The Forbidden (16 page)

F
rank left the body of Lucky Seven in the street, walked over to the boardwalk, sat down, and stared at the corpse.
Another life cut short at my hand,
he thought. But he could not dredge up even one tiny bit of remorse for his act.

Frank punched out the empty brass in his Peacemaker and loaded the empty chamber. He usually carried the hammer over an empty chamber, but now was no time for that bit of precaution. Other gun-handlers would soon be arriving. Frank retrieved his rifle and canteen and leaned the weapon against the outer edge of the boardwalk. He took a sip of water and waited.

It was not a long wait.

Frank stood up, picking up his rifle at the sounds of fast approaching horses. He saw the dust first as the riders stopped at the edge of town.

Three riders came slowly, cautiously into view. They were still too far away for Frank to recognize them, if he knew them at all. He stepped back onto the boardwalk as soon as one pointed at him.

Frank waited.

The three riders dismounted and split up, one going to the left, behind the buildings, one to the right, behind the buildings, and one walking slowly up the broken boardwalk across the street from Frank.

“You boys are playing a fool's game,” Frank called.

“The ranchers put up quite a purse for you, Morgan,” the only hired gun visible shouted. “Thousands of dollars to the man who kills you.”

“What ranchers?” Frank asked.

“All of them. Every rancher north of the crossroads.”

“That's good enough for me,” Frank called.

The gunhand snapped a quick shot at Frank, the bullet slamming into the wood behind him. Frank returned the fire, and he didn't miss. The .44-40 slug doubled the man over, putting him down to his knees. He slowly toppled over and off the boardwalk, landing in the dirt of the street. He did not move.

Frank stepped back into the open door of the building and quickly made his way to the rear of the store. He waited by the long-broken-out window. He could see what remained of the outhouse, now just a jumble of rotting boards.

“He got Layton!” The faint shout reached Frank.

“Dead?” the gunhand coming up behind Frank's position called.

“I reckon so. He ain't movin'.”

“Morgan ain't gonna stand and fight eyeball-to-eyeball.”

“Would you?”

There was no reply to that.

Frank eared back the hammer on his rifle and waited.

“You see him, Chase?” The shout came from across the street.

“No. I don't know where he went. He's a sneaky one.” The hired gun called Chase was very close to Frank's position.

Frank slipped to the open door.

“You be careful.”

“You bet I will,” said Chase.

Frank stepped out onto what remained of the loading dock and put a hole into Chase's chest. The bounty hunter's boots flew out from under him, and he was dead before he stretched out on the ground.

“Chase?” the one remaining gunny called.

Frank levered a round into the chamber and moved as silently as possible to the front of the rickety old store.

“Did you get him, Chase? Answer me, boy!”

Frank waited, as patient and silent as death.

The last of the trio made a run from one side of the street to the other. Frank nailed him, the .44-40 round turning him around in the street. The hired gun banged off several rounds, all of them blowing holes in the dirt, then slumped to the ground, groaning and cussing. His six-gun slipped from suddenly weak fingers.

Frank stepped out of the building and off the boardwalk, walking over to where the man lay dying. He looked down at him, saying nothing.

“You're slick, Morgan,” the man whispered.

“Not really,” Frank replied. “You were just too anxious.”

“I reckon. But there was big money involved. Makes a”—he stammered and coughed up blood—“a man reckless.”

Frank stood quietly and let the man talk.

“They's a whole bunch coming after you, Morgan. I hope they kill you. I hope you die hard, you bastard.”

Frank just smiled at him.

“You'll get yours someday, Morgan. I'm just sorry I won't be around to see it.”

“You got anyone you want me to notify?” Frank asked.

“Hell, no!”

“That's too bad.”

“Who the hell do you have that gives a damn about you?” the gunhand challenged.

“I have one or two who might give a small damn,” Frank replied. “But not much of one.”

“Serves you right.”

Frank had to smile at that.

“Something funny, Morgan?” The man coughed out the words. Before Frank could reply, he said, “I'm lung-shot, ain't I?”

“Yeah, you are.”

“Side-to-side, right?”

“That's right.”

“I guess you're just gonna leave me to die right here in the middle of the damn street, ain't you, Morgan?”

“Where do you want me to take you?”

“How the hell do I know?” The man coughed up pink blood. He was definitely lung-shot. “Don't make no difference nohow, Morgan. Do it?”

“Not much of one.”

