The Forbidden

by William W. Johnstone

  Frank watched as a carriage came rolling onto the main street, followed by a couple of mounted men. Their horses wore the Snake brand.

  “Mrs. Viola Trainor,” Simmons said. “She comes to this end of the valley about once every two or three months.”

  “To shop?” Frank asked.

  Simmons smiled. “In a manner of speaking. She’s addicted to laudanum. Sam Bickman at the apothecary shop gets it for her. She buys it a case at a time.”

  “She can’t get it in Hell?”

  “The colonel won’t allow the druggist there to sell it to her. So she comes over here and buys it.”

  “Surely he knows that.”

  “Oh, he knows it but he can’t do much of anything about it. Viola has money of her own.” Simmons chuckled. “She keeps some of it in my bank.”

  “Who are those riders with her?”

  “The one with the fancy vest is her baby boy, Julian. Called Jules. He’s about nineteen, I believe. And he’s a cruel bastard. There’s a real twisted streak in that young man. The other rider is Viola’s personal bodyguard, Ortiz.”

  “The Nogales gunfighter,” Frank said. “I haven’t seen or heard anything about him in years. I wondered whatever became of him.”

  “He was hired by Trainor. I guess, oh, six or seven years ago. Wherever you see Viola, you’ll see Ortiz.”

  “Has anyone crossed him in that time?”

  “Two men that I know of. Right out there in that street in front of us. They didn’t have a prayer when it came time to draw. He’s fast, Frank. He’s so fast it’s scary.”

  “I know. Mutual respect is just one of the reasons we’ve avoided each other over the years.”

  “What are some of the others?”

  Frank smiled. “Another is that both of us know if it comes to a showdown, we’ll both take some lead. I got shot in the shoulder last year. I don’t heal as fast as I used to.”

  Simmons was called into the bank, and Frank walked across the street to the cafe for a cup of coffee and a plate of biscuits, if they had any left from the breakfast crowd.

  He was halfway across the street when he heard his name called. Frank turned to face the .45 hand Cort, standing about thirty feet away.

  “I told you I’d kill you someday, Morgan,” Cort said. “Well, that day has come.”

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  “You ready, Morgan?”

  “No, I’m not. I don’t want to have to kill you. The remarks you made about the lady were out of line and you got a beating for it. It was deserved and you know it.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Frank saw Ortiz and Jules Trainor step out onto the boardwalk to stand and watch. The Mexican gunhand was staring and listening intently.

  Frank heard Jules say, “I bet Cort kills him, Ortiz.”

  “Don’t be a fool when you bet, boy,” the Nogales gunhand replied.

  “But I can see some gray in his hair,” Jules said.

  “Gray in my hair too, boy,” Ortiz said with a slight smile. “The business we’re in grays a man’s hair quickly.”

  Frank pulled all his attention back to Cort. He felt a calmness slowly spread over him. Any tenseness left him. He stood quite still and faced the angry .45 hand. Frank’s right hand hung near the butt of his Peacemaker.

  “What’s it take to make you pull on me, Morgan?” Cort shouted.

  “I’m not going to start this, Cort. I don’t want to kill you. So why don’t you just turn around, get on your horse, and ride out of here?”

  “I ain’t a-feared of you, Morgan!”

  “I never said you were.”

  “By God, I think you’ve lost your speed,” Cort said with a nasty smile. “I think age has done caught up with you and you’re doin’ nothin’ ’ceptin’ livin’ a big bluff.”

  “I don’t care what you think, Cort.”

  “You’re a damn clodhoppin’ piece of sheep-dip.”

  Despite the life-and-death situation, Frank could not contain a short laugh at the juvenile charge.

  “Don’t you laugh at me, Morgan!” Cort yelled.

  The boardwalk on both sides of the street was filling with men and women and kids, standing silently and watching.

  “Can’t help it, Cort,” Frank said. “What you said struck me as funny.”

  “Huh?”

  “You eat potatoes and corn and such, Cort?”

