Imposter

by William W. Johnstone

  “Like what, Lara?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Kidnap me, or something equally awful.” She smiled and shook her head. “I’m being silly and I know it. But he really frightens me.”

  “More than your husband?”

  “Much more. John is out of my life now, and I intend to keep him out. I shall file for a divorce as soon as possible.”

  “Is there another attorney in town?”

  “No. But I can go over to another town and file. Perhaps you could escort me, Frank. Would you do that?”

  “Sure. If you don’t mind getting the town’s gossips really going.”

  “I don’t care. A lot of them already think of me as a scarlet woman.”

  “I’m sure they’re wrong.”

  “Are you, Frank?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve known me only a few days, Frank. Which means you don’t know me at all. How can you be so sure?”

  “I trust my instincts.”

  “And what do your instincts tell you about... well, us?” Her eyes were unblinking as they met his.

  “I honestly don’t know how to answer that, Lara. Not yet.”

  “You’ll tell me when you have a clear answer?”

  “Oh, yes, Lara. You may be assured of that.”

  She dabbed at her lips with a napkin and reached for her purse.

  “Your meals are on me, Lara. I’ve arranged for the waitress to put them on my tab. She likes you a lot.”

  “Clemmie is a nice person. We’ve been friends since the first day I arrived in town.”

  “Morgan!” The shout came from the street. “Morgan! Get out here.”

  “Who is that?” Lara asked, looking at the man standing in the middle of Main Street.

  “I don’t know,” Frank said. “Never saw him before.”

  “I know you’re in there, Morgan,” the man yelled. “Come out here and face me.”

  Frank pushed back his chair and stood up. “I’d better go see what he wants, as if I didn’t know.”

  “What do you mean?” Lara asked.

  “He’s a gunslick. Or he thinks he is. He wants a reputation, or he thinks he does.”

  “I don’t understand, Frank.”

  “He wants to kill me.”

  Every man in the café was silent, listening to Frank, watching him, wondering what Frank would do.

  Frank turned to the café patrons. “Anybody know that fellow?”

  “I never saw him before, Mr. Morgan,” the waitress, Clemmie, said. “He’s not from around here.”

  “Stay inside, Lara,” Frank said. “This won’t take long.”

  Before Lara could respond, Frank was walking out the door. He walked to the edge of the boardwalk and looked out at the man standing in the street. Mid-twenties, Frank figured. Tied-down gun. Looking for trouble.

  “I’m Morgan,” Frank said. “What do you want?”

  “You!” the young man yelled.

  “Why?”

  “To kill you!”

  Frank shook his head at that. “I don’t know you, boy. Why do you want to kill me?”

  “ ’Cause you’re Frank Morgan, that’s why.”

  “You have something against my name, boy?”

  That seemed to confuse the young man. He frowned for a few seconds. “You know what I mean, Morgan.”

  “I really don’t, boy. Perhaps you might explain it.”

  “I heard from the stage driver you was here in town. I come lookin’ for you. Does that make it clear?”

  “No.”

  “Well, what the hell else do you want me to say?” the young man hollered. “Damn, are you dumb or somethin’?”

  “I’m a deputy marshal, boy. Not an outlaw. Even if you did succeed in killing me—which you won’t do, I can assure you of that—it would only bring you grief. Why don’t you get back on your horse and ride out of here?”

  “Step out into the street, Morgan!”

  “I don’t have the time nor the inclination to mess around with you, boy. Now, go away and leave me alone.”

  “Why would killin’ you bring me grief, Morgan?” Before Frank could reply, the would-be gunhawk said, “I think it would bring me lots of fame and glory. That’s what I think. And women too.”

  Frank laughed at him.

  “Don’t you laugh at me, Morgan. Don’t you do it. I won’t stand for that. No, sir, I won’t tolerate none of that.”

  “Well, now, boy, I sure wouldn’t want to do anything to make you angry.”

  “Are you funnin’ with me, Morgan?”

  “You might call it that.”

  A crowd had gathered on both sides of the street, staying well out of the line of fire if gunplay should occur.

