“You can have whatever’s in their pockets for burying them,” Frank told the growing gathering of locals. “And their horses too.”
“That’s fair,” a woman said. “I can sing a song over them.”
“And I’ll moan and holler,” another woman said.
“This’ll be a right nice funeral,” a man added. “Somebody go get the preacher and tell him to bring the Good Book.”
“I’ll go get some shovels,” another man said.
“I ain’t dead yet,” the chest-shot gunhand moaned. “Y’all cain’t bury me whilst I’m still alive.”
“Man has a point,” a local said.
Frank managed to roll a cigarette, and sat on the edge of the porch, drinking his coffee and smoking.
“I reckon we ought to report this to the sheriff,” a man said.
“Aw, hell,” another said. “They’ll be a deputy through here in a couple of days. We can do it then.”
“Will somebody get me to a damn doctor!” Post groaned.
“Keep your pants on,” he was told. “The team’s bein’ hitched up now.”
“I’ll be dead by the time that’s done,” Post griped.
“That would shore solve the problem,” the man agreed.
“I got the liniment, Mr. Morgan,” the boy said, handing Frank a bottle. “And some clean rags.”
“I’ll go around back and doctor myself,” Frank said. “And get me a clean shirt.”
“You got anything you want to say to me, Morgan?” Post asked. “Since I’m probably bein’ hauled off to my deathbed?”
“Yeah,” Frank told him. “Good-bye!”
Thirty-five
Frank found a nice spot in the timber, on a ridge overlooking a stream, and settled in for a week or so of rest. Plenty of time for his wound to heal. Each day he carefully cleaned the bullet wound and put a fresh bandage on it. The wound on his face was minor at best, and it healed rapidly.
Frank was right on the edge of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and it surprised the hell out of him one night when he was awakened by the cold and found himself in the middle of a snowstorm. He quickly built up the fire, and as soon as it got light, he packed up and moved further west and south.
He had plenty of time to think, and finally got it through his head that what was left of Sonny’s gang—and that probably numbered thirty or so—was hard after him. Most would quit the hunt after a few months, but some would never rest, feeling that Frank had cheated them out of many thousands of dollars in ransom money and they wanted him dead.
“All right,” Frank whispered. “So I find me a place to hole up for a time.”
This area was dotted with abandoned cabins, built by men looking for their fortune in gold. Most never even found color and moved out, wiser and busted. But their cabins remained. Frank would find one and settle in.
A few miles off the stage road, and only a couple of miles from a small town, Frank found a small cabin that was in pretty good shape and settled in. The first thing he did was shoot a deer so he would have meat. He hunted around and pulled up a bunch of wild onions to flavor up a big pot of stew. Then he built a fire and made a pot of coffee and relaxed.
Because of the splinter wounds on the side of his face, Frank had not shaved in days. He continued to let his beard grow, trimming it occasionally to keep it even. It changed his looks dramatically. After several days, Frank decided to ride into town for supplies.
As soon as he reined up in front of the general store he knew he had made a mistake that was too late to rectify; at the hitch rails in front of the saloon, across the street from the store, were more than a half-dozen horses that Frank recognized, including Lonesome Howard’s.
“Howdy, mister,” the clerk said, as Frank entered the store.
Frank returned the greeting. He pointed toward the saloon. “Looks like the town is busy this day. What’s the occasion?”
The clerk grimaced. “Trouble-hunting drifters. They’ve been here for about a week. I hear they’re hunting Frank Morgan.”
“Is Morgan in this area?” Frank asked innocently.
“Those gunhands think so. Something about a bounty on Morgan’s head.”
“Well, let me buy a few things and get gone. I don’t want to get caught up in the middle of a gunfight.”
“I’d like to see Frank Morgan come ridin’ into town and tangle with those ne’er-do-wells. I bet he’d kill everyone of them.”
“Six or seven to one?” Frank shook his head. “Those are long odds, friend.”
