Imposter

by William W. Johnstone

  “I don’t figure that’s any of your affair, Morgan,” King said. “Far as I know, it’s still a free country.”

  “I can make it my business.”

  Red held up a hand. “Easy, Morgan. We’re just passin’ through.”

  “Plan on staying long?”

  “Maybe. All depends.”

  “On what?”

  Before either of the gunslicks could reply, a drunk staggered out of the Purple Lily and began cussing loudly.

  “How vile,” a local woman said, stepping up onto the boardwalk. “Deputy, I demand you do something about that miscreant.”

  “Certainly, ma’am,” Frank said, touching the brim of his hat.

  Before Frank could make a move toward the drunk, a friend of the man came out and led him back into the saloon.

  “Problem solved, ma’am,” Frank said with a smile.

  The woman gave Frank a dirty look, gave Lara an even dirtier one, harrumphed loudly, and walked on.

  “Mrs. Hockstedler,” Lara said when the woman had walked beyond earshot. “One of the town’s most active busybodies.”

  “See you around, Morgan,” Idaho Red said. He and King Burke walked back across the street and entered the Purple Lily.

  “I think there will soon be talk about us,” Frank said.

  “There already is,” Lara replied. “The town’s gossip machine has been very busy.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “I’m not,” Lara replied. “I’m not a bit sorry.” She smiled at him, twirled her little parasol, and strolled on up the boardwalk.

  Frank watched her move away, and it was quite a sight. He reluctantly pulled his gaze away from her departing figure and took off his Stetson, scratching his head at her final remark. He concluded that he would never be able to figure out women, and the best thing for him to do would be to stop trying.

  Frank walked over to the Purple Lilly and stood at the end of the bar. When he caught the bartender’s eyes, he ordered coffee. The bartender very reluctantly poured him a cup and set it down in front of him.

  “I hope you won’t be staying long, Morgan.”

  “Are you trying to hurt my feelings?” Frank asked with a smile.

  The bartender gave him a dirty look and moved away.

  “Morgan!” His name was harshly called out from the rear of the saloon.

  Frank slowly turned. A man was standing in the shadows. “Do I know you?”

  “Yeah, you do, Morgan. You killed my partner, Bud Jenkins, a few years back. Remember him?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. He was a back-shooting, woman-molesting piece of crap, as I recall.”

  “Damn you!” the man shouted. “He was my pard.”

  “He was a sorry piece of trash. What’s your name?”

  “Lon. Lon Bailey.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember you. A horse thief and back-shooter. You’re wanted for murder in Texas, right?”

  “Goddamn you!” Lon yelled.

  “What do you want, Bailey?”

  “You, Morgan!”

  Frank laughed, picked up his mug of coffee with his left hand, and took a sip. “What do you think you’re going to do with me, Lon?”

  “I’m goin’ to kill you.”

  “Doubtful, Lon. Real doubtful.”

  “I’m ready to do it, Morgan. How ’bout you?”

  “Naw. I think I’ll finish my coffee. This is really good coffee. You should try some, Lon. It might calm you down.”

  “I don’t want no damn coffee!”

  “That’s a shame. I would think you might want to live a bit longer. But”—Frank shrugged his shoulders—“I guess not.”

  “I ain’t gonna die, Morgan!” Lon shouted. “You gonna be the one who dies! And I’m gonna be the one who kills you. What do you think about that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “That’s what I said, Lon. Is something wrong with your hearing?”

  “Huh?”

  “Must be,” Frank said after taking another sip of coffee.

  “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with my hearin’, Morgan!”

  “Good, Lon. Not that it matters much to me.”

  Lon cussed for a moment, then said, “Are you gonna put that damn coffee cup down and face me, Morgan?”

  “As soon as I finish it, Lon. Don’t be in such a hurry to die.”

  “I ain’t gonna die, Morgan!”

  “Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?”

  “Huh?”

  Frank sighed.

  “I don’t need no convincin’, Morgan,” Lon said defiantly. “I’m better than you and I know it.”

  “A lot of men have said that, Lon. I’m still here. I’d give that a lot of thought if I was you. A lot of thought.”

