The Forbidden (13 page)

S
everal of the town ladies met with Julie about the wedding plans, and Julie told Frank, in so many words, to go peddle his papers for a few days.

Frank did so gratefully, heading back to his place to check on things. Dog was glad to see him, and Frank spent some time playing and roughhousing with the big cur dog. He had just finished forking some hay for the horses when Harry Clay rode up. Frank greeted the man as he stepped from the saddle.

“Frank,” Harry said. “Can I talk some business with you?”

“Sure. You want some coffee?”

“That would hit the spot, I reckon.”

“I was thinking about it myself. Come on into the house and I'll make us a pot.”

The men talked of small things while the coffee was boiling, then got down to business over mugs of steaming strong coffee.

“I got two sections of land, Frank. Good land, near 'bouts all of it, with good water.”

“I know that, Harry. I've ridden over it.”

“Me and the wife have talked it over and we want to pull out.”

“Oh? I'm sorry to hear that.”

“I got friends in Idaho who want me to come join them in a farming venture. I want to go.”

“Idaho is right pretty country, Harry. I've spent some time there.”

“You want to buy my land, Frank?”

“Well . . . I reckon I might, if the price was right.”

“I won't hold you up on it. I'll make it fair.”

“When do you want to leave?”

“The day we sign the papers.”

“All right, let's talk about it.”

Five minutes later, the men had agreed on a price. Frank and Harry Clay would meet at the bank the next day to finish the deal.

“This makes you the biggest landowner in the south section, Frank.”

“I reckon that's true. For a man who doesn't know much about farming, I'm sure as hell land-poor.”

Harry smiled. “For a man who might suddenly have a whole passel of kids to look after, you're gonna need it.”

Frank laughed at that. “News does get around, doesn't it?”

“The boy and girl all right after them beatings?”

“Oh, yeah. They're both up and around and healing. They're young. They'll heal fast.”

“Well . . . I'll see you at the bank in the morning then.”

“See you there, Harry.”

The price the men had settled on for the two sections of land was more than fair, and wouldn't even put a dent into Frank's finances, but he had to shake his head as Harry Clay rode away, thinking:
What am I getting into here?

Before he could further question his wisdom as a businessman, Dog began growling low in his throat.

“What's wrong with you?” Frank asked.

Dog growled again, his ears laid back and the hair on his back standing up.

“Okay. I get the message.” Frank picked up a rifle from the gun rack in the living room and walked to a front window, looking out. He could see nothing out of place or anything that might pose danger.

Still Dog continued to growl low in his throat.

Frank eared back the hammer on the .44-40. Something, or somebody, was definitely out there, and whoever or whatever it was presented danger. Dog didn't growl at friends. Frank looked at the big cur: Dog was baring his teeth in a snarl.

“Easy now,” Frank said softly. “Settle down. You're staying in here with me.”

Dog looked at him and growled.

“I mean it, you hardhead. Settle down.”

Frank waited close by the window, his rifle ready. He had no idea who the person lying in wait outside his house might be. Frank knew he still had a bounty on his head, maybe more than one.

“I'll burn you out, you son of a bitch!” The shouted threat carried plain through the hot air.

The voice was familiar, but Frank couldn't put a name to it.

“I'll make you come out and face me!”

Frank waited while the as-yet-unknown man shouted out half a dozen very profane threats against his person.

“Oh, hell!” Frank muttered as he was finally able to put a face to the voice. “Not him again.”

It was the loudmouthed young man from Butte, Rob something or another. Frank had been told by townspeople that Rob had ridden out as soon as his hip wound had permitted him to swing into the saddle.

“What the hell do you want, boy?” Frank shouted through the open window.

“I want to kill you!” Rob screamed the words.

“Well, you're not going to do that. Go home, hang up your guns, and live a long life.”

“Hell with you, Morgan. I'm goin' to kill you!”

“Damn!” Frank whispered. He didn't want to have to kill the young man. It would suit Frank if he never had to use his gun again.

But he knew with his reputation, the odds against him ever being able to take off his gun and live in peace were long indeed.

“Go away, Rob,” Frank called. “Do yourself a favor and ride out.”

“After I kill you.”

“Boy, that isn't going to happen. You're signing your own death warrant.”

“You say, Morgan! I say different.”

“I beat you before, boy. What makes you think this time will be any different?”

“It'll be different, Morgan. I know it will.”

