The Forbidden (15 page)

F
rank's .45 boomed twice. He had drawn and fired in less than a blink of an eye. The two Snake riders who had grabbed for iron tumbled from the saddle. One had been shot through the heart; the other one had taken the slug in the center of his forehead.

The two remaining riders, one of them Reeves, wheeled their horses and got the hell out of there. They did not look back, and Frank let them go.

Frank walked back inside the saloon and up to the bar. “Now you have two more to plant. You can have their guns and whatever's in their pockets for your trouble. That sound fair enough to you?”

“I reckon so, Mr. Morgan,” the barkeep replied in a shaky voice. Frank noticed the man's hands were shaking.

“Their horses too, if they're not riding Snake stock.” He looked down at the bloody mess that was Jules. “Now I have to figure out what to do with you.”

Jules cussed him. “My daddy will get you for this.”

“You've got a one-track mind, Jules. And you're boring me.”

“I wish you'd get him out of here and to a doctor, Morgan,” the barkeep said.

Morgan laughed at that. “If this piece of crap sees a doctor, it won't be me taking him.”

“He's hurt bad.”

“He just can't be called a pretty boy any longer, that's all. Get up, Jules. I'm going to send you home to your mommy and daddy.”

“Help me up.”

“I'll stand here and kick you until you get up or you die. The choice is yours.”

Jules cussed him once more, but managed to struggle to his feet.

“Outside, pretty boy,” Frank told him.

Jules staggered out onto the porch.

“Over by your horse,” Frank said.

When Jules stumbled over to his horse, Frank said, “Now strip, Jules. Right down to your skin.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Strip, or I'll rip those fancy clothes off of you.”

Jules was crying when he said, “My daddy will kill you for this, Morgan.”

“I hope he tries. I ought to heat up a runnin' iron and brand you for raping and killing that girl, you damn punk. Strip!”

A couple of minutes later, Jules was stark naked.

“You had this horse a long time, Jules?”

“Five years or so. Why?”

“Then he knows his way home, right?”

“Sure, he does. He ain't stupid.”

“Good. Mount up.” Frank used Jules's belt to tie the young man's hands to the saddle horn. “Have a good trip, craphead.” He slapped the horse on the rump and watched as the animal galloped away, Jules cussing and swaying in the saddle.

“He's gonna have a sore butt when he gets home,” Frank said. “But it's probably the only justice he'll get for what he did.”

“You're a dead man, Morgan,” the bartender said matter-of-factly from the porch. “Colonel Trainor will never rest until he sees you dead. Sendin' Jules home like that will be the last straw. Man, are you crazy?”

“I've been called worse,” Frank said. He pointed to the dead men sprawled in the dirt and horse crap in front of the store. “You'd better get them planted.”

* * *

It took only hours for the news of what Frank Morgan had done to sweep through the southern half of the valleys. Many of the residents thought Jules got what he deserved. But more than a few thought what Frank had done was too harsh.

Maynard Higgins and George Miller were the most vocal against Frank. The farmers met with a few others of like mind to condemn Frank for his actions.

Frank shrugged off the criticism.

“They're scared, Frank,” Julie told him. “Scared of retaliation.”

“If they're going to stay here and live, they'd either better learn to fight or die well,” was Frank's reply.

“They're farmers, not gunfighters. They're worried about their wives and kids and having to start over somewhere.”

Frank looked at her for a silent moment, sensing that something between them had been lost, and probably would never be recovered. “What do you want me to do, Julie?”

“Whatever you want to do,” she said coolly, then turned away.

The subject was closed, Frank reckoned. No point in pursuing it any further. “All right.” He walked out of the house and mounted up, riding back to his place.

Dog greeted him as Frank dismounted. “You and me again, Dog,” he said. “Least I think that's the way it's turning out. Sure sounded that way to me. And you know what? Maybe that's for the best. 'Cause I don't know for sure what is it I've done to get myself on her bad side. I just flat don't understand women.”

Dog sat and looked at him, wagging his tail.

“But what the hell am I going to do with all this property? I never intended to be a farmer. What the hell do I know about raising beets and potatoes?”

Dog walked off and plopped down in the shade of a huge old tree.