  “I don’t need to ponder nothin’ neither, Morgan. I know what you’re doin’. You’re tryin’ to confuse me, ain’t you?”

  “I’m trying to save your life.”

  “Bull!”

  With that comment still hanging in the air, Frank set his coffee cup on the bar and turned to face Lon Bailey. “You ready, Lon?” Frank asked softly.

  Lon paled and took a step backward. Reality had suddenly slapped him in the face and uncertainty now gripped him in a trembling hand. “I ... reckon I am, Morgan. Make your play, Drifter.”

  “This is your show, Lon. You wanted this. Not me. You want a gunfight, you start it.”

  Those seated close to Lon and those standing close to Frank began edging away, out of the line of fire.

  “You killed my pard, Morgan,” Lon said.

  “So you said.”

  “He was a friend of mine.”

  “You said that too.”

  “I got to even things up for him. I think that’s my sworn duty.”

  “You need to do some more thinking about that, Lon.”

  “Huh?”

  The man is not a mental giant, Frank thought. “Your friend braced me, Lon. I didn’t start it.”

  “You still killed him.”

  “No doubt about that.”

  “I reckon I’m ready, Morgan.”

  “Then drag iron, Lon. Let’s get this over with. I’m tired of waiting. I want another cup of that good coffee.”

  “What you done drunk’s gonna be leakin’ out of your belly, Morgan!”

  Frank waited in silence.

  “Pull on me, Morgan!” Lon shouted.

  “Sorry, Lon. You wanted this, you start it.”

  “Damn you, Morgan! You’re yellow.”

  Frank only smiled at that.

  “Now, Morgan!” Lon’s hand snaked for his six-gun.

  TEN

  Lon had just cleared leather when Frank’s bullet tore into his lower chest. Lon stumbled backward, fell against a table, then slid to the floor. He tried to raise his six-gun, tried to cock it, but could do neither. He seemed to have no strength left in his right arm and hand.

  “You bastard!” he weakly cursed Morgan.

  “It was your game, Lon,” Frank told him. “You wanted to play.”

  “It wasn’t ’posed to be me on the floor, Morgan.”

  Frank said nothing in reply.

  “Damn you!” Lon said as he dropped his pistol.

  “There’s Doc Evans!” a local called from the batwings. “I’m wavin’ him over here.”

  “Maybe I won’t die,” Lon said.

  “And maybe pigs fly,” a hardcase said after looking down at Lon’s wound. “You’re hard hit, Lon.”

  “Well, that’s a hell of a thing to tell a man, Orvis!”

  Orvis Handy, Frank thought. From down in the Cherokee Strip. I thought he looked familiar.

  “It’s the truth, Lonnie,” Orvis said.

  “Kill Morgan for me, Orvis,” Lon said.

  “That’s a hell of a thing to ask me to do.”

  Before Lon could reply, Doc Evans pushed his way through the swinging batwings and looked at Frank.

  Frank shrugg
ed his shoulders. “No way out of it, Doc. And I did try.”

  “I’m sure you did, Frank.” He walked over to where Lon lay and squatted down, placing his medical bag on the floor.

  “Can I have a drink, Doc?” Lon asked. “I feel sorta weak all over more than anything else.”

  “It won’t hurt you,” the doctor said. “You’re bad hit, mister. I have to tell you that.”

  “Am I gonna die, Doc?”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”

  “Oh, my Lord!” Lon hollered.

  “You want me to call for the preacher, Doc?” the bartender asked.

  “Don’t ask me,” Doc Evans said. “Ask this poor fellow on the floor.”

  “How about it, Lon? You want a gospel shouter to look on you?”

  “Oh, hell, yes, I does!” Lon said.

  “Somebody go fetch Preacher Bankson,” the bartender called. “You, Ned. You ain’t doin’ nothin’. Go get him.”

  “You reckon he’ll come into a saloon?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Ask him. Go on with you.”

  The shock of the bullet wound wore off and Lon began groaning as the sudden pain hit him hard. “Gimme somethin’ for the pain, Doc!” he hollered. “I can’t stand it.”

  Frank motioned for the bartender to refill his coffee cup.

  “You’re a cold one, Morgan,” the bartender remarked as he poured the coffee. “I never in my borned days seen anyone so cold.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Frank asked. “Lead a prayer service?”