  “I’m ready to kill you, Morgan!”

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Ben Hampton. Why?”

  “As I have said so many times, Ben, to so many men just like you, a man should have his headstone marked.”

  “Huh? The headstone is gonna have your name on it, Morgan. And I’m gonna have the fame and glory of bein’ the man who killed Frank Morgan.” He paused for a second or two. “What happened to them other men you just mentioned?”

  “They’re dead, Ben,” Frank said softly.

  “Well, you ain’t gonna kill me, Morgan. I’m sure of that.”

  Frank said nothing in reply.

  “Is there a newspaper in this town, Morgan?”

  “A small weekly, yes.”

  “I want this wrote up so everybody can read about it.”

  “I’m sure it will be, Ben.”

  “You ready, Morgan?”

  “No. But it’s your play, Ben.”

  “Now!” the young man shouted, and reached for his six-gun.

  FOURTEEN

  Just as Ben’s hand curled around the butt of his pistol, Frank’s .45 boomed. The slug slammed into the young man’s right shoulder and he staggered back. He stumbled and fell to the street, landing on his butt. He had pulled his six-gun from leather on the way down. The pistol cracked and Ben shot himself in the right foot, blowing off several toes.

  “Oh, God!” he hollered, dropping his pistol to the dirt of the street. “I done shot myself! Oh, Lord. I blowed my own foot off!” He reached for his six-gun again just as Frank approached and kicked the pistol away, out of Ben’s reach.

  “You’ve had enough, boy,” Frank told him.

  Ben fell over in the dirt and cussed.

  Sheriff Davis and his deputies had walked out of the hotel to stand on the boardwalk and witness the entire affair.

  Doc Evans came out of his office, carrying his medical bag. He walked out into the street. The doctor knelt down beside the wounded young man, took one look, and called to a group of men standing on the boardwalk in front of the Bluebird Café. “Some of you boys carry this man over to my office, please. Hurry. He’s bleeding badly.”

  “I ain’t got no foot, Doc!” Ben cried.

  “Oh, your foot’s still there,” Doc Evans told him. “But you’re going to be minus several toes, for sure.”

  “I’m a cripple!” Ben hollered.

  “But you’re alive, son,” Doc Evans said. “That’s more than most men who braced Frank Morgan can say.”

  “It’s all your fault,” Ben yelled, looking at Frank. “You’re the cause of this.”

  Frank said nothing. He ejected the empty brass and slipped in a fresh round.

  “Odd way to look at it, boy,” Doc Evans said. “You braced Frank and he tried to talk you out of it.”

  Ben yelled in pain as the men picked him up and toted him away to the doctor’s office. “Take him to the examining room,” Doc Evans said. “And pull what’s left of that boot off his foot, please.”

  “This is gonna hurt somethin’ awful, ain’t it, Doc?” Ben yelled.

  “It isn’t going to be a lot of fun.”

  “Oh, God!” Ben moaned.

  “That was good shooting, Frank,” Doc said. “You could have k
illed him.”

  “I didn’t want to kill him, Doc.”

  The doctor nodded his understanding. “Well, let me go wash up. I’ve got some cutting and sawing to do.”

  “Sounds like a wonderful way to start the day.”

  “This is a cakewalk compared to my time in the Army during the Civil War.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “Did you see a lot of action, Frank?”

  “I was at Gettysburg and Antietam, to name only a couple of battles.”

  “Enough said. See you, Frank.”

  Frank turned just as Sheriff Davis walked out to meet him. “We’ll be heading out after breakfast, Frank. My men are provisioning up now.”

  “Good luck in finding your sister, Sheriff.”

  Sheriff Davis nodded and turned away, then paused and looked back at Frank. “I think you’re the fastest gunhand I’ve ever seen, Frank. And I’ve seen some of the best. Did you deliberately place that shoulder shot?”

  “Yes.”

  Davis arched an eyebrow. “Incredible shooting.” He touched the brim of his hat. “See you in a few days.”

