The Forbidden (9 page)

F
rank stepped out of the cafe. Rob, the young man from the saloon in Butte, was standing in the middle of the street.

“I seen you walk away from that other feller, Morgan,” Rob shouted. “But by God you're gonna face me and we're gonna settle this thing.”

“What thing, boy?”

“The quarrel between us, Morgan. Damn you, you know what.”

“I got no quarrel with you, boy.”

“I ain't no boy, you old bastard!” He was wearing twin. 45s, hung low and tied down, his hands hovering over the butts of his guns.

“I'm not going to argue with you, Rob. It's hot out here. If you want to kill me, have at it. Now's your chance.”

“I'm gonna make you sweat some, you old has-been.”

“The only thing you're going to do is piss me off. And you've just about reached that point.”

Rob grabbed for his guns, both of them. Frank shot him before Rob could get either gun clear of leather, and his aim was perfect, the bullet slamming into the young man's hip and spinning the would-be gunslick around in the street and depositing him on his butt in the dirt. Rob tried to lift and cock his right-hand .45 just as Frank reached him and jerked the pistol from his hand, tossing it to one side. Frank stepped on Rob's left hand hard, preventing him from pulling his other pistol.

“It's over, boy,” Frank told him, reaching down and removing Rob's left-hand pistol. “And you're alive. Be thankful for that.”

“I'm crippled!”

“I doubt it. But even if you are, you're alive.”

“I hurt somethin' fierce, you bastard.”

“Good. Maybe the pain will help you get your mind off gunplay and onto something constructive.”

While Rob lay in the dirt, bleeding and cussing, Doc Everett walked up and motioned to several men standing on the boardwalk. “You boys help me get him over to my office so I can dig that lead out.”

“Is it gonna hurt, Doc?” Rob asked.

“Not as much as it should. I'll give you something to dull the pain. Come on, boys, lift him up and get him out of the street.”

Rob was toted off to the doc's office, hollering about how bad he was hurting all the way. Frank picked up the young man's guns and carried them over to the gun and saddle shop, giving them to the owner.

“Stow these away, will you?”

“I sure will, Mr. Morgan.”

Frank walked over to the bank, and Simmons waved him into his office. “You should have killed that young hoodlum, Frank.”

“You're probably right, John. But I'm tired of killing, tired of men trying to make a name for themselves at my expense.”

“You'll never be able to take off that pistol and put it away, will you, Frank?”

“Not anytime soon, that's for sure.”

The men looked at each other in silence for a moment, Frank finally saying, “The workmen will be finishing up for this week by early afternoon today. Pay them off when they get here, will you, John?”

“Of course I will. I'll have the receipt waiting for you when you come in.”

Frank stood up. “I'm going home and do some work on my new property this afternoon.” He smiled. “I think I'll just tear down that shack that passed for a home. See you.”

Frank headed for home, arriving just as the workmen were finishing up for the weekend. He made sure Dog had food and water, and then headed over to the place Jamison had just sold him. He walked into the house and shook his head at the squalor left behind.

Frank backed out, his mind quickly made up. He'd arrange for a team of mules—the man at the livery had some big Missouri Reds—and have Harry Clay go into town after them, hook them up, and just pull the damn shack down. Whatever lumber there was that could be salvaged and reused, he'd give to Harry.

He walked over to the ramshackle barn and once again looked at the farming equipment. Much of it was just plain junk, beyond repair. Harry could have whatever equipment he could fix and use. But the land was prime, with good water. Even though Frank was far from being an expert at farming, he knew from just looking the property over that Jamison had not used the land properly and was not a good farmer.

Frank knew one thing for certain. He had a lot of work to do.

* * *

“I don't know what I'm going to do about the twins,” Julie said to Frank, refilling his coffee cup.

Frank looked up from the plate of food Julie had prepared for him. Noon mealtime at the Wilson farm, and the twins were not at home. They both had been gone since early that morning. Shelley had been fed and was in her room, reading. “You want me to talk to them?”

“They resent you, Frank,” Julie said, sitting down. “Oh, they both like you. But they both say you're not their father and you have no right to tell them to do anything.”

