The screaming challenger had good intentions when it came to avenging the death of his cousin, but he proved to be no fast hand with a gun. He clawed at his holster, missing the pistol altogether as Morgan’s bullet tore into his belly and knocked him against the bar. When he finally managed to jerk the gun to clear leather, it slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. The man sputtered and gasped as if all the air were being let out of him.
“You shot me, damn you.” He put a hand over his bleeding belly and grabbed at the edge of the bar with the other. The color drained from his face and he stared with big doe-eyes, blinking in disbelief. “I can’t believe I let a skinny-ass old man like you shoot me.”
Frank cast a glance around the room before he re-holstered. Too often there was some hotheaded friend who acted on the spur of the moment and ended up getting himself killed as well.
“You were the one that wanted a fight.” Frank slid his Peacemaker back into the holster once he was reasonably certain things were calming down. “I told you you were making a mistake.”
The outlaw’s boots slid out from under him and he sat down hard on the floor. His free hand jammed into the top of a cuspidor brimming with tobacco spit. He cussed and jerked his hand away, spilling the slimy contents across the floor and sending the men around him scrambling to get out of the way.
“That ol’ boy’s about as fast as I’ve ever seen,” a man said from the table next to Frank.
“I seen Smoke Jensen work one time. This feller’s faster than him.”
“He’s fast, but Frank Morgan coulda taken him,” another ventured.
“Ain’t nobody as fast as Frank Morgan,” the bartender said, getting a mop for the spilled spit but ignoring the gut-shot man altogether. “I seen him once down in Del Rio. He killed nine armed men in a single gunfight. Damnedest thing you ever did see.”
A collective murmur went up from the crowd.
Frank grinned to himself. Nine men, eh? That would be a damned fine thing to see, since he’d never set foot in Del Rio. This being dead was doing more to build his reputation than the dime novels.
“Somebody help me!” the wounded man cried from a mixture of sticky brown juice and his own blood.
“You’re done for, Hal,” a man next to him at the bar said. “Just do the right thing and go ahead and ex-pire.”
“I ain’t done in yet,” Hal groaned. “I ain’t gonna do any such thing as expire.”
“Wanna bet on that?” The bartender leaned over the bar to look at the wounded man.
“Can I have your saddle?” the first man asked, kneeling down so Hal could hear him. “I always been partial to that saddle. You know that.”
“You go to hell,” Hal spit, and tried in vain to sit up a little straighter.
“Well you don’t have to get all in a huffin’ fit about it.” The cowboy stood and walked back to his beer. “I’ll just wait until you’re dead and take it then. Gosh, try to be decent for once and what does it get me?”
“I need me a doctor!” Hal moaned.
“You need a box,” the cowboy who wanted his saddle said into his drink.
The bartender took out a gleaming bowie knife. He had a wild look in his eye, and Frank could only guess what he was hiding out for.
“You want us to operate?” The bartender held the knife in front of Hal’s face.
“Just go on and let the man die in peace,” Frank whispered.
The bartender looked over his shoulder and returned the long knife to his belt. “Take him outside and let him do his dyin’ out there.”
The excitement over for the time being, Frank looked at Nugget. “I’m ready to finish my steak. How about you?”
“I could eat,” Nugget said, shaking his head. “Joshua, you’re an interesting sort to hang around.”
An attractive little brunette with a sunburned face and an easy smile brought two cups of coffee.
“Thank you, Velda.” Nugget smiled up at the woman. She returned his look with a playful, catlike growl. It was obvious these two had a little thing going.
“Your friend here’s pretty good with a gun.” She gave Frank the once-over with a fearsome pair of brown eyes that probed him so hard, it made him want to duck behind something. “My friend Suzette says she would surely like to get her hands on you.” Velda threw a glance over her shoulder. “You saved her from a night with Big Un and she’s eternally grateful. Big Un’s done paid, so she’d let it be his treat.”
“I . . . I’m flattered,” Frank said. “But I’ve had a mighty rough go of it lately when it comes to womenfolk.” He was telling the truth.
