Imposter (15 page)

A local came into the café and walked over to Frank. “Mr. Morgan? There's a man over to the Purple Lily. Says he's come to kill you.”

“Did he tell you his name?” Tom asked.

“No, Marshal. He just said for me to go fetch Frank Morgan. Said he come to town to kill him. He's all dressed in black, from his boots to his hat. Even his bandanna is black. Real fancy gunbelt. Got silver dollars on it.”

Tom looked at Frank, who was leisurely finishing his coffee. “Sound familiar to you, Frank?”

“No. How old is this man?”

“He ain't neither real young nor real old, Mr. Morgan. If I was to guess, I'd say 'bout thirty.”

Frank stood up and slipped the hammer thong off his Peacemaker. “Tom, I'll keep him talking long enough for you and Doc to get the people off the street. If that isn't possible, get them out of the line of fire.”

“We'll do it, Frank. Give us a couple of minutes.”

A moment later, Frank stepped out of the café and slowly rolled a cigarette. Then he looked up and down the street, his eyes finally settling on a man dressed in black standing on the boardwalk in front of the Purple Lily. Frank could see he wore two guns, both of them tied low. Frank walked slowly down the boardwalk until he was directly across the street from the man who wanted to kill him. He did not recognize the man. He looked up and down the street. The boardwalks were devoid of people.

“You looking for me?” Frank called.

“If you're Frank Morgan.”

“That's me. Who are you?”

“Warner. Jack Warner.”

Frank had heard of him. Warner had made a reputation down along the Mexican border and he was supposed to be fast and accurate. “What's your quarrel with me, Jack?”

“You're you, and I'm me.”

“That might make some sense to you, but it doesn't make a lick of sense to me. What's the matter, don't you like my name?”

“I don't like hearin' your damn name everywhere I go. Frank Morgan this and Frank Morgan that. I'm so sick of hearin' about Frank Morgan I feel like pukin' every time I hear it. But after today, I won't be hearin' it no more.”

“That's right, Jack. Because after today, you're going to be in the ground.”

“That's something else I don't like about you, Morgan. You're just too damn cocky to suit me.”

“I've faced dozens of two-bit gunslicks like you, Jack. They're all dead and I'm still walking around. I'd think about that were I you.”

Jack Warner laughed. “You got a will all made out, Morgan?”

“Sure, Jack. But you're not in it. You have a burying place all picked out?”

The smile faded from Jack's face. “I plan to live a long time, Morgan.”

“Not if you continue playing this deadly game with me, Jack.”

“This ain't no game, Morgan. And I ain't no two-bit gunslick. I made my rep on the up and up.”

“As far as I'm concerned, Jack, you're just another two-bit trouble-hunter. Too damn stupid to work and too damn lazy to steal.”

“You better be ready to back up those words, Morgan!”

“Jack, I've been ready. I'm just waiting on you. It's your play, so make it.”

“Step out here in the street, Morgan!”

“My pleasure, Jack.” Frank stepped off the boardwalk and into the street. “Can you see me now, Jack?”

“Yeah, I can see you, Morgan.”

“That's good, Jack. For a time there I was thinking you might be in need of spectacles.”

“I see plenty good, Morgan!”

“Then get on with it, Jack,” Frank said, throwing down the challenge. “The time for talking is over.”

That remark visibly shook Jack. That and Frank's calmness. If he was expecting Frank to show fear at facing him, he was both disappointed and shaken. “Are you in that much of a hurry to die, Drifter?”

“Dying is not in my plans for today, Jack. Make your play.”

“Damn you, Morgan!”

Frank stood calmly and faced the younger man. “Does cussing me make you feel better, Jack?”

Jack hesitated, then started his hook and draw. His eyes, the mirror to a man's inner feelings, gave him away. Just as his hand closed around the butt of his six-gun, Frank's Peacemaker cracked. The bullet slammed into Jack's chest and spun him around. He cussed Frank, and managed to clear leather and cock his pistol.

Frank shot him again, the slug hitting him in the belly and doubling him over. Jack sat down in the dirt of the street. He dropped his right-hand pistol and tried to pull his second gun. He fumbled for the weapon, but could not manage to pull it from leather.

