“Frank.” Lonesome broke the silence. “You’re looking well.”
“And you, Howard.”
“Thank you. Time has treated me well, I must admit.” He stared at Frank for a short time. “Why are you still here, Frank?”
“Running is something I don’t do well.”
“I understand.”
“I thought you gave up gunslinging.”
“The money is too good this time, Frank. I hope you realize this is nothing personal.”
“I know. How much goes to the man who kills me?”
“Many thousands of dollars.”
“And you think you can take me, Howard?”
Lonesome smiled and tapped the closed Bible. “There is a time to kill, Frank. Says so right here in the Good Book.”
Frank returned the smile. “Don’t tell me you think you’re doing God’s work?”
“I reckon perhaps I am. You’ve killed a lot of men in your time here on this earth.”
“They were trying to kill me.”
Lonesome shook his head. “Perhaps that was true in a few cases, but not always. You have a sickness, Frank. And the only way it can be cured is with a bullet.”
“From your gun?”
“I hope so.”
“You’ll understand if I don’t wish you luck.” It was not a question, and was delivered with a flatness of tone that caused Lonesome to look up and meet Frank’s eyes.
“I could take that as a threat, Frank.”
“Take it any damn way you like. You even act as though you’re goin’ to pull on me and I’ll kill you, Howard.”
“I should kill you right here and now, Frank.”
“Try it.”
The man known throughout the West as Lonesome Howard stared hard at Frank for a few seconds. Then he relaxed and put both hands on the table. “Not yet, Frank. The hunt has not officially started.”
“When does it start?”
Lonesome shrugged. “I really don’t know. I believe an Easterner named Vanderhoot is the man who began all this.”
“Did you say Vanderhoot?”
“Horace Vanderhoot. He’s spent thousands of dollars on detectives searchin’ for you.”
“He’s in town.”
“Then I must look him up and introduce myself. Perhaps this small adventure can be ended quickly.”
“And you’ll be thousands of dollars richer.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Or dead.”
Lonesome smiled. “You can’t take me, Frank. You’re not that quick.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
“I suppose we will. Have you made your peace with God, Frank?”
“I talk to the man occasionally.”
“Do you want me to pray for you?”
Frank laughed softly and leaned back in his chair. “Howard, you are a walking contradiction. Are you aware of that?”
“I don’t think so,” Lonesome said, an edge to his voice.
“Well, you are. Either that or you’re crazy as a bessie bug. One or the other.”
“You’re callin’ me insane?”
“If the boot fits ... You know the rest.”
Howard closed his Bible and put one hand on the Word of God. “I shall enjoy killing you, Frank. That is a sin, and I know it, but it’s the truth. I must remember to pray for my own weaknesses.”
“And a practicing hypocrite too.”
“What?”
“That’s you, Lonesome. You do know the meaning of the word, don’t you?”
“You’ve very insulting, Frank. Of course I do. And I am most certainly not a hypocrite.”
“Then you’re a fool. Take your choice.”
Lonesome pulled back his chair and stood up. He looked down at Frank. “Make your peace with God, Frank Morgan. Your time is near.”
Frank softly and calmly told Lonesome Howard where he could shove his Bible, ending with, “I say that because it means nothing to you, Howard. It’s just words on paper to you. Nothing more.”
“You speak blasphemy, Frank.”
“I speak the truth.”
“The next time we meet, Frank, might be the moment you meet God.”
“Or you meet the Devil.”
Lonesome Howard blinked a couple of times, then turned and walked away.
Frank signaled for the barkeep to bring him more coffee. While waiting for the coffee to cool down some, he rolled a cigarette and studied the crowd of gun-handlers that lined the bar and filled the tables. A few of them glanced his way and nodded their head in greeting. Most just ignored him even though they knew him—some casually, others had known him for years.
“Reckon what they’re waitin’ for?” Old Bob asked, sitting down at the table with Frank. He jerked his thumb toward the gunslicks.
