The Morgans

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “I never believed in letting a man live who needed killing, you can count on that. It’s not always necessary, though.”

  Dusk was settling down softly on Tucson as they walked a couple of blocks to the Ruby House, an impressive false-fronted building. The tables in the restaurant had white linen cloths, the lamps burned with a warm, subdued yellow light, and the air was full of delicious smells. Most of the women in the place were dressed fancier than Antonia, but Frank thought she still outshone them all for looks. Most of the men were in dark, sober suits, in contrast to his clean but well-worn trail clothes, but that didn’t matter. He was the sort of man who never felt out of place.

  The food was as good as Frank had been told. They dined on excellent steaks with all the trimmings, washed down with strong coffee. After a lot of time on the trail eating his own cooking, Frank really enjoyed the meal, so much so that he was reluctant to bring up the reason they were there.

  Eventually he did, though, as they lingered over coffee.

  “Tell me about the trouble you and your father are having on your ranch.”

  “It started about six months ago,” she said. “We began losing cattle to rustlers, and some of our vaqueros were shot at while they were out on the range. It has only gotten worse since then. At first only a few head of stock were taken, but now they are being run off as many as a hundred at a time. And our men . . . one was killed, and two more were badly wounded. Many of them have quit and left. They are afraid to work there anymore.” She shook her head sadly. “I cannot really blame them for feeling that way.”

  “You’ve notified the law, I reckon?”

  Antonia made a face and blew out a disgusted breath.

  “The sheriff sent out a deputy. He claimed that he tried to follow the rustlers’ tracks but lost them. I do not believe he tried very hard.”

  Frank took a sip of his coffee and then asked, “Do you have any idea how many men are in this gang?”

  “I have heard our riders talking about it. They believe there may be as many as a dozen. Those are not good odds, I know.”

  “Could be worse,” Frank said. “When you’re taking on a big bunch like that, sometimes the trick is to whittle them down a little at a time.”

  Antonia leaned forward and asked, “Is this something you believe you can do, Señor Morgan?”

  Frank still had his doubts that she was telling him the whole story, but he had to admit that she seemed genuine enough and truly worried about her father and their ranch. And there was only one way to find out what the situation actually was.

  “I believe I ought to ride out there with you and take a look around,” he said. “I’m not making any promises, but there might be something I can do to help you.”

  She closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I am so happy to hear you say that.” Her tone became more brisk as she went on, “Now, we should discuss your payment—”

  Frank held up a hand to stop her and said, “Hold on. I haven’t agreed to do anything yet except ride out there with you. Where is this spread of your father’s?”

  “About twenty miles north of here.”

  “Then, if we make an early start in the morning, we’ll get there by the middle of the day.”

  “Sí. That is best. It will give you time to meet my father and look around. I warn you . . . he may not be happy that I have summoned you.”

  “I expect you can win him over.”

  She laughed and said, “Yes, I have . . . how do you say it? I have him wrapped around my little finger. No?”

  Frank smiled and said, “I don’t doubt it. How did you get from the ranch here to Tucson?”

  “I have a buggy. I drove in.”

  Frank raised an eyebrow and asked, “By yourself?”

  A bit of a haughty tone crept into her voice as she replied, “I am accustomed to taking care of myself, Señor Morgan.”

  “I don’t doubt that, either. Where’s the buggy?”

  “A shed and corral are in back of the hotel, and a man who cares for the animals that are left there. I will have him hitch up my two horses in the morning. Shall we leave at first light?”

  “That’s fine. My horses are at a livery stable down the street. I’ll get them saddled and meet you around back at sunup.”

  “We have a deal, then.” She held out her hand, extending it over the table like a man to seal the arrangement.

  Frank took it and was a little surprised by the strength of her grip. Definitely not a delicate flower, he thought, even though she was as pretty as one.

  Chapter 5

  Frank slept well and was up early the next morning, well before dawn. He was naturally an early riser.

  The hotel didn’t have a dining room, and he didn’t figure a fancy place like the Ruby House would be open for breakfast, but the previous evening while he and Antonia Escobar were walking to the restaurant, he had noticed a café in the next block that looked like a place where a man could get a good cup of coffee and a hearty breakfast.

  When he went down there, that proved to be the case. A Swedish couple with several buxom blond daughters ran the place. One of them brought Frank a plate piled high with thick slices of ham, fried eggs, biscuits, and hash brown potatoes. The coffee was strong enough to get up and walk around by itself, just the way Frank liked it.

  The proprietor came over as Frank was finishing up his breakfast and said, “You don’t remember me, Mr. Morgan, but I remember you, ja, I do. From Dodge City, ten years ago. I ran a café there, and my daughters, they were just little girls.”

  Frank thought for a second and a name came back to him. He said, “I do remember you, Mr. Sorensen.”

  The man beamed because Frank recalled his name. Then his expression grew solemn as he said, “Some men came into my place one evening when you were there. Trail hands. They were drunk and began to cause trouble. But you stood up to them and made them leave.”

  Frank had remembered Sorensen’s name but truly didn’t recall the incident the man described. Over the years, he had run into too many obnoxious varmints who needed to be taken down a notch to be able to remember most of them. But he nodded because what Sorensen was saying sounded exactly like something he would do.