“They have a point.”

“But Shelley obeys you.”

“Shelley is a child. She's used to grown-ups telling her what to do. Phil and Katie are near'bouts grown up. In body, if not in mind.”

“It's body I'm worried about,” Julie said, rolling her eyes. “Especially Katie's body. What if those kids are doing . . . well, you know.”

Talk such as that made Frank very uncomfortable. “You want me to try to arrange a meeting with Bullard and Gilmar?”

“Do you think it would do any good?”

“What could it hurt? It would be concerned parents talking about their kids.”

“Frank, have you ever been across the line to rancher territory?”

“No,” he admitted. “I haven't had any reason to go over there.”

“They might shoot you on sight over there.”

Frank smiled. “That would be unpleasant.”

“Don't joke about it! Just the thought of something happening to you scares me.”

“Well, if you don't want me to ride over there, we could always send them a telegram,” Frank suggested, struggling to hide a smile.

Julie sighed and gave him a very jaundiced look.

“Or, we could hitch up the buckboard and go together.”

“I think that might be best. If you don't mind.”

“We'll go tomorrow.”

“You're sure you don't mind?”

“Not a bit.”

Julie smiled. “That takes a real weight off my mind, Frank.”

“Think nothing of it.”

She leaned over and kissed him, and Frank returned the affection. Just as they were pulling apart, Shelley stepped out of her room and said, “I'm going to play outside, Mother.”

Red-faced at nearly getting caught smooching, Julie jerked away from Frank and replied, “All right, baby. Stay close to the house.”

“I want to go down to the creek!”

“Shelley . . .” Julie said, then shook her head. “All right, you can play down by the creek. Just don't get all wet and muddy. You hear me?”

“Yes, ma'am.” She was out the door in a blur of calico.

“That dress will be filthy when she comes back,” Julie said, then smiled. “Oh, well. It needs washing anyway.”

“What time do you want to go over to see the ranchers?”

“We'd best leave early. I'll fix us a fried-chicken lunch.”

“With biscuits?” Frank asked, smiling.

She playfully reached out and ruffled his hair. “With biscuits, Frank.”

Frank had another cup of coffee and then puttered around the house for a time, fixing this and that. He had just finished repairing a harness when the faint sound of a shot reached him. He stepped out of the barn and listened, but no more shots came.

“What the hell was that?” Frank muttered, heading for Horse and swinging into the saddle.

Julie had stepped out of the house and called to him. “Was that a shot, Frank?”

“Yes. But I don't know where it came from. I'll check it out.”

“You wait a minute. Saddle me a horse. I'm coming with you.”

“In a dress?”

“Saddle the damn horse, Frank!”

Frank tossed a saddle on a little gentle mare, and Julie hiked up her skirt and swung into the saddle. “Let's go,” she said, and took off for the creek.

Frank spotted the still form of Shelley, lying beside the creek bank, before Julie did, and reached out and grabbed the bridle of her horse. “You wait here, Julie. I mean it. Let me check this out. Wait right here!”

Frank jumped from the saddle and ran to Shelley's side, but he knew she was dead. The bullet had slammed into her chest and blown out the back. She was dead before she had hit the ground and there was little blood. He knelt down and touched her face, closing her sightless eyes. The little girl was gone.

“Goddamnit!” Frank said.

“Frank?” Julie called from the hill. “Did you find her, Frank?”

Frank stood up and walked to where she could see him. “Yes, Julie. I found her. Don't come down here.”

“Why? Why shouldn't I come down? I'm coming down there, Frank.”

“Julie!”

It was too late. Julie came down the hill at a gallop and jumped out of the saddle, almost tripping on the hem of her dress. She ran to her daughter's side and stood for a moment, looking first at Shelley, then at Frank.

Then she collapsed.

F
rank wrapped Shelley's body in a blanket, and then wet his bandanna and bathed Julie's face until she came out of her faint.

“It was a dream, wasn't it?” Julie asked, her eyes unfocused and still glazed over from shock.

“No,” Frank said gently. “It was real.”

