Frank waved at some men. "Get these two over to the jail," he told them. He looked at Doc Bracken. "Unless you want them in your office."
Bracken shook his head. "Jail will be fine. Neither one of them are in any danger of expiring. Your jail is getting full, isn't it, Marshal?"
"I'll have two cells left after these two are booked."
"Ummm," Doc Bracken said. "What happens if your jail gets full?"
"I'll chain prisoners outside to a hitch rail."
Bracken gave him a hard look. "And you would too, wouldn't you, Marshal?"
"Bet on it."
The doctor chuckled. "I think you'll be the best marshal this town has ever had, Morgan. Providing you live long enough, that is."
"Thank you, Doc. How soon can I ask these two a few questions?"
"A couple of hours, maybe. Probably longer. I'm going to sedate them heavily. I'll let you know."
"Good enough."
The wounded were carried off to the jail. Dirt was kicked over the bloody spot in the street, and Frank told Jerry to locate one of the town's carpenters and have him get busy repairing the awning and the broken boardwalk. He sent another man to find the mayor and arrange for a meeting.
Conrad had not moved from his spot in the doorway across the street. Frank spotted the young man and walked over to him.
"How is your mother this morning, Conrad?"
"Very well, Marshal. Thank you for inquiring. That was quite a performance a few moments ago. Do you always twirl your pistol after a shooting?"
Frank did not remember doing that. It was just something he did automatically. "I suppose so, Conrad. It's just a habit."
"Very impressive, I must say. You are quite proficient with that weapon."
"I try."
"Tell me, Marshal, if you will, how long have you known my mother?"
Frank had no idea what Viv had told the young man, but he wasn't going to start off whatever relationship that might develop with a lie. "I knew her years ago, Conrad. For a very brief time."
"Before she married my father?"
"Oh, yes."
"I see. Well, at least you both have your stories straight. Good day, Marshal." Conrad turned away and walked off toward the Henson Enterprises office building without another word.
"Boy damn sure suspects something is not quite right," Frank muttered. He also knew that he and Viv had better get their heads together and plan something out, and do it quickly.
Mayor Jenkins strolled up, all smiles. "Well, Marshal," he said, grabbing Frank's hand and shaking it, "congratulations. I was just informed about the incident. I was told that was quite a dandy bit of shooting on your part. Knocked the pins out from under that gunman quicker than the eye could follow. And I'm told you have a new deputy. Jerry, ah, what's his name? Consider him on the payroll." He named a very generous monthly sum of money—about twice the going rate, even for a boom town. "You can swear him in. That goes with the office, Marshal. I should be hearing something from Arkansas in about a week. I'll let you know immediately. Good day, Marshal. Great job you're doing. Yes, indeed."
"Most happy fellow," Frank muttered. He went in search of Jerry to swear him in.
Frank did not notice Conrad peeping around the corner of a building, watching his every move.
Eleven
Frank swore Jerry in as deputy marshal and pinned a badge on him. Then they went over to Willis's store and bought provisions for the small private room at the jail. Back at the jail, Frank fixed a pot of coffee and the two men talked while Doc Bracken worked on the wounded in the cell block.
"Never married, Jerry?"
"Once. Had two kids. Boy and a girl. She didn't like the West, and she really didn't like me, I guess. We lived in Kansas. Took the kids and left one day when I was out with a posse. I've not seen hide nor hair of any of them since. That was twenty years ago. Don't know where they are. You, Frank?"
"A long time ago. Right after the war. We weren't married long. It didn't work out. I've been drifting ever since."
"Yeah, me too, but I don't blame that on her. I reckon I'm just meant to wander, that's all." Jerry stood up. "I need to go back to the roomin' house and get my things, Frank. OK with you?"
"Sure. Go ahead. I've got an appointment to see Mrs. Browning this morning. I'll probably be gone time you get back."
"That's a nice lady."
"Yes, she certainly is."
Jerry left and Frank looked in on Doc Bracken and his assistant. "You going to be much longer. Doc?"
"'Bout ten more minutes. I've got all the shot out of this man's butt that I can. The rest will have to stay. Some will work out in time, but he'll be sitting on a lot of bird shot for the rest of his life."
"I'll kill that son of a bitch who shot me," the butt-shot Bud groaned through his laudanum-induced haze.
"Shut up," Doc Bracken told him. "You'll have lots of time to think up threats while you're in prison. You'd better be thankful it wasn't buckshot that hit you, fellow. You wouldn't have any ass left."
"Gimmie some more laudanum," Bud mumbled.
"You've had enough," the doctor told him.
Frank closed the door and sat down at his desk, bringing his jail book up to date. He checked all his dodgers for one on Bud Chase. There were no wanted fliers on Bud, but he did find the dodger on Lou Manning. He wrote out a wire to send to the Texas Rangers.
He glanced at the wall clock. He still had a few minutes before he was due to meet Viv. Frank leaned back in the wooden swivel chair. He did not delude himself about the likelihood of getting back with Viv. His chances were slim to none. Their worlds were too far apart now, and Frank was man enough to admit that. But they would enjoy each other's company while they had the opportunity. After that? Well, only time would tell.
