The Forbidden

by William W. Johnstone

  “Like you, Rob?” yet another citizen asked.

  “Yes, sir, just like me. I’m the fastest gun in these parts and you all know it. Anybody here want to say I ain’t?”

  Frank was hemmed in by the crowd at the other end of the bar. If he tried to leave, this punk Rob might recognize him and call his hand. Frank decided to nurse his drink and try to blend in with the crowd around him.

  “Ain’t nobody callin’ you nothin’, Rob,” a man said. “We’re just tryin’ to relax and have a drink, that’s all.”

  “Fine,” Rob said, an edge of anger in his voice. “Gimmie another beer, Jake.”

  “Comin’ right up, Rob,” the bartender called. “Keep your pants on.”

  “Yeah, please do that!” a burly man dressed in dusty miner’s clothing said with a laugh.

  “Who said that?” Rob yelled amid all the sudden and raucous laughter from others in the saloon.

  Damn! Frank thought. The crowd is going to make this fellow mad, and that’s the wrong thing to do at this time.

  Frank took a tiny sip of his drink.

  The barkeep slid a foamy mug of beer down the bar toward Rob.

  “I wonder how much this Trainor guy is payin’,” Rob tossed out. “If the money’s right, I might take me a ride down there and sign on.”

  “Then you’re not goin’ to run into Frank Morgan, Rob,” a drinker said. “Not if this Trainor run him off.”

  “Oh, hell,” Rob replied. “Frank Morgan’s probably in Texas by now, runnin’ like a scared rabbit.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that, boy,” a voice called from a table close to the door.

  “Oh?” Rob turned to face the man. “How come you say that?”

  “Morgan ain’t never run from no one in his life, that’s how come. This Colonel Trainor is just blowin’ smoke, that’s all.”

  “You know Frank Morgan?” Rob asked.

  “I seen him a time or two, yeah.”

  “What’s he look like?” Rob laughed. “Raggedy and gray-headed and probably a damn drunk too?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” the man replied. “But was I you, I’d back off with the mouth some. Frank just might hear about your comments and come here and make you eat them.”

  “Huh?” Rob yelled. “If he ever come to Butte, I’d kick his ass from one end of town to the other.”

  “I’d give a hundred dollars to see you try that, Rob!” a patron said.

  “I wouldn’t try,” Rob said. “I’d do it.”

  The saloon customers all burst into laughter at that.

  “By God, I would!”

  That brought even more laughter.

  Rob turned around and picked up his beer, all the while muttering vile obscenities. “I ever run into Morgan,” Rob whispered, “I’ll show all of you. I swear I will.”

  Frank waved to the bartender for another shot of whiskey. The barkeep walked down, filled his glass, and then locked eyes with Frank. His mouth dropped open as his eyes widened with sudden recognition. “Jesus Christ!” he muttered.

  “Keep it to yourself,” Frank told him in a low voice. “I’m not looking for any trouble.”

  But his words came too late. Jake stepped back and stared at the West’s most famous gunfighter for a few seconds. “My God, boys!” he hollered. “It’s him. He’s here. Right in this saloon.”

  “Who’s here?” someone called.

  “Who’s him?” another yelled.

  “Frank Morgan!” Jake shouted. “Standin’ right in front of me at this bar.”

  The men on both sides of Frank suddenly moved to one side in a hurry. The men standing by Rob did the same. Only the long, empty expanse of bar was now between the gunfighter and the bigmouth.

  Frank sipped his whiskey and stared straight ahead.

  “Well, there he is, Rob,” a man called. “Poor old gray-headed, raggedy Frank Morgan.” He began to laugh. “Are you drunk and shaking in your boots, Mr. Morgan?”

  “Not likely,” Frank said softly.

  “Well, I think you’re a coward,” Rob said. “What do you think about that, Morgan?”

  “I think you ought to run back home and get your mama to change your diaper and tuck you into your little bed,” Frank said, turning to face Rob. “Either that, or shut your goddamn flapping mouth.”

  SIX

  Frank began to walk slowly toward Rob. The young man backed up a few steps.

