Burning

by William W. Johnstone

  Frank never had any doubt about that. It just wasn’t the Western way, and for all of his faults, Grant was a man of the West.

  After beefsteak and eggs and fried potatoes and biscuits, the men took coffee into the study and sat down. Both rolled cigarettes. Grant looked over at Frank and smiled.

  “I think I’d rather put boots on your feet than feed you for any length of time, Morgan. You’ve got a right good appetite.”

  “That was a fine meal, Grant. I thank you.”

  “Thank the cook.”

  “You mean Lucy didn’t prepare that?” Frank asked with a smile.

  “You have to be joking!” Grant said with a snort and a derisive grin. “That girl wouldn’t know a fryin’ pan from a coffeepot.” He screwed the butt into a corner of his mouth, put a flame to it, and said, “Enough jabber. Let’s get down to it, Morgan. Spell it out for me. What do you want?”

  “I want this war to end.”

  “Tell the sodbusters to clear out of the valley and it will.”

  “You know they’re not going to do that.”

  “Then the fight goes on.”

  “You don’t sound too happy about it.”

  The rancher sighed heavily. “Truth is, I’m not.”

  “How many hands you have working for you, Grant?”

  “Not countin’ the gunhands, ’bout twenty or so. More come roundup time. Why?”

  “Have each one of them file on a section of land. Then buy it from them. Same with your kids. You’ve already proved up hundreds, maybe thousands of acres on your own. It’s yours . . . legally. Add twenty or twenty-five sections to that, and you’re not going to lose very much land at all.”

  Grant thought about that for a moment, then slowly nodded his head. “Yeah. Sounds simple, don’t it?”

  “It is simple, Grant. And bloodless.” Frank stared at Grant through a haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the room. “And the beauty of it is it’s not much more expensive than payin’ for all these gunhands to sit around waitin’ to kill somebody.”

  “T’here’s one hitch to that, Morgan. If I let these gunhands go, Mark Junior will hire them. And that’s a fact you ain’t takin’ into consideration.” He looked at Frank. “And it is a fact.”

  “You let me worry about Junior.”

  Grant sat staring out of the window and smoking and thinking for a few moments, and then he stubbed out his cigarette and looked over at Frank. “Town’s growin’, ain’t it?”

  “By leaps and bounds, Grant. Got a telegraph ready to go, and probably a bank is coming in.”

  “We need a bank close by. I’m glad to hear that.” Again, he sighed. “Hell, I’ll be glad to see the war over. I ain’t a young buck anymore. I’m not full of piss and vinegar like I was years back.”

  “Plus you’ve got cattle wandering all over hell and back since you been neglecting them to fight this war with the homesteaders.”

  “You mighty right about that. Roundup time’s come and gone. Time for my regular hands to get back to work.”

  “Then end your part in it. Most of the guns you’ve hired will move on. Some will hire on with the Diamond, but not all of them. Junior can’t continue this fight on his own. It’ll be too expensive for him to try and foot the bill for it all by himself.”

  “He’ll damn sure try, Morgan. I’m really beginnin’ to believe Junior’s got some of his father’s madness in him.”

  “Maybe. You might be right. But your part in all this is over?”

  “You have my hand on it, Morgan.” Grant rose from his chair and extended his hand.

  Frank stood up and took the peace offering. Half the battle had been won.

  * * *

  Frank rode over to the Diamond spread, hoping to talk to Mark Junior. He was met at the main gate by Steve Harlon and Pete Dancer.

  “I was asking about you, Steve. Hadn’t seen you around lately. Thought you might have pulled out.”

  “I’m staying in the main house here, Morgan. Mark was kind enough to offer me a room. Much nicer than the bunkhouse.”

  Pete Dancer rolled his eyes at that, and Frank smiled at the expression on the man’s face.

  “Is Mark here?” Frank asked.

  “He isn’t receiving visitors at this time,” Steve replied.

  Again, Pete rolled his eyes at Steve’s reply.

  “Well, that’s too bad, Steve. When do you suppose he might be receiving visitors?”