“The hunt is about to officially begin,” Frank told him. “That’s what Lonesome just told me.”
“That was Lonesome Howard?”
“In person.”
“I thought he was retired.”
“He was, for a number of years. But the money for killing me pulled him back into the game.”
Bob looked the crowd over. “Too many for one man, Frank. There must be thirty-five or forty gunmen in here.”
“With more coming in.”
“Some of them yahoos look older than me.”
“I think some of them are. That grizzled old hombre standing at the very end of the bar, at the curve, is called Rogers. He’s in his late sixties, at least. He was a well-known highwayman in California before the War Between the States. And that’s been over for many years.”
“Who is the dude with the pearl-handled guns? The one standin’ in the center of the bar.”
“His name is Olmstead. Made his reputation down in Oklahoma Territory. No-man’s-land. He’s a back-shooter.”
“You go to hell!” a man standing at the bar shouted.
“I’ll take you with me,” a man standing next to him yelled.
The two men stepped away from the bar to face each other, their hands hovering over their gun butts.
“Get ready to hit the floor,” Frank whispered.
“I been ready,” Bob told him.
“You been makin’ your brags behind my back, Les,” one said. “I’m damn tired of it. Now fill your hand or shut the hell up.”
Both men grabbed for their guns. Les was quicker. He fired once, the bullet striking his challenger in the center of the chest. The mortally wounded man fell back against the bar and clung there for a few seconds, then slumped to the dirty barroom floor. He died without uttering another word.
“I warned him about that damn mouth of his’n,” the other man said. “I told him I’d shut it permanent someday, and by God I done it.”
“One less for you to have to deal with,” Bob said softly.
Frank nodded his head in agreement and sipped his cooling coffee. He set the cup down on the table and said, “I’m hoping a lot of that will go on before the actual hunt begins.”
“It would shore cut the odds down some, for a fact.”
The body of the dead man was dragged out of the saloon and the barkeep tossed some sawdust on the blood spots on the floor.
The gunslingers resumed their drinking, talking, and playing cards.
The Easterners had not made an appearance since retiring to their rooms and wagons. Bob finished his drink and left, saying he had to get back to his livery.
Frank sat alone at the table, drinking coffee and smoking, his eyes constantly moving, studying the crowd in the packed saloon.
The rain continued to come down from the dark, sullen skies. Not a hard downpour, but a quiet steady drizzle.
The Olsen cousins, Brooks and Martin, entered the saloon and found a place at the crowded bar. They had cleaned up, including changing their clothing. Both of them were dressed in black suits, with black shirts, open at the collar, and both were wearing two guns, tied down. Frank sensed they both were primed and cocked, huntin
g trouble.
Damn good place to find it, Frank mused.
Brooks bumped into the man standing next to him—accidentally or deliberately, Frank couldn’t tell—causing the man to spill some of his drink.
“Watch what the hell you’re doin’, boy!” the man snarled at Brooks.
“Don’t call me boy, Skunk Breath!” Brooks popped right back.
“Skunk Breath?” the gunslinger yelled, turning to fully face the younger man. “Why, you damn mouthy little punk!”
Brooks stepped away a couple of steps, brushing back his coat. “What’d you call me, Skunk Breath?”
“I called you a mouthy punk!” the gunfighter said. “Are you hard of hearin’ or just plain stupid?”
“I’ll kill you for that!” Brooks said, his face flushing and his eyes narrowing down. His hands were poised just above the butts of his guns.
“You damn shore got it to do, boy,” the older man said.
Brooks backed up, putting a few more feet between them. The crowd at the bar stepped away, out of the line of fire.
Frank watched the building confrontation without moving or changing expression. He was sure Brooks had intentionally provoked this moment. He did not know the older gun-handler, had never seen him before.
“Drag iron,” Brooks told the man.
“After you, boy. I ain’t never pulled on no damn punk kid and I shore don’t intend to start now.”
