Showdown (9 page)

Twelve

Leaving the prisoner to sleep, Frank walked over to the cafe for breakfast. The place had just opened and the local crowd had not yet showed up. Only Doc Raven was in the cafe, sitting alone at a table sipping coffee. The doctor waved Frank over.

“The coffee's hot and fresh and good, Frank. But I guess you've already had a pot or two this morning.”

“I didn't make any at the office. Just got dressed and sat outside for a time, watching it rain.”

“It's slowly tapering off. Another day and it'll move out of here, I'm thinking. That's the way it usually happens.”

“Then the excitement will start,” Frank said after thanking the waitress for the pot of coffee she placed on the table. He poured a cup and sugared it.

“Maybe, maybe not. If it does, it might not be directed toward you.”

“Oh?”

“I had a visitor last night. Just after I left you on the boardwalk. Clerk at the general store stopped by and told me the Olsen cousins bought a lot of supplies at the store late yesterday. Half a wagon load. Said he overheard them whispering about heading out today. Seems they've been hired by someone as guides.”

“The Easterners?”

“That would be my guess.”

“I guess they succeeded in buying horses.”

“Looks like it.”

“Where were the supplies delivered?”

“He didn't know. The cousins drove up in the wagon and hauled it off, keeping away from the main street.”

“You know what those cousins are likely to do, don't you?”

“They'd have to get the hired bodyguards to go along with them, Frank.”

“You think that would take a lot of persuading?'

Doc Raven grunted. “Probably not. Hell, Frank, I never thought of that. They'd rob them all, then kill the men, have their way with the women, and leave whoever was left to die in the big wilderness.”

“That's my thinking. Brooks is not totin' a full load, Doc. I think he's capable of doing just about anything.”

“Wilma will be leaving with them, Frank.”

“She made her choice a long time ago.”

Doc Raven's eyes betrayed him when a faraway light suddenly appeared. “Yes, I suppose that's true.”

“You still have feelings for her, don't you?”

The doctor smiled. “Yes, Frank. I do.”

Frank's eyes were as sad as his voice when he said, “I reckon that sometimes real love never dies.”

“Sounds as though you've been there, Frank.”

Frank sighed. “I have, Doc.”

Both were silent with their own thoughts for a moment. Then Doc Raven asked, “What do you plan to do about the Easterners?”

“Not a thing, Doc. At least not until I see what really happens. After that, well, they're grown-up folks and there are no children involved. If they want to try their luck by riding off into the Big Empty, let them go.”

Doc Raven slowly nodded. “You're right. It's their choice.”

Bob entered the cafe and sat down at the table. “The Easterners slipped out of town last night. Left their fancy wagons. What'd y'all make of that?”

“Where are all the gunslingers?” Doc Raven asked.

“Sleepin' off last night's drunk. All over town.”

“It's doubtful they'll be up 'fore noon,” Frank said. “Most of them anyway. After that . . .” He shrugged. “The word will spread pretty quick, I'm thinking. Then it's going to get real interesting around town.”

“I better check my bag,” Doc Raven said. “And restock my operating room.”

“That might be a real good idea,” Frank replied.

“Sister Clarabelle is set to crank up the band about noon,” Bob said, a very mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Just about the time them gunslicks hit the street all headachy and bleary-eyed. Them churchgoers will be marchin' up and down the boardwalks, tootin' their horns and beatin' on the drums and singin' to the high heavens. Should be right interestin'.”

Doc Raven glanced at his longtime friend for a few seconds. “Bob, you've got a real vicious streak in you.”

“I know it,” the liveryman said. “I can't help it. I think I was borned this way. But it didn't really come out till after I got married.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “That woman would try the patience of a saint.”

“Did she ever remarry, Bob?” Frank asked.

“Damned if I know. I doubt it. Who the hell would have her?”

“I was told she was a really fine woman,” Doc Raven said after a hidden wink at Frank.

“Whoever said that told you a bald-faced lie!” Bob said. “That woman nagged and ragged me so bad, the chickens quit layin' and the cow stopped givin' milk. My good dog run off and joined up with a coyote pack on account of her.”

“Did your dog ever come back home?” Frank asked.

“The very day that damn woman left. I was glad to see him too.”

“I've got to go after listening to that big whopper,” Doc Raven said. “I'll see you boys later.”

“I'm right behind you, Doc,” Frank said, standing up and reaching for his hat.

“It's the truth, I swear it is,” Bob insisted. “Well, most of it.”

