Showdown (2 page)

Frank remained seated at the table as the front door was opened and two young men walked into the saloon, both of them all full of confidence and false toughness. Frank had seen their type many times before. Bullies, for the most part, and to Frank, very unimpressive. Frank could tell by the way they walked both were primed and cocked for trouble.

Brooks and Martin strolled over to the bar and ordered whiskey, then turned and gave the patrons a once-over. Both their gazes settled on Frank.

The old liveryman, Bob, moved further away from Frank's table.

“You somebody important?” Brooks called to Frank.

“Are you speaking to me?” Frank asked.

“Yeah. Who are you?”

“A man enjoying a pot of good coffee. Does that bother you? Not that it's any of your business,” Frank added.

The pair of trouble-hunters both stiffened at that, Martin saying, “We might decide to make it our business.”

“Why?” Frank asked.

“Huh?” Brooks blurted.

Frank smiled tightly, his eyes never leaving the pair. “I said, why?”

Brooks and Martin exchanged glances. “ 'Cause we wants to know who you is, that's why!” Martin spoke.

“The name is Frank. And I assure you, any pleasure in this meeting is all yours. Now leave me alone.” Frank had taken an immediate dislike to Brooks and Martin. Frank had never liked bullies, and that dislike had heightened over the years.

“You got a real smart-alecky mouth, you know that?” Brooks said.

“You have my totally insincere apologies.”

The bartender smiled at that.

“I don't think I like you,” Martin said.

“It's a free country,” Frank replied. “Like or dislike whoever you choose. Now, if you have nothing else to contribute to this small exchange, shut up.”

“Huh?” Brooks asked.

“I said shut up!”

“Who the hell do you think you is?” Martin shouted.

“A man who is rapidly losing patience with a couple of pushy loudmouths.”

“You think you somebody special or somethin'?” Brooks yelled.

Frank smiled and said nothing.

“I'll tell you who he is,” a saloon loafer said. “He's Frank Morgan.”

Brooks and Martin stood silent for a few seconds as that statement sank in. Brooks was the first to speak. “You lie! That ain't Frank Morgan. Cain't be.”

“Well, it damn shore is him,” Bob said.

“Frank Morgan's an old man,” Martin said. “That feller sittin' yonder ain't old enough to be him.”

“ 'Sides,” Brooks added, “what would Frank Morgan be doin' in a dump like South Raven?”

“Resting and having a cup of coffee,” Frank said. “And minding my own business. Why don't you two shut the hell up, try minding your own business, and leave me alone?”

That shut the cousins up for a moment. They looked at one another. Martin opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, then said, “You cain't talk to me like that, mister, whoever you are. Why ... I've called men out for less than that.”

Not to be undone, Brooks said, “Yeah. Me too.”

“Go away,” Frank told the pair, a note of weariness in his voice. “I didn't come here looking for trouble.”

“Well, now,” Martin said. “That's some better. Now you're bein' smart, mister. Nobody with any sense wants to tangle with us.”

“I'm sure,” Frank replied. “Now go away.”

“Maybe we don't want to go away,” Brooks said. “Maybe we want to stay and have a drink.”

“Then, damnit, drink!” Frank said, raising his voice. “But do it quietly.”

“What if we want to talk?” Martin asked, a smirk on his face. “That allowed?”

Frank slowly pushed back his chair and stood up. He was growing very weary of the Olsen boys, and wanted nothing more than to get away from the pair before the situation deteriorated into gunplay.

Martin and Brooks tensed, their hands dropping close to the butts of their guns.

Frank kept his hand away from his .45. “I'll be leaving now.”

“Maybe we want you to stay and talk to us,” Brooks said. “I mean, you're such a famous person and all that.”

“Yeah,” Martin said. “It ain't often we get to talk with someone like you. Maybe you can show us how fast you are, Mr. Has-Been. How about it?”

“I really don't think you boys want me to do that,” Frank said softly.