  “Do I do what?”

  “Do you eat corn and potatoes and beans and such?”

  “Why . . . hell yes, I do.”

  “Where do you think it comes from, Cort?”

  “Well . . . how the hell do I know!”

  Several of the men on the boardwalk smiled as they realized where Frank was going with his questioning. Ortiz smiled as he rolled a cigarette. He felt no rancor toward Frank Morgan. Ortiz’s job was to protect Mrs. Trainor. He took no part in any night riding.

  “They come from farmers, Cort. Think about it.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about what you eat, Cort. And where it comes from.”

  Cort shook his head. “What damn business is it of yours what I eat, Morgan? I think you’ve turned loony on me.”

  “I’m trying to save your life, that’s all.” Frank told him.

  “Are you gonna fight me?” Cort yelled.

  “Not unless you force me to do it.”

  Sweat was beginning to trickle down the .45 rider’s face. This just wasn’t working out the way he’d planned it. “All right, Morgan. I’m forcin’ you. Pull iron, you bastard.”

  “After you, Cort.”

  Cort began cussing him, long and loud. Frank stood calm and unmoving in the center of the street.

  “Draw on me, Morgan!” Cort yelled, his words tinged with frustration and desperation. “Damn you, drag iron!”

  Morgan yawned.

  Ortiz was highly amused as he watched the drama in the street turn into a dark comedy.

  “Morgan’s yellow,” Jules whispered.

  “No, boy,” Ortiz said. “He’s a very smart man who doesn’t want to kill anyone. Believe me, I know the feeling well.”

  “All right, Morgan,” Cort said, the sweat dripping from his face to plop in the dirt at his feet. “You forcin’ me to call your hand.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t, Cort.”

  “I ain’t got no choice in the matter!” Cort’s words were practically a scream. “I ain’t gonna stand here and have you make a fool of me.”

  “You’re doing that all by yourself,” Frank said.

  “Huh? I ain’t doin’ no sich of a thing neither.”

  “I think it’s over, boy,” Ortiz said.

  “What do you mean?” Jules asked.

  “I just have a feeling, that’s all. It’s something you develop after a few years in this business.”

  “I’m going to walk away now, Cort,” Frank said. “If you shoot me, it’ll be in the back. Are you a back-shooter?”

  “Hell, no, I ain’t no back-shooter.”

  “Then you go back to the ranch and cool down.”

  “Morgan?” Cort hollered. “You got to fight me.”

  “Why, cort?”

  “Why? ’Cause I done made up my mind to, that’s why.”

  “Then change your mind. See you.” Frank turned his back and walked the rest of the way across the street, stepping up on the boardwalk. “Howdy, Ortiz,” he said to the man. “I hadn’t seen you in so long I didn’t recognize you at first.”

  “Morgan,” Ortiz said. “You’re looking fit.”

  “What’s Cort doing, Ortiz?”

  “He’s walking away. Heading for the saloon, I think.”

  “Good. I didn’t want to have to kill him.”

  “I know the feeling, Morgan. Only too well.”

  “I’m farming and running a little ranch now,” Frank said.

  “So I heard. Think you can really settle down after all these years?”

  “I’m going
to give it a good try.”

  “I wish you luck.”

  Jules Trainor had walked away, disappointed there had been no gunplay.

  There was not much else for the two gunfighters to talk about—they had never been friends—so Frank stepped into the cafe for a cup of coffee. Dr. Everett was sitting alone at a table, a pot of coffee in front of him, and he waved Frank over to join him.

  “You could have easily killed that cowboy, Frank,” the doctor said, pouring Frank a mug of coffee.

  “I didn’t want to kill him, Doc. It would suit me just fine if I never had to draw on another man.”

  “The reluctant gunfighter,” Everett said with a smile. “I guess some of the articles I’ve read about you are true.”

  “Which ones are those? I must have missed them.”

  “The ones that say you were forced to kill a man when you were just a boy and from that moment on the title gunfighter was nothing that you wanted.”

