No Man's Land

by William W. Johnstone

  Frank shook his head. “No, thanks. You got an undertaker around here?”

  “Only me. I did have a Goshute wife, but she ran off or got stolen.” Ram brightened as though he had an idea. “I know. I can hang the body outside with the coyotes.”

  “I think we better bury him. I’ll pay you for your trouble. If a man named Sutton comes by, tell him I’m sorry I missed him, but my word still stands.”

  There was a shuffle in the doorway behind him, and Frank turned to see a dark silhouette.

  “What word is that, Morgan?”

  “Come to mop up after your hired gun, Sutton?” Frank let his hand fall to the butt of his Peacemaker.

  The trail boss walked into the room and looked at the mess that had been Nick Gamble. “He’s not one of my men.” Sutton wore a pistol on his left side. The leather whang still covered the hammer spur. His right hand was a tight mass of white scar where his thumb and forefinger used to be. A common accident for a cattleman used to dally-roping strays—must have gotten his hand caught between the saddle horn and the rope. He was a cowboy and a mean one at that, but Vic Sutton was no gunfighter.

  He ordered a beer and looked into it while he spoke, barely containing his contempt. “I got your message. You’re damned fast on the trigger, Morgan.” He took a long slug of his beer and then stood back from the bar. “I’m losin’ a lot of men I can’t afford to lose.”

  “Tell that to the women and children they were about to murder.”

  Sutton waved him off. “Don’t blow smoke up my ass. Those men were after you, not the women.”

  “Hard to tell it from where they were aimin.’” “

  “Listen, Morgan. As far as I’m concerned you’re no better than those men you sent back to me. You’re all two-bit gunslingers with a short life and no savvy for God’s honest work. But this has to stop. Some of Swan’s men hired on with me, but they’re all gone now. I can personally vouch for all the men I got left on the crew.”

  “What about your hotheaded nephew?”

  Sutton turned to finish his beer. “Aw, hell, he thought you were stealin’ cattle and did what any cowboy who rides for the brand would do.”

  “With a little too much rush to judgment maybe?”

  “I’ll give you that, Morgan. Is it over?”

  “As far as I’m concerned.” Frank took a step closer so the trail boss would be sure to understand him. “Me and you, we’re hard-put types, Mr. Sutton. You just want to get your herd to market, and I aim to see these wagons safe and sound to their destination. Neither of us has got much slack when it comes to our goals. I don’t want to kill any more of your men. You know that. So keep ’em clear of me. You’re a tough old cob, and I trust your word—so you trust mine. The terms of my note still stand. If I said any different, well, then I’d be blowing smoke up your ass.”

  Chapter 18

  Three scorching days after Frank killed Nick Gamble, the wheel on the Freeman wagon shattered and fell off the axle. The tired wood and metal gave way with such a loud pop, George Carlisle drew his bird’s-head Colt and scanned horizon for attackers.

  “You’re mighty fast, Georgie,” Frank ribbed the boxer. “If a broken wagon wheel ever tries to brace you, it doesn’t stand a chance.”

  Carlisle took the jab with good humor, and dismounted to help with the repairs.

  Though the families had sold most of their possessions before leaving Indiana, the wagons were still carrying extremely heavy loads. Each woman still had a fair amount of her own possessions. The Fossman and Brandon wagons had been so badly damaged during the rescue as to make them unusable, and their things were divided among the other three vehicles to even out the loads.

  In order to fix the broken wheel, the mules had to be unhitched, and the entire wagon’s contents unloaded under the blazing sun. Rather than ride to find wood, Frank unbolted the wagon’s own tongue, unhooked the double trees, and used the stout piece of oak as a lever to lift the still-heavy wagon up high enough to put on the only spare wheel.

  It was a tedious, back-breaking affair without the proper tools, but after much labor, copious amounts of sweat, and an equal measure of cursing that drove the women and children scurrying into the cactus, the wheel was finally in place.

  No sooner had the sweating men reloaded the numerous heavy trunks and bags, some of which they swore contained anvils and railroad ties, than Betty Ellington pointed out that one of her mules had thrown a shoe.

