The Forbidden

by William W. Johnstone

  Frank walked slowly up to the dead man and stood for a moment, looking down at him. Then he turned and walked away. Frank found Jess’s horse and pulled saddle and bridle from the animal, turning him loose. He walked over to Horse and mounted up, taking the reins of the big black he had promised to look after. He rode away from the death town, leaving the bodies sprawled where they died. The buzzards began their slow descent toward the corpses. Frank did not look back.

  It was after dark when Frank reached his house. He stabled the horses, rubbing them down and forking hay for them. He put some grain in the feed box and then went into his house, Dog padding along beside him.

  Frank was tired and hungry and longed for a pot of coffee. He put water on to boil and then washed up, anxious to get the stink of death off him. The hot water and soap helped some. He sliced some bacon and laid the strips in the skillet to fry. He pulled off his boots and slipped his tired feet into moccasins. When the meager supper was ready, he ate the bacon and sopped up the grease with slices of bread, then took his mug of coffee outside. He sat down wearily in a rocking chair on the porch and rolled a cigarette.

  “It was a sorry day, Dog,” he said to the big cur after taking a swig of the hot, strong coffee. “I left another string of dead men behind me. But what the hell did I accomplish by doing so? What did I prove? Am I the better man by doing what I did?”

  Dog lay by his side, careful to keep his tail from under the rocker. Dog was smart; he had learned that quickly and somewhat painfully early on.

  “The fastest gun in the West,” Frank said. “That’s me. What an honor. After doing what I do best, I come home and talk to my dog.” He reached down and patted Dog. “No disrespect intended,” he added with a smile.

  Dog wagged his tail.

  Frank drank his coffee and smoked his cigarette, then fixed another cup and returned to the rocking chair on the porch. Dog had curled up on the porch and was sleeping, at peace with the world.

  “We’ll be on the trail again before too much longer,” Frank said to the silent night. “I can sense that. I’ve had a lot of practice knowing when I’ve worn out my welcome.”

  Frank finished his coffee and went to bed. He slept soundly and dreamlessly, and was up an hour before dawn. Dog went out with Frank, both of them tending to their morning business; then Frank washed up and put on water to boil. He sat outside on the porch, enjoying the early coolness while he woke up with a cup of strong coffee. Frank was drinking coffee, finishing up the pot, when the sun cracked the silver gray wide open and brought the day forth.

  “I think I’ll ride into town and get me a good breakfast at the cafe, then a bath and a haircut, Dog. You keep an eye out for trouble, and if you see any, you run like hell and get under cover, you hear me?”

  An hour later, Frank rode into the town of Heaven and dismounted in front of the Blue Moon Cafe. The cafe was crowded with men and humming with conversation until Frank walked in; then it fell as silent as a tomb.

  Frank took a seat at a corner table and ordered breakfast. Slowly the conversation among the patrons resumed, but at a much lower hum than before. John Simmons came in, spotted Frank, and joined him at the table, waving at the waitress and ordering coffee.

  “You stirred up the pot yesterday, Frank,” the banker said. “Two deputies from the county seat were on their way home from prisoner-chasing, and saw the buzzards over the ghost town and went to take a look. One of them stayed to keep the buzzards off while the other one rode into town for a wagon.”

  “They brought the bodies here?”

  “What was left of them, yes.”

  “The deputies must have ridden by just after I rode out.”

  “I guess so. Anyway, the townspeople, most of them, are awfully upset about the situation.”

  “And they would like for me to leave?” Frank asked with a half smile.

  “Many of them, yes, Frank. I’m sorry, but that’s the mood right now.”

  “Well, it won’t get any better, John. I’ve seen this happen before.”

  “You’re probably right about that.”

  “And what’s going to happen when I pull out?”

  “I tried to tell this very group of men in the cafe right now that things will only get worse if you leave. But they weren’t having any of it. They want you gone.”

  Frank’s smile widened. “Then why don’t they tell me face-to-face?”

