The Drifter

William W. Johnstone

 

 

To Debbie and Dent Sigh

 

 

 

One

 

 

“Boy,” the older man said, “I strongly advise you not to pull on me."

It seemed to those in the barroom there was not only a great weariness to the man's voice, but also a great sadness. Some of the spectators wondered about that. A few thought they knew why the sadness was there.

Outside, the early spring winds still had a bite to them on the late-afternoon day.

“You're nothin' but a damned old washed-up piece of coyote crap,” the young man replied.

Old is right
, the man thought.
Both in body and soul
.

“And you're a coward, too!” the young man added.

The older man smiled, but his eyes turned chilly. “Boy, you should really learn to watch your mouth."

The young man laughed. “You gonna make me do that, you old has-been?"

“I would rather not have to do that, boy. Besides, that's something your mother and father should have taught you."

“I never paid no mind to what they said."

“Obviously."

“Huh? Old man, you talk funny—you know that? You tryin' to insult me or something?"

“Not at all, boy. Just agreeing with you."

“I don't like you, old man. I mean, I don't like you at all. I think you're all talk and no do. And I don't believe all them stories told ‘bout you, neither. I don't think you've kilt no twenty or thirty men."

“I haven't."

“I knowed it!"

“Closer to forty."

“You're a damn liar!"

“Boy, go home. Leave me alone."

“Naw. I'm gonna make you pull on me, Morgan. Then I'm gonna shoot you in the belly so's I can stand right here and watch you beg and cry and holler like a whipped pup ‘til you die. That's what I'm gonna do."

“Is that really Frank Morgan?” a man in the crowd whispered to a friend.

“That's him."

“I thought he was a lot older."

“'Nuff talk, old man!” the young man yelled. “Grab iron, you old buffalo fart!"

Frank Morgan did not move. He stood and watched the much younger man. “If you want a shooting, boy, you're going to have to start it."

“Then I will, by God!"

Frank waited.

“You think I won't?"

“I hope you don't, kid."

“I ain't no kid!"

“Pardon me?"

“I'm known around here as Snake."

“There is a certain resemblance."

Someone in the crowd laughed at that.

“What?” the young man yelled.

“I was just agreeing with you,” Morgan said.

“Yore gonna die, Morgan!"

“We all die, kid. Some long before their time. And I'm afraid you're about to prove me right."

The kid cussed and grabbed iron.

Morgan shot him before the kid could even clear leather—shot him two times, the shots so close together they sounded as one. The kid's feet flew out from under him and he hit the floor, two holes in the center of his chest.

“Good God Almighty!” a man in the crowd said.

“He's as fast as he ever was,” another man stage-whispered.

“You know Morgan?"

“I seen him once back in seventy-four, I think it was. He shot them two Burris brothers."

It was now April, 1888.

Frank slowly holstered his .45, then walked the few yards that had separated the two men. He stood for a moment looking down at the dying young man.

“I thought ... all that talk ‘bout you was ... bull-crap,” the young man gasped. Blood was leaking from his mouth.

“I wish it was,” Frank said, then turned away from the bloody scene and stepped up to the bar. “A whiskey, please,” he told the barkeep.

“I thought you only drank coffee, Mr. Morgan."

“Occasionally I will take a drink of hard liquor."

“Yes, sir. Mr. Morgan?"

Frank looked at the man.

“The sheriff and his deputies will be here shortly. Gunplay is not looked on with favor in this town."

“In other words, get out of town?"

“It was just a friendly suggestion. No offense meant."

“I know. None taken. Thank you.”
Same old story
, Frank thought.
Different piano player, same song
.

Frank took a sip of whiskey.

“The kid's dead,” someone said. “Reckon I ought to get the undertaker?"

“Not yet,” a man said from the batwings.

Frank cut his eyes. Three men had stepped quietly into the saloon—the sheriff and two of his deputies. The two deputies were carrying Greeners—sawed-off, double-barreled shotguns.

No one with any sense wanted to take a chance when facing Frank Morgan.

Frank was standing alone at the bar, slowly taking tiny sips from his glass of whiskey.

“Frank Morgan,” the sheriff said.

“Do I know you, Sheriff?” Frank asked. “I don't recall ever meeting you."

“I know you from dime novels, Morgan."

“I see."

“Them writers want to make you a hero. But I know you for what you really are."

“What am I, Sheriff?"

“A damn, kill-crazy outlaw."

“I've never stolen a thing in my life, Sheriff."

“You say."

Frank set the glass down on the bar and turned to face the sheriff. “That's right, Sheriff. I say."

The deputies raised the shotguns.

Frank smiled. “Relax, boys,” he told them. “You'll get no trouble from me."

“You just can't keep that pistol in leather, can you, Morgan?” the sheriff said.

“I was pushed into this fight, Sheriff. Ask anyone here."

“I ‘spect that's so, Morgan. The kid was a troublemaker, for a fact."

“And now?"

“You finish your drink and get out of town."

“I've got a very tired horse, Sheriff, with a loose shoe. He's at the livery now. You don't like me—that's all right. But my horse has done nothing to you."