“You like it here, huh? Is that what you're telling me?”

Dog looked at him, yawned, then curled up and went to sleep.

“Wonderful,” Frank muttered.

* * *

The kids came back from their honeymoon and Frank put the boys to work in the fields. He also hired the same crew of carpenters that built his house to build a house where the old Jamison shack once stood. They could share it. The kids were grateful and showed it. Julie smiled at him and said that was very nice of him.

Frank had received warmer greetings from soiled doves.

“I got me a hunch we won't spent the winter here, Dog,” he told the big cur. “It's already gettin' chilly, and I'm not tallkin' about the weather.”

Frank made a deal with the boys, with Lawyer Foster drawing up the papers and Julie and Banker Simmons present, about working the land.

Frank told Simmons later, “Least when I pull out I'll know my interests will be taken care of.”

“Women are notional, Frank. Julie is a good woman. Give her time. You two can work this out.”

Frank shook his head. “I don't think so, John. She's had second thoughts about me, and none of them good.”

“What brought it on?”

“What I did to Jules and my killing those three men at the old store. At least that's a big part of it.”

“Jules got what he deserved and those three men needed killing.”

“Yes. But Julie damn sure doesn't see it that way, and neither do about half of the farmers in the valley.”

“Give them time to think about it, Frank.”

“As usual, I've run out of time. It's no big deal. Hell, I'm used to it.”

The lawyer started to speak, and Frank held up a hand, silencing him. “I see Julie's point, and understand why the others feel the way they do too. What I did just may have terrible consequences for the people here in the south end of the valleys.”

“Perhaps, Frank. And perhaps still more people will die, on both sides of this issue. But this is still a young country, and west of the Mississippi is still wild and woolly. Where there is no law, or the law is in the pocket of the rich and powerful, people have but two choices: bow down and become slaves, or fight. Just maybe you've shoved some steel into the backbones of these people. Have you thought about that?”

“Maybe. But maybe they didn't want their backbones reinforced.”

“I think most did, Frank.”

Frank offered no immediate reply. He stood on the boardwalk and silently rolled a cigarette.

“You're going to pull out, aren't you, Frank?” the lawyer said.

“Looks that way But before I do, I'll see this thing through to its end.”

“And that means? . . .”

Frank looked at the banker, and John Simmons suppressed a shudder. He could plainly see death in the gunfighter's eyes. “I suppose it's come to that,” Simmons finally said.

“Yeah,” the Drifter said. “I reckon it has.”

F
rank cleaned his guns carefully. He put his short-barreled. 45 behind in a holster on the left side of his gunbelt, and stowed another fully loaded Peacemaker in his saddlebags. He loaded up his .44-40, and put several boxes of cartridges for pistol and rifle in his saddlebags. He made sure Dog had plenty of food and water; enough to last him several days. Then he wrapped up some jerky and biscuits and stowed those away. Finally he filled a canteen with fresh water from the well.

“You stay here,” he told the big cur. “I'll be back. Might be a few days, but I'll be back. You stay here. Right here! You understand?”

Dog licked his hand, and then walked away and lay down in the shade of a tree.

Frank mounted up and rode away, toward the crossroads. He reached the crossroads at the same time as a freight wagon. He smiled when he saw it was driven by Luke, the man he'd met on his first day in the valley.

“Howdy there, Frank Morgan!” the freighter called as he halted his team.

“Luke. You sure you want to be seen speaking to me?”

“Why not? I ain't one of those who are highbrowin' you. I'm not sayin' all of them are, but them that is ain't nothin' but a pack of yellow-bellied hyenas.”

“Hard words, Luke.”

“Bull!” the freighter snorted. “Them's true words, Frank Morgan. And you know it. They want the protection your gun and your guts gives them, but they only want so much. Jules Trainor is a cruel young man. Mean-spirited to man and beast alike. He's beat or shot more than one dog and horse to death just for the fun of it. And that young girl who's in an early grave wasn't the first he's raped, believe me. His no-good daddy's been gettin' him out of trouble ever since he was old enough to wear long pants.”

Frank smiled at the considerable heat behind the man's words. “That was quite a speech, Luke.”

