Showdown (20 page)

The explosion created a concussion that blew out every window along Main Street. Bricks, glass, and chunks of wood were blown high into the sky, and hens stopped laying and nearby cows stopped giving milk. When the debris began raining down the larger chunks knocked holes in roofs and awnings and killed two outlaws by landing on their heads.

The stage office/bank building and both buildings on either side of it were completely destroyed.

The huge safe was moved back about a foot, but was undamaged except for a few scratches.

“Damn!” Frank whispered when the ground stopped shaking and his hearing returned.

He raised up and peered over the edge of the ditch just in time to see an outlaw he knew was part of Sonny's group run into the alley, both hands filled with six-guns. Frank shot him.

He shoved a couple of fresh rounds into his rifle and rolled out of the ditch, scrambling toward the buildings.

Lonesome Howard came stumbling out of an alley, shaking his head. “Sweet Pea, darling, are you hurt, my precious flower.”

Clarabelle gave him a blast from her shotgun.

Luckily for Lonesome, it was a shell filled with birdshot, and most of the shot missed him.

“Take that, you heathen!” Clarabelle yelled.

“Does this mean you don't love me anymore, Sugar Bugger?” Lonesome yelled, running back toward the debris-littered alley.

Clarabelle gave him another blast just as Lonesome reached the alley, the buckshot missing him and knocking holes in the building.

“You bitch!” Lonesome hollered. “I could have give you a good life. Now I'm gonna have to kill you for rejecting my affections and breaking my heart,”

“The man has become as crazy as a lizard,” Frank muttered.

The debris that was once part of the empty building on one side of the stage office/bank began moving and an outlaw hauled himself out of the rubble and stood up, looking dazed and very disoriented.

“Where's that damn horse that threw me?” he said. “I ain't never seen a horse that I couldn't ride. Put a loop on him and get him over here.”

“Get down, you damn fool!” a man yelled at him.

The dazed outlaw took one step and the floor gave way. He fell up to his waist in the jagged hole and was stuck there.

“Can't you people do anything right?” Sonny hollered.

“Oh, go to hell, Sonny!” one of his men yelled.

“Who said that?” Sonny shouted.

No one replied.

The assault against the town of South Raven appeared to be a standoff. The town had lost three buildings along Main Street from the explosion, and one house due to fire. The outlaws had about a dozen men dead. Only one woman had been taken by the outlaws, and as far as Frank could tell, only three or four local men had been lost.

Frank tried the back door to a building, and it was unlocked. He stepped into the storeroom of a dress shop and walked to the front. The show window was gone, shattered by the blast. Frank slipped to the front, broken glass crunching under his boots, and looked out. He could hear the sounds of hooves fading away from the far edge of town. Several of the outlaws were heading out, giving up on the plan to take over the town.

For whatever reason, something that would surely never be known, a lone outlaw chose that instant to try to run across the wide main street. A dozen guns barked, and a dozen bullets fired by local men hit the outlaw and sent him spinning around and around in the middle of the street. He was dead before he hit the dirt.

The old adage that had been repeated dozens of times came to Frank's mind. You don't buffalo a Western town. Westerners just won't let it happen.

Frank listened intently as the sounds of several more galloping horses reached him. More outlaws were giving up the fight and hauling their ashes out of town.

“Let's get the hell out of here!” a man yelled. “This ain't workin' out.”

“I'm with you, Shorty,” an outlaw yelled. “I'm pullin' out.”

“Come on, Sonny,” yet another man called. “It's all over. Let's get out while the gettin' is good.”

“Yeah,” Lonesome Howard shouted. “I'm with you boys. Let's get goin'. Morgan? You hear me, Morgan?”

Frank waited silently in the shop.

“I'm gonna make it my life's ambition to hunt you down and kill you. You hear me, Morgan?”

“You're at the end of a long list, Lonesome,” Frank murmured.

“Get to the horses, boys!” Sonny yelled. “There's always another day and another town. We're done here.”

“Get me out of here!” the outlaw stuck up to his waist in the floor yelled. “Goddamnit, don't leave me here.”