  “That’s true, Doc. I was just a kid.”

  The doctor nodded his head. “You’re buying a lot of land, Frank. You really going to try to settle down in this area?”

  “I’m going to try.”

  “I hope you make it. How are you and Miss Julie getting on? And tell me to go to hell if you think I’m getting too personal.”

  Frank smiled. “We’re taking it slow, Doc. Just one step at a time.”

  “Those kids of hers giving you any trouble?”

  “I know where this is going, and no, they mind quite well, except when it comes to their puppy love.”

  “It might not be puppy love, Frank. Have you thought about that?”

  “I try not to think about it at all.”

  “Nice safe answer.”

  Before Frank could reply, a man rushed into the cafe and yelled, “There’s some man here from over Butte way. Says he’s come to kill Frank Morgan.”

  “What’s his name?” Frank asked.

  “Rob something or another.”

  “Damn,” Frank said, pushing back his chair. “Twice in one day is too much.”

  “You know this person, Frank?” Doc Everett asked.

  “He’s a punk kid who thinks he’s a gunslick. I ran into him in Butte. I thought it was over between us.” He looked at the man who had run into the cafe. “Where is the .45 hand I just talked out of a gunfight?”

  “He got his horse and rode out of town.”

  “At least I got him going home alive.” Frank slipped the leather thong off the hammer of his Peacemaker. “I don’t think I’ll be able to talk Rob out of a fight.”

  “Morgan!” the kid from Butte hollered. “Get out here in the street and face me. Your time has come.”

  Frank picked up his coffee mug and took a long pull. “That’s real good coffee,” he said, setting the mug back on the table. “Doc, you go out the back way and tell Marshal Handlen to stay out of this. This kid’s kill-crazy, I’m thinking.”

  “Handlen’s out of town, Frank. He left early this morning heading back East. One of his kids is near death. Hell, he might be dead by now.”

  Frank headed for the door. “Might as well get this over with.”

  “A crowd is gathering on the boardwalks,” a customer said.

  “I see them,” Frank said, a slight note of bitterness in his voice. “Hell, folks, it’s time for the show.”

  ELEVEN

  Frank stepped out of the cafe. Rob, the young man from the saloon in Butte, was standing in the middle of the street.

  “I seen you walk away from that other feller, Morgan,” Rob shouted. “But by God you’re gonna face me and we’re gonna settle this thing.”

  “What thing, boy?”

  “The quarrel between us, Morgan. Damn you, you know what.”

  “I got no quarrel with you, boy.”

  “I ain’t no boy, you old bastard!” He was wearing twin. 45s, hung low and tied down, his hands hovering over the butts of his guns.

  “I’m not going to argue with you, Rob. It’s hot out here. If you want to kill me, have at it. Now’s your chance.”

  “I’m gonna make you sweat some, you old has-been.”

  “The only thing you’re going to do is piss me off. And you’ve just about reached that point.”

  Rob grabbed for his guns, both of them. Frank shot him before Rob could get either gun clear of leather, and his aim was perfect, the bullet slamming into the young man’s hip and spinning the would-be gunslick around in the street and depositing him on his butt in the dirt. Rob tried to lift and cock his right-hand .45 just as Frank reached him and jerked the pistol from his hand, tossing it to one side. Frank stepped on Rob’s left hand hard, preventing him from pulling his other pistol.

  “It’s over, boy,” Frank told him, reaching down and removing Rob’s left-hand pistol. “And you’re alive. Be thankful for that.”

  “I’m crippled!”

  “I doubt it. But even if you are, you’re alive.”

  “I hurt somethin’ fierce, you bastard.”

  “Good. Maybe the pain will help you get your mind off gunplay and onto something constructive.”

  While Rob lay in the dirt, bleeding and cussing, Doc Everett walked up and motioned to several men standing on the boardwalk. “You boys help me get him over to my office so I can dig that lead out.”

  “Is it gonna hurt, Doc?” Rob asked.

