Doolin regained his smile and after a quick glance at Lucy and Peaches, said, “You pretty ladies ready to see Morgan fall?”
“Yeah, kill the bastard!” the young women yelled.
Frank stood in the street. Silent. Waiting. It was something he’d done a hundred times in his long and gun-smoke-filled past. He was as ready as he could be.
“Arrest that man for ignoring the law, Marshal!” a newly arrived woman yelled. She had been in Valley View for less than a week. “And those two women as well.”
“Shut up, Ginny,” her husband told her. “This is gonna be a killin’, not an arrest.”
“Don’t tell me to shut up, Henry,” she snapped right back. “Or you can make the davenport your bed tonight.”
Someone in the crowd laughed at that.
Frank paid no attention to the comments coming from the crowd. He took a step toward Doolin. Doolin took a couple of steps toward him. Frank judged the distance at about forty feet. A comfortable shooting range.
The crowd fell silent. Somewhere in the town a dog barked, a rooster crowed, a cat yowled.
Neither man standing in the street paid any attention to the sounds around them. Their focus was on each other. Neither man blinked; their eyes were locked on each other. Each one waited for the other to make a move.
Bobby Doolin’s right hand twitched, and Frank’s Peacemaker seemed to leap into his hand at the same time Doolin’s six-gun roared flame and smoke.
A woman standing on the boardwalk watching the gunfight screamed in fright and shock as Doolin’s slug buried itself in the wood next to her head.
Bobby Doolin slowly sank to his knees as bright crimson began staining the front of his white shirt. He lifted his six-gun, earing back the hammer as he did so.
Frank shot him again, and a second splash of crimson appeared on his shirt.
“You son of a bitch!” Bobby Doolin said, then fell over on his face in the dirt.
Twenty-two
Doolin’s pistol dropped from suddenly weakened fingers. He made no attempt to pick it up. He remained on his knees, in the dirt of the street, with his head hanging down, watching the blood that pumped from his chest pool underneath him. Frank slowly walked toward the man, stopping a few feet from the hard-hit gunfighter.
“You’re supposed to be dead, Morgan,” Doolin said, his voice surprisingly strong for a man with two .45-caliber slugs in his chest.
“I decided to stick around for a while longer, Bobby.”
“I can’t believe I missed you.”
“It happens.”
“I don’t ever miss.”
“You did this time.”
“I reckon so.”
“The doctor is standing right over yonder on the boardwalk, Doolin. You want me to call him over?”
“What the hell for? I’m lung-shot.”
“Just thought I’d ask. How about the preacher then? He’s a good man.”
“I ain’t exactly the prayin’ type, Morgan.” A pink froth was forming on Doolin’s lips, confirming the man’s belief he was lung-shot.
“Want me to take a look at your wounds, Doolin?”
“Hell, no!”
“Well, here comes the doctor. You tell him that.”
Doc Archer knelt down beside the men. “Will you let me unbutton your shirt?” he asked Doolin.
“Leave me alone, sawbones.”
“As you wish. But I might be able to save your life.”
“Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s rainin’, Doc.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m hit in both lungs. And I know it. I’m havin’ trouble breathin’ and I’m not long for this world. Leave me alone.”
“The Lord will not desert you,” Reverend Carmondy said, walking up. “Have no fear of that.”
Doolin lifted pain-filled eyes to look at the preacher. “Who in the hell are you?”
“Reverend Carmondy. I serve the Lord.”
“You don’t reckon you could serve me a glass of whiskey, could you?” Doolin asked, his lips curling in a half smile.
“Most certainly not!” Richard replied indignantly. “Strong drink is not what you need right now.”
“Says who?” Doolin asked. Then he coughed out a mouthful of scarlet blood and fell over on his side, his eyes closed.
“Has the man expired?” Richard asked, taking a step back as if the condition might be contagious.
“Not yet,” Doc Archer said, checking Doolin’s pulse. “But it won’t be long. He’s unconscious.”