“I got me a good horse. Take care of him. Will you do that for me?”

“Sure. That big black?”

“That's him. He's a good one. And . . . I bought him legal. I didn't steal him. Paper is in my saddlebags.”

“I'll take care of him.”

“Thanks.” The man closed his eyes. He never opened them again.

Frank left him and walked to the end of the street, reloading as he walked. He found the horses and led them over to where he'd left Horse. Horse laid his ears back and let the newcomers know who was boss immediately. Frank left them to work it out, and walked back into the falling-down old town. He sat down in the dark shadowy shade of the boardwalk, took a sip of water, and rolled a cigarette.

He waited, rifle across his knees, very conscious of the heavy smell of death in the air; it clung to everything.

“Morgan!” The shout cut the air. “You there, Morgan?”

Frank did not move or reply to the call. In the sun's slow move toward the western horizon, the place where Frank rested under the awning was now dark. The newcomer, or newcomers, as the case probably was, could not see him.

“Damn, Jerry!” another voice called. “They's two bodies in the street.”

“I see them,” the first voice said. “But I can't make out who they are. For a fact, Morgan's in there somewhere.”

“I'm goin' to swing around, come in from the other end of town.”

“All right. Sing out when you're in position. I ain't movin' till you holler.”

“Yeah. Morgan's a sneaky one. I think he's maybe part Injun. I'll give you a shout in a few minutes.”

Frank waited motionless. He was wearing dark trousers and a dark blue shirt. He blended in well with the deepening shadows.

Frank listened as the rider made a wide loop around the ghost town. He was riding slowly, pausing often to check out the area. Frank guessed that Jerry had not moved.

“In place!” The shout came from the opposite end of the street.

“All right, Ed. Let's go collect that bounty.”

Jerry and Ed,
Frank thought.
Sounds like a vaudeville team. All we need now is some dancing girls in short dresses.

Suddenly, and with no warning, Frank thought about his son, Conrad. He wondered how the young man was doing. Wondered if he ever thought about
him.
Hell, Frank wasn't even sure where Conrad was. Probably back East somewhere.

He pushed those thoughts away. No time to be thinking about anything except staying alive.

Frank heard a board creak in protest somewhere to his left. Sounded like it was near. But in the warm, still air, he couldn't be sure.

“Jerry?” The voice was so close it jarred Frank. “I don't think he's here. There ain't no sign of him.”

“I shore ain't cut no sign myself.” That voice came from Frank's right. But from across the wide street.

“Is that Layton in the street?”

“Yeah. One of 'em. I can't see for shore who the other one is.”

“I seen one in the back. Didn't take the time to see who it was.”

Frank slowly moved his head, looking to his left. Ed was a dozen or so yards from him, walking carefully and slowly up the broken and warped boardwalk, a six-gun in his right hand.

“You looking for me, Ed?” Frank asked, lifting his rifle.

“Jesus!” Ed shouted, snapping off a shot into the shadows. The shot missed Frank by several feet.

Frank's shot did not miss. The .44-40 bullet ripped into Ed's chest and knocked the man off the boardwalk. Ed rolled in the dirt and tried to rise to his boots. He didn't make it, falling forward onto his face in the dirt. He cursed Frank, coughed up blood, then trembled once and sighed as life left him. A moment later, Frank heard the sound of a horse galloping away. Jerry had pulled out.

“The buzzards are going to have a feast later on,” Frank muttered, shoving fresh loads into his rifle.

Frank waited for a few minutes, sitting in the shade of the awning. No more hired guns showed up. “They'll be along,” Frank whispered. “I'll be very surprised if they aren't.”

Frank stripped the saddles and bridles from the horses and turned them loose. Then he returned to his shady perch and ate a biscuit and sipped water from his canteen. He longed for a cup of hot, strong coffee. He settled for a cigarette.

He waited, sitting by the street of death in the old ghost town. Silent slow minutes passed before Frank heard the approaching horse. A single rider appeared on the edge of town. Frank recognized him: Jess Malone.

“Well, now,” Frank muttered. “All by himself too.”

Frank wondered where Jess's running buddy, Peck Carson, was.

“Not far away, I'll wager,” Frank muttered.

“Morgan!” Jess hollered. “I see the bodies. Looks like you've been busy.”

Frank stepped out into the sunlight. “There's several more you can't see, Jess,” he called.