  The banker chuckled at that. “I think you know the answer to that, Frank. They’re scared of you and they’re scared of the ranchers.” John looked around him. “Here come the two deputies now.”

  “Let them come. Here comes my breakfast. They can talk and I’ll eat.”

  “Morgan!” one of the deputies brayed from the doorway.

  “I can hear you,” Frank said as the waitress placed his breakfast in front of him. “I’m not deaf.”

  “We want to talk to you,” the second deputy said.

  “So talk. I’ll eat.”

  “We wired the sheriff and he wants to talk to you, Morgan. You’ll have to come with us.”

  “I don’t think so, boys,” Frank said, buttering a biscuit. “I don’t have a damn thing to say to your sheriff.”

  “Morgan,” the first deputy said. “You’re pushing.”

  Frank laid down his knife and set his biscuit on the side of his plate. “Your sheriff is bought and paid for by the ranchers, boys. And you probably are too. All of you knew the ranchers were hiring guns to make war against the farmers. You know about the killings and burnings and rapes and did nothing about them. You’re both white trash, and that’s probably too good a description. Now get the hell out of my sight or get ready to drag iron. Get out of here. Tuck your damn cowardly tails between your legs and get the hell gone. Now, goddamnit!”

  The deputies almost tore down the door getting out of the cafe. Frank picked up his fork and resumed eating.

  One of the townspeople in the cafe began chuckling. “Seeing that was worth the price of a stage ticket. Good for you, Morgan. I don’t have much use for your kind, but that performance deserves a round of applause.”

  “But it don’t change nothin’,” another man said.

  “Relax, boys,” Frank said. “I’m planning on pulling out in a few days. Maybe a week. No more than that. I’ve got some loose ends to wrap up and some banking business to take care of. Then I’m gone.”

  “Don’t you men know what the ranchers are going to do when Frank is gone?” John said, flaring up, twisting around in his chair.

  Heavy boot steps rattled the boardwalk and the front door was flung open. “The gunslingers is comin’ into town!” the man yelled. “ ’Bout a dozen of ’em.”

  “Damn you, Morgan!” a local yelled at Frank. “See what you’ve done? I hope you’re happy.”

  Frank stood up, his breakfast half finished, and stepped out of the cafe, Banker Simmons with him. A dozen or so riders reined up in front of the cafe just as the rest of the cafe crowd filed out to stand on the boardwalk.

  “We’re lookin’ for you, Morgan,” a gunny said once the dust had settled.

  “You found me.”

  “We’re not lookin’ for no trouble,” another gunhand said. “We just wanted to tell you we’re pullin’ out.”

  “Oh?” Frank said.

  “Yeah, Frenchy here”—he gestured toward a rider—“is from Louisiana. He says you got you a mojo hand or a juju or some sort of that Cajun voodoo goin’ for you. I don’t rightly know what the hell he’s talkin’ about, but some of what he says makes sense. You got the luck goin’ for you, that’s all I know. No human man leaves half a dozen dead men for the buzzards and rides away without a scratch. So that done it for us. Maybe they’ll be another time, maybe there won’t. But for this time, we’re gone.”

  “This all that’s leaving?” Frank asked.

  “Half a dozen pulled out yesterday. Might be some more, I don’t know.” He lifted a hand. “We’re gone. I personal hope I don’t never see you
no more, Morgan. Not never again.”

  The riders wheeled about and rode out of the town.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” a local said.

  Frank walked back into the cafe to finish his breakfast. “Hotten my coffee, will you?” he called to the waitress. “Maybe now I can eat in peace.”

  * * *

  Frank spent the rest of the morning with Lawyer Foster and Banker Simmons. They worked out an arrangement for the newlyweds to farm and ranch Frank’s land, in exchange for fair compensation for their labors.

  “It’s a good deal for the kids,” Lawyer Foster said. “More than fair really.”

  “They deserve a chance,” Frank said. “I can afford to give it to them.”

  “What about Julie?” John asked.