“You're on your own, Davy,” a man yelled. “Sorry. Good luck to you.”

“You rotten no-goods!” Davy yelled, trying without success to work his way out of the hole in the floor.

“So much for honor among thieves,” Frank said.

“We'll take care of Davy,” Clarabelle yelled. “We'll hang him!”

“I'm gonna kill you too, Sugar Bugger!” Lonesome Howard yelled from the far end of town. “You'll regret spurning my love.”

“Oh, go to hell, you crazy windbag!” Clarabelle shouted.

There was near silence in the town for several minutes, the only sounds the rapidly fading hooves of the outlaws' horses as they made their getaway from the town that had proved itself too tough for them.

Davy had ceased his struggling and cussing, resigning himself to being taken prisoner.

Frank stepped out of the dress shop and stood on the boardwalk, looking up and down the wide main street. No shots came at him. The town was clear of outlaws . . . live ones anyway. All except for Davy.

Frank heard the clop-clop of horses' hooves, and looked up toward the other end of town. Doc Raven was driving into town. He reined up and stood up in his buggy, staring in amazement at the carnage in his town. He spotted Frank and sat back down, clucking at the horse, driving up to Frank.

“What the hell happened, Frank?”

Frank quickly explained, ending with, “The townsfolk beat them off, Doc. They stood together proud and solid.”

The stone church began emptying of women and kids and the elderly. Bob walked up to Doc Raven and Frank.

“You reckon they'll be back, Frank?” Bob asked.

“I doubt it. They got a pretty good licking this time around. I don't think they'll want seconds. Is Dog all right?”

“Fit as a fiddle. I just gave him a couple of biscuits I had in my pocket, and he gobbled them right down.”

Doc Raven looked over at the ruins of the stage office/bank and smiled. “That safe cost me a lot of money. Looks as though it was worth the price paid.”

“Get me out of this damn hole!” Davy shouted.

“Let me get my office ready to receive patients,” Doc said. He glanced over at Davy, who was frantically waving his arms. “The locals first,” he added.

* * *

Frank walked the town, checking each business and home for any dead or wounded. Mrs. Harvey's throat had been cut, the last brutal act of Sonny's gang. Frank covered her with a blanket and walked on. The general store has been looted, and the farmer's wagon that had been behind the store driven off, loaded with stolen supplies. Several more homes had been looted by the outlaws, but all in all, the town of South Raven had come out of the assault looking pretty good.

The bodies of the dead outlaws were buried in a mass grave.

“Don't worry about rebuilding,” Horace Vanderhoot said. “We shall pay for everything.”

“Yes,” Delbert Knox agreed. “Whatever the cost. This tragic event was our fault. It's the least we can do.”

“Has anyone seen Fuller Ross?” John Garver asked. “Not that I really give a damn what happened to him.”

No one had.

“I hope the outlaws got him. I hope I never see him again,” Mavis said bitterly.

Her remark pretty well summed up the feelings of all the Easterners.

Frank saddled up, and for over an hour tried to pick up the trail of the fleeing outlaws. But when they scattered, the gang broke up and rode off in all directions. Frank gave it up and rode back to town. He strongly suspected that he would see many of the survivors again. Especially Sonny. Many would be carrying a powerful grudge against Frank.

“I'll be pulling out in the morning,” he told Bob. “There is no more I can do here. I don't think Sonny and his gang will be back.”

“Well, I'll shore be damn sorry to see you go, Frank,” the old liveryman said. “But I understand. And I'm with you about them outlaws. I think they took them a good bite of this town and didn't like the taste.”

Frank smiled. “I believe you're right about that, Bob. I'm going to provision up now. But first I'm going over to Doc Raven's office and turn in this deputy U.S. marshal's badge. I never did like to tote a badge around.”

In the doctor's office, Frank held out the badge. Doc Raven smiled and said, “Oh, you can have that. It's no good.”

“What do you mean?” Frank asked.