“Frank could do it, I bet. He’s the fastest man that ever packed iron. I just read a story about him. Why, he’s killed hundreds of bad men. And that ain’t even countin’ Indians.”
The stories just keep getting wilder and wilder, Frank thought as he handed the man his grocery list.
“I’ll fill this right quick, sir,” the clerk said.
“Well, I’ll just be damned!” a man said from behind Frank. “It’s Frank Morgan. Turn around and face me, Morgan.”
“Frank Morgan?” the clerk said, a puzzled look on his face. “Where?”
Frank was standing next to a barrel of ax handles. He dropped his hand to the barrel.
“Right in front of you, stupid!” the man said, taking several steps forward. “Turn around, Morgan, damn you!”
Frank turned, one hand sliding an ax handle out of the barrel. He conked the man on the head with the wood, and the outlaw sank to the floor without so much as a grunt.
“Are you really Frank Morgan?” the clerk questioned.
“Yes,” Frank said, jerking the unconscious man’s Colt from leather and tucking it behind his gunbelt. “Now fill that order for me.”
“Oh, my God!” the clerk said. “Look, Mr. Morgan.” He pointed.
Lonesome Howard and the other outlaws had left the saloon, and were walking across the street toward the general store.
“I’ll take it outside,” Frank said.
“I sure would appreciate that, sir,” the clerk replied, rubbing his hands together nervously.
Frank stepped out onto the boardwalk and stood there. The six outlaws stopped in the middle of the street, surprised at seeing Morgan.
Lonesome Howard was the first to speak. “That beard don’t work, Morgan. I’d know you anywhere.”
“And you intend to do what, Howard?” Frank asked.
Before Lonesome could reply, a rather portly gentleman wearing a badge on his coat stepped out of a building and shouted, “Here now, you men! What is going on?”
“Carry your butt out of here, Fat Man,” a man Frank knew only as Max told the marshal. “ ’Fore you git it shot off.”
“I beg your pardon?” The marshal’s question was filled with indignation.
“Shut up and get your fat ass back inside,” Nils told him. “Does that make it any clearer for you?”
The other outlaws laughed as the marshal retreated into his office.
“I told you I’d kill you someday, Morgan,” Lonesome said. “Now’s the time.”
“You got it to do, Howard,” Frank called. “I’m damn tired of this. Drag iron.”
Lonesome’s hand snaked his six-gun out of leather. Frank shot him just as Lonesome was leveling his pistol. Frank’s bullet cut through Lonesome’s belly and blew out the man’s back, on the left side. Lonesome cried out and went down to his knees in the dirt.
Frank jumped to one side as the other outlaws grabbed for iron. Frank put lead into one, and the impact of the .45 caliber slug turned the man around. The others filled the cool air with lead. But Frank had changed positions again, quickly moving to the other side of the alleyway.
“Kill the bastard!” Nils yelled.
Frank drilled him in the brisket, doubling the man over. Nils sat down hard in the street, right smack on a very recent pile of horse droppings. He yelled out a rather apt description of what he was sitting in, then fell over face-down in the dirt.
Max fired, the bullet cutting and burning a
shallow groove into the top of Frank’s shoulder. Frank grunted in pain and leveled his Colt, putting lead into Max’s chest. Max went down slowly, much like a puppet with broken strings, sinking to the dirt. He stretched out in the street as if going to sleep—he would do that forever.
The remaining outlaws broke and ran for their horses, jumping into the saddles and galloping away. Frank let them go. He walked out into the street, feeling the warm flow of blood ooze down onto his arm and chest from the wound in his shoulder. He walked up to Lonesome, still on his knees, both hands holding his punctured belly.
“The Lord will punish you for this, Morgan,” Lonesome gasped.
“Are you serious, Howard?”
“I am the sword of the Almighty,” Lonesome whispered.
“Well, I hate to tell you this, Howard. But your blade got a little dull.”
“You’re a damned sinner, Morgan! You’ll burn in the hellfires.”
