Reprisal (6 page)

Frank drew, fired, and jumped to one side all in one smooth movement. His first shot hit Hal in the shoulder and knocked the bounty hunter back. Frank hit the floor just as he fired again. The impact with the floor threw his aim off, and his bullet struck Ben in the hip and the man collapsed to the floor.

Martha and Colleen began screaming from the saloon side of the stage stop, joining in with the shouting and cussing of the traveling men.

Hal crawled to his feet and banged a shot in Frank's direction, the bullet thudding into the wall behind where Frank was kneeling on the floor.

Frank snapped off a round just as Hal dropped to the floor. The bullet knocked a chunk out of the wall.

Cussing loudly, Ben fired, his round missing Frank by several feet. Frank returned the fire and did not miss. Ben was slammed backward, a hole in the center of his forehead, his eyes wide open, a startled expression on his face.

Hal staggered to his feet, and this time Frank's aim was on the mark. Hal fell back against the wall, his heart shattered. He slid down to the floor, his pistol falling from suddenly dead fingers.

Frank rose wearily to his feet and reloaded as the big room began filling with people.

“Damnedest thing I ever seen,” the stage driver said.

“I damn shore never seen nothin' like it,” the stationmaster said.

“This is terrible!” Martha Overhouser bellowed. “I shall never ride this stage line again.”

“Good,” the driver told her. “That's the best news I've heard in weeks. You ain't done nothin' but moan and complain all the way.”

“Don't you speak to me in that tone of voice, you lout!” Martha hollered.

“Come on,” Frank said. “I'll help you carry the bodies out to the shed.”

“Why don't you stay out there with them, the both of you,” Martha yelled.

“Ain't she a sight to behold?” the driver said to Frank.

Frank said nothing, just shook his head.

Frank and the driver stored the bodies in the shed, and the driver said, “They just might stay here for several months, you know? They get good and froze, they'll keep 'til spring.”

“That'll be a lovely sight, for sure.”

“Won't it, though.”

“You want their guns?” Frank asked.

“Naw. I got me a good pistol and a fine rifle I carry on my runs. That's all I need. Got several more of each at the house. Don't need no more. But thanks for offerin'.”

“I'll help you fix that axle come daylight.”

“That's white of you, Mr. Morgan. I'll take you up on that too.”

“I'll be around.”

After the driver left, Frank went through the pockets of the man-hunters. He found some cash, and would give that to Jeff. He took their guns, carried them back into the stage stop, and hung the belts on pegs.

“How many men does that make you've shot dead, Mr. Gunfighter?” Martha asked.

Frank did not reply. He had had just about all he was going to take of Mrs. Overhouser.

“That's not fair, Martha,” Colleen said. “All Mr. Morgan did was defend himself. He didn't start the trouble.”

Martha snorted her contempt at that.

Frank poured a fresh cup of coffee and sat down at the table. He was suddenly very tired.

“You want me to fix you a plate of food?” Colleen asked.

“Not now, miss. I'll maybe get something later. But thank you.”

“Well . . . I'm going to try to get some rest. Good night.”

“Night, miss.”

Frank sat at the table for a long time, drinking coffee. The only way he could get the bounty on him lifted was to get rid of Lawyer Dutton. But Frank doubted that Dutton would ever again come west of the Mississippi. So that left him . . .

“Living with a fifteen-thousand-dollar bounty on my head,” he muttered.

He finished his coffee and looked around him. People were sleeping all over the station. Frank went into the kitchen and found some scraps of food, and took them outside for Dog. After checking on the horses and making certain Dog's water bucket was full, he returned to the station and spread his blankets on the floor and went to sleep.

Frank was the first one up. He quietly built up the fire in the kitchen stove and filled up the big coffeepot with water; then while he waited for the water to boil, he got a fire going in the fireplace. He then went outside and got Dog, bringing him into the station. He fed the animal some cold biscuits he'd found, gave him some water, and Dog promptly curled up in a corner and went to sleep.

Colleen had been watching Frank from the darkness of the room. “You take good care of that dog,” she remarked.

“People who abuse animals have a serious flaw,” Frank replied. “At least that's my opinion.”