“A deputy U.S. marshal was through here about ten years ago. His horse threw him; startled by a rattlesnake. The fall broke the man's arm. I set it. The marshal was so grateful he gave me that badge as a souvenir. It's worthless.”

“You mean . . .” Frank didn't finish it, just looked at the doctor.

“I thought it might give you more confidence if you didn't know the truth.” Doc Raven chuckled. “It worked, didn't it?”

Frank started laughing. He was still laughing as he walked out of the doctor's office.

Frank said his few good-byes late that afternoon, and pulled out before dawn the next morning, the packhorse Bob had given him trailing on a lead rope. Frank headed south. Days later he reined up in front of the general store in a tiny village in Nevada. Wasn't much to the town: a combination store/saloon and a couple of other buildings. Frank stepped down from the saddle and slapped the dust from his clothing, then walked into the store.

“Howdy,” the man behind the counter said. “You look some tuckered, mister.”

“I don't feel like running any footraces, for sure,” Frank replied. “Got a place where a man can get a bath in this town?”

“No, sir, we sure don't. Barber died last year. I 'spect the town will be nothin' but a memory in a couple more years. Minin' played out, near'bouts everybody left.”

“Sorry to hear that. How about a cafe?”

“Don't have one of those either. But I can offer you a plate of beans and a cup of coffee.”

“That sounds good to me. Where did the people who left settle?”

“Over west and some south of here. Winnemucca. I'm headin' over there myself if I can ever find anyone stupid enough to buy me out.”

Frank laughed and took the plate of beans and bread, got his cup of coffee, and walked out to the front of the store and sat down. Dog had found a shady spot and was asleep. The store owner walked out and sat down beside Frank.

“What's in those other buildings?” Frank asked.

“Nothin'. I'm all that's left.”

“You must not get much business.”

“Comes and goes. Whole bunch of men rode through here a few days ago. Rough-lookin' bunch, they was. But they had money and didn't mind spendin' it.”

“Cowboys?”

“I don't think so. If I had to guess, I'd say they was runnin' from the law. But I didn't ask,” he quickly added.

“Yeah, that's best,” Frank said. “Dealing with those types, a man best be careful about the questions he asks.”

“You mighty right. 'Specially when them crazy Olsen boys is in the bunch.”

Frank tensed for a few seconds. “Olsen boys?”

“Horse thieves from up north of here. Both of 'em 'bout half crazy.”

“Never heard of them.”

“They used come down this way to steal horses.” The man shook his head. “Both those boys are crazy in the head.”

The store owner left Frank alone for a few moments, and Frank finished his meal, sopping up the juice with a thick hunk of bread and giving that to Dog. Dog ate it, got a drink out of the horse trough, and went back to sleep.

The store owner returned with a plate of scraps for Dog and more coffee for Frank.

“Those hard cases who rode through here,” Frank said. “Which way did they head out? I want to avoid running into them, if possible.”

“I heard one of them say something about Virginia City.”

“Long ride.”

“It ain't bad now. Take the stage road from Winnemucca down to Reno. Several places along the way to stop and provision up. And get a shave and a bath if you like.”

“I would like that. Anything between here and Winnemucca?”

“Not a blessed thing. Some sheepherders and a few farmers scratchin' at the ground is all.”

Frank poured another cup of coffee, rolled a smoke, and tried to pay the man for the food. “No, sir. You don't owe me a thing. I'm just thankful for the company. You sure look familiar to me, mister. You been through here before?”

“Not this way.”

“You got a name?”

“Frank Morgan.”

The man was still sputtering when Frank swung into the saddle and rode away,

Frank didn't push Stormy on the way west. He was in no hurry. He had been to Virginia City years back when it was a rip-roaring mining town. Now, so he had heard, the town was only a shell of what it had once been. Frank had also learned that the silver taken out of the mines at Virginia City was forty-five percent gold. When the United States Congress enacted the demonetization of silver, the Comstock Lode was already beginning to play out. By 1880, it was all but over for Virginia City.

