Imposter

by William W. Johnstone

  “Oh, yes. But I think that when we part today, this should be the end of whatever we were building between us.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “I really don’t know, Lara. But you are probably right. I shall, of course, certainly respect your wishes.”

  “I thank you for that, Frank. Will you be leaving early in the morning?”

  “Very early, Lara.”

  “Then I guess this is really good-bye.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I enjoyed knowing you, Frank. However brief it was.”

  “And I enjoyed our time together, Lara.”

  “I shall miss you, Frank Morgan.”

  “I’ll think of you often, Lara.”

  “And I you, Frank. But in time, all memories fade.”

  “I suppose so. What about your son?”

  “That is something that will have to be worked out before I leave.”

  “Tom will help you, and so will Jack and Ginny O’Malley.”

  “I’m sure they will.”

  “Good-bye, Lara.”

  “Good-bye, Frank.”

  Frank turned and walked out of the hotel room, softly closing the door behind him. Just as the door closed, he heard Lara sob. Frank walked away without looking back. He couldn’t afford to look back; Lara’s crying might have induced him into going back East with her, and that was something he knew would be a disaster for him.

  He stood outside the hotel for a time, smoking and looking around the main street of the town. A nice town, full of good, friendly people. If Lara had not decided to go back East, Frank might have tried to make this town his home.

  If, if. Always an if.

  “Mighty fine shootin’ this noon, Mr. Morgan,” a local said as he passed by Frank.

  Frank smiled and nodded his head. That remark brought him back to reality. You’re a gunfighter, Frank, he reminded himself. A fast gun. A pistolero. A professional. You won’t settle down. Not now, not ever. You can’t afford to even consider it... even if you wanted to. Which you really don’t.

  Not really.

  You are what you are, Frank. So just accept the cards and play them. For nobody forced this game on you. You shuffled the deck, you dealt the cards. No one made you sit at the table, buy the chips, and get in this game.

  Frank’s hand touched the butt of his Colt Peacemaker.

  Time to move on, Drifter.

  Drift.

  THIRTY

  Frank made a pot of coffee on the stove in the office of the livery and while the water boiled, he packed up and saddled up. It was four o’clock in the morning.

  In the quiet of predawn, Frank drank coffee and smoked a couple of cigarettes. Dog lay by his boots, every few minutes getting up and padding to the door, then looking back at Frank. He was ready to hit the trail.

  “In a little while, Dog,” Frank told him. “I’m just about ready to head out.”

  In his stall, Stormy stamped his hooves impatiently. The big Appaloosa was anxious to get on the trail.

  After a moment, Frank finished his coffee, made sure the butt of his cigarette was out, and turned down the lamp. He was ready to go.

  Frank led Stormy out of his stall and swung into the saddle. His packhorse was trained to follow; rarely did Frank have to use a lead rope.

  Frank rode out of town, heading west. In a couple of days, he would cut due south. He would make inquiries at every town and country store along the way about the men he was hunting. He would find them, he had no doubts about that. The West was a big place, but most areas were still sparsely populated. He knew that some of the outlaw/rapists were from—or called home—parts of Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas. Others were from Southern and Central California. Jack Rice, one of Val’s lieutenants, was from the Sierra Madre range. Jack was a bad one, an unusually cruel man who enjoyed inflicting a lot of pain on his victims. Jack was one of the men who had brutalized and helped drive mad the silent woman Frank had brought back.

  At noon of the fourth day out, Frank reined up at a small settlement located at a crossroads. It was a two-store, four-house hamlet. The largest store was a combination general store/saloon. Frank looked at the four horses tied at the hitch rail in front, then dismounted, slipped the hammer thong from his Peacemaker, and entered the saloon.

  “Howdy, stranger,” the man behind the bar greeted him. “What’ll it be?”

  “Got any food?”

  “You bet I do. Best stew you ever et, and got some fresh-baked bread to go with it.”

  “Any coffee?”

  “All you can drink. And it’s fresh. I just made it. I’m a coffee-drinkin’ man myself.”

  “Something to eat and a pot of coffee.”

  “Comin’ right up.”

