Burning

by William W. Johnstone

  “Now, by God, you’ll do what I tell you,” Frank growled in his ear. “Or I’ll twist your arm off and beat you to death with it.”

  “All right!” Dale hollered through split and swollen lips. “All right. You’re breaking my arm.”

  “Better that than him shootin’ you,” Nicky said, shaking his head in relief that his friend was still alive and breathing.

  “You’re going to jail, mister,” Frank told Dale. “Now walk!”

  Dale was escorted out of the saloon, across the street, and into the recently completed jail. Frank shoved him into a cell and slammed and locked the barred door.

  Dale bounced off the far wall, slipped, and sprawled across the bunk bolted to the wall. “I’ll kill you!” he hollered, trying to get to his feet as he sleeved blood off his mouth.

  “Cool off,” Frank told him.

  “Let me outta here!” he screamed, rushing to the bars and trying to grab Frank through them.

  “Maybe tomorrow, Dale,” Frank said, moving back a couple of steps so the enraged cowboy couldn’t reach him. “Depends on your attitude an’ how reasonable you get by then.”

  Dale cussed him.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Frank said, walking out of the cell block and into the office. He closed the door behind him. He could hear only the muffled yelling of the Diamond hand.

  Frank picked up the jail ledger and wrote Dale’s name, the date, and the charges against him. He looked up as the front door opened. Nicky and the other Diamond hands walked in, Nicky carrying Dale’s pistol.

  “Figured you’d want this,” Nicky said, laying the six-gun on the desk.

  “Thanks. I’ll keep it for your friend.”

  “When do you reckon he’ll get out?”

  “Tomorrow. It’ll take him that long to cool down.”

  “You could have killed him.”

  “I figured I could take him without gunplay.”

  “He owes you his life,” one of the other hands said, nodding his head and staring at Frank as if he couldn’t believe the marshal didn’t shoot Dale instead of going to the trouble of keeping him alive.

  “He’d been drinkin’ some before we left the ranch,” Nicky said. “And he don’t handle whiskey too good.”

  “He’ll have plenty of time to sober up,” Frank said.

  “And he’ll be madder than hell when he does,” a Diamond hand said. “Maybe you better let us keep his six-gun, Marshal.”

  “Good idea. Take it back to the ranch with you.”

  “You got any objections to us havin’ a few drinks and a meal ’fore we leave town?” Nicky asked.

  “None at all. Providing you steer clear of the GP hands.”

  “We ain’t got no quarrel with them,” another Diamond hand said. “Personal, I wish to hell this fight would stop so we could all get back to work. We got cattle spread all over the damn place and a whole lot of calves that need brandin’.”

  “And them gunslingers on the payroll is a real pain in the ass,” Nicky added. “They don’t do nothin’ ’ceptin’ lay around and eat and drink the boss’s whiskey. Most of ’em wouldn’t know a brandin’ iron from a teacup.”

  Frank had to smile at that. For a fact, most of the hired guns he’d met over the years were lazy as a pig in slop, and smelled about the same. “Enjoy yourselves in town, boys.”

  Frank got his hat and locked the front door to the jail behind him as he once again resumed his leisurely stroll around the growing town. He was hailed by the blacksmith, Earl Martin. “Got your first guest in the new jail, Marshal?” the man asked with a grin.

  “Just for overnight, Earl. I’ll cut him loose in the morning... after he pays a fine.”

  “Money for the town’s treasury,” the leather-aproned blacksmith replied with an even wider grin.

  Frank smiled and waved and walked on.

  “Morning, Marshal,” Wilbur Morris, the undertaker/ barber, greeted Frank as he strolled up to the man’s place of business. “It certainly is a wonderful day, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is, Mr. Morris. Very nice.”

  “First haircut is free, Marshal. Anytime you need a trim.”

  “I’ll remember that, Mr. Morris. Won’t be long, I’m sure.”

  “Anytime, Marshal. Anytime at all.”

  Frank smiled and walked on.