Jess walked his horse up the street, stopping and dismounting about a hundred feet from Frank. “You want to talk some before I kill you, Morgan?”

“You're dreaming, Jess. The only way you'll see me dead is if your buddy, Peck, shoots me in the back.”

“Peck ain't with me. He's back at the Snake nursin' a bad hang-over.”

“I'm real sorry to hear that, Jess. If it's the truth, that is. With any sort of luck, he won't recover.”

“It's the truth, Morgan. I may be a lot of things, but I ain't no liar.”

“With all these dead men around you, you're going to pull on me?”

“That's right, Morgan. More than that, I'm goin' to be the one to tote your stinkin' carcass back to the Snake and collect me a big pile of bounty money.”

Frank laughed at him. He knew that Jess was very quick on the draw, but Frank also knew that he was faster.

“By God, Morgan!” Jess flared. “Don't you laugh like a jackass at me.” Jess began walking toward Frank.

“You better get back on your horse and get the hell gone, Jess. That's the only warning you're going to get from me.”

“Damn you and your warnin', Morgan.” Jess kept walking, closing the distance between the two men.

Frank stood in the middle of the street, waiting. He was more conscious than ever before of the dead men around him. Overhead, circling darkly, the buzzards had begun to gather, sensing a feast.

“I'll be known as the man who killed Frank Morgan!” Jess shouted.

“Wrong,” Frank said.

“Now!” Jess yelled, and pulled iron.

J
ess cleared leather a half second behind Frank, and got off a shot. The bullet tore up dirt about ten feet in front of Frank. Frank's shot was true, striking Jess in the chest and knocking him down to one knee. Jess lifted his .45, trying for a second shot. Frank put another round into the man's chest. Jess toppled over to one side, losing the grip on his six-gun. He tried to rise but could not, collapsing and dying in the dirt.

Frank walked slowly up to the dead man and stood for a moment, looking down at him. Then he turned and walked away. Frank found Jess's horse and pulled saddle and bridle from the animal, turning him loose. He walked over to Horse and mounted up, taking the reins of the big black he had promised to look after. He rode away from the death town, leaving the bodies sprawled where they died. The buzzards began their slow descent toward the corpses. Frank did not look back.

It was after dark when Frank reached his house. He stabled the horses, rubbing them down and forking hay for them. He put some grain in the feed box and then went into his house, Dog padding along beside him.

Frank was tired and hungry and longed for a pot of coffee. He put water on to boil and then washed up, anxious to get the stink of death off him. The hot water and soap helped some. He sliced some bacon and laid the strips in the skillet to fry. He pulled off his boots and slipped his tired feet into moccasins. When the meager supper was ready, he ate the bacon and sopped up the grease with slices of bread, then took his mug of coffee outside. He sat down wearily in a rocking chair on the porch and rolled a cigarette.

“It was a sorry day, Dog,” he said to the big cur after taking a swig of the hot, strong coffee. “I left another string of dead men behind me. But what the hell did I accomplish by doing so? What did I prove? Am I the better man by doing what I did?”

Dog lay by his side, careful to keep his tail from under the rocker. Dog was smart; he had learned that quickly and somewhat painfully early on.

“The fastest gun in the West,” Frank said. “That's me. What an honor. After doing what I do best, I come home and talk to my dog.” He reached down and patted Dog. “No disrespect intended,” he added with a smile.

Dog wagged his tail.

Frank drank his coffee and smoked his cigarette, then fixed another cup and returned to the rocking chair on the porch. Dog had curled up on the porch and was sleeping, at peace with the world.

“We'll be on the trail again before too much longer,” Frank said to the silent night. “I can sense that. I've had a lot of practice knowing when I've worn out my welcome.”

Frank finished his coffee and went to bed. He slept soundly and dreamlessly, and was up an hour before dawn. Dog went out with Frank, both of them tending to their morning business; then Frank washed up and put on water to boil. He sat outside on the porch, enjoying the early coolness while he woke up with a cup of strong coffee. Frank was drinking coffee, finishing up the pot, when the sun cracked the silver gray wide open and brought the day forth.

“I think I'll ride into town and get me a good breakfast at the cafe, then a bath and a haircut, Dog. You keep an eye out for trouble, and if you see any, you run like hell and get under cover, you hear me?”

An hour later, Frank rode into the town of Heaven and dismounted in front of the Blue Moon Cafe. The cafe was crowded with men and humming with conversation until Frank walked in; then it fell as silent as a tomb.

