The Drifter (12 page)

“That's plain enough."

“I hope so."

“Mind if I go back in the saloon?"

“I can't legally stop you, Bob. I could order you out of town. But”—Frank paused—“I won't do that. Not yet."

“Getting soft in your old age?"

“You want to keep running that mouth and find out?"

Bob laughed. “I don't think so. Maybe later."

“Anytime. Face-to-face, that is."

“It'll be face-to-face, Frank. When the time comes. You can count on that.” Bob walked up to and then past Frank without another word. He opened the back door of the saloon and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The night once more enveloped Frank.

“Getting real interesting around town,” Frank muttered. “Hope I can stay alive long enough to see how it all turns out."

 

 

 

Thirteen

 

 

Frank slept well that night, and no one came prowling around his house in the quiet of darkness. Jerry had fed the prisoners when Frank reached the jail the next morning. There had been no new additions to the cell block during the night. The two men walked over to the Silver Spoon to have breakfast.

“Any luck on finding out the dead man's name?” Angie asked, filling their coffee cups.

“Not yet,” Frank told her. “We're going to try again after breakfast. But I have my doubts about whether his rifle and saddlebags will ever show up."

“Another unmarked grave,” Angie said before moving off to take the order from another customer. “People ought to carry something on them in the way of identification."

“She's right about that,” Jerry said.

“I reckon so,” Frank replied, sugaring and stirring his coffee. “There might even be a law about that someday."

The men ate their breakfasts and watched as the town's population grew by about fifty people in just the time it took them to eat their food.

Several men, their clothing caked with the dirt of hard traveling, stepped into the café. “Where's the gold strike?” one of them demanded in a very loud and irritating tone.

“What gold strike?” Angie asked.

“Lady, don't act stupid,” the second man said. “We've come a long way for this."

“There is no gold here,” Frank said in a low voice. “Silver, not gold."

“Who the hell asked you?” the man asked.

“And this is only a small sample of what we'll be facing in the weeks ahead,” Frank whispered to his deputy. He pushed his chair back and stood up, facing the two men. Their eyes flicked briefly to the star on Frank's vest. “I didn't know I needed an invitation to speak."

“That two-bit star don't mean a damn thing to me,” the man said.

“Yeah,” his partner said. “Why don't you sit down and be quiet, Marshal?"

“I don't believe this,” Jerry muttered, pushing back his chair and standing up.

“Back off, mister,” a customer said softly. “That's Frank Morgan."

Both miners went suddenly slack-jawed and bug-eyed for a few seconds. They exchanged worried glances. The bigger of the pair finally found his voice. “Sorry, Marshal Morgan. I guess we stepped over the line there."

“It's all right, boys,” Frank told them. “Sit down and have breakfast and cool down. The food is mighty good here."

“Good idea,” the other miner said. “I am hungry as a hog. Ain't neither one of us et since noon yesterday. After we eat maybe we can talk about the big gold strike."

“Right,” Frank agreed with a small smile. “The big gold strike."

Frank and Jerry sat back down and Jerry said, “We're really in for it if there is a rumor about gold here."

“More than you know, Jerry. I've been in towns after several hundred very angry miners learned strike rumors were false. It can get real ugly in a hurry."

“Look there,” Jerry said, cutting his eyes to the street.

Frank turned his head and watched as a dozen or so riders, all leading packhorses, rode up the street. “Yeah. And it'll get worse."

“At least they're not gunslicks."

“Not yet,” Frank said. “They'll come next, with the gamblers and con artists and whores."

“There's Mrs. Browning's son,” Jerry said. “Sneakin' around like he's been doin' for the past couple of days. He seems to be watchin' you, Frank."

Frank looked and shook his head. “I thought I saw him yesterday snooping around. That boy is mighty curious about me."

“Any reason he should be?"

Before Frank could reply, the front door burst open. “It's the Pine gang!"

“Here?” Frank blurted, jumping to his feet.

“Well...” the man said. “One of them."