  Frank took a table with his back to a wall, and glanced over at the four men sitting at the rear of the room. They were playing cards, drinking whiskey, and being very careful to avoid looking at him.

  The barkeep brought the stew and bread and a pot of coffee, and leaned close to Frank. “Them ol’ boys is bad ones, I’m thinkin’. They got that look about them.”

  Frank looked up at the man, and the man recognized him and almost recoiled in shock. “Not as bad as I am,” Frank told him very softly.

  “Oh, Lordy, Lordy,” the barkeep whispered. “The Drifter. Frank Morgan. Good God A’mighty.”

  “You stay ready to hit the floor, partner.”

  “Thanks. I done made up my mind to do that.” The man went back behind his bar and busied himself polishing glasses.

  Frank ate his stew, and it was very good eating. It was made with beef and potatoes and onions. The bread was indeed fresh, and the coffee was hot and strong. When he had finished his second bowl of stew, Frank poured another cup of coffee and rolled a smoke.

  “Good grub, mister,” he called. “Best I’ve had in a while.”

  “Thankee. My wife is a good cook. Got some doughnuts too, if you’d like some.”

  “I’ll take a sackful,” Frank told him. “A big sackful. You got any scraps for my dog?”

  “Shore do. I seen that big animal out there. Does he bite?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I’ll fight shy of him then.”

  “Son of a bitch bites me, I’ll kill him,” one of the men at the table said.

  “He won’t bite until you mess with him,” Frank said in a cold voice. “But you harm my dog, I’ll kill you, you and anyone else who wants to buy into the hand.”

  “You talk big, mister.”

  “I can back it up.”

  “I think you gonna have to,” another of the quartet said, pushing back his chair.

  “Anytime you’re ready.”

  “You’re crazy!” another one said. “They’s four of us and one of you.”

  “That’s Frank Morgan,” the barkeep said.

  Frank picked up his coffee cup with his left hand and took a sip.

  The four men were silent for a moment, then one said, “So what? I’m Ted Brown. These boys with me is Hal, Stony, and Slim. Now that we’re all introduced, why don’t you leave, Morgan? Or whatever your name is.”

  “I like it here. And my name is Frank Morgan.”

  “I don’t believe you’re Frank Morgan,” Slim said. “I heard Morgan got killed over in Montana or Wyoming or some damn place.”

  “You heard wrong,” Frank told him.

  “I think you’re a liar, mister,” Stony said. “That’s what I think.”

  “I think you’re a fool,” Frank said coldly.

  “I’ve killed men for less than that.”

  “You won’t kill this man.”

  “You ’bout a smart aleck, ain’t you?”

  Frank smiled and said nothing.

  “He’s skirrred,” Slim said. “I can see it in his eyes. He’s skirred of us.”

  “I wish you boys would take this outside,” the barkeep said.

  “Shut up!” Ted told him.

>   “Yes, sir.”

  Frank waited, seated in his chair, his right hand close to the butt of his Peacemaker. It would be an awkward draw, but he had done it before.

  “You’re skirred of us, ain’t you?” Slim said.

  “No,” Frank said softly.

  “He is too,” Slim insisted.

  The sound of horses stilled the conversation. Two cowboys walked in and greeted the barkeep.

  “Jimmy, Ross,” the barkeep said.

  “You heard the news?” Jimmy asked. Neither of them had paid any attention to the tension in the saloon.

  “What news?”

  “Frank Morgan killed Johnny Vargas ’bout four, five days ago. Little town north and some west of here.”

  The barkeep nodded his head and cut his eyes to Frank. Jimmy and Ross turned and looked.

  “It’s him!” Ross blurted. “That’s Frank Morgan. Damned if it ain’t him sittin’ here drinkin’ coffee.”

  Ted leaned forward and put both his hands on the tabletop, palms down, signaling he was out of this ... all the way out.

  “He tried to tell you boys,” the barkeep said to the quartet. “He shorely did.”

  “I’m listenin’ now,” Ted said.

  “Well, Frank Morgan don’t mean skunk piss to me,” Slim said, standing up.

  “Me neither,” Hal said, standing up beside his partner.