“Suzette’s just what the doctor ordered then. She’s got sweet shoulders to cry on if that’s what you need.” Velda raised her dark eyebrows up and down. “And the other parts of her ain’t too shabby either.”
Pretty, wilted little Suzette stood with her back to the bar, leaning against her hands and smiling hungrily in Frank’s direction. She looked so young—like one of Dixie’s daughters—that it turned his stomach.
“Tell her thanks but I’m gonna have to pass this time,” Frank mumbled.
Velda looked back over her shoulder and shook her head. Suzette slumped for a minute, then turned her attention to another cowboy at the bar. A group of poker players at another table hollered for more beer, and Velda sauntered off to tend them, giving Johnny one last playful wink.
“That woman could stare the hide off a grizzly,” Frank said after she was gone.
Nugget chuckled and slapped the table. “And that ain’t the half of it,” he said.
“I need some air.” Frank stood and stretched his aching muscles. He was bone-sore and stiff from the fights.
“You’re bleedin’, Joshua.” Nugget nodded downward.
Frank looked at his side. A small spot of blood dotted his shirt halfway between his armpit and his belt on the right side—his gun side. He shrugged, more aware of the pain than he had been.
“Likely I got some of Big Un or Hal’s blood on me,” he said.
Nugget raised an eyebrow. “Let’s go for some of that air.”
Once outside, the men rolled smokes and Nugget dragged up another chair so they could both sit down.
“You want to tell me about it, Bean?” Nugget spit a fleck of tobacco off is lip. “You’re hurt. They might not be able to see it in there, but I can.”
“I’m all right enough.” Frank smoked his cigarette and stared into the darkness.
Nugget leaned forward. He kept his voice low so passersby couldn’t hear him. “Listen to me. I don’t care how fast you are. In case you didn’t notice it, those hombres in there are animals. If they smell blood or catch a whiff of weakness, they’ll turn into a pack of wolves and rip you to pieces, believe me.”
“I hear you,” Frank said.
Something about Johnny Nugget didn’t quite add up.
“All right,” said Frank, “I got scraped up a little a while back and I’m not completely healed.”
Nugget leaned back and took out his jackknife and whittling stick. “I figured it was something like that. Scrape with the law?”
Frank shook his head. “No, had to do with the woman trouble I was talkin’ about.”
Nugget began to whittle. “I see.”
“Mind if I ask you something?” It was Frank’s turn to lean forward.
Nugget shrugged.
“What did you do to end up in this place?” Frank chose his words carefully in case his suspicions were wrong. “You just don’t seem to fit in with the rest of these outlaws.”
The short man kept whittling as he spoke, taking long slivers off the soft wood and letting them fall into his lap.
“Killed a man back down in Dimmit. It was him or me, but he was friends with the sheriff, so I had to light out for somewhere to hide.”
“Just happened?”
“Not too long ago. Does it matter?”
Frank threw down the stub of his cigarette. “Guess not. Just seems odd a
man with one killin’ under his belt would come to a place this bad to hide out.”
Nugget kept to his whittling. “I don’t know. A man does what he thinks is best. You came here.”
Something about the tough little man gnawed at Frank. He’d been having a hard time putting his finger on it . . . until Nugget had asked about Frank’s scrape. That was it.
“What if I told you my scrape was with the law?” Frank said, keeping his voice low and steady.
Nugget shrugged. “Your business.”
“What if I told you I killed three young deputies who tried to arrest me? Men with families just out doin’ their jobs.”
Frank watched as the young man bore down harder with his jackknife. Nugget stopped and looked up, eyes blazing under the wide brim of his hat. He pointed with the open blade. He started to speak, but Frank raised his hand, interrupting him with a sharp whisper.
“Your secret’s safe with me, Nugget.”
“And just what secret is that, Mr. Bean?”
“No outlaw worth his salt would give a prairie dog’s scruffy behind if I killed a half-dozen lawmen. I can see it in your eyes. It’s eatin’ you up inside that you made friends with me.”
