The Forbidden (8 page)

* * *

Jamison's house was nothing but a shack. There were half a dozen kids, ranging in age from just walking to midteens. Mrs. Jamison looked worn out. Frank checked Jamison's equipment, and found it ill-kept and practically worthless. But the 640 acres that Jamison owned were prime farmland, with good water and drainage.

Frank told Jamison he'd see him in town in the morning, and headed back to his place. The workmen had already left for the day. The house was just about finished, with most of the remaining work to be done on the outside. Frank rubbed down Horse and turned him into the corral for a time. The new barn was completed, and Frank forked hay into Horse's stall, put some grain into the feed box, then went into his house.

He fed Dog and fixed a pot of coffee, filled a cup, and went out onto the front porch to sit for a time, enjoying the quiet of late afternoon. He was rolling a cigarette just as Dog came out and lay down beside his chair.

“We're getting to be regular land barons, Dog,” Frank said with a smile, reaching down and petting Dog. “I believe we might have actually found us a home. That'd be nice, wouldn't it? What do you think about that?”

Dog looked up at him for a few seconds, then went back to sleep.

“I thought that would impress you,” Frank said with a laugh.

Do I want to spend the rest of my life here?
Frank pondered the question.
Well, why not?
he silently answered.
The people, most of them anyway, are nice, and don't really give a damn about my past.

Thinking of Julie filled Frank with a warm, comfortable feeling. A feeling he had not thought he could ever dredge up again.

But there it was.

The difference in their ages of ten years or so was not that great. Nothing that couldn't be overcome.

But could Frank ever successfully put his past behind him?

That worried him, for there were still a lot of young punks looking for a gun reputation, and they would find him. They always did. Then he would have to kill again, or be killed.

“Damn,” Frank whispered. Then he smiled. “It ain't easy being Frank Morgan,” he said aloud.

He went inside and lit a lamp. He'd read for a time, then go to bed. He had bought a book of poems written by a fellow named Poe. What a strange, dark, and lonely mind that man had. Frank refilled his coffee cup and began reading about the beautiful Annabel Lee.

F
rank met Jamison in town the following morning and told him how much he would give him for the land, after checking to see the title was free and clear. Jamison took the offer and signed the papers. Frank paid him in cash and the land was his.

“When are you planning on pulling out?” Frank asked.

“Right now,” Jamison said. “Everything we're takin' is in the wagons.”

“Where will you go?”

“California,” Jamison said. “I hear it's the land of plenty.”

“Losers,” Banker Simmons said, standing beside Frank as the wagons pulled out. “The whole woebegone lot of them.”

“I reckon you're right, John. But I can't help but feel sorry for them.”

“You'd be wasting your time and your sympathies, Frank. Nearly everyone in this end of the valley has helped that family at one time or another. I think all of them had gotten used to people helping them long before they arrived here.”

Frank watched as a carriage came rolling onto the main street, followed by a couple of mounted men. Their horses wore the Snake brand.

“Mrs. Viola Trainor,” Simmons said. “She comes to this end of the valley about once every two or three months.”

“To shop?” Frank asked.

Simmons smiled. “In a manner of speaking. She's addicted to laudanum. Sam Bickman at the apothecary shop gets it for her. She buys it a case at a time.”

“She can't get it in Hell?”

“The colonel won't allow the druggist there to sell it to her. So she comes over here and buys it.”

“Surely he knows that.”

“Oh, he knows it but he can't do much of anything about it. Viola has money of her own.” Simmons chuckled. “She keeps some of it in my bank.”

“Who are those riders with her?”

“The one with the fancy vest is her baby boy, Julian. Called Jules. He's about nineteen, I believe. And he's a cruel bastard. There's a real twisted streak in that young man. The other rider is Viola's personal bodyguard, Ortiz.”

“The Nogales gunfighter,” Frank said. “I haven't seen or heard anything about him in years. I wondered whatever became of him.”

“He was hired by Trainor. I guess, oh, six or seven years ago. Wherever you see Viola, you'll see Ortiz.”

“Has anyone crossed him in that time?”