  “I’m out of this,” Stony said. “I’m out of it.”

  Frank stood up.

  Ross and Jimmy backed up, around the end of the bar. The barkeep made ready to duck down.

  “This doesn’t have to be, boys,” Frank said. “Let’s just call it a misunderstanding that got out of hand, how about it?”

  “I told you all he’s yeller,” Slim said. “I told you. Now he’s a-tryin’ to crawfish on us. The yeller dog.”

  “Yeah, he’s as sorry as that damn ugly dog of his’n outside,” Hal said with a laugh.

  Outside, Dog barked.

  “I believe he heard you, Hal,” Frank said.

  “Huh?” Hal questioned. “You tryin’ to tell me that damn dog of yourn can understand people talk? You’re not only yeller, you’re stupid.”

  Frank laughed at the pair.

  “You think this is funny?” Slim yelled.

  “Yes,” Frank replied. “I think so. And I also think the two of you aren’t worth wasting any more of my time. So I think I’ll leave, after I pay for my meal.”

  “It’s on the house, Mr. Morgan,” the barkeep said.

  “Don’t you turn your ass to me, mister!” Hal said. “I’ll plug you if you do. I swear I’ll shoot you.”

  “So now you’re telling me you’re a back-shooter?” Frank asked.

  “Let it drop, Hal,” Stony urged. “The man is givin’ you an out. Take it and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “I ain’t runnin’!” Hal yelled. “Not from no old chicken fart like this one.”

  “You’re a fool,” the barkeep said.

  “You shet your mouth!” Slim told him.

  “No, sir, I won’t do no such of a thing,” the barkeep said. “Morgan give you all a way out. You won’t take it. Now you’re gonna keep pushin’ him and he’s gonna kill you. Then I’ll have me a big mess to clean it. Now, Hal, Slim, you boys sit down and cool off.”

  “Shut your blow-hole!” Slim told him. “Draw, Morgan. Draw or I’ll shoot you where you stand. You understand?”

  “I understand,” Frank said softly.

  “Now!” Hal yelled.

  Both Hal and Slim and grabbed for their pistols.

  Frank’s Peacemaker boomed twice, the shots so close together they were almost as one. Hal and Slim fell back, both of them shot in the chest. Without knowing he did it, and it was very seldom he did, Frank twirled his Peacemaker before settling it back into leather.

  “Good God!” Ross blurted out in a whisper. “He’s fast as lightnin’.”

  Hal groaned on the floor. Slim would never make another sound; he was stone dead and cooling.

  “Can I see to my pard, Morgan?” Stony asked.

  “Go ahead.”

  Stony knelt down on the floor and opened his friend’s shirt. After a moment, he stood up and said, “He ain’t a-gonna make it. He’s hard hit.”

  “I don’t want to die,” Hal groaned.

  “He shoulda thought of that ’fore he braced Frank Morgan,” the barkeep said.

  “It was the whiskey talkin’ in all of us,” Ted said. “It was the whiskey that killed him.”

  “It’s gettin’ mighty dark in here,” Hal said. “Is the sun goin’ down?”

  No one replied.

  Frank poured another cup of coffee and, using his left hand, lifted the cup and took a sip. “You want to fix that bag of scraps for my dog?” he asked the barkeep.

  “I’ll do that right now, Mr. Morgan. You fixin’ to leave?”

  “Soon.”

  “Oh, God!” Hal screamed as the first waves of pain struck him. “Where’s Slim? Slim? Where you at, boy?”

  “Slim didn’t make it, partner,” Stony told him.

  “I ain’t neither, am I?”

  “I don’t think so, partner.”

  “It’s gettin’ awful dark in here, Stony. I’m skirred.”

  “You want some whiskey for the pain?”

  “The pain’s done stopped, Stony. What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know, partner.”

  “It’s real peaceful in the dark,” Hal said. “Real . . . peaceful . . .” Hal closed his eyes and never opened them again.

  “Me and Hal rode a lot of trails together,” Stony said, standing up. “He really wasn’t a bad feller. He just had more guts than sense.” He looked at Frank. “I don’t hold nothin’ agin you, Mr. Morgan. You done what you had to do.”