  The bartender gave him a dirty look and walked away.

  Frank sipped his coffee and waited.

  “Oh, my!” a man uttered as he entered the saloon. He carried a Bible in one hand. “Lead me to the poor unfortunate wretch so I can pray him into heaven.”

  “Heaven!” Lon hollered. “Hell with that. I want someone to patch me up. I ain’t ready to go to heaven!”

  “Here, now,” Preacher Bankson said. “Everyone wants to go to heaven.”

  “But don’t nobody want to die,” Orvis added.

  “I shore as hell don’t!” Lon said.

  Doc Evans stood up. “I can’t do a thing for you,” he told the wounded man. “The bullet tore you up real bad. Make your peace with God.”

  “Oh, Lord!” Lon hollered.

  “He hears you, son,” Preacher Bankson said, squatting down beside Lon. “I’ll pray for you.”

  “Thank you, Parson,” Lon said. “But could you get me some laudanum too?”

  Doc Evans dug in his bag and handed Orvis a bottle of painkiller. “Let him sip this. It’ll ease the pain some.”

  Preacher Bankson began praying and Lon took a swig of laudanum. Doc Evans joined Frank at the bar.

  “Good coffee, Morgan?”

  “It’ll do.”

  Doc Evans motioned for the bartender to bring him a cup. Coffee poured and sugared, Doc Evans said, “What brought on this shooting, Morgan?”

  “Lon did. Too many hired guns in this little town, Doc. Something is definitely in the wind. And it stinks.”

  “It’s a rich town, Morgan. And Val Dooley knows it. I’ve thought for some time it would be a prize for him.”

  “Could be. Something is sure building up to pop.”

  “I’m fadin’!” Lon shouted as another wave of pain hit him hard. “Bury me deep so’s the coyotes can’t git at me.”

  Doc Evans glanced over at the dying man. “Your bullet tore up his innards, Morgan. He won’t last long.”

  “He brought this on himself, Doc. I can’t work up much sympathy for him.”

  Marshal Wright walked into the saloon, rubbing his face. He walked over to Frank and Doc Evans. “I was taking a nap before supper,” he admitted without a hint of guilt in his voice. “Damn good nap too. What brought all this on, Frank?”

  “Lon Bailey wanted to kill me. He didn’t make it.”

  “I can see that,” Tom replied. “Why’d he want to kill you?”

  “I shot a friend of his a few years back.”

  Tom looked longingly at the cups of coffee on the bar. “That coffee smells good.”

  Frank waved at the bartender and he brought the pot and a cup. “Afternoon, Clarence,” Tom said to the man as his cup was filled.

  “Marshal. Did you just have to hire this man as a deputy?” He cut his eyes to Frank.

  “Seemed like a wise thing to do, Clarence. You have a problem with Frank?”

  The bartender looked at Frank for a second, then dropped his gaze and mumbled, “I reckon not.” He moved away.

  “You’re not very popular in here, Frank,” the marshal said, sugaring his coffee.

  “I’m all broken up about that, Tom,” Frank replied. “I’ll probably go back to the hotel and cry myself to sleep.”

  “I’m sure,” Tom said dryly.

  “The angels is a-comin’ to carry me home!” Lon yelled.

  “That’s the spirit, son,” Preacher Bankson said.

  “That’s the laudanum I gave him,” Doc Evans said. “He’s already drank the whole damn bottle.”

  “He’s bleedin’ all over my floor,” the bartender said. “Cain’t y’all tote him out of here?”

  “Oh, shut your blow-hole!” Orvis told him. “Let the man croak in peace.”

  Clarence shrugged his shoulders and went back to polishing glasses.

  “Croak?” Lon asked. “I really am dyin’?”

  “Yes,” Orvis said. “Can I have your horse, Lonnie?”

  “What a terrible thing to ask of a dying man!” Preacher Bankson shouted. “You’re a heartless heathen!”

  “I ain’t neither!” Orvis said. “Lonnie’d want me to have his horse. It’s a damn fine horse and I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’d like to have his guns,” another man said. “Them’s Colts and I could use ’em.”

