Imposter

by William W. Johnstone

  “Was and is, Sheriff.”

  “A woman named Lara Whitter. You familiar with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her and her son, a boy named Johnny, were kidnapped by some remaining members of the Val Dooley gang. Word is they’re heading for, or are already in, Southern California. Maybe right here in this area.”

  “Any word on who kidnapped them?”

  “Goody Nolan is the leader of the gang.”

  “I know him. Was there any good news?”

  “I’m afraid not. Marshal Wright says you’re a deputy sheriff. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorta out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?”

  “You might say that.”

  “You gonna start trouble in this county?”

  “I don’t plan to.”

  The sheriff studied Frank as he sipped his coffee. “I don’t know just how a gunfighter got to be a lawman, but ride on, Morgan. Get out of my county.”

  “You object if I finish my pie?”

  The sheriff shook his head. “No. You can provision up, get a bath and a haircut and shave if you like. Then move on. ’Cause I think when you find the men who kidnapped the woman and her boy, they’s gonna be a bloodbath. I’d rather not have that in my county.”

  “You think Goody is in your county?”

  “No. I think he’s southwest of here, in the desert. Maybe in the Sierra Madres.”

  “You trying to tell me something, Sheriff?”

  “Could be.” He pushed back his chair, then leaned over the table and whispered, “Good hunting, Morgan.”

  * * *

  Frank found Art Butler two days later, at a combination general store/roadhouse. There were only four people in the place: Frank, Butler, the bartender/owner, and a sales clerk. Frank walked up to Butler and knocked him to the floor with one punch, then jerked the man’s pistol from leather and tossed in on the bar. While Art was crawling around on the floor, trying to clear his head, Frank turned to the bartender.

  “You and your clerk go outside and get some fresh air. I have some business to discuss with this man.”

  “You’re Frank Morgan, ain’t you?” the bartender asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Take all the time you need, Mr. Morgan.” The bartender left the saloon part of the building, closing the front door behind him.

  “I know what you’re gonna do, Morgan,” Butler said. “Just make it quick, that’s all I ask.”

  Frank slowly took a long-bladed knife from a sheath on his belt. “That all depends on you, Butler.”

  “What do you mean?” Butler asked, his eyes never leaving the big blade, fashioned after a bowie knife. He could tell it was very sharp.

  “You were one of the men who went back to town and kidnapped Lara Whitter and her son. Where are they?”

  “You gonna let me live if I tell you?”

  “I’ll give you a chance to live.”

  “They was alive when I left them, Morgan. I can tell you that much.”

  “Did you rape Lara?”

  “Yeah, I did. We all did. And Freckles Burton, well, he took a shine to the boy . . . if you know what I mean.”

  “Goddamn you!” Frank raged at the man.

  “I didn’t do nothin’ to the boy, Morgan. I ain’t like that. But Freckles, he’s, well, sorta strange that way . . .”

  “But you let it happen, you son of a bitch!”

  “I couldn’t hep it!” Butler screamed. “You know Freckles is crazy and snake-quick with a Colt.”

  “Where are they, and don’t lie to me, Butler, or I’ll make this last a long time.”

  “Not far, Morgan. ’Bout an easy two-day ride to the south. We was goin’ into the mountains, but Freckles was havin’ himself a time with the boy and . . .”

  “Shut up about your perversions with Johnny!”

  “I didn’t touch him, Morgan! I swear to God I didn’t.”

  “Why did you leave the gang?”

  “I . . . got tired of hearin’ the boy whimper and the woman holler when the men . . .”

  Frank blocked the rest of it out, as best he could. Butler suddenly jerked out a knife and lunged at Frank. Frank sidestepped and buried the big blade of his bowie into the man’s stomach and twisted. Frank let the outlaw/rapist fall to the floor and die.

  Frank wiped the bloody blade on Butler’s shirt and walked to the front door, opening it. He motioned to the owner.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You can have his horse and what’s in his pockets if you’ll bury that bastard in there.”

  “I can do that, Mr. Morgan. Say, that’s a right unfriendly dog of yours.”