Laughing, the doctor and the gunfighter left the cafe and walked out onto the boardwalk. While Frank rolled a smoke, Doc Raven said, “Every town has its character. Bob is ours. See you after a while, Frank.”

Frank stood in front of the cafe for a time, smoking and watching the town wake up. Then he decided to walk around and check out the wagons of the Easterners. Just as Bob had said, the wagons were uninhabited. Frank looked inside several. The interiors were plush, with carpet on the floor and fancy curtains on the small windows. And devoid of people.

“These wagons must have cost plenty to build and outfit,” Frank muttered. “And the dudes just ride off and leave them.”

Frank turned as a boy of about ten or eleven walked up. “Them fancy people left in the night, Mr. Morgan,” he said. “Something woke me up and I watched 'em ride out.”

“Did you see which way they went?”

“Sure did. I slipped out of bed and followed 'em a ways. They headed due north up the old road that leads to Red Rock.”

“The road ends there, doesn't it?”

“Yes, sir. Ain't nothin' beyond that 'ceptin' empty.”

“The women riding sidesaddle?”

“Yes, sir. Proper-like.”

“I wonder where they got the sidesaddle rigs.”

“Maybe they brung 'em with 'em.”

“Maybe they did,” Frank said. “Thanks, boy.”

“You're welcome, sir.

The boy walked off and Frank whispered, “They had it all planned out. They never intended to pay any bounty for killing me. It was all some sort of crazy joke. Well, folks, the joke backfired on you. And now you're in trouble and on your own as far as I'm concerned.”

* * *

At mid-morning, the bleary-eyed gunslicks and bounty hunters began staggering and lurching out into the streets of town, all of them badly hungover, with aching and throbbing heads. All of them searching for some hot coffee.

Doc Raven, Bob, and Frank sat on a bench outside the marshal's office, watching the pitiful-looking assemblage.

“Ain't that about the sorriest-lookin' bunch you ever laid eyes on?” Bob said.

“They're rough-looking, for a fact,” Frank acknowledged.

One of the hungover gunslicks staggered up to the trio. “Gimme something, Doc!” he asked in a slurry voice. “I think I'm dyin'.”

“You'll live,” Doc Raven told him. “Get some coffee and something to eat.”

“Eat?” the still-half-drunk gunhand gasped. “Oh, God!” Then he fell off the boardwalk and lay puking by the side of the main street.

“Well, I damn shore don't want no lunch now,” Bob said. “That's plumb disgustin'. Why don't you toss him in jail, Frank?”

Before Frank could reply to that, Sister Clarabelle's band struck up in a practice session.

“My God,” Frank said. “Someone's being tortured.”

Doc Raven laughed. “No, Frank. That's the Mission Church Band warming up in practice. Something they never quite get enough of, as you can tell.”

“Yeah,” Bob said. “Just wait until Clarabelle starts singin'. Then you'll really think someone's being tortured.”

“That bad?” Frank asked.

“Bad?” the liveryman said, shaking his head. “Clarabelle used to claim she was trained for the opera. 'Bout ten years ago this travelin' group of musicians from back East was forced to spend a week here due to the rain. They decided to give us a show for our hospitality—”

Doc Raven started laughing in remembrance, cutting off Bob's telling.

“The music was that bad?” Frank asked.

“The music was fine,” Bob said. “But Clarabelle had somehow got herself invited to sing some famous opera piece . . .”

The doctor started laughing again, and Bob waited for a moment.

“Well, sir, Clarabelle hoisted herself up on that stage—she's sort of a large woman; right ample, you might say. The song was 'posed to be sung in I-talian. Clarabelle has sort of a deep voice for a woman, you see. Everybody in the place braced themselves. Me, I had edged myself close to the door so's I could get out right quick. The conductor pecked his little stick on the music stand, the orchestry begun playin', and Clarabelle let out a couple of bellers that got every cat in town squallin'. Sounded like a entar herd of constipated moose backed up and all farted at once. Scared that conductor so bad he fell off the platform. The band got all out of tune. But that didn't stop Clarabelle. She kept right on a-bellerin' and a-snortin' in I-talian. She's got a right powerful voice, that woman does. I mean to tell you, winders was crackin' and kids was cryin' and dogs was howlin'. Clarabelle throwed out her arms and commenced to really give it her all. It was a love song, we was all told 'fore it began. But that song writer must have had a grudge against women when he wrote that piece. I never heard nothin' so awful in all my life. I mean, folks was leavin' that place fast as they could get to the door. Clarabelle had her eyes closed and was lettin' it rip. She throwed herself into the piece. Started jumpin' up and down and a-bellerin'. Entar buildin' was a-shakin'. Stage broke and Clarabelle disappeared in a cloud of dust. But that didn't stop her. She was coughin' and singin' and the band was playin' all out of key amidst a cloud of dust so thick somebody on the other end of town thought the place was on far and rung the far bell. A bucket brigade was formed up and folks started throwin' water where the stage used to be. Hell, even when the band quit playin' that didn't shut up Clarabelle. She was determined to finish that love song.” Bob paused to take a deep breath.