“Oh, but we do, Mr. Famous Gunfighter,” Brooks said. “As a matter of fact, we insist on it.”

The cousins began to giggle like a couple of schoolgirls.

Frank stepped away from the table, his hand dropping to the butt of his pistol. From long experience, he knew the situation was very close to a showdown. He didn't like it, didn't want it, but there it was.

“All right, boys,” Frank said. “Here it is. I'm going to walk out that front door. You want to slap iron, do it. Do it right now, or shut your damned mouths.”

Brooks and Martin suddenly found the situation had lost all humor. They were facing a man who had never been beaten in a hook-and-draw confrontation. The pair exchanged quick glances. “Easy now, Mr. Morgan,” Martin said. “We was only funnin' with you.”

Frank offered no reply as he began walking toward the front of the saloon.

“But we'll be around,” Brooks said in an effort to save some face.

“So will I,” Frank said. He opened the door, shoved open the batwings, and stepped out onto the boardwalk. The batwings clicked and clacked behind him.

“Good thing he left,” Martin said. “I'd hate to have had to put lead in him.”

“Yeah,” Brooks said. “Him bein' kind of a legend and all that. You know he's slowed down to nothin' with age and all.”

Liveryman Bob began laughing at that, and the other patrons quickly joined in. Both Brooks and Martin flushed with anger and frustration and turned away, facing the bar. “It ain't over,” Martin whispered. “Not by a long shot.”

“Damn shore ain't,” Brooks said.

“You boys best settle down,” Bob told them. “And enjoy life. 'Cause if you push Frank Morgan again, they'll be guns goin' off ... with the lead flyin' in your direction.”

“We ain't scared of that has-been!” Martin blurted out.

“Then you're a couple of damned young fools,” Bob replied.

* * *

Outside, Frank paused for a moment on the boardwalk long enough to roll a smoke and light it. The chilly wind blew around him unnoticed while Frank was deep in thought. A group of Eastern businessmen were going to hire men, or had hired men, to hunt him for sport? Incredible.

Frank had heard of this happening just once before, but he never knew if it was fact or just some rumor. “I guess it's true,” he muttered, and walked on. “What am I, some sort of beast of prey?”

Frank bought some food at the cafe for Dog, and went back to the livery and fed him, making sure he had plenty of water. Stepping outside the livery, he stood and watched as two men rode slowly into town and reined up in front of the saloon. They both stepped stiffly from the saddle and stood for a moment, looking around them. Frank did not recognize them, but he did know the type: gun-handlers. Both of them wore tied-down guns and they were acting wary, carefully looking over the area before moving away from their horses and stepping up onto the boardwalk.

Frank stayed in the shadows of the livery and watched the pair. They stepped onto the boardwalk and stood for a moment, visually checking all around them before disappearing from sight into the saloon.

“Well, I'm not going to stand out in the cold because two strangers rode into town,” Frank muttered. He headed for the saloon, intending to go to his room and relax, perhaps read some from a book he'd picked up from a traveling peddler. Frank was not an educated man, in the sense of formal education, but he was well read and always had a couple of books in his saddlebags. He walked back to the saloon. He wanted to avoid trouble, but damned if he was going to sleep in the barn when a warm room was bought and paid for.

The liveryman stepped out just as Frank approached the side door. “Gunslicks in there, Mr. Morgan,” Bob said, jerking his thumb toward the batwings.

“I saw them. You know them?”

“Never seen 'em 'fore. But I know what they are.”

“They're trouble-hunters, for a fact. Did you hear a name?”

“No. They ain't said nothin' to nobody 'ceptin' the bartender. They ordered coffee and asked about someplace to eat.”

“I imagine the Olsen boys will have something to say before long.”

“You can bet your bankroll on that. Them boys got mouths that would put an alligator's snout to shame.”

Frank smiled at that.

“You gonna ride out, Mr. Morgan?”

“No. I probably should, but I want to find out more about this so-called sporting game those idiots back East dreamed up.”

“You think them two gunslicks that rode in is a part of it?”