“Give it up, Jack.” Frank's voice came to the gunman. “It's over.”

“Damn you, Drifter!” Jack said.

Jack was conscious of Frank walking toward him. He tried again to pull and cock his second gun. He simply did not have the strength to complete the task. Jack Warner fell over on his side in the street.

Frank's shadow covered him.

“I can't see so good,” Jack said.

“You want me to move so the sun can touch you?” Frank asked.

“Yeah. It's too damn dark.”

Frank stepped to one side.

“That's better,” Jack said.

Doc Evans walked over and knelt down beside Jack. “I'm a doctor,” he said. “You want me to take a look at you?”

“What's the point?” Jack asked. “I'm hard hit and I know it.”

Dr. Evans noticed a pink froth forming on Jack's lips, and knew that meant he was lung-shot.

“I come to kill you, Morgan,” Jack said.

“You should have stayed home.”

“Somebody will get the job done someday. I'm gonna laugh when it happens. I'll know it and I'll laugh.”

Preacher Bankston walked out into the street. “You want me to say a prayer for you, son?” he asked.

“Yeah. I reckon that would be nice. Tell the angels to come fetch me and carry me to heaven.”

Bankston began softly praying.

Warner started hollering and jerking as the pain hit him savagely. He began coughing up blood.

“Won't be long,” Doc Evans said softly, more to himself than to those around him. “Have you ever seen him before, Frank?” he asked.

“Never. But I have heard of him. He had his rep down along the border. He was supposed to be pretty fast.”

“He wasn't as fast as us, Frank,” Johnny Vargas said from the edge of the boardwalk.

“Hello, Johnny. I thought you'd pulled out.”

“I came back.”

“I see. Did you know this Warner fellow?”

“Not personal. But I do know he thought he was better than he really was.”

“He must have been very lucky.”

“His luck just ran out, Frank.”

“Seems like it.”

“Both of you go to hell!” Jack said as his coughing eased and he caught his breath.

“Now, now, son,” Preacher Bankston said. “That is no way to talk. You're going to meet the angels soon.”

“They can go to hell too!”

“Here now, son! Stop that kind of talk. Keep that up and you're sure to head straight into the embrace of Satan.”

“Can't you do somethin', Doc?” Warner asked.

“I'm sorry, but no.”

“Well, you can go to hell too then!”

Doc Evans shrugged his shoulders, then asked, “You have anyone you want us to notify?”

“My mother, back in Mississippi. If she's still alive.”

“Where 'bouts in Mississippi, son?” Bankston asked.

“Hell, I don't know. Last I heard she was livin' outside of Jackson.” He began coughing and spitting up blood again.

“What a disgusting sight!” Mrs. Hockstedler declared from the boardwalk. “Get out of my way, you hoodlum!” she said to Johnny Vargas.

“Excuse me, lady,” Johnny said, removing his hat.

Mrs. Hockstedler harrumphed her displeasure and lumbered on up the boardwalk, rattling the store windows as she marched away.

“What the hell did I do to her?” Johnny asked.

“You're here, I'm here,” Frank said. “That's enough for her.”

“Old bat,” Johnny muttered.

“Help!” Jack hollered. “Help me. I can't see no more.”

“Steady, son,” Bankston said.

“I shore would like to have me them guns of his'n,” a rough-looking man said, walking up to stand beside Johnny.

“They didn't do him much good, Tucker,” Johnny replied.

“That there's a natural fact, Johnny. But I'd still like to have 'um. Warner?” he called. “Can I have them guns of yourn when you expire?”

Jack told him in no uncertain terms where he could shove his guns . . . both of them.

“Well, that's downright unfriendly,” Tucker said.

Jack Warner took a deep breath and died in the dirt of the street.

“I'll bury him for what's in his pockets,” Undertaker Pennybaker said.

* * *

“The men just appear and challenge you to a gunfight,” Lara said. She and Frank were eating supper in the Blue Bird Café. “A life-and-death confrontation. I don't understand the reasons why. It must be some sort of man thing.”

Frank buttered a biscuit and said nothing.

Few people paid any attention to Frank and Lara now. Their being together was accepted by the majority of the locals. Many secretly hoped the two would eventually marry and settle down in the community.