“And you're an educated man too.”

“Not really. I just like to read.”

“Is that the exception or the rule in the West?”

“For men who can read, I think it's pretty much the rule. For years we were hungry for news out here. Men would pass newspapers around until they were worn out. News might be weeks or months old, but it was still news.”

“Jeff told me you were going to Durango.”

“That's the plan.”

“Then we might see each other again in the town?”

“Could be. It isn't a city by any means.”

“Mr. Morgan . . . what exactly do you do for a living?”

Frank smiled. “I try to stay alive, miss.”

“Then you are a man of some means?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Forgive my questions, Mr. Morgan, but I am the curious type.”

“Person can't learn anything except by listening and asking questions, miss.”

“Colleen, please.”

“All right.”

“Does Durango have a newspaper, Mr. Morgan?”

“Frank.”

“All right, Frank.”

“I don't know about any newspaper. Might have a weekly. Why?”

“I told you. I want to be a writer. I would like to apply for a job.”

“A woman reporter? I never heard of such a thing. Menfolks might not take too kindly to that.”

“Women are on the move in this nation, Frank. You men better get used to it.”

Frank chuckled softly. “I reckon so, Colleen.”

* * *

Frank helped the driver and stationmaster replace the broken axle, and the stage pulled out just before ten o'clock. The heavy snowstorm had passed and the temperature had warmed up; most of the snow had melted where the rays of the sun could touch it.

“I told Colleen I'd try to find her when we got to Durango,” Jeff said.

“Oh?”

“Yes. She's a very sweet young lady.”

“Really? I didn't notice.”

“You're getting old, Frank.”

“That must be it. Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“To bury Gene, Hal, and Ben.”

“What about their horses?”

“We'll take them with us. Sell them along the way.”

“We're going over the mountains?”

“No. Too risky this time of year. That snowstorm might be sign of a really bad storm coming. We'll stay with the roads. It's longer, but safer.”

“A harbinger.

“A what?”

“A sign of things to come. Like, oh, a harbinger of doom.”

“Right. I'll have to remember that. A harbinger of doom. Sounds grim.”

“It usually is.”

The men got shovels out of the shed, and of the three man-hunters were buried about a hundred yards behind the stage stop. Frank and Jeff lined up outside of their graves with rocks.

“That's about all we can do, I reckon,” Frank said. “Come on. Let's get packed up and hit the trail.”

* * *

Three days of steady riding brought the men to the center of the San Luis Valley. There Frank headed them west, and they stopped at midday in a small settlement west of Alamosa.

“We'll sell these horses and gear here,” Frank said.

“I want another hot bath,” Jeff said.

“You just had one a few days ago,” Frank replied with a smile.

Jeff looked at his saddle partner to see if he was kidding. Frank was. “You're no rose yourself, Frank. Dog's the cleanest of us all.”

“I won't argue that.”

“Fine-lookin' horses, mister,” the owner of the local livery said. “And the saddles are in good shape too. How do I know them animals ain't stolen?”

Frank stared at the man for a few seconds. The livery man suddenly became edgy. “But I'm sure they ain't,” the man added finally.

“Mister,” Frank spoke very softly, “my name is Frank Morgan. I have never stolen anything in my life. Is that good enough for you?”

“Frank Morgan,” the livery man repeated. He licked very dry lips. “Yeah. I seen your pitcher a bunch of times. That's who you is, for a fact.”

“How much for the horses and gear?”

The livery man very quickly named a very fair price, and Frank accepted it.

“You got a good deal,” Frank told him, making out a bill of sale.

“I 'spect I did. What happened to the original owners?”

“They're dead and in the ground.”

“I figured as much. You didn't cut 'em no slack, huh?”

“Just enough to get them killed.”

“Ah ... you stayin' in town long, Mr. Morgan?”

Frank smiled. “Just long enough to have a bath and buy some things.”

“Good. Bathhouse is over yonder.” He pointed. “Have a good wash and do come back sometime.”

“Sarcastic fellow,” Jeff remarked as they walked away.