  “You? Never.”

  “You will tell him I stopped by?”

  “He knows you’re here, Morgan. Peaches wanted to shoot you.”

  “I’m certainly glad you stopped her.”

  “I’m reserving that pleasure for myself, Morgan,” Steve said with a nasty grin.

  “You want to do it now?”

  “In the very near future, Morgan. Soon.”

  “How do you figure you can do what Doolin couldn’t? You going to back-shoot me, Steve?”

  “You’re pushing me, Morgan. That’s not a wise thing to do.”

  “When I decide to push you, I assure you, you’ll know it.”

  “Go on back to town, Morgan,” Dancer said. “You ain’t gonna get to see Mark this day . . . or any day, for that matter.”

  “You always rode for the brand, Pete. But you’re riding for the wrong brand this time.”

  “Maybe so, Morgan. But I took the man’s money.”

  “Is it enough money to die over?”

  Steve shrugged. “No one lives forever.”

  Before Frank could reply, Steve added, “You’ve overstayed your welcome, Morgan. Ride on.”

  “And you’re talking for Mark?”

  “I’m talking for Mark.”

  Frank turned Stormy’s head and put his back to the two gunslingers. He headed back to town. He stopped at the Calen homestead on the way back and brought them up to date.

  “The GP is really out of it?” Van asked.

  “We shook hands on it. Out here, that’s as good as a signed contract,” Frank said.

  “But Mark Junior is still going to pursue the fight?” Virginia asked.

  “Looks like it. But he can’t last alone. I’m hoping he’ll soon realize that and fire his gunhands.”

  “You think he will?”

  Frank shrugged his reply.

  Virginia poured the men coffee and then sat down at the table with them. “I got some pie I baked yesterday, Frank. You want some?”

  “No, thanks. I had breakfast at the GP.”

  Van looked up in surprise. “You actually sat down at a table with Grant Perkins?”

  “Yes. Had a nice chat with him.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. I guess the GP is really out of this trouble.”

  “I think so.”

  “Was his daughter, Lucy, there?” Virginia asked.

  “She might have been in the house. She wasn’t at the breakfast table.”

  “How about the boy, Victor?” Van inquired.

  “I didn’t see him. I don’t think he’ll be any threat. He’s a drunk.”

  “But Lucy might be, if anything were to happen to the father,” Virginia said.

  “That’s a possibility,” Frank agreed.

  “Have you told Paul Adams about your meeting with Grant?”

  “No. I stopped here on the way back to town. You’re the only people I’ve spoken with.”

  “Is it all right to tell the others?” Van asked.

  “Sure.”

  Virginia reached across the table to touch her husband’s hand. “It’s hard to believe there will finally be some peace in these valleys.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Van said.

  Virginia smiled. “And Frank Morgan.”

  That simple statement highly embarrassed Frank. He mumbled his good-byes, grabbed up his hat, and headed for the door.

  “Thanks for the coffee, Mrs. Calen,” Frank said as he climbed up on Stormy.

  “Sure you don’t want some of that pie?” she asked.

&nb
sp; Frank grinned as he pulled Stormy’s head around. “If I keep eatin’ your pie, I’m gonna have to get a bigger horse,” he called over his shoulder.

  Twenty-four

  Frank sat on a bench in front of his almost finished marshal’s office and watched as a dozen gunslingers rode out of the valley. Most of them were men he didn’t know. What bothered him was that none of the known gunfighters were leaving. That meant they had probably signed on with the Diamond spread.

  “So the war is half over,” Frank muttered just as John Platt walked up and sat down.

  “The bad boys are still around,” the liveryman said. “Junior ain’t gonna give up.”

  “He’s a damn fool, John.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me on that.”

  “I guess that’s the end of the gunfighters leaving,” Frank said, looking up the road.

  “Not a one from the Diamond pulled out.”

  “No. And I guess Junior hired a bunch from the GP. Damn him for a fool!”

  “Wire’s up!” a man yelled from the edge of town. “They’re gettin’ ready to send test signals.”