Frank wondered if Molinelli's Hotel was still there and taking in guests. If it was, he would sure get a room there. It had been a very nice place when he had last stayed there. And Frank wondered if his old friend Nick Barton was still there; that was the reason he was traveling to the mining town.

Frank sighed as he rode west by southwest. He never figured on Sonny's bunch having the same destination in mind as his. But Nick was getting on in years, and Frank wanted to see him one more time. The men had been friends for twenty-five years, their friendship dating back to the War of Northern Aggression.

“To hell with Sonny and his pack of outlaws,” Frank said. “I'm going to see Nick.”

* * *

Days after leaving the lonely store owner, Frank was making camp by the stage road, along the banks of the Humboldt River, when he heard the sounds of approaching horses. He straightened up and turned around. Two men were walking their horses toward his camp. He recognized them as two men who had been in town and had ridden out with the bunch who joined Sonny.

“You boys looking for me?” Frank called.

“We shore ain't lookin' for Santa Claus,” a no-account called Burke said.

Both men swung down from their saddles and stepped to one side, facing Frank, about fifty feet away from him.

“We been trailin' you for days,” the other no-account said. Frank recalled that someone had called him Sandy.

“You found me,” Frank replied. “Now what?”

“Now we kill you,” Burke said.

Frank smiled. “You can't be any plainer than that, I reckon. But killing me won't be easy, boys. You better give that some thought.”

“Nothin' to think about, Morgan,” Sandy said. “You caused us to lose out on thousands of dollars of ransom money. We aim to get some of your hide for that.”

Dog had moved silently off to one side, watching and listening intently.

“I'm kind of fond of my hide, boys. I don't like to part with any of it.”

“We don't give a damn what you like, Morgan,” Burke snapped. “When we get done killin' you, we gonna cut off your head and put it in a gunnysack and collect the bounty for it.”

“Do tell?”

“We just tole you, Morgan,” Sandy said. “Are you deef?”

“No, my hearing is fine. But I think both of you are stupid.”

“Huh?” Burke asked.

“Stupid,” Frank said. “As in ignorant. Do you understand that, or would you like me to further explain?”

“You're dead, Morgan,” Burke said.

“Then make your play, Stupid.”

Burke grabbed for his gun and Frank shot him in the belly. Just as Sandy was leveling the muzzle of his six-shooter, Frank put a hole in his chest. Both men went down in the dirt. Burke lifted his pistol, and Frank drilled him in the head, the .45 slug entering his right eye and blowing out the back of his head.

Sandy dropped his pistol and hollered, “I'm done, Morgan. I'm finished.”

Frank walked over and kicked the pistol away from the man. “You're a damn fool, Sandy.”

“I know it. But Burke said 'tween the two of us we could take you. I reckon he was wrong, weren't he?”

“Sure as hell looks like it to me.”

“I'm hard hit, ain't I?”

“I'd say so.”

“I ain't hurtin' none yet.”

“That's good. But get ready, it's coming.”

“You a cold man, Morgan.”

Frank said nothing in rebuttal. A few yards away, Burke farted in death. Sandy grimaced at the sound. “I'm skirred, Morgan,” he admitted.

“I'm no preacher, Sandy. Far from it. But if there's something you want to get off your chest, I'll listen.”

“What the hell good would that do me now?” The man's voice was surprisingly strong considering the seriousness of his wound.

Frank shrugged and stood up.

“Where are you goin', Morgan?” Sandy asked, panic in his voice. “You ain't gonna ride off and leave me here alone, are you?”

“No. I'm going to get a spade.”

“To bury Burke?”

“To bury both of you.”

“You rotten son of a bitch! You didn't have to say that.”

“You asked.” Frank walked to the packsaddle and removed a short-handled shovel. He looked around for a good place to dig the graves. His'eyes noticed a shady spot, and he headed toward it.

“Oh, God!” Sandy hollered. “I'm hurtin' somethin' awful, Morgan.”

Frank ignored the cries. There was nothing he could do.

