Frank flexed his hands a couple of times. They didn’t hurt and did not appear to be stiffening up. A few hours might make a difference, but for now they were all right. He crossed the street and walked down to the Purple Lily Saloon. A piano player was hammering out a fast tune, and there were several tables of cardplayers and a half dozen or so men dressed in rough range clothing standing at the bar.
Frank pushed open the batwings and stepped inside. The piano player spotted him and stopped playing. The men at the bar turned to stare at him. The cardplayers stopped their games and stared.
“Don’t let me interrupt, boys,” Frank told the group. “I’m just looking around and getting acquainted.”
“Don’t bother in here, Morgan,” a man standing at the bar said. “Don’t nobody here want to meet you.”
Frank looked at him for a moment, recognition slowly lighting in his eyes. “Hello, Slick. It’s been a long time.”
“Not long enough, Morgan. I heard you got killed over in Montana. I celebrated that news for two days. Now you come show up and spoil everything.”
“Sorry to spoil your celebration, Slick.”
“Not as sorry as I am. My shoulder still bothers me where that doc dug out the lead you put in me.”
“I had to hurry that shot, Slick. It was my intention to kill you.”
Slick turned back to the bar and picked up his drink.
Frank walked to the end of the bar closest to the batwings and signaled to the bartender. “Coffee, please.”
“My, my,” a man said from a card table. “Ain’t he the po-lite one?”
“Hello, Curly,” Frank said. “You didn’t think I recognized you, did you?”
“Hell with you, Morgan!” Curly replied.
“You’re a long way from Wyoming,” Frank said.
“Free country.”
“Yes, it is. You working around here, Curly?”
“I might be.”
“How about you, Slick?”
“I been thinkin’ ’bout signin’ on with the ES spread.”
“Ed Simpson’s brand?”
“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”
“You real sure you remember how to rope and brand?”
Slick did not reply, just stared at Frank with open, unbridled hate in his eyes.
The bartender put Frank’s cup of coffee on the bar in front of him and then carefully backed away.
The piano player began playing a slow, quiet song.
A bar girl walked up to Frank, her face heavily rouged. “Buy a lady a drink, Deputy?” she asked, her voice whiskey soft.
Frank motioned to the barkeep to pour the woman a drink.
She sipped her drink and whispered, “I’m available for a poke, Deputy.”
“I’m sure you are,” Frank said coldly. “Now back away and find someone else to proposition.”
“Never hurts to ask,” she replied, winking at him before picking up her drink and walking away.
“What do you want in here, Morgan?” Curly asked.
“Some friendly conversation maybe,” Frank said with a smile.
“You won’t find that in here,” another voice added.
Frank recognized the voice, and he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. He turned slowly to look toward the rear of the saloon. Johnny Vargas sat alone at a table, staring at him.
“It’s been a while, Johnny,” Frank said. “I figured you’d be long dead by now.”
“A few have tried, Morgan. They didn’t make it.”
“Same here, Johnny.”
Johnny Vargas was perhaps the most dangerous gunslick in the entire West—incredibly fast. Frank would be the first to admit that Johnny was swifter in pulling iron than he was, but Johnny was not the most accurate shot, oftentimes missing that most important first shot. Frank, on the other hand, almost never missed.
“What brings you to this peaceful town, Johnny?”
“Just passin’ through. I been here a few days. I like it. Hell, I might just stick around.”
“You do that, Johnny. As long as you obey the law.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll have me to deal with.”
Johnny laughed at that. “You couldn’t beat me on your best day, Drifter.”
“Are you that anxious to back up that statement, Johnny?”
Johnny Vargas pushed back his chair and stood up.
Frank stepped away from the bar.
“Oh, hell!” a cowboy said, as the piano player stopped playing and the saloon grew deathly silent.
SEVEN
For several slow heartbeats the two men faced each other in silence. Then Johnny began to smile.
“Something funny, Johnny?” Frank asked.
