“Yes. That she is. I hope your intentions are honorable.”
“They are.”
“Are you unscathed after this brief battle?”
Frank smiled. “I know what that means, Doc. Yes, I’m fine.”
“That’s good to hear. Oddly enough, I believe you.” Doc Everett stuck the stub of a cigar into his mouth and walked away.
“Here comes Luke with the buckboard,” a hand said. “Looks like he put some hay in the back to soften the ride.”
Cort was loaded into the buckboard and the Circle .45 hands rode out, after they all gave Frank dirty looks. Frank walked across the street to stand beside Julie and Shelley.
“Are you all right?” Julie asked.
“Oh, yes.”
“What was all that fighting about?”
“I got upset about some ugly comments he made about you.”
She looked up at Frank. “I won’t ask what they were.”
“Best you don’t.”
“Your hands look swollen.”
“A mite. But they’ll be all right. I’ll heat water and soak them this afternoon.”
“You’ll stop by the house and I’ll heat water for you.”
Frank smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
NINE
Once Frank outlined for the builders what he wanted, he left them to their sawing and hammering and nailing and started rounding up what was left of the cattle. Jefferson had not registered any brand, so Frank marked them with his own brand, one he had registered at the county seat after checking the Montana brand book. His was an F bar M. He branded Julie’s cattle with a J bar W
It was midsummer, too late to do anything with what was left of Jefferson’s unattended and weed-choked beet and potato crop, and too late to plant his own, so Frank just left it alone. The wheat crop looked good, and he made arrangements with another farmer to bring that in when it was time—for shares of whatever the crop brought.
For the most part the ranchers on the north side of the crossroads stayed in their part of the multiconnecting valleys. Frank had never been to the town of Hell, and really had no desire to go. He didn’t think he’d be too welcome there.
Frank heard that Cort had recovered from his beating, at least physically, but that the hand talked daily about his hatred of Frank Morgan and how someday he’d kill him. Frank felt that someday, probably sooner than later, he’d have to face Cort in a showdown.
On a hot, midsummer day, Frank was taking a break, relaxing under the shade of trees by the banks of a creek. The creek was one of the dividing lines between his property and the Wilson property. Horse had wandered down to the creek for a drink. Dog was back at the home site, watching the carpenters at work. Frank heard the sound of horses, a couple of them, he thought, coming from different directions. He perked up, watching and listening.
The first horse he saw was Katie’s paint pony. Julie had said the girl rode nearly every day after her chores, sometimes staying away for hours at a time.
“Now where is she going?” Frank muttered just a heartbeat before he spotted the other rider. “Oh, hell,” Frank said, recognizing the second rider: Donnie Bullard, son of the owner of the Diamond .45 spread, whom Frank had seen a couple of times in town.
Frank watched the boy and girl meet, then ride off into a stand of timber. “Young love,” he muttered.
Julie had forbidden her daughter to have anything to do with Donnie, but as she had told Frank, “I might as well be talking to a stump. She’s going to do what she wants to do, no matter what I say. And Phil Junior is seeing Betty Lou Gilmar whenever both of them can slip away. It’s becoming a big mess.”
“What do the ranchers have to say about it?”
“The same thing I say. But their kids are just as hardheaded.”
“Are they . . . ah ... doing anything . . . ah ... you know what I mean?”
“I don’t know. I rather doubt it. They’re still awfully young to be thinking about, you know, that.”
“They’re all about fifteen, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“That’s old enough. How old were you when you married Phillip?”
Julie sighed. “Fifteen.”
“Enough said, I reckon.”
“I’ll chain her to the bed!” Julie said.
“I think I’d pick another object to chain her to,” Frank said very dryly.
Julie giggled. “You’re awful, Frank!”
Frank stared at the stand of timber, wondering what the kids were doing in there. Then he decided he really didn’t want to know. He slipped down to the creek and swung into the saddle, heading back to his house. If the kids were doing what comes naturally, Frank hoped they were being careful about it.