Frank took a seat at a corner table and ordered breakfast. Slowly the conversation among the patrons resumed, but at a much lower hum than before. John Simmons came in, spotted Frank, and joined him at the table, waving at the waitress and ordering coffee.

“You stirred up the pot yesterday, Frank,” the banker said. “Two deputies from the county seat were on their way home from prisoner-chasing, and saw the buzzards over the ghost town and went to take a look. One of them stayed to keep the buzzards off while the other one rode into town for a wagon.”

“They brought the bodies here?”

“What was left of them, yes.”

“The deputies must have ridden by just after I rode out.”

“I guess so. Anyway, the townspeople, most of them, are awfully upset about the situation.”

“And they would like for me to leave?” Frank asked with a half smile.

“Many of them, yes, Frank. I'm sorry, but that's the mood right now.”

“Well, it won't get any better, John. I've seen this happen before.”

“You're probably right about that.”

“And what's going to happen when I pull out?”

“I tried to tell this very group of men in the cafe right now that things will only get worse if you leave. But they weren't having any of it. They want you gone.”

Frank's smile widened. “Then why don't they tell me face-to-face?”

The banker chuckled at that. “I think you know the answer to that, Frank. They're scared of you and they're scared of the ranchers.” John looked around him. “Here come the two deputies now.”

“Let them come. Here comes my breakfast. They can talk and I'll eat.”

“Morgan!” one of the deputies brayed from the doorway.

“I can hear you,” Frank said as the waitress placed his breakfast in front of him. “I'm not deaf.”

“We want to talk to you,” the second deputy said.

“So talk. I'll eat.”

“We wired the sheriff and he wants to talk to you, Morgan. You'll have to come with us.”

“I don't think so, boys,” Frank said, buttering a biscuit. “I don't have a damn thing to say to your sheriff.”

“Morgan,” the first deputy said. “You're pushing.”

Frank laid down his knife and set his biscuit on the side of his plate. “Your sheriff is bought and paid for by the ranchers, boys. And you probably are too. All of you knew the ranchers were hiring guns to make war against the farmers. You know about the killings and burnings and rapes and did nothing about them. You're both white trash, and that's probably too good a description. Now get the hell out of my sight or get ready to drag iron. Get out of here. Tuck your damn cowardly tails between your legs and get the hell gone. Now, goddamnit!”

The deputies almost tore down the door getting out of the cafe. Frank picked up his fork and resumed eating.

One of the townspeople in the cafe began chuckling. “Seeing that was worth the price of a stage ticket. Good for you, Morgan. I don't have much use for your kind, but that performance deserves a round of applause.”

“But it don't change nothin',” another man said.

“Relax, boys,” Frank said. “I'm planning on pulling out in a few days. Maybe a week. No more than that. I've got some loose ends to wrap up and some banking business to take care of. Then I'm gone.”

“Don't you men know what the ranchers are going to do when Frank is gone?” John said, flaring up, twisting around in his chair.

Heavy boot steps rattled the boardwalk and the front door was flung open. “The gunslingers is comin' into town!” the man yelled. “ 'Bout a dozen of 'em.”

“Damn you, Morgan!” a local yelled at Frank. “See what you've done? I hope you're happy.”

Frank stood up, his breakfast half finished, and stepped out of the cafe, Banker Simmons with him. A dozen or so riders reined up in front of the cafe just as the rest of the cafe crowd filed out to stand on the boardwalk.

“We're lookin' for you, Morgan,” a gunny said once the dust had settled.

“You found me.”

“We're not lookin' for no trouble,” another gunhand said. “We just wanted to tell you we're pullin' out.”

“Oh?” Frank said.

“Yeah, Frenchy here”—he gestured toward a rider—“is from Louisiana. He says you got you a mojo hand or a juju or some sort of that Cajun voodoo goin' for you. I don't rightly know what the hell he's talkin' about, but some of what he says makes sense. You got the luck goin' for you, that's all I know. No human man leaves half a dozen dead men for the buzzards and rides away without a scratch. So that done it for us. Maybe they'll be another time, maybe there won't. But for this time, we're gone.”

“This all that's leaving?” Frank asked.

“Half a dozen pulled out yesterday. Might be some more, I don't know.” He lifted a hand. “We're gone. I personal hope I don't never see you no more, Morgan. Not never again.”

The riders wheeled about and rode out of the town.