Frank dug two shallow graves. He dragged Burke's body to one and rolled him in. He did not go through the man's pockets nor take his boots or gunbelt. He tossed Burke's pistol into the grave with him and quickly shoveled in the dirt.

“Ain't you gonna say no words?” Sandy asked.

“No,” Frank replied. “There is nothing to say.”

“He was a good man.”

“That's certainly debatable.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

“Maybe I ain't gonna die, Morgan.”

“Maybe not.”

“You gonna stay with me and see?”

“If you're still alive in the morning, I'll take you into the nearest town and leave you with the doctor.”

“That's mighty white of you, Morgan.”

Frank said nothing. He set about making a pot of coffee and laying out some scraps of food for Dog.

“You gonna see to your dog 'fore you see to me?” Sandy asked.

“There is nothing I can do for you.”

“I hate dogs.”

“Your option, I reckon.”

Frank listened to Sandy bitch and moan while the water boiled. He made his coffee and poured a cup, then rolled a smoke.

“Morgan?” Sandy said, his voice suddenly very weak.

“What is it?”

“They's blood a-comin' out of my mouth.”

“And you want me to do what about that?”

“Pray for me, Morgan.”

“The next time I talk to the Lord, I'll be sure and mention you, Sandy. I sure will.”

“I think you're lyin' to me, Morgan. I don't think you'll say nothin' 'bout me to the Lord.”

Sandy began gasping for breath. He tried to sit up and could not. “Morgan!” he shouted, then was still.

Frank laid his coffee cup on the ground and told Dog to stay put. He walked over to Sandy and knelt down, trying to find a pulse. He could not. He watched for some sign of breath. There was none. Frank buried the man beside his buddy, then looked heavenward.

“Here's two more for You, Lord. Do with them as You see fit. I said I'd mention Sandy to You. And I did it. Amen.”

Frank stripped saddles and bridles from the horses and turned them loose. He kept the men's rifles and several boxes of .45 and .44-40 ammo. He left the rest of their gear in the open. Somebody would be along who needed it. Sandy and Burke damn sure didn't need it any longer.

Frank fixed some supper, and just as the last light was fading, he rolled up in his blankets and went to sleep. He pulled out for Virginia City the next morning.

* * *

“Sorry, stranger,” the bartender said. “I hate to tell you, but Nick was killed a couple of years ago.”

“Gunfight? Nick?”

“Oh, no. Nick wasn't no hand with a gun. Robbers killed him and took his poke. Left him in an alley. It was a right nice funeral, though. Lots of folks liked Nick.”

“I'm sure they did,” Frank replied. “Did they catch the men who did it?”

“No,” the bartender said, eyeing Frank closely, his gaze suddenly wary. “But ever'body knows who done it. Just couldn't prove it.”

“And who might that be?”

“What's your name, mister?”

“The name is Frank Morgan and I asked you a question.”

“Ah ... yes, sir! Couple of fellows name of Jess Center and Gene Dale.”

“They still around?”

“Yes, sir. They'd be shootin' pool right about now, I reckon. The billiard parlor is right down this street.” He pointed. “Thataway.”

“Thanks.”

“Mister?”

Frank turned around to face the bartender. “Yes?”

“Are you really Frank Morgan?
The
Frank Morgan?”

“That's my name.”

The bartender gulped a couple of times. “I thought you was dead, Mr. Morgan. I mean . . . that's the word I got a few months back.”

“Somebody lied.”

“I guess so.”

Frank walked out of the saloon and headed for the marshal's office across the street. Frank shoved the door open and stepped inside. The marshal was seated at his desk, and stared at Frank for a few seconds.

Before the marshal could speak, Frank said, “Were you wearing that badge when Nick Barton was killed?”

“What? Ah ... I mean, yeah, I was. Terrible thing about Nick. Who the hell are you?”

“Frank Morgan. Why didn't you arrest the men who killed him?”

“Nick was a good, decent man. He's grubstaked a hundred men and never asked for a penny in repayment. If Jess Center and Gene Dale killed him, why in the hell didn't you arrest them?”

“Is your tongue stuck, Marshal? I asked you a question.”