The Drifter (24 page)

Frank sprinted for the dubious protection of an open carriage in front of a shop, running and twisting to afford the snipers less of a target. Bullets howled all around him. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Dutton hightailing it alone around a corner. The fancy lawyer and so-called friend of the family was leaving Conrad to deal with the problem on his own. The young man seemed frozen in place on the boardwalk until Jerry came charging around the corner and grabbed him up and off his feet. Jerry turned, and a slug tore into his left leg, knocking him down. Just before he fell heavily, Jerry shoved Conrad to safety inside a corner shop.

Frank slid on his belly in the dirt and reached the rear of the carriage in time to see Jerry crawl into the shop, dragging his bloody leg, leaving a trail on the boardwalk. At least he was still alive, and Conrad was safe.

Frank knelt behind the boot of the carriage and began throwing lead at the upstairs windows. It was returned as fast as it was received. One rifle slug knocked Frank's hat off and sent it flying somewhere behind him. Another rifle slug burned a hot crease on his shoulder. The crease turned wet and sticky as the blood began to flow. Frank ignored the burning pain and jerked his second gun from behind his gunbelt.

Jerry opened up from the doorway of the shop, and at that point the hidden gunmen above the street decided they'd had enough. The gunfire ceased, and the street fell silent.

Horses tied at hitch rails had bolted in panic when the rifle fire began, running in all directions. One horse ran into Nannette's Boutique for the Discriminating Woman, and one lady (who was nearly the same size as the horse) ran out into the street dressed only in her bloomers, shrieking to high heaven. The sight of her stopped one man cold in his tracks.

“My Lord!” he hollered.

The panicked woman ran right over the man, knocking him into a horse trough. She kept right on running, and disappeared into the Silver Slipper Saloon. Men began exiting the saloon through all available avenues, preferring to face gunfire rather than confront the ominous presence of Mrs. Bertha Longthrower, wife of Reverend Otis Longthrower, pastor of Heaven's Grace Baptist Church ... in her bloomers.

Bertha took one long look at her surroundings, her eyes lingering on the rather risqué painting on the wall behind the bar (which featured three naked ladies and a midget ... in height only) and let out a whoop that would have shamed a Comanche Dog Soldier. She headed for the rear of the saloon, ran out the back door, and collided with a man just stepping out of the privy. Both of them were propelled back into the privy, which promptly turned over, trapping the scantily clad woman and the terrified man (who was certain he had been attacked by an enraged albino grizzly bear) in the narrow confines of the outhouse.

Back on the main street, Frank ran across the street and into an alley that led behind the line of shops, hurriedly reloading his guns. He caught a glimpse of a man with a rifle charging out of a back door, and yelled at him to halt. The man turned and fired at Frank, the bullet just missing his head. Frank drilled the man, the .45 slug striking the assassin in the chest, killing him instantly.

Frank cautiously made his way up to the downed and dead sniper. The rifle beside the body was a bolt-action Winchester-Hotchkiss. He had found one of the men who had ambushed him and Viv in the valley.

Two more of the men were still at large, but Frank suspected they were gone, having left ahead of the man on the ground. He picked up the rifle and walked back to the street. He wanted to have a long talk with Charles Dutton, but had no physical evidence at all with which to confront the man. Dutton was, so far, still in the clear.

Conrad was unhurt, and Jerry's wound, while painful, was not serious. The deputy would be off his feet for a few days, but was not in danger.

The passerby who had taken the bullet meant for Conrad was dead.

The horse who had invaded Nannette's had been led out and away, and the search was on for Mrs. Bertha Longthrower.

“Where is my wife?” Reverend Longthrower demanded.

“I think she's in the saloon,” a citizen told him. “I seen her goin' in there ... in her bloomers."

“In her what?” Reverend Longthrower thundered.

“Her drawers."

“Never!” the reverend roared.

“Hey, ever'body!” a man yelled from the saloon. “Otis is in the privy yellin' that he's bein' attacked by an albino bear. Come on."

