Showdown (4 page)

Frank turned slowly. The man only a few steps away was a stranger, but he had the hard-bitten stamp of a hired gun on his face and in his eyes. “Has the hunt begun already?” Frank asked softly, his right hand near the butt of his Peacemaker.

“I ain't been told otherwise, so I reckon so.”

“You got any kin?”

“Huh? What business is it of yourn whether I do or not?”

“Someone's going to have to be notified of your death, stranger.”

“My death! What the hell are you talkin' 'bout?”

“You pull on me and you're a dead man,” Frank said, his voice cold as the grave.

The stranger hesitated, then said, “You damn sure of yourself, ain't you, Drifter?”

“I sure am. Now turn around and walk away from me and live.”

“Naw,” the man said, shaking his head. “I done made my brags. So grab iron, Drifter.”

“After you,” Frank replied, meeting the man's eyes. “It's your show.”

Across the street, the occupants of the newly arrived wagons had climbed down and were silent, watching the life-and-death standoff between the two men on the boardwalk.

“So that's Frank Morgan?” Maxwell Crawford asked his friend Bernard Harrison.

“That's him. A rather unimposing chap, isn't he?”

“Certainly seems that way from here. Who is that lout confronting him?”

“I have no idea.”

“Hi-ho, chums,” Horace Vanderhoot said, walking up, his wife, Nellie, with him.

“Horace!” Maxwell and Bernard both said at once.

“What a dismal little village,” Nellie remarked, looking around her. “I am told there is no hotel.”

“Only a few rooms above the saloon,” Bernard said. “But I was just informed there is a boardinghouse on a side street.”

“We anticipated few accommodations,” Aaron Steele said, walking up to the group, his wife, Ethel, by his side. “Which is why we endeavored to have our wagons equipped as lavishly as was humanly possible.”

“Is there a place to bathe in this depressing mud hole?” Ethel inquired.

“A bathhouse behind the barbershop,” Bernard told her. “It's primitive, but functional. You must bring your own soap, however.”

“Are those two fellows going to shoot one another?” Aaron asked, staring at Frank and the challenger.

“I rather believe the moment has passed,” Bernard said. “From here, it seems Frank Morgan is unwilling to draw his pistol.”

“Well, poo!” Ethel said. “I wanted to see a Wild West shoot-out.”

“Oh, you will, my dear,” her husband assured her. “Before this is over, we'll see several, I'm sure.”

Frank's challenger lost his grit. His shoulders sagged and he took several deep breaths. “All right, Drifter,” he said. “You win this round. But they's gonna be another day.”

“There usually is,” Frank said. “But like the Indians say: Any day is a good day to die.”

The stranger turned and walked away. Frank stepped off the boardwalk and into the light drizzle that continued to fall. The sky had cleared a bit that morning; now clouds were once more rolling in and the drizzle would be only a precursor to more heavy rain.

Frank walked over to the growing crowd of Easterners and stopped in front of Maxwell Crawford. He stood for a moment, staring at the rich Yankee. “You one of the men who put up money to hunt me?”

“There are several rifles trained on you right now, Morgan,” Maxwell said. “Accost me and you're dead in the street.”

“Too damn yellow to do your own fighting, are you?”

“I'll have you know I'm quite a good boxer, Morgan. I daresay you're never fought with your fists, so if I were you, I'd not push too hard.”

Frank stared at the man for a moment, then began laughing. The more he laughed, the madder Maxwell Crawford became.

“Here now, you dolt!” Maxwell demanded. “Stop that!”

Frank took off his hat and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, his laughter gradually fading to a chuckle. “I needed that, Tough Man,” Frank said. “Thanks for brightening my day.”

“Needed that?” Maxwell almost shouted the words. “What do you mean by that, you . . . you . . . misbegotten cretin?”

“A good laugh, that's what I mean. Thanks for that.”

“You were laughing at
me?”
Maxwell said, his face deepening with a flush. “That 'Tough Man' remark was fraught with sarcasm. I demand an apology!”

Frank looked at the man, then quietly told him where he could stick his demand . . . sideways and with great force.

“Oh, my stars and garters!” Wilma said, putting a hand to her forehead. “How crude!”

Several locals who were standing on the boardwalk began laughing.

“Stop that!” Bernard shouted, whirling around. “Vulgarity is not in the least amusing.”

“I should thrash you!” Maxwell shouted at Frank.

“In your dreams, Cream Puff,” Frank told him.

“Cream Puff?” Maxwell yelled. “Cream Puff! That does it. Prepare to defend yourself, you ignorant oaf!”

“I'll be your second,” Bernard offered.