“I seen that damn snooty Betty Lou Gilmar ’bout two hours ago,” one of the workmen told Frank as soon as he dismounted. “Ridin’ that fancy horse of her’n.”
“Where?”
“I was up to the crossroads, directin’ a wagon load of lumber here. I seen her cross the road, headin’ south.”
“All them kids is up to no good,” another man said after taking a dipper of water from the bucket. “When one of them girls gets in a family way, it’s gonna be really bad.”
“I don’t believe they’re doin’ anything but smoochin’,” another workman said.
“You probably still believe in Santa Claus too,” his friend replied.
“Maybe if the kids of the ranchers and the farmers can get along,” Frank said, “the adults might follow suit.”
“The folks on this end of the valley would be happy to make peace,” the workman said. “But we’re not the ones hirin’ gunfighters and sendin’ out night riders to burn and kill, Mr. Morgan. All we want to do is live in peace and raise our kids and crops.” He looked toward the southwest and his tanned face paled. “Oh, God, look!” He pointed.
Frank turned and looked. A huge cloud of smoke was visible, rising from a fire several miles away. Someone’s wheat field was burning and he doubted it was an accident.
“I’ll check it out,” Frank said, heading for the corral.
By the time Frank reached the field, neighbors had set up a fire break and the fire was nearly out. But the flames had destroyed the entire wheat field of a man named Clay. Frank rode up to the gathering of men and women and sat his saddle. There was no point in dismounting; there was nothing he could do. The farm families stood in silence and looked out over the ruined field.
“That’s it for me,” Clay said, leaning on his shovel. “I’m busted. Flat busted. The goddamn ranchers have beat me.”
“Did anyone see who started it?” Frank asked.
No one had.
Frank looked at Clay. “Don’t start packing yet.”
“Why not?” the farmer asked. “I don’t even have the money to get through the winter, much less buy seed and equipment for next year. The fire got all my implements. They was down on the end where the fire started.”
“I’ll stake you,” Frank said. “And you work for me the rest of this summer and fall. I’ll pay good wages. Deal?”
Clay blinked a couple of times. “Why would you do that?” he questioned.
“Because I want to,” Frank replied.
Clay nodded his head. “All right, Mr. Morgan. Deal.”
Frank lifted the reins. “I’m going to do some checking; see if I can find anything about why this fire started, or who started it. I’ll be back.” He looked at the woman standing beside Clay and smiled. “I’d appreciate a pot of coffee when I get back, ma’am.”
She returned his smile. “It’ll sure be ready, Mr. Morgan.”
Frank found a number of hoofprints and an empty kerosene can that had been tossed in a ditch near where the fire started. He followed the tracks for a time, all the way back to the river that marked the boundary of one side of the valley. Frank did not cross the small river. He had seen enough to know the fire had been deliberately set, but had no proof as to who started it. Or paid to have it s
tarted.
But he knew from carefully checking the hoofprints that at least one of the riders had been a part of the group that had killed the Jefferson family a few months back.
“Getting bolder,” Frank muttered. “Striking in broad daylight.” He turned and rode back to the burn site.
“What’d you find, Mr. Morgan?” one of the neighbors asked.
“The riders headed back to the north end of the valley. I didn’t follow them.”
“They might have been waitin’ in ambush,” another man said.
“I thought about that,” Frank replied. “But even if I had caught up with them, I had no proof that would directly link them to the fire. And I’m not the law.”
“You could be,” another farmer said.
Frank shook his head. “Forget that. My days of totin’ a badge are over.”
Mrs. Clay poured Frank a cup of fresh brewed coffee and he took it. “Thank you, ma’am. Smells wonderful.”
Julie Wilson came rattling up in a buckboard, Shelley on the seat beside her. Julie walked over to Mrs. Clay and the two women hugged each other, while the other farmers’ wives gathered around. The men grouped together away from the women.
“You men have got to arm yourselves,” Frank said. “And you’ve got to be ready and willing to use those guns. If you don’t, you’re going to lose this war.”
