The Morgans

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “Understood,” Dawson said with a nod.

  “I’ll have fifteen men with me,” Frank went on. “We’ll go in first. Give us a couple of minutes, and then you follow with the other fifteen men. We’ll have engaged Ramirez’s forces by then, and with any luck we’ll be able to catch at least some of them between our two forces.”

  “If you find Ramirez and kill him, that ought to do it. I’d be willin’ to bet that most of his men are in it for the money, not because they really believe in some sort o’ revolution.”

  “You’re probably right about that,” Frank agreed, “but they’re still going to fight, and fight hard, because they’ll know they can’t expect much mercy from you folks after running roughshod over you for so long.”

  “They damn sure can’t,” Dawson said grimly.

  Frank checked the sky again. Sunset’s aftermath was almost gone, and pinpricks of light had appeared in the eastern sky. The stars were coming out.

  “All right,” he said to Tomás. “I’ll leave it up to you when to start.”

  “This is a good time,” the mixed-blood said. “The shadows are thick.”

  “I’ll pass the word, then,” Frank said.

  A few minutes later, with Tomás out in front by fifty yards or so, Frank and his group began creeping toward the bandit stronghold, moving slowly and taking advantage of every bit of cover they could find as they closed in on the enemy.

  * * *

  As night approached, the Kid couldn’t help but wonder what was going to happen. Antonia had promised that he would be freed and armed, but had she been telling the truth? Maybe that really was part of her plan to torment him. He began considering all the possibilities, and not many of them were good.

  He had no way to tell what time it was, but it seemed like night ought to have fallen by now. On the other hand, he didn’t want to hurry along his potential death. He just sat there and waited, trying to stay calm.

  When he heard several people coming along the corridor, he got to his feet. Two gunmen he didn’t know came into the cell first and covered him with shotguns. The third man into the cell, somewhat surprisingly, was Sam Woodson. The jovial outlaw didn’t have his guitar with him this time, which was good. The Kid was in no mood for a serenade.

  “Howdy, Johnny,” Woodson said. “I figured you might like to see a friendly face, since this is gonna be a tryin’ time for you. You need to turn around.”

  “What are you going to do?” the Kid asked.

  “Orders are that your hands should be tied behind your back. I’ll take care o’ that.”

  With the two double-barreled shotguns menacing him, the Kid couldn’t do anything except comply. He turned so that his back was to Woodson, who stepped closer behind him.

  “Gimme your hands.”

  The Kid put his hands behind him, and as he did, he felt Woodson shove something into the waistband of his trousers, at the small of his back, and then pull his shirttail out to cover it. The Kid could tell by the object’s feel that it was a short-barreled revolver of some sort. He realized that Woodson’s body was blocking the view of the other two guards. They couldn’t see that Woodson had just given him a gun or tell that Woodson wasn’t tying the length of rope he had brought along very tightly around the Kid’s wrists.

  Woodson grunted as if putting a lot of effort into the binding. The Kid played along with a sharply indrawn breath, then said, “Damn it, you don’t have to make that so tight. There’s nowhere I could go and nothing I could do, even if I got loose.”

  “You ain’t gettin’ loose. It was Señorita Ramirez’s orders that I make sure of that.”

  So he was one of the men loyal to Antonia who was switching sides. That didn’t come as a complete surprise to the Kid. Woodson had never struck him as the revolutionary sort. He was more interested in money, and Antonia probably had offered him plenty.

  Woodson stepped back and said, “All right, we’re ready to go.”

  The men marched the Kid out of the cell, along the corridor, and up the stairs out of the dungeon. They followed a twisting route to the front part of the hacienda, then out through the big entrance hall. They circled the adobe building that Ramirez planned to use as his second capital someday, after he seized power. The Kid frowned as he saw torchlight spilling over the open area in front of the building. With the exception of a few men posted on the parapet at the top of the wall, what appeared to be Ramirez’s entire army had gathered for the execution, and a number of them held blazing brands.