“That's fair,” Horace Vanderhoot said. “After all, they were fraternity brothers.”

“Done,” Maxwell declared. He stepped back and took off his coat, handing it to his wife, Wilma. “Hold this, dear. I shan't be long.”

Frank stood a few feet in front of the rich industrialist, waiting for the man to make the first aggressive move.

“Do try not to roll about in the mud, dear,” Wilma said. “It's dreadful out here.”

Across the street, Doc Raven had reappeared, standing under a boardwalk awning, watching and listening to the crowd. “Maxwell,” he muttered. “You're just as arrogant as you were in school. And now you're about to get your ass whipped.” He looked long at Wilma. “Still a lovely woman,” he muttered.

“Are you ready to take your thrashing, Morgan?” Maxwell bellowed as he did a couple of stretching exercises. He held his arms up, hands clenched into fists. His left arm was stretched out in front of him and his left fist held close to his chin.

“If you insist on this nonsense, come on,” Frank told him.

Maxwell waggled his left fist under Frank's nose in the hopes of drawing a swing from Frank, thus enabling him to uncork a left.

Frank didn't take the bait. He stood with his fists half raised, a faint smile on his lips. Frank was the veteran of dozens of brawls—kick, bite, and gouge types—and he also knew a bit about the N art of boxing. Maxwell Crawford looked to be in good physical shape; probably worked out in some sort of gym. But he was about to tangle with a man who was strong as an ox and didn't have an ounce of back-up in him.

Maxwell tried a sharp quick right, and Frank moved his head ever so slightly and the right whistled by him.

Maxwell grunted and his eyes narrowed. He was beginning to realize that he was facing a man who knew something about boxing. Then he knew for a fact he was when Frank's gloved right fist suddenly smacked him in the mouth. Maxwell shook his head and backed up, spitting away blood from busted lips.

“Knock his block off, Maxwell!” one of his supporters yelled.

Maxwell did not reply. He did not take his eyes off Frank, knowing now that he was facing a man who could box and punch like a pile driver. Maxwell spat away more blood and tried a left. Frank blocked it easily.

More wagons had pulled in, stopping in the middle of the muddy and rutted street so their passengers could watch the fight. Another half-dozen or so wagons were just entering the town, followed by a dozen or so mounted men. The riders rode on around the wagons and reined up across the street and down a few stores from the fight.

Maxwell slipped a left through that jarred Frank. The man could punch, Frank would sure give him that. Maxwell's friends roared their approval at his scoring a wicked blow. But their roars of approval turned to sudden silence when Frank blasted Maxwell with a left and a right. The blows knocked Maxwell back several steps, and he lost his balance and sat down on the edge of the boardwalk, blood seeping from his nose.

Frank would have normally stepped in while his aggressor was addled and finished the fight. But this time he didn't. He simply took a couple of paces back and waited for the Easterner to regain his senses and stand up.

“I say,” Bernard Harrison said. “The man does have some sporting blood in him. Quite fair of you, Gunfighter.”

“Yes,” Aaron Steele said. “Really white of you, old boy.”

Frank cut his eyes at the men and said nothing. But he was thinking, What a pack of nincompoops.

“Time, time!” another man shouted from the crowd. “Time for a one-minute rest period.”

“Good God!” Frank muttered.

“What the hell's all that about?” a local questioned.

“New rules,” Bernard announced. “A rest period every few minutes.”

“Well, ain't that just spiffy?” another local said. “Frank, why don't you just shoot the feller and be done with it?”

“Here now!” Aaron said. “There'll be none of that.”

“Relax,” Frank told him. “This is fists until someone pulls a gun.”

Maxwell stood up and jabbed at the air a couple of times. “I'm ready. Round two coming up.”

“Well, come on then,” Frank said. “I got things to do.”

“Are you in that big a hurry for a thrashing?” Maxwell asked.

“Maxwell,” Frank said, “just get your fists up and fight, will you? And shut that damn big mouth.”

“I'm really going to whip you proper for that uncalled-for remark.”

“Bring your ass on, Rich Boy!”

Maxwell flushed and rushed in, ready to pummel Frank to the ground, and Frank promptly knocked him on his butt in the mud. Maxwell floundered around for half a minute, his lips bloody from the blow, before he slowly crawled to his feet. He stood for a moment in the cold drizzle, glaring at Frank, the mud dripping off him.

“What's the matter, Rich Boy? You ready to admit you're facing the better man and quit?”

“You insolent cretin!” Maxwell shouted. “How dare you speak to me in such a tone of voice?”

“Well, come on, then, Puke Face! Fight!”