  Frank groaned and cast his eyes back and forth around the other exhausted men. “Any one of you besides me know anything about shoeing stock?”

  “Not that I’m willing to admit,” George groaned, mopping his glistening forehead with a towel Paula brought him.

  “I’m a pretty poor hand at it,” Otis said. “I quick just about every horse or mule I try to put a shoe on.”

  Frank sighed and trudged toward Betty and her mule. “That’s what I figured. Alphonse, grab the shoeing box out of the back of Mrs. Carpenter’s wagon and come learn an honest trade.”

  The families had had the good sense to have extra shoes made for each of the mules before leaving Indiana. It should have been a simple matter of cleaning up the hoof with a quick application of the rasp and then nailing on the new shoe, which had already been fitted to the mule’s foot. But this particular animal was a leaner, and Frank spent as much time jabbing it in the ribs with his shoeing hammer to get it to stand up as he did pounding nails.

  Twenty minutes of struggling, half bent under twelve hundred pounds of a cantankerous bag of bones, took its toll. Once the nails were all turned, wrung off, and clinched tight, Frank handed the mule’s lead off to Betty and sat back on the ground.

  “I’m getting too old for this,” he sighed, rubbing the small of his back. Dixie handed him a cup of water. He took a sip and poured the rest of it over his head. Dixie laughed, showing all her beautiful teeth, and filled his cup again. He took another swallow, then threw the rest at her, wetting the front of her britches and causing her to gasp in surprise.

  “River’s not more than a half a mile away,” Frank said. “We could all use a bath. Don’t you think?”

  “A bath.” Paula perked up from the back of her wagon at the mention of the word, and Betty turned from hitching her mule to look at Frank.

  “A bath, a swim, call it whatever you want. I’m tired, I’m hot, and my old back hurts. I imagine most of us share the same feelings. A little cold water would be good for what ails us.”

  * * *

  A half a mile and twenty minutes later, Frank brought Dixie’s wagon to a halt above the bank of a gentle bend in the Arkansas River and set the side-brake. The other wagons creaked to a stop behind him.

  The girls and younger Chapman boys wasted no time jumping out of their respective wagons. They scampered down the steep incline like so many squirrels, excited at the prospect of a swim.

  Betty Ellington stood by her wagon, her arms folded staunchly in front of a heaving chest. “Wearing men’s britches is one thing,” she said. “Swimming with men is an entirely different matter.”

  “You wouldn’t be wearin’ the britches while you swim,” George joked, giving Paula an obvious wink.

  Betty set her teeth and stomped one foot on the ground like an angry buffalo. “I do not intend to . . . ”

  Frank raised a hand. “Now simmer down, Betty. The river makes a pretty little bend here and pools out nicely on that far side. You women go on upstream there through the willows and have your swim. Me and the boys’ll stay down here and splash around in the shallows and get cooled off.”

  Betty’s decency preserved, the women began to coble together some towels and fresh drawers and trooped off through the willows.

  “You think there might be snakes in there?” Dixie said. She and Paula were the last to leave the men.

  “Don’t think so,” Frank said. “As you’re about to find out, that water is a little more than on the cold side. There could be some on the bank, though, so
keep your wits about you.”

  “If you see one just give us a yell.” George winked. “We’ll come running over to check on you.”

  “I’ll bet you would at that.” Paula giggled like a girl half her age.

  Frank raised his hand as if to pledge. “We promise not to peek more than once or twice.”

  “Well.” Dixie nodded slowly. “Gentlemen, you will get no such promise from us.”

  The two women turned in unison and walked slowly toward the stand of willows and cottonwoods that would separate them from view. They didn’t look back, but the wiggle in their walks made it plain they knew the men were watching them.

  “You ever been married?” Frank asked a few moments later as he began to strip down by the bank and hang his clothes on the willow brush. Otis and his boys already splashed and played in the knee-deep water.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I was,” George said, paying careful attention to how he laid out his pistol next to the bank—out of the water but within easy reach—an action that impressed Frank as much as the man’s speed with a gun or his fists. “I was married to a beautiful young woman from Pennsylvania. Her father is a large landholder there and the family had a great deal of money.”