“Here comes the doctor, Howard. Maybe he can save your worthless hide.”
“If he does, I’ll come lookin’ to kill you, Morgan.” Howard fell over to one side and lay in the dirt gasping.
“You want to sell me your ranch, Howard?”
“Hell, no!”
“I’ll give you a good price for it.”
“I’d ...” He coughed up blood. “I’d sooner give it to a damned Injun.”
“Now, that’s not a very Christian thing to say, Howard. I’d take real good care of it.”
Howard told Frank where to stick everything he owned. When he finished, he was out of breath and very nearly out of time.
“Shame on you, Howard. Going to meet the Lord with those suggestions on your lips.”
The town doctor walked over and looked at Lonesome Howard. “He’s done for. I think your bullet tore up his liver and kidney.”
Lonesome told the doctor where to stick his opinion.
“Hell with you too!” the doctor said, and walked over to where Nils lay, all sprawled in the horse crap.
“This one might live.” He motioned for some men to move Nils to his office.
The second man Frank had shot was not long for this world. Frank’s bullet had dusted him from side to side, and the man had already lost consciousness.
“I hear the angels singin’, Morgan,” Lonesome murmured. “They’re comin’ to carry me home on wings of comfort.”
“You hold onto that thought, Howard,” Frank told him.
“I’ll tell you this, Morgan,” Lonesome managed to say. “Sonny’s gonna kill you. He’s already puttin’ together another gang.”
“All right, Howard. Thanks.”
Lonesome Howard closed his eyes and died.
Frank walked over to the general store and paid for his supplies, picking up a can of Cuticura Anti-Pain Plaster and a bottle of Dr. Sherman’s Prick-lyash Bitters. He walked out of the store and began to stow his supplies on the packsaddle’s canvas packs.
“You want me to take a look at that shoulder?” the doctor asked, walking up to Frank.
“It’s all right, Doc. Just a burn, that’s all.”
“The man who was taken to my office just died.”
“Tough luck.”
“You’re a cold bastard, Morgan.”
“But a live bastard, Doc.”
“For the time being at least.”
Frank managed a smile and swung into the saddle. He nodded at the doctor and rode away, back toward his cabin.
“He was only defending himself, Doc,” the store clerk said.
“I have no use for gunfighters,” the doctor said tersely. “It would have benefitted the country had Frank Morgan been killed this day.”
“How, Doc?” a local asked.
“Yeah,” another questioned. “The man’s a living legend.”
“A legend written in blood,” the doctor replied. He walked away, back to his office.
The store clerk looked down the road Frank had taken. Morgan was out of sight. “I feel sorry for the man,” he said.
“Yeah?” another local questioned. “Well . . . I’ll tell you this: We ain’t heard the last of Frank Morgan.”
Thirty-six
Frank loafed around the cabin for a week, eating, drinking coffee, chopping some wood, and taking care of the wound on his shoulder. Eight days after the shoot-out on Main Street, Frank said to hell with it. He packed up, saddled up, and rode out, taking a northwest route of travel.
Stormy was glad to be back on the trail, and Dog was just as happy to be seeing some new country and encountering and checking out new sights and smells.
Frank picked up a newspaper in a small town and read about an attempted bank holdup in a Southern California town. Sonny and a half-dozen members of his gang were caught and being held for trial. All of them were under heavy guard. According to the newspaper writer, Sonny and those gang members who were caught would spend the rest of their lives in prison.
“Good,” Frank muttered. “That’s where they belong.”
In a small town in Northern California, Frank stepped out of a barbershop after a bath, haircut, and shave, all decked out in freshly laundered and pressed clothes. Frank carried his pistol tucked behind his waistband, for this town discouraged the open carrying of firearms. Frank was enjoying a quiet meal in the cafe when the sheriff and one of his deputies walked in and uninvited, sat down at the table with Frank.
“You Frank Morgan?” the sheriff asked in a low voice.
Frank nodded his head.
“You hunting someone?”
