“They just got into this area a few months ago. They’re from back East, you know.”
“Boston probably.”
“I think that’s right, Frank. You’re a good guesser.”
“You really want me to meet them now, Claude?”
“Why not?”
“They just saw me kill a man. I doubt if they’ve ever seen anything like that. Not if they’re from overcivilized Boston.”
“Overcivilized?”
Frank waved a big callused hand. “Forget I said that, Claude. All right, I’ll meet them. Let me have another cup of coffee and a smoke, okay?”
“Sure. I’ll have a cup with you, if you don’t mind.”
Frank signaled the barkeep for another cup.
“You think Mark Rogers sent that gunman into town to kill you?” Claude asked.
“Sure. Probably wanted him to kill me in front of you folks. Send a message.”
Claude smiled. “That’s what I told Reverend Carmondy and his sister. I guessed right on that one.”
“You’re a pretty good guesser yourself. Drink your coffee and let’s go meet the Boston folks.”
* * *
“I was informed that you really are the very famous pistol shooter, Mr. Morgan,” Reverend Carmondy said, after reluctantly shaking Frank’s hand.
“I suppose that’s true, Preacher.”
“And I was also just informed that the man you dispatched to his Maker was in the employ of a local rancher who is determined to drive the farmers off their land.”
“That is true,” Frank replied.
“I have never before witnessed such a dreadful spectacle,” Lydia said. “Such things simply aren’t done in a civilized part of the country.” Again she fanned herself with the little hanky.
“Well . . . give us time, ma’am,” Frank told her, eyeing the lady. Lydia was a truly beautiful woman. Light brown hair, great figure, heart-shaped face, dark green eyes. “We’re still in the growing stages out here. However, you’d better brace yourself, for you’re sure to see more killing before this issue between the ranchers and the farmers is settled.”
“Perhaps I could speak to the ranchers,” Reverend Carmondy suggested.
“Personally, I think you’d be wasting your time,” Frank said. “But . . . it’s a free country.”
“I shall go with you, brother,” Lydia said.
John Platt joined the small group. “The girls over to the saloon want to know if Reverend Carmondy would say a word or two at Paco’s buryin’. They took up a collection to pay you for your services.”
“There will be no charge for it,” Carmondy replied. “Certainly I will conduct the services.”
“I’ll tell the girls,” John said.
“Will the, ah, girls be there?” Lydia asked.
“With all their feathers, frills, and paint,” John replied with a grin. “They might even sing a song in Paco’s memory.”
“Oh,” Lydia said. “He was a close friend of theirs?”
“He was a damn good customer is what he was.”
“Oh, my,” Lydia replied.
“That’s what the girls used to holler about five minutes after Paco got to their room. But they hollered it with a lot more enthusiasm.”
“I see,” Lydia said, her face flushing a bright scarlet.
“I doubt it, ma’am,” John told her with a chuckle. “I really doubt it. See you good folks later.”
* * *
Paco Morales was buried without fanfare the next day. No one from either the GP or the Diamond ranches was in attendance. Reverend Carmondy, his sister, Lydia, the grave digger, and four whores attended the services.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with Paco’s horse and gear?” John Platt asked Frank later that afternoon.
“If no one shows up to claim them, and I doubt if anyone will, they’re yours,” Frank told him.
“Fine animal,” John said. “And the saddle is inlaid with silver. Hell with it. Let’s go have a drink.”
“That might not be a good idea,” Frank said. “I saw Victor Perkins ride into town and go into the saloon about half an hour ago.”
“Oh, he’s no bother. He’ll drink a bottle of whiskey, then go upstairs with one of the women.”
“I don’t want to have to put lead into a drunk.”
“You won’t. Vic is no gunhand. He fancies himself a lover, not a fighter.”
Vic was propped up at the bar, drinking alone, when John and Frank walked into the saloon. Vic glanced at them, nodded his head in greeting, then turned his attention back to the booze.
Frank noticed immediately that the young man was not wearing a gun.