“You got a big fat mouth, mister,” Brooks said.
“Fill your hand, kid,” the man said.
Brooks was fast, Frank had to give him that much. He pulled and shot the older man before the man could clear leather. The gut-shot gunslick staggered back and fell against the bar, his pistol still in leather.
Brooks giggled like a girl, and Frank concluded then that the young man was possibly about half crazy.
“Damn punk,” the dying man said.
Brooks shot him again, then put another slug into the man’s chest. The older man fell to the floor, dead.
Brooks slobbered down his chin and giggled.
Seven
The kid is fast, Frank thought. And crazy as a lizard.
Bad combination.
One of the gunslingers that Frank knew casually, name of Fargo, turned and looked at Frank for a few seconds. Frank shrugged slightly, and Fargo nodded, then turned back to the bar.
“You got him good, Brooks!” Martin said. “Man, did you drill him proper.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Brooks said as he holstered his six-gun.
He didn’t reload, Frank noted. That’s a real bad move, kid. You popped three caps, and now you’ve got at the most three rounds left in that hogleg . . . two if you’re smart. You’re an amateur, boy.
“Is the skunk dead?” Martin asked.
“Sure, he’s dead. Hell, I put three slugs in him.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Martin suggested.
“Naw. I like it in here. Let’s have a drink. We got room at the bar now.”
Martin looked around at the room full of hostile faces, then reluctantly joined his cousin at the bar.
Frank finished his coffee and stood. Immediately all eyes in the room turned to him. He slowly brushed back his coat, exposing the butt of his second six-gun. A dozen pairs of eyes were quickly averted. Frank began the slow walk toward the front door.
“Turn around, Morgan,” a voice behind him shouted. “I feel lucky today and I got me a need for that money that I’ll get when I plug you.”
Frank paused and slowly turned. He did not know the man who was facing him. The other men on both sides had made room. No one wanted to be caught in a cross fire.
“You sure the hunt has started?” Frank asked calmly.
“Now’s as good a time as any to begin it,” the man said.
“You got a name?”
“Why?”
“I need to know what to put on your tombstone, that’s why?”
“The name is Tyler. And I ain’t figuring on bein’ planted any time soon, Morgan. I’m figurin’ on bein’ a rich man in about a minute.”
“Here now!” a voice called from the hotel entrance to the saloon.
Frank cut his eyes for an instant. It was the man who had been pointed out to him as Horace Vanderhoot.
“The hunt has not yet begun,” Vanderhoot announced. “Good afternoon, Mr. Morgan. I don’t believe we have been formally introduced. I am Horace Vanderhoot. And these two men standing behind me, holding sawed-off shotguns, are my bodyguards.”
“You mean those two with shotguns pointed at me?” Frank asked with a half smile playing on his lips.
“Very astute of you, Mr. Morgan.”
“You must be very afraid of me, Vanderhoot,” Frank said.
“Let’s just say I believe in taking precautions.”
“When does this here hunt get started?” a man tossed out.
“In a few days,” Vanderhoot said. “I want to wait until the weather clears.”
“Why?” another gunslick asked.
“Mr. Morgan might want to run, and I want to give him the opportunity to do so.”
“Morgan don’t run,” a familiar voice called from a darkened corner of the saloon.
Frank cut his eyes. It was Dolan.
“He might,” Vanderhoot replied.
“Not Morgan,” Dolan persisted. “You don’t know him. I do. He ain’t gonna run.”
Vanderhoot waved a hand in a very effeminate gesture. It was not lost on the room filled with hard-bitten men. Many of them smiled. Including Frank. “Whatever,” Vanderhoot said. He smiled. “Besides, the longer we wait, the more the tension will heighten. And when it reaches its zenith, the fun will really begin.”
“Who the hell is zenith?” a man asked.
“I ain’t got no idee,” another said. “I ain’t never heard of him.”
