“Drink some coffee,” Frank suggested.
“I thank he’s done passed away,” a gunslick said, peering over the preacher’s shoulder.
Doc Evans moved quickly to Lon’s side and tried for a pulse. He could find none. He sighed and stood up. “Better get hold of Pennybaker. Tell him we’ve got a body for him.”
“I got first dibs on Lon’s boots!” a gunslick said.
ELEVEN
After Lon’s body was carried off to the undertaker’s, the patrons in the Purple Lilly quickly settled down, returning to their drinking and gambling. Frank stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, away from the ever-lingering smell of stale cigar and cigarette smoke and cheap beer and whiskey. He decided to stroll down to the livery to check on Stormy and feed Dog. After doing that, he returned to the office and prepared to shut it down for the evening.
When he stepped into the office, there was a sealed envelope on the floor; someone had shoved it under the front door. Frank sat down at the desk, tore open the envelope, and read the brief message: Frank, please meet me behind the church at six. It was signed, Lara.
Frank looked at the note, suspicion in his eyes. He really wanted no part of some illicit affair with a married woman, no matter how beautiful the lady might be. It was emotionally and physically dangerous, for if the husband found out and put a bullet in Frank, the townspeople would have no pity for Frank, figuring he got only what he deserved for messing around with a married woman.
But deep down, Frank knew he would meet the woman, for the physical pull of the blue-eyed Lara was strong.
He glanced at the wall clock. Five o’clock. He leaned back in the chair and rolled himself a smoke. “I ought to saddle up and get the hell out of here,” he muttered. “Leave this mess behind me.”
But he knew he wouldn’t do that.
“And I certainly shouldn’t meet Lara.”
But he knew he would.
A few minutes before six, Frank was waiting behind the church, located just off Main Street. The church was surrounded by trees, and it was a beautiful, quite serene setting. Frank felt guilty just being there.
“Hello, Frank,” Lara said, stepping out from the back door of the church.
Frank removed his hat. “Lara. This is dangerous, you know.”
“I know. But this is a very isolated spot and we aren’t likely to be seen here. Besides, what difference does it make if we are seen? We aren’t doing anything. Just talking.”
Frank said nothing.
“I want you to take me away from here, Frank.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Blunt, aren’t I?” she asked with a smile.
“I would certainly say so. You’re married, Lara. I can’t just ride out of town with you. Husbands have been known to object to that sort of thing. Usually violently.”
“My husband is only violent toward women, Frank.”
“He hits you?”
“He beats me. Sometimes with his fists, sometimes with a belt. He beats me into submission.”
Frank did not ask into submission to what.
“Why don’t you leave him, Lara?”
“He won’t let me. He threatens me every time I bring it up. I finally stopped doing that. Let me show you something, Frank.”
Before Frank could say a word, Lara was opening the front of her dress. She was amply endowed and the sight was very disconcerting to Frank . . . to say the least. There was a large bruise on her neck and bruises on her arms, both old and new. There was no doubt she had been beaten and probably choked.
“All right, Lara,” Frank said. “Button up your dress.”
“You doubt me now?”
“I never doubted you, Lara. I just don’t know how to help you. Does he hit the boy?”
“Occasionally. Even though I know he loves Johnny. But I’m very tired of him hitting me.”
“Move out and get a room in the hotel.”
“I have no funds to do that, Frank. John controls the purse strings in our ... home.” She said home with a bitter note in her voice.
Frank was thoughtful for a few seconds, then said, “I have an idea, Lara. If you’re willing.”
“I’ll do almost anything to get away from him.”
“Let’s go see Doc Evans.”
“What good would that do?”
“It would get another person on your side. A person whose word carries a lot of weight in this town.”
“I . . .” She hesitated. “All right, Frank. I’m willing.”
Frank took her arm. “Come on. I’ll walk you to the doctor’s office.”
“People will see us.”
“You care?”
She smiled. “No. I really don’t. Not at this point in my life.”