  “Now you hold it right there, Morgan!” Rob said.

  “Or you’ll do what?” Frank challenged him.

  “I’ll have to deal hard with you, that’s what.”

  Frank took another step. “All right, Rob. Shuffle the cards and deal.”

  “I mean it, Morgan.”

  Another step from Frank. Another step back from Rob. The saloon patrons were silent, watching, with only a few men whispering.

  “Is that really Frank Morgan?”

  “Damn sure is. Now shut up.”

  “I don’t want to have to hurt you, Morgan!” Rob said. “But by God, I will if you don’t hold it right there.”

  Frank took another step. “I’d hate for you to try to hurt me, Rob. Because if you try that, I’m going to take those guns off you and beat you half to death with them.”

  “I’d like to see that,” a man said.

  Rob was scared and sweating as he backed up another step. Frank Morgan didn’t look anything like Rob had imagined he would. Frank Morgan looked big and powerful and just plain mean.

  “Take off those guns, boy,” Frank said.

  “Do what?”

  “I said take off those guns. Lay them on the bar and walk out of here.”

  “I ain’t gonna do no damn such of a thing!”

  “You’re mighty young to have to die.” Frank’s words were spoken with a touch of ice in his tone.

  “Die?” Rob questioned. “No, not me, Morgan. You don’t stop pushin’ me, I’m gonna have to draw on you. I mean it.”

  “I hope you don’t drag iron on me, Rob. ’Cause if you do, it’s going to be the last thing you ever do on this earth. Now take off those guns and lay them on the bar.”

  “You go to hell, Morgan!”

  Frank took another step.

  “Morgan! Stop it.”

  “Think about death, boy,” Frank told him. “Give it some hard thought. Dead is forever, boy. Do you realize that?”

  “Huh? You the one who’s gonna be dead, Morgan. I’m fast, man. I’m the fastest gunslick in this part of Montana.”

  “But you’re not fast enough, Rob. Believe me, you’re not.”

  Frank took another step forward. Rob took another step backward.

  “I don’t think the boy’s got enough grit in his craw to jerk iron,” someone said from the crowd.

  “Shut up,” Frank told the unknown voice. “Unless you want to step up here and take Rob’s place.”

  The man had nothing to say in reply to that.

  Frank started walking toward Rob.

  “Now you just hold on!” Rob yelled, the blood draining from his face. Sweat was dripping from his forehead.

  Frank didn’t stop until he had backed the young would-be gunfighter up against the wall. Then Frank slapped him open-handed, twice across the face.

  “What? ...” Rob gasped. “Why are you doin’ this to me? I ain’t never done you no hurt.”

  Frank reached down and tore the gunbelt from Rob’s waist, jerking so hard he broke the buckle. He tossed the rig onto the bar.

  “You put gunfighting out of your mind, boy,” Frank told him. “You’re not a gunhand and never will be. And that’s a good thing. You’ll live a lot longer.”

  “You . . .” Rob sputtered.

  “Shut up and listen to me,” Frank said sharply. “You go be a cowboy or a farmer or run a store or sell ladies’ corsets or men’s hats. But you put gun-handling out of your mind. You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Rob said meekly.

  “You come back in here tomorrow, sometime after I�
��m gone, and pick up your guns and sell them or store them away in a trunk. But don’t wear them. Somebody will kill you if you do. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fine. Now get out of here.”

  Rob hit the boards without looking back.

  Frank walked back down the bar and picked up his drink.

  “Good advice you give that young feller, Mr. Morgan,” Jake said. “His smart mouth was sure gonna get him hurt.”

  “He’ll be all right,” Frank replied. “As long as he leaves those guns alone. I wish somebody had done that to me when I was his age . . . or younger.”

  “You gonna be in town long?”

  “I’ll be pulling out come the morning.”

  “Town could sure use a lawman like you.”

  “Not interested. Thanks just the same.”

  “Why didn’t you just kill the loudmouth, Morgan?” The question was thrown out from a group of men sitting at a table.

  Frank turned from the bar. “Because it wasn’t necessary.”