Frank relaxed just a bit. “One?"

“Who is it, Pete?” Angie called.

“That Moran kid. I seen him personal on the edge of town. He's just sittin' his horse and watchin'."

“Kid Moran?” Frank asked. “Here? Part of the Pine gang?"

“Yes,” Jerry replied. “But that can't be proved. At least no one's ever come forward. I don't think there are any dodgers out on him, either."

“Why would he be comin' here?” a customer asked.

“Probably to try me,” Frank said. “He's a gun-happy kid looking for a reputation.

“He's already killed five or six men,” said the man who brought the news. “Maybe more than that."

“About that,” Frank said. “Wounded two, three more. He's quick, so I hear."

Jerry had a worried look. “Moran is young and fast, Frank."

Frank smiled. “And I'm older and faster, Jerry. But maybe it won't come to that. We'll see.” Frank picked up his coffee cup and drank the last couple of swallows. Then he walked toward the door.

“Frank,” Angie called.

With his hand on the door handle, Frank cut his eyes.

“It might be a setup,” she said.

“Might be, Angie. We'll see.” Frank stepped out onto the boardwalk and looked up the street. The Kid was still there, sitting his horse. Frank leaned against a support post and waited for The Kid to make the first move.

Kid Moran spotted Frank and began slowly walking his horse toward the center of town. Frank got his first good look ever at the young man with the growing reputation as a gunslick. The Kid was of average height and weight, and slender built.

As he drew closer, Frank could see only two things that were menacing about the Kid: the matched pair of .45's belted around his waist. But Frank also knew that some people saw beauty in a scorpion, a tarantula, and a rattlesnake.

Kid Moran was as deadly as they came, Frank knew, and he also knew that The Kid was lightning fast.

The Kid rode slowly toward Frank. He touched the brim of his hat and smiled at Frank as he rode past.
More of a smirk than a smile
, Frank thought as he held up one hand in return greeting.

He watched The Kid rein in at a hitch rail in front of the general store and dismount. Frank decided against going over to the store ... at least not yet. He did not want to provoke an incident with The Kid. Frank felt The Kid would try him, sooner or later.

Conrad Browning walked up the boardwalk—Frank had not seen him cross the street—and stopped just to Frank's left. “Good morning, Marshal Morgan."

“'Mornin', Conrad. You always up this early?"

“Always. I like to open up the office for mother. It's just one less thing for her to do."

“Very conscientious of you."

“Marshal? May I ask you a question?"

“Sure."

“Sometimes you speak as if you had attended some sort of institution of higher education. Other times you don't. Why is that?"

Frank smiled at the question. “I read a lot, Conrad. I always have at least one book in my saddlebags. I enjoy reading."

“I see. Who is your favorite author?"

“I don't think I have one. A while back I did get interested in this fellow Plato. He has quite a way with words."

“Plato? Ummm. Yes, I would say he does."

Hal was across the street, watching Conrad as he chatted with Frank. Jimmy and Hal were taking no chances, figuring that if the outlaws couldn't grab Vivian they might try for her son. Kid Moran was still inside the general store.

“Who is that young man that just rode into town, Marshal?” Conrad asked. “He seems to be of great interest to you."

“A gunfighter. Calls himself Kid Moran."

“Kid Moran. How quaint. He appears to be still in his teen years."

“He's about twenty, I reckon. But he's shot more than his share of men."

“Why?"

“I beg your pardon?"

“Why did he shoot them?"

“I reckon ‘cause he wanted to. Trying to build himself a reputation as a gunslick."

“And that's important out here?"

Again, Frank smiled. “Well ... it is to some folks, Conrad."

“Sort of like being the town bully, I suppose."

Frank nodded his head. “Yes, that's a very good way of putting it."

“But with a gun."

“Yes."

“Thank you, Marshal. I believe I have a better understanding of the West now. You have a nice day.” Conrad strolled off toward the Henson office building.

“Strange boy,” Frank muttered, “In many ways, more man than boy."

