“Money and power,” Frank said. “Same old story.”
“Yeah, I reckon. If Rogers and Perkins would just pull in their horns a mite, they’d be land aplenty for all. But on the other side of matters, Paul Adams, the leader of the sodbusters, is no sweetheart himself.”
Frank took a swig of coffee before replying. “Oh? How so?”
“Him and his sons control about four thousand acres of prime land, got a couple of cricks and a river runnin’ through it. GP spread on one side of the river, Diamond spread on the other. You can figure out the rest.”
“I sure can.”
“And to make matters worser,” the liveryman said, refilling both their mugs, “I seen four wagons filled with sodbusters rattle through here late yesterday. Just at dusk.”
“I heard the wagons from my room. I didn’t look out to see what they were.”
“Farmers with a whole passel of towheaded young’uns.”
“More kids to get hurt.”
“Shore nuff. And they will git hurt. Count on it. Rogers and Perkins is uncorkin’ the bottle now. I may be old, but I still got eyes and ears. I seen more gunslicks ride in last night. Rick Handy was amongst ’em.”
“Handy!” That got Frank’s attention. “I thought he retired!”
“I reckon he come out of retirement. ’Sides, he’s too young for that. You and him’s about the same age, I reckon.”
“Just about,” Frank said. “Last time I saw him was in . . .” He thought for a moment. “Kansas. And it was a land dispute there too.”
“You and him had a run-in?”
“No. Nothing like that. At least not yet. I hope we never do.”
“But you’ve seen him work?”
“Oh, yeah. That was years ago, though. In Nebraska.” Frank was again thoughtful. “And that was about land too.”
“He’s fast, ain’t he?”
“Very quick,” Frank admitted.
“Better than you?” the liveryman pressed.
“I don’t know. I hope I never have to find out.”
“You pullin’ out today, Mr. Morgan?”
Frank paused for a few seconds before replying. “I don’t know. I should.” He looked at the old man. “You have any idea who Rick is working for?”
John shook his head. “Not yet. Won’t take long to find out, though. They’ll all be ridin’ in today for drinks and cards. Might not be too healthy for you to stick around.”
Frank smiled at that. “I’m used to that feeling, John.”
“Yeah, I reckon you are. So are you going to stay?”
Frank slowly nodded his head. “Yeah, John. I think I am.”
“Then you’re sidin’ with the farmers?”
“I’m not siding with any faction. Not yet. I think I’ll wait and see how hard the ranchers want to play this.”
“You know already, Morgan.”
Frank took a sip of coffee and nodded his head. “I guess I do, John.” He set his mug down on the office desk. “I’m going to get some breakfast. Want to join me?”
“Naw. My old woman fixed me flapjacks and fatback ’bout an hour ago. I’m full. But thanks for the invite. Don’t worry ’bout your animals. I’ll take good care of them.”
Frank walked over to the saloon and took a table near the back. He waved at a man behind the long bar. “The cook got the stove hot?”
“It’s hot. Want some breakfast?”
“Yes. And a pot of coffee.”
“Coming up.”
Frank ate his breakfast—bacon and biscuits and gravy—then leaned back and rolled a smoke. He glanced at the wall clock. Seven o’clock. He looked up at the sounds of boot steps on the boardwalk. Frank waited. The batwings were pushed open and Rick Handy walked in, two tough-looking hard cases with him.
“Now it gets interesting,” Frank muttered.
Three
Rick Handy pulled up short when he spotted Frank sitting alone at the back table. His face tightened and his hands balled into fists for just a few seconds. Then he regained control and forced himself to relax.
“Hello, Ricky,” Frank said with a smile, knowing how the man hated to be called that.
“The name is Rick, Drifter. Don’t call me Ricky.”
“Excuse me, Ricky. I didn’t realize you were so sensitive about your name.”
“I said don’t call me that.”
“Sorry, I forgot. You know how us old folks get, Ricky. We all develop CRC.”