“All right, boy. I'm coming out. Just hang on.” But instead of going out the front door, Frank quietly slipped out the back and began a wide circling, coming out behind the barn. Dog didn't like it, but he would stay put. Frank had taken off his spurs so he made no sound as he slipped up behind the young would-be gunman.

Frank tapped Rob on the shoulder.

“Huh!” Rob shouted, spinning around.

Frank butt-stroked him with the .44-40 and Rob went down and out cold.

When he came to a few minutes later, Frank had him tied to a straight-backed kitchen chair and was looking at him.

“What the hell am I going to do with you, boy?” Frank asked.

“Turn me a-loose!”

“Are you going to behave?”

“Turn me a-loose and find out.”

Frank loosened the rope on Rob's wrists and backed up. “You're free.”

Rob rubbed his wrists and glared at Frank.

“Now what?” Frank asked.

“Gimme my guns.”

“Not a chance.”

“I'll get some more guns.”

“Why?”

“A man's got to have guns, Morgan.”

“I'll agree with that. To defend himself. But not to go looking for trouble. That's what you do: hunt for trouble. Why? You think using a gun makes you a big man?”

Rob stared at him, offering no reply.

“I tell you what, Rob, and I'll try to make this as plain as I can. I'm real tired of messing around with you. I've put my life on the line three times messing with you. No more. This is the last time. If I see you again, I'm going to kill you. Do you finally and, I hope, for the last time understand that?”

The young would-be gunfighter slowly nodded his head. “I reckon.”

“Good. You want some coffee?”

“Huh?”

“Coffee. Out of that pot on the stove yonder.”

“You're offering me a cup of coffee?”

Frank sighed. “Yes. Do you want a cup?”

“That would hit the spot, for shore.”

“Fine. At least we got that settled.”

With the coffee poured and sugared, Rob said, “I reckon after I drink this, Mr. Morgan, I'll drift on out of here.”

“Good. I've got enough to worry about without having to put up with you.”

“I've decided to let you live.”

“That's right nice of you,” Frank said, the sarcasm lost on Rob. “That really eases my mind.”

“I thought it would.”

Frank decided right then that Rob wasn't playing with a full deck of cards. Maybe his mama had dropped him on his head when he was little.

“You want a grubstake to get you going, boy?”

“For a fact I ain't got no money.”

Frank dug in his pocket and gave him twenty dollars. “That ought to get you a ways, boy. A long ways, I hope.”

“Right nice of you, Mr. Morgan.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Frank sat out on the porch for a time after Rob had ridden out. He felt good about not having to face the young fool and shoot him.

“Stay gone, boy,” he whispered. “And live a long life. And more importantly, stay the hell away from me.”

Frank stepped inside to get himself another cup of coffee, Dog padding along with him. As he poured his coffee, Frank decided to fix a snack. He tossed some wood in the stove and put some bacon on to fry, then sliced some bread. He was pumping him some water at the sink when he saw movement in the timber at the side of the clearing. Dog's head came up at that instant and he growled, a snarl coming out behind the growl.

“Okay,” Frank told him. “Settle down. It's that damn Rob again.” He pulled the skillet off the stove and picked up his rifle, muttering, “Man can't even fix him a bite to eat. Damn!”

A dozen rifles opened up, the bullets breaking glass and shattering wood. Frank hit the floor belly-down. He shoved Dog behind the wood box and told him to stay there.

“It's about to get real interesting around here,” he said.

F
rank lay on the floor and let the riflemen blast away for a couple of minutes. The rounds busted windows and tore through parts of the house, breaking lamps and clanging off the stove. Dog lay safe behind the full firewood box, and Frank had crawled in front of a full book cabinet, the volumes stopping any rounds that blew through the walls of the house.

When the gunmen paused to reload, Frank crawled to a window and cautiously looked out. The first thing he saw was the leg of a man sticking out from behind a rack of cut firewood. Frank put a .44-40 round into the man's knee. Then, before the echo of the rifle died away, he quickly shifted position to the rear of the house.

The gunhand with the busted knee lay on the ground and hollered in pain.

“He's in the front!” someone yelled. “Blow it apart!”

The riflemen directed their fire to the front of the house, the rounds from rifles blowing through the several inches of wood. Frank had slipped to the back porch and had positioned himself behind a stack of firewood. He chanced a quick look around the edge of the stack and saw a man fully exposed, standing at the edge of the barn.