“Puke Face?” Maxwell yelled.

“That's you, Maxie Baby.”

“Damn you!” Maxwell shouted. He took a run at Frank and Frank sidestepped, stuck out a boot, and tripped the man. Maxwell went sprawling face-first into the mud. Frank stood and laughed at him.

Maxwell slowly got to his knees and tried to wipe the mud from his face. All he succeeded in doing was spreading it around. The man was covered with mud, from his shoes to his face, all mixed in with a bit of horse crap.

Someone in the crowd of locals began laughing, and soon it became infectious. Maxwell's anger grew the louder the crowd laughed.

“Damn you!” Maxwell shouted at Frank and the crowd of locals. “Stop laughing at me!”

The laughter grew louder.

“You ready to quit now?” Frank asked the Easterner.

“Hell, no!” Maxwell shouted.

“Well, come on then,” Frank told him. “Let's get this over with.”

Maxwell struggled to get to his feet. He almost made it before he lost his balance and fell face-first into the muddy street.

That set the crowd off again. Peals of laughter ripped the cool, drizzly air. Children had joined their parents along the boardwalk, and their pointing and giggling seemed to infuriate Maxwell.

“Brats!” he screamed at the kids. “Incorrigible ragamuffins! ”

“Fall down again,” one little girl called. “You're a funny man.”

“Oh ...” Maxwell flailed his arms as he got to his knees. He could not find the words to express his anger.

Frank walked out into the street just as Maxwell was getting to his feet. Maxwell took a wild swing at Frank and Frank sidestepped. Maxwell could not check his forward momentum. He again went face-first into the mud and horse crap of the street. The locals cheered and applauded and laughed.

“Hell, it's over,” Frank said, and turned to walk away.

“You stop right where you are!” Maxwell shouted, after spitting out a mouthful of mud. “I will dictate the conclusion of this match.”

“You've got to be joking,” Frank said, pausing and turning around. “You can't even stand up.”

Maxwell slowly and carefully rose to his feet and lifted his fists. “Now, fight, you oaf!” he shouted.

Frank sighed and walked out to face Maxwell. He took one long look at the man and popped him on the jaw with a quick, hard right. Maxwell's eyes rolled back in his head and he stretched out in the mud and did not move.

“Now it's over,” Frank said. He walked back to the boardwalk to the cheers and applause of the locals.

Frank slopped across the muddy street, just making it to the other side and stepping up under the boardwalk as the skies opened up and torrents of rain came pouring down.

Maxwell's friends dragged him unceremoniously out of the street by the feet, and hoisted him up onto the boardwalk.

“Somebody get a pitcher of water,” Bernard said, as Maxwell's wife, Wilma, hovered nearby, sobbing and moaning about her poor, poor poopsie.

“Poopsie?” a local questioned. “Did she say poopsie?”

“She did,” another local said. “Poopsie. Ain't that pitiful?”

In his room, Frank poured water into the basin and washed up, then spread a paper sack he'd gotten from the lobby, took off his boots, and scraped the mud from them. “Well,” he muttered, “at least I didn't have to shoot anyone.”

But he had made a very bitter enemy. He realized that for a fact.

He pulled a rocking chair over to the window that looked out over the street, and checked the scene out. More gunslicks had ridden into town with the newly arrived wagons.

“I should slip out of here quietly and head into the timber and just vanish for a few months,” Frank said while the rain drummed against the side of the building.

But he knew he wouldn't do that. He couldn't do that. It just wasn't in him to run away. Besides, he had his doubts the Easterners would give up; they'd just wait until he resurfaced, and the hunt would be on again.

And there was this too: He just couldn't believe in this day and time the authorities would allow something like this hunt to continue. The West was still wild, sure, but this hunt was ridiculous. It was savage. And illegal.

“I insist you march right up to that barbarian's room and demand that he vacate it immediately!” The woman's voice reached Frank from the small lobby.

A man said something that Frank couldn't catch.

“But he's a notorious murderer!” the woman persisted.

Again, the man's voice, probably the bartender /desk clerk, couldn't be heard.

“But we need that room for some of our friends!” the woman yelled.

This time, the man's voice could be heard. “Well, damnit, lady, you can't have it. It's signed and paid for.”

Frank smiled at that.

“You are a very impolite man!” the woman yelled.

The conversation faded from earshot, and Frank once more turned his attention back to the rainy street. The wagons had been moved out to the end of the street, and the newly arrived gunfighters were nowhere in sight. Probably all downstairs in the saloon, Frank thought. He pulled on his boots and slung his gunbelt around him. He checked the loads in his Peacemaker and then, after a short pause, rummaged in his saddlebags and took out a short-barreled .45, loaded it up, and stuck it behind his belt, left side, butt forward. He slipped on his coat and exited the room, carefully locking the door behind him.