  “He takes after me,” Frank told him, then swung into the saddle and rode away.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Frank made his way slowly toward the campfire, stopping about twenty-five feet away, just at the edge of the clearing. He had been tracking the lone rider for two days, ever since a man in a saloon had told him he recognized the outlaw.

  But Frank wanted to be sure the man squatting over the fire was the right man. When the man stood up and half turned, Frank was sure.

  “Vaca!” Frank called.

  The outlaw known as Breed Vaca stiffened, but kept his hands away from his guns. “You goin’ to back-shoot me, Morgan?”

  “I’ll give you a chance, Vaca. A better chance than you gave the woman and the boy.”

  “I never touched that boy, Morgan. I ain’t that type. I done the woman some. But not the boy.”

  “Are they still alive?”

  “They was when I pulled out three days ago.”

  “Why did you leave the gang?”

  “Jack Rice rode into camp and joined up with Curly Lewis and Booger Bob and the others. Me and Jack don’t get on a-tall.”

  “There’s more, Vaca. Tell it all.”

  “Jack claimed the woman for hisself. Freckles give her up right off the bat. No argument. And you know what happens to a woman with Jack.”

  Frank felt sick to his stomach. He knew what Jack had done to a couple of women. The man was twisted in the head . . . twisted about as bad as Frank had ever seen.

  “Why didn’t you kill him, Vaca? You know what he’s going to do to her.”

  “Wasn’t none of my affair, Morgan.”

  “You son of a bitch!”

  Vaca shrugged his shoulders; did so very carefully.

  “Name them all, Vaca.”

  “Goody, Big Thumbs, Sam. I told you the rest. Sonny Carter and Hibbs might have joined them by now. I ain’t sure.”

  “My gun’s in leather, Vaca. You want to try it now? It’s going to be your only chance.”

  Breed Vaca turned and grabbed for his pistol. His hand closed around the butt, and that was as far as he got before Frank’s bullet tore into his chest. Vaca stumbled backward and sat down hard on the ground. Then he toppled over and closed his eyes for the last time.

  Frank had a cup of coffee and a smoke by the fire. His thoughts were dark and mean, raging through his head. Lara and her son were certainly dead by now . . . and if Jack Rice had claimed Lara, she had died hard. And Frank hoped the boy had died swiftly; he also knew all about Freckles Burton’s twisted nature with boys. Somebody should have put a rope around Freckles’s neck a long time back.

  Frank looked over at the body of Breed Vaca, no emotion in his gaze. One more piece of crap removed from society. Frank finished his coffee and carefully put out the fire. He swung into the saddle and rode away without looking back. The buzzards and varmints would take care of Breed.

  * * *

  Frank picked up the trail of Jack and the others and followed it southeast. Along the way, Frank found a bit of torn dress and torn pieces of undergarments. Then he found the body of Johnny Whitter. About twenty-five feet from the body of the tortured boy, he found the body of Lara. Both the boy and his mother were naked, and they had been used badly. He hoped Lara had died before somebody—and Frank had a good idea who
it was—had used a skinning knife on her.

  Frank buried the boy and his mother side by side and covered the graves with rocks. Then he stood over the graves, hat in hand, trying to think of some words to say. He finally remembered some lines about walking through the valley of death, and said them. Then he recalled some words about vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.

  “Not this time,” Frank murmured.

  * * *

  The outlaw/rapists knew they were being followed. When they did stop to rest their horses, they were making cold camps and trying to take routes over rocky ground, and when they could, they took to the water in a futile attempt to lose Frank. But steel-shod horses leave marks on rocks, and taking to creeks won’t throw off an experienced tracker.

  Frank followed relentlessly, staying constantly alert for an ambush. Frank thought they might be heading for the Sierra Madre Mountains, Jack Rice’s old stamping grounds, but then the men turned more east than south, as if they might be riding for the Mojave.

  Then it dawned on Frank where the outlaws might be heading: an old ghost town east and some south of the town of Bakersfield. As a town it hadn’t lasted long, maybe five or six years. But there was good water there, and Frank had been told that the buildings were still intact. He couldn’t recall the name of the ghost town, not that it mattered. He was sure that was where Jack was leading the gang.