Frank put a round into the man's belly that doubled the gunslick over and set him on the ground on his butt, both hands holding his perforated midsection.

Then, before the rifle fire could be directed to the back porch, Frank crawled quickly into the kitchen.

“Help me!” the gutshot man yelled. “I'm hard hit and hurtin' somethin' awful.”

Frank jumped to his feet and blew three quick rounds out the kitchen window. He didn't think he managed to hit anything, but he did send several gunhands diving for the ground.

He moved to the living room and peeked out through a bullet-torn hole in the wall. No one was leaving cover to help the badly wounded man. The man with the busted knee had crawled out of sight.

“Damn you all!” the gutshot man hollered. “Somebody come help me.”

“Yeah,” Frank whispered. “Somebody make a move. Please do.”

Somebody did, jumping from behind cover and starting a run toward the wounded man. Frank brought him down, the. 44-40 round dusting him from side to side and sending him tumbling to the ground. The man kicked a couple of times and then lay still, the blood leaking out, staining the ground.

“Three down,” Frank muttered. “Come on, boys. Let's make it four or five. Somebody do something.”

But the gunmen had suddenly become very cautious.

“We should have kilt him by now,” a man called. “He should be shot full of holes.”

“Well, he ain't,” another man said. “And we got one down and wounded and two dead, or soon will be.”

The gutshot man called weakly, “Don't leave me here, boys. I'm done for but I don't wanna lay here and rot. Bury me proper, you hear?”

“We'll plant you good, Sol. Don't you worry about that.”

“Then gather up your dead and your wounded and get the hell out of here!” Frank called. “I won't fire on you.”

“This ain't over, Morgan.”

“Yeah, I know. You'll get me. I've heard it all before, many times.”

“Morgan?” A new voice was added.

“Right here. I haven't gone anywhere.”

“Get out while you can. That's a fair warnin'. This thing is bigger than you know. Ain't no reason for you to die for a bunch of sodbusters and ribbon clerks that don't really give a damn about you.”

Frank knew that voice. He struggled for a moment, trying to put a name to it. Finally he gave it up. “This is my home.”

“This is Dave Clayton, Morgan.”

“Been a long time, Dave.”

“Five or six years. Lomax is on his way in, and so is Jones. Thought you'd better know that.”

Lomax and Jones were hired killers. Two damn tough hombres out of West Texas. “Tell your bosses they can bring in all the hired guns they can find, Dave. I'm not leaving.”

“Ain't no law gonna interfere in this, Morgan.”

“I know that.”

“All right. You been warned. It's open season from now on.”

“Works both ways, Dave. You better give that some thought.”

“We're goin', Morgan. For now anyways.”

“I hear you. Take your dead and wounded and clear out. I won't fire on you . . . this time.”

The dead and wounded were collected and the gunmen rode away. Frank looked over at Dog, who was peering around the edge of the wood box, as if silently asking: What the hell is going on here?

“Come on out, fellow,” Frank said, punching fresh rounds into his rifle. “It's all right.” Frank slid the skillet of bacon back onto the stove, and then walked the length of the house, inspecting the damage done by the gunfire. Then he walked outside and around the clearing, kicking dirt over the bloodstains.

“I think, Dog,” Frank said, “that it's time for me to go on the hunt. And I think I'll do just that. Starting right after I make me a little trip into town.”

* * *

Frank left the big Appaloosa ground-reined about a mile from the main house of the Trainor spread, in a stand of timber. He slipped on moccasins, stowing his boots in the saddlebags. He took his rifle, a bandolier of ammunition, and a spare pistol, then slipped into a backpack.

“Now then, Colonel Trainor,” Frank said with a smile. “It's your turn, you arrogant son of a bitch.”

He checked his pocket watch: just after midnight. What was it someone had called this time of night? The witching hour? Something like that.

“Call it the mischief hour,” Frank muttered. “And I'm the mischief maker.”

He headed toward the complex of buildings, moving as silently as the night.

It was a few minutes before midnight when he reached the buildings and slipped out of his backpack, laying it carefully on the ground. He opened the flap and in the faint light from the moon and starlit sky, smiled as he pulled out a three-stick bundle of dynamite, the sticks capped, fused, and tied together, ready to light. Frank had half a dozen single sticks ready to go, as well as several two-stick bundles and several more three-stick bundles.