A very pained look crossed Vanderhoot’s face. “No money will be paid for Frank Morgan’s death until I officially announce the start of the hunt.”
“You can be charged for this,” Frank said. “It’s against the law.”
“Perhaps,” Vanderhoot acknowledged. “If there was any law out here. But the nearest sheriff is a week’s ride away . . . in good weather. And you’re a murderer, Mr. Morgan. Besides, there are others who have placed a bounty on your head, and you know it.”
Frank looked at the man and remained silent. Vanderhoot had done his homework, for a fact. Frank shifted his gaze to Tyler. “Still want to lock horns with me, Tyler?”
“I’ll wait for a spell, I reckon,” the gunhawk said.
“Then get out of my way.”
Tyler stepped aside and Frank walked past him. He stepped out into the cool and rainy night to stand under the boardwalk awning.
Doc Raven appeared out of the darkness. “I was standing just outside the door, listening. Care for a few words of advice?”
“Speak your piece, Doc.”
“Saddle up and get the hell gone from here, Frank.”
“Can’t do it.”
“You mean you won’t.”
“I reckon.”
“You are a very stubborn man.”
“I been told that before.”
“Where is the body from the second shooting?”
“Still on the floor. Somebody will probably get tired of stepping over him and drag him out before long.”
“Did you know either dead man?”
“No. But I discovered one thing: Brooks is insane.”
“Yes. I’ve suspected that for several years. Martin is not much better.”
“Brooks is kill-crazy. If you’ve got any unsolved gunshot murders around here, I’d sure look hard at him.”
“I can’t think of any.” Raven checked his watch, then snapped it shut. “I’ve got to ride out in the country a few miles to check on a patient, Frank. I’ll see you tonight.”
“I reckon I’ll be here.”
Frank checked on Dog and Horse, and then went back to his roo
m and stretched out on the bed. Within minutes, he was deep in sleep.
* * *
When Frank stepped out onto the boardwalk, it was full dark and pouring rain. He walked to the cafe and had supper, then took a packet of scraps to Dog and sat with him for a time after the big cur ate.
“The doc’s right, Dog. We ought to pack up and pull out. But I just don’t have it in me to run. I’ve made it through some hard times, though, so I reckon I’ll make it through this mess.”
His quiet speaking to Dog was shattered by a couple of gunshots from up the street. Frank paused, waiting for more shots, but none came. A few minutes later, Bob came stomping and muttering into the livery. Frank stepped out of the stall, and Bob pulled up short when he spotted him.
“Damn crazy gunhands,” the liveryman said. “They keep shootin’ each other, your problem’s gonna be solved. There won’t be none left.”
“That’ll suit me just fine, Bob. Who got shot?”
“I don’t know his name. Some gunslick from New Mexico Territory. But this one wasn’t as slick as he thought. Took two slugs in the belly. He’s still alive, but not for long.”
“Doc make it back?”
“Not yet.”
“Fellow’s gonna die hard gut-shot.”
“That trouble you?”
“Not really. Who shot him?”
“Don’t know him neither. Man ain’t been in town more’un two hours. Just rode in. Someone called him Vickers.”
“I know him. He’s mean as a rattlesnake and just as quick. He must have just made it through before the slides closed the road.”
“He’s here. That’s all I know. And walkin’ round trouble-huntin’. That ain’t all neither.”
“What else?”
“That bodyguard you hit on the noggin with the coffeepot?”
“Sonny. Yes. What about him?”
“He’s in the saloon makin’ all kinds of mouth ’bout what he’s gonna do to you.”
Frank smiled. “He doesn’t worry me near as much as all these hard cases gathering in town. Sonny will do what his employers tell him to do.”
“That’s just it, Frank. He quit them city folks.”
“He’s got the bounty money on his mind, Bob. I can’t worry about him any more than I worry about the others. Bob, I may decide to sleep here tonight. I’ll make me a pallet in the loft. That all right with you?”
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