“Two men that I know of. Right out there in that street in front of us. They didn't have a prayer when it came time to draw. He's fast, Frank. He's so fast it's scary.”

“I know. Mutual respect is just one of the reasons we've avoided each other over the years.”

“What are some of the others?”

Frank smiled. “Another is that both of us know if it comes to a showdown, we'll both take some lead. I got shot in the shoulder last year. I don't heal as fast as I used to.”

Simmons was called into the bank, and Frank walked across the street to the cafe for a cup of coffee and a plate of biscuits, if they had any left from the breakfast crowd.

He was halfway across the street when he heard his name called. Frank turned to face the .45 hand Cort, standing about thirty feet away.

“I told you I'd kill you someday, Morgan,” Cort said. “Well, that day has come.”

“Don't be a fool.”

“You ready, Morgan?”

“No, I'm not. I don't want to have to kill you. The remarks you made about the lady were out of line and you got a beating for it. It was deserved and you know it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Frank saw Ortiz and Jules Trainor step out onto the boardwalk to stand and watch. The Mexican gunhand was staring and listening intently.

Frank heard Jules say, “I bet Cort kills him, Ortiz.”

“Don't be a fool when you bet, boy,” the Nogales gunhand replied.

“But I can see some gray in his hair,” Jules said.

“Gray in my hair too, boy,” Ortiz said with a slight smile. “The business we're in grays a man's hair quickly.”

Frank pulled all his attention back to Cort. He felt a calmness slowly spread over him. Any tenseness left him. He stood quite still and faced the angry .45 hand. Frank's right hand hung near the butt of his Peacemaker.

“What's it take to make you pull on me, Morgan?” Cort shouted.

“I'm not going to start this, Cort. I don't want to kill you. So why don't you just turn around, get on your horse, and ride out of here?”

“I ain't a-feared of you, Morgan!”

“I never said you were.”

“By God, I think you've lost your speed,” Cort said with a nasty smile. “I think age has done caught up with you and you're doin' nothin' 'ceptin' livin' a big bluff.”

“I don't care what you think, Cort.”

“You're a damn clodhoppin' piece of sheep-dip.”

Despite the life-and-death situation, Frank could not contain a short laugh at the juvenile charge.

“Don't you laugh at me, Morgan!” Cort yelled.

The boardwalk on both sides of the street was filling with men and women and kids, standing silently and watching.

“Can't help it, Cort,” Frank said. “What you said struck me as funny.”

“Huh?”

“You eat potatoes and corn and such, Cort?”

“Do I do what?”

“Do you eat corn and potatoes and beans and such?”

“Why . . . hell yes, I do.”

“Where do you think it comes from, Cort?”

“Well . . . how the hell do I know!”

Several of the men on the boardwalk smiled as they realized where Frank was going with his questioning. Ortiz smiled as he rolled a cigarette. He felt no rancor toward Frank Morgan. Ortiz's job was to protect Mrs. Trainor. He took no part in any night riding.

“They come from farmers, Cort. Think about it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about what you eat, Cort. And where it comes from.”

Cort shook his head. “What damn business is it of yours what I eat, Morgan? I think you've turned loony on me.”

“I'm trying to save your life, that's all.” Frank told him.

“Are you gonna fight me?” Cort yelled.

“Not unless you force me to do it.”

Sweat was beginning to trickle down the .45 rider's face. This just wasn't working out the way he'd planned it. “All right, Morgan. I'm forcin' you. Pull iron, you bastard.”

“After you, Cort.”

Cort began cussing him, long and loud. Frank stood calm and unmoving in the center of the street.

“Draw on me, Morgan!” Cort yelled, his words tinged with frustration and desperation. “Damn you, drag iron!”

Morgan yawned.

Ortiz was highly amused as he watched the drama in the street turn into a dark comedy.

“Morgan's yellow,” Jules whispered.

“No, boy,” Ortiz said. “He's a very smart man who doesn't want to kill anyone. Believe me, I know the feeling well.”

“All right, Morgan,” Cort said, the sweat dripping from his face to plop in the dirt at his feet. “You forcin' me to call your hand.”

“I wish you wouldn't, Cort.”