Doc Raven was laughing so hard, tears were running down his face and he was clutching his sides.

“Someone finally was brave enough to get close enough to toss a bucket of water on Clarabelle, and that seemed to bring her to her senses,” Bob said. “She stopped her squallin'. I mean to tell you it was a hell of a night here in town. That bunch of musicians all said later they hadn't never heard nothin' like it and hoped they never would again.”

Frank wiped his eyes with a bandanna. “Bob, how much of that tale is really true?”

“Almost all of it,” Doc Raven answered. “I was there. I had never heard Clarabelle sing before, and was looking forward to her performance.” He shook his head. “We all make mistakes. I should have left town before the band tuned up.”

“And she still sings?” Frank asked.

“You gonna hear her in a few minutes,” Bob said. “She ain't bad until she starts gettin' all carried away . . . and she will. She always does. If I was you, Frank, I'd put my dog in the barn till it's over. This is likely to affect him forever.”

“It can't be that bad!”

“You wanna bet?”

Frank listened to the out of tune and out of time band practicing and shook his head. “No, I don't think so.”

“I didn't figure you would,” Bob replied.

The drunk gunslinger lying on the ground raised his head at the sounds of the band practicing. He moaned and grimaced. “What in the name of God is that awful sound? Have I died and gone to hell?”

“You should have stayed passed out,” Doc Raven told him. “In a few minutes you're going be very sorry you woke up.”

“I think I need a drink,” the gunslick said.

“That's not a bad idea,” Bob said. “Why don't we all go have a drink?”

“Can we get clear of that terrible band?” Frank asked.

“Not entirely,” Doc Raven said. “But it'll be bearable.”

Frank stood up. “Let's go.”

The saloon was filled with sullen, hungover, and bad-tempered gunfighters. Doc Raven, Bob, and Frank made their way to a table in the rear and ordered drinks. Whiskey for Bob and the doctor, beer for Frank.

The barkeep had just placed the drinks on the table when Dolan walked in and up to the bar. He ordered coffee and then turned to face the crowd. “Well, boys, have you heard the news?” he asked in a loud voice.

“What news?” Jack Miller asked. Miller needed a shave and a haircut and most especially, a bath. The man's body odor was offensive to those sitting several tables away.

“The Eastern dudes pulled out last night,” Dolan said. “They slipped away like a pack of damn coyotes. ”

“What the hell do you mean?” Miller said.

“Are you deaf?” Dolan challenged. “They're gone. Pulled out. Left here. There ain't gonna be no money for no hunt. It's over. Them damn dudes pulled a fast one on us.”

“Why would they do that?” the gunslick called Fargo asked. “That don't make no sense.”

“Here it comes,” Doc Raven whispered.

“I think it was all a joke,” Dolan said. “I think them damn slick Easterners wanted to see us go at each other and kill each other off in some sort of wild shoot-out . . . right down to the very last man left standin'. When we didn't, they got nervous about all that money they promised and snuck out.”

“That's close enough to the truth,” Doc Raven whispered.

“That's crazy, Doc,” Frank said in a low voice.

“Stupid. Didn't they realize what kind of a dangerous game they were playing?”

“No, Frank. They didn't. None of them have ever been west of Pennsylvania. They grew up and have lived their lives in a society that had police officers on call and strictly enforced laws. They didn't know what they were getting into.”

“They still don't,” Bob added. “With them damn crazy Olsen boys within spittin' distance, they're in a hell of a lot more danger than they would have been stayin' right here in town.”

“Well, where the hell did they go?” a bounty hunter yelled.

“I don't know, Max,” Dolan told the man. “All I know is they pulled out. Left them fancy wagons and hauled their ashes out of here.”