  “We have always been grateful to you for your help,” Sorensen went on. He gestured toward one of the empty chairs at the table. “Do you mind if I sit?”

  “Not at all,” Frank said.

  Sorensen sat down and leaned forward, frowning now. He said, “Last night, two men came in here. I could tell that one of them was very angry, and his friend was trying to calm him down. I did not intend to eavesdrop, but I heard them mention your name.”

  Frank’s eyebrows rose slightly in surprise.

  “What did these two hombres look like?”

  “One was stocky, dressed like a cowboy, and had a small beard. The other was tall and skinny and wore a fancy suit and one of those derby hats. He was the angry one.”

  Frank nodded slowly and said, “I had a run-in with them in the barroom over at the Plaza del Sol. You say they knew my name?” He didn’t recall ever mentioning it during the brief conversation.

  “Ja, the one in the derby said he did not care if you are the notorious Frank Morgan, he was going to settle some score with you. When I heard the name, I could not help but take notice. As I said, we have never forgotten you and the help you gave us, Mr. Morgan. Now good fortune has brought you into our humble café this morning, so I can warn you.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Sorensen,” Frank said. “I was already keeping an eye out for those fellas, but now that I know they’re actually planning something, I’ll be even more careful.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t worry too much, though. They’re probably still asleep this morning, and I plan on riding out soon.”

  “You are leaving Tucson?”

  “Yep.” Frank didn’t explain where he was going or why. He trusted Sorensen, but he was in the habit of playing his cards pretty close to his
vest. He drank the last of his coffee and reached in his pocket for a coin.

  Sorensen tried to wave that off, saying, “The breakfast is on the house—”

  “I appreciate that,” Frank said, “but you’ve got a business to run and a family to support.” He slid the gold piece across the table and grinned. “Are any of those daughters of yours married off yet?”

  “Not yet, but they all have beaus!”

  “My best to them and your wife,” Frank said as he stood up and put his hat on. He nodded his farewell and left the café.

  The sun wasn’t up yet, but an arch of orange-gold light was visible in the eastern sky. Frank knew that by the time he walked down to Pete McRoberts’s stable and got his horses ready to travel, Antonia’s buggy team ought to be hitched up to depart Tucson as well.

  One of the livery barn’s big double doors was open, but only a couple of feet. Frank didn’t see McRoberts around the front of the place, and no lamp burned in the office, behind which the old-timer had his living quarters. But that didn’t matter. Frank had already paid more than what he owed, and he was perfectly capable of saddling his own horse. If McRoberts was still asleep, that was fine. Frank didn’t see any reason to disturb him.

  The barn’s cavernous main area was dark at this early hour, with only a little gray light leaking in through the partially open door. Frank pushed the door back a little more to give himself enough room to step inside. He knew a lantern hung on a post to his left, so he stepped over and found it. Lifting it from its hook by the bail, he used his other hand to dig an old-fashioned lucifer from his pocket and snap it to life with his thumbnail.

  The glare from the match spilled out around him, and from the corner of his eye he saw something that shouldn’t have been there. A booted foot stuck out from an empty stall about halfway down the aisle that ran through the center of the barn. Frank hung the lantern back up without lighting it and hurried along the stalls as the lucifer burned down. He noticed now that some of the horses stabled here seemed restless, as if something had disturbed them. Goldy and Stormy both tossed their heads and nickered as if to warn him.

  Where was Dog?

  That question suddenly blazed through Frank’s mind. If anyone had tried to cause trouble in here, Dog likely would have taken action. Worry over the big cur put a frown on Frank’s face.

  He had just reached the stall where he had seen the foot sticking out when the match burned down and went out.

  The glimpse into the stall he got before darkness closed in around him was enough to make alarm course through him. He had seen Pete McRoberts lying there unmoving, with blood on his head, and sprawled beside the old-timer was the big, shaggy form of Dog.

  Frank twisted to put his back against the thick beam at the front corner of the stall. His right hand went to his gun while his left delved in his pocket for another lucifer. The sound of something whipping through the air toward him warned him that he was under attack. He crouched but couldn’t avoid the lasso that dropped neatly over his head and shoulders and jerked tight, pinning his upper arms to his sides.

  He was still able to draw his gun, but as he brought it up, something cracked sharply across his wrist and made his hand go numb. The Colt slipped from his fingers and thudded to the hard-packed dirt at his feet.

  The bludgeon that had knocked the gun out of his hand slammed across his face. Pain exploded through Frank’s head. He didn’t pass out, though. Anger fueled his efforts to fight back against this treacherous attack. He didn’t know if McRoberts and Dog were even still alive, but at the very least they were badly hurt, and he wanted to settle the score with those responsible.

  As he charged forward, despite the rope around his arms, the thought of settling the score reminded him of what Sorensen had said. The man called Bracken who had fancied himself a gunman, along with his burly friend, knew who Frank was and had been plotting revenge on him. He suddenly had no doubt they were the ones who had lain in wait for him here in the stable.