He went out to the street through the small hotel lobby, and walked over to the cafe to buy some food for Dog, then strolled down to Bob's livery. The stagecoaches were parked by the side of the building, the horses in the corral. Frank forked some hay for Horse, gave Dog his food, and filled up the water bucket. After he ate his fill, Dog went outside for a few minutes to do his business, then returned to the stall, circled his bed a half dozen times, and then curled up and went to sleep.

Frank stood in the huge open entrance to the livery for a few minutes, just out of the steady drizzle, looking up and down the street. Foot traffic was, at this time, very light.

“I can't hide all day,” Frank muttered. “And I sure have no intention of running.” He checked his watch, then snapped the lid closed. Far too early for a drink. “Think I'll have some coffee,” he whispered. “And let the chips fall.”

He walked to the boardwalk and stepped up, slowly making his way toward the saloon, under the protective cover of the awning.

Frank entered the saloon and as soon as he did, all conversation ceased and all eyes turned toward him. He walked over to the bar and took his place at the far end, his back protected.

“What'll it be, Frank?” Phil asked.

“Got some fresh-made coffee?”

“Just fixed a pot. I'll get you a cup.” Phil leaned close and whispered, “Lonesome Howard is here.”

Frank's eyes narrowed. “Where?”

“Sittin' in the shadows to your left, against the wall.”

“I thought he retired about five years ago,” Frank replied in a low voice. “And was ranching down in Arizona Territory.”

“I guess the big money drawed him out. I'll get your coffee.”

Frank took his coffee and walked across the large, crowded room to the table where Lonesome was sitting by himself, a bottle of whiskey and a Bible in front of him. Frank sat down and stared at the man for a few silent seconds.

“Frank.” Lonesome broke the silence. “You're looking well.”

“And you, Howard.”

“Thank you. Time has treated me well, I must admit.” He stared at Frank for a short time. “Why are you still here, Frank?”

“Running is something I don't do well.”

“I understand.”

“I thought you gave up gunslinging.”

“The money is too good this time, Frank. I hope you realize this is nothing personal.”

“I know. How much goes to the man who kills me?”

“Many thousands of dollars.”

“And you think you can take me, Howard?”

Lonesome smiled and tapped the closed Bible. “There is a time to kill, Frank. Says so right here in the Good Book.”

Frank returned the smile. “Don't tell me you think you're doing God's work?”

“I reckon perhaps I am. You've killed a lot of men in your time here on this earth.”

“They were trying to kill me.”

Lonesome shook his head. “Perhaps that was true in a few cases, but not always. You have a sickness, Frank. And the only way it can be cured is with a bullet.”

“From your gun?”

“I hope so.”

“You'll understand if I don't wish you luck.” It was not a question, and was delivered with a flatness of tone that caused Lonesome to look up and meet Frank's eyes.

“I could take that as a threat, Frank.”

“Take it any damn way you like. You even act as though you're goin' to pull on me and I'll kill you, Howard.”

“I should kill you right here and now, Frank.”

“Try it.”

The man known throughout the West as Lonesome Howard stared hard at Frank for a few seconds. Then he relaxed and put both hands on the table. “Not yet, Frank. The hunt has not officially started.”

“When does it start?”

Lonesome shrugged. “I really don't know. I believe an Easterner named Vanderhoot is the man who began all this.”

“Did you say Vanderhoot?”

“Horace Vanderhoot. He's spent thousands of dollars on detectives searchin' for you.”

“He's in town.”

“Then I must look him up and introduce myself. Perhaps this small adventure can be ended quickly.”

“And you'll be thousands of dollars richer.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Or dead.”

Lonesome smiled. “You can't take me, Frank. You're not that quick.”

“We'll see, won't we?”

“I suppose we will. Have you made your peace with God, Frank?”

“I talk to the man occasionally.”

“Do you want me to pray for you?”

Frank laughed softly and leaned back in his chair. “Howard, you are a walking contradiction. Are you aware of that?”

“I don't think so,” Lonesome said, an edge to his voice.

“Well, you are. Either that or you're crazy as a bessie bug. One or the other.”

“You're callin' me insane?”

“If the boot fits ... You know the rest.”

Howard closed his Bible and put one hand on the Word of God. “I shall enjoy killing you, Frank. That is a sin, and I know it, but it's the truth. I must remember to pray for my own weaknesses.”

“And a practicing hypocrite too.”

“What?”

