The Forbidden (7 page)

W
hen the wagon, with Frank riding alongside, rolled into town, a lot of heads turned to gawk and whisper.

“The rumor mill has started,” Frank said.

“Let them talk,” Julie said. “It'll take their minds off of the big trouble.”

Frank reined up in the front of the store and went inside, while Julie pulled around to the rear of the general store and backed the wagon up to the loading dock. He bought Shelley some hard candy and a bottle of sarsaparilla, and then went in search of a wagon and team he could rent or buy. He found a wagon and team at the livery and arranged for its purchase. He told the liveryman to get the team into harness, he'd be back.

He walked back over to the general store and started buying the basic supplies he figured he'd need until the house was built. Then he went to the bank and deposited several large bank drafts. Frank was suddenly Mr. Morgan to Banker Simmons. He then went looking for the carpenters Julie had told him about. After speaking with them, he set up a line of credit at the sawmill.

“You going to farm, Mr. Morgan?” the sawmill owner asked.

“I'll plant some wheat and corn and oats, for sure.”

“You'll need farmin' implements.”

“When the time comes, I'll get them.”

“And a good mule or two.”

“I'm sure you'll be able to get them for me,” Frank said dryly.

“You just say the word.”

Smiling, Frank went back to the general store to check on Julie and Shelley. He wanted to convoy back with them. It seemed to him that they were looking at every item in the store . . . and buying very little. Julie said they'd be ready to go in about an hour. Frank walked over to the saloon to listen to the gossip. He wasn't in the mood for hard liquor or a beer, so he ordered coffee. The .45 crew was there, sprawled all around two tables, halfheartedly playing penny-ante poker. Frank ignored them.

“The famous Frank Morgan,” the foreman of the .45 spread said in a sneering tone of voice. “Gonna be a sodbuster now. You gonna raise sheep too, Morgan?”

Frank did not turn around. He sipped his coffee and smiled.

“I'm talkin' to you, Morgan!”

Frank knew he should just walk away from this. But running away was not something that set well with Frank Morgan. He set his coffee cup on the bar and turned around to face the .45 crew. “What brings you boys to this end of the valley, Langford?”

“It's a free country, Morgan. Ain't it?”

“So I'm told.”

“'Sides, we like to come down here. It's a nice friendly town.”

“Unlike the town at the north end?”

Langford frowned. “There ain't nothin' wrong with Hell.” Then he scowled at his own words.

Frank laughed. “I bet the preachers in your town would disagree with that, Wells.”

“There ain't no preachers in Hell, Frank,” a local said. “They got an empty church and that's all. They can't get a preacher to come to Hell.”

“I wonder why,” a local said. “Could it be the name?”

Langford glanced at the local. “You shet your damn mouth, farmer.”

“Why should he, Wells?” Frank stepped in. “This is his town. You boys are just visiting here. And I doubt you were invited.”

“You tellin' us to get out, Morgan?”

Frank shrugged his shoulders. “Nope. You don't see any badge on me, do you? I'm just a private citizen.”

“Nobody runs us out of nowhere, Morgan,” Davis said. “Especially you.”

“I don't recall anyone asking you to leave, Davis.”

“Just makin' things plain.”

“Tell me this, Wells. Why do you boys want to come to a place where you know you're not welcome?”

The foreman smiled. “Oh, I think you know the answer to that.”

“Yes, I suppose I do. So you can strut around and shoot anybody who dares challenge you, right, Wells?”

The .45 foreman stared at him and offered no reply.

“Now let me add this,” Frank said. “I just bought the old Jefferson place. The place where night riders burned the whole family to death a few months back. And I bought land surrounding the place. If I find any of you Diamond .45 people, or Circle Snake riders, or Lightning hands on my property, I'll kill you and I won't ask questions before I do it. I'll just blow you out of the saddle and leave you for the buzzards and the bears. You understand all that?”

Wells's eyes bugged out and his face flushed from sudden rage. His hands gripped both arms of the chair until the knuckles turned white. “That's hard talk, Morgan.”

“You are damn right it is. And I mean every word of it. I'm no helpless woman or child. Or a man who isn't used to guns. And if you doubt it, stand up and get ready to drag iron.”

Wells slowly relaxed and leaned back in the chair, being careful to keep his hands away from his pistol. “You'd like that, wouldn't you, Drifter?”

