Burning

by William W. Johnstone

  Frank sat by her bedside for six days, sponging her forehead with cool water and giving her bottle after bottle of any patent medicine he could find in the town, hoping to find something that would cure her.

  On the morning of the seventh day, Angela opened her bloodshot, teary eyes, grabbed Frank’s hand, and whispered she loved him as she squeezed it with all her might. Seconds later, her grip relaxed and she left him forever.

  Frank brushed away the tears that had formed as he remembered Angela and drained the last of his coffee, flipping his butt out into the yard in a shower of sparks.

  Frank suddenly came alert at the sounds of a rider approaching out of the darkness of early dusk, his hand dropping to his Peacemaker.

  “It’s Dan Jones, Frank,” the rider called.

  “Light and sit, Dan,” Frank said, returning the shout.

  “No time, Frank,” Dan said as he reined his horse in and leaned cross-armed on the saddle horn. I brung news though. Nellie Frazier died a few hours ago. She just up and died. Heart quit on her, I reckon.”

  “I’m sorry, Dan.”

  “Me too. I gonna go tell Claude and Mavis. Nellie and Mavis was good friends. See you, Frank.”

  “What’s going to happen to their kids?”

  “Tom and Colleen Johnson are going to take them in and raise them. They’re good folks and they love kids.”

  “All right. Be careful out tonight, Dan,” Frank warned. “Riding alone out here near the ranches is dangerous.”

  “I will.”

  Long after Dan had vanished into the night, Frank sat on the bench and smoked and drank coffee. He made up his mind to do something that he probably should have done weeks back. And he’d do it first thing in the morning.

  * * *

  “As long as the packhorse is stabled, Dog will stay in the stall,” Frank told John Platt. “You take good care of them, John. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

  “You don’t worry about them, Frank,” the liveryman assured him. “They’ll be just fine. You look after yourself in the county seat. And don’t believe a damn word that crooked sheriff says.”

  “I’ve got to see for myself, John. I’ve got to hear the words coming from his mouth.”

  “What you’ll hear is a pack of lies. Be careful.”

  “See you in a few days.”

  Frank rode into the county seat two days later. Someone had seen him on the trail and ridden into town to tell the sheriff, for there were four deputies waiting for him, lined up on the boardwalk in front of the sheriff’s office. Frank ignored them and reined up at the livery, stabling his horse. He walked over to the hotel and got a room and washed up a bit. Then he found a small café and had some breakfast and several cups of coffee. He was working on his third cup of coffee, and had just rolled a smoke, when a tall man with a handlebar mustache strolled in, accompanied by two deputies. The man sat down, uninvited, at Frank’s table. The deputies stood behind the man with their legs spread and their hands on their hips as if they were expecting trouble. The tall man opened his coat and showed Frank his badge.

  “I’m Sheriff Ned Breedlaw.”

  “I’m Frank Morgan.”

  “I know. Why are you in my town?”

  “I came to see you.”

  The sheriff blinked at that. “To see me?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “What about?”

  “The lawlessness in a little community about two days’ ride from here. It’s located in a series of valleys. You familiar with the settlement?”

  “I am.”

  “People are being burned out of their homes over there. Kids being shot. Men killed and women assaulted and raped. You know all that and yet you haven’t seen fit to do a damn thing about it. Why?”

  “I don’t like your tone of voice, Morgan.”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn what you like or dislike, Sheriff. I asked you a question. Answer it.”

  “I ought to arrest you, Morgan!”

  “On what charge?”

  “I could think of something.”

  “You want a bloodbath in this café, Sheriff?” Frank asked softly, leaning back in his chair and letting his right hand rest on his right thigh next to his holster. “Try to arrest me on some trumped-up charge.”

  “I said I ought to arrest you, Morgan,” the sheriff explained, relenting. “I didn’t say I was.”

  Frank relaxed and put his elbows on the table and leaned close. “Let me tell you something, Sheriff. Mark Rogers is a sick man. Word is he’s losing his sanity. His son has taken over the ranch and the war to drive the farmers out, teaming up with Grant Perkins and his hired guns. There is about to be a bloodbath in the valleys, Sheriff, and I’m asking for your help.”