  “Too bad,” the unidentified man said. “I really wanted to see just how fast you are.”

  Frank chose to ignore the questioner and turned back to the bar, picking up his drink and taking a sip. But he picked up the shot glass with his left hand, leaving his right hand free. There was something in the man’s voice that was troubling. Frank had a hunch the man just might be looking for trouble.

  Behind him, Frank heard the sounds of chairs being pushed back. He finished his drink and set the empty glass on the bar.

  “Turn around, Morgan,” the man said.

  “I can hear you,” Frank said.

  “I said turn around, you bastard!”

  Frank turned around. The man was standing up, facing him, maybe thirty feet away. He was dressed all in black. The men who had been seated at tables close by had moved away. “If you have a problem with me, mister, state it,” Frank said. “But don’t call me names”

  “Yeah, I got a problem, Morgan. And I’ll call you anything I damn well please.”

  “Mister, you’re about to buy into a high-stakes game here. And I don’t know why. You want to tell me?”

  “You know.”

  Frank sighed. He hated those kinds of answers. If he knew what the problem was, he wouldn’t be asking. “No, I don’t know, mister. If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  “You and me, we got a debt between us.”

  “I owe you money? I don’t think so.”

  “You owe me a life.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “My older brother.”

  “You’re not giving me much to go on. What’s his name?”

  “His name was Guy. Guy Perkins.”

  “I don’t recall ever meeting anyone by that name.”

  The man in black laughed bitterly. “I guess you don’t, since you shot him down in cold blood.”

  “You want to explain that?”

  “It was in Arizona. Down along the border. At a tradin’ post near Fort Huachuca.”

  “I was there, years ago.” Frank shook his head. “But I don’t recall any trouble. You sure you got the right man?”

  “I’m sure.”

  There was no talk among the saloon’s many patrons. The men were all silent, listening and watching intently.

  “You got the wrong man, mister,” Frank told him.

  “Time for you to pay for killin’ my brother, Morgan. I been lookin’ all over for you for years. Now you pay your debt.”

  Frank suddenly was weary of the talk. He had been wrongly blamed for a hundred deaths over the years . . . probably more than that. And it was certainly possible this man in black didn’t even have a brother. He was just looking for a name.

  “You ready, Morgan?”

  “I guess so,” Frank replied. “But I’m not looking forward to killing a man for no good reason.”

  “You killed my brother, damn you!”

  “I don’t think so. I think you’re just a damn fool looking to make a name for himself. And I’m not going to draw on you.”

  “Stand real still, mister,” a voice said from the entrance to the bar. “You, all dressed in black. Don’t move a muscle or I’ll cut you in half with this shotgun.”

  Frank shifted his gaze for just a second. A man wearing a badge on his shirt was standing near the batwings, a sawed-off shotgun in his hand, the barrels pointed at the man in black.

  “I ain’t done nothing, Marshal,” the black-dressed man said.

  “You were just about to get yourself killed, that’s what you were about to do. And if that’s what you want to do, go somewhere else to do it.”

  “This bastard killed my brother, Marshal!”

  “Did you, Morgan?” the marshal asked.

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “That’s good enough for me. You take off that gunbelt, mister. Lay it on the table.”

  “The hell I will,” the man said.

  “You’ll be dead if you don’t,” the marshal said coldly, then eared back both hammers on the Greener.

  The man in black slowly unbuckled his gunbelt and laid it on the table. “What now, Marshal?”

  “Back up, away from the table. All the way to the back of the saloon. Then you sit down, both hands on the table.”

  The man backed up and carefully made his way to the rear of the saloon. He sat down and put both hands on the table.

  “Now you stay there.” The marshal cut his eyes to Frank. “How long are you going to be in town, Morgan?”

  “I plan on pulling out first thing in the morning, Marshal.”

  “Good. I’ll make sure that young punk Rob and this stranger here don’t follow you out.”

  “I appreciate that. Rob’s guns are over here on the bar.”

  “They can stay there until they rust, far as I’m concerned.”

  “That would be best, I’m thinking. All right, Marshal,” Frank said. “I’m going. Thanks for your help.”