“I'm no drifter anymore, Wells. I own a farm and a small ranch, and I'm also looking after the cattle that belong to the Wilson family. The same rules apply to the Wilson property.”

“That's mighty nice of you, Morgan,” a .45 hand said. “You liftin' the skirts of that fine-lookin' woman for payment? She give you a good roll in bed for all your help?”

Frank was away from the bar in a heartbeat. He reached the mouthy cowboy in the next heartbeat, just as the man was getting to his boots, both hands balled into fists.

“Finish him, Cort!” one of the hands yelled.

Frank hit Cort in the mouth with one big fist. Cort's boots flew out from under him and he landed on the table behind where he'd been sitting. He rolled and got to his feet, his lips dripping blood.

“I'll kill you for that, Drifter,” he said, calling Frank the nickname that an Eastern writer had hung on him in an article.

“Come do it,” Frank told him.

Cort charged him and Frank met him square on with both fists, a series of lefts and rights to the stomach and face that sent Cort stumbling backward. Frank pressed the .45 hand hard, hitting him solidly on the side of the jaw with a right fist that glazed the man's eyes and caused his knees to buckle a bit.

Cort backed up, shaking his head and spitting out blood. Frank came on without hesitation, coldly and mercilessly. He slammed a left to the man's belly and a right to his face. Cort's nose flattened and the blood and snot flew. He backed up, hurt and dazed and shaking his head, splattering blood.

“You son of a bitch!” Cort said, taking a swing at Frank.

Frank grabbed the man's arm, just at the wrist, and using his forward momentum, threw the man out one of the front windows of the saloon. Cort bounced on the boardwalk and rolled off into the dirt of the street.

Frank was out the batwings after him before Cort could get up and get his shaky legs under him. The Diamond .45 hand was bleeding from a dozen cuts from the broken glass, but he was still game. He tried to climb up on the boardwalk. He didn't make it. Frank kicked him in the belly, and Cort doubled over and went to the ground, both hands holding his belly and horrible gasping, choking sounds coming from his mouth.

Frank stepped off the boardwalk and then for the next several minutes, methodically beat the man to a bloody pulp. Like a steam-driven piledriver, Frank's fists smashed Cort's face and belly. When he finished, Cort was unconscious, his face torn, bloody, and unrecognizable. The Diamond .45 puncher was slumped against a water trough, his chin resting on his chest. Incredibly, Cort had not landed even one blow on Frank.

Frank splashed water from the trough on his face and stepped back onto the boardwalk, walking up to the Diamond .45 foreman. “Have I made my point, Langford?”

“Yeah, I reckon you did, Morgan,” Wells said tightly. “But it ain't gonna be forgot no time soon.”

“I hope you never forget it. And be sure and tell your boss about it. I'll do the same damn thing to him if his actions or remarks ever warrant it.”

“You're a fool, Morgan,” Wells said in a low voice. “You can't fight every rancher on the north end of the valleys.”

“You want to bet your life on that?”

The foreman elected not to respond. He turned away with a muttered curse and said, “One of you boys get a buckboard from the livery to haul Cort back to the ranch.”

“You want me to get Doc Everett to look at him 'fore we do?” another hand asked.

“No. I don't want that mean-mouthed bastard to look at him. We'll get Doc Woods.”

Frank stood on the boardwalk and listened to the Circle. 45 hands talk, all the while flexing his fingers to help keep them from stiffening up. They would be sore from the pounding against Cort's face, but nothing was broken. He would soak both hands in hot water and salt later on.

He glanced up and across the street at the crowd that had gathered on the boardwalk, Julie and Shelley among them. He started to step off the boardwalk and walk across to them when Cort suddenly moaned.

“I'll . . . kill you . . . for this,” the busted-up cowboy mumbled through loose teeth and smashed gums. “That's a... promise.”

“And if he don't, I will!” another Circle .45 hand blurted out.

“Shut up, Dick,” Langford said. “We'll get our evens 'fore long, you can bet on that.”

“I'll sure be around,” Frank informed them. “And you boys best keep in mind what I said about staying off my property and Miss Julie's property.”

Both of Cort's eyes were almost swollen shut, but Frank could see the hate shining through the swelling.
I'll have to kill that man someday,
Frank thought.

Doc Everett strolled up and glanced at Cort, then over at Langford. “You want me to take a look at him, Wells?”

“I want you to keep your damn hands off him!” the foreman lashed out.