The sheriff hesitated. “All right, Morgan. You can stay in the stable with your horse. Get that shoe fixed first thing come the morning and then get the hell gone from here."

“Thank you. How about something to eat?"

“Get you some crackers and a pickle from the store ‘cross the street. That'll have to do you."

“Crackers and a pickle,” Frank muttered. “Well, I've eaten worse."

“Understood, Morgan?” the sheriff pressed.

“Perfectly, Sheriff."

“Some of you men get the kid over to the undertaker,” the sheriff ordered. “Tell him he can have whatever's in the kid's pockets for his fee."

“Them guns of hisn, too?” a man asked.

“Yes. The guns, too."

Frank turned back to the bar and slowly sipped his drink. The sheriff walked over and leaned against the bar, staring at him.

“Something on your mind, Sheriff?” Frank asked.

“What's your tally now, Morgan? A hundred? A hundred and fifty dead by your gun?"

Frank smiled. “No, Sheriff. Not nearly that many. The kid there was the first man to brace me in several years."

“How'd you manage that, Morgan?"

“I stayed away from people. I mostly rode the lonesome."

“What made you stop here?"

“My horse. And I needed supplies. I lost my packhorse and supplies to some damned renegade young Indians last week. Down south of here."

“I heard about that. Got a wire from a sheriff friend of mine down that way. A posse went after those young bucks and cornered them. Killed them all."

Frank nodded his head. “They got what they deserved. That was a good horse they killed."

“Wilson at the livery's got a good packhorse he'd like to sell, if you've got the money. I don't think he wants much for him."

“I've got some money."

“I'll amble over there and drop a word on him to let you have the horse for his lowest price. Then you get supplies and ride on."

“Thanks, Sheriff."

Without another word the sheriff turned and walked away, his deputies following.

The swamper mopped up the blood on the floor and sprinkled sawdust over the spot.

The saloon settled down to cards and low talk. The excitement was over. Killings were rare in the town, but nobody had really liked the kid who called himself Snake. He had been nothing but a smart-aleck troublemaker. He would not be missed.

 

* * * *

 

Frank Morgan pulled out early the next morning, after provisioning up at the general store. The man at the livery had tossed in a packsaddle for a couple of dollars, and Frank brought supplies, lashed them down, and pulled out before most of the town's citizens were up emptying the chamber pot.

Frank took it easy that morning, stopping often just to look around. It had been years since he'd been in this part of New Mexico territory, and things had changed somewhat. Hell of a lot more people, for one thing. Seemed like there were settlers nearly everywhere he looked.

For his nooning, Frank settled down in the shade by a fast-running little creek that came straight down from the mountains and had him a sandwich the lady at the general store had been kind enough to fix for him ... for a dime.

Frank still wondered about the change in attitude of the local sheriff the day before. Some lawdogs could be real bastards, while others were fairly decent sorts once you got past all the bluster. But it had been many a year since any badge-toter had gotten too lippy with Frank Morgan. One tried to shove Frank around down in Texas—back around ‘75, he thought it was. Wasn't any gunplay involved that day, but Frank had sure cleaned the loudmouth's plow with his fists.

Frank ate his sandwich and then rested for a time while his horses grazed. Then he stood up and stretched. Felt good. Frank was just a shade over six feet, lean-hipped, broad-shouldered, with smooth, natural musculature. At forty-five years old, Frank was still a powerful man. Not the hoss he used to be, but close enough. His thick hair was dark brown, graying now at the temples. Pale gray eyes.

Frank wore a .45 Colt Peacemaker, right side, low and tied down. He carried another Colt Peacemaker in his saddlebags. A Winchester rifle was stuck down in a saddle boot. On the left side of his belt he carried a long-bladed knife in a sheath. He occasionally used that knife to shave with. He was as handy with it as he was with a pistol.

Frank reluctantly left the peaceful setting of the creek and the shade and rode on slowly toward the north. He did not have a specific destination in mind; he was just rambling.

Frank had worked the winter in a line shack, looking after a rancher's cattle in a section of the high country. He still had most of his winter's wages.

Frank did have a dream: a small spread of his own in a quiet little valley with good graze and water. He occasionally opened a picture book in his mind and gazed at the dream, but the mental pages were slightly torn and somewhat tattered now. The dream had never materialized. Twice Frank had come close to having that little spread. Both times his past had caught up with him, and the local citizens in the nearest town had frozen him out. Nobody wanted the West's most notorious gunfighter as a neighbor.

Frank let part of his mind wander some as he rode, the other part remained vigilant. For the most part, Indian trouble was just about all over, except for a few young bucks who occasionally broke from the reservations and caused trouble. Those incidents usually didn't last long, and almost always ended with a pile of dead Indians.

The Wild West was settling down, slowly but surely.

Bands of outlaws and brigands still roamed the West, though, robbing banks and rustling cattle.

In the northern part of New Mexico it was the gangs of Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen that were causing most of the trouble. Frank Morgan knew both men, and they hated him. Both had been known to go into wild outbursts of anger at just the mention of his name.

Frank had, at separate times, backed each of the outlaw leaders down and made them eat crow in front of witnesses. They both were gutsy men, but they weren't stupid. Neither one was about to draw on Frank Morgan.