  “What about her?” Frank questioned. “We had a bit of a fling, I guess you could say, and now it’s over. With the addition of her holdings, the kids are going to be working a lot of land; far more than anyone else in the south part of the valleys. It’s going to be a hell of a responsibility for the young people. As for Julie, well, there are provisions in this arrangement for her to be well taken care of. There’s no more to say.”

  The lawyer and the banker exchanged glances.

  “Is there more?” Frank challenged.

  “Not if that’s the way you want it, Frank,” John said.

  Frank pushed back his chair and stood up. “Then we’re finished. I’m going back to my place. The kids can move in next week.”

  “That’s when you’re pulling out?” Foster asked.

  “There is nothing here to hold me. Is there?”

  The banker and the lawyer said nothing.

  Frank smiled. “See you boys later.”

  As Frank stepped out of the bank, he saw Ortiz lounging in the shade of a store awning across the street. He looked up the street. Viola Trainor’s carriage was in front of the livery. Frank walked across the street and stepped up on the boardwalk.

  Ortiz smiled at him. “The man who set more souls free to roam the ghost town. How are you, Frank?”

  “I’m well. And you’re looking the same.”

  “A month or so older than when last we met.”

  “How is Jules?”

  Ortiz chuckled. “He’s all right. Still a bit sore in the butt area from his ride home. But his hate for you is vile.”

  “He knows where to find me.”

  “He’s practicing his draw daily, for several hours.”

  “He can practice all he wants too, Ortiz. But when that crazy-in-the-head young man braces me, I’ll put lead in him.”

  Ortiz lifted his hands and shrugged his shoulders. “What can I say? I am not his keeper. What he does, he does.”

  “How’s the colonel?”

  “Aflame with hate. For you, of course.”

  “I’ll put lead in that arrogant bastard too.”

  Ortiz laughed. “Ah, Frank, when men such as you and I are gone, the West will be a boring place, will it not?”

  Frank smiled. “It won’t be the same, that’s for sure.”

  Ortiz looked over at the apothecary shop. “There is my charge, Frank. She now has enough drugs to keep her in a mild stupor for several weeks. I must be going. Is it true you are leaving the valley?”

  “Yes. In a few days, maybe a week. But I’m leaving for sure.”

  “I may give up my extremely boring position and drift myself. But I will drift south, toward a home I have not seen in years.”

  “Are your parents still alive?”

  “I don’t know. And that is a disgraceful thing to have to admit.” He lifted a hand. “Good luck to you, Drifter.”

  “Same to you, Pistolero.”

  Frank watched as the Mexican gunfighter mounted up and the carriage rolled past, Ortiz riding shotgun. Frank looked up and down the street. Nice little town, he thought. I’ll miss it, even though I know it’s not the place for me. It’s filled with good people, most of them anyway. But not my sort of people.

  He smiled at that last thought. What do you want, Frank? he silently questioned. A town filled with aging gunfighters?

  Preacher Philpot and his wife strolled past on the boardwalk, both of them averting their eyes so they would not have to speak to Frank. Frank didn’t press the issue. It wouldn’t have solved anything by pushing.

  He stepped off the boardwalk and mounted up. Lawyer Foster and Banker Simmons waved to him as he rode out, heading for home.

  Home? Frank thought sourly. No. A place to stay for a few more days, that’s all it is. It isn’t a home.

  Frank began to feel better as he cleared the edge of town and put the buildings and the townspeople behind him. Not my kind of people, he thought again. But where the hell do I find my kind of people?

  As he rode, he mentally toyed with the idea of heading back East, looking for a place there. He quickly rejected that germ of an idea. It wouldn’t take long before his true identity would be discovered and he’d be faced with the same problems. No, there was a place for him in the West he loved. He just had to keep looking, that’s all.

  Money sure as hell hasn’t brought me much happiness or contentment, he thought. Then he shook that away and smiled, thinking: But I’ve helped some deserving kids, that’s a fact. Maybe that’s what money is really for.

  On his ride back to his place, Frank met and passed several local farmers and their families, heading into town to shop. None of them spoke to him or waved at him. Their actions began to amuse Frank and his dark mood lifted. He was feeling much better as he rode up to his place and Dog ran out to greet him.