  “All right, boys,” Frank whispered to the hot winds. “I’ll be there, just about the same time you are.”

  Frank rode up to a general store and swung down. He had to rest Stormy and the packhorse and he needed some food and rest himself. Dog got himself a good long drink of water from the horse trough, and then plopped down in the shade of the building. Frank didn’t have to tell the big cur to stay put. Dog was tired; he wasn’t going anywhere.

  Frank stepped onto the porch and stood for a moment, enjoying the shade from the midday suminer’s sun. He turned and walked into the small saloon side, and came face-to-face with Sam Semple, standing at the bar.

  Sam froze at the sighting. His elbows were on the bar and he knew if he moved an inch, Frank’s Peacemaker would roar.

  “Sam,” Frank said softly.

  “I broke with the gang, Morgan,” Sam said. “I ain’t lookin’ for no trouble.”

  “But you were there when the boy and his mother were tortured and killed, Sam.”

  “Yeah, I was, Morgan, but I didn’t have no hand in it.”

  “You could have stopped it.”

  “How, Morgan? One man agin half a dozen?”

  “Did you even try to stop it?”

  “Morgan . . . listen to me: I couldn’t have stopped it.”

  “I could have, if I’d been in your boots.”

  “I ain’t you, Morgan!” Sam screamed.

  “Did you have a hand in raping the woman?”

  “Yes, damn you. I did. It was . . . I had to. The others would have laughed at me if I didn’t. You have to understand that.”

  “They would have laughed at you for being decent one time in your miserable life?” Frank asked softly.

  “Yes! It was a man thing, Morgan.”

  “Men don’t rape and torture women and little boys, Sam.”

  “Are you really Frank Morgan?” the store owner/barkeep asked. “In my store?”

  Frank ignored him. His hard eyes never left Sam. “You believe in God, Sam?”

  “You damn right I do. Why?”

  “ ’Cause you’re about to meet him.”

  “Morgan ...” There was an edge of panic in Sam’s voice. “The others is goin’ to that old ghost town south of Bakersfield. Don’t me tellin’ you that count for nothin’?”

  “My Lord,” the barkeep whispered. “Frank Morgan in my store.”

  “I’m fast, Morgan,” Sam said. “I can take you. Don’t force me to draw on you.”

  Frank smiled. “Consider yourself forced, Sam.”

  “I don’t want to have to kill you, Morgan!”

  “Oh, you won’t, Sam.”

  “Damn you, Morgan! You just don’t understand what happened. All them pressures that was on me.”

  “I could maybe get the county sheriff out here,” the barkeep said. “But that’ll take a couple of days.”

  “We don’t need him,” Frank said.

  “Yeah, we do,” Sam said. “Get him. I’ll surrender to him.”

  Frank cussed Sam Semple, cussed him low and long and hard.

  “I don’t have to take that from you or no man, Morgan!”

  “Then do something about it, Sam.”

  “Hell with you, Morgan!” Sam screamed. “You want to kill me? Go ahead. But I’ll tell you somethin’ ’fore you do. That woman was some kind of fine poke. I ’specially liked the way she begged and hollered. Then she got to prayin’. That was funny. She was on her knees. But not in the prayin’ position, if you know what I mean. We all got some laughs out of that.” Spittle was oozing out of Sam’s mouth and his eyes were wild.

  Frank waited, letting him rave and rant his obscenities. Then he began talking about the boy. Frank put an end to it.

  He shot Sam.

  Sam slammed back against the bar, pulling his pistol. Frank shot him again. Sam twisted, still against the bar. He refused to go down. Sam lifted his six-gun, and Frank put a third round in him. That one put Sam on the floor.

  Frank walked through the gunsmoke to stand over Sam Semple.

  “I hate your guts, Morgan!” Sam gasped.

  “I can live with that, Sam.”

  Sam cussed Frank, blood spraying from his mouth. “You’ll never git them other boys, Morgan. They’ll kill you and I’m glad.”