“That's you, Lonesome. You do know the meaning of the word, don't you?”

“You've very insulting, Frank. Of course I do. And I am most certainly not a hypocrite.”

“Then you're a fool. Take your choice.”

Lonesome pulled back his chair and stood up. He looked down at Frank. “Make your peace with God, Frank Morgan. Your time is near.”

Frank softly and calmly told Lonesome Howard where he could shove his Bible, ending with, “I say that because it means nothing to you, Howard. It's just words on paper to you. Nothing more.”

“You speak blasphemy, Frank.”

“I speak the truth.”

“The next time we meet, Frank, might be the moment you meet God.”

“Or you meet the Devil.”

Lonesome Howard blinked a couple of times, then turned and walked away.

Frank signaled for the barkeep to bring him more coffee. While waiting for the coffee to cool down some, he rolled a cigarette and studied the crowd of gun-handlers that lined the bar and filled the tables. A few of them glanced his way and nodded their head in greeting. Most just ignored him even though they knew him—some casually, others had known him for years.

“Reckon what they're waitin' for?” Old Bob asked, sitting down at the table with Frank. He jerked his thumb toward the gunslicks.

“The hunt is about to officially begin,” Frank told him. “That's what Lonesome just told me.”

“That was Lonesome Howard?”

“In person.”

“I thought he was retired.”

“He was, for a number of years. But the money for killing me pulled him back into the game.”

Bob looked the crowd over. “Too many for one man, Frank. There must be thirty-five or forty gunmen in here.”

“With more coming in.”

“Some of them yahoos look older than me.”

“I think some of them are. That grizzled old hombre standing at the very end of the bar, at the curve, is called Rogers. He's in his late sixties, at least. He was a well-known highwayman in California before the War Between the States. And that's been over for many years.”

“Who is the dude with the pearl-handled guns? The one standin' in the center of the bar.”

“His name is Olmstead. Made his reputation down in Oklahoma Territory. No-man's-land. He's a back-shooter.”

“You go to hell!” a man standing at the bar shouted.

“I'll take you with me,” a man standing next to him yelled.

The two men stepped away from the bar to face each other, their hands hovering over their gun butts.

“Get ready to hit the floor,” Frank whispered.

“I been ready,” Bob told him.

“You been makin' your brags behind my back, Les,” one said. “I'm damn tired of it. Now fill your hand or shut the hell up.”

Both men grabbed for their guns. Les was quicker. He fired once, the bullet striking his challenger in the center of the chest. The mortally wounded man fell back against the bar and clung there for a few seconds, then slumped to the dirty barroom floor. He died without uttering another word.

“I warned him about that damn mouth of his'n,” the other man said. “I told him I'd shut it permanent someday, and by God I done it.”

“One less for you to have to deal with,” Bob said softly.

Frank nodded his head in agreement and sipped his cooling coffee. He set the cup down on the table and said, “I'm hoping a lot of that will go on before the actual hunt begins.”

“It would shore cut the odds down some, for a fact.”

The body of the dead man was dragged out of the saloon and the barkeep tossed some sawdust on the blood spots on the floor.

The gunslingers resumed their drinking, talking, and playing cards.

The Easterners had not made an appearance since retiring to their rooms and wagons. Bob finished his drink and left, saying he had to get back to his livery.

Frank sat alone at the table, drinking coffee and smoking, his eyes constantly moving, studying the crowd in the packed saloon.

The rain continued to come down from the dark, sullen skies. Not a hard downpour, but a quiet steady drizzle.

The Olsen cousins, Brooks and Martin, entered the saloon and found a place at the crowded bar. They had cleaned up, including changing their clothing. Both of them were dressed in black suits, with black shirts, open at the collar, and both were wearing two guns, tied down. Frank sensed they both were primed and cocked, hunting trouble.

Damn good place to find it, Frank mused.

Brooks bumped into the man standing next to him—accidentally or deliberately, Frank couldn't tell—causing the man to spill some of his drink.

“Watch what the hell you're doin', boy!” the man snarled at Brooks.

“Don't call me boy, Skunk Breath!” Brooks popped right back.

“Skunk Breath?” the gunslinger yelled, turning to fully face the younger man. “Why, you damn mouthy little punk!”

Brooks stepped away a couple of steps, brushing back his coat. “What'd you call me, Skunk Breath?”

“I called you a mouthy punk!” the gunfighter said. “Are you hard of hearin' or just plain stupid?”

“I'll kill you for that!” Brooks said, his face flushing and his eyes narrowing down. His hands were poised just above the butts of his guns.

“You damn shore got it to do, boy,” the older man said.