“I reckon it was. But all the words was true ones.” He looked hard at Frank. “I got me an idee you're goin' bear-huntin', Frank.”

“You might say that.”

“Plenty of grizzlies to choose from around here.”

Frank nodded his head in agreement.

“You cross this road and you're in bear country, Frank.”

“I know that.”

“You wasn't plannin' on goin' to Hell, was you?”

“No. Just heading that way to see what I might scare up.”

“You want me to give you a hand?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, this load I'm carryin' is goin' to Hell. I might sort of pass the word around that you're on the prod, if you know what I mean.”

Frank thought about that for a moment. “That ghost town north of here would be a dandy spot for a ruckus.”

“Shore would, for a fact.”

“I think I'll head that way.”

“I'll pass the word. Frank?”

Frank looked at the man.

“They might come all in a bunch.”

“That's a possibility.”

“That don't worry you?”

“Do me a favor, Luke?”

“Name it.”

“If I don't come back, will you take care of my dog?”

“It would be a pleasure.”

“I'd appreciate it. He's a good dog.”

Luke smiled. “But I got me a hunch you'll be back.”

“I hope to do just that.”

“You and Miss Julie have a spat?”

“Not really,” Frank said with a faint smile. “All of a sudden she decided she wasn't really happy with me.”

“Some of them other women in the valley got to her, Frank. And if she let them, she ain't the one for you. My first wife left me when I become a freighter. Said she didn't like being left alone so much. Just took the kids and hauled her ashes. My second wife left me after I killed three men who was tryin' to rob me on a lonesome road. Said I should have been more com-passion-ate. I had to go find me a feller to explain that to me. Didn't make no sense then, don't now. Frank, it'll take me a couple hours to get to Hell. Give them hired gunhands an hour to get to the ghost town. I wish you the best of luck.”

Frank lifted a hand and the big wagon rolled on north. Frank headed for the ghost town.

* * *

Frank tucked his horse in a cul-de-sac a few hundred yards from the old town. There was some graze there and some water in a tiny creek. Horse would be all right. Frank walked into the deserted town and began looking around.

There wasn't much left.

The town had only prospered for a short time, so Frank had been told, before everyone just up and pulled out one day. Like many a ghost town in the West, no one really knew exactly what had happened. The town was one of the first in the area, and then one day all the inhabitants were gone.

What remained were the rotting shells of eight or ten buildings. Frank walked into the old saloon, picked a chair up off the floor, dusted it off, and sat down by the window. Resting there, he took himself a little nap.

He slept for about half an hour, then got up and shook himself like a big dog, getting the cobwebs out of his head. He took a sip of water from his canteen, then walked out onto the boardwalk and rolled a smoke. Autumn was definitely in the air, a very pleasant breeze blowing, and the nights were turning cooler. Frank sat down on the edge of the boardwalk and smoked and thought about some things . .. especially his life. Not especially about any regrets he had, and he had a few, but about what he was going to do about the rest of his life. The town of Heaven was not going to be his home; Frank sensed that with an odd feeling of both sadness and relief.

For a few weeks he and Julie had shared something special. Then it had vanished like a puff of smoke.
Probably for the best,
Frank thought,
for I am no family man. I'm a drifter and have been for most of my life.

Frank had once read about some fellow way back centuries ago who was asked if he was afraid of something that faced him. No, the man said. He wasn't afraid of anything in the future, only what was behind him.

Does that fit me?
Frank pondered as he sat on what was left of the boardwalk in the crumbling old town.

Frank abruptly stood up and shook his head. No time to be thinking deep thoughts. Not with what was facing him on this day.

But the thought kept pushing at him:
Why am I doing this?

Frank walked the dusty main street, trying to shake the curious thoughts from his mind, his spurs softly jingling as he paced. He was suddenly very conscious of the .45 Peacemaker on his hip and the short-barreled .45 tucked behind his gunbelt at the small of his back. Odd, for the guns had nearly always been a natural part of him.

Gunfighter. Killer. Manhunter. Those words sprang into his head, words he'd heard used to refer to him dozens of times in the long years that lay behind. Bloody years. Lonely years.