Kid Moran stepped out of the general store and leaned against an awning post. He stared across the street at the marshal.

What's wrong with this?
Frank thought.
Something isn't right, but I can't put my finger on it.

Frank looked up at the buildings across the street. Was there a second shooter on a rooftop somewhere? If so, was it in front or behind him? Had Pine or Vanbergen sent The Kid in to check out things, or had The Kid come in on his own?

The café door opened behind him and Jerry asked, “What's wrong, Frank?"

“I don't know, Jer. Maybe nothing. But I've got a funny feeling about this thing."

“Far as I know, this is the first time The Kid has ever ridden in alone."

“He's been here before, then?"

“Oh, yes. But always with others. Never alone. Frank, I'm goin' to check out the back of this block of buildings. Don't step out until you get a signal from me."

Jerry exited the rear of the café while Frank waited on one side of the street, Kid Moran on the other. They leaned up against awning support posts and stared at each other without speaking.

As it nearly always happened in Western towns, the word spread fast and the main street became quiet—no riders, no one walking up and down.

“All clear back here, Frank,” Jerry called from one end of the block.

“OK, Jer.”
Then why am I so edgy?
Frank wondered. He wasn't afraid of facing The Kid in a hook and draw situation. Frank made it a point to find out all he could about any and all gunfighters, new and old, and he knew that while The Kid was very quick, it was reported that he almost always missed his first shot. Frank used to be the same, until he began spending countless hours practicing, making that all important first shot count.

Fear wasn't a factor in the edgy feelings Frank was experiencing.

Frank again searched the rooftops of the buildings across the street. As near as he could tell, there was no one up there. The Kid was still leaning against the post across the street, staring at him.

“All right,” Frank muttered. “I've had enough of this. I'm going to find out what The Kid has on his mind.” He stepped off the boardwalk and into the street.

The Kid immediately straightened up and began walking away from Frank, heading down toward the end of the street. Frank signaled Jerry to stay put, and began following The Kid. He didn't have a clue as to what was going on ... but something was up—he was sure of that.

The Kid suddenly stopped and looked around him—everywhere but directly at Frank. Then he crossed the street.

Frank was now standing in the middle of the wide street.

“Well, damn!” Frank muttered.

Half a dozen fast shots blasted the early morning air, as near as Frank could tell, coming from near the Henson office building. He looked for The Kid, but Kid Moran had vanished.

“Goddamn it!” Frank yelled, and took off running.

 

 

 

Fourteen

 

 

Frank rounded the corner of the street just as Hal went down in another roar of lead from several pistols in the hands of men standing in the middle of the street in front of the Hanson building. The bodyguard spun around, hit several times, and slumped to the dirt. Frank shot the first assailant in the belly, and his second round knocked another down in the street, hip-shot. Frank was forced into an alley as several hidden gunmen opened fire, the bullets howling and whining all around him. The third gunman in the street jumped behind a water trough.

Frank had caught a quick glimpse of Conrad, huddled in the doorway of the office building. He didn't appear to be hurt, but was apparently too frightened to seek better cover. And Vivian was due to arrive at any moment.

Frank snapped a quick shot at a man standing in a doorway.

The bullet knocked a chunk out of the door stoop and sent splinters into the face of the man. Screaming in pain as one of the splinters stuck in his eye, he stepped out of cover. Frank put a bullet in the man's guts that doubled him over and sent him stumbling into the street. He collapsed facedown in the dirt, and was still.

Jerry's six-gun cracked from the other end of the street, and a man yelled and went off the roof of a boarded-up building. Anyone within earshot could hear his neck break as he landed in the street.

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

Frank and Jerry waited.

“How?” another man shouted.

“Through the pass, you nitwit. Just like we planned."

There was silence for a moment, then the sounds of several horses being ridden hard away from the edge of town.

Jerry ran over to Frank, a pistol in each hand. “Are you hit?"

“No. Let's see about the boy. I don't think he's hurt, just scared."