  Frank stopped in at the telegraph office, watching the telegrapher at work for a few minutes. No doubt about it: Valley View was on the move. The key stopped its clicking, and the telegrapher looked up at Frank and nodded his head in greeting.

  “Staying busy?” Frank inquired.

  “Yes, I am,” the man replied. “Surprisingly so. I have a telegram for a Mr. Mark Rogers, Junior. You know anyone in town who can ride out to the ranch with it?”

  “Some Diamond hands are in town now. I can give it to one of them for you if you want.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” He handed Frank a folded piece of paper. “It’s bad news, I’m afraid. A death in the family.”

  “Oh?”

  The key began clicking and the telegrapher went back to work. Frank walked out of the office and opened the paper. The message was informing the Rogers family that old Mark Rogers was dead. He had died in his sleep. Officials at the institution wanted to know what to do with the body.

  Frank walked over to the saloon and up to Nicky, the Diamond hand. “You better get this out to Junior.” He handed him the telegram.

  Nicky read the brief message and nodded his head. “They’ll be a party at the ranch house tonight, Marshal.”

  “A party?”

  “Yeah. Mark and Peaches hated their father. The youngest kid, Mike, was the only one who could reason with Big Mark.”

  “I never hear much about him. What kind of man is he?”

  “He’s a good boy. Levelheaded. He’s no hand with a horse or a gun, but he’s smart. Knows business.”

  “So if Mike took over the Diamond, you think the war would end?”

  “Oh, you bet it would. In a heartbeat.” Nicky leaned closer to Frank. “And Lucy Perkins has always been sort of sweet on Mike. But Lucy’s loud and brassy and Mike is quiet. He’s a thinker, likes to read books. I figure if Lucy would calm down a mite, her and him would get together.”

  “Any chance of that happening?”

  “Stranger things have happened, I reckon. But Mike would have to take a belt to her rear end to calm her down.”

  Frank smiled. “That would be worth seeing.”

  Nicky nodded. “If she didn’t shoot him.”

  Frank left the saloon and began walking back to his office. He paused when he saw Steve Harlon ride slowly into town, coming in from the east end. Something about the way the man sat in his saddle triggered an alarm in Frank’s mind.

  He’s riding in for a showdown, Frank thought. I don’t know why he chose this day and time, but it’s here.

  Steve reined up at the livery and handed the reins to the young man John had hired to help out. Frank stood on the boardwalk and rolled a cigarette, thumbing a match into flame and lighting up. He watched as Steve walked over to the café and stepped inside.

  Frank slipped his Peacemaker in and out of leather a couple of times, making sure it wasn’t hung up. With Steve he was taking no chances. None at all. Frank stepped off the boardwalk and into the street. He began walking toward the saloon.

  Both Joe Wallace and Doc Archer had seen Frank work his .45 in and out of leather, and they both began walking toward him, the doctor coming from his office, the merchant from his store. They met Frank in the middle of the wide and dusty street.

  “What’s the matter, Frank?” Joe asked.

  “It’s time.”

  “Time?” Doc Archer questioned. “Time for what?”

  “Time for me and Harlon to get this matter between us settled once and for all.”

  “How do you know that?” Joe asked. “Is this some prearranged thing?”

  “No.”

  “But the man just rode i
nto town. You two haven’t exchanged a word. How could you know?”

  “I just know. You boys keep out of the way.” Frank started walking toward the saloon.

  “We’re going with you,” the doctor said.

  “Suit yourselves.”

  Frank pushed open the batwings and stepped inside, the doctor and the merchant right behind him. Harlon was standing at the bar, a pot of coffee and a cup in front of him. He looked up briefly as Frank entered and walked to the closest end of the bar.

  “Morgan,” Harlon said. “Share this pot of coffee with me?”

  “Don’t mind if I do, Steve.”

  “Barkeep,” Harlon said, “a cup for the marshal, if you will.”

  A cup was placed in front of Frank, and the bartender, a new fellow in town that Frank did not know, quickly backed away. Harlon slid the coffeepot down the bar toward Frank and Frank filled his cup, then slid the pot back toward the gunslick.