“What the hell is CRC?” Rick asked.
“Can’t Remember Crap.”
“Very funny, Drifter.” He cut his eyes as the barkeep began laughing.
“That’s a good one, Morgan,” the barkeep said. “I gotta remember that one.”
“Yeah, you do that,” Rick told the man. He looked back at Frank. “I heard you was in this area, Drifter. I also heard you wasn’t gonna stay.”
“I changed my mind, Ricky.”
“So this is the famous Frank Morgan,” one of the men with Handy said. “He don’t look like much to me.”
“Sure as hell don’t,” the other man said.
Frank ignored the comments and kept his eyes on Handy. “Which spread are you working for?”
“The Diamond, if it’s any of your business,” Handy replied. “Which it isn’t.”
“I’m a curious sort, Ricky,” Frank said, carefully pouring another cup of coffee with his left hand. His right hand was out of sight, near the butt of his Peacemaker.
“You keep callin’ me names I don’t like and you’re gonna be a hurt curious sort.”
“Ah, now, Ricky,” Frank said, again with a smile. “You wouldn’t want to spoil a beautiful morning with gunplay, would you?”
“Let me take him, Ricky,” one of the men said.
Frank laughed at the hard case. “What’s your name?”
“Dancer. Pete Dancer.”
“Don’t let your butt overload your mouth, Pete,” Frank warned him.
“By God, I ain’t afraid of you!” the second man said. “I’m Zack Spence.”
“You shut your mouth too, Zack,” Frank said. “I was having a conversation with Ricky.”
“I’m warnin’ you, Morgan!” Handy flared. “I’ll . . .” Then it dawned on him what Frank was doing. He took a deep breath, the flush left his face, and he calmed himself. “It won’t work, Drifter. But you came close.”
“What won’t work, Ricky? I was just having a little chat with you.”
“You know what you were doin’, Drifter. Tryin’ to rile me so’s I’d make a mistake. Forget it. Come on, boys. Let’s have us some coffee and breakfast.”
* * *
Frank stood on the boardwalk in front of the saloon for a few moments, watching the activity at the general store, located directly across the street. A wagon had pulled up in front, a man and woman on the wagon seat, several kids in the bed. A few minutes passed, then another wagon rattled up, then a third. Claude and Mavis Hornsby and their kids—two boys and a girl—were in the third wagon.
Frank waited and watched, standing in the shadows of the awning. Within the next ten minutes, four more wagons rolled up, followed by five mounted men, all armed, side arms and pistols.
“Paul Adams and his sons,” the barkeep said from just inside the batwings. “Sam, Al, Jimmy, and Mark.”
“They handle those weapons like they know how to use them,” Frank observed.
“They do. Paul Adams come out of the war a Yankee colonel. Lots of medals. His wife died ’bout ten years ago, so I’m told. He come out here ’bout four years ago and filed on some prime land. He was the first sodbuster in this area. Then the others started comin’ in. Been trouble ever since. Adams has killed several cowboys, from both spreads:’
“I think I’ll visit the store and get me some tobacco,” Frank said.
The barkeep chuckled. “Good luck, Morgan.”
Frank walked across the wide and rutted street. He touched the brim of his hat when Mavis Hornsby cut her e
yes to him. “Morning, ma’am.”
“Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” she said.
“Howdy, Claude,” Frank called.
“Morgan,” Hornsby said.
“You know that gunslinger, Claude?” Paul Adams called.
“That’s the man I told you about, Paul. Frank Morgan.”
Frank stepped up on the boardwalk and entered the good-smelling general store. Frank always enjoyed the smell of a general store. Tobacco and bread and pickles in a barrel and candy and leather and dozens of other smells. He walked up to the counterman.
“Three sacks of tobacco and some papers, please.”
The clerk put his purchases on the counter and looked at Frank for a few seconds. “You really Frank Morgan?”