John had followed Frank’s eyes. “He seldom packs iron,” the liveryman said. “Can’t hit the side of a large barn when he does. He’s a big disappointment to his dad. His sister, Lucy, now, that’s another story. She’s a hellion. And a crack shot. Folks tend to fight shy of her. She’s got a bad temper and a foul mouth.”
“I’ve known a few like her.”
The men took seats as far from the bar as they could. John ordered a beer and Frank requested coffee.
“I seen all the lumber roll into town this morning,” John said. “We’ll have us a school and a church house ’fore long.”
“You a churchgoin’ man, John?”
“Not so’s you’d notice. You?”
Frank shook his head. “No. But I certainly believe in a higher power, and I suspect I’m going to be judged harshly when my time comes. I think perhaps church is too late for me.
“Preachers would argue that with you, Frank. But I know what you’re sayin’. For you to take off your guns now would be the same as signin’ your own death warrant. You wouldn’t last a week.”
That statement flung Frank back into bitter memories. He slowly nodded his head. “I’ve tried to explain that to a couple of women over the years.”
“And they didn’t buy it, did they?”
“No, they didn’t.”
“Bless their hearts, women see things different from a man.”
“Come on, now, Vic, baby,” a woman called from the landing on the second floor.
“In a few minutes, Sally,” Vic said without turning from the bar.
“Now, baby,” Sally insisted. “You know you don’t do me no good after you’ve had too much to drink.”
Vic tossed back what was left in his glass. “You’re right. I’m comin’ up.”
John and Frank sat in silence and watched the young man stagger across the floor and make his way up the stairs.
“He’s drunk already,” John said. “He wasn’t always that way. I ’member him as a young’un. He was a good boy. I don’t know what happened to him. But he sure changed.”
“Heads up, Frank,” the barkeep called. “Trouble coming in.”
Frank looked at the batwings just as they were pushed open. Rod Harley stepped into the saloon. The man, dressed all in black, stared at Frank for a few seconds, then walked over to the bar, deliberately putting his back to Frank and John.
“Beer,” he told the barkeep.
“There goin’ to be trouble here?” John whispered the question.
“Probably. I guess the ranchers are pulling out all the stops now. Paco’s not yet cold in the ground and they’re sending in another gun to try and nail me.”
“Couple of sodbusters walkin’ across the street, headin’ this way. They picked a hell of a time to get thirsty. You know that feller all dressed in black, Frank?”
“I’ve heard of him. Rod Harley.”
“He quick on the shoot?”
“So I’m told.”
Burl Hastings and Van Calen walked into the saloon and up to the long bar. Rod Harley glanced at the pair and grimaced in distaste.
“Smells like hog crap in here,” the gunman said.
The farmers tensed, but other than that made no sign they had heard anything.
“Don’t you pig farmers ever take a bath?” Rod asked,
turning to look directly at the pair.
“We’re not looking for trouble,” Van said.
Rod laughed at that. “No, of course not. You hide behind Frank Morgan and think he’s going to protect you.”
“That’s a damn lie,” Burl said, his face reddening.
“You callin’ me a liar, sodbuster?” Rod asked.
“I’m saying that we haven’t hired anyone to protect us,” Burl replied. “We can fight our own battles.”
“Then why don’t you get a gun and face me?” Rod asked with a sneer.
“Because they’re not gunslicks,” John said.
Rod cut his eyes, looking at the liveryman. “Who asked you to stick your lip into this, old-timer?”
“I don’t need no one’s permission to speak,” John said.
“You packin’ iron, old-timer?” Rod questioned.
“No, he isn’t,” Frank said, standing up. “But I am.”
Rod smiled at that. “Took you long enough to make up your mind, Drifter.”
“Here I am, Rod. Now what the hell are you going to do about it?”
Rod turned to fully face Frank. “Kill you,” he said simply.
“You got it to do. You ready?”
“Yeah.” Rod snaked his .45 from leather.