“Did you have your new suit pressed for this weekend's opera event?” she asked.

“All ready to go.”

“You're going to look very dashing, Frank.”

“You're very good for my ego, Lara. I don't believe anyone has ever referred to me as dashing.”

Tom stepped into the café and walked to Frank's table. “Tom,” Lara said, “won't you sit down and have something to eat?”

“No, thanks, Miss Lara. This is business. But thank you. Frank, Val Dooley and his gang just hit a town south of us. They robbed the bank and took some women hostage. Two girls in their teens and a grown woman. The woman was a customer in the bank making a deposit. The gang was headin' north, straight toward us.”

“You want me to get a posse together?”

“No, I want you to stay here and look after things. At the marshal's request, I'm gettin' together some men and headin' out in a few minutes. I'd feel a lot better if you were stayin' here in town. And Frank? The marshal down at Dixsville said in the wire the Dooley gang killed two citizens.”

“That doesn't surprise me at all, Tom. All right, I'll look after things here in town. Don't worry about that.”

“Thanks, Frank. I'll see you.”

As soon as the door closed behind Tom, Lara said, “Tom is getting entirely too old for this sort of thing.”

“It's his job, Lara. And he takes it seriously.”

She reached across the table and touched his hand. “But I'm glad you're staying here in town, Frank.”

“Finish your meal, Lara. I'll walk you back to the hotel. Then I want to read that wire Tom received.”

“He just told you what it said.”

“I know. But I want to read it personal.”

“Whatever on earth for?”

Frank smiled. “I'm nosy.”

With Lara safely back at the hotel, Frank read the wire and then walked over to the telegraph office and spoke to the agent.

“Did you copy this wire?” Frank asked.

“Sure did, Mr. Morgan. Something wrong with it?”

“Did it seem right to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“The telegrapher's touch on the key.”

The agent was thoughtful for a moment, then said, “Say! Now that you mention it, it wasn't Nick's touch. No, sir, it sure wasn't. I just figured he was training a new person, that's all. Why do you ask?”

“Can you send a wire to Dixsville?”

The agent shook his head. “No, sorry. I can't send or receive anything to or from south of here. Wires are down, I reckon.”

“Thanks.” Frank walked out of the office, thinking:
Pretty damn slick on your part, Val. Hit the town down there, then send a wire up here to pull the marshal and a posse out of this town, then cut the wires heading south. Only one thing wrong with your plan, Dooley.

Frank went over to O'Malley's General Store and told Jack of his suspicions. Jack listened and then said, “But Frank, Dixsville is a half day's ride from here. If the robbery just occurred, we have hours to get ready.”

Frank shook his head. “No, no. Listen to me. There was no robbery, Jack. I'll make you a wager the Dooley gang wasn't five miles from here when they tapped into the wire and sent that message.”

Jack blinked and then paled just a bit. “I'll alert the men, Frank. If you're right, and I'll bet you are, we don't have much time.”

“Move, Jack. Get the men into position.”

On the boardwalk, Frank ran down to the Purple Lily and looked inside. The saloon was deserted, with not a single patron. That cinched it in Frank's mind. A raid on the town was imminent. Many of the ne'er-do-wells who had drifted into town had joined up with Val Dooley.

Frank ran over to the office and grabbed a rifle from the rack, then stuffed his pockets with cartridges. He stuck a pistol behind his gunbelt and stepped outside. The long main street was deserted, devoid of foot traffic. Horses had been ridden or led away from the hitch rails. Most of the businesses had closed their doors.

Frank looked up to the rooftops of the businesses. Men were lined up all along Main Street, on both sides, with rifles and shotguns. The Dooley gang was going to be in for a bloody surprise when they hit this town, for many of the men were veterans of numerous battles—outlaws, rustlers, Indian wars, the War of Northern Aggression, or a combination of all of them. These men couldn't be frightened off and they wouldn't quit. They would go down fighting. Frank had no doubts at all about that.

Frank looked up at the sound of a galloping horse. It was the old wrangler from the livery. “They're on their way,” he shouted, reining up and dismounting. “About a mile out of town now. 'Bout thirty or forty of them, looked to me. They'll be here shortly. I'll be in the loft of the livery. Good luck to us all. We're damn sure going to need it against that gang.” He led his horse into the livery and closed the big doors behind him.