“You want him carried over to your office?” Frank asked.
“Might as well,” the doctor said, standing up and brushing the dirt from the street off of his dark trousers, “though he was right about one thing. There isn’t much I can do for him now.” He glanced around and added, “Somebody can go tell the new undertaker he’s got a customer. What’s the undertaker’s name? This place is growing so rapidly I can’t keep up.”
“Wilbur Morris,” Frank told him. “I’ll send . . . no, wait. Here he comes now.”
“He’s a barber too, isn’t he?” Archer asked.
“Yes. And he’s having a proper bathhouse built behind his place.”
Doolin was toted off to the doctor’s small patient room, and Frank walked over to the Sunburst Café for coffee. Men and women congratulated him as he pushed through the crowd. Frank smiled and nodded his head in acknowledgment of the compliments.
Sitting down at a table, Frank suddenly felt weary. He wasn’t sad about killing Bobby Doolin. The man had killed a lot of perfectly innocent men for money. That wasn’t it. Frank was just tired—tired, well, mentally, he guessed was the right word for it.
The newly hired waitress set a mug of coffee in front of him, and Frank thanked her. He dumped in some sugar and stirred it, watching as the door opened and John Platt entered. The liveryman got a mug of coffee and sat down at the table with Frank.
“Might not have seemed like it from where you was standin’, Frank—probably didn’t—but you was a blink of an eye faster than Doolin.”
Frank slowly nodded his head. “What I was, was lucky, John. Real lucky,” he said, thinking that he’d always been lucky when it came to killing people. It was living with them that caused him trouble.
“Lucy and Peaches took off out of town.”
“Good. I don’t feel like putting up with the foul-mouthed antics of those two.”
“They are a pair, ain’t they?” John grinned at Frank. “But they do jiggle nice.”
“You better not say that in front of your wife,” Frank said, returning the grin.
“Don’t worry. I don’t want a fryin’ pan upside my head.”
“What’s the latest word on Mark Rogers? Have you heard anything more about him?”
“Just that he was tied up like a wild animal and hauled off to the insane asylum. Feller I talked to said he was a babblin’ idiot. Foamin’ at the mouth crazy.”
“You don’t seen very surprised about it.”
“I’m not. I always knowed somethin’ was wrong with him. I’ve seen the man go out of his head over nothin’ at all. But I can’t imagine what’s gonna happen to the Diamond with Mark Junior at the reins. Nothin’ good, I can tell you that.”
“Won’t Junior listen to Grant on this matter?”
“Maybe. For a time. But Junior is a lot like his dad in that he’s thickheaded. Mark was never wrong about anything, and Junior is just like him. And he’s got a bad temper. He’s dangerous, Frank. Like a rattler.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
John looked out the window and smiled. “It’s gonna be a real nice town, Frank. Thanks to you.”
“I played only a small part, John. The people did most of it.”
“If you say so, Frank. You give any thought to sticking around and making this your home?”
“Very little, John. I like to keep on the move. Makes life more interesting.”
“Don’t you ever get
lonely?”
“Sometimes. I don’t dwell on that.”
“As long as there’s a trail, you’re gonna find it and follow it?”
“I guess that sums it up.”
Both men fell silent and watched as a rider came galloping into town, reining up in front of what would soon be the marshal’s office and jumping out of the saddle.
“I think he’s looking for me,” Frank said, pushing back his chair and reaching for his hat.
“Sit still. He’s headin’ this way on the run.”
“You know him?”
“One of them new homesteaders. I don’t know his name.”
The man jerked open the door to the café and stepped in. He was all wild-eyed and red-faced. “Marshal! You gotta come quick.”
“Settle down,” Frank cautioned. “What’s happened?”
“Somebody blowed up the dam. Killed a couple of Diamond hands.”
“Good,” John grunted.
“When did this happen?”
“’Bout a couple of hours ago, I guess. I don’t rightly know. But that ain’t all. Bunch of cowboys attacked the Mosby homestead....”