  “Not as much as it should. I’ll give you something to dull the pain. Come on, boys, lift him up and get him out of the street.”

  Rob was toted off to the doc’s office, hollering about how bad he was hurting all the way. Frank picked up the young man’s guns and carried them over to the gun and saddle shop, giving them to the owner.

  “Stow these away, will you?”

  “I sure will, Mr. Morgan.”

  Frank walked over to the bank, and Simmons waved him into his office. “You should have killed that young hoodlum, Frank.”

  “You’re probably right, John. But I’m tired of killing, tired of men trying to make a name for themselves at my expense.”

  “You’ll never be able to take off that pistol and put it away, will you, Frank?”

  “Not anytime soon, that’s for sure.”

  The men looked at each other in silence for a moment, Frank finally saying, “The workmen will be finishing up for this week by early afternoon today. Pay them off when they get here, will you, John?”

  “Of course I will. I’ll have the receipt waiting for you when you come in.”

  Frank stood up. “I’m going home and do some work on my new property this afternoon.” He smiled. “I think I’ll just tear down that shack that passed for a home. See you.”

  Frank headed for home, arriving just as the workmen were finishing up for the weekend. He made sure Dog had food and water, and then headed over to the place Jamison had just sold him. He walked into the house and shook his head at the squalor left behind.

  Frank backed out, his mind quickly made up. He’d arrange for a team of mules—the man at the livery had some big Missouri Reds—and have Harry Clay go into town after them, hook them up, and just pull the damn shack down. Whatever lumber there was that could be salvaged and reused, he’d give to Harry.

  He walked over to the ramshackle barn and once again looked at the farming equipment. Much of it was just plain junk, beyond repair. Harry could have whatever equipment he could fix and use. But the land was prime, with good water. Even though Frank was far from being an expert at farming, he knew from just looking the property over that Jamison had not used the land properly and was not a good farmer.

  Frank knew one thing for certain. He had a lot of work to do.

  * * *

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do about the twins,” Julie said to Frank, refilling his coffee cup.

  Frank looked up from the plate of food Julie had prepared for him. Noon mealtime at the Wilson farm, and the twins were not at home. They both had been gone since early that morning. Shelley had been fed and
was in her room, reading. “You want me to talk to them?”

  “They resent you, Frank,” Julie said, sitting down. “Oh, they both like you. But they both say you’re not their father and you have no right to tell them to do anything.”

  “They have a point.”

  “But Shelley obeys you.”

  “Shelley is a child. She’s used to grown-ups telling her what to do. Phil and Katie are near’bouts grown up. In body, if not in mind.”

  “It’s body I’m worried about,” Julie said, rolling her eyes. “Especially Katie’s body. What if those kids are doing . . . well, you know.”

  Talk such as that made Frank very uncomfortable. “You want me to try to arrange a meeting with Bullard and Gilmar?”

  “Do you think it would do any good?”

  “What could it hurt? It would be concerned parents talking about their kids.”

  “Frank, have you ever been across the line to rancher territory?”

  “No,” he admitted. “I haven’t had any reason to go over there.”

  “They might shoot you on sight over there.”

  Frank smiled. “That would be unpleasant.”

  “Don’t joke about it! Just the thought of something happening to you scares me.”

  “Well, if you don’t want me to ride over there, we could always send them a telegram,” Frank suggested, struggling to hide a smile.

  Julie sighed and gave him a very jaundiced look.

  “Or, we could hitch up the buckboard and go together.”

  “I think that might be best. If you don’t mind.”

  “We’ll go tomorrow.”

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not a bit.”

  Julie smiled. “That takes a real weight off my mind, Frank.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  She leaned over and kissed him, and Frank returned the affection. Just as they were pulling apart, Shelley stepped out of her room and said, “I’m going to play outside, Mother.”

  Red-faced at nearly getting caught smooching, Julie jerked away from Frank and replied, “All right, baby. Stay close to the house.”

  “I want to go down to the creek!”