Eleven
Frank’s shot hit Rod in the belly and drove him back against the bar. Rod triggered off a round that hit the coffeepot on the table and sent hot liquid all over John. Frank put another round into the man dressed all in black, but still Rod refused to go down. Rod fired again, the slug knocking a hole in the ceiling.
“Good God!” a woman yelled from the second floor. “What the hell’s goin’ on down there?”
Rod cussed Frank and cocked and fired again, his bullet going wild and up into the ceiling once again.
“Goddamnit!” a woman screamed. “It was just gettin’ good.”
Frank put a third slug into Rod, and this time the gunman sank to his knees, his pistol dropping from a numb hand to clatter on the floor. Rod clawed for his second six-gun and managed to drag it out of leather. But he couldn’t find the strength to cock it.
“Give it up, Rod,” Frank urged.
“Hell with you, Drifter,” Rod gasped. “I’m gonna kill you.” He tried to lift his pistol, but could not. Blood leaked from Rod’s mouth and he dropped his pistol to the floor.
Frank walked the short distance to the man and kicked both pistols away. He looked down at Rod. The man was leaking blood out of the bullet holes in his belly and chest and blood was dripping from his mouth.
“Damn you to hell, Drifter!” Rod gasped.
“It was all your play, Rod,” Frank told him.
Rod closed his eyes and shivered in pain. “Hurts.”
“Who sent you, Rod?”
“Perkins. They’s more guns comin’, Drifter. One of them will get you. You can’t live . . . through this.”
“You got kin, Rod?”
“No. No one who gives a damn, that is.”
“I’ll see you get planted proper.”
“Have that preacher say a few nice words over me, Drifter.”
“All right.”
“I’ll see you in hell, Drifter.”
Frank watched in silence as Rod Harley closed his eyes for the last time.
The man gasped once, and died.
“Wahoo!” Sally yelled from the second floor. “Now you got it, baby. Stay with it. Ride ’em, cowboy!”
* * *
Reverend Carmondy conducted the services for Rod Harley, with only Frank, Lydia, and the grave diggers in attendance.
“Very quaint custom here in the Wild West,” Reverend Carmondy remarked. “You kill a man, then attend his services.”
“I guess I owe that much to Rod,” Frank replied.
“It might have been you in the ground this day,” Lydia said.
“The only way that would happen is if my pistol misfired.”
“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you, Mr. Morgan?” she asked coldly.
“I have to be, Miss Lydia. I’ve got too many men gunning for me.”
The three of them walked toward the edge of the graveyard. Lydia gestured toward four fresh graves. “Did you dispatch those people too, Mr. Morgan?”
“No, ma’am. Those are the graves of the Norton family. Father, mother, and sons. Dick, Abby, Hubert, and Charles. They were killed by the ranchers.”
“Oh,” she said in a small voice. “I didn’t know.”
“Now you do.”
“Yes. So I do. But when will it stop?”
“When both sides agree to sit down and talk and reach some kind of agreement.”
“That doesn’t seem to be such an insurmountable problem.”
“You don’t know how much the ranchers hate the farmers.”
“I’m beginning to,” she replied.
“It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if they burned down the church, once it’s built.”
“You can’t be serious!” Richard blurted. “Burn down a house of God? I never heard of such an atrocious act.”
“We’ll see,” Frank said. He gathered up the reins and swung into the saddle. “You folks have a nice day.”
* * *
Grant Perkins and Mark Rogers met in a line shack in the mountains. It was cold that high up, and a fire was set in the potbellied stove. Coffee was boiling.
“Now what?” Grant asked.
“We keep sending men against Frank Morgan,” Mark replied.
“I got a better idea. Let’s burn out the farmers.”
Mark walked over to the stove, poured two cups of the strong brew, and sat back down at the beat-up old table. “Whatever. We have to do something. The sodbusters started building that damn church and schoolhouse today.”
“We’ll burn it first. Soon as they get the frame up, we’ll burn it down.”