  “This is a big county, Morgan,” the sheriff said, having the good grace to blush at Frank’s implication he wasn’t doing his job. “It’s a good two-day ride over to the valleys. I don’t have the deputies to spare. I’ve got two deputies out chasing rustlers now, and two more about to go out chasing down some damn renegade Indians who jumped the reservation and are raising hell. If you got problems over in your neck of the woods, you folks handle it.”

  “And you don’t know anything about it?”

  “I didn’t say that. Sure, I heard about it. I heard you’ve killed a couple of hired gunslicks and you’ll probably kill several more. I heard you whupped Mark Rogers in a fair, stand-up fistfight. I’d like to have seen that. Mark and Grant have been the big he-wolves in this country for a long time. But times are changing and so am I. I got to if I want to keep on being sheriff. And I like bein’ sheriff.”

  “What are you telling me, Sheriff?”

  “I think you can figure it out, Morgan. Way I hear it, the settlement is growing. Some folks want to name it Valley View. If that happens you can elect a marshal, or the mayor can appoint one. You get my drift?”

  Frank poured another cup of coffee and leaned back and rolled a cigarette before replying. “We handle it ourselves and you stay clear of it, right?”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “We’ve got a dozen or so workmen over there now. Might as well get them to build up a jail while they’re there,” Frank said, almost to himself as he tried the idea on to see if it fit.

  “That might be a good idea. And a marshal’s office while they’re at it.”

  “You’re awfully accommodating, Sheriff.”

  “Morgan.” The sheriff leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You might say I can see the handwriting on the wall. The sodbusters is here to stay. Times are changin’ fast. I don’t want no federal judge sendin’ troops in here, and since I’m still sheriff of the county, the marshal will be under my jurisdiction. As long as he keeps the lid on over there and doesn’t make too much noise doing it, I won’t have a problem with him. We on the same page now?”

  “Same page, same book.”

  “Good.”

  Frank tossed the makin’s on the table, and the sheriff rolled himself a smoke and signaled for the waitress to bring him a cup of coffee. “’Sides, Morgan, I hear you’re a wealthy man. Got stock in factories, mines, railroads, and such as that. I know that fightin’ a man with bags of money is a losin’ proposition. ’Specially a man who’s got the grit and the guns to back it up, and you definitely got all three of them things.”

  Frank finished his coffee and sat for a moment, he and the sheriff not speaking, just staring at one another. Finally, Frank pushed back his chair and stood up. “Nice talking with you, Sheriff. I’ll have to tell John Platt he was wrong about you.”

  The sheriff smiled. “That old horse thief! Hell, I been knowin’ John for more years than I care to count. Well . . .” he drawled, “he wouldn’t have been wrong a year or so back. But I’m smart enough to know a man’s got to change with the times, and I smelled the wind and I’m changin’.”

  “See you around, Sheriff.”

  “See you, Morgan. Oh, by the way, the land office is just arou
nd the corner . . . in case you want to drop by there.” There was a definite twinkle in the sheriff’s eyes.

  “I might do that, Sheriff. Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” the sheriff said, and after a moment’s hesitation, he grinned and added, “And I really mean don’t mention it, especially around some ranchers we both know.”

  Frank walked out of the café and went straight to the land office. There, he filed on ten big lots in the soon-tobe-named town of Valley View: five on one side of the main street, five on the other. Then he located the doctor’s office and went in.

  “Have a seat,” a man called. “I’ll be with you in just a few minutes.”

  “No hurry, Doc,” Frank called. “I’m just looking for a man.”

  “What man?”

  “The young doctor who is going to set up practice in a town ’bout two days’ ride from here.”

  “That would be me.” A young man appeared in the doorway. “I’m Dr. Archer. I’m just looking after things here for a few minutes while Dr. Camper is out.” He walked to Frank and held out his hand. “And you are? . . .”

  Frank shook the hand and said, “Frank Morgan.”