  “Don’t count on them doing that, Sam.”

  Sam didn’t reply. He closed his eyes and died on the saloon floor.

  Frank looked at the bartender, standing with wide eyes. “Where’s his horse?”

  “Out back, Mr. Morgan.”

  “You can have it and all his gear if you’ll bury him.”

  “That sure sounds more than fair to me. I’ll do it, sir. I promise I will.”

  “I’m going to provision up now. You want me to help you carry him out?”

  “Oh, no, sir. I’ll just drag him out back and plant him there.”

  “Fine. You do that.” Frank stepped over Sam’s body and went into the store section of the old place. He began picking up supplies and setting them on the counter. When the store owner returned, Frank paid for his goods and asked, “You have a place where a man can bathe?”

  “Yes, sir. But I ain’t got no water heated for it.”

  “I’ll bathe in cold water then. Get some of this crud off me.”

  “Whatever, sir.”

  “Then I want something to eat.”

  “I got salt pork and taters.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Lots of coffee. And I got some biscuits I made this morning.”

  “That’ll do.”

  “I’ll get started. Say, that dead man had some money on him, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Keep it. It’s yours.”

  “That’s right nice of you. What do I tell the sheriff or the deputies if they come by?”

  “Tell them his name is Sam Semple. They’ll know who he is ... or was.”

  * * *

  After a good night’s sleep, Frank pressed on. He didn’t bother trying to keep to the trail; he knew where he was going. And he damn sure knew what he was going to do when he got there. Frank knew he was riding a vengeance trail; knew that no matter what he did, it would not bring back Lara and Johnny, nor would it lessen the horrible pain of their dying. But he also knew the West was slowly changing in its treatment of criminals; knew that the evidence against these bags of crap was circumstantial, now that Lara and Johnny were dead and could not testify against them. No way they would get the rope. They might not even get prison time. Frank could not allow that to happen, so he would mete out the appropriate justice for the crimes committed.

 
And that penalty was death.

  But for one of them, it was going to be a hard death. Frank would personally see to that. When Frank got through with him, the man would be begging to be released from life.

  “Bet on that, Jack Rice,” Frank muttered.

  Frank made a lonely camp near a spring that night. After letting the horses roll and drink, Frank hobbled them on some graze and then fed Dog. He put on water to boil for coffee and fried some salt pork and potatoes, cutting up a bit of wild onions for added flavor.

  Dog came to him and lay down by his side. Frank put a hand on the big cur’s head. “Won’t be long now, Dog. And I got me an idea about where to go next. I know of a valley down in New Mexico that is so pretty it’ll take your breath away. It’s in the mountains, and it’s isolated. We just might be able to make that place a home. Would you like that?”

  Dog growled softly.

  Frank turned his head, and Dog grabbed a piece of bacon out of Frank’s plate and ran off into the shadows.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The wind shifted and Frank smelled the food cooking. He reined up, whispered to Dog to stay, and made his way on foot toward the smells of bacon frying and the aroma of fresh-made coffee. Two men were sitting with their backs to him. Frank didn’t think he knew either of them. He stepped closer and said, “Take it easy, boys.”

  Both men turned around, still sitting on the ground. “Morgan!” one said.

  “I knew he’d find us, Sonny,” the other one said.

  Sonny stood up. “Shut up, Hibbs,” He looked back at Frank. “You ain’t killin’ me without a fight, Morgan.”

  The other one remained sitting on the ground.

  “Why would I want to kill you?” Frank asked.

  “I didn’t kill that woman or that boy,” Sonny said. “I done the woman some. But I didn’t kill her.”

  “How about you, Hibbs?” Frank asked.

  “I didn’t touch neither one of them. I don’t hold with rapin’ women or abusin’ children.”

  “That’s the truth, Morgan,” Sonny said. “He ain’t lyin’ ’bout that.”

  “You both were there when they were killed?”

  “Yeah,” Hibbs said softly. “And I ain’t proud of that.”

  “I told you, Morgan,” Sonny said. “We didn’t kill neither of them. That was Freckles who done the boy and Jack Rice who done the woman. Not us.”