The Forbidden (10 page)

T
aking a last look through his field glasses, Frank spotted what appeared to be heavy containers dangling from several saddle horns. They sure weren't canteens, and Frank didn't think they were jugs of lemonade the hired guns were taking to a picnic.

“Kerosene, most likely,” he muttered, casing his field glasses.

When the riders were in good range, Frank put several slugs into the ground well ahead of the hired guns, then stood up on the ridge. He stood silently, letting the gunhands get a good look at him.

The hired guns sat their saddles for a moment, talking among themselves. Then they spread out, forming a single line, twenty or thirty feet between them. Frank smiled, shoving fresh loads into his .44-40. “Gonna charge me, are you? Figured you boys would do something like that,” he muttered. “Real stupid of you.”

The line of riders pulled their rifles from saddle boots and charged the hill, coming at a full gallop. “Dumb,” Frank said. “Just plain dumb.” He lifted his rifle and waited for the riders to open fire.

Lead began zinging and howling around Frank, none of the bullets coming anywhere close to him.

Frank took aim, compensating for the fact he was shooting downhill, and gently squeezed the trigger. One hired gun fell from his saddle and bounced on the ground. Frank got another shot off and missed his target, before the line of gunhands broke apart and scattered, half a dozen going one way, half a dozen heading off to Frank's right.

Frank ran for his horse and headed off toward the east, keeping the crossroads, a few miles away, to his left. The hired guns, once they figured out where he was going and regrouped, followed en masse.

Frank galloped into a small stand of timber, jumped off his horse, and knelt down, pulling his .44-40 to his shoulder and taking careful aim. The shot knocked a rider from his horse. The hired gun hit the ground and rolled. He got to his feet and staggered off, one hand holding his wounded side.

The older and more experienced of the hired guns stopped their advance and turned around, quickly getting out of range of Frank's rifle. One rider charged on, shouting and waving his rifle as he rode.

Frank shook his head at the rider's stupidity and levered another round into the chamber. He took aim and squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit the gunhand in the chest and slammed him out of the saddle. He rolled on the ground and did not move. His horse galloped on for a few seconds, then stopped and began grazing.

That did it for the hired guns. They headed back north, riding hard for the road, leaving their dead behind them. The wounded man got to his horse and struggled into the saddle, riding off behind the main group.

Frank waited for a couple of minutes, tracking the paid gunhands with his field glasses until he was sure they were leaving for good . . . at least for this day. He booted his rifle and stepped into the saddle, riding down to the nearest fallen rider. He checked the man, confirming his death, then rounded up the man's horse and tied the gunhand across the saddle. He rode back to the first man of the bunch to hit the ground and checked him. He was dead too. Frank muscled him across his saddle, tied him down, and leading the horse, which had a jug of kerosene tied to the saddle horn, headed for town.

A couple of miles later, he ran into a small group of farmers who had elected to stay behind on this funeral day and protect their farms. They were carrying rifles and shotguns.

“We heard shots,” a farmer called Job said.

Frank gestured toward the dead men and the jug of kerosene. “The guns were planning to do some burning this day.”

“Just these two?” another asked.

“There were about a dozen of them. I wounded at least one other before the group decided they'd had enough.”

“What do you think we should do now?” Job asked. “Go on back home?”

“No. I'd continue patrolling, just to be on the safe side.”

“You takin' those bodies into town, Mr. Morgan?”

“Yes. And just so you'll know . . .” He pointed to the brands on the horses carrying the dead men. “Snake brand.”

The men stared at the brands for a moment. Job said, “A little girl is shot to death and the very next day the ranchers try to burn some of us out. That takes a sorry son of a bitch!”

There was nothing left to say after that. Frank lifted the reins and rode on toward town.

He stowed the bodies in the livery, and walked down the boardwalk of the seemingly deserted town. Only a few businesses were open: the saloon, the hotel, the general store with one clerk on duty. Everyone was gathering early at the church for Shelley's funeral.

Frank stepped into the saloon and Chubby greeted him. “Seen you ride in with them bodies, Mr. Morgan. Whiskey or beer?”

“Beer.”

Chubby pulled a mug and slid it down to Frank. “Where'd you nail them boys?”

“Just this side of the road. Coming through the pass.” Frank took a swig of beer. It was cool and refreshing.

“Sorry bunch of bastards,” Chubby muttered. “On the very day the little girl they killed is bein' buried.”

Frank sipped his beer and said nothing.

“It's gettin' on toward lunchtime, Mr. Morgan. Can I fix you something to eat? We got cold meat and cheese and pickles and hard-boiled eggs. The bread is fresh too.”

Frank looked at the wall clock behind the bar. Eleven-thirty. “Not yet, Chub. But thanks.”

Frank stood alone at the bar and finished his mug of beer. He declined Chubby's offer of another. “Chub, I thought the funeral was scheduled to be held at one o'clock?”

“Time was changed, Mr. Morgan. High noon.”

“Any word from Marshal Handlen?”

“Not that I know of. You reckon he'll even come back out here?”

Frank shrugged his shoulders. “You never know. Man gets back with family he hasn't seen in years . . .” He let that trail off into silence.

“You got any family, Mr. Morgan?”

Frank shook his head. “I 'spect I've got some cousins and such scattered here and there. But I don't know where. You?”

“I got some folks back East, but I ain't seen or heard from none of them in years. I come out here right after the war.” He paused for a moment. “Man ought to have some family to grieve for him when he goes to meet his Maker, don't you think?”

“Laying in the casket, you think the dead knows who's at his burying?”

“That's deep thinkin', Mr. Morgan. Goes over my head. I don't rightly know. Who would know?”

“The Good Lord, I reckon. But He don't talk to me.”

“Me neither. Least in no way that I understand.”