  “Luck to you, Sheriff.”

  Frank walked back to the Blue Bird Café. Lara was waiting on the boardwalk. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You might have been hurt.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “He could have killed you!”

  “He didn’t.”

  She stamped her foot. “Frank, are you always this matter-of-fact after a life-and-death situation?”

  “Lara, I’ve been in a hundred gunfights over the years.” Probably more than that, he thought. A lot more. “I haven’t come out of all of them unscathed. But I’m still alive.”

  “Unscathed,” she whispered. “Frank, you don’t talk like a gunfighter.”

  “How does a gunfighter speak, Lara? I’ve known gunslicks who were illiterate, and I’ve known some who were educated men. John Holliday, for one. He was called Doc. Then were was Cold Chuck Johnny, Black Jack Bill, Dynamite Sam, Dark Alley Jim, Six-Toed Pete. There are dozens of gunfighters still around, Lara. Some can’t read or write. Others have fine educations.”

  “And the young man who confronted you just a few minutes ago?”

  “I don’t know, Lara. I never saw him before today.”

  “Yet he wanted to kill you. Why?”

  “For a reputation, Lara. He wanted to be known as the man who killed Frank Morgan.”

  Both of them watched as a local shoveled dirt over the bloodstains in the street.

  “I would love to go back East, Frank. Back to civilization. Would you like to go back East?”

  “Not particularly, Lara. I’m a Western man. Born and bred out here. I would be as out of place in the East as a fish out of water.”

  “You could change your life.”

  Frank shook his head. “No, I couldn’t. But don’t think I haven’t thought about it. I have. I’m a known gunfighter, Lara. The genteel folks would look at me like a scientist looks at a bug. I wouldn’t feel right without a gun. Folks don’t carry guns in the East. Not legally anyway. You’ve got uniformed police officers on every corner in New York City, but yet from what I read, New York City still has lots of crime. I think every place that has disarmed the citizens has seen a rise in crime. That’s not for me. I don’t want to be dependent on someone to protect me—because they usually don’t. I can protect myself.”

  “You might change your mind, Frank.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  Lara smiled and stepped off the boardwalk, heading back to the hotel.

  Frank went to the livery and saddled Stormy. He swung into the saddle. “Come on, Dog. You need some exercise. Let’s hit the trail for an hour or so.”

  On the way out of town, Frank saw Marshal Wright walking toward the café. “I’m going for a ride, Tom. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Unless I come up on something I think I need to check out.”

  “Be careful, Frank. The Simpson spread damn near circles the town. Get on that range and you’ll be a target.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Tom didn’t know it, but Frank had carefully studied maps of the country around the town and knew very well the boundaries of the Simpson range. He would avoid the Simpson range if possible, but if he needed to cross any part of that range, he would do so, and if Big Ed Simpson didn’t like it, he could go to hell.

  Another reason for Frank’s wanting to get out of town for a time was that he needed to be alone to think. About Lara. She was in his thoughts much of the time and that bothered Frank. He didn’t need a woman in his life at this time. Didn’t want a woman in his life.

  So what should he do about Lara?

  Frank immediately pushed Lara out of his mind as he spotted the approach of several riders, heading straight toward him. He reined up and waited, his right hand near the butt of his Peacemaker.

  Frank had seen the men in town and had had them pointed out to him. Three Simpson hands, and Frank sensed them to be primed and cocked for trouble.

  “Morning, boys,” Frank said, greeting the trio.

  “Morgan,” one of the men said. “You’re a little out of your territory, ain’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You ain’t got no authority outside of town,” another said.

  “Wrong,” Frank replied. “Since the county sheriff’s office is a hard two-day ride from town, Marshal Tom is a county deputy, and so am I.”

  “Well, that don’t spell horse crap to us,” the third one said. “What are you doin’ out here?”

  “What I’m doing is none of your damned business,” Frank told him.

  “Watch that dog,” the first one said. “If he makes a jump, shoot him.”

  “And one second later, the shooter will be dead,” Frank said, considerable heat in his voice. “And two seconds after that, the other two will be dead.”