“I ain't got no choice in the matter!” Cort's words were practically a scream. “I ain't gonna stand here and have you make a fool of me.”

“You're doing that all by yourself,” Frank said.

“Huh? I ain't doin' no sich of a thing neither.”

“I think it's over, boy,” Ortiz said.

“What do you mean?” Jules asked.

“I just have a feeling, that's all. It's something you develop after a few years in this business.”

“I'm going to walk away now, Cort,” Frank said. “If you shoot me, it'll be in the back. Are you a back-shooter?”

“Hell, no, I ain't no back-shooter.”

“Then you go back to the ranch and cool down.”

“Morgan?” Cort hollered. “You got to fight me.”

“Why, cort?”

“Why? 'Cause I done made up my mind to, that's why.”

“Then change your mind. See you.” Frank turned his back and walked the rest of the way across the street, stepping up on the boardwalk. “Howdy, Ortiz,” he said to the man. “I hadn't seen you in so long I didn't recognize you at first.”

“Morgan,” Ortiz said. “You're looking fit.”

“What's Cort doing, Ortiz?”

“He's walking away. Heading for the saloon, I think.”

“Good. I didn't want to have to kill him.”

“I know the feeling, Morgan. Only too well.”

“I'm farming and running a little ranch now,” Frank said.

“So I heard. Think you can really settle down after all these years?”

“I'm going to give it a good try.”

“I wish you luck.”

Jules Trainor had walked away, disappointed there had been no gunplay.

There was not much else for the two gunfighters to talk about—they had never been friends—so Frank stepped into the cafe for a cup of coffee. Dr. Everett was sitting alone at a table, a pot of coffee in front of him, and he waved Frank over to join him.

“You could have easily killed that cowboy, Frank,” the doctor said, pouring Frank a mug of coffee.

“I didn't want to kill him, Doc. It would suit me just fine if I never had to draw on another man.”

“The reluctant gunfighter,” Everett said with a smile. “I guess some of the articles I've read about you are true.”

“Which ones are those? I must have missed them.”

“The ones that say you were forced to kill a man when you were just a boy and from that moment on the title gunfighter was nothing that you wanted.”

“That's true, Doc. I was just a kid.”

The doctor nodded his head. “You're buying a lot of land, Frank. You really going to try to settle down in this area?”

“I'm going to try.”

“I hope you make it. How are you and Miss Julie getting on? And tell me to go to hell if you think I'm getting too personal.”

Frank smiled. “We're taking it slow, Doc. Just one step at a time.”

“Those kids of hers giving you any trouble?”

“I know where this is going, and no, they mind quite well, except when it comes to their puppy love.”

“It might not be puppy love, Frank. Have you thought about that?”

“I try not to think about it at all.”

“Nice safe answer.”

Before Frank could reply, a man rushed into the cafe and yelled, “There's some man here from over Butte way. Says he's come to kill Frank Morgan.”

“What's his name?” Frank asked.

“Rob something or another.”

“Damn,” Frank said, pushing back his chair. “Twice in one day is too much.”

“You know this person, Frank?” Doc Everett asked.

“He's a punk kid who thinks he's a gunslick. I ran into him in Butte. I thought it was over between us.” He looked at the man who had run into the cafe. “Where is the .45 hand I just talked out of a gunfight?”

“He got his horse and rode out of town.”

“At least I got him going home alive.” Frank slipped the leather thong off the hammer of his Peacemaker. “I don't think I'll be able to talk Rob out of a fight.”

“Morgan!” the kid from Butte hollered. “Get out here in the street and face me. Your time has come.”

Frank picked up his coffee mug and took a long pull. “That's real good coffee,” he said, setting the mug back on the table. “Doc, you go out the back way and tell Marshal Handlen to stay out of this. This kid's kill-crazy, I'm thinking.”

“Handlen's out of town, Frank. He left early this morning heading back East. One of his kids is near death. Hell, he might be dead by now.”

Frank headed for the door. “Might as well get this over with.”

“A crowd is gathering on the boardwalks,” a customer said.

“I see them,” Frank said, a slight note of bitterness in his voice. “Hell, folks, it's time for the show.”