Frank walked outside and stood on the boardwalk, looking up and down the silent empty street. He knew he should walk over to the church, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. It had been a long time since he had stepped inside a church and felt comfortable doing so. He turned his head at the sounds of footsteps on the boardwalk. Doc Everett was heading toward him.

“Howdy, Doc,” Frank said. “You going to the funeral?”

“No. I hate them. Barbaric things. You?”

“No.” The two men stood without speaking for a moment. Frank said, “I would offer to buy you lunch, but the cafe is closed.”

“No matter. I saw you ride in with the bodies hung over the saddles. Snake riders?”

“Yes. They were going to burn down some farmhouses.”

Doc Everett cussed for a few seconds. “Whole damn fight is senseless. Plenty of land for everybody in these valleys.”

“But the colonel wants to be king, right?”

“That's as good a way to put it as any, I suppose.”

“With him out of the way, would Bullard and Gilmar settle down?”

“I doubt it. They're both envious of the colonel's holdings. With him out of the picture, they'd turn on each other, and the winner of that would turn on the farmers. Hell, it might even be worse than now.”

The men stood for a moment and watched as three riders came into view from the edge of town.

“Can you see the brands?” Doc Everett asked.

“Yes, but I don't recognize them.”

The three riders drew closer.

“Ah,” Doc Everett said. “I know who they are now. They're cowhands, not gunfighters. Two work for the Snake, one for the. 45.”

“Surely they know about the funeral.”

“I'm sure they do.”

Frank took note of the fat saddlebags and the thick bedrolls behind the saddles. “I think they're pulling out, Doc.”

“If so, that's not a good sign.”

“No. It isn't.”

Doc waved the men over and greeted them. “You know Frank Morgan?”

“Not personal,” the cowboy Doc had addressed as Fred said. “Sure heard of him.”

“You boys look like you're pulling out,” the doctor said.

“For a fact,” the .45 rider replied. “We don't want no part of this war that's shapin' up. It's gonna be bad.”

“Bullard paying fighting wages?” Frank asked.

“Sure is. First-rate. And he's gettin' some real bad boys signin' on.”

“Most of the old Lightnin' hands is gone,” Fred said. “Drifted out last week. I reckon we're about the last of the regular hands on the Snake.”

“You heard about Shelley Wilson?”

“Yes,” said the .45 rider. “Late last night we did. That done it for me.”

“And us,” the third rider said, jerking a thumb toward Fred. “I ain't makin' war on kids.”

“Who killed the child?” Frank asked.

The three men exchanged quick glances before Fred spoke. “The bushwhacker from Kansas, we heard. Goes by the name of Orin.”

“Orin Mathison?” Frank asked.

“That's him. Big ol' boy. Uses one of them bolt-action rifles.”

“He's been around for a time,” the third rider said. “He's gettin' paid good by all three of the big ranchers. Top money for killin'.”

“You know him, Frank?” Doc Everett asked.

“Never met him. But I've heard about him for years. Mainly that he's a sorry son of a bitch.”

“That's him, all right,” Fred said. “He's about the most disagreeable feller I ever met, for a fact. Don't nobody like him.”

“Hell, why should they?” the third rider said. “He won't socialize with nobody. Never smiles or kids around. And he don't bathe much neither.”

“Sounds like a delightful fellow,” Doc Everett said dryly.

“A stone-cold killer, Doc,” Frank said. “Absolutely no conscience. He'll kill anything or anybody for money.”

“From hiding, though,” Doc replied.

“Usually. But he's damn quick with a pistol too. Never sell him short in that way.”

The three drifting cowboys said good-bye and rode on south.

“That about tells how this situation is shaping up, Frank,” Doc Everett said. “It's going to get plenty bloody.”

“Sure looks that way.”

Slow, sad music began inside the church, the sound drifting faintly to Doc Everett and Frank. Frank did not recognize the song.

“You going to the burying ground, Frank?” Doc asked.

“I don't plan to. You?”

“No. I see enough of death in my work.”

“You believe in God, Doc?”

“I believe there is a higher power. That answer your question?”

“I reckon so.”

“You were probably asking about heaven and hell, right?”

“I guess so.”

“Well . . . I think there might be a heaven. You see, I don't believe the soul dies. Just the shell that contained the soul for a brief period of time.”

“Where does the soul go?”

“Beats the hell out of me, Frank,” the doctor said, then lifted his hat and walked off, a smile on his lips.

Frank smiled faintly and walked over to the undertaker's. No one answered his knock on the door and the door was locked.

Frank sat down on the edge of the boardwalk and rolled a cigarette. He'd wait until the service was over and then escort Julie and the kids back home.

The service was a long one and Frank had smoked several cigarettes before it ended. The church emptied and the mourners headed for their wagons and buggies and horses for the ride over to the graveyard. Frank walked the short distance to the graveside services, and stood by the fence until it was over. When John Simmons walked up, Frank waved him over and told him about the riders he'd intercepted that morning.

“You put the bodies in the livery?” the banker asked.

“Yes. Tell the undertaker he can have their guns and saddles and whatever's in their pockets for burying them. The horses are wearing the Snake brand.”

“I doubt that Trainor will ever come in to lay claim to them.”

“Probably not. I just wanted you to know that.”

“I'll take care of it. Are you going to see Miss Julie home?”

“That was my intention.”

“Good. She's going to need some tender care for a time.”

“I'll do my best, John.”

“I know you will, Frank. There she comes now. I'll be getting along.”

“See you.”

Julie walked to Frank's side, and he put an arm around her and held her for a moment. “The kids riding back alone?”

“Yes. But not to the house.”

“You mean? ...” Frank let that dangle.

“They've got to go see their sweethearts. They both told me and openly dared me to do something about it!”