  The garish light revealed a wooden post set into the ground so that about eight feet of it stuck up. The Kid realized he wasn’t going to be strung up from one of the vigas the way Florita had been. He would be tied to that post with his back to the big, thronelike chairs that had been placed in front of the adobe building. Ramirez and Antonia were seated in those chairs, like royalty.

  Kern and Bracken waited to one side of the whipping post. Kern held a coiled whip, either the same one he had used on Florita or a twin to it. Bracken had his thumbs hooked casually in his gun belt and a smirk on his face.

  Woodson had a hand on the Kid’s back, prodding him toward the post, but Ramirez raised a hand to halt the procession.

  “Bring him over here,” the general ordered. “I would face the traitor before he dies.”

  Antonia looked a little uneasy but not actually displeased by this.

  “You heard the man,” Woodson said quietly to the Kid. “You gonna be able to get loose from that rope?”

  “Soon,” the Kid breathed.

  Woodson marched him over to stand in front of Ramirez. The self-proclaimed general regarded him solemnly for a long moment, then said, “You tried to steal from our cause, Señor Callahan. There can be no greater crime than such a betrayal. Do you have anything to say before you pay for this crime with your life?”

  The Kid had been carefully, unobtrusively, twisting his wrists to loosen the bonds even more. Now he pulled harder with his right arm and that hand came free. He reached inside his waistband, under the tail of the black shirt he wore, and smoothly drew the revolver Woodson had slipped him.

  He sure wished he’d had a chance to check it and make sure it was loaded.

  But he didn’t have time for that. Moving almost faster than the eye could follow, he thrust his arm out and leveled the gun at Ramirez. It was a .32 caliber Smith & Wesson, not a very powerful handgun but deadly enough at short range like this.

  Ramirez started to bolt to his feet as shouts of alarm filled the compound at the sight of him being threatened. But the Kid snapped, “Don’t move, General! My thumb’s the only thing holding this hammer back. Even if your men shoot me, it’ll fall and you’ll die. So you’d better tell them not to get nervous.”

  “Hold your fire!” Ramirez called. His voice shook a little from outrage. “Hold your fire!”

  “You were wrong about my crime being the biggest,” the Kid went on, figuring out his next move on the spur of the moment. “There’s a worse one.”

  He glanced at Antonia, saw the hate-filled daggers shooting from her eyes at him as her hands tightened into claws on the arm of the chair where she sat. That didn’t stop him from continuing, “Your daughter wants to replace you as the leader of this bunch.”

  Ramirez turned his head to stare in astonishment at Antonia. He demanded, “Is this true?”

  “Papa, this man lies—” she began.

  The Kid interrupted her. “She came to see me by herself, down in the dungeon. She’s not interested in your revolution. She wants that gold, and she promised me part of it—along with her—if I’d get rid of you for her.”

  “You cannot believe him!” she cried. “I would never do such a thing, Papa!”

  Ramirez stared coldly at her now as he said, “You told me many times that it would be better if we took the riches we raised for our cause and went someplace where no one would ever find us. But I believed you had come to understand how urgent and noble our cause is—”

/>   “Your cause!” she cried suddenly as she came up out of the chair. “It was always your cause, never mine! I never cared about power, only wealth!”

  The Kid said, “You can see now I’ve done you a favor, General. And to repay that favor, you’re coming with me and we’re leaving this place. You’ll be my safe passage out of here—”

  “No!” Antonia screeched. A dagger had appeared in her hand as if by magic, and before the Kid could stop her, she lunged at her father and drove the blade into his chest.

  Ramirez started up out of the chair but fell back, his eyes wide with shock and pain. Antonia turned and shouted to the men who had gone over to her side, “Kill them! Kill them all!”

  That was when a shot rang out from one of the men posted on the wall, and then the gates into the compound blew up, filling the torchlit air with smoke, flame, and flying splinters.

  Chapter 34

  Frank didn’t like sneaking around like this. Never had. He preferred facing his enemies straight up, head on. But sometimes stealth was necessary, and tonight was one of those times.

  Darkness fell quickly in this part of the country. Seemingly only seconds passed between the time when the stars began to appear and thick ebony shadows completely cloaked the landscape. Frank couldn’t see Tomás anymore, but he knew the part-Apache was up there somewhere, ahead of the others.