  “Finally connected with the outside world,” John said. “That’s both a good thing and a bad thing, I reckon.”

  Frank pointed to a building under construction across the street. “The new bank building. Going to be a nice place.”

  John grinned and said, “You going to take a hand in gettin’ us a newspaper in here, Frank?”

  Frank shook his head. “No. I don’t really know anybody who’d be interested in doing that. But I heard Doc Archer and Joe Wallace talking this morning at the café. They know somebody. Now that the wire is up and they can get news in here, I don’t think it’ll be long before some printer comes along and sets up shop.”

  “I do like to read the newspaper,” John said wistfully.

  “The stage is bringing in papers every week, John.”

  “And I read ever’ damn vord in all of them. When I can get my hands on ’em. Usually by the time I get hold of ’em, all the words has damn near been read off ’em.”

  Frank laughed and stood up. “I’m going to take a walk, John. Want to come along?”

  “Nope. I got a shipment of feed comin’ in any time. It’s overdue now. I’ll see you later.”

  Frank started his stroll at the west end of the town, and began walking up the south side. The town was growing daily. This was not going to be some fly-by-night settlement. Valley View was here to stay . . . although not necessarily by that name. New towns had a habit of changing names after a few years.

  They also had a habit of getting rid of gunfighters-turned-marshals after the town had settled down. It seemed once they got all citified and highfalutin, they forgot about the men who’d put their lives on the line to make it happen. It was as if they were embarrassed that they’d ever needed anyone as low-class as a gunfighter to help them become civilized. And if he stayed around, Frank knew the same thing would happen here . . . to him. But he had no plans of sticking around long enough to be asked to leave.

  Frank smiled and touched the brim of his hat as he met several ladies out for a morning of shopping and gossiping.

  “Such a handsome man,” Frank heard one of the ladies whisper.

  “Too bad he’s a cold-blooded killer,” another said.

  “Hush,” the third said. “He might hear you.”

  Frank walked on. He did not take offense at the remarks of the women. He’d heard it all before—and much worse—from good citizens. Many times, in fact.

  Joe Wallace hailed him from across the street. “Wait up, Frank!” the mayor yelled, then jogged across the wide street to join Frank on the boardwalk.

  “Joe, slow down,” Frank said with a smile. “What’s the rush?”

  “Got news, Frank. We have another new business coming in.”

  “Oh?”

  “Carpenters working on the building right down there at the end of the block.” He pointed to the west end of the town. The town had now grown to two full blocks.

  “I know, Joe. I gave the people the lot to build on.”

  “I might have known you’d be one step ahead of me. Doc Archer is really excited to have our own apothecary shop. Now all we need is a newspaper.”

  “All in good time, Joe.”

  “I know, I know, Frank. I’m getting impatient. Can’t help it.”

  Frank laughed and patted the man on the shoulder. “This town will be busting at the seams before long, Joe. You’ll be making so much money you and your wife will go to Paris, France, to celebrate.”

  “Oh, no, we won’t,” the merchant quickly corrected. “All I have to do is look at the waves on a lake and I get sick. You’ll not get me on an ocean.”

  “Joe!” his wife called from across the street. “Supply wagons are here.”

  “See you, Frank.”

  “Take it easy, Joe.”

  Frank could understand why the merchant was excited. His store business had increased dramatically in only a couple of months.

  Frank stopped and watched a trio of GP hands ride into town. They waved and smiled at Frank.

  What a change in attitude, he thought. Before his talk with Grant Perkins, the man’s hands wouldn’t’ve given him the time of day, much less a cordial howdy.

  He returned the greeting. “You boys tried out the new café yet?”

  “Not yet, Marshal. Food good?” one of the hands answered.

  “Best in the territory.”

  “We’ll give it a whirl. Thanks for the tip.”

  “Glad to oblige. You boys have a good time.”

  The GP hands tipped their hats and rode on, reining up in front of the saloon. Frank’s smile faded as he watched several Diamond hands ride in from the other end of Main Street. Frank had been told by several longtime residents of the area that while the cowboys who rode for the Diamond brand were not gunhands per se, they were a randy bunch, used to getting their own way at any cost. According to the townspeople he’d talked to, the Diamond men had been that way even before the current troubles started.