“Shelley's dead?”

“Yes.”

Julie put her hands to her face and began weeping.

Frank didn't have a lot of experience with grief-stricken mothers. All he could do was stand helplessly by and listen to Julie sob over the loss of her child. When there didn't appear to be any letup in Julie's weeping, Frank walked away and got their horses.

“Come on, Julie,” he urged. “We've got to take Shelley into town. You mount up and I'll carry the girl. We'll go back to the house and hitch up the buckboard.”

When there was no immediate response, Frank pulled the woman to her feet. “Julie!” he said as gently as he could. “All this won't bring the girl back.”

Julie pulled away and stood glaring at him, tears streaming down her face. “Did you look for any signs of who might have done this?”

“No, not yet.”

“But you will?”

“You want me to do that now?”

“Yes. I want to be alone with my child for a moment.”

“All right. Julie, don't take the blanket off her. Don't look at her again.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's a dreadful wound, that's why. You don't want to keep that picture in your mind.”

“She has to be dressed before we take her into town.”

“No, she doesn't. You can pick out a dress when we get back to the house.”

“I've got to comb her hair.”

Frank grabbed her arms. “Julie, damnit! Listen to me.”

She struggled away from him. “Leave me alone with my Shelley! Go look for . . . go look for something! Leave me alone.”

“All right, Julie. All right. I'll leave you alone for a few minutes.”

“I'm going to look at my child, Frank.”

“I won't try to stop you.” Frank walked away, stepping across the small creek. He walked about a hundred yards up a gently sloping rise toward a stand of timber and began casting about for a sign. It didn't take him long to find it.

It was the same hoofprint he'd seen at the Jefferson place after the fire, the same print he'd seen when the fields of Harry Clay had been set afire. The horse had an odd way of stepping that any experienced tracker would pick up on immediately. Frank found some boot prints in the stand of timber where the shooter had knelt to fire. Whoever it was was no small fellow. The bootprints were deep in the ground. He was a good-sized man.

Frank followed the boot tracks and found where the man had mounted up, riding off toward the north. He searched for, but could not find any shell casings that would help identify the type of rifle used.

Frank walked back to the other side of the creek. Julie was sitting beside the blanket-wrapped body of Shelley. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. “Let's get back to the house, Julie,” he said. “I'll carry Shelley. I'll hitch up the buckboard; then we'll go into town.”

She nodded her head and rose to her feet without speaking. She walked to her horse and climbed into the saddle. Frank picked Shelley up and as gently and gracefully as possible got into the saddle. They headed for the house.

The twins had not yet returned home, and that infuriated Julie. She stormed around for a couple of minutes, then calmed down enough to go into the house to change clothes and get clean clothing for Shelley while Frank hitched up the team.

Frank had a hunch Julie was not going to leave her daughter's side until the service was over and the girl was buried, so after he placed Shelley in the buckboard and pulled around to the front of the house, he tied the reins of his horse to the back of the buckboard.

Julie left a brief note for the twins, placed a traveling bag in the buckboard, and climbed onto the seat beside Frank.

“You ready?” Frank asked.

She nodded her head.

Frank picked up the reins, clucked at the team, and they headed for town. It was going to be a silent trip.

* * *

The news of Shelley's death spread like an unchecked prairie fire. When the townspeople began gathering at the undertaker's, Frank slipped out and headed for the saloon.

Chubby was behind the bar and he set a bottle and glass in front of Frank. Frank poured himself a couple of fingers of rye and took a sip.

“Sorrowful time, Frank,” Chubby said.

“It is that.”

“This is liable to light the fuse to this powder keg.”

“I 'spect it will, Chubby. Tell me, what good do you think it would do to notify the county sheriff?”

“None a-tall. Sheriff Wilcox is solidly behind the ranchers. Oh, he'd send one of his deputies over here, a report would be taken, and that would be the end of it. Wilcox is a sorry-assed sheriff, for sure. When's the funeral goin' to be?”

“Tomorrow, I reckon.”

“Whole town'll be showin' up for sure.”