Frank walked back to the saloon and picked up his rifle and canteen, once more stepping out onto the boardwalk. He took a sip of water, stood for a moment, and then walked across the wide street, over to some now-nameless old shell of a store. With an almost visible physical effort, Frank pushed all thoughts except survival from his mind. He began to take stock of where he was, carefully looking all around him.

He checked his pocket watch. It wouldn't be long before the first of the hired guns and bounty hunters would come riding in, anxious to be the one to get lead into Frank Morgan.

“Well, come on, boys,” Frank muttered. “Let's get this dance started.”

Frank smoked one more cigarette before he heard the sounds of a horse walking slowly over the rocky old road that led to the town. Frank stood up and slipped the hammer thong from his Peacemaker. He waited under the shade of the boardwalk awn-ing ... the part of it that was still standing, and it was tilting precariously.

Within moments he saw the lone rider slowly ride up to the edge of the single long street and dismount. Frank stepped out into the street.

“Morgan?” the man called.

“That's me,” Frank said.

The man walked up the center of the street and stopped about fifty feet from Frank. A young man, maybe twenty-five at the most.

“I'm called Lucky Seven.”

“Strange name.”

“I was born on the seventh day of the week and the midwife said if I lived a week I'd be lucky.”

“You pull on me, Lucky, and your luck is gonna run out.”

“Naw, I don't think so, Morgan. I feel really lucky today. 'Sides, I've killed seven men and that's my lucky number.”

“You're a fool, young man. How much is Trainor paying you?”

“I don't work for Trainor. I hired on with the .45 brand.”

“For how much?”

“Enough. You ready to die, Morgan?”

“Something we all have to do.”

Lucky stood and stared at Frank for a moment, a puzzled look on his face. Morgan did not appear to be at all tense. No sign of nervousness about him. “What's with you, Morgan? Don't you know you're going to die right here in this dirty street?”

“Not me, Lucky. It isn't my day.”

“You think you're fast enough to get me?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

“Then you're the fool.”

“I guess that remains to be seen, doesn't it?”

Frank's calmness was beginning to unnerve Lucky. The other men he'd faced in his brief career as a gunslinger had all appeared shaky and nervous moments before the actual shoot-out. Not Frank Morgan. He just stood there patiently, with not a sign of tension.
Damn him!

“Well, do something, damn you!” Lucky yelled.

Frank just smiled at him. “After you, Lucky. It's your show.”

“Are you ready, Morgan?”

“Hell, Lucky, I've been ready. Anytime you want to stop running your mouth, just hook and draw.”

“By God, I will!”

“I'm waiting.”

“You got any last words, Morgan?”

Frank laughed at him.

“Don't you laugh at me, damn you! Don't you make fun of me. I won't stand for that. You hear me?”

“Of course I hear you, Lucky. I'm not deaf.”

“Well, then . . . you stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Damn you, Morgan. There you go again.”

“Come on, Lucky. Do something before I fall over from old age.”

“That's it, ain't it, Morgan? You're so damn old you done lost your nerve. You're afraid to draw on me, ain't you?”

Again, Frank simply smiled at the man.

“Pull iron, you old bastard!” Lucky screamed the words. “Damn you, draw on me.”

“You first, Lucky,” Frank said calmly. “I believe in giving a man an even break . . . sometimes, that is.”

“Don't you do me no favors, Morgan. You hear me? I'm Lucky Seven. I'm fast. And I'm gonna kill you!”

“Then have at it, Lucky. Do something, for God's sake. You're about to put me to sleep with all this talk.”

“You're a son of a bitch!”

“Is that the best you can do, Lucky? That's pitiful.”

Lucky's hand dropped to the butt of his pistol and he pulled iron. Frank smoothly cleared leather and his Peacemaker boomed, the .45 slug slamming into Lucky's chest and knocking the young man off his boots. Lucky sprawled in the center of the dusty, tumbleweed-littered street. He had not gotten off a shot.

Frank walked the short distance up to the dying man and looked down at him.

“You bastard!” Lucky said. His fingers dug in the dirt for his gun.

Frank kicked the young man's pistol away from him. The fancy engraved .45 sailed away and landed behind an old horse trough.

“I hate you, Frank Morgan,” Lucky gasped, then closed his eyes and died.