  “Did he have any family?” Ted asked.

  “Some back in Missouri, I think. But he ain’t heard from them in years and years.”

  “How ’bout Slim?”

  “I don’t think so. None he ever talked about leastways.”

  “They’s a small graveyard out back,” the barkeep said, walking back in the room with a bag of scraps. “Right next to the woods. Y’all can plant them boys back yonder if you like.”

  “You know any words to say over them?” Stony asked.

  “I reckon I could come up with a verse or three.”

  “You got any shovels?”

  “Out back in the shed.”

  Frank walked to the bar and picked up the sack of scraps and the bag of bear sign. “Much obliged.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Morgan.”

  Frank walked out, tightened Stormy’s cinch and the harness to the packsaddle, and rode out, Dog trotting along beside.

  He had no wish to stay for the funeral. He’d seen too many of them.

  THIRTY-ONE

  At a county sheriff’s office two days after the shootout in the old country saloon, Frank introduced himself and was invited into the office for a cup of coffee and some conversation.

  “Heard about your work in busting up the Dooley gang, Frank,” the sheriff said. “Damn nice piece of work. What can I do for you?”

  “Tell me where I can find the rest of the gang,” Frank replied with a smile.

  The sheriff laughed and slapped his leg. “Well, now, Frank, I can’t do that, but I just might be able to put you on the track of Bloody Mama. And wherever you find her, you’ll find Sadie. Interested?”

  “They close by?”

  “Couple of days’ ride south of here. Way out of my jurisdiction.”

  “Killing a woman doesn’t set well with me, Sheriff.”

  “Put that thought out of your mind, Frank. Those two ain’t of the female species, you ask me. They’re cold-blooded and brutal. Vicious as any man you ever heard of. You put one of them in a cage with a puma, you better bet against the cat.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Besides, they aren’t alone. They’ve got half a dozen men wi
th them. I’ll draw you a map. It’s rough country and I sure can’t guarantee you’ll find them.”

  “I’ll find them,” Frank said coldly.

  The sheriff caught the deadly quality in Frank’s tone and looked hard at him, then nodded his head. “Yeah, I reckon you will, at that.”

  “What men? Do you know?”

  The sheriff shook his head. “I don’t have any idea, Frank. But if they’re riding with Bloody Mama and Sadie, they’re as worthless as a bucket of buzzard puke.”

  “You’re probably right about that.”

  “You bet I am.” The sheriff drew a rough map. “Their hideout is near an old army fort, right on the edge of this range here.” He tapped the piece of paper. “Been deserted for, oh, near’bouts twenty years, I reckon. Maybe longer.” He folded the map and handed it to Frank. “Good luck, Frank.”

  Frank stuck the map in his jacket pocket. “Thanks.” He finished what remained of his coffee. “Good coffee.”

  “Stop by anytime.”

  “You mind if I grab a meal while I’m in town?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Why should I mind? Marshal Tom Wright has wired all over the southern part of the state about you.”

  “What about me?”

  “You never officially resigned your deputy sheriff’s commission, Frank. You’re still a legal marshal’s deputy tracking down criminals that committed a crime in your jurisdiction. You’re just as legal as I am.”

  Frank smiled. “Well . . . he’s right. I guess I didn’t.”

  “Good luck, Deputy.”

  * * *

  The sheriff was sure right about this being rough country, Frank thought as he stopped by a creek to water his horses and fill his canteen. Bloody Mama and Sadie picked a great spot for a hideout. Frank bellied down on the bank to get himself a drink, Dog beside him, lapping at the cool water. Refreshed, Frank squatted under the shade of a tree to escape the fierceness of the noonday sun, and rolled a cigarette. He figured he was only a couple of miles from the old abandoned army fort, and was on high alert for any signs of trouble.

  Dog’s ears suddenly perked up and he growled low in his throat.

  “Easy now, boy,” Frank whispered. “Be quiet.”

  Then Frank heard the sounds of walking horses, followed by a low murmur of voices.

  “Damn, it’s hot,” a man said.

  “Yeah,” another replied. “Let’s stop and get a drink and rest some.”