“Yes. And you are? . . .”
“Joe Wallace. I own this establishment. Me and my wife, Theda.”
“Glad to meet you. I was told the two big spreads in this area owned the town.”
“They used to. Dave Hitchens bought the saloon a couple of years ago. I bought this store last year. John Platt bought the livery about the same time. Be more businesses coming in if this land mess ever gets settled. You hiring your gun, Frank Morgan?”
The question was asked just as Paul Adams stepped into the store, followed by his sons and several other men and women.
“My gun isn’t for hire, Joe. Not now, not ever. I might step into a fight every now and then, but if, or when, I do, it’ll be because I believe in one side or the other. Not for money.”
“How very noble of you, Morgan,” Paul Adams said, his tone holding a very evident sneer. “A gunfighter with principles. I wasn’t aware there was such a thing.”
Frank turned to look at the man, his pale eyes turning chilly. “There are probably quite a number of things in this world that you are not aware of. Whoever in the hell you are.”
“I’m Paul Adams, Morgan. And you’ll watch your arrogant tongue when addressing me.”
Frank smiled, the curving of lips devoid of any humor. “I will say what I please, to whoever I please, and whenever I please.”
“That’s my father you’re addressing, sir!” one of Paul’s sons said.
“That’s your problem,” Frank told him. He picked up his tobacco and papers and walked out of the store, pushing past Paul Adams and sons.
“The man is impudent,” Paul said.
Frank heard the words and ignored them. He stood on the short elevated boardwalk and rolled a cigarette. It was only from that height that he noticed the caskets in the bed of the wagons. The Norton family, he thought.
“Here comes Preacher Wright,” a woman said.
“Let’s get up the hill to the buryin’ ground,” a man said, lifting the reins to his team.
Frank stepped to one side, out of the way, as the crowd left the general store and got into the wagons for the ride up to the community’s graveyard.
Paul Adams paused for a moment on the boardwalk to look at Frank. “You are not welcome in this community,” he told Frank.
“I can’t begin to tell you how upset that makes me,” Frank replied.
“Stay off my land,” Paul told him.
“With pleasure,” Frank said.
Paul Adams and his sons mounted up and led the procession up the hill.
Joe Wallace stepped out of his store to stand beside Frank on the boardwalk. “It’s a very trying time for the farmers,” he said. “The Norton family were nice people.”
“I’m sure they were.”
“The farmers have a right to work the land.”
“You’ll get no argument about that from me.”
“I won’t?” Wallace asked. There was a note of disbelief in the question.
“Not at all. There is room for everyone in these valleys. But there has to be some give-and-take on both sides for it to work.”
The store owner nodded his head in agreement. “That’s not going to happen, Mr. Morgan.”
“It better happen. Or there’ll be more killing.”
Conversation ceased as both men looked up the street. Four men were riding into the small settlement. Frank knew one of them.
“Reggie Carlson on the bay,” he said.
“Gunfighter?” Joe questioned.
“One of the best.”
“You know the others?”
“No. But Reggie wouldn’t ride with anyone who couldn’t pull his weight in a fight. Do you have any idea how many gunhands the two spreads have hired?”
“Forty or fifty, at least.”
“And how many farmers in the valleys?”
“Fifteen or twenty. They come and go, Mr. Morgan.”
“Yeah,” Frank said drily. “And like the Nortons, some go forever.”
* * *
Frank sat on a bench in front of the general store and watched the funeral services from afar. Counting the young kids, Frank figured about fifty people were in attendance.
And there were twenty or so hired guns hanging around in the saloon. Frank hoped the farmers and their families would just go on home after the services and not stop at the store for supplies or conversation. Whiskey, guns, and tension make for an explosive situation.
Frank was still sitting on the bench when the first farmer’s wagon rolled up and stopped in front of the store; then a second and third rolled up and stopped. Soon there was a long line of wagons.