  “You want this sugar bowl, Frank?” Harlon asked.

  “I’ll take it without this time, Steve.”

  “As you wish.”

  “What’s on your mind today, Steve?” Frank asked after taking a sip of the coffee and making a face. Unlike most bar coffee, it was just a little weak for Frank’s taste.

  “Killing you,” Harlon said simply. He sipped his coffee, his eyes staring straight ahead over the rim and ignoring Frank.

  “It took you a couple of months to make up your mind, Steve.”

  “I wanted you to worry a bit.”

  “I haven’t worried about it at all, Steve.”

  Harlon smiled and finally turned his gaze to Frank. “Always calm and collected and ready, right, Morgan?”

  “You could say that.”

  “I’m going to shoot you right in the middle of that fancy star you’ve got on your chest, Morgan. They can bury you with that piece of tin embedded in your heart.”

  “I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

  “I’m better than you, Frank.”

  “We’ll soon know, won’t we?”

  “Aren’t you going to attempt to arrest me for threatening a peace officer?” Harlon asked with a smile as he placed the coffee cup on the bar and turned his body around to face Frank.

  “No.”

  “Oh?”

  “What would be the point?”

  “I’m disappointed.”

  “Well, you can live with your disappointment, Steve. For a little while longer anyway.”

  Harlon laughed at that. “You really are a very arrogant man, Frank. Are you aware of that?”

  Frank shrugged and raised his eyebrows as if the question surprised him. “I’m not aware of being arrogant.”

  “Well, perhaps not. Let’s say supremely confident. Would you admit to that?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Using his left hand and keeping his eyes fixed on Frank, Harlon reached across his body and lifted his coffee cup and took a sip. “You do find this coffee to your satisfaction, Frank?”

  “It’s a bit weak for me,” Frank answered, setting his cup on the bar and turning to face the gunman. He leaned his left elbow on the bar and let his right hand hang at his side.

  “I thought so. I found it the same. Pity.”

  “You can always have the barkeep fix another pot.”

  “No point, Frank.” Harlon grinned insolently, a challenge in his eyes. “You don’t have time enough left to have another cup.”

  “One of us doesn’t, that’s for sure.”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Doc Archer said. “I think—”

  “I don’t give a damn what you think, Doc,” Harlon said, interrupting the doctor. “Stay out of matters that you don’t understand and don’t concern you.”

  “You, sir, are a very rude man,” Doc Archer replied.

  Harlon chuckled at that. “Your young friend has sand, Frank. I’ll give him that.”

  “He’s new to the West. From Philadelphia.”

  “Philadelphia!” Harlon replied. “Well, well. I went to college with a fellow from Boston. He was one of the most disagreeable people I ever had the misfortune to meet. Arrogant chap.”

  “You went to college?” Archer asked, his tone filled with incredulousness.

  “Yes, Frank, your friend is from Philadelphia, all right. Same tone of superiority in his voice. Another insufferable bastard! Do you want me to shoot him, Frank?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t, Steve. We need him around here.”

  “Very well. But only as a favor to you.” Steve slowly moved a step away from the bar and squared his shoulders, facing Frank dead on. “You ready, Frank?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Faster than the blink of an eye, and without a change of expression, the men drew and fired. The roar of gunfire and the smell of gun smoke filled the room.

  “My God,” the barkeep said, ducking down and hiding behind the bar.

  Twenty-six

  Harlon leaned against the bar and smiled at Frank. He dropped his eyes and stared at the spreading red stain on the front of his white dress shirt. “I’ll be damned,” the hired gun said.

  “We probably both will be,” Frank replied.

  “You beat me,” Harlon said. He coughed, and blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. “I can’t believe it. You actually beat me.”

  “Not really, Steve. You just missed, that’s all.”

  “I never miss.”

  “You did this time.”

  Harlon slowly raised his right hand and laid his six-gun on the polished bar, grabbing the edge of the bar to keep from falling down. “How in the hell could I miss, Frank? You’re not fifteen feet away.”