“No,” Frank replied.
“Then why are you here?”
Frank smiled. “To get cleaned up and have my clothes laundered. And to rest my horses and get something to eat.”
“You going to have a drink at the saloon?”
“I might.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You want me to get out of town, Sheriff?”
“I would appreciate that, Mr. Morgan.”
“Even though I’ve broken no laws.”
“There are hotheads in this town, Mr. Morgan. Young squirts who might take it upon themselves to brace you. I don’t want a shoot-out in my town.”
“Neither do I.”
“Good. I’ll have your supplies packed up and you can be on your way soon as you finish your meal.”
“Hospitality is sort of thin around here, isn’t it, Sheriff?”
“Actually, we’re a right friendly town here, Morgan. And a safe one too. And I intend to keep it that way.”
“You might find this hard to believe, but I’m basically a peaceful man. And I’ll leave your town as soon as I finish this fine meal. But I hope you don’t ever brace the wrong gunhand one of these days, Sheriff.”
“Thanks for the advice, Morgan. Look here, you could hang up your guns anytime you wanted to.”
Frank looked at the sheriff for a long moment. He shoved his plate of food away and stood up. Just before he walked out the door, he said, “And how long do you think I’d live if I did that, Sheriff? How long?”
The sheriff knew the answer to that. He shook his head and refused to reply.
NEW YORK TIMES AND
USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHORS
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
with J. A. Johnstone
FLINTLOCK
A Time for Vultures
Across the West, badmen know his name. The deadliest bounty hunter on the frontier, Flintlock is armed with his grandfather’s ancient Hawken muzzleloader, ready to put the blast on the face of injustice. As William and J. A. Johnstone’s acclaimed saga continues, Flintlock will discover an evil too terrifying and deadly to even name.
WHEN A MAN SAYS HE’S GOING
TO KILL YOU, BELIEVE HIM
The stench of death hangs over Happyville. When Flintlock rides into town, he sees windows caked in dust, food rotting on tables, and a forgotten corpse hanging at the gallows. Citizens of Happyville are dead in their beds, taken down by a deadly scourge, and Flintlock must sta
y put or risk spreading the killer disease. His quarantine is broken by Cage Kingfisher, a mad clergyman who preaches the gospel of death. He orders his followers to round up the survivors of Happyville and bring them home to face the very plague they fled. To save them, Flintlock must send Kingfisher to Hell. But the deadly deacon has a clockwork arm that can draw a pistol faster than the eye can blink. It will take the Devil to bring him down. Or the frontier legend they call Flintlock.
Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com
Chapter One
“I don’t like it, Sam,” O’Hara said, his black eyes troubled. “Those women could be setting us up. Their wagon wheel looks just fine from here.”
Sam Flintlock shook his head. “You know what I always tell folks about you, O’Hara?”
“No. What do you always tell folks about me?”
“That you let your Indian side win through. I mean every time. If you were looking at them gals with a white man’s eyes you’d see what I see ... four comely young ladies who badly need our help.”
Now there were those who said some pretty bad things about Sam Flintlock. They called him out for a ruthless bounty hunter, gunman, outlaw when it suited him, and a wild man who chose never to live within the sound of church bells. At that, his critics more or less had him pegged, but to his credit, Flintlock never betrayed a friend or turned his back on a crying child, an abused dog, or a maiden in distress. And when the war talk was done and guns were drawn he never showed yellow.
Thus, when he saw four ladies and a dog crowded around what looked to be a busted wagon wheel, he decided he must ride to their rescue like a knight in stained buckskins.
But his companion, the half-breed known only as O’Hara, prone to suspicion and mistrust of the doings of white people, drew rein on Sam’s gallant instincts.
“Well, my Indian side is winning through again,” O’Hara said. “It’s telling me to stay away from those white women. Sam, it seems that when we interfere in the affairs of white folks we always end up in trouble.” He stared hard at the wagon. “There’s something wrong here. I have a strange feeling I can’t pin down.”
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