The Forbidden

by William W. Johnstone

  But the thought kept pushing at him: Why am I doing this?

  Why don’t I just mount up and ride out? Don’t even bother to look back.

  I don’t owe these farmers anything. Hell, about half of them don’t even like me.

  Frank walked the dusty main street, trying to shake the curious thoughts from his mind, his spurs softly jingling as he paced. He was suddenly very conscious of the .45 Peacemaker on his hip and the short-barreled .45 tucked behind his gunbelt at the small of his back. Odd, for the guns had nearly always been a natural part of him.

  Gunfighter. Killer. Manhunter. Those words sprang into his head, words he’d heard used to refer to him dozens of times in the long years that lay behind. Bloody years. Lonely years.

  Frank walked back to the saloon and picked up his rifle and canteen, once more stepping out onto the boardwalk. He took a sip of water, stood for a moment, and then walked across the wide street, over to some now-nameless old shell of a store. With an almost visible physical effort, Frank pushed all thoughts except survival from his mind. He began to take stock of where he was, carefully looking all around him.

  He checked his pocket watch. It wouldn’t be long before the first of the hired guns and bounty hunters would come riding in, anxious to be the one to get lead into Frank Morgan.

  “Well, come on, boys,” Frank muttered. “Let’s get this dance started.”

  Frank smoked one more cigarette before he heard the sounds of a horse walking slowly over the rocky old road that led to the town. Frank stood up and slipped the hammer thong from his Peacemaker. He waited under the shade of the boardwalk awn-ing ... the part of it that was still standing, and it was tilting precariously.

  Within moments he saw the lone rider slowly ride up to the edge of the single long street and dismount. Frank stepped out into the street.

  “Morgan?” the man called.

  “That’s me,” Frank said.

  The man walked up the center of the street and stopped about fifty feet from Frank. A young man, maybe twenty-five at the most.

  “I’m called Lucky Seven.”

  “Strange name.”

  “I was born on the seventh day of the week and the midwife said if I lived a week I’d be lucky.”

  “You pull on me, Lucky, and your luck is gonna run out.”

  “Naw, I don’t think so, Morgan. I feel really lucky today. ’Sides, I’ve killed seven men and that’s my lucky number.”

  “You’re a fool, young man. How much is Trainor paying you?”

  “I don’t work for Trainor. I hired on with the .45 brand.”

  “For how much?”

  “Enough. You ready to die, Morgan?”

  “Something we all have to do.”

  Lucky stood and stared at Frank for a moment, a puzzled look on his face. Morgan did not appear to be at all tense. No sign of nervousness about him. “What’s with you, Morgan? Don’t you know you’re going to die right here in this dirty street?”

  “Not me, Lucky. It isn’t my day.”

  “You think you’re fast enough to get me?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Then you’re the fool.”

  “I guess that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

  Frank’s calmness was beginning to unnerve Lucky. The other men he’d faced in his brief career as a gunslinger had all appeared shaky and nervous moments before the actual shoot-out. Not Frank Morgan. He just stood there patiently, with not a sign of tension. Damn him!

  “Well, do something, damn you!” Lucky yelled.

  Frank just smiled at him. “After you, Lucky. It’s your show.”

  “Are you ready, Morgan?”

  “Hell, Lucky, I’ve been ready. Anytime you want to stop running your mouth, just hook and draw.”

  “By God, I will!”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “You got any last words, Morgan?”

  Frank laughed at him.

  “Don’t you laugh at me, damn you! Don’t you make fun of me. I won’t stand for that. You hear me?”

  “Of course I hear you, Lucky. I’m not deaf.”

  “Well, then . . . you stop it.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Damn you, Morgan. There you go again.”

  “Come on, Lucky. Do something before I fall over from old age.”

  “That’s it, ain’t it, Morgan? You’re so damn old you done lost your nerve. You’re afraid to draw on me, ain’t you?”

  Again, Frank simply smiled at the man.

  “Pull iron, you old bastard!” Lucky screamed the words. “Damn you, draw on me.”