  “Nice to meet you. Let me finish inventorying supplies in here and I’ll be right with . . .” He didn’t finish his statement. The young man stared at Frank for a moment, high color creeping up his face. “Frank Morgan?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Yes. Is something the matter?”

  “Ah ... I . . . ah ... have heard the name back East. Read several stories about a man named Frank Morgan. Most . . . ah ... were not very flattering, I must tell you that.”

  Frank laughed. “Don’t let that bother you, Doc. It sure as hell doesn’t bother me.”

  “Then you are really the duelist Frank Morgan?”

  Frank smiled at the word duelist, and shook his head at the things some writers wrote. “I reckon so, Doc.”

  “Well . . . I . . . ah ... nice to meet you, Mr. Morgan.”

  Frank smiled again at the young doctor’s discomfort. “Relax, Doc. I’m not going to start shooting.”

  A smile slowly formed on Dr. Archer’s lips. “That’s good to know, Mr. Morgan. So, how may I help you?”

  “I’m in town for a few days on business. I live near the community where you plan on setting up your practice. I was wondering when you might be heading that way.”

  “In a couple of days. Why do you ask?”

  “Do you enjoy riding, Doc?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I do.”

  “Want to ride over there with me?”

  “Why . . . yes, that would be nice. I could better see the country and I would enjoy the company. It’s kind of you to invite me.”

  “Do you have a horse?”

  “Actually, no, I don’t.”

  “You object if I pick one out for you?”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  “I’ll go do that now and get you outfitted. I’ll bring the horse around in a couple of hours. You can sit the saddle and get to know each other.”

  “I’m looking forward to it, sir. I’ll take that time to visit the bank and get a draft to pay you.”

  “My treat, Doc. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Are you certain, sir?”

  “I can afford it, Doc. Believe me, I can. Have you made arrangements to ship your equipment over?”

  “That’s all taken care of.”

  The men shook hands and Frank went to the livery, introducing himself and explaining to the liveryman what he wanted.

  “I got just what you’re lookin’ for, Mr. Morgan. I got a chestnut that was gentle-broke but still full of spirit. Come on, you can see for yourself.”

  Frank checked out the horse and agreed that it was a fine animal. He bought the horse, then purchased a rig. Saddled up, he took the chestnut out for a ride. Satisfied that the horse would suit the young doctor, he rode back to Dr. Camper’s office. Dr. Camper had returned, and looked at Frank through wary eyes.

  “You really are Frank Morgan,” Camper said. “I’ll be damned. I thought you’d be a much older man. Dr. Archer stepped out to buy himself some trail clothes. Come on in and have some coffee. He’ll be back in a few minutes. That will give me time to give you an examination.”

  “Do what?”

  Dr. Camper laughed. “I want to see if you’ve been shot as many times as people say. Take off your shirt and sit over there.”

  Frank began unbuttoning his shirt. “Might as well, I reckon. Have at it, Doc. Tell me if I’m going to live another day or two.”

  As Dr. Camper began to poke and prod the many scars on Frank’s body, Frank noticed a small stack of magazines next to the examining table. He picked one up off the top and saw it was a dime novel, written by Erastus Beadle, and had a picture of Deadwood Dick on the cover blazing away at some desperados in the background.

  Just under the title was smaller print saying that inside was the real, true, unabridged tale of how the infamous gunfighter Frank Morgan shot down five Mexican bandidos in Del Rio, Texas.

  Frank grinned. He didn’t remember ever shooting down five Mexicans in Del Rio, bandidos or otherwise, but that probably didn’t make any difference to the men who wrote in these penny dreadfuls.

  Dr. Camper noticed Frank looked at the novel and pointed. “Those books belong to Dr. Archer,” he said with a wry grin. “I’m afraid he’s got rather a romantic idea about life out here in the West, and a rather distorted view of the people who live out here.”

  Frank shrugged and pitched the book back onto the stack. “Well, he’ll find out the truth sooner or later, that for the most part, people are the same all over—some good, some bad, and some in between.”