Frank had a pretty good idea that the “bear” would turn out to be Mrs. Longthrower ... in her drawers. That was not a sight he wished to see again. He told some men to get the body of the outlaw on the second floor and then went to check on Conrad and Jerry over at the doctor's makeshift hospital. Before he could cross the street Reverend Longthrower started hollering for his wife to get off of Otis.

“I imagine Otis would like that, too,” Frank muttered.

Conrad had refused to lie down and rest for a while, choosing to go to the office. Frank sat down on the edge of the bunk and talked with Jerry for a few minutes.

“Doc says the bullet didn't bit nothin' vital,” Jerry said. “He says I just have to stay off my feet for a couple of days and rest."

“You take as long as you need, Jer.” He smiled. “I imagine Angie will see that you're well fed."

Jerry blushed under his tan. “Yeah. I ‘spect she will.” He looked closer at Frank. “You been hit, Frank! Your shoulder's bleedin.'”

“It's just a scratch. I'm heading over to the office now to clean it up."

“Take off your shirt, Frank,” Dr. Bracken said from behind him. “Let me take a look at that wound."

“It's nothing, Doc."

“Take off your shirt. That's an order. You get blood poisoning, you won't think nothing."

Doc Bracken cleaned and bandaged the wound, told Frank to take it easy for the rest of the day, and sent him on his way. Frank didn't want to tell the doctor he'd hurt himself worse than that peeling potatoes.

On his way back to the office, Frank ran into Louis Pettigrew. “Marshal,” the writer said, “I have made up my mind."

“Oh?” Frank was staring at the man's bowler hat.

“Yes. I am going to write a series of books about you. Not just one, but perhaps a dozen."

Frank did not reply, just stared at the man in stunned disbelief. He couldn't keep his eyes off the man's dude hat.

“I have wired my publisher, and am now awaiting his reply. I shall make it my life's work."

“Your life's work?” Frank managed to say.

“Yes, sir. I shall outfit myself and follow you no matter where in the wilds you might decide to go. I shall chronicle the day to day living of the West's most celebrated but least known gunfighter. Won't that be grand?"

“Words fail me, Mr. Pettigrew.”
I gotta get out of here, and do it quickly
, Frank thought.

“As soon as I receive word from my publisher I shall make preparations,” Pettigrew said.

“To do what?” Frank asked.

“To make the West my home! I must say, this is very exciting."

I'll leave in the dead of night
, Frank thought.
Slip away like a thief.

“I just thought you would like to know about my decision, Marshal. And I hope you're as excited as I am."

“Oh, I am, Mr. Pettigrew. I can't begin to tell you how your decision has affected me."

Pettigrew patted Frank on the arm. “I'm so pleased, Marshal. I really didn't know how you would react to the news."

“I'm, ah, still trying to get used to the idea of you becoming a citizen of the West, Mr. Pettigrew."

“I'm really excited about it."

“I'm sure you are."

“Well, then, I'll see you later on. We'll make an appointment to meet and start work on the first installment. Ta ta. Marshal."

“Yeah,” Frank mumbled. “Ta-ta to you, too."

“What is the writer so happy about?” Mayor Jenkins asked, walking up just as Pettigrew was leaving.

“He's going to become a permanent resident of the West."

“Really?"

“That's what he told me."

“Well, he's certainly welcome. I just hope he gets rid of that damn silly hat,” the banker said, “before someone shoots it off his head."

 

 

 

Twenty-Six

 

 

Frank had just finished a fresh cup of coffee and a smoke and had his feet propped up on the edge of the desk when a man walked into his office. “Sorry to bother you, Marshal, but I found a body on the way into town."

Frank's boots hit the floor. “Where?"

“Just the other side of where them outlaws had the road blocked. I seen the buzzards circlin' and went to take a look. It's kind of bad, Marshal. The body's shore enough tore up somethin' awful. The ants has been workin' on it, as well as them damn buzzards."

“I'll head on out there. Thanks, mister."

“No problem."

Frank picked up a spare horse at the livery and headed out. He was not looking forward to bringing the body back. Several days in the hot sun would have the body bloated and stinking. The ants and buzzards, and probably coyotes and other animals, had been working on it and would have left it in a real mess.