  “You first, Lucky,” Frank said calmly. “I believe in giving a man an even break . . . sometimes, that is.”

  “Don’t you do me no favors, Morgan. You hear me? I’m Lucky Seven. I’m fast. And I’m gonna kill you!”

  “Then have at it, Lucky. Do something, for God’s sake. You’re about to put me to sleep with all this talk.”

  “You’re a son of a bitch!”

  “Is that the best you can do, Lucky? That’s pitiful.”

  Lucky’s hand dropped to the butt of his pistol and he pulled iron. Frank smoothly cleared leather and his Peacemaker boomed, the .45 slug slamming into Lucky’s chest and knocking the young man off his boots. Lucky sprawled in the center of the dusty, tumbleweed-littered street. He had not gotten off a shot.

  Frank walked the short distance up to the dying man and looked down at him.

  “You bastard!” Lucky said. His fingers dug in the dirt for his gun.

  Frank kicked the young man’s pistol away from him. The fancy engraved .45 sailed away and landed behind an old horse trough.

  “I hate you, Frank Morgan,” Lucky gasped, then closed his eyes and died.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Frank left the body of Lucky Seven in the street, walked over to the boardwalk, sat down, and stared at the corpse. Another life cut short at my hand, he thought. But he could not dredge up even one tiny bit of remorse for his act.

  All I wanted to do was settle down here and live out the rest of my life in peace, Frank thought. I didn’t start this damn war . . . but I’m not going to run away from it.

  Frank punched out the empty brass in his Peacemaker and loaded the empty chamber. He usually carried the hammer over an empty chamber, but now was no time for that bit of precaution. Other gun-handlers would soon be arriving. Frank retrieved his rifle and canteen and leaned the weapon against the outer edge of the boardwalk. He took a sip of water and waited.

  It was not a long wait.

  Frank stood up, picking up his rifle at the sounds of fast approaching horses. He saw the dust first as the riders stopped at the edge of town.

  Three riders came slowly, cautiously into view. They were still too far away for Frank to recognize them, if he knew them at all. He stepped back onto the boardwalk as soon as one pointed at him.

  Frank waited.

  The three riders dismounted and split up, one going to the left, behind the buildings, one to the right, behind the buildings, and one walking slowly up the broken boardwalk across the street from Frank.

  “You boys are playing a fool’s game,” Frank called.

  “The ranchers put up quite a purse for you, Morgan,” the only hired gun visible shouted. “Thousands of dollars to the man who kills you.”

  “What ranchers?” Frank asked.

  “All of them. Every rancher north of the crossroads.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” Frank called.

  The gunhand snapped a quick shot at Frank, the bullet slamming into the wood behind him. Frank returned the fire, and he didn’t miss. The .44-40 slug doubled the man over, putting him down to his knees. He slowly toppled over and off the boardwalk, landing in the dirt of the street. He did not move.

  Frank stepped back into the open door of the building and quickly made his way to the rear of the store. He waited by the long-broken-out window. He could see what remained of the outhouse,
now just a jumble of rotting boards.

  “He got Layton!” The faint shout reached Frank.

  “Dead?” the gunhand coming up behind Frank’s position called.

  “I reckon so. He ain’t movin’.”

  “Morgan ain’t gonna stand and fight eyeball-to-eyeball.”

  “Would you?”

  There was no reply to that.

  Frank eared back the hammer on his rifle and waited.

  “You see him, Chase?” The shout came from across the street.

  “No. I don’t know where he went. He’s a sneaky one.” The hired gun called Chase was very close to Frank’s position.

  Frank slipped to the open door.

  “You be careful.”

  “You bet I will,” said Chase.

  Frank stepped out onto what remained of the loading dock and put a hole into Chase’s chest. The bounty hunter’s boots flew out from under him, and he was dead before he stretched out on the ground.

  “Chase?” the one remaining gunny called.

  Frank levered a round into the chamber and moved as silently as possible to the front of the rickety old store.

  “Did you get him, Chase? Answer me, boy!”

  Frank waited, as patient and silent as death.