  “Huh?” the Simpson hand blurted out. “You’d kill a man over a damn dog?”

  “You’d hang a man for rustling one of your herd of cattle or stealing a horse, wouldn’t you?” Frank challenged.

  The trio of hands shifted in the saddle. “I reckon so,” one reluctantly admitted.

  “You boys go on about your business and I’ll go on with mine. Have a nice day.” Frank lifted the reins and rode on without looking back. Dog silently padded along beside him. At a curve in the wagon road, Frank reined up and looked back. The trio of Simpson hands were heading into town. None of them looked back at Frank.

  “Some folks just don’t seem to like you, Dog,” Frank said to the big cur.

  Dog bared his teeth at that.

  “Might be your general attitude,” Frank said. “You’ll have to work on that some, I reckon. What do you say about it?”

  Dog walked over to a bush and relieved himself.

  Frank laughed. “My sentiments exactly.”

  Frank rode on, deliberately cutting onto Simpson land. He rode for a couple of miles, enjoying the peace and quiet of the morning. Cattle grazed all around him, fat and sleek on the grass. Dog suddenly broke into a short run, getting a few yards in front of Stormy and stopping. Frank quickly reined up, knowing that the big cur had sensed danger. He looked all around him, but could see nothing.

  “All right, Dog,” Frank said. “We’ll play it your way.” Frank headed into the thick timber and swung down, ground-reining Stormy. He pulled his rifle from the scabbard and knelt down behind a tree, waiting.

  Dog came to his side and bellied down. He had done his job.

  Frank heard the riders before he saw them. The one in the lead was Little Ed Simpson. Directly behind him was a man with his hands tied behind his back. Behind him rode three Simpson hands.

  Little Ed reined up not far from where Frank was kneeling down. “This tree will do,” he said, his voice carrying to Frank. “We’ll hang the sodbuster right here.”

  Frank stepped out from behind the t
ree. “No, you won’t, Ed.”

  FIFTEEN

  Little Ed and the hands from the Simpson ranch froze in their saddles as they looked at Frank standing with his. 44-40 rifle pointed at them. Little Ed was the first to speak.

  “You don’t have no authority out here, Morgan.”

  “Wrong, Ed,” Frank told him. “I’ve got authority anywhere in this county. Now cut that man loose.”

  “You go to hell, Morgan!” Little Ed snapped.

  Frank jacked back the hammer on his rifle, the sound carrying clearly in the cool morning air. “Any of you start trouble, you get the first bullet, Ed. Now cut that man loose!”

  One of the Simpson hands swiftly released the bound man.

  “Ride over here to me,” Frank told the man. “But don’t get between us. Come on.”

  “My pa will kill you for this!” Little Ed shouted.

  “I doubt it,” Frank replied. He cut his eyes to the just-released man. “Who are you and what brought all this on?”

  “I was sitting on my front porch having a cup of coffee with my wife,” the farmer said, stepping down from the saddle. “These men come up, slapped my wife around, and tied me up like a hog for slaughter. Said they was gonna hang me for stealing cattle. Deputy, I ain’t never stole nothing in my life. This has all got to do with Big Ed Simpson’s land grab. He wants all the land in this area.”

  “What about that, Ed?” Frank called. “What proof do you have this man stole cattle from you?”

  “I don’t need no damn proof!” Little Ed said. “He was seen on our land. That’s good enough for me.”

  “I was hunting for game,” the farmer said. “Nothing more than that. Up until a few weeks ago, the land I was on belonged to Paul Hansen. Big Ed’s hands run him and his family off and took the land. And that’s the truth. Are you really Frank Morgan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Heard you was in town. Couldn’t believe it.”

  “You want to press charges?” Frank asked.

  “Would it do any good?”

  “Sure, it would.”

  “Then I’ll press charges.”

  “Ed, you and your hands drop your guns on the ground. Do it carefully.”

  “Hell with you, Morgan!” a Simpson hand yelled, and grabbed for his pistol.