  “Ah.” Frank nodded. “The family didn’t take to you then?” He winced as he stepped into the cold current.

  “Actually, her father and I got on quite well. We had two children and a very nice home in upstate New York. I got along with the family fine. It was my wife I had a hard time getting along with. Through the years, I came to learn one of life’s valuable lessons—beauty doesn’t guarantee tranquility. You know what the Good Book says?” George kicked at the water with his toe, as if in deep thought.

  Frank shrugged. “I reckon I’ve got as much cause to read the Bible as anyone, but I’m not certain what it says on that particular subject.”

  “It says, and I quote, ’It is better to dwell in the corner of a housetop, than with a brawling woman in a wide house’—Proverbs 21:9.”

  “Truer words were never spoken,” Frank said, easing deeper into the water. It was cold enough to take his breath away, but it didn’t seem to be affecting George. “So, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, you don’t seem to think Paula is going to be a brawling woman.”

  George chuckled. “Fortuna—that was my first wife—she was young, barely twenty when we married. I had to watch her grow from a spoiled girl into a brawling woman. Took a while to get there, but once she did, it was a sorry sight to behold. Paula already is what she’s going to be. She’s been through a lot and held up remarkably well, don’t you think?”

  “I do. I’m glad you two seem so taken with each other. In my opinion, Mr. Carlisle, she could do a lot worse.”

  “I was going to say the same thing about you and . . . ”

  A shrill scream carried through the cottonwoods above the rush of the river. Both men scrambled immediately for the bank—and their weapons. Frank yanked up his britches and grabbed the rifle, not even taking time to hitch on his gun belt and pistol. George was right behind him, bird’s-head Colt in one hand and his hat in the other. Not wanting to be left behind, he hadn’t bothered with his drawers or his trousers.

  They hadn’t gone ten steps when a single gunshot rang out, echoing across the water’s surface. Otis shooed his boys to the safety of the bank while Frank and George redoubled their speed. More shrieks and cries of panic came from the women’s side of the river bend. Before the men made the tree line, they were met by two red-faced cowboys, neither of them over seventeen, spurring their horses away from the women as fast as their mounts would carry them.

  Frank aimed the rifle at the approaching cowboys. He was certain George followed suit behind him. Caught between the swimming women and two armed, half-naked men, the frightened cowboys reined up and raised their hands.

  Both tried to talk at once, a slurry of apologizing stutters and stop-and-start tongue-tangled yammering that got Frank laughing so hard, he couldn’t have hit them if he’d tried.

  “Oh, dear Lord, we ... didn’t know there was naked women down there,” the pudgy boy on a buckskin gelding whimpered.

  “Honest. Honest to God, sir,” his baby-faced partner finally got out, his hands shaking enough to scare flies away. “Chance is tellin’ the gospel truth. Mr. Perkins sent me and him to find a place to cross the herd, that’s all.”

  “We swear it.” Poor Chance grimaced and squirmed like he needed to go the bathroom.

  Frank lowered the rifle and glanced behind him to see George do the same. He seemed unabashed to stand naked in front of the world with only his hat and pistol.

  “Go ahead and put your hands down, boys,” Frank said, rubbing his eyes and trying not to laugh anymore and embarrass the frightened youngsters. “You said Mr. Perkins sent you on this scout?”

  “Yes, sir,” Chance moaned. “He never said nothin’ about lookin’ out for no naked women. Good Lord.”

  Frank stifled a chuckle in a cough behind his fist. “Would that be Mr. Luke Perkins of the Double Diamond?”

  The boys brightened at Morgan’s tone. “Why, yes, sir,” Chance said. “He’s our boss. Do you know him?”

  Frank nodded. “I do.” Completely relaxed now, he cradled the rifle in arms across his bare chest. “Luke’s a good friend of mine.”

  There was a flurry of activity in the trees. The boys’ horses began to prance again from their riders’ nervousness.

  Chance gave a pleading look to the men. “Mister, will you vouch for our innocence? That naked skinny woman with the dark hair tried to blow our heads off just for stumblin’ on ’em like we did.”