The gunfighter and the lady walked out of the grove of trees at the rear of the church and strolled up to the boardwalk on the main street of town. There were only a few people on the street, and they all stopped what they were doing to stand and stare at the unlikely couple. Frank opened the door to Doctor Evans’s office and they stepped in. The door to the examining room was open and Doc Evans looked up from his desk, surprise on his face.
“Frank, Mrs. Whitter. Is something the matter?”
“There sure is, Doc,” Frank said. “Lara needs to talk to you.”
“She has a medical problem and she came to you with it?”
“She has a problem, for sure. I’ll just step out of here for a moment and she can show you, Doc.”
“She showed you?” Doc Evans asked. “If she’s already shown you, why are you stepping outside?”
“Doc . . .”
Doc Evans held up a hand. “All right, Frank. All right. Have it your way.”
“I’ll be outside having a smoke.”
Five minutes later, just as Frank was stubbing out his cigarette, Doc Evans stepped out of his office. His hands were clenched into fists and his face was tight with barely controlled rage. “I need a drink,” he said, anger thickening his voice. “But it will have to wait. I saw what John Whitter did to Lara.”
“Fine man, isn’t he?”
“The bastard needs to be horsewhipped.”
“I will certainly go along with that. Did she tell you what she wants to do?”
“Leave him? Yes. Where do you come into this . . . mess?”
“I’ll put her in the hotel. I’ll pick up the tab for it. I can afford it.”
“I’m sure of that. She needs clothing and other women’s things.”
“Then we’ll go to her house and get them.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“The town’s wagging tongues will love this.”
“Hell with them.”
Doc Evans stood beside Frank for a moment, neither man speaking. The doctor finally broke the silence. “You want me to go with you, Frank?”
“I would appreciate it. That would sure still a lot of the town’s gossips.”
“All right. Let me get my coat.”
At the Whitter house, at the end of a quiet street, the trio halted. Lara said, “I saw the curtains move. John always sits by the front window. He knows we’re out here.”
“You want to wait until he steps out onto the porch?” Frank asked.
“No. Because he won’t. He’ll wait to see if you and Dr. Evans go away.”
“Then he suspects you’ve told someone about his beating you?” Doc Evans asked.
“Probably. I wasn’t home to fix his supper, so he knows something is wrong. I’m sure he was all set to beat me for not being home when he got here.”
Doc Evans muttered some very uncomplimentary things under his breath about men who beat women.
“He wants his supper on the table when he gets home,” Lara continued. “And he gets upset when it isn’t.”
“Your boy?” Doc Evans asked.
“He asked my permission to spend the night with the Carter boy. I told him he could. But if he didn’t get out of the house before Jo
hn got home . . .” She shrugged. “He’s probably in the house.”
“I hate that,” Frank said.
“He’s seen his father beat me before,” Lara admitted. “I’m afraid he thinks that’s what all men do.”
“I hate that even worse,” Doc Evans said. “For what you said, Lara, is probably true concerning the boy.”
“Let’s do it,” Frank said, stepping ahead of Lara and the doctor and walking up to the porch. He knocked on the front door.
John Whitter jerked opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, his face dark with anger. He glared at his wife. “What is the meaning of this, Lara?”
“I’m come to get some clothes, John. Kindly step out of the way and let me pass, please.”
“Some clothes? What on earth are you talking about?”
“I’m moving into the hotel for a time, John.”
“The devil you are! I forbid it!”
“You have nothing to say about it.” Lara stood her ground. “I’m leaving you. Now be a gentleman about this matter and get out of the way.”
“Leaving me? You’re leaving me?”
“Yes.”
“That is absurd, Lara. Have you taken leave of your senses? What on earth brought all this on?”
“You’ve beaten me for the last time, John,” Lara stated quietly but firmly.
“Beaten you? You’re accusing me of beating you?” The lawyer laughed at that. “I have never beaten you.”
