Authors: William W. Johnstone

The Forbidden (4 page)

BOOK: The Forbidden

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FOUR

“I
'm standing easy,” Frank said.

“Stay that way, Morgan. I'll do the talkin'.”

“I'm listening.”

“You done me a good turn once, way back years ago, down in Texas. It don't matter what my name is, or was back then. I ain't forgot the favor. Now it's my turn to do you a favor, and this is it. You listen up good.”

Frank waited, standing in the mouth of the alley.

“There ain't nothin' but trouble for you here, Morgan. These valleys is fixin' to bust wide open with trouble.”

“I know that,” Frank said.

“Good that you do. I heared you was fixin' to pull out come mornin'. You do that. Ride out and don't look back.”

“That's my plan.”

“Good. 'Cause if you stay, them big ranchers up at the north end is hirin' gunhawks. And you'll be in a world of trouble. They'll kill you, Morgan. You probably still 'bout the fastest man in the West with a short gun. But the odds will be stacked way agin' you in this fight. You understand what I'm sayin'?”

“Yes.”

“And they's still big money on your head and some folks lookin' for revenge for things long done and over.”

“I know that too.”

“Then get out of this part of Montana, Morgan. Rattle your hocks, Drifter. This just ain't your fight. This ain't nothin' but a death trap waitin' to spring on you. Now, I done you a favor. We're even. I'm gone:”

Frank heard a whisper of movement that quickly faded away.

He walked on past the alley and stepped up to the boardwalk. There he paused for a moment. Frank did not try to recall the favor the voice had mentioned. He had done a lot of favors for a lot of people over the years, everything from a simple handout for someone down on his luck to saving a life. Nor did he feel he would ever know the identity of the voice. Not that it really mattered, for if didn't.

Frank watched as the street lamps were being lighted. They cast a very pretty glow on the pleasant evening.

He walked over to the livery and once again checked on Horse and Dog, then returned to the hotel and went to bed. He planned to buy a packhorse, provision up, and be gone by midmorning.

* * *

Frank was jarred out of bed by the sounds of shouting in the street below his hotel room. The shouting increased in intensity. He lit the lamp and checked his watch. Four o'clock. He bathed his face and slicked his hair down, then dressed quickly, put on his hat, and buckled his gunbelt around his waist, stepping out into the hall.

“What's going on?” a sleepy traveling man dressed in a long nightshirt called from his open room door.

“Don't know,” Frank replied. “But you'd better get some clothes on.”

The door closed.

Frank walked down the stairs and into the dark lobby. He looked around, could find no one, and stepped out to the boardwalk. The street was rapidly filling up with men, in various stages of hurried dress.

“What's going on?” Frank asked a citizen.

“The Jefferson family,” the citizen replied. “They been burned out. They're all dead. Killed by night riders.”

“The bastards killed the kids too!” another citizen said, walking up. “Looks like the night riders set the house on fire and burned up the whole family.”

It's started,
Frank thought.
All hell's going to break loose now.

“The Jeffersons had a little baby,” the citizen said, slipping his galluses straps up on his shoulders. “'Bout five months old.”

“The baby's dead too?” the other man asked.

“Burnt to a crisp, I was told.”

“Who found them?” another man asked.

“A neighbor heard the shots. By the time he could get dressed and saddled up and get over there, it was too late. He couldn't do nothin' âceptin' watch it burn.”

Frank moved on up the street, listening to the men talk. Handheld torchlights flickered up and down the street. By now a number of women had joined the crowd, and they were crying and kicking up a fuss. Frank stepped back and melted into the darkness as Preacher Philpot joined the milling crowd.

“It's time to fight!” the preacher shouted. “Gird your loins and pick up your sword and shield.”

“We've got to do something!” a woman shouted. “Those murdering night riders will attack the town next.”

Frank sat down on the edge of the boardwalk and rolled himself a smoke. What he really wanted was a hot cup of coffee, but the Blue Moon Cafe was still dark.

“Where is Marshal Handlen?” a man shouted.

“He rode out to the Jefferson place,” someone called.

“Alone?”

“I reckon so.”

“That ain't smart. Them night riders might be layin' for him.”

Frank turned away and spotted the man who ran the livery stable. He walked over to him. “Can you rent me a good horse? Mine is tired and I don't like the idea of Marshal Handlen out by himself after all that's happened this night.”

“That's a good idea. Come on. You can take mine. He's a good one.”

Frank was gone in five minutes, after telling Dog to stay put and then getting directions from the livery owner out to the Jefferson place. The liveryman was sure right about his personal mount: He was a good one and liked to travel. Frank let him trot for a while and then slowed him down. He caught up with the old marshal several miles before the turnoff to the Jefferson farm.

“You mind some company, Marshal?”

“I'd welcome it. The folks in town send you out to look after me?”

“No. It was my own idea.”

“You're not as ornery as folks make you out to be, Frank. There's a decent streak in you a yard wide.”

“Don't let it get out, Marshal. It would ruin my reputation.”

“I'll keep it to myself.”

They both could smell the smoke long before they reached the burned-out farmhouse and barn ... that and the unmistakable odor of seared human flesh.

“Takes some real lowlifes to do something like this,” Handlen remarked.

“And a lower type to send them out to do it,” Frank added.

“Agreed, and Colonel Trainor is definitely a low-life son of a bitch.”

Frank glanced at the marshal. There had been considerable heat in the man's voice. “The colonel do you a wrong sometime?”

“Not really. He's just a no-good, that's all. I knew that first time I set eyes on him. Thinks he's better than anyone else. Come in here right after the war like some sort of hero, expecting everyone to bow down and lick his boots. A few did, most didn't. I was one who told him to go right straight to hell.” Handlen smiled. “'Course I was some younger then. He hasn't cared much for me since that time.”