  “You got anxious, I reckon.”

  “Damn!”

  “Let me look at your wounds,” Doc Archer said, stepping forward and raising his hand.

  “Keep your hands off me, Doc,” Harlon told him. “I don’t like doctors and I especially don’t like doctors from Philadelphia.”

  “I might be able to save your life,” Archer insisted.

  “Very doubtful, sawbones. Just keep away from me.” Harlon looked back at Frank. His eyes were squinted against the pain, but Frank could still see the sadness in them. “There won’t be any songs written and sung about me, will there, Frank?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I’m faster than you, and yet you got all the glory. Somehow that doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Glory, Steve? What glory?”

  Blood was beginning to drip from Harlon’s chin onto his shirt. “Books written about you, a stage play that’s still being performed across the country, songs sung about your deeds. That’s glory, Frank.”

  “And that’s what you wanted, Steve?”

  “I would have liked it, yes.”

  Harlon began coughing, and he lost his grip on the edge of the bar. He slowly sank to his knees. He did not have the strength to pull himself back up. With Harlon’s gun out of reach of the dying man, Frank holstered his Peacemaker. Doc Archer started toward the downed man.

  “Don’t come near me, Doc,” Harlon said between fits of coughing. “I’m dying. The bullet nicked my heart. Hurts every time it beats. I’m filling up with my own blood. I can feel it.”

  “You don’t know that,” Archer said.

  Harlon laughed weakly. “Oh, I know it, Philadelphia. Take my word for it. I know it.”

  Frank motioned to the barkeep. “Make another pot of coffee. Make it stronger than you did this crap”—he pointed to the cooling pot of coffee—“and make it quick.”

  “Yes, sir. Right now, sir.”

  Harlon had stopped coughing and his breathing had evened out, though it had a rasping sound to it.

  “I have some laudanum,” Archer said.

  “Drink it yourself,” Harlon told him. “I’m not leaving this world all drugged up on painkiller.”

  “What do you want on your marker, Steve?” Frank asked.

  Harlon’s pain-clouded eyes cut to Frank and
the gunman smiled, his teeth gleaming redly in the low light of the saloon. “That I was killed by the best long before my time.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then that’s what will be on it.”

  The Diamond hands and the GP hands had gathered just inside the saloon, near the batwings. They stood together in silence and watched and listened.

  “Got anyone I need to notify?”

  “Not really. After my parents passed, I didn’t see the use of going back to home territory.” He grinned in a macabre fashion, his lips parting again in a bloody grimace that had no humor in it. “And then there was that warrant out for me back there. A little matter of a killing.” Harlon began coughing hard and spitting up gobs of blood. “Bullet must have nicked a lung too. I don’t think I care to hang around much longer to die naturally. Not like this.”

  “What do you mean?” Doc Archer asked.

  “Not only are you an arrogant Philadelphia bastard, but you’re hard of hearing too,” Harlon said.

  Doc Archer’s face developed a deep flush. “I don’t think I like you very much, Mr. Harlon.”

  “What I meant, Doc, is this.” Harlon fumbled at his belt buckle and pulled out and cocked a small .41-caliber derringer.

  As Frank’s hand went to the butt of his pistol, Harlon grinned again and said in a raspy, hoarse voice, “Adios, compadre.”

  Frank relaxed his hand and nodded. “So long, Steve.”

  Harlon stuck the belly gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. The slug blew out the other side of his head as Harlon’s body flopped back against the bar, dead with his eyes opened and bugged out.

  “My God!” Archer exclaimed.

  “Coffee’s ready,” the barkeep called.

  Twenty-seven

  Back in his office, Frank went through Steve Harlon’s belongings. There were no letters, no address book, nothing that would tell how to notify any friends or family. It was as if Steve had never existed. Well, Frank thought, sipping at a cup of coffee, maybe that’s how Steve wanted it.

  Frank looked up as the door opened and Wilbur Morris walked in.