“Then explain the bruises on her shoulders, arms, back, and stomach, John,” Doc Evans said. “And the marks on her neck and throat.”
“Why . . .” The lawyer flushed, deepening the red already on his face. “She’s a very clumsy person, Doctor. She falls a lot.”
“John,” Lara said. “You’ll have to do better than that. People in this town have seen me dance at social functions. They know I am anything but clumsy.”
“Damn you!” John Whitter yelled. “You’ve been sleeping around with some lowlife!”
“I have not, John. I have never been unfaithful to you.”
There was a note to her voice that convinced both Frank and the doctor that she was telling the truth, and the gossips in the town be damned with their wagging tongues.
“You whore!” John shouted, and lunged at Lara, his right hand balled into a fist.
Frank stepped between them and shoved John back into the house. John stumbled and landed on his butt in the foyer.
“Damn you, Morgan!” John shouted. “Are you sleeping with my whore of a wife?”
“I’m not sleeping with your wife, John, and your wife is not a whore.”
“I say she is!”
“Then you’re wrong, John Whitter. In addition to being a wife-beater.”
“If I have struck her, rarely at best, she provoked me.”
“I’m sure she did, John,” Frank said very dryly. “You’re about a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than your wife, and yet she provoked you. ”
“What damn business is this of yours, gunfighter?” John yelled.
“She came to me, asking for help.”
“And what favors did she bestow upon you for your help?” the lawyer asked, using a very sneering tone as he rose from the floor with as much dignity as he could.
“You’re about to let your butt overload your mouth, Whitter,” Frank warned the man.
“Get out!” Whitter screamed. “Doctor, Morgan, you both get out of my house. You, Lara, you stay. Get in here and forget all this foolishness.”
“I want my clothes, John,” Lara told her husband. “Kindly step out of the way.”
“You go to hell!” John yelled at her.
“Where is Johnny?” Lara asked.
“Spending the night at the Carters’. Thank God he isn’t here to witness this.”
“I will certainly agree with you about that. Now, get out of my way, John.”
“No!”
“Step out of the way, John,” Doc Evans told the man. “It’s a free country and Lara has the right to come and go as she pleases. Either step out of the way or I’ll ask Deputy Morgan to forcibly remove you.”
John struggled with his emotions for a few seconds, his face clearly mirroring his inner fight. Then he waved a hand. “Oh, go get your things. I’m glad to be rid of you.” He stepped out of the way.
Lara looked at Frank and the doctor. “Will you help me with my trunks? And how will I get them to the hotel?”
“Certainly, Lara,” Doc Evans said. “Frank, will you arrange for a buggy?”
“Right now.” Frank stepped out of the house and pushed through the crowd of neighbors that had gathered in the street in front of the Whitter house. He walked to the livery and hitched up a team, then went to the hotel and arranged for a room for Lara. The desk clerk looked at him with a number of questions in his eyes. Frank ignored the look and drove to the Whitter house. The crowd of neighbors had increased.
“What’s going on here, Deputy?” a woman asked.
“Mrs. Whitter is taking a short vacation. That’s all.”
“You mean she’s leaving that bastard?” a man asked. “Good for her. She should have done that a long time ago.”
“Now, Cecil,” the woman beside him cautioned.
Frank ignored the couple and walked on into the house. A pile of luggage was stacked by the front door, and he began loading the trunks onto the buggy.
“You’ll be sorry you had a hand in this, gunfighter,” John told him as Frank once more entered the house. “I have friends in very high places.”
“I’m sure you do,” Frank replied. “Now get the hell out of the way.”
“No!” John yelled, and took a wild swing at Frank.
Frank sidestepped, and John lost his balance and went stumbling out onto the porch, almost knocking down Doc Evans.
“Good God!” the doctor yelled as John went rolling off the porch, to land in a sprawl of arms and legs on the front yard.
Several neighbors standing outside the white picket fence started applauding at the sight.