“I want that damn Frank Morgan dead, though.”
“As soon as we torch the church. He’ll go on a rampage. Then we can ambush him.”
Mark nodded his head. “That sounds good to me. Yeah. Ambush the son of a bitch. And I’ve got just the man for it.”
“Who?”
“Ray Hinkle. He’s supposed to be the best.”
“Sounds good to me.”
* * *
“What do you think about Frank Morgan?” Lydia was asked by Lucille Jones. The Carmondys were staying with the Joneses while the church/schoolhouse and their quarters were being built.
“I find him . . . well, rather attractive, in a rough-looking sort of way.” Lydia looked around quickly to see if her brother had heard her reply. He had not.
Lucille smiled. “So do I, Lydia. He’s also rather mysterious, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes. Where is his home?”
“Oh, he bought some land just outside of town.”
“No, I mean his real home.”
Lucille shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think he has one. But I’ve heard that he’s a rich man.”
“Rich? A wandering gunman is rich?”
“Yes. You know he’s called The Drifter?”
“It fits him. A horse, a dog, and a gun. That’s all he appears to have. And he’s rich?”
“Yes, he is,” Dan said, stepping into the kitchen of the home through the back door.
“Coffee, honey?” Lucille asked.
“Please.” Dan smiled at his wife. “Any of that cake left?”
“I’ll get you a piece.”
“What is Mr. Carmondy doing?” Lydia asked.
“Sitting outside, reading the Bible.” Dan sat down at the table.
“If Frank Morgan is a rich man,” Lucille said, “why does he wander about the country?”
“I don’t know,” Dan replied, sugaring his coffee. “He’s a strange man. Complex, I guess some would call him.”
“That’s a good description of him,” Lydia agreed. “Yes. Complicated fits him well.”
* * *
“All hell’s about to break loose in this country,” Frank said to Dog. He was sitting on a bench outside his house, enjoying the cool of the late afternoon, Dog on the ground by his side. “And we’re right in the middle of it.” Frank put a hand down on Dog’s head, and the big cur stirred under his touch.
“The farmers think it’s been rough so far,” Frank continued. “But they ain’t seen nothing yet. It’s about to get nasty, I’m thinking.”
Dog looked up at Frank.
“So, ol’ boy, I want you to be extra careful. Don’t leave this area.” He smiled. “I just wish to hell you understood what I was saying.” Frank looked into Dog’s dark eyes. “Sometimes I think you really do. And I hope this is one of those times. ’Cause if one of those gunslicks hurts you . . . well, that would really rile me good.”
Frank looked up as half a dozen mounted men rode past his place. The horses wore the Diamond brand. None of the men looked in Frank’s direction.
“I hope no farmers are in town,” Frank said as the Diamond crew rode past. He made a mental note to tell the farmers not to go into town alone and to always go armed. He’d told them that before, but a reminder wouldn’t hurt.
“Real cowboys are getting scarce in this area,” Frank muttered. “Either that, or the working hands are staying close to the bunkhouse.”
Frank went into the house and fixed supper, including a big pot of coffee. Then he fed Dog. After he’d eaten, he took his cup of coffee outside, to once more sit on the bench in the cool of the night.
He didn’t dwell much more on what the immediate future held in store. He felt he knew. The Diamond and GP spreads were going to pull out all the stops and the future looked bloody.
“And I’ll be right in the middle of it,” Frank said to the gathering darkness.
The silent darkness closed around him.
“So be it,” Frank said.
He finished his coffee and went to bed.
Twelve
“Got two new businesses comin’ in,” John Platt said as Frank swung down from the saddle at the livery. Frank had not been to town for several days.
“Oh?”
“You bet. Got a ladies’ shop comin’ in. One of them that’s spelt with two p’s and an e on the end. A shop-pay, I think they call it. Really high-class. The other one is a leather and gun shop. Them carpenters workin’ over yonder is from the county seat. The businesses will be ready in a couple of weeks. Frank, did you have anything to do with this?”
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