  His shoulder rammed into someone. The unseen figure let out a startled yell. Frank heard him crash to the ground. That was enough of a respite for Frank to get hold of the rope and try to push it up over his shoulders.

  That was a mistake. The rope snapped taut again, but this time around his neck. The rough strands chafed his skin as whoever had hold of the lasso hauled hard on it. Frank tried to get his fingers under the rope before it crushed his windpipe.

  Somebody—probably the man he had knocked down—tackled him around the knees. Frank fell as his legs were driven out from under him. The choking pressure was still on his neck. He hadn’t had much air in his lungs when the rope tightened, and now he was short enough of breath that a red haze was beginning to descend over his eyes. He knew he was going to black out soon if he didn’t get the rope off. He bulled up onto his knees and tried again to wrestle the loop off his neck.

  Something crashed into his head again and laid him out on the stable floor. The toe of a boot thudded into his ribs in a savage kick, then landed again in his side, equally brutally. Still, he would have summoned up the energy to keep fighting if one of his assailants hadn’t kicked him in the head.

  That was more than Frank’s battered brain could withstand. He slumped back down, out cold.

  Chapter 6

  He hadn’t had time to think about it during the fight in the stable, but if he had, Frank would have said it was likely his attackers would stomp and beat him to death if they were able to knock him out.

  Instead, he gradually became aware that consciousness was seeping back into his brain. The pain that thundered in his head with every beat of his heart told him that he was alive. Nobody dead could hurt like that.

  Bit by bit, other sensations wormed their way into his body. He was moving, rocking back and forth a little, sort of like he was at sea. Frank had been on a ship more than once and was familiar with what it felt like. After a few minutes, though, he decided that wasn’t the case here. What he was experiencing was different somehow.

  The soft, regular thuds he heard gave him a better idea of what was going on. Those were the hoofbeats of a team of horses or mules, he realized. He was in a wagon moving along at a slow but steady clip, and the irregularities of the road it followed were what caused him to rock back and forth.

  He was lying on something hard, almost certainly the wagon bed. Musty-smelling darkness enveloped him. He moved his head just slightly. The scrape of coarse fibers against his cheek told him somebody had thrown a woolen blanket over him.

  Had they done that to conceal him, or because they believed he was dead? Was he being taken out into the desert to be dumped in a shallow, unmarked grave?

  The heat under the blanket was stifling. Frank had trouble getting his breath. That reminded him of the rope that had been around his neck. At least it was gone now, although the skin of his neck stung in places where it had been rubbed raw.

  The pain in his head that had throbbed at first, keeping time with his pulse, had subsided to a dull ache by now. He was able to ignore it as he lay there without moving and took stock of his situation.

  At least two men had attacked him in the livery barn, and he wouldn’t be surprised if both of them were his captors now. They might both be riding on the wagon, or one could be handling the reins while the other rode horseback next to the vehicle. Frank was confident, though, that if he tried to escape he would have to deal with both of them. And there could easily be more enemies he didn’t know about.

  He tensed the muscles of his arms and legs to see if they worked. It seemed to him that they did, but he couldn’t move much because he was tied hand and foot, with his arms pulled behind his back. They had done a good job of trussing him up before they tossed him into this wagon. They had to know that he was alive, or else they wouldn’t have gone to that much trouble.

  No gag in his mouth, so he could yell if he wanted to, but that wasn’t going to do him any good. He didn’t know how long he had been unconscious, but it h
ad probably been a while. More than likely, by now they were well out of Tucson, on their way to wherever they were going.

  Frank lay there gathering his strength. He wondered about Dog and Pete McRoberts. Were they alive? Or had the two men killed them? If they had, that was two more scores Frank had to settle with them. Not that he needed any more reasons to kill those two. He figured they already had it coming.

  He thought then about Antonia Escobar. Had she waited at the hotel corral for him until she finally gave up and decided he wasn’t coming? He hoped she hadn’t come looking for him and wandered into the stable just in time to get herself caught by the same two varmints. She might be a prisoner in this very same wagon and he just didn’t know it.

  A voice asked suddenly, “Think we’ll be there by dark?” It sounded vaguely familiar to Frank.

  “Damned well ought to be,” another man replied. He was farther away, probably on horseback, as Frank had speculated a few minutes earlier. Frank knew who the voice belonged to, as well: the derby-hatted bully called Bracken. That meant his stocky friend was driving the wagon.

  But that didn’t answer the question of where they were going. From what they had just said, they had a definite destination in mind.

  “How about we haul Morgan out of there and kick him around some more?” That was Bracken again, obviously holding a grudge.

  “You know better than that. We need him alive.”

  “Alive, sure, but as long as he’s breathing, it don’t matter what kind of shape he’s in, does it?”

  “The money we stand to make from this is more important than you getting even with Morgan. You know that.”

  Bracken heaved a sigh and said, “Yeah, yeah, I suppose so. Before this is all over, though, I’m gonna square accounts with him.”

  Frank was more puzzled than he had been before they started talking, but right now it didn’t matter if he knew all the details of the trouble he had landed in. He wanted to know why he was valuable to these two hardcases, but finding out would have to wait.