  But then, with eyes adjusted to the dim starlight, Frank saw something flitting across the sandy ground between his position and the bandit stronghold. The vague figure trailed red sparks behind it, and the sudden yip-yip-yip of a deranged coyote split the night, followed by a reedy voice that cried, “Steal my rancho, will you, you damned greasers!”

  Muzzle flame spurted from the top of the wall as one of the guards fired at the rushing figure. The shape staggered, then fell to its knees, but as the man pitched forward he threw something toward the gates. The sparks coming from the thing told Frank it was the bundle of dynamite. Frank had no idea what had happened to Tomás, but from what the ragged figure had screeched, he guessed it was old Walt Creeger, the man who had built the hacienda and then gone mad.

  Then the dynamite exploded just as it landed at the base of the gates. Even though the plan had gotten skewed somehow, the end result was what Frank and the others wanted.

  He surged to his feet and bellowed, “Follow me!” as he charged toward the now-destroyed gates with a fully loaded revolver in each hand.

  Behind him, shots rang out from the marksmen Dawson had picked. The red glow of torchlight came from within the compound, and by that flickering glare Frank saw chips of adobe fly from the top of the wall. Any guards up there would have to keep their heads down or get them shot off.

  Just ahead of him, he spotted a man rising unsteadily to his feet. Frank recognized him as Tomás. From the way he was acting, Creeger must have snuck up on him, walloped him on the head, and taken the dynamite away from him.

  “Come on!” Frank barked as he charged past Tomás and continued toward the stronghold. A few more strides and he bounded over the wrecked gates, into the compound, which for some reason was already engulfed in a chaotic battle.

  Guns roared back and forth, orange flame slashed the darkness, bullets hummed like giant bees, and men shouted curses and screamed in agony. Frank didn’t know what was going on, but since everyone in here was an enemy— with the exception of Conrad, if he was even inside the stronghold—he didn’t hesitate as two men with rifles spun toward him and lifted their weapons.

  Both of Frank’s revolvers boomed and bucked in his hands. He saw the two men fly backward as his slugs drove into their chests. Then he strode forward, picking out targets and firing left, right, left, right. A bandit went down every time Frank squeezed the trigger.

  Then somewhere close by, a man screamed, “Morgan!”

  Frank turned and saw Carl Bracken standing there a few yards away. The gun-wolf looked more like a demon than ever with the crimson torchlight playing over his angular features. To Frank’s surprise, he grinned, twirled the gun in his hand, and then slapped the iron back in its holster.

  With all hell breaking loose around them, he wanted to test the speed of his draw against the notorious Frank Morgan, the Drifter, the Last Gunfighter. Bracken clawed at the gun butt on his hip.

  Frank fired both guns. The slug from the one in his left hand punched into Bracken’s heart. The bullet from the right-hand gun struck him in the forehead, bored on through his diseased brain, and burst out the back of his head in a grisly spray of blood, brain matter, and bone fragments. He hit the ground hard but was already way too dead to feel it.

  Frank swung around, the vicious gunman already forgotten, and looked for his son.

  * * *

  Sam Woodson tackled the Kid and knocked him to the ground just as a hailstorm of lead slashed through the air above them. In the chaos, the Kid didn’t know who had fired the shots, but it didn’t really matter. The explosion had startled everyone into opening fire. Guns blasted all over the compound.

  Woodson came up on his knees and grabbed the Kid’s arm, urging, “Come on! We gotta get out of—”

  His eyes widened and he gurgled as blood suddenly gushed from a gaping wound in his throat. He let go of the Kid and fell to the side to thrash around as he bled to death. Antonia stood there over the Kid, blood dripping from the dagger she had yanked from her father’s chest and used to slash Woodson’s throat.

  “My God, why did you do that?” the Kid said. “He was on your side!”

  “He was in my way,” Antonia said calmly, “keeping me from killing you.”

  She raised the dagger, ready to lunge at the Kid.

  Before she could, a man shouted, “You bitch!” and a gun blasted. Antonia rocked back as a red splotch appeared on her shirt. Kern stalked toward her, yelling, “I would have given you everything! Everything! But you wanted him!”