“With pleasure,” the doctor replied. “Maybe the community will get lucky and he'll die.”

“You're a mean bastard, Doc,” Dick said.

“I'm a realist.”

“Huh?” Dick asked.

“Never mind. It would take the rest of the day trying to explain it to you.” He looked at Frank. “Heard you were back in town. Julie told me moments before the fight. She seems quite fond of you.”

“She's a nice lady.”

“Yes. That she is. I hope your intentions are honorable.”

“They are.”

“Are you unscathed after this brief battle?”

Frank smiled. “I know what that means, Doc. Yes, I'm fine.”

“That's good to hear. Oddly enough, I believe you.” Doc Everett stuck the stub of a cigar into his mouth and walked away.

“Here comes Luke with the buckboard,” a hand said. “Looks like he put some hay in the back to soften the ride.”

Cort was loaded into the buckboard and the Circle .45 hands rode out, after they all gave Frank dirty looks. Frank walked across the street to stand beside Julie and Shelley.

“Are you all right?” Julie asked.

“Oh, yes.”

“What was all that fighting about?”

“I got upset about some ugly comments he made about you.”

She looked up at Frank. “I won't ask what they were.”

“Best you don't.”

“Your hands look swollen.”

“A mite. But they'll be all right. I'll heat water and soak them this afternoon.”

“You'll stop by the house and I'll heat water for you.”

Frank smiled. “Yes, ma'am.”

O
nce Frank outlined for the builders what he wanted, he left them to their sawing and hammering and nailing and started rounding up what was left of the cattle. Jefferson had not registered any brand, so Frank marked them with his own brand, one he had registered at the county seat after checking the Montana brand book. His was an F bar M. He branded Julie's cattle with a J bar W

It was midsummer, too late to do anything with what was left of Jefferson's unattended and weed-choked beet and potato crop, and too late to plant his own, so Frank just left it alone. The wheat crop looked good, and he made arrangements with another farmer to bring that in when it was time—for shares of whatever the crop brought.

For the most part the ranchers on the north side of the crossroads stayed in their part of the multiconnecting valleys. Frank had never been to the town of Hell, and really had no desire to go. He didn't think he'd be too welcome there.

Frank heard that Cort had recovered from his beating, at least physically, but that the hand talked daily about his hatred of Frank Morgan and how someday he'd kill him. Frank felt that someday, probably sooner than later, he'd have to face Cort in a showdown.

On a hot, midsummer day, Frank was taking a break, relaxing under the shade of trees by the banks of a creek. The creek was one of the dividing lines between his property and the Wilson property. Horse had wandered down to the creek for a drink. Dog was back at the home site, watching the carpenters at work. Frank heard the sound of horses, a couple of them, he thought, coming from different directions. He perked up, watching and listening.

The first horse he saw was Katie's paint pony. Julie had said the girl rode nearly every day after her chores, sometimes staying away for hours at a time.

“Now where is she going?” Frank muttered just a heartbeat before he spotted the other rider. “Oh, hell,” Frank said, recognizing the second rider: Donnie Bullard, son of the owner of the Diamond .45 spread, whom Frank had seen a couple of times in town.

Frank watched the boy and girl meet, then ride off into a stand of timber. “Young love,” he muttered.

Julie had forbidden her daughter to have anything to do with Donnie, but as she had told Frank, “I might as well be talking to a stump. She's going to do what she wants to do, no matter what I say. And Phil Junior is seeing Betty Lou Gilmar whenever both of them can slip away. It's becoming a big mess.”

“What do the ranchers have to say about it?”

“The same thing I say. But their kids are just as hardheaded.”

“Are they . . . ah ... doing anything . . . ah ... you know what I mean?”

“I don't know. I rather doubt it. They're still awfully young to be thinking about, you know,
that.”

“They're all about fifteen, aren't they?”

“Yes.”

“That's old enough. How old were you when you married Phillip?”

Julie sighed. “Fifteen.”

“Enough said, I reckon.”

“I'll chain her to the bed!” Julie said.

“I think I'd pick another object to chain her to,” Frank said very dryly.

Julie giggled. “You're awful, Frank!”

Frank stared at the stand of timber, wondering what the kids were doing in there. Then he decided he really didn't want to know. He slipped down to the creek and swung into the saddle, heading back to his house. If the kids were doing what comes naturally, Frank hoped they were being careful about it.