Nugget stared hard at him for a long moment, then waved him off, leaning back into his chair. “Hell, Bean. More’n half the fools here have murdered lawmen. I can’t get too particular about who I partner up with.”
“You said ’murdered,’ not ’killed.’ Sounds like it really bothers you.”
The young man slumped in his chair. “I’ve seen you shoot. I know I can’t beat you, Bean. Where do we go from here?”
Frank shook his head. “Nowhere, Johnny. I reckon I’m here for the same reason you are. All I want you to do is stay out of my way.”
“So you didn’t kill three deputies?”
Frank shook his head and lit another cigarette. “Not even one.”
Nugget looked relieved. “How’d you know I was a badge-toter?”
“I didn’t live this long by being wrong very often about my hunches. I can generally tell who to trust.”
“Well, sir, you called it right this time.” The younger man swapped the jackknife into his left hand and held out his right. “Tyler Beaumont, Texas Rangers Company F.”
“The Frontier Company,” Frank mused. “I used to know a Ranger who was fair hand with a gun. He was assigned to Company F—and not too damned tall now that I think of it. Had fists like twelve-pound sledgehammers. You mighta known him. Went by the name of Sherman Beaumont.”
Tyler grinned. “My father.”
“Thought there was a resemblance.”
“You knew my father?” Interested now, the Ranger folded his pocket knife and put it away. “Can I ask your real name?”
“Sure. It’s Morgan.”
Nugget clucked his tongue. “Frank Morgan,” he said under his breath. “Makes all the sense in the world now. My father used to talk about you all the time. Said you were the fastest, steadiest man he ever laid eyes on. I heard him say once that the Rangers were lucky you landed on the right side of the law, because it would have taken a whole company to bring you in if you’d decided to go outlaw.”
“How is old Sherman?”
The young Ranger looked down. “He passed over two years ago. Tangled with a sick coyote one night in camp. Hydrophobia took him.” Beaumont shook his head. “Awful thing. Just watching him drove my mother mad herself. She just quit eatin’ after he died and wasted away. To tell you the truth, that’s why I volunteered for this mission.”
“Sorry to hear about that,” Frank said. “Sherman Beaumont was one of the finest men I ever met. A credit to your creed.” The gunfighter gave a slight chuckle. “He wasn’t quite the fastest, but he was the most accurate shot I’ve ever seen, with pistol or long gun.”
“He was good.” Tyler smiled.
“I watched him part the hair of an old Mexican who was trying to steal one of our mules. The poor old fellow just wanted it to feed his family and didn’t mean us any harm. We could ill afford to lose any stock, though, so your papa, he fired off what we thought was a warning shot. He was too kindhearted to try and kill the starvin’ Mexican, you see.
“Well, the poor fella was stopped about two hundred yards from us makin’ water. When your pa shot, the old man just fell over like he’d been poleaxed and the mule came trottin’ back to us.” Frank chuckled, remembering. “When we went to check on the body, we saw your daddy had creased him good right down the center of his hair—grazed him good and made him think twice about stealing Ranger stock. Sherman ended up giving him a whole poke full of food—most of what we had really.”
“That was my pa. Thanks for the story, Morgan. I heard about what Swan did to you and your wife. I’m sorry.”
“We all got our crosses to bear.” Frank leaned forward again. “You said you volunteered for some kind of mission?”
“In a few days, more than three dozen Texas Rangers are going to ride down on this town and drive all these vermin back to hell where they belong.”
“What ever happened to ’One riot, one Ranger’?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, partner,” the young lawman said, “there’s generally a riot on every corner in this no-account little burg. Hell, you caused two and you only been here—what, half a day?”
Frank’s face hardened. “Listen to me good. I don’t care if you kill every soul in this town. But remember one thing—Swan is mine.”
“Why not let the law handle this, Frank? Better yet, why don’t you let me deputize you and you can ride with us.”