  He continued triggering the gun in his hand as he shouted. The bullets slammed into Antonia, their impact making her stumble backward in a jittering dance as her dark eyes got bigger and bigger. Finally she crumpled into a bloody heap on the ground.

  The Kid rolled over onto his belly as Kern fired again, at him this time. The bullet smacked into the ground less than a foot away. The Kid triggered the little Smith & Wesson twice. The first bullet, angling up, hit Kern between the eyes and jerked his head back. The second ripped into his throat and caused blood to fountain high into the air. His knees buckled and he went down, dead by the time his face plowed into the dirt.

  The Kid pushed himself up onto his knees and looked around. Diego Ramirez had toppled off his chair and lay on his side, moving feebly but not going anywhere. The stab wound from his daughter hadn’t killed him yet. The Kid crawled over to him.

  Ramirez stared up at him and gasped, “An . . . Antonia!”

  The Kid glanced at the crumpled shape on the ground a few yards away. She was shot to pieces and not moving. He knew she never would again.

  Ramirez clawed at his arm and said, “My . . . my daughter! Is she . . . safe . . . ?”

  Life was fading from the man’s eyes. He had already lost all his dreams of power. The Kid didn’t see a reason to take anything else away from him.

  “She’s fine,” he said.

  “Ahhhh . . . I forgive her . . . Señor . . . Callahan . . .”

  The Kid couldn’t resist saying, “My name is Conrad Browning. No, Conrad Morgan.” He spotted a tall, broad-shouldered figure with a gun in each hand striding toward him through the now-dwindling battle. “And here comes my father now.”

  Ramirez’s final breath rattled out of his throat. The Kid lowered the would-be presidente’s head to the ground and then stood up to hug Frank unashamedly. They pounded each other on the back, and Frank said, “How are you, son?”

  “Just fine now,” Conrad said.

  * * *

  Far into the night, the celebration continued in Saguaro Springs. Frank and Conrad sat at a table with Luciana Hernandez in one o
f the cantina’s rear corners and drank coffee as they watched the singing and dancing and laughing that filled the rest of the room. Ezra Dawson was doing a jig with Beatriz to a tune played by several men with guitars. Peggy Cole and her mother, Henrietta, were among the spectators clapping along with the music.

  Frank and Conrad had spent a while just filling each other in on everything that had happened since Antonia Ramirez, Kern, and Bracken had kidnapped Frank in Tucson. Frank said, “It’ll be good to get back up there and pick up Dog and Stormy and Goldy from Pete McRoberts. I sure was relieved when you told me they were all right, Conrad.”

  “Dog wanted to come with me,” Conrad replied with a smile, “but I was afraid it would be too risky. I thought Kern and Bracken might recognize him and wonder why Frank Morgan’s dog was traveling with a hardcase named Callahan.”

  “That was smart thinking. I warn you, though, he holds a grudge, so he may not forgive you for keeping him out of the action.”

  Luciana said, “You men and your dogs. Whatever trouble is going on, you want to be right in the middle of it.”

  “You were pretty involved in this ruckus, too,” Frank reminded her. “You may not have been in on the shooting part, but you helped put the whole thing together.”

  “You needed a woman to get it all organized,” she responded with a toss of her head.

  Conrad grinned and said, “I wouldn’t argue with her, Frank.”

  “Oh, I don’t intend to.”

  Luciana frowned and said, “He does not call you Papa or Father?”

  “Maybe I ought to,” Conrad said, “but it took me a while to warm up to the old coot, and by then I was used to calling him Frank.”

  “That’s all right . . . boy,” Frank said dryly.

  He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his long legs, crossed his boots at the ankles, sipped coffee from the cup in his hand, and sighed in a mixture of weariness and satisfaction. Mostly satisfaction, because not one of the men from Saguaro Springs who had gone with him to attack Ramirez’s stronghold had been killed in the battle. A few had been wounded, but all of them would recover, including Tomás, who had taken a lick on the head when Walt Creeger jumped him and grabbed the dynamite away from him.