  The last of the trio made a run from one side of the street to the other. Frank nailed him, the .44-40 round turning him around in the street. The hired gun banged off several rounds, all of them blowing holes in the dirt, then slumped to the ground, groaning and cussing. His six-gun slipped from suddenly weak fingers.

  Frank stepped out of the building and off the boardwalk, walking over to where the man lay dying. He looked down at him, saying nothing.

  “You’re slick, Morgan,” the man whispered.

  “Not really,” Frank replied. “You were just too anxious.”

  “I reckon. But there was big money involved. Makes a”—he stammered and coughed up blood—“a man reckless.”

  Frank stood quietly and let the man talk.

  “They’s a whole bunch coming after you, Morgan. I hope they kill you. I hope you die hard, you bastard.”

  Frank just smiled at him.

  “You’ll get yours someday, Morgan. I’m just sorry I won’t be around to see it.”

  “You got anyone you want me to notify?” Frank asked.

  “Hell, no!”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Who the hell do you have that gives a damn about you?” the gunhand challenged.

  “I have one or two who might give a small damn,” Frank replied. “But not much of one.”

  “Serves you right.”

  Frank had to smile at that.

  “Something funny, Morgan?” The man coughed out the words. Before Frank could reply, he said, “I’m lung-shot, ain’t I?”

  “Yeah, you are.”

  “Side-to-side, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I guess you’re just gonna leave me to die right here in the middle of the damn street, ain’t you, Morgan?”

  “Where do you want me to take you?”

  “How the hell do I know?” The man coughed up pink blood. He was definitely lung-shot. “Don’t make no difference nohow, Morgan. Do it?”

  “Not much of one.”

  “I got me a good horse. Take care of him. Will you do that for me?”

  “Sure. That big black?”

  “That’s him. He’s a good one. And . . . I bought him legal. I didn’t steal him. Paper is in my saddlebags.”

  “I’ll take care of him.”

  “Thanks.” The man closed his eyes. He never opened them again.

  Frank left him and walked to the end of the street, reloading as he walked. He found the horses and led them over to where he’d left Horse. Horse laid his ears back and let the newcomers know who was boss immediately. Frank left them to work it out, and walked back into the falling-down old town. He sat down in the dark shadowy shade of the boardwalk, took a sip of water, and rolled a cigarette.

  He waited, rifle across his knees, very conscious of the heavy smell of death in the air; it clung to everything.

  “Morgan!” The shout cut the air. “You there, Morgan?”

  Frank did not move or reply to the call. In the sun’s slow move toward the western horizon, the place where Frank rested under the awning was now dark. The newcomer, or newcomers, as the case probably was, could not see him.

  “Damn, Jerry!” another voice called. “They’s two bodies in the street.”

  “I see them,” the first voice said. “But I can’t make out who they are. For a fact, Morgan’s in there somewhere.”

  “I’m goin’ to swing around, come in from the other end of town.”

  “All right. Sing out when you’re in position. I ain’t movin’ till you holler.”

  “Yeah. Morgan’s a sneaky one. I think he’s maybe part Injun. I’ll give you a shout in a few minutes.”

  Frank waited motionless. He was wearing dark trousers and a dark blue shirt. He blended in well with the deepening shadows.

  Frank listened as the rider made a wide loop around the ghost town. He was riding slowly, pausing often to check out the area. Frank guessed that Jerry had not moved.

  “In place!” The shout came from the opposite end of the street.

  “All right, Ed. Let’s go collect that bounty.”

  Jerry and Ed, Frank thought. Sounds like a vaudeville team. All we need now is some dancing girls in short dresses.

  Suddenly, and with no warning, Frank thought about his son, Conrad. He wondered how the young man was doing. Wondered if he ever thought about him. Hell, Frank wasn’t even sure where Conrad was. Probably back East somewhere.

  He pushed those thoughts away. No time to be thinking about anything except staying alive.

  Frank heard a board creak in protest somewhere to his left. Sounded like it was near. But in the warm, still air, he couldn’t be sure.