“Goddamn you all!” John hollered, sitting on his butt on the ground. “Goddamn you all to hell!”
“Pitiful,” Frank said, picking up a trunk. “Just plain pitiful.”
TWELVE
It was well after dark when Frank stepped out of the hotel and rolled a smoke. He had gotten Lara settled in and all her luggage toted up to her room. John had cussed and threatened while they were at the Whitter house, but had not thrown any more punches at Frank. The lawyer was still cussing and yelling as they drove away in the buggy.
Frank walked over to the café for supper, then lingered over a last cup of coffee while the waitress fixed a bag of scraps for Dog. With Dog fed and Stormy looked after, Frank went back to the office, sitting down at the desk, wondering if anything else was going to happen this day.
“Lord, I hope not,” he muttered.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than he heard a shot, then another. Frank took a Greener from the gun rack, stuck a handful of shells into his jacket pocket, checked to see if the double-barreled sawed-off was loaded, and stepped outside.
“It come from down that alley ’crost the street, Deputy,” a local told him, pointing.
“Obliged,” Frank said, and stepped off the boardwalk.
“I seen some Simpson hands ride into town a few minutes ago,” the local called.
“Thanks,” Frank called over his shoulder, and walked on into the night.
When Frank approached the dark mouth of the alley, he moved swiftly and unexpectedly to his right, quickly stepping out of any line of fire. It was a good move, for the night was suddenly alive with gunfire, all of it coming from the darkness of the alley.
Frank dived behind a water trough as other guns in the darkness of the alley joined in the barrage, the lead whining all around him. Frank rolled away from the trough and crawled under the raised boardwalk, crawling as fast as he could to his right, all the while staying under
the protection of the boardwalk. The boardwalk narrowed down to the point where he could no longer stay under it. He rolled out just as a man stepped out of the alley, both hands filled with six-guns.
Frank cut loose with both barrels, the buckshot catching the gunman in the belly, lifting him off his feet, and flinging him backward, almost torn in half.
“Good God!” a man in the alley yelled as the wall of the building was splattered with blood.
“I’m gone!” another gunslick said.
“You wait just a damn minute, Shorty!” another man said. “You ain’t goin’ nowheres. You know what the boss said.”
“Hell with you and the boss!” Shorty said. “I ain’t goin’ up against no Greener at close range. Look what happened to Carl layin’ over yonder. He’s blowed nearly in two. I think I’m gonna puke.”
“Well, don’t puke on me.”
“Shut up, both of you,” a third voice was added. “Shorty, you and Ned circle around the buildin’ and see if you can get a shot at Morgan. Move!”
“What the hell are you gonna be doin,’ Cal?” The question was thrown out of the darkness.
“Holdin’ down this position,” Cal said, his voice calm. “Now you and Ned move out and let’s settle this mess.”
Frank crawled to the edge of the building and looked into the darkness, waiting for someone to show himself in the narrow space between the two businesses. The locals had quickly vacated the street after the first few shots. The boardwalk on both sides of the street was empty of foot traffic.
Someone kicked a tin can at the rear of the building and cussed. Frank waited, the Greener cocked and ready.
“Damnit, Ned.” Frank heard the hoarse whisper. “Watch where you stick your big feet, will you?”
Ned cussed his friend. Then . . . silence.
Frank caught movement from the mouth of the alley and flattened out on the dirt, trying to see under the boardwalk. He caught a glint of light off a spur and pulled the Greener to his shoulder. Another flash of light off the spur and Frank pulled the trigger. The sawed-off roared in the night, the muzzle blast kicking up dust in the confined space under the boardwalk. The dust was enough to severely limit Frank’s vision for a few seconds and cause him to cough.
Cal screamed as his body jerked on the ground in the alley. “My foot!” he yelled. “The bastard blowed my foot off. Oh, God, it hurts. Kill him for me, boys. Kill that damn Drifter. Oh, Christ, I can’t stand the pain.”
Imposter Page 8