“Well, I'll be damned,” a local said.

Frank walked back into the cafe to finish his breakfast. “Hotten my coffee, will you?” he called to the waitress. “Maybe now I can eat in peace.”

* * *

Frank spent the rest of the morning with Lawyer Foster and Banker Simmons. They worked out an arrangement for the newlyweds to farm and ranch Frank's land, in exchange for fair compensation for their labors.

“It's a good deal for the kids,” Lawyer Foster said. “More than fair really.”

“They deserve a chance,” Frank said. “I can afford to give it to them.”

“What about Julie?” John asked.

“What about her?” Frank questioned. “We had a bit of a fling, I guess you could say, and now it's over. With the addition of her holdings, the kids are going to be working a lot of land; far more than anyone else in the south part of the valleys. It's going to be a hell of a responsibility for the young people. As for Julie, well, there are provisions in this arrangement for her to be well taken care of. There's no more to say.”

The lawyer and the banker exchanged glances.

“Is there more?” Frank challenged.

“Not if that's the way you want it, Frank,” John said.

Frank pushed back his chair and stood up. “Then we're finished. I'm going back to my place. The kids can move in next week.”

“That's when you're pulling out?” Foster asked.

“There is nothing here to hold me. Is there?”

The banker and the lawyer said nothing.

Frank smiled. “See you boys later.”

As Frank stepped out of the bank, he saw Ortiz lounging in the shade of a store awning across the street. He looked up the street. Viola Trainor's carriage was in front of the livery. Frank walked across the street and stepped up on the boardwalk.

Ortiz smiled at him. “The man who set more souls free to roam the ghost town. How are you, Frank?”

“I'm well. And you're looking the same.”

“A month or so older than when last we met.”

“How is Jules?”

Ortiz chuckled. “He's all right. Still a bit sore in the butt area from his ride home. But his hate for you is vile.”

“He knows where to find me.”

“He's practicing his draw daily, for several hours.”

“He can practice all he wants too, Ortiz. But when that crazy-in-the-head young man braces me, I'll put lead in him.”

Ortiz lifted his hands and shrugged his shoulders. “What can I say? I am not his keeper. What he does, he does.”

“How's the colonel?”

“Aflame with hate. For you, of course.”

“I'll put lead in that arrogant bastard too.”

Ortiz laughed. “Ah, Frank, when men such as you and I are gone, the West will be a boring place, will it not?”

Frank smiled. “It won't be the same, that's for sure.”

Ortiz looked over at the apothecary shop. “There is my charge, Frank. She now has enough drugs to keep her in a mild stupor for several weeks. I must be going. Is it true you are leaving the valley?”

“Yes. In a few days, maybe a week. But I'm leaving for sure.”

“I may give up my extremely boring position and drift myself. But I will drift south, toward a home I have not seen in years.”

“Are your parents still alive?”

“I don't know. And that is a disgraceful thing to have to admit.” He lifted a hand. “Good luck to you, Drifter.”

“Same to you, Pistolero.”

Frank watched as the Mexican gunfighter mounted up and the carriage rolled past, Ortiz riding shotgun. Frank looked up and down the street.
Nice little town,
he thought.
I'll miss it, even though I know it's not the place for me. It's filled with good people, most of them anyway. But not my sort of people.

He smiled at that last thought.
What do you want, Frank?
he silently questioned.
A town filled with aging gunfighters?

Preacher Philpot and his wife strolled past on the boardwalk, both of them averting their eyes so they would not have to speak to Frank. Frank didn't press the issue. It wouldn't have solved anything by pushing.

He stepped off the boardwalk and mounted up. Lawyer Foster and Banker Simmons waved to him as he rode out, heading for home.

Home?
Frank thought sourly.
No. A place to stay for a few more days, that's all it is. It isn't a home.

Frank began to feel better as he cleared the edge of town and put the buildings and the townspeople behind him.
Not my kind of people, he thought again. But where the hell do I find my kind of people?

As he rode, he mentally toyed with the idea of heading back East, looking for a place there. He quickly rejected that germ of an idea. It wouldn't take long before his true identity would be discovered and he'd be faced with the same problems. No, there was a place for him in the West he loved. He just had to keep looking, that's all.

Money sure as hell hasn't brought me much happiness or contentment,
he thought. Then he shook that away and smiled, thinking:
But I've helped some deserving kids, that's a fact. Maybe that's what money is really for.