  “That’d be Mrs. Ellington.” Frank smiled. “She’s right particular about her decency.”

  Jasper shot a forlorn look over his shoulder, then hung his head and cringed lower in his saddle. “I’d hate for it to get back to my mama that I was kilt by a naked crazy woman. I don’t think she’d ever get over it.”

  Dixie, Paula, and Betty trooped over the small rise at the tree line, armed to the teeth and wearing nothing but their lacy underthings.

  Frank quickly explained the misunderstanding, and George removed his hat for the ladies and put it where it would do the most good.

  “Well,” Dixie said, raising an eyebrow at Frank and a now-squirming Carlisle. “I suppose since we women don’t have to save the day, some of us should go back and make ourselves more presentable.” The women stood elbow-to-elbow, looking at George, giggling at the fact that sooner or later he would have to turn around and walk back to his clothes or risk stumbling backward over the stony path.

  “Would you ladies be so kind as to avert your eyes?” The boxer cleared his throat and tried to keep some modicum of dignity. Despite his age, he was still well muscled, and the women, enjoying their game, seemed in no hurry to let him slip away scot-free. Paula giggled, but none of the women budged.

  “I see,” he said. “Well, then. In that case I will bid you ladies good day then.”

  George gave a little bow, and to the dismay of Frank, the frightened cowboys, and the startled women, returned the hat to his head, did a slow about-face, and marched back to get his clothes.

  All three women gasped in embarrassment and covered their eyes with their hands.

  Nobody but Frank saw it, but Paula Freeman peeked.

  Chapter 19

  “How far back is the herd?” Frank asked the cowboys over coffee a short time later once most of the group had regained some composure. The incident had even lightened Betty Ellington up a little.

  “An hour at most,” Jasper said. When he wasn’t under the gun of a crazy naked woman, the boy turned out to be a pretty intelligent cowhand. “The herd’s pretty dry, though, so they’re likely to speed up some when they smell the water. Mr. Perkins had us keeping them well away from the river until he decided to cross.”

  “Good thing we had our little bath when we did then,” Frank said. “This river’ll be a mud pit for hours.”
r />   “You been on drives before?” Chance had already drunk four cups of coffee, and was beginning to get a little jumpy.

  “A couple. I worked on a ranch as a boy, right alongside your Mr. Perkins a good deal of the time. I’m sure he’s mentioned me.”

  “He may have, sir,” Jasper said. “But you ain’t told us your name yet.”

  “You’re right, boys. All this excitement has caused a slip in my manners.” The gunfighter extended his hand. “Frank Morgan.”

  Both cowboys’ jaws dropped. Chance spilled his coffee.

  Dixie’s mothering instincts kicked in automatically. “Close your mouths, boys, before something crawls in and builds a web.”

  The cowboys obeyed. “Yes, ma’am,” they both whispered in unison.

  “You’re Frank Morgan?” Jasper gasped. “The boss talks about you all the time. I read a book about you once.”

  “Well, don’t believe everything you read,” Frank said. “Some yahoo could easily write that you were shot at by a naked crazy woman with raven hair. On the face of it, it would be true, but people could read whatever they wanted to into the circumstances.”

  Jasper nodded, his mouth open again. “But you’re Frank Morgan. No foolin’?”

  “No foolin’,” Frank said, patting the young man on the back. “You boys better get back to the herd or if I know Luke, he’ll have your hides and mine too for keepin’ you.”

  “Yes, sir,” the boys said at once, clambering to their feet.

  “Mr. Perkins still scared of snakes?” Frank said as he walked the boys to their horses.

  Chance nodded with a grin. “You know the boss all right. He kills every snake he sees and has us do the same.”

  Frank began to laugh to himself. “When we were about thirteen, we were out gathering some maverick cows down in southwest Texas. A young German boy—can’t recall his name—he killed him a fat, five-foot diamondback rattler. That snake was big around as my leg and had a head as wide as a shovel. Well, sir, this kid snuck up where Luke was snoozin’ and coiled that bugger up on his chest. Poor Luke woke up with that huge spade-headed serpent starin’ back at him.” Frank and the boys were laughing so hard, it was hard for him to finish the story.