  “Why, Mr. Morgan,” the doc said, laughing, “I had no idea the infamous gunslick Frank Morgan was a philosopher.”

  Frank arched an eyebrow. “You face as many men over the barrel of a gun as I have, Doc, and you get to be a pretty good judge of human character, or the lack thereof.”

  Eighteen

  Frank and Dr. Archer pulled out at dawn, after only a single cup of coffee. “We’ll stop up ahead after a few miles and I’ll make breakfast and coffee,” Frank said. “We’ll both have us a good appetite by then.”

  Archer yawned hugely. “You Western folks certainly are early risers.”

  “We don’t believe in burning daylight, Doc.”

  “You certainly don’t,” the doctor replied drily.

  About two hours later, by a tiny creek, Frank made coffee first and then began preparing a trail breakfast. He sliced up a half pound of bacon, fried some potatoes, and laid out bread he’d bought in town the day before.

  “I am ravenous,” the doctor declared after sipping his coffee. “I don’t recall being this hungry in years.”

  “It’s the trail, Doc. Good clean, cool air smelled from the back of a good horse will do it every time.”

  “What is that you’re cooking with those potatoes?”

  “Onions, Doc. With a little bit of red pepper. Makes them nice and spicy.”

  “They smell wonderful.”

  The doctor ate half the bacon and fried potatoes, then took a hunk of bread and sopped out the skillet with it. Then he poured another cup of coffee and while the coffee was cooling, he stuffed his pipe and lit up.

  “What a wonderful meal,” Doc Archer said. “It’s the best I’ve had since . . . why, I don’t remember when.”

  “That saddle sittin’ all right?” Frank asked the Easterner.

  “Quite comfortable actually. Very different from what I’m used to.”

  “You’re used to ridin’ on those pincushion saddles. Never could understand how you folks sat those things for long distances. Damned uncomfortable if you ask me.”

  “It’s all what one gets used to, I suppose.”

  The men finished the coffee, and Frank cleaned up the tin plates and made sure the fire was out. They were back in the saddle, and had covered half the distance to the sett
lement before Frank called a halt and they made camp for the night.

  “No telegraph in the settlement, Frank?” Archer asked after supper and over some of Frank’s strong coffee.

  “Not yet. I’m told the wires will be strung before fall . . . if everything goes according to plan.”

  “The settlement has to be an official town, I suppose.”

  “Something like that, I think. Valley View is the name it’s going to go by, so I’m told.”

  “That’s a nice name. Has a nice sound to it.”

  “I reckon.”

  “Frank . . . please forgive my lack of tact, but I have to ask you something.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Have you really been in shoot-outs with a thousand men and killed them all?”

  Frank chuckled for a few seconds. He leaned closer to the fire, refilled his coffee cup, then leaned back against his saddle. “No, Doc. I haven’t been in a thousand shoot-outs. But looking back,” he added ruefully, “it sometimes feels like it.”

  “How did you ever get into such a dreadful life?”

  “Dreadful, Doc? Well . . . I suppose it is, or would seem like it to many people. Back when I was just a kid, ’bout fourteen or so, I was pushed into a gunfight. I lucked out and killed the man before he could kill me. Then, after the War of Northern Aggression was over . . .”

  Dr. Archer smiled at Frank’s name for the Civil War.

  “... the man’s brothers came looking for me. I killed them. After that”—he shrugged his shoulders—“trouble seemed to look me up and I handled it. The term gunfighter stuck to me.”

  “And you’re a rich man, or so I’m told.”

  “That was not of my doing, Doc. My ex-wife was a moneyed woman. She left me a lot of stocks and bonds and so forth. I really don’t know how much I’m worth. I try to do good with the money.”

  “So I’ve heard. A modern-day Robin Hood.”

  Frank smiled at that. “That might be stretching things somewhat. If I recall the story, Robin Hood stole from the rich and gave to the poor.” He shook his head. “I don’t usually go around stealin’ from nobody, not even the rich. I just try to spend my money where it’ll do the most good for the most people.”