“I seen that damn snooty Betty Lou Gilmar 'bout two hours ago,” one of the workmen told Frank as soon as he dismounted. “Ridin' that fancy horse of her'n.”

“Where?”

“I was up to the crossroads, directin' a wagon load of lumber here. I seen her cross the road, headin' south.”

“All them kids is up to no good,” another man said after taking a dipper of water from the bucket. “When one of them girls gets in a family way, it's gonna be really bad.”

“I don't believe they're doin' anything but smoochin',” another workman said.

“You probably still believe in Santa Claus too,” his friend replied.

“Maybe if the kids of the ranchers and the farmers can get along,” Frank said, “the adults might follow suit.”

“The folks on this end of the valley would be happy to make peace,” the workman said. “But we're not the ones hirin' gunfighters and sendin' out night riders to burn and kill, Mr. Morgan. All we want to do is live in peace and raise our kids and crops.” He looked toward the southwest and his tanned face paled. “Oh, God, look!” He pointed.

Frank turned and looked. A huge cloud of smoke was visible, rising from a fire several miles away. Someone's wheat field was burning and he doubted it was an accident.

“I'll check it out,” Frank said, heading for the corral.

By the time Frank reached the field, neighbors had set up a fire break and the fire was nearly out. But the flames had destroyed the entire wheat field of a man named Clay. Frank rode up to the gathering of men and women and sat his saddle. There was no point in dismounting; there was nothing he could do. The farm families stood in silence and looked out over the ruined field.

“That's it for me,” Clay said, leaning on his shovel. “I'm busted. Flat busted. The goddamn ranchers have beat me.”

“Did anyone see who started it?” Frank asked.

No one had.

Frank looked at Clay. “Don't start packing yet.”

“Why not?” the farmer asked. “I don't even have the money to get through the winter, much less buy seed and equipment for next year. The fire got all my implements. They was down on the end where the fire started.”

“I'll stake you,” Frank said. “And you work for me the rest of this summer and fall. I'll pay good wages. Deal?”

Clay blinked a couple of times. “Why would you do that?” he questioned.

“Because I want to,” Frank replied.

Clay nodded his head. “All right, Mr. Morgan. Deal.”

Frank lifted the reins. “I'm going to do some checking; see if I can find anything about why this fire started, or who started it. I'll be back.” He looked at the woman standing beside Clay and smiled. “I'd appreciate a pot of coffee when I get back, ma'am.”

She returned his smile. “It'll sure be ready, Mr. Morgan.”

Frank found a number of hoofprints and an empty kerosene can that had been tossed in a ditch near where the fire started. He followed the tracks for a time, all the way back to the river that marked the boundary of one side of the valley. Frank did not cross the small river. He had seen enough to know the fire had been deliberately set, but had no proof as to who started it. Or paid to have it started.

But he knew from carefully checking the hoofprints that at least one of the riders had been a part of the group that had killed the Jefferson family a few months back.

“Getting bolder,” Frank muttered. “Striking in broad daylight.” He turned and rode back to the burn site.

“What'd you find, Mr. Morgan?” one of the neighbors asked.

“The riders headed back to the north end of the valley. I didn't follow them.”

“They might have been waitin' in ambush,” another man said.

“I thought about that,” Frank replied. “But even if I had caught up with them, I had no proof that would directly link them to the fire. And I'm not the law.”

“You could be,” another farmer said.

Frank shook his head. “Forget that. My days of totin' a badge are over.”

Mrs. Clay poured Frank a cup of fresh brewed coffee and he took it. “Thank you, ma'am. Smells wonderful.”

Julie Wilson came rattling up in a buckboard, Shelley on the seat beside her. Julie walked over to Mrs. Clay and the two women hugged each other, while the other farmers' wives gathered around. The men grouped together away from the women.

“You men have got to arm yourselves,” Frank said. “And you've got to be ready and willing to use those guns. If you don't, you're going to lose this war.”

“We're farmers, Mr. Morgan,” Clay said. “Not gunfighters.”

“You all hunt, don't you?” Frank challenged.

The men all solemnly nodded.

“Then you all know how to use guns. That's half the battle.”

“I never took a man's life,” a farmer said. “I don't know if I could shoot a man.”

“By God, I could,” a woman shouted from the crowd of females. “And you men are going to teach us how to shoot.”

“Now, Frances,” a man Frank had heard called Hunt said.

“Don't you now, Frances me, Daniel!” his wife said. “I mean it.”