Frank saw the buzzards long before he reached the body, about a hundred yards off the road, and up a natural game trail. Frank could tell by what was left of the clothing that it was more than likely the body of the young bank teller, Dean Hall, or Hill, or whatever his name was.

The body was a mess, not at all pleasant to look at, or smell. Buzzards and ants had been at the face and the eyes, and facial identification would be impossible. Buzzards, more than likely, had torn the stomach open, and intestines were stretched out for yards.

“Damn!” Frank said, trying to breathe through his mouth and not his nose. The stench was awful.

He found a big stick and beat off the buzzards, some of them so bloated from eating the putrid meat they could not fly. They waddled off and stared at Frank, giving him baleful looks, no fear in them.

He got the body on the tarp and rolled it up, securing it tightly with rope, closing both ends. That helped with the stench. It was going to be a real job getting the body tied down on the horse, for the animal was not liking the smell at all, and was trying to break loose and back off.

Frank didn't blame the horse at all.

Frank was securing a loose end of the tarp, one foot of the body sticking out, when he saw his own horse's head jerk up, the ears laid back, nostrils flared. Frank quickly jerked his rifle from the boot and grabbed the ammo belt he had looped over the horn. The tarp-wrapped body forgotten, Frank jumped for cover, thinking,
Setup!

Someone, maybe Ned Pine and Vic Vanbergen, maybe Dutton,
somebody
, had set him up for sure. And the setup had worked to perfection. He was damn sure set up, and boxed in.

Frank had just bellied down behind the rocks when the bullets started flying all around him. All he could do for several minutes was keep his head down and hope that no bullet flattened out against the rocks and ricocheted into him.

He wriggled into better cover during a few seconds respite in the firing. He hadn't made any attempt to return the fire, for as yet he didn't have any idea where the gunmen were. He didn't know if there were two or ten of them. He knew only that if it lasted for very long he was in for one hell of a mighty dry fight. His canteen was on his horse, and the animal had wandered several dozen yards away—no way he could get to it. And there was little chance he could expect any help.

The firing began again, and this time Frank could pretty well add up the number of shooters he was facing, for not all of them were using the same caliber rifles. Five shooters, Frank figured. And several of them were slightly above him.

Two of the four assassins from the ambush in the valley and town were still alive; could they be a part of this?

Frank didn't believe so. But they could also very well be a part of a much larger picture. Maybe Dutton had hired an entire gang to rid himself of Vivian and Conrad. But why so much emphasis on him? Had Dutton found out that he was now a minor stockholder in the Henson Company?

“Damn,” Frank muttered. “This is getting too complicated for a country boy."

Frank got lucky. He caught a quick glimpse of what looked like part of a man's arm sticking out from behind cover and snapped off a fast shot.

“Goddamn it!” he heard the man holler. “I'm hit. Oh, damn. I'm hit hard."

“Where you hit. Pat?"

“My elbow. It's busted. Can't use my arm at all."

“Hang on. I'm comin'."

The man who was heading to help his friend jumped up, and Frank dusted him, the .44-.40 round entering the man's body high up on one side and blowing out through his shoulder. The second shooter never made a sound. He folded like a house of cards and went down, his rifle clattering on the rocks.

Another voice was added. “Nick?"

Nick would never make another sound on this side of the misty vail.

“That bastard's got more luck than any man I ever seen,” a third voice called.

“Yeah,” a fourth voice shouted from off to Frank's left. “Let's get out of here, Mack. Let that damn lawyer fight his own battles. I'm done."

Frank waited for a few minutes, trying to pick up the sound of horses' hooves, but could hear nothing. They must have left their horses some distance away. Frank edged out of the rocks and ran a short distance to more cover. No shots came his way. He worked his way toward the higher ground cautiously. He found a blood trail that led off toward a clearing, but did not pursue it.

Working his way through the rocks, he found the dead man. He rolled the body over and went through the clothing, looking for some identification. He did find a wad of paper money ... several hundred dollars. He shoved that in his back jeans pocket and dragged the man out of the rocks, then went back for the shooter's rifle. He began looking around for the man's horse, and after a few minutes found it. He led the animal back and hoisted the body belly down across the saddle, tying him securely with rope.