The saloon was suddenly filled with cussing and vile threats. A burly man called Nick stood up and said, “By God, we can all read sign. Let's go find 'em.”

“I got things to do first,” Dolan said. “They'll be travelin' slow. We got plenty of time to find them and collect our due.”

“What things?” Lonesome Howard asked.

“Dealin' with Morgan yonder.”

“You ain't gonna get paid for it,” Moses Gunther called from a table.

“That don't make no nevermind to me,” Dolan said. “I can take him, and that's what I aim to do.”

“Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves.”
The sounds of the hymn drifted to those in the saloon.

“What the hell is that?” a hired gun named Ballard asked.

“That's a very beautiful hymn, you damned heathen!” Lonesome Howard told him.

The singing was getting closer and louder. The band began playing: drums, tuba, trombone, and trumpet. The sound of many footsteps marching in unison on the boardwalk rattled the windows of the saloon.

“I think them women and the band is gonna come in here!” a gunslick standing close to the front door said.

“I hope to hell not,” another said. “My head is hurtin' some fierce.”

“Your time has come, Morgan,” Dolan said. “I'm gonna kill you just for the hell of it.”

“Don't be a fool, Dolan,” Frank told him, still sitting at the table. “I don't have any quarrel with you.”

“I got a bone to pick clean with you, Morgan. You're alive and that bothers me. I aim to bury that bone this day. Now stand up and face me.”

“You better give that some serious thought, Dolan. 'Cause if I stand up, I'm going to kill you.”

“Big talk, Morgan. You talk mighty big. Stand up, you bastard.”

Frank had started to push back his chair when the door banged open and Sister Clarabelle marched in, the band and the singers right behind her.

“Sing, ladies!” Clarabelle bellowed. “Lips that taste whiskey will never touch mine.”

“Oh, for a Christian man my heart pines.”

“Them gals ain't half bad,” Bob said. “As long as Clarabelle don't start tryin' to sing.”

“I'm not familiar with that song,” Doc Raven said.

“Me neither,” Frank said as the marchers got between Frank and Dolan.

“Git out of the way, goddamnit!” Dolan yelled.

“You watch that filthy mouth!” Lonesome Howard hollered. “Them's good Christian ladies, you damn scum!”

“Beer and whiskey are tools of the devil,” Clarabelle shouted.

“Imbibing in either is the path to evil.”

“Kinda hard to pat your foot to that song, though,” Bob opined.

“Stand up, Morgan!” Dolan shouted over the singing and chanting and band-playing. “You son of a bitch!”

Clarabelle pushed her considerable bulk through a knot of gunfighters who were trying, unsuccessfully, to get out of her way. One man who was slower than his compadres got a hard shove from Clarabelle that sent him reeling into Dolan.

“Get out of my way, you drunken oaf!” Clarabelle yelled.

Dolan and the man went down on the floor in a tangle of arms and legs, both men losing their hats.

Dolan really let the obscenities rip and roar as he hit the floor, coloring the air with violent expletives.

“How dare you talk to me using such filth!” Clarabelle shouted.

“Stand up, stand up, for Jesus,
” the singers sang.

Omp-pa-pa
went the tuba.
Rat-a-tat-tat
replied the snare drummer.

“Goddamnit!” Dolan yelled.

Clarabelle grabbed the mallet from the bass drum player's hand and conked Dolan on the head.

“Rock of ages, cleft for me,”
the singers solemnly harmonized.

“You lard-assed heifer!” Dolan yelled, trying to get to his feet. “Stop hittin' me on the head with that damn club!”

“Lard-assed!” Clarabelle yelled.

Dolan got to his feet just as Clarabelle swung the mallet again. This time it impacted solidly on Dolan's nose. Dolan went down again, the blood dripping from his busted beak.

“That woman's dangerous,” a gunslick said. “I'm gettin' the hell outta here.”

“I think she's wonderful,” Lonesome Howard said, his eyes shining as he was caught up in the moment. “Magnificent.”

“I think you're crazy as a road lizard eatin' loco weed,” the gunslick told him.

Frank, Doc, and Bob were laughing so hard, tears were welling up in their eyes.

“My nose is busted!” Dolan hollered.

“I'll break your head,” Clarabelle hollered as she swung the mallet again, conking Dolan on the top of his head.

“Somebody get this ton of lard away from me!” Dolan yelled.

“Ton of lard!” Clarabelle screamed, her voice rattling the beer mugs behind the bar. She grabbed up a bottle of whiskey from a table and swung it with all her might. The bottle smashed against Dolan's head. His eyes rolled back and he hit the floor, out like a candle at dawn.