“We’re farmers, Mr. Morgan,” Clay said. “Not gunfighters.”
“You all hunt, don’t you?” Frank challenged.
The men all solemnly nodded.
“Then you all know how to use guns. That’s half the battle.”
“I never took a man’s life,” a farmer said. “I don’t know if I could shoot a man.”
“By God, I could,” a woman shouted from the crowd of females. “And you men are going to teach us how to shoot.”
“Now, Frances,” a man Frank had heard called Hunt said.
“Don’t you now, Frances me, Daniel!” his wife said. “I mean it.”
“All right,” Daniel said. “Settle down, Frances.” He looked at Frank. “I got a rifle and a shotgun.”
“Get a pistol too,” Frank said. “All of you men get a pistol and learn how to use it. Get used to carrying it around.”
“No point in notifying Sheriff Wilcox about this,” a man said. “He’s in Trainor’s pocket. And so is Judge Broadhurst.”
“For a fact, we’re all alone in this fight,” another said.
“We’ve got each other, Josh,” Clay said gently.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Clay said, walking to her husband’s side and putting an arm around his waist. “We sure do.”
Clay smiled at the woman. “All right, Edna. I’ll teach you how to use a rifle.”
“And a pistol,” she added.
“It’s a start,” Frank said. “Once the ranchers learn we’ve gotten organized and will fight, they might back off.”
“They’re not going to back off, Mr. Morgan,” Josh said. “They’ll never back off until they’ve run us out or killed us all. But this way . . . well, we’ll go down fighting. Like growed-up men and women:’
“Don’t start talking about defeat,” Frank admonished. “I don’t like to lose. And we’re not going to lose this fight.”
“But some of us are going to get hurt or killed,” another man said. “That’s a hard fact of the matter. And I got a whole house full of young’uns to think about. I’m gettin’ out of here. There’s land aplenty elsewheres. I ain’t dyin’ for no piece of dirt.”
“I figured you’d quit, Jamison,” a farmer said, his mouth full of scorn. “You ain’t done nothin’ ‘ceptin’ gripe and moan since you got here.”
“Be that as it may,” Jamison said. “I’m shore packin’ up and leavin’. I’ll be gone in the mornin’.”
“What about your land?” Frank asked. “And the home you built? How much do you own and where is it?”
“I got me a section down by the creek.” He pointed. “Over yonder. Ain’t much of a house, but it’s good land.”
“All right. I’ll give you a fair price for it,” Frank told him. “At least enough to get you going and started elsewhere. That is, if you’ve really got a mind to go. But I wish you’d stay and join us in this fight.”
“It ain’t my fight, Mr. Morgan. Not no more. I’m done.”
Frank studied Jamison’s face. The man had the mark of a loser on him. Frank suspected Jamison would drift until his dying day, never being content anywhere. “All right, Jamison. I’ll ride over to your place now, look it over, and we’ll settle on a price. I’ll have the papers drawn up in the morning and pay you then. Is that all right with you?”
“You gonna bring the money to me or do I have to meet you in town to do it?”
“We have to meet at the bank to sign papers.”
“I’ll be there when it opens.”
After Jamison had rattled away in his wagon, Clay said, “No one’s going to miss him, Mr. Morgan. You’ll see why when you ride over to his place. Ranchers have a word for people like Jamison. They call them rawhiders.”
“I suspected as much. And it’s Frank, not Mr. Morgan.”
“All right, Frank. My name is Harry.”
“I’ll see you in the morning, Harry.” He glanced at the man’s wife. “Thanks for the coffee, Mrs. Clay. It was delicious.”
“It’s Edna, please.”
Frank smiled and tipped his hat. He waved at Julie and then rode off after Jamison.
“He’s nothing like the articles I’ve read about him and the stories I’ve heard,” a woman said. “He’s a nice man.”
“Yes, he is,” Julie said. “He’s good with kids and he’s very well read.”
“He’s still a gunfighter,” said a man who had not spoken since Frank joined the farmers that day. “He’s gonna get a lot of us hurt or killed.”
