loading of new supplies, while the women worked on sending telegrams back East and seeing to the personal affairs of their husbands. The water barrels hiding the group’s entire life savings remained safe in plain sight.
The women were aghast when Frank suggested they all buy some men’s britches for the trail.
“Britches.” Paula Freeman grimaced. “Why on earth would we do such a thing?”
Frank shrugged. “For one thing, it will make you more comfortable on the trail. When we run into any trouble you’ll be able to move a lot faster. Get the older girls some too. I’m not certain what we got in store for us, but if you end up in a saddle, I think you’ll get a lot less sore in britches.”
“I’ve never worn britches before,” Betty mused.
“There’s a lot of things you’ll do you’ve never done before this trip’s over,” Frank said, winking at Dixie.
* * *
Three men loitered near the entrance to the Gilded Lily saloon, and watched the women carry their packages out of the dry-goods store across the street. Frank stood in the shadows and watched the men.
The three looked like brothers, all from the same bad seed. Frank didn’t recognize them, but he knew their type: thieves, ne’er-do-wells, trouble hunters. In that respect, they were brothers to hundreds of men across the West.
This particular trio was easy enough to spot because of their redheaded mops that stuck out under worn and dirty hats. Each sported a whole bushel basket of freckles over his face and arms. All wore their guns tied down to their thighs.
Frank’s suspicions were confirmed when Bat approached him at his morning coffee on their last day in Dodge.
“The Benson boys have been asking a lot of questions about you and the ladies.”
“Three of them, carrottops and spotted as Stormy’s rump?” Frank sipped his coffee, leaning back in the wooden chair.
“That’s them. I’ve got informants that tell me they may be connected to Swan and his gang, but I’ve got no proof.” Masterson drew up another chair and the waitress brought him a cup. “They’re thieves, though. Take anything that’s not nailed down. Bully, the middle one, just got out of prison a month ago.”
“That’s his name, Bully Benson?”
Masterson chuckled. “I don’t know, but that’s what everyone calls him. I can’t be casting stones, though, with a name like Bat.”
Frank leaned forward, more serious now. “You think they’il make a try for us?”
“I’d bet on it. When you get far enough out of Dodge. I’ve let it be known I’ll have men shadowing you until you’re well out of the county. I don’t think anyone would make a play against you in my territory
.”
Frank chuckled and put down his cup. “You do have yourself a reputation, Bat.”
The sheriff laughed. “Look who’s talking.”
* * *
“We need to keep an eye out for three men who’ve been watching us,” Frank told Dixie while they hitched the mules to her wagon early the next morning.
“Redheads?” Dixie said, sliding wooden hames over the collar of the lead mule.
Frank nodded. “You noticed them then.”
“How could we miss three scruffy men like that? They stood around watching us wherever we went, scratching like they were infested with fleas.”
“They probably do have fleas, among other things.” He didn’t tell her about the possible connection with Ephraim Swan. “I am proud of you for noticing them.”
“You ought to be really proud of us,” Paula said as she road up in her wagon with the Fossman girls. “We each bought two pairs of men’s britches for the trip.”
“I felt lewd in them when I tried them on.” Betty grinned.
“When do you plan to change into them?” Frank climbed aboard Stormy and made ready to take the lead. He waved good-bye to Bat, who stood a few paces away in the dim morning light.
“Not until we’re well out of town,” Paula said.
Frank raised his eyebrows and winked at Bat. “I can hardly wait.”
Chapter 12
Frank led the wagon train out of Dodge as dawn was beginning to color the eastern sky. He looked around for the Benson brothers, but didn’t spot them. He hadn’t really expected to. They would trail the train until well outside Bat Masterson’s jurisdiction.
A few miles out of town, when the sun was well up, Frank reined up next to the lead wagon. Dixie’s wagon. Her two girls were riding horseback on the opposite side on animals they’d taken from the dead kidnappers.
They were fine horses too; something most successful outlaws insisted upon, for their very lives depended on mounts with staying power. After hearing what had happened to the women, Bat had arranged with a local magistrate in Dodge to fix up legitimate ownership papers for the animals.
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