“Wait a minute.” Frank stopped the man. “Where is the Mosby place? That’s a new one on me.”
“The Mosbys bought the homestead from the Spencer family. They pulled out last week.”
Frank looked at John. “Spencer?”
“Don’t ask me. Folks is buyin’ and sellin’ homesteads faster than I can keep up with it.”
“Spencer filed on a section that butted up against the mountains,” a man drinking coffee at the counter said. “The land’s all right, but he didn’t stay on it long. It was idle for some time. Mosby was just provin’ it up.”
Frank blinked a couple of times. “Who are you?”
The man smiled. “Dick Edwards. I just bought the Landry place over east of here. Landry told me all about the settlers in the valleys and the two big ranchers . . . and about you, Marshal Morgan.”
“I met Landry once,” John said. “He was a rawhider.”
“He sure was that,” Edwards said. “Place was held together with rawhide and rope. But I been workin’ from can to can’t gettin’ it back in shape. Took me a break today and brung the wife in town to do some shoppin’.”
“Here comes the doc,” Charlie Jordan called from the counter.
Doc Archer pushed open the door and started over to Frank’s table. “Coffee, please, Charlie.”
“Comin’ right up, Doc.”
“Doolin just died,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “He regained consciousness long enough to ask me to tell you he’d see you in hell.”
Frank smiled. It was just like Doolin, who’d always been known for his warped sense of humor.
“I notified Wilbur Morris,” the doc continued. “He’s going to handle everything. What about Doolin’s horse and personal belongings?”
“Did he had enough money to pay for the funeral?” Frank asked.
“Oh, yes.”
“I’ll take care of the rest of his things. I want to check in his saddlebags for the addresses of some family he might have.”
“What about the dam and Mosby?” the man who brought the news hollered, impatient at being ignored while Frank talked to Dr. Archer about Doolin.
“Was Mosby hurt?” Frank asked.
“Hurt? Hell, no, he wasn’t hurt. He was kilt!”
Twenty-three
The bodies of the slain Diamond hands had been removed from the site. Frank found only a couple of dark stains on the dirt to show where they’d fallen and bled out. He eased Stormy to the bank of the river and sat there watching it, thinking of all the trouble it was going to cause in the town. The river was flowing freely once again. The dam had been destroyed by a massive charge of dynamite. Large boulders and even some trees had been uprooted and strewn about by the force of the blast.
Frank sighed and headed over to the Mosby homestead. The house and barn had been burned to the ground. There was no sign of Mosby or any members of his family. Frank had no idea who might have hauled off the body of the homesteader or where the body might have been taken.
Stymied as to what to do next, Frank rode back to town, stopping at his house to feed Dog. It was full dark when he swung down from the saddle at the livery. John stepped out of his office to greet him.
“What’d you find out there, Frank?” John asked.
“Nothing, John,” Frank told him. “No bodies, no nothing. Lots of tracks, leading in all directions.”
“Figures.”
“Anyone from the Diamond been in to file a complaint?”
“Nope. You didn’t expect them to, did you?”
“Not really. I wouldn’t if I were walking in their boots. I’d want the law to stay far away.”
“I think Mark Junior has taken the bull by the horns, Frank,” John said, “An’ now there’s no tellin’ who’s gonna get gored.”
“You think Grant was unaware this was going to happen?”
“I’d bet on it. Grant’s not the fire-breather Big Mark was. Given half a chance, I think he’ll pull back and take his losses.”
“You think it’d be worth my time riding out and having a talk with the man?”
“Sure wouldn’t hurt none. Joe was tellin’ me just today a bank is lookin’ to come in here.”
Frank had to smile at that.
John picked up the smile in the lantern light. “That was your doin’, wasn’t it, Frank?”
“I might have had my attorneys write a letter or two.”
“I thought as much when Joe told me about the bank.”
“You mind if I bed down here tonight, John? I just don’t feel like riding back to my place.”