“You might say that. Killin’ a lawdog is somethin’ I ain’t never done . . . least I ain’t never been convicted of doin’ so. I ain’t gonna start now and spend the rest of my life on the run. So just stand easy and finish your coffee. You ain’t gonna make me pull on you.” Johnny Vargas slowly held his hands out in front of him and then sat back down in his chair. “I’m done for this time, Morgan.”
“Suits me, Johnny.” Frank turned back to the bar and picked up his coffee cup . . . with his left hand.
The piano player resumed his playing and the cardplayers turned their attention back to the games.
Frank walked back to Johnny’s table and sat down, placing the coffee cup on the table.
“Have a seat, Morgan,” Johnny said, a smile playing on his lips.
“Thanks. Believe I will.”
“Something on your mind?”
“You.”
Johnny cocked an eyebrow in a questioning gesture.
“This saloon is more than half filled with thieves and gunslicks, Johnny.”
“I noticed. So?”
“Why?”
Johnny shrugged his shoulders. “That I don’t know, Morgan. The word went up and down the line to gather here. That’s all I know about it.”
“Val Dooley maybe.”
“Val Dooley is a piker, Morgan. He’s crazy to boot. There ain’t nothin’ he’s doin’ that interests me.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Why should I tell you, Morgan? Hell, I don’t even like you.”
Frank smiled. “Want me to get up and leave?”
Johnny chuckled. “Naw. I reckon not. What do I know about Dooley? Well, not much, really. He’s younger than us. You and him resemble a whole lot. I know he’s a woman-abuser. I don’t much hold with that.”
Like many fast guns, Johnny Vargus operated under an odd moral code: It was perfectly acceptable to kill a man, but against the code to be disrespectful to a good woman.
“What else, Johnny?”
“Nothin,’ I reckon. Well . . . nothin’ ’ceptin’ I don’t much like a lot of these men that’s come driftin’ into town. They’re worthless trash.”
“Yes. Thieves and murderers.”
“And worser, Morgan. A lot worser.”
“Johnny, I don’t expect you to turn on your friends, but if you hear of anything that these men are up to that turns your stomach, will you let me know?”
Johnny Vargas stared at Frank for a moment, then slowly nodded his head. “I reckon I could do that, Morgan. Yeah, I will.”
“Good enough, Johnny. Thanks.”
“But I’m still gonna kill you, Morgan. Someday.”
“Let me know when you’re going to try.”
“Oh, you’ll know, Morgan.”
Frank pushed back his chair and walked away, out of the Purple Lily Saloon. He stood on the boardwalk for a moment, breathing the cool air, then walked across the street to the town’s other saloon, the Gold Nugget . . . the Nugget as the locals called it. It was the middle of the week and unlike the Purple Lily, the Nugget was nearly empty. Frank looked in over the batwings, then walked on up the boardwalk. He shook his head as he thought of Johnny Vargas.
“Strange man,”
Frank muttered.
The town was shutting down for the evening, most of the stores already dark. Only O’Malley’s General Store was still open and doing business. Frank stepped inside, bought another sack of tobacco, and looked at the selection of men’s clothing for a few minutes. A suit caught his eye and he fingered the material. Nice.
“That’s a new style, Mr. Morgan,” O’Malley said, walking up behind Frank. “Got that in just the other day from Kansas City. I bet that’s your size too.”
“It’s nice. I’ll come in tomorrow and try it on.”
“I’ll put it up for you.”
“Thanks.”
Frank stepped back onto the boardwalk and stood in the shadows, watching as several men slowly walked their horses up the street. They stopped in front of the Nugget and dismounted, slowly looking all around them.
They’re up to no good, Frank thought. And judging by their outfits, they aren’t working ranch hands. When the trio stepped up to stand in front of the windows of the saloon, letting the light bathe them, Frank could see the men wore their guns tied down.
“Hired guns,” he muttered. “Or outlaws. Going to be interesting here in Chance before long, I’ll bet. Real interesting.” Frank walked down to Doc Evans’s office and opened the door.