  The Diamond hands dismounted and entered the saloon. Frank stepped off the boardwalk and walked across the street. Time to earn his pay and make sure they didn’t cause any trouble while they were in town, he figured as he unconsciously reached down and loosened the hammer thong on his right-hand Colt.

  Doc Archer approached him, intercepting Frank before he could enter the saloon. “Frank,” the doctor greeted him. “You look troubled. Is something the matter?”

  “Maybe. Diamond and GP men just came together in the saloon.”

  “And you think there will be trouble?”

  “Possibly. You better stay out here.”

  “I might better serve the public if I go in with you, don’t you think?”

  “You might change your mind if the lead starts flying.”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “Suit yourself.” Frank walked to the batwings and stepped inside, Doc Archer right behind him.

  In the couple of minutes the hands had been inside the saloon, they had already taken up defensive positions, spread out and facing each other from opposite ends of the bar.

  Frank stepped to one side, out of the direct line of fire, pulling Doc Archer with him. The GP hands had noticed Frank, but the Diamond hands had their backs to the front of the saloon and did not see him enter.

  “You’re all a bunch of yeller bastards,” a Diamond hand said, laying his feelings on the line to the GP hands, sticking his hand out in front of him and pointing his finger at the other men.

  “Back off, Dale,” one of the GP hands warned. “’Fore you step into somethin’ you can’t pull away from.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to pull away from it, Shorty,” the Diamond hand said right back. “’Specially if that somethin’ you’re talkin’ ’bout is somethin’ as low as snake crap like you.”

  “I don’t take that kind of mouth from no one,” Shorty said, stepping awa
y from the bar.

  “That’s it!” Frank said sharply. “There’ll be no gunplay in this town as long as I’m marshal unless it’s me doin’ the shootin’. Now, back off and settle down, both of you.”

  “Or you’ll do what?” Dale challenged, turning to face Frank with his right hand hanging down next to the butt of his pistol.

  “You really want to fight me, cowboy?” Frank asked, his voice low.

  “I might,” Dale replied. “I damn sure ain’t a-feared of you.”

  “No one said you were. I’m the law in this town and this part of the county, and I’ll telling you to cool down, both of you.”

  “And I’m tellin’ you to go right straight to hell, Morgan!”

  “Dale,” one of his pards cautioned, moving close to him and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy.”

  “Shut up, Nicky,” Dale told him, shaking his hand off. “And stay out of this. This is between me and Morgan here.”

  Frank took a step toward the angry Diamond hand.

  Shorty held up both his hands. “I’m out of this, Marshal. We didn’t come in here lookin’ for trouble.”

  “I know you didn’t,” Frank said, taking another step toward Dale. “Dale, cool down, man. Have yourself a drink and everything will be jam and honey.”

  Dale told Frank where he could stick his suggestion.

  “You’re backing me into a corner, Dale,” Frank warned him. “Don’t say anything more.” Frank took another step toward the Diamond hand.

  “You go to hell, Morgan.”

  “Dale,” Nicky said, “Morgan’s givin’ you a break. Back off.”

  “Shut up! ” Dale shouted as Frank took another step toward the man. “This ain’t none of your affair.” Dale’s right hand clenched and unclenched as it hovered over the butt of his six-gun. “I’m gonna kill you, Morgan.”

  “I don’t think so, Dale.”

  “I do! Draw!”

  Twenty-five

  Just as Dale’s hand touched the butt of his pistol, Frank gave him a hard right fist to the side of the jaw, snapping his head around and sending teeth and blood flying. Dale’s boots sailed out from under him and he landed on his butt on the floor. Frank reached down and jerked Dale’s six-gun from leather, laying it on the bar.

  Dale rolled over, moaning, and crawled to his hands and knees, his head hanging down dripping blood onto the dusty boards of the saloon. Frank bent over, grabbed him, and jerked him to his feet, twisting one arm up behind his back. Dale howled in pain.