“Help yourself. You know where the bunk and the coffeepot is. See you in the morning.”
“I’ll head out to the GP early. Maybe I’ll get there in time for breakfast.”
“See you.”
“One more thing, John. You seen Steve Harlon around lately?”
“I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him in days.”
“It wouldn’t be like Harlon to pull out of a fight. Something’s going on, and I’d better find out what it is. I don’t like surprises. Good night, John.”
* * *
Frank rode up to the main gate to the GP ranch house just after dawn the next day. He did not have a long wait before riders came out to meet him.
“You got a lot of damn nerve, Morgan! Comin’ out here where you ain’t been invited an’ you ain’t wanted,” Bob Campbell told him.
“The El Paso Kid,” Frank replied with a friendly grin on his face, as if he were greeting an old friend. “You’re a long way from home, Kid.”
“I come and go as I please, Morgan. I don’t need no nanny to look after me.”
Frank looked at the other riders, his expression remaining pleasant and open, like he was just out riding and had stopped to chew the fat. “Jack King. I’m surprised you’re still alive, Jack.”
Jack grunted at him.
“Jess Stone,” Frank said to the third man. “How have you been lately, Jess?”
“Just like a grade of cotton, Drifter. Fair to middlin’.”
“What do you want, Morgan?” Bob asked.
“To speak to your boss.”
“Maybe he don’t want to talk to you.”
“Then let Grant tell me that.”
The three gunslingers exchanged glances. After a few seconds, Jess said, “You wait right here, Morgan. I’ll see.” He turned his horse and rode back to the main house.
Jack King and Bob Campbell sat their horses and stared at Frank, neither man speaking. Their expressions were grim, their jaws set.
Frank smiled and said, “Nice day, isn’t it, boys?”
“It was till you showed up,” Bob replied.
“Now, Bob,” Frank said, “that isn’t a very neighborly thing to say.”
“I ain’t feelin’ neighborly, Morgan.”
“Too b
ad. Are you ill, Bob?”
“No, I ain’t ill, Morgan! I just don’t like you.”
“Now, now, Bob. Calm down. What did I ever do to you?”
“You whupped Dick Fuller, for one thing. He was a friend of mine. We rode a lot of trails together.”
“Was a friend of yours? What happened to him?”
“You cut his spirit, Morgan. After that whuppin’ you give him, all the sand seemed to drain out of him.”
“Well, now, Bob, it seems to me that Dick was a tad on the cocky side. He got all up in my face that night. He was asking for a come-down. Don’t you agree?”
“Not one as bad as you give him. He was stove up for a damn month after that fight.”
“I’d be lying if I said I was sorry to hear that.”
“He’s workin’ for thirty a month and found down in Kansas. He ain’t packed a six-gun in years.”
“I probably saved his life then, Bob. Dick was no gunhand, and it seems to me a man ought to know his limitations.”
Jack King smiled at that. “I got to agree with Morgan on that, Bob. Dick couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a pistol. It was only a matter of time till somebody blowed him outta his boots.”
“He was still a friend of mine. And I ain’t got no use for you, Morgan. None a-tall.”
“I’ll probably lose a lot of sleep worrying about that, Bob.”
“Hell with you, Morgan!”
“Whatever,” Frank said, his eyes shifting to look over Bob’s shoulders toward the distant ranch house. “Here comes Jess with a couple more men. This might get interesting now.”
“That’s the boss with him,” Jack said after twisting in the saddle for a look-see.
Jess and the other hand, a man Frank didn’t know, hung back while Grant rode up to the closed gate and sat in his saddle, glaring at Frank. “What the hell do you want, Morgan?”
“To talk to you, Grant. Am I in time for breakfast?”
Grant blinked at that. “By God, Morgan, you got your share of nerve. I can’t take that away from you.”
“The ride out here made me hungry, that’s all.”
Grant smiled and reached down, unlatching the gate. “Well, hell, come on in. I ain’t never turned nobody away hungry.”
Burning Page 17