“I put Big Ed to sleep with laudanum,” the doctor said. “He’s got some cracked ribs. Don’t worry about him escaping from this office. He’ll be out until midmorning. I assure you of that.”
“Good enough, Doc. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Frank went back to the hotel and went to bed.
* * *
Frank was up early the next morning, as was his habit. The Blue Bird Café had not yet opened when he walked down to the livery to check on his horses and Dog. He had bought several cans of bully beef and some bread the day before, and he fed Dog some beef and bread and filled up his water bucket. After Dog had eaten, Frank played with him for a time, and then walked up to the Blue Bird Café and had breakfast. He had the waitress fix a breakfast plate, and took the food over to the jail.
“Where’s my pa?” Little Ed yelled from his cell.
“At the doctor’s office,” Frank told him, placing the tray of food in the cell.
“What’s he doin’ over there when I’m in here?”
“He’s resting after getting his butt kicked.”
“My pa got his butt kicked? By a horse?”
“No. By me.”
“I don’t believe that!”
“Believe what you want to believe, boy. But for now, eat your breakfast and shut up.”
“I’ll kill you, Morgan!”
“I’ve heard that a few times in my life.”
“I mean it!”
“Yeah, yeah!” Frank said, waving off the threat. He walked back into the main office and began making a pot of coffee, leaving Little Ed Simpson yelling and cussing.
Marshal Tom Wright walked in just as the coffee was ready to pour. “Smells good,” Tom said, grabbing a cup from a hook on the wall. “I just come from the doc’s. Big Ed is sleeping like a baby. Doc said you stopped by.”
“Yes. Big Ed’s got some stove-up ribs. He’ll be out of commission for a time.”
“When he gets on his feet, he’ll be comin’ for you, Frank.”
“I’ll be here.”
“He don’t worry you?”
“Not a bit.”
Tom sat down at his desk and sipped his coffee, his eyes on Frank.
“Something on your mind, Tom?” Frank asked, pouring a cup of coffee and taking a seat.
“I don’t like the idea of all these strangers in town. They look like a rough bunch.”
“They are.” He told the marshal what Vargas had relayed to him.
“What do you think it is, Frank?”
“I think Val Dooley has put out the word he’s hiring guns.”
“Then my hunch was right. They’re plannin’ on hittin’ this town.”
“That would be my guess.”
“Oh, hell!” The marshal heaved himself out of the chair and stalked around the room. “That damn Val Dooley.”
“It’s a good-sized town, Tom. With lots of capable-appearing men in it. Just pass the word and tell the men to go armed.”
Tom shook his head. “Val’s not a stupid person, Frank. He wouldn’t hit this town head-on. He knows him and his gang would be shot to pieces. No ... he’s got something else in mind.”
“I can’t imagine what.”
“Val’s sly like a fox, Frank. Not brilliant, just sly. He’s got something up his sleeve. Bet on that.”
“Then we’ll just have to get ready and stay ready. Not every man in town. Just a dozen that you know will stand when it gets rough.”
“Good idea.” Tom was thoughtful for a moment, then added, “And can keep their mouths shut. I don’t want to throw this town into a panic.”
“Yes. That too.”
Tom finished his coffee as he stood by the front window, gazing out into the broad street. He turned to look at Frank. “You’re damn calm about this, Frank.”
“Nothing has happened yet. I’ve been a hunted man, in one way or another, most of my life. I don’t panic easily.”
“This has been a peaceful town for years, Frank. Very little trouble. The town has a lot of women and kids in it.” He paused and shook his head. “I don’t want to see any of them get hurt.”
“Then we’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen.” Frank’s thoughts immediately leaped to Lara Whitter. He tried to push them away. He could not. She stayed in his mind, smiling at him.
“You have a funny look on your face, Frank,” Tom remarked. “What are you thinking about?”
“This town and the people in it.” Not really a lie.