“Praise the Lord!” the singers yelled.

“Amen!” Lonesome Howard shouted, his Bible in one hand and a shot glass of rye whiskey in the other.

“Hallelujah, brother!” one of the band members shouted, while the snare drummer beat a tattoo and the bass drummer pounded away.

“Who are you?” Sister Clarabelle demanded.

“They call me Lonesome Howard, Sister.”

“How quaint. Are you a gunfighter?”

“Well, yes, sort of. But I'm a good Christian man who reads the Good Book every day.”

“How can you be a Christian and be a gunfighter?”

“I kill for the Lord.”

“Nonsense. Get down on your knees and pray for His wonderful forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness for what?”

“For being a killer and for consorting with trash.”

“I got one more man to kill, Sister. Then I'll drop on my knees onto a pile of sharp stones and pray all day.”

“Who are you going to kill, Howard?”

Lonesome Howard turned to look at Frank. He pointed a finger. “That godless heathen right over there, Sister?”

“Don't be absurd! That man is a United States marshal. He put his hand on a Bible and took a oath.”

Lonesome Howard shook his head. “Don't make no difference if he did. He's evil, Sister. And he's got to be killed.”

Jack Miller stood up, his hands hovering near his guns. “That's so, Lonesome. But you ain't gonna be the one who does the killin'. That job is mine.”

“The hell you say!” Lonesome cut his eyes to Clarabelle. “Kindly excuse my language, Sister. I backslid for a moment.”

“Shet your blowhole, Lonesome,” Jack told him. “And git outta my way. I got me a job to do.”

“Here, now!” Clarabelle shouted. “Stop this.”

“Shet up, Lard ass,” Jack told her.

“Lard ass!”
Clarabelle shrieked. “How dare you speak to me in such a manner?”

“That's easy,” Jack told her. “ 'Cause you draggin' a hell of a big caboose, that's why.”

“I think he means to kill you, Frank,” Doc Raven whispered.

Frank didn't reply, just nodded his head.

“Don't you insult that fine woman!” Lonesome said, his hand dropping to the butt of his six-gun. “You'll answer to me for that.”

“Then hook and draw, you Bible-readin' son of a bitch!” Jack yelled.

Frank slowly stood up, shoving his chair back, and stepping away from the table. “Get out of the way, Howard.”

“I don't need you to fight my battles, Morgan,” Lonesome replied without taking his eyes from Miller. “I'll deal with this loudmouth and then we'll settle our business.”

“You're both fools,” Frank told them. “I have no quarrel with either of you. This is what those damn Easterners wanted. Can't you see that?”

“What are you talkin' 'bout, Morgan?” Miller asked, his eyes never leaving Lonesome. “Them dudes is gone.”

“And you're still playing their stupid game,” Frank insisted. “With no chance of ever collecting any money. Personally, I don't think they ever intended to pay any money. It was all a cruel joke.”

“On who?” a gunhawk called Lucky Luke asked.

“On all of you,” Doc Raven said, pushing back his chair and standing up. “I think they wanted to see a bloody show—a number of killings until the last man was standing.”

“And then they'd have to pay that man,” Red Henson said.

“No,” Doc Raven replied. “Then they'd just ride out under the protection of their bodyguards. They would have seen a so-called Wild West drama played out to their satisfaction. It was a joke, and the joke was on you men.”

“I don't believe that,” Nils Finley said. “No one would do somethin' that stupid. None of it makes any sense.”

“Shore as hell don't,” Vic Pressman said. “That there is a story, that's all. You make it all up, Doc. To try an' protect your friend Morgan.”

“I give up,” the doctor said. “I can't get through to these men.” He shook his head and sat down.

Clarabelle was unusually quiet, standing in the midst of the West's most dangerous gunfighters, listening. The band was silent, as were the singers.

“It's over, boys,” Bob said. “The dudes is gone. Pulled out. The show is over 'fore it ever got started good.”

“He's right,” Phil the bartender said. “Any gunplay now would be for naught.”

Jack Miller shook his head. “Maybe so, maybe not. But I still aim to kill Frank Morgan. So get out of the way, Lonesome.”

Frank tensed. He felt Miller was all through talking. The man was ready to kill. There was nothing to do now except kill or be killed.

“Make your play, Miller,” Frank said.

Jack Miller moved his hand closer to the butt of his gun.