He slipped to the rear of the bunkhouse and planted one of the charges with a long fuse. The three-minute fuse would give him time to get to the main house and plant a charge at the front door of Colonel Trainor's mansion. The huge house was made of stone, so Frank didn't think the charge would do much damage, except to Trainor's ego. As arrogant as Trainor was, Frank figured it would be amusing to give Trainor's ego a big boot in the butt.

After planting the charges, Frank slipped through the night to a stone fence Trainor had built around the several acres that contained his mansion and private barn. Frank settled down behind the low fence and waited for the fun to start.

The charge at the rear of the bunkhouse went first, the explosion shattering the tranquility of the night. Half of the roof collapsed and a major part of the rear wall blew inward, the concussion blowing out all the windows in the building.

“Good God!” Frank heard a man holler. “What the hell happened?”

“Somebody come get this crap off me!” another yelled. “I got part of the damn roof on my legs.”

“My leg is busted,” another moaned, the words just reaching Frank. “A damn beam fell on me.”

The dynamite at the front door of the mansion blew and took the door out, blowing it off its hinges and into the fancy foyer of the home. Trainor must have been walking down the stairs from the second floor when the charge went off and the concussion had knocked him down. Frank heard a very audible thumping sound, much like someone bouncing ass-over-elbows down a flight of stairs. That was followed by a great deal of cussing.

Frank struggled to keep from laughing out loud as a very disheveled-looking Trainor appeared in what was left of the front entrance. He waved the dust cloud away and hollered, “What the hell is going on?”

Frank edged away from the fence over to the huge main corral, and opened the gate. He began screaming like a buck on the warpath, and several dozen horses bolted through the gate and were gone into the night.

The foreman, Tom Bracken, ran out of his quarters, dressed only in his long handles and hat. He was carrying his gunbelt. Frank put a .44-40 round at the foreman's bare feet and Tom hollered, dropped his gunbelt, and hauled his butt back into his quarters.

Frank lit a bundle of dynamite and tossed it into the center of the main compound. It landed in the bench area of a small gazebo, and blew just as several hired guns came running from the rear of the house into the clearing. The violent concussion knocked them rolling and sprawling on the ground.

“Get there and kill that son of a bitch!” Trainor yelled, waving his arms. “It's Morgan, goddamnit.”

Frank put a round into the stone entranceway and got what he hoped for. The bullet flattened and part of it hit Trainor . . . right in the butt.

“Whooaa!” the arrogant rancher hollered, jumping up and down. “Holy crap!”

“Are you hit?” one of the hired guns hollered.

“Hell, yes, I'm hit!” Trainor yelled just as his son, Jules, came running down the stairs and into the foyer.

Frank put another round bouncing off the stone entrance to the mansion, and Colonel Trainor leaped into the foyer, colliding with his son. Both of them went down in a heap on the floor.

Staying low, the stone fence shielding him, Frank slipped around to the side of the huge house and chucked a sputtering stick of dynamite through an open window into the fancy living room.

The charge blew out all the windows and destroyed the expensive chandelier, bringing it smashing to the floor. The rolling shock wave from the explosion hit Trainor and his son just as they were crawling to their feet in the foyer. The concussion knocked them both down again and rolled them across the floor.

“Somebody kill that son of a bitch!” Trainor screamed. “A thousand dollars to the man who kills him.”

Two hired guns jumped to their feet, six-guns in their hands, and came charging across the yard. Frank knocked a leg out from under one with a well-placed round, and the second one decided the charge was really foolish; he hit the ground and rolled behind some lawn furniture.

Frank lit two more sticks of dynamite and tossed them into the yard. A second before they blew, he was off and running into the night. He had done all he dared to do for this trip. As he ran he could hear Trainor screaming for somebody, anybody, to kill him.

“Goddamnit! What am I paying you men for? Get after him, you bastards!”

“Where is he?” a gunhand hollered. “I can't locate him.”

Smiling, Frank melted into the darkness, carefully making his way toward his horse.

“All the horses is scattered, Mr. Trainor,” the foreman yelled. “It'll take us a while to round them all up.”

“Then get to it!” Trainor yelled. “And somebody get into town and get Dr. Woods for me.”

“Where are you hit?” Tom yelled.

“In my ass, goddamnit!”

Chuckling softly, Frank reached his horse and rode away.