“All right,” Daniel said. “Settle down, Frances.” He looked at Frank. “I got a rifle and a shotgun.”

“Get a pistol too,” Frank said. “All of you men get a pistol and learn how to use it. Get used to carrying it around.”

“No point in notifying Sheriff Wilcox about this,” a man said. “He's in Trainor's pocket. And so is Judge Broadhurst.”

“For a fact, we're all alone in this fight,” another said.

“We've got each other, Josh,” Clay said gently.

“That's right,” Mrs. Clay said, walking to her husband's side and putting an arm around his waist. “We sure do.”

Clay smiled at the woman. “All right, Edna. I'll teach you how to use a rifle.”

“And a pistol,” she added.

“It's a start,” Frank said. “Once the ranchers learn we've gotten organized and will fight, they might back off.”

“They're not going to back off, Mr. Morgan,” Josh said. “They'll never back off until they've run us out or killed us all. But this way . . . well, we'll go down fighting. Like growed-up men and women:'

“Don't start talking about defeat,” Frank admonished. “I don't like to lose. And we're not going to lose this fight.”

“But some of us are going to get hurt or killed,” another man said. “That's a hard fact of the matter. And I got a whole house full of young'uns to think about. I'm gettin' out of here. There's land aplenty elsewheres. I ain't dyin' for no piece of dirt.”

“I figured you'd quit, Jamison,” a farmer said, his mouth full of scorn. “You ain't done nothin' ‘ceptin' gripe and moan since you got here.”

“Be that as it may,” Jamison said. “I'm shore packin' up and leavin'. I'll be gone in the mornin'.”

“What about your land?” Frank asked. “And the home you built? How much do you own and where is it?”

“I got me a section down by the creek.” He pointed. “Over yonder. Ain't much of a house, but it's good land.”

“All right. I'll give you a fair price for it,” Frank told him. “At least enough to get you going and started elsewhere. That is, if you've really got a mind to go. But I wish you'd stay and join us in this fight.”

“It ain't my fight, Mr. Morgan. Not no more. I'm done.”

Frank studied Jamison's face. The man had the mark of a loser on him. Frank suspected Jamison would drift until his dying day, never being content anywhere. “All right, Jamison. I'll ride over to your place now, look it over, and we'll settle on a price. I'll have the papers drawn up in the morning and pay you then. Is that all right with you?”

“You gonna bring the money to me or do I have to meet you in town to do it?”

“We have to meet at the bank to sign papers.”

“I'll be there when it opens.”

After Jamison had rattled away in his wagon, Clay said, “No one's going to miss him, Mr. Morgan. You'll see why when you ride over to his place. Ranchers have a word for people like Jamison. They call them rawhiders.”

“I suspected as much. And it's Frank, not Mr. Morgan.”

“All right, Frank. My name is Harry.”

“I'll see you in the morning, Harry.” He glanced at the man's wife. “Thanks for the coffee, Mrs. Clay. It was delicious.”

“It's Edna, please.”

Frank smiled and tipped his hat. He waved at Julie and then rode off after Jamison.

“He's nothing like the articles I've read about him and the stories I've heard,” a woman said. “He's a nice man.”

“Yes, he is,” Julie said. “He's good with kids and he's very well read.”

“He's still a gunfighter,” said a man who had not spoken since Frank joined the farmers that day. “He's gonna get a lot of us hurt or killed.”

“Oh, shut up, Maynard,” Josh said. “Frank's all right. The men who's working over at his place say he's a nice fella.”

“I don't like him,” Maynard said. “And nothin' you nor nobody else can say is gonna change that.”

“Fine, Maynard,” Dan Hunt said. “You're entitled to your opinion. But you're wrong about Frank Morgan.”

“Doubt it,” Maynard said stubbornly.

“Are you going to join us in arming ourselves?” a farmer asked.

“I'm armed. Got me a good rifle, a good shotgun, and a pistol. I'll defend myself when the time comes.”

“Then go on home to Louise, Maynard,” Josh said. “If you're not going to join us, you can stand alone.”

“I'll do that. Hell with you all.” Maynard stalked over to his horse and rode away, his back stiff with anger.

“What brought all that on, you reckon?” Josh asked.

“Who knows,” a farmer called Ned said. “Maynard's always been a strange duck.”

“For a fact,” Harry Clay said. “All right, folks. I reckon I've got me a new job and we've all got us a good neighbor.”