  “Well, someone is glad to see me,” he said, as he paused to pet the big cur. “I can always count on you, can’t I, fellow?”

  Dog barked happily and licked his hand.

  “You feel like traveling?” Frank asked.

  Dog jumped around and wagged his tail.

  “Yeah? Well, me too. Two drifters, that’s us.” He looked up as a buckboard rattled down the road and turned into Frank’s place. Julie was at the reins, her blond hair shining in the sun.

  “This ought to be interesting.” Frank muttered. “And final.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  “I owe you an explanation, Frank,” Julie said.

  I’ll make it easy for you, Julie. I’m too violent. It sickens you. You can’t bear to be around me anymore. Am I on the right track?”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “But you’re a good man, Frank. There is a decent streak in you. I’ve seen it. If only you would take off those guns.”

  “I’d be dead in a month.”

  “You won’t even try, Frank? Not even for us, for what we had?”

  Frank shook his head. “You want to be a widow again, Julie?”

  She stared at him for a moment, her eyes turning chilly. “You can live with the gun or you can live with me, Frank. But you can’t have it both ways.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “I will be eternally grateful for everything you’ve done for the kids and for me, Frank. And a part of me will always love you.”

  “Good-bye and good luck, Julie.”

  That startled her. She was visibly shaken when she said, “That’s all you have to say about it, about us?”

  “There is nothing else to say. Would you like me to see you home?”

  “I can manage quite well, Frank.”

  Frank touched the brim of his hat. Julie spun around and walked away, back to her buckboard. She drove away without a backward glance.

  Frank walked back into the house, Dog padding along beside him. He made a pot of coffee and filled a cup, then sat on the porch in his rocking chair and smoked and drank his coffee. Odd, he thought, I don’t feel any great sense of loss about Julie. Actually, I don’t feel anything. Maybe that means there wasn’t anything of substance between us to build on. That’s a good thought to maintain, he concluded.

  “Better to find out now than later,” Frank said aloud. “Later would have really been a
big mess.”

  Dog looked up at him, then left the porch in a run, to bark and chase at some chattering squirrels in the side yard.

  “The next few days just might prove to be interesting,” Frank muttered. “It will all depend on what Trainor and the other ranchers have up their sleeves now that many of the hired guns are pulling out.”

  Frank went back into his house and fixed another cup of coffee. “To hell with it,” he said as he sugared and stirred. “I’m better off alone.”

  * * *

  Frank stayed close to his house the rest of that day. The dozen or so gunfighters who had pulled out made up less than a quarter of the men the three ranchers had hired to fight the farmers. Frank was sure there would be more attacks. . . but when and where those attacks might occur was something he could not answer.

  “It’s none of my affair any longer,” he murmured. “The people have spoken, so to speak. The locals don’t want me around, so I guess that means they can damn well handle their own troubles.”

  But he knew if called upon for help, he would not hesitate.

  Late that afternoon, Frank was sitting out on the porch enjoying the cool breeze that was blowing down from the distant mountains. He heard the sounds of horses coming down the road, and took his Peacemaker and laid it in his lap. The horses turned into his road, and Frank tensed when he recognized three men from the Snake brand; three hired guns.

  “Take it easy, Morgan,” one called. “We ain’t here to make no trouble.”

  “Ride on in and have a seat on the porch then.”

  “New, we’ll just say what we come to say and then head on out.”

  “You boys pulling out?”

  “You betcha,” another gunny said. “And we ain’t alone. ’Bout a dozen more pullin’ out right behind us. In the mornin’, I think.”

  “Why?”

  “This ain’t workin’ out, Morgan,” the third rider said. “I don’t mind ridin’ over crops or killin’ hogs or whatever, but burnin’ people to death and rapin’ young girls and abusin’ women ain’t my style. I don’t hold with that.”

  “Good for you.”

  “But the ones that are stickin’ are mean, Morgan. They got no inner feelin’s ’bout nothin’. They’d as soon kill a child as look at one.”