  “Another heathen!” Bankson said. “Is there no compassion in any of you?”

  “I’ll take his boots,” yet another gunslick said. “They look like they’d fit me and mine’s ’bout all wore out.”

  “Oh, my Lord, spare me this!” Bankson intoned.

  “Does that leave anything for me?” another gun-for-hire asked, walking closer to the dying man.

  “Y’all can take anything you want,” Lon said, his voice growing weaker. “I shore as hell won’t have no use for none of it.”

  “You’re a good man, Lonnie,” Orvis said.

  “The shame of it all,” Bankson said, shaking his head. “Lord, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

  “I does too,” the gunslick who wanted Lon’s Colts protested. “You don’t bury a man with his guns. That ain’t decent.”

  “How long is this going to go on?” Marshal Wright asked the doctor.

  Doc Evans shook his head and took a sip of coffee. “Might go on for hours. But I rather doubt it.”

  “My wife’s ’bout got supper ready,” Tom replied. “Beefsteak and mashed potatoes and gravy. I don’t want that to get cold.”

  “Go on home, Tom,” Frank told him. “I’ll do the paperwork after Lon expires.”

  “Thanks, Frank. I’ll take you up on that. See you, Doc.” Tom swallowed the last of his coffee and walked out of the Purple Lily.

  “Git over and do something, Doc,” Lon said. “You can beat back these angels, can’t you? I don’t want to die.”

  “You should have thought about that before you braced Frank Morgan,” Doc Evans replied. “There is nothing I can do for you now.”

  “Oh, Lord!” Lon said. “Them angels is gettin’ closer.”

  “I wish they’d hurry up,” Clarence muttered. “This is bad for business.”

  “And you called me cold?” Frank questioned the barkeep.

  “Well, I didn’t kill him, Morgan. You did!”

  “Them’s dark angels,” Lon hollered. “I don’t like them angels. I don’t think thems angels a-tall.”

  “Fight the demons, boy!” Preacher Bankson thundere
d. “Fight them. The devil’s sent his minions to get you! I’m praying for you . . .” He looked down at Lon. “What’s your name anyway?”

  “Lon Bailey.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The devil’s done sent his what?” Orvis asked.

  “Don’t interrupt me whilst I’m talking to the Lord.”

  “Excuse me,” Orvis said.

  “That’s all right. You get down here on your knees beside me and start praying, you heathen. Your soul is in danger too.”

  “You mean them dark minnows is comin’ after me too?”

  “Minions, not minnows! Yes. That’s a possibility.”

  “Oh, Lord!” Orvis hollered, and fell down to his knees. “Save me!”

  “Beg for forgiveness, you heathen!” Bankson yelled. “Your soul is in dire need of spiritual help.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Orvis said.

  “I thought this was my death,” Lon said. “Who the hell invited Orvis?”

  “Will you hurry up and die!” a gunhand said. “I want to try out them Colts.”

  “Good Lord!” Doc Evans mumbled. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  “Wahooo!” Lon yelled. “I’m cold. Them dark things is puttin’ their icy hands on me. I’m a-feared!”

  “Don’t be afraid, Don . . .”

  “Lon.”

  “Whatever. I’m with you all the way.”

  “Are you gonna die with him?” Orvis asked.

  “Don’t be an idiot!” Bankson snapped. “I am with him in spirit. You too.”

  “I don’t know about that. I ain’t ready to go.”

  “Them dark things is gettin’ closer!” Lon yelled. “I’m freezin’, I tell you. And I cain’t hep it, I’m a-feared.”

  “Do you believe in whatever Bailey is seeing, Frank?” Doc Evans asked.

  “He’s sure seeing and feeling something.”

  “Hang on, Von!” Bankson hollered.

  “Lon.”

  “I knew that. Hang on, Lon. The Lord is with you.”

  “How come I cain’t see him?” Lon questioned.

  “That’s not his style.”

  “Oh, Jesus!” Lon screamed.

  “That’s the ticket, boy!” Bankson said.

  Lon drummed his boot heels on the floor and stiffened.

  “Good God!” Orvis said, jumping to his feet. “I’m freezin’.”

  “It did get about ten degrees cooler in here,” Doc Evans said. “I sure felt it.”