“Were you in the war, Marshal?”

“No. I came West before the war started. Me and the wife and kids. The war had been going on for a year or more before we knew anything about it. We were too busy fighting Indians anyway. It was wild out here back then. Town was mostly burned down twice.”

“Where are your kids?”

“All of them went back East soon as they was old enough. The West wasn't for them. Too hard a life, I reckon. I haven't seen any of them in years. Wouldn't know any of them now if I was to come face-to-face with them.”

“That's sad.”

“In a way, yes. But you got to believe that everything is done for a reason. Those kids didn't have what it took to live out here.” He pointed. “There's lights up ahead. That would be Phil Wilson probably. Jeffersons' nearest neighbor.”

“Farmer?”

“Yes. Has a small connecting ranch too. Nice fellow. Real pretty wife and several kids. There's a story behind the two oldest kids. I'll tell it to you sometime.”

“Marshal,” Wilson greeted them. “It's still too hot to try to find the bodies. It's pretty bad. Horses was burned up too.” He looked at Frank in the lantern light.

“This here is Frank Morgan, Phil. He's just passing through this area and agreed to help me this awful night.”

“Nice of you,” Phil said, glancing at Frank. “Come on. But there isn't much left 'ceptin' ashes.” Phil started to walk on, then paused and turned around to face the two men.
“Frank Morgan?”

“That's right,” Frank told him.

“But you're a . . .” Phil let that trail off into the silent darkness.

“He's all right,” Marshal Handlen said. “Lead on, Phil.”

As the men drew closer, the smell of burned human flesh grew stronger in the night air.

“They burned everything,” the marshal said, then looked over at what remained of the barn. “Those poor animals.”

“I'll look for tracks,” Frank said. “Might find a hoofprint that stands out.”

“I'll help,” Handlen said. “Nothing else we can do.”

“It's going to be several hours before we can try to retrieve what's left of the bodies,” Frank said. “You live far from here, Phil?”

“Just a hop, skip, and a jump, Mr. Morgan.”

“You reckon your wife could make up a big pot of coffee?”

“She sure could. Be glad to. I'll ride on over and get it going.”

“It'll give him something to do,” Frank said when the farmer had ridden away. “And one less person stomping around.”

“It's still too dark to see very good,” Handlen said.

“Be light enough in a few minutes,” Frank told him. “Let's hold off until then.”

“That smell is gonna make me sick, Frank.”

“Wash your face with water out of your canteen. That might help.”

“You're not feeling sick?”

“No. I've smelled it before.”

“I have too. But that was years ago, after a band of bucks burned out a farmer way north of here.”

“Before the ranchers moved in?”

“Oh, yeah. These connecting valleys used to be all farms. Colonel Trainor and his men came in and the farmers began being forced out. About ten years ago we made the crossroads the line. I knew it would be only a matter of time before the big ranchers would start something like this.”

“And now it's happened.”

“Yes.”

The dawning came slowly, pushing the night away, and Frank began a slow circling of the ruins of the farmhouse and barn. He finally found a track he could identify if he ever saw it again. He pointed it out to Marshal Handlen.

“It's a big horse, carrying a big man, looks like to me,” Handlen said. “And it's got a strange mark on that right front shoe.”

“And the riders all headed back north.”

“That goes without saying,” Handlen said dryly.

“Here comes a wagon,” Frank said, standing up.

Handlen squinted into the early morning light. “Phil and his wife, Julie. She's about the best-lookin' woman in this area. Thank God they left their kids to home.”

Frank stared hard as the wagon drew nearer. “She doesn't look old enough to have many kids.”

“They have three. Twins, a boy and a girl, 'bout fourteen or fifteen, and a younger girl, 'bout eight or nine. I reckon Julie's 'bout thirty-five. But you're right: she don't look it.”

“Phil's some older, seems like.”

“Yes. He's in his mid-forties. They come out here when the twins was just babies. He's a good farmer and a good father. But those twins . . .” He shook his head. “I'll tell you about them later on. It's a story.”

The couple got down from the wagon seat, and Julie pulled a big pot of coffee from the bed of the wagon while Phil got the tin cups.

“It's still plenty hot,” Phil said. “And Julie had just made some biscuits. I brung butter and honey.”

“Sounds good,” Frank said.

“This here is Frank Morgan, Julie.”

Julie put her blue eyes on Frank and smiled. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morgan.”

“Frank, please. That coffee smells good.”

“I'll put the biscuits and the butter in the back of the wagon,” Julie said. “Help yourselves whenever you like.” She waved a hand in front of her nose. “But that smell is really awfully bad. Is that? . . .”

“Yes,” Frank told her. “The Jefferson family.”

“What a terrible thing.”

“Yes, ma'am. It really is.” Frank poured himself a cup of coffee and went over to a tree and squatted down. He rolled a cigarette and enjoyed a quiet smoke while sipping his cup of really good coffee.

Julie came over and sat down on the ground beside him.

“You'll get your dress all dirty,” Frank said.

“It's just an old thing I wear when I'm doing chores.”

“Looks pretty to me.”

“Thank you, sir. Are you really Frank Morgan the famous gunfighters?”

“I guess so, Julie. But the title of gunfighter was never something I wanted.”

“I've read a number of books and articles about you. A lot of the articles made you out to be a vicious killer.”

Frank smiled. “Well . . . I hope now that you've met me you can see I don't quite fit that role.”

She laughed and tossed her blond curls. “I do, Mr. Morgan.”

“Frank?” Marshal Handlen called. “I got some shovels out of the shed. It wasn't burned that bad. You want to try to find the bodies?”

Frank stood up. “Be right there, Marshal.” He looked at Julie. “You might not want to see this, Miss Julie. It'll be pretty grim.”

BOOK: The Forbidden