“ 'Magine so.” Frank took a sip of his drink, thinking:
And every farm family in the valley will be there. What a great opportunity for some hired guns to strike and do some house and barn burning.

Frank shoved his drink away. “I'll see you, Chubby.”

“All right. Take care.”

Frank walked over to the undertaker's and pushed his way through the crowd gathered outside. He found Julie sitting alone with Shelley's body. She had been crying. She looked up as Frank walked in.

“Frank? Will you ride back to the house and check on Phil and Katie?”

“Yes, of course. You want me to send them into town?”

“If you don't mind. I'm sure we can spend the night with someone here in town.”

“I'll do better than that. I'll rent you rooms at the hotel. That sound all right with you?”

“That would be nice, Frank.”

“When are the services?”

“Tomorrow, at one o'clock, at the church.”

“I'll pay my respects now, Julie, if you don't mind. I think I'd better do some scouting up near the crossroads in case some of the hired guns go on the prowl with everyone in town, away from their farms.”

“I hadn't thought of that. You're right, of course. I'll pass the word to some of the other farmers as I see them and tell them what you're doing. Some of them may want to stay home too.”

“It might be a good thing if they did. Do that, Julie.”

Frank walked over to the hotel and reserved two rooms, explaining to the clerk what he was doing.

“They'll be no charge for the rooms, Mr. Morgan. It's my way of saying how sorry I am that this happened.”

Frank thanked him and stepped outside just as several riders on horses wearing the Lightning brand were reining up in front of the saloon. Frank stood in front of the hotel, under the awning, for a moment, then stepped out into the street and paused as the riders came hurriedly out of the saloon. They stopped when they spotted Frank.

“Now you wait just a minute, Morgan,” one said. “We just now heard what happened to the girl. We're regular hands, not hired guns. We didn't have nothin' to do with no killin' of a child. Don't none of us hold with that sort of thing.”

“Your boss does,” Frank said coldly.

“Maybe he does,” another Lightning hand said. “But we don't.”

“Was I you boys,” Frank said, “I'd get on those horses and get the hell out of this town. The mood the townfolk are in, you might be in for a lot of trouble if you stay around.”

“We was just leavin', Morgan.”

“Good. Do that.”

Frank watched them mount up and ride out. He believed they had told the truth. They were only cowhands, not hired guns, but whether or not they had taken part in any of the night riding against the farmers was still unclear.

He looked back at the undertaker's place: the crowd was getting larger, the women weepy-looking and the men sullen. Frank stepped into the saddle and rode out. He passed the town's cemetery; grave-diggers were already digging the small hole for Shelley's coffin. It was a lonesome ride back to his place.

* * *

Frank awakened long before dawn, as was his custom, fed Dog, and made certain there was plenty of fresh water available for him. He fixed a couple of sandwiches, filled up his canteen, then saddled up a big Appaloosa he'd bought recently at the livery. He had cleaned his rifle, a .44-40, before going to bed, and he slipped it into the saddle boot. He put a couple of boxes of ammunition for both rifle and pistol into his saddlebags.

“You stay here,” he told Dog. “You hear me?”

Dog looked up at him and wagged his tail.

“I'll take that as a yes,” Frank said, squatting down and petting the dog for a moment. “You be good and stay out of trouble.”

Frank rode out, heading for a range of high hills that would give him a commanding view of a good portion of both sides of the long series of valleys. It had been dry in this area for several weeks, and any group of riders would kick up enough dust to be seen a long ways off. The Ap was a stepper and loved to travel. Frank reached his vantage point about an hour after daylight flooded the landscape, and got his field glasses out of the saddlebags.

Frank figured the farmers in this part of the south end of the valley would be leaving about midmorning for the journey into town. He checked his rifle, making sure the tube was full of cartridges, then settled down under the shade of a tree.

He didn't have a long wait before he saw the dust rising from under the hooves of many horses. They were coming straight through the pass, heading right at Frank. As they drew closer, Frank picked up his field glasses and studied the riders. He immediately picked out four men he personally knew were hired guns, not cowboys.

“Okay, boys,” Frank muttered. “You rolled the dice.”

He picked up his rifle.