“Story of my life, Jeff. I stopped letting it bother me years ago. But he offered us a good price for the horses and gear. The money's yours. You'll have a nice reserve of money to get you started in something in Durango.”

“It was my lucky day when I ran into you, Frank.”

“Don't be too sure. The trip ain't over yet.”

Frank and Jeff did not leave immediately after their bath. Instead, they bought rooms at the town's only hotel. The town marshal showed up at Frank's door within ten minutes after the men had signed in. He wasn't taking any chances with Frank Morgan—he was carrying a Greener: a double-barreled sawed-off shotgun.

“Relax, Marshal,” Frank told him. “I'm not trouble-hunting in your town.”

The marshal eyeballed him suspiciously. “Trouble follows you, Morgan. What are you doing here?”

“Getting tired of questions, for one thing.”

“Part of my job is asking questions. So I'll ask it again: What are you doing in this town?”

“Well, I had me a bath, and now I'm going to go out and get me a bite to eat. Then I'm going to bed and get a good night's sleep.”

The marshal stared at him for a moment. “Morgan, there's a bounty on your head. Are you aware of that?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then I'll tell you something else: There are two gunslicks in town. Rode in this morning. I've heard of them both. Their guns are for hire and they aren't above killing an innocent man for a big enough bounty. I hear the bounty on you is fifteen thousand dollars.”

“That's right.”

“You're going to have every man-hunter west of the Mississippi River after you, Morgan.”

“Probably.”

“I don't want any showdowns in my town.”

“I hope there won't be any, Marshal. But I intend to have supper and then spend the night in your town. I hope to do all that peacefully. But if you've got some trouble-hunters here looking to brace me ... that's their problem, not mine.”

The marshal sighed in frustration. “I've done all I can under the law. You've been warned, Morgan,” he said, then turned and walked away.

“Indeed I have,” Frank muttered.

Frank took Dog out back of the hotel for a walk, then returned to the room and fed him. Dog ate, and then lay down on the rug beside the bed and went to sleep.

Shadows were lengthening when Frank and Jeff stepped outside to stand on the covered porch of the hotel.

“Fellow in the lobby told me that cafe across the street serves a good meal,” Jeff said. “You hungry?”

“I sure am.”

“There are two men watching us real hard from down the street.”

“I see them.”

“Trouble?”

“Probably. We'll see. Those are more than likely the two gunslicks the marshal mentioned. It's a free country; they can stare at us if they like. Right now, let's go get us some supper.”

After a supper of beef, beans, potatoes, hot bread, a big wedge of pie, and a pot of coffee, Frank and Jeff paused on the boardwalk. Frank rolled a smoke and stared for a moment into the gloom of early evening.

Jeff patted his stomach. “That was good. Can I borrow one of your books and read for a while?”

“Help yourself, Jeff. I'm going to walk over to the saloon and listen to the talk.”

“Frank, those trouble-hunters will probably be waiting for you.”

“Probably so. But I don't live my life for other people. I'll do what I damn well please to do, when I damn well please to do it.”

Frank pushed open the door and stepped into the warm and smoky saloon. A blast of cold air entered with him, and a number of heads turned as the air hit them. Most turned back to their cards, conversation, or drinks . . . a few did not. Among those that did not were two tough-looking men standing at the end of the bar and two young men seated at a table.

“Morgan,” Frank heard one of the young men say.

Damn!
Frank thought.
I can handle the two man-hunters. I didn't count on the two punks. Maybe they're nothing but a couple of loudmouths and nothing more.

But he doubted it. He had a strong feeling the two young men were hunting a reputation.

Frank walked slowly to the nearest spot at the bar and waited for the very reluctant bartender to walk over. Frank finally called for a beer.

“Just wait your turn, Morgan,” one of the young men shouted. “You ain't nothin' special 'round here.”

Frank ignored the punk.

“You hear me, old man?” the punk shouted.

“I think he's deef,” his loudmouthed partner said with a laugh.

Frank sipped his beer and remained silent.

Frank cut his eyes and watched as the town marshal walked in and stepped to one side, staying in the shadows close to the front door.

No one in the big room seemed to notice as the marshal remained silent and watchful.