Frank shook his head. “Can’t do that, Tyler. What I have in mind for Mr. Swan has nothin’ to do with the law.”
Chapter 34
That night, Frank lit one of the beeswax candles and lay on his rope cot flipping through the pages of Three-Toed Bob’s battered Bible. His back and right side ached with a throbbing pain that took a while to dull. It never did go completely away.
Before he went to sleep, Frank read for a time about Jonathan, the son of Saul, killing a whole garrison of Philistines. He pictured the mighty army falling and fleeing before what they saw as an inferior force, and thought about the cocksure outlaws hiding out in this town. They were about to learn a hard lesson injustice.
He set the leather-bound book on the floor beside his bed, and checked his pistol one last time before he blew out the flickering candle. The night was a frosty one, but he dispensed with building a fire and pulled the blankets up tight around his chin instead. The cold wasn’t so bad as long as he could be out of the wind.
Breathing out a chilly cloud of vapor, he drifted off, pondering the destruction he was about to bring down around Ephraim Swan.
But his dreams were of Dixie.
* * *
A long narrow building housed the town’s only eating place besides the Oxblood. It bore a crude placard, probably made by the same sign-painting outlaw that had hung the one outside the bar, though it didn’t show quite as much imagination. In bold white letters it proclaimed: THE CAFÉ
Frank got a table with his back to the unpainted wooden wall, and ordered eggs from a dark-eyed lady with long gray hair who looked like she’d been up all night. The woman grunted.
“Want bread?” she said, staring at him as if it didn’t matter what he said, he was getting bread whether he liked it or not.
“Sure.”
She poured him some coffee in a chipped cup, and waddled off about the time Tyler Beaumont showed up and sat down across from him.
“This seat taken?” the young Ranger asked.
“Nope, not till now.” Frank sipped his coffee and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. There were a few other early risers in the place. Outlaws were, for the most part, a lazy bunch who preferred to carouse late at night and sleep late in the day.
“Thought you might be savin’ it for pretty little Suzette.”
“That’ll be the day.”
Two grizzled men wearing lon
g, dark frock coats stepped in and slammed the door behind them. They took a table near the stove.
“Clay Bonner,” Beaumont whispered. “I know you’ve heard of him.”
Frank nodded. “The Arizona gunslick.”
The young Ranger looked over the top of his coffee at the new arrivals. “He’s got a reputation for being quick but hot-tempered.”
Frank grinned. “So do I, partner.”
“Hey, Nugget!” the man with Bonner yelled. “You two sweet on each other? There ain’t no banks in this town to rob so what’s all the whisperin’ about?”
“How you feelin’ this mornin’, Frank?” Beaumont said under his breath.
“Well enough, I guess.”
“Hey! My friend asked you a question.” Bonner glared at them.
“That he did,” Frank said, sliding away from the table to give himself some room in case he needed to maneuver. “But it was a stupid question, so I didn’t see any need to answer it. What we talk about is our business.”
“How about I make it my business?” Bonner’s chair tipped over and hit the ground as he got to his feet.
A lone man threw open the door and surveyed the room. Cold wind whipped in and tugged at the tail of his duster.
“Sit down, Bonner,” the newcomer said, his voice cool and hard as hammered steel.
Bonner complied.
When the man shut the door and took a step into the dim room, it was easier to make out his features. He was tall and lean with a dark brow and deep-set eyes that peered out over a nose that hooked like the beak of an eagle. A black mustache curled up in large handlebars on either side of his face.
The gray-haired waitress brought him a cup of coffee. “Good to see you back,” she said, absent her characteristic mumbling grunt.
“Just got in.”
The waitress immediately slinked away as if she might get hit if she hung around too long.
The man gave a curt nod and looked around the room, pausing for a time to give Frank a thorough once-over. He picked up the coffee and pulled up a chair next to Tyler Beaumont.
“Who’s your new friend, Johnny?” He spoke to the other man, but continued to stare at Frank.
“Name’s Joshua Bean.” Frank nodded. “And you are?”
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