The Dooley gang had waited, Frank was sure, until Tom and the posse had passed their hiding place, heading south, before they rode out to the north, to the town.

“We're ready as we can be, Frank,” Doc Evans called from the door of his office. “I'm ready to receive wounded. I know there will be some.”

“Ready over here, Frank,” Jack O'Malley called.

All along both sides of the street, men began calling in. The town was ready for the gang. There would be gunsmoke in the air and blood in the dirt before this day was over.

“They're coming in from both ends of the street!” a man called. “Some of them must have circled around. Good God, there's gotta be fifty of them.”

“Damn,” Frank muttered through gritted teeth. He levered a round into the rifle and stepped into the mouth of an alley.

Dooley's men dismounted and Val split his gang up into small teams of three to five men, sending them all over town. Gunfire and the screaming of women echoed throughout the town as outlaws kicked in the doors to private homes, terrorizing the residents.

A bullet dug a furrow in the wood of the building, just inches from Frank's head, sending tiny splinters into his face and neck. Frank dropped to one knee and leveled his rifle. He pulled the trigger just as his assailant fired again. The gang member missed. Frank didn't. The bullet from Frank's rifle slammed into the man's chest and knocked him to the ground. Frank turned his attention back to the street just in time to see a local take a round in the head and fall from the rooftop of the bank, crashing through the awning of the boardwalk. He bounced on the boardwalk and slowly rolled into the dirt.

One of the men Frank had seen loafing in the Purple Lily came running up the boardwalk, a pistol in each hand, firing indiscriminately. Frank sighted him in and squeezed the trigger. The outlaw stopped abruptly and fell like a rag doll as the bullet ripped into his belly. He jerked once and then lay still.

Frank heard a woman screaming in one of the houses just behind the main street, but could not tell for sure which house it came from. He turned his attention back to the main street as a man carrying a bundle of something tried to make it into the bank. Frank could not tell what was in the bundle. A shotgun roared from inside the bank building, and the man was lifted off his feet and flung out into the street. A second later the bundle exploded, sending bits and pieces of the dead man flying all over Main Street. Windows on both sides of the street were blown out from the concussion of the blast.

“Nitro,” Frank muttered. “Dangerous stuff to handle.” He wondered why the Dooley gang would choose to use the highly volatile liquid rather than the easier-to-handle and much more stable dynamite.

“Go in the back of the bank,” someone shouted from the other side of the street. “Blow the safe.”

“You'll never make it,” Frank muttered. Seconds later, heavy gunfire erupted from the bank building. The banker and his tellers were all heavily armed and making a fight of it.

Frank watched an outlaw stagger out of the leather shop, both hands holding his lead-perforated belly. The man stumbled on the boardwalk and fell into the street. He kicked and jerked for a moment and then was still.

The Dooley gang was taking a real beating from the residents of the town. Val should have known better than to attack a town, for it was extremely rare for a Western town to be treed by a gang.

During a momentary lull in the gunfire, Frank heard the unmistakable bellow of Mrs. Hockstedler coming from a row of houses directly behind Main Street.

“Get away from me, you hoodlum!”

Frank turned his head to see if he could spot Mrs. Hockstedler. He turned just in time to see an outlaw come stumbling out of the front door of a house, Mrs. Hockstedler in pursuit, wielding a large broom.

“Take that, you ruffian!” she hollered, and whacked the outlaw on the back of the head, sending him rolling ass-over-elbows off the porch and into the yard.

“I'll kill you, you fat pig!” the outlaw yelled.

Mrs. Hockstedler let out a squall and came charging off the porch, swinging the broom. “You filth!” she bellered. “How dare you call me names, you, you . . . white trash!” She swung the broom.

The broom connected with the back of the man's head and knocked him flat on the ground. Mrs. Hockstedler jumped on him just as he was getting to his feet, all her considerable weight landing on the man, once again knocking the outlaw to the ground.

He hollered and made a grab for his six-gun. Mrs. Hockstedler balled a hand into a fist and belted the man, her fist connecting with the man's jaw and flattening him. “Take that, you ne'er-do-well!” she yelled. “How dare you assault a helpless woman.”