  “Don’t mention it. Have a good trip.”

  Frank walked out of the saloon and headed for the general store. He picked up his supplies and carried them to the livery, telling the liveryman to keep an eye on them. The woman who ran the laundry said his clothes wouldn’t be ready for several more hours. Frank walked over to a cafe and had a good meal, lingering long over several cups of coffee. The news that Frank Morgan was in town had spread fast, and dozens of people walked past the cafe for a look-see at the famous gunfighter. Frank finally got tired of it and went back to the livery. The crowds of curious followed him over there. Frank finally said to hell with it, went back to the general store, and bought a couple of new outfits and rode out of town, avoiding the main street as he did. Early the next morning, he left Butte for good, just wandering.

  * * *

  A month later, Frank was on the Montana/Wyoming border, buying coffee and bacon at a general store in a tiny town. He wasn’t certain if he was in Montana or Wyoming and wasn’t interested enough to ask.

  Frank’s appearance was rough after a month on the trail. He was dusty and hadn’t shaved for several days. He looked like a drifting out-of-work puncher.

  “Headin’ up north a ways, are you?” the clerk asked after Frank had placed his order.

  “Beg pardon?” Frank said.

  “I’m told several ranchers up north and west a ways is hirin’ men. Thought you might be headin’ that way, that’s all.”

  “I’m just drifting. No place in particular in mind.”

  “Seein’ the country, are you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, if you’re not lookin’ for work, I’d fight shy of that area I mentioned. Goin’ be trouble aplenty up there ’fore long.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yep. Ranchers and farmers.”

  “Where is this place?”

  “North and some west of here. Two towns named Heaven and Hell, of all things. Farmers’ town is called Heaven. Ranchers’ town is Hell. It’d b
e funny if people weren’t gettin’ killed.”

  “Who’s winning the fight so far?”

  “No one yet. But the farmers will lose. You can bet on that.”

  “The law’s on their side, isn’t it?”

  “Law? No law up there to speak of. The county sheriff is fifty or seventy-five miles away. And he’s probably in this Colonel Trainor’s pocket. Trainor owns the Circle Snake brand. Big moneyman. He’s hirin’ any man who wants to make some good money and ain’t particular how he uses his gun.”

  “Sounds like a good place to stay clear of.”

  “You bet it is.”

  Frank paid for his supplies and asked where the nearest telegraph office was located.

  “’Bout twenty-five miles north of here. Just follow this road,” he said, pointing. “Take you right to it.”

  “Is there a hotel in that town?”

  “Rooms for rent over the saloon is all.”

  “That’ll do. Thanks.”

  Frank headed north. He had some wires to send to his attorneys in Denver. And he had an idea too. He was tired of drifting. Maybe Heaven would be a good place to settle down in.

  SEVEN

  Frank reined up at the burned-out ruins of the Jefferson place and swung down from the saddle. He stretched for a moment, then walked around. “Well, Dog, what do you think about it? I think it’ll be a right nice place once we get the cabin up.”

  Dog looked at him and wagged his tail in agreement.

  “You want to stay here or ride into town with me?”

  Dog walked to the shed out back of the house and lay down.

  “All right. I guess that answers that. I’ll get you a pail of water ’fore I go.”

  Frank found an old bucket and filled it with water from the well. The corral was still up, and Frank made sure the water trough had water in it, then put his packhorse in the corral. He pulled several handfuls of grass and hand-fed the packhorse. “I’ll bring you back some hay, girl,” he said. “If I can arrange for a wagon and team, that is. If not, I’ll bring a bag of oats.” He walked over to the shed and told Dog, “You stay put.”

  Dog growled.

  “I mean it, boy. Stay put.”

  Frank rode toward the town of Heaven. He had already been to the county seat and signed all the papers his lawyers had sent to a lawyer there. The old Jefferson place was his. Hundreds of acres of prime farm and grazing land, with good water aplenty. And just to be ornery about it, and to be perfectly honest, to further irritate Trainor, Frank had bought several hundred acres both east and west of his new property.