Tom gave him an odd look, then plopped his hat on his head and headed for the door. “I’m goin’ to start talkin’ to a few people. It’s time to get the home militia set up.”
“I’ll be around,” Frank said.
Little Ed Simpson had thrown his breakfast all over his cell and out into the corridor. He sat on his bunk and stared defiantly at Frank.
“Clean it up,” Frank told him.
“Go to hell!”
Frank shrugged that off. “Then it can stay there and rot and stink. I don’t care.”
“Fine with me,” Little Ed replied. “My pa’s gonna kill you anyways.”
“Doubtful, boy. Real doubtful.”
“Nobody shoves my pa around and gets away with it.”
“I didn’t shove him around, boy. I knocked him around.”
“You say!” Little Ed sneered.
Frank turned away and walked out of the cell block.
“You’re a dead man, Morgan!” Little Ed shouted. “I’ll spit on your grave!”
Frank closed the door behind him and stepped out onto the boardwalk, looking up and down the street. Foot traffic was picking up in the town, men going to work, women going shopping, kids playing. A peaceful scene in a nice town.
“Morning, Deputy Morgan.” The voice came from Frank’s left.
He turned to gaze into the blue eyes of Lara Whittier. “Morning, ma’am.” Frank took off his hat and stared at her. A vison of loveliness, for sure.
“It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it, Deputy?”
“It sure is, ma’am. And would you please call me Frank?”
“Only if you call me Lara.”
“That would be my pleasure, Ma’ ... ah, Lara.”
“Thank you, Frank.”
“How’s that boy of yours?”
“Which one?” she asked, her eyes clouding somewhat.
“Beg pardon?”
The clouds drifted away and she smiled. “Forgive me. But sometimes my husband behaves like a little boy.” The clouds blew back in, darkening the blue. “A mean, spiteful little boy.”
“I’m . . . sorry to hear that.”
She lifted a dainty, gloved hand. Unusual gloves, Frank noticed. The fingers w
ere exposed. Dumb gloves, Frank thought. What the hell good are they?
“Oh, I shouldn’t burden you with my problems,” she said.
“I don’t mind a bit, Lara.”
She locked her cool blue eyes onto his pale gray eyes. “You’re entirely too easy to talk to, Frank.”
Frank smiled. “Big Ed Simpson might not agree with you about that.”
She returned his smile. “That man is a pig. I despise him. And his wife is so foul-mouthed, few women in town will have anything to do with her.”
“So I heard.”
Lara arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Tom told me.”
“Tom is a fine man. He’s a good marshal. People didn’t think so until the day he stood up to Ed Simpson. Feelings changed after that.”
“I heard he backed him down.”
“He sure did! It was a pleasure to see.”
“You saw it?”
“Yes. Much of the town did. It was a sight to behold, and that is a fact. Big Ed facing Marshal Tom with a shotgun in his hands. Ed swore he’d kill him for that. But obviously, that didn’t happen.”
Frank wondered why Lara Whitter was out walking about so early in the day. And dressed to the nines as well.
Lara swirled her little parasol and looked at Frank. “My husband says you are a vicious killer, Frank. Is he correct in that assumption?”
“I certainly don’t think so.”
“But you have killed men?”
“Yes. Of course. But they were trying to kill me.”
“Umm. Well . . . you were defending yourself then?”
“Yes.”
“Were you ever married, Frank?”
“Once. My wife is dead.”
“Yes. I read about that in some magazine. Tragic. And you have a son.”
“Who doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
“I read that as well. That’s so sad.”
Frank shrugged that off. “I don’t give it much thought anymore. He’s a man grown now. It’s his decision to make.”
“Umm. Yes. Well . . . would you walk me back to my house, Frank?”
“Of course. It would be my pleasure.”
Frank took Lara’s arm and they began strolling up the boardwalk. The gunfighter and the lady.
They were greeted by merchants and customers alike as they walked slowly up the town’s main street . . . and received many curious looks.
Imposter Page 5