“I don't know. But I'm going to find out.”

“I got to see about my animals. Don't start no shooting till I get back. It ain't often we get any excitement in this town. I don't wanna miss nothin'.”

Frank laughed softly. “I'll do my best, Bob.”

Frank stepped inside the saloon and paused for a moment, sizing things up. The Olsen cousins were sitting at a table across the room, the other patrons scattered around the big room. The two gun-handlers were at the bar, drinking coffee. All conversation ceased when Frank entered, all eyes turning to watch him.

Frank walked to the end of the bar closest to the door and ordered a beer. His eyes touched the two gunhands. “Howdy, boys,” he greeted them.

Both men nodded their heads in greeting, one saying, “I thought the men in here were joking when they told us Frank Morgan was in town.”

“In person,” Frank replied. “You boys looking for me?”

“No,” the second gun-handler said. “But they's about fifty people who are lookin' for you.”

“So I heard. How close are they?”

“Hard to say. Damn detectives are all over the West, snoopin' and askin' questions, tryin' to pinpoint you.”

His friend said, “Big money goes to the man who locates you, Morgan.”

“You boys interested in that money?” Frank asked casually.

“We could use it, but it'd be tainted, far as I'm concerned. I've hired my gun for a lot of reasons, but”—he shook his head—“this here huntin' a man for sport is stupid. I ain't takin' no part in it.”

“Nor me,” his saddle partner said. “They's a little nothin' town 'bout fifty miles east of here that's fillin' up with bounty hunters. I 'spect they'll be in this area in a week.”

“Was I you, Morgan,” his partner said, “I'd head west, for California maybe. Get the hell out of this area. Your life ain't worth spit 'round here.”

“I never was much for running,” Frank said softly, then took a sip of beer.

“Us neither. But man, they's a whole damn mob after you.”

“How much money on my head?” Frank asked.

“Thousands of dollars. I don't rightly know the exact figure. We've heard everything from ten thousand to fifty thousand dollars.”

“And that'll draw the trash out of the garbage pile,” the other gunslick said. “Along with the ants and the flies and the maggots.”

Frank nodded his head in agreement. “You boys want a drink? On me?”

“Appreciate it. Right after this coffee. It's a tad chilly outside. We're warmin' our innards some.”

“Give them what they want,” Frank told the barkeep. “And put it on my tab.”

“If I knew who was payin' the money for your dead stinkin' butt and how to collect it,” Brooks Olsen said, “I'd brace you right now, Morgan.”

“That's whiskey talkin', boy,” the bartender called. “Shut your mouth.”

“Don't tell me what to do, Pops,” Brooks said. “And mind your own business.”

“Suit yourself,” the bartender said with a shrug. “It's your funeral.”

Frank leaned against the bar and sipped his beer in silence.

“It's damn shore gonna be somebody's funeral,” Martin said. “But it ain't gonna be ours.”

The two gunslicks glanced at Frank and smiled knowingly. Frank acknowledged the smile with an arched eyebrow.

The door opened with a rush of cold wind and Dr. Raven walked into the saloon and up to the bar, taking a position beside Frank. “Getting colder outside,” the doctor said after telling the bartender to bring him a cup of coffee.

“How's your patient?” Frank asked.

“Complaining,” the doctor said. “Which is a good sign.” He glanced at the clock behind the bar. “Stage is due anytime now.”

“Expecting somebody?”

“No. Just some newspapers from back East. This time tomorrow we'll only be a couple of months behind times.”

“Late for a stage, isn't it?” Frank asked.

“It's a regular stop. They'll spend the night here. And the driver always has more news. The stage layover is always a big event.”

“Daily stop?”

“Twice a week. Sometimes three times a week. Supply wagons roll in twice a month.”

“You have a telegraph here, don't you?”

“When the wires are up. You want to send a message?”

“Nothing urgent. Just asking.”

“Maybe he wants to call in some help,” Brooks said. “Like maybe the Army.”