The two bounty hunters at the far end of the bar watched Frank, but made no hostile moves. The older of the two seemed slightly amused at the antics of the loudmouthed young men.

Frank rolled a cigarette and popped a match into flame with his left hand. His right hand remained a few inches from the butt of his .45.

“You're a long way from home, Morgan,” the younger of the bounty hunters called.

Frank looked at him but said nothing.

“I heard he had turned yeller, hung up his guns, and was squatting in a shack up north of here,” one of the young men declared.

“Shut up, Max,” the marshal said. “Before your butt overloads your mouth.”

“I ain't broke no laws, Marshal,” the young man said. “You ain't got no call to come down on me.”

“I'm trying to save your life.”

“From this old, wore-out, gray-headed has-been? Don't make me laugh.”

“He ain't no has-been,” the other loudmouth said with a chuckle. “He's a never-was!”

“Suit yourselves, boys,” the marshal responded. “You've been warned.”

The older of the bounty hunters moved a few feet from his partner, stepping from the bar.

“The outhouse is through that door behind you,” the bartender told him.

“Shut up,” the man-hunter told him.

Frank waited.

“Morgan!” the man-hunter called. “Look at me, Morgan.”

Frank cut his eyes.

“I'm thinkin' it's time for me to call your reputation.”

Frank smiled at that. Using his left hand, he raised his beer mug and took a sip.

“Did you hear me, Morgan?”

“Everyone in the room did,” Frank replied calmly, placing his mug back on the bar.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What are you going to do about it, damn you!”

Frank took a deep drag on his cigarette and dropped it to the floor, toeing it out with his boot. “Nothing,” he said.

“You're a coward, Morgan!”

“And you're a fool, whoever you are.”

“Huh?”

“And hard of hearing too.”

Max stood up, pushing his chair back. “I think I'll just buy into this game,” he said.

“This is no game, boy,” Frank told him. “I would advise you to sit down and think about that.”

“I don't take no orders from you, Morgan.”

“Suit yourself, boy. It's your life to live.” He cut his eyes to the man-hunter. “What's your name?”

“I'm Phil. My buddy's name is Ned. Why?”

“Something has to be carved on your grave marker.” He smiled. “Or markers.”

Phil frowned, and then called Frank a couple of very vulgar names. He stepped further away from the bar, his hand hovering near the butt of his pistol. “You ready, Morgan?”

“For what, Phil?”

“Damn you, Morgan! You know what.”

“Tell me. My memory's getting real bad in my old age.”

Phil glared at him in disgust. “What does it take to make you fight, Morgan?”

“Hell, I didn't come in here looking for a fight. I came in here for a quiet drink and some intelligent conversation. I found my drink, but the conversation so far is something less than intelligent.”

Phil thought about that for a few seconds. “Are you callin' me stupid, Morgan?”

“Well, now that you mention it, I guess I am.”

“You sorry piece of coyote crap! I don't take that kind of talk from nobody.”

“Well, Phil, old partner, I guess you'll have to take it. 'Cause if you pull on me, I'm going to kill you. And that's the way it is.”

“Take it outside, boys,” the barkeep said.

“Too cold out there,” Frank told him. “Wind is picking up and it's mighty harsh. I like it in here.”

“Well, now, I reckon you've made it clear where you stand, Morgan,” Phil said. “You've threatened to kill me. I got to pick up the challenge.”

“Only if you're a fool.”

“By God, I wouldn't take that insult from nobody!” Max said, stepping away from the table.

Frank sighed and stepped away from the bar. There was little time left for conversation. “I'm not talking to you, boy. You best sit your butt back down in that chair and be quiet.”

“I don't take no orders from you neither, old man,” Max said. “You hear that?”

“Yeah, I heard it, kid.” Frank did not take his eyes off Phil.

“I'm callin' you, Morgan!” Max shouted, his voice rising in nervousness.

“Your mama's calling you, boy,” Frank told him. “Was I you, I'd think about that.”

“To hell with my mama and to hell with you!” Max said.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself for saying that about your mother,” Frank told him.

“I've had all this crap I'm goin' to take!” the young man shouted. “Draw, Morgan!”

Max went for his gun.