“Helpless, my foot,” Frank muttered as Mrs. Hockstedler commenced to pound the outlaw with the business end of the heavy broom.

The gunfire picked up, and Frank left the outlaw in the very capable hands of Mrs. Hockstedler.

“This ain't workin' out!” a man yelled. “We done lost too many men. Let's get the hell out of here.”

“Let's go,” another man yelled. “Back to your horses. It's over.”

Frank waited, counting as many of the dead and the wounded as he could. Eight outlaws and two local men were dead in the street. He had no way of knowing how many outlaws and locals had been killed or wounded in private homes.

Frank looked behind him. The outlaw Mrs. Hockstedler had been pummeling with the broom had gotten to his feet and taken off running, leaving his pistol behind him on the ground. Frank figured the outlaw was very fortunate Mrs. Hockstedler didn't pick up the six-gun and shoot the man with his own pistol.

“They're gone!” a man yelled from a rooftop. “Riding out, heading toward the west.”

Frank stepped out of the alley and walked across the street to the hotel. As soon as he stepped into the lobby, waves of panic hit him. He fought them down and walked swiftly to the desk clerk, who was sprawled in a pool of blood. The man was dead.

Frank took the steps two at a time, heading for Lara's room. The door had been smashed open. Lara was gone.

“My daughter's gone,” a man yelled from the street. “Them outlaws took my girl.”

“Doc Evans, come quick,” another man yelled. “My wife's been hit on the head and is bleeding real bad.”

The bank was secondary, Frank thought. The bastards were after women.

“They've done this before,” a citizen said, as if reading Frank's thoughts. “They hit a town and kidnap half a dozen women. They rape them and when they're finished with them, they sometimes turn them loose.”

“Sometimes? Or they kill them?” Frank asked.

“Only if they've caused them a lot of trouble. More often than not, they sell them into whorehouses along the old Barbary Coast. Sometimes the women escape and make it back home. But not many of them.”

“Maybe they're shipped out to Mexico or other places?”

“Could be. I've heard of that happening.”

Frank walked over to Doc Evans's office. The doctor was busy patching up a local, and he worked while Frank told him what had happened to some of the town's women. “I'm heading out, Doc. I'd appreciate if you'd take care of Dog while I'm gone. I'm going to be moving fast and Dog just couldn't keep up.”

'I'll do it, Frank. I like Dog and he likes me. He can sleep right here.“

“Thanks. I'll bring him by right now.”

Frank went to the livery and got Dog, taking him to Doc's office and telling him to stay. Dog would obey him. He might not like it, but he would stay. Frank then provisioned up and put several boxes of rifle and pistol cartridges in his saddlebags.

Jack O'Malley and several other local men came to see him in the livery.

“You going after them, Frank?” Jack asked. “Alone?”

“I operate better when I'm alone, Jack,” Frank replied. “I can move faster too.”

The owner of the Blue Bird Café handed Frank a sack. “Fresh-baked bread in there. I baked it this morning.”

“Thanks, Paul. Would you save some scraps for Dog? He's staying over at Doc Evans's while I'm gone.”

“I'll take some over to him personal every day, Frank. I'll feed him well. You have my word on that.”

“I appreciate it.”

“We'll look after the town, Frank. And we're riding with you, in a manner of speaking,” the man from the saddle shop said.

Frank nodded his head. “I know.”

“They got my daughter, Frank,” the owner of the Gold Nugget Saloon said. “Nellie. She's only fifteen. You bring her back to me and the Missus, Frank. Please?”

“I'll do my best, George.”

“Half a dozen women was taken, Frank,” Jack said. “Lara, Nellie, Dixie Malone, Harriet Baker, Lydia Wilson—she's only fourteen—and Penny Tucker. Half a dozen that we know of, that is. There might well be more from this town or the surrounding area. Probably are.”

“Probably,” Frank said, tightening the cinch on Stormy.

“Frank,” Jack said, putting a hand on Frank's shoulder.

Frank turned to look at the man.

“You be careful, Frank.”

Frank nodded his head and swung into the saddle. He looked down at the men. “I'll bring those women back if at all possible.” He lifted the reins and rode out.