“Here we go,” Frank muttered softly as he rolled another cigarette and waited for the action to start.
The farm families began crowding into the store, and the hired guns began gathering on the boardwalk across the street.
“You people are making a big mistake,” Frank said to Claude Hornsby.
“We need supplies,” the man replied. “That’s the long and the short of it, Mr. Morgan.”
Frank did not immediately reply to that. He watched as several hired guns began walking across the street.
Paul Adams and his sons levered rounds into their Winchesters, the sound carrying clearly to the gunslicks. The hired guns stopped in the middle of the street and tensed, their hands hovering close to their guns.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Adams,” Frank said in a low tone, his words carrying no farther than to Paul Adams. “You’ve got women and children in the line of fire. Think about that.”
Adams cut his eyes to Frank for a moment, then minutely nodded his head. “Put your rifles up, boys,” he told his sons. “This is not the time for gunplay.”
The sons eased the hammers down on their Winchesters and booted them.
“We came here to get supplies, people,” Paul told the farmers. “Let’s get what we need and go home.”
The moment of tension passed. The gunslicks slowly turned and walked back to the saloon.
Paul dismounted and walked over to where Frank was sitting on the bench. “I really don’t know how to figure you, Morgan,” he said. “But I thank you for that moment of wisdom on your part.”
“I just don’t like to see women and kids get hurt, Adams.”
The leader of the farmers nodded his head curtly and walked into the store. Frank continued to sit on the bench. He looked across the wide street. Rick Handy stood alone on the boardwalk in front of the saloon, staring at Frank.
“You two know each other?” Claude Hornsby asked, stepping out of the store to stand by the bench.
“We’ve met a few times.”
“I don’t think that man likes you very much.”
“You could say that.”
“You going to stay in this area for a while, Mr. Morgan?”
Frank nodded. “I think I will, Claude.”
“Why?” the farmer asked.
“That’s a good question. This affair is really none of my business.”
“It’s a matter of right and wrong, Mr. Morgan.”
“And there is right and wrong on both sides. Or perhaps you don’t agree with that?”
“There is more right on our side than wrong.”
“That
’s probably true.”
Rick Handy stepped off the boardwalk into the wide street.
Frank stood up.
“What’s going on here?” Claude asked, looking first at Rick, then at Frank.
“Get all the women and kids out of the way,” Frank told him.
“Is there going to be a gunfight?”
“Probably. Do what I tell you, Claude.”
The farmer moved swiftly, clearing the area in front of the general store of all foot traffic.
The gunslicks in the saloon suddenly crowded out onto the boardwalk, quickly moving left and right of the batwings, out of the line of fire. Obviously Rick had made his brags in the saloon, after Frank had left, and now the hired guns wanted to see if his words were just that: words, and nothing more.
“I’m damn tired of always hearin’ ’bout how fast you are, Morgan!” Rick shouted. “By God, now you get to prove it.”
“I’d rather not, Handy,” Frank called.
“Are you yeller?”
“You know better than that, Rick.”
“Then step out here in the street!”
“All right,” Frank told him, stepping down from the boardwalk. “I’m here, Rick. Now what?”
Rick Handy’s hand hovered near the butt of his gun. “Make your play, Morgan!” he shouted.
“It’s your show, Rick,” Frank told him. “It’s up to you.”
“Now!” Rick yelled, and grabbed for his pistol.
Four
Frank timed his draw and his shot perfectly. His bullet hit Rick’s right thumb between the first and second knuckle, breaking the thumb and slamming Rick’s pistol out of his hand. Rick screamed in pain and looked down at what was left of his thumb. Not much.
“You ruin’t me!” the gunslick yelled. “I’ll never be able to hold a short gun again. Why didn’t you just kill me?”
“Because I didn’t want to kill you, Ricky,” Frank called.
“Riders comin’ in,” someone called.
“It’s Mark Rogers,” Claude said. “And he’s got some of his hired guns with him.”
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