“Oh, shut up, Maynard,” Josh said. “Frank’s all right. The men who’s working over at his place say he’s a nice fella.”
“I don’t like him,” Maynard said. “And nothin’ you nor nobody else can say is gonna change that.”
“Fine, Maynard,” Dan Hunt said. “You’re entitled to your opinion. But you’re wrong about Frank Morgan.”
“Doubt it,” Maynard said stubbornly.
“Are you going to join us in arming ourselves?” a farmer asked.
“I’m armed. Got me a good rifle, a good shotgun, and a pistol. I’ll defend myself when the time comes.”
“Then go on home to Louise, Maynard,” Josh said. “If you’re not going to join us, you can stand alone.”
“I’ll do that. Hell with you all.” Maynard stalked over to his horse and rode away, his back stiff with anger.
“What brought all that on, you reckon?” Josh asked.
“Who knows,” a farmer called Ned said. “Maynard’s always been a strange duck.”
“For a fact,” Harry Clay said. “All right, folks. I reckon I’ve got me a new job and we’ve all got us a good neighbor.”
* * *
Jamison’s house was nothing but a shack. There were half a dozen kids, ranging in age from just walking to midteens. Mrs. Jamison looked worn out. Frank checked Jamison’s equipment, and found it ill-kept and practically worthless. But the 640 acres that Jamison owned were prime farmland, with good water and drainage.
Frank told Jamison he’d see him in town in the morning, and headed back to his place. The workmen had already left for the day. The house was just about finished, with most of the remaining work to be done on the outside. Frank rubbed down Horse and turned him into the corral for a time. The new barn was completed, and Frank forked hay into Horse’s stall, put some grain into the feed box, then went into his house.
He fed Dog and fixed a pot of coffee, filled a cup, and went out onto the front porch to sit for a time, enjoying the quiet of late afternoon. He was rolling a cigarette just as Dog came out and lay down beside his chair.
“We’re getting to be regular land baro
ns, Dog,” Frank said with a smile, reaching down and petting Dog. “I believe we might have actually found us a home. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? What do you think about that?”
Dog looked up at him for a few seconds, then went back to sleep.
“I thought that would impress you,” Frank said with a laugh.
Do I want to spend the rest of my life here? Frank pondered the question. Well, why not? he silently answered. The people, most of them anyway, are nice, and don’t really give a damn about my past.
And there is that nice young widow to think about too.
Thinking of Julie filled Frank with a warm, comfortable feeling. A feeling he had not thought he could ever dredge up again.
But there it was.
The difference in their ages of ten years or so was not that great. Nothing that couldn’t be overcome.
But could Frank ever successfully put his past behind him?
That worried him, for there were still a lot of young punks looking for a gun reputation, and they would find him. They always did. Then he would have to kill again, or be killed.
“Damn,” Frank whispered. Then he smiled. “It ain’t easy being Frank Morgan,” he said aloud.
He went inside and lit a lamp. He’d read for a time, then go to bed. He had bought a book of poems written by a fellow named Poe. What a strange, dark, and lonely mind that man had. Frank refilled his coffee cup and began reading about the beautiful Annabel Lee.
TEN
Frank met Jamison in town the following morning and told him how much he would give him for the land, after checking to see the title was free and clear. Jamison took the offer and signed the papers. Frank paid him in cash and the land was his.
“When are you planning on pulling out?” Frank asked.
“Right now,” Jamison said. “Everything we’re takin’ is in the wagons.”
“Where will you go?”
“California,” Jamison said. “I hear it’s the land of plenty.”
“Losers,” Banker Simmons said, standing beside Frank as the wagons pulled out. “The whole woebegone lot of them.”
“I reckon you’re right, John. But I can’t help but feel sorry for them.”
“You’d be wasting your time and your sympathies, Frank. Nearly everyone in this end of the valley has helped that family at one time or another. I think all of them had gotten used to people helping them long before they arrived here.”
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