  “Jerry?” The voice was so close it jarred Frank. “I don’t think he’s here. There ain’t no sign of him.”

  “I shore ain’t cut no sign myself.” That voice came from Frank’s right. But from across the wide street.

  “Is that Layton in the street?”

  “Yeah. One of ’em. I can’t see for shore who the other one is.”

  “I seen one in the back. Didn’t take the time to see who it was.”

  Frank slowly moved his head, looking to his left. Ed was a dozen or so yards from him, walking carefully and slowly up the broken and warped boardwalk, a six-gun in his right hand.

  “You looking for me, Ed?” Frank asked, lifting his rifle.

  “Jesus!” Ed shouted, snapping off a shot into the shadows. The shot missed Frank by several feet.

  Frank’s shot did not miss. The .44-40 bullet ripped into Ed’s chest and knocked the man off the boardwalk. Ed rolled in the dirt and tried to rise to his boots. He didn’t make it, falling forward onto his face in the dirt. He cursed Frank, coughed up blood, then trembled once and sighed as life left him. A moment later, Frank heard the sound of a horse galloping away. Jerry had pulled out.

  “The buzzards are going to have a feast later on,” Frank muttered, shoving fresh loads into his rifle.

  Frank waited for a few minutes, sitting in the shade of the awning. No more hired guns showed up. “They’ll be along,” Frank whispered. “I’ll be very surprised if they aren’t.”

  Frank stripped the saddles and bridles from the horses and turned them loose. Then he returned to his shady perch and ate a biscuit and sipped water from his canteen. He longed for a cup of hot, strong coffee. He settled for a cigarette.

  He waited, sitting by the street of death in the old ghost town. Silent slow minutes passed before Frank heard the approaching horse. A single rider appeared on the edge of town. Frank recognized him: Jess Malone.

  “Well, now,” Frank muttered. “All by himself too.”

  Frank wondered where Jess’s running buddy, Peck Carson, was.
<
br />   “Not far away, I’ll wager,” Frank muttered.

  “Morgan!” Jess hollered. “I see the bodies. Looks like you’ve been busy.”

  Frank stepped out into the sunlight. “There’s several more you can’t see, Jess,” he called.

  Jess walked his horse up the street, stopping and dismounting about a hundred feet from Frank. “You want to talk some before I kill you, Morgan?”

  “You’re dreaming, Jess. The only way you’ll see me dead is if your buddy, Peck, shoots me in the back.”

  “Peck ain’t with me. He’s back at the Snake nursin’ a bad hang-over.”

  “I’m real sorry to hear that, Jess. If it’s the truth, that is. With any sort of luck, he won’t recover.”

  “It’s the truth, Morgan. I may be a lot of things, but I ain’t no liar.”

  “With all these dead men around you, you’re going to pull on me?”

  “That’s right, Morgan. More than that, I’m goin’ to be the one to tote your stinkin’ carcass back to the Snake and collect me a big pile of bounty money.”

  Frank laughed at him. He knew that Jess was very quick on the draw, but Frank also knew that he was faster.

  “By God, Morgan!” Jess flared. “Don’t you laugh like a jackass at me.” Jess began walking toward Frank.

  “You better get back on your horse and get the hell gone, Jess. That’s the only warning you’re going to get from me.”

  “Damn you and your warnin’, Morgan.” Jess kept walking, closing the distance between the two men.

  Frank stood in the middle of the street, waiting. He was more conscious than ever before of the dead men around him. Overhead, circling darkly, the buzzards had begun to gather, sensing a feast.

  “I’ll be known as the man who killed Frank Morgan!” Jess shouted.

  “Wrong,” Frank said.

  “Now!” Jess yelled, and pulled iron.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Jess cleared leather a half second behind Frank, and got off a shot. The bullet tore up dirt about ten feet in front of Frank. Frank’s shot was true, striking Jess in the chest and knocking him down to one knee. Jess lifted his .45, trying for a second shot. Frank put another round into the man’s chest. Jess toppled over to one side, losing the grip on his six-gun. He tried to rise but could not, collapsing and dying in the dirt.