Frank looked in on the prisoners, giving them a cup of coffee if they wanted it, then closed and locked the door to the cell block. He had given Jerry a set of keys to all doors, so he locked the front door upon leaving, too.
He strolled down the boardwalk, taking his time and looking over the town in broad daylight. A few of the stores that had been boarded up were already in the process of being reopened, getting ready to rent. He had been told the bank owned them. Mayor Jenkins didn't miss a bet. If there was a dollar to be made, as banker he was going to get a part of it.
Already new people were coming in from tiny communities that were close by, all of the newcomers riding in. Soon the wagons would be rolling in, and when the permanent structures were all taken—which wouldn't be long—wooden frames would be erected, and canvas fastened in place, forming roofs and sides. There would be a dozen makeshift saloons and eating places and what have you thrown up in less than a week. Hurdy-gurdy girls would be working around the clock, and so would the gamblers, and both spelled trouble with a capital T.
Frank walked into the Henson Enterprises building and past the workers in the front office just as Viv was coming out of her rear office. She saw him and smiled.
"Be with you in a moment. Marshal," she called.
All very proper and correct, Frank thought. He looked behind him. Hal was standing in the outer office. They nodded at each other. Jimmy would be working the outside, Frank figured. Every hour or so the men would swap up.
Viv motioned for Frank to come into her office. She closed the door and stood facing him. "Are you all right, Frank?"
"I'm fine."
"Conrad told me about the shooting incident."
Frank shrugged that off. "Where is Conrad?"
"At the mine. For his age, he's really a very responsible young man. He knows the business."
"I'm sure he is, Viv, and I'm sure he's a big help. He just doesn't much care for me, that's all."
"Give him time. Maybe things will change."
"Maybe they will. We'll see. Ready to take a stroll through town?"
"That will set some tongues wagging."
"That bother you?"
"Not in the least. I'll get my p
arasol."
With Hal and Jimmy hanging back a respectable distance, the two began their leisurely walk. The gunfighter and the lady, Frank thought with a smile. That would make a good title for a dime novel.
Heads did turn as the two walked slowly toward the Silver Spoon Cafe. Vivian was dressed in the height of Eastern fashion, and was a beautiful woman. Frank wondered why women toted around little parasols and didn't open them. What the hell was the point, anyway? The sky was a dazzling, clear blue, and it sure wasn't raining. Besides, he didn't figure the dainty little thing would even do much to keep off rain.
He concluded that he would never understand women.
"Town's being reborn," Viv remarked.
"Sure is. This your first boom town, Viv?"
"Yes."
"You ain't seen nothing yet. If this strike turns out to be as big as people are saying, there'll be a thousand more people packed in here before it's all over. Maybe more than that. It'll be a great big, sometimes uncontrollable, mess."
"You've worn a badge in other boom towns, Frank?"
"Yes. Several of them."
"I've tried to keep track of you over the years. But it hasn't been easy."
"I'm sure. I did move around a lot."
"And often disappeared for months at a time. Where did you go, and what did you do during those times?"
"Sometimes I worked on a ranch, under a false name."
"For thirty dollars a month?"
"Less than that a few times."
"But somebody would always come along who recognized you." It was not posed as a question.
"Yes. Or someone would get their hands on one of those damn books ... all of them nothing but a pack of lies."
"I've read all of them."
Frank cut his eyes to the woman walking by his side. "You're joking, of course?"
"No. I swear it's the truth. I had to hide them from my husband, and from Conrad." She smiled. "It was a deliciously naughty feeling."
"Oh? Reading the books about me, or hiding them from your family?"
She poked him in the ribs and giggled. "Did you really take up with a soiled dove named Hannah?"
"Oh, hell, no!" Frank chuckled. A few seconds later he said with a straight face, "Her name was Agnes."
This time Viv laughed aloud and grabbed Frank's arm. "And she died in your arms after stepping in front of a bullet that was meant for you?"
"Slowest bullet since the invention of guns, I reckon. Took that writer a whole page to get that bullet from one side of the room to the other."
"You read them, Frank?"
"Parts of some of them. I haven't read any of the newer ones."
"I have a confession to make."
"Oh?"
"The man who writes those novels was a good friend of my husband. He lives in Boston. He used to come over to the house quite often for croquet and dinner."
"Ummm. Is that so? How difficult was it for you to keep a straight face?"
"Terribly difficult."
Their conversation ground to an abrupt halt when they met a gaggle of ladies coming out of Willis's General Store. The ladies had to stop and chat for a few minutes with Vivian and oohh and aahh about her dress and hat. Frank stepped over to one side, rolled a cigarette, and smoked and waited for the impromptu hen party to end.
When the gossiping was over and the town's ladies had sashayed on their way, Viv smiled at Frank. "Sorry about that, Frank."
"It's all right. What in the world did you ladies talk about?"
"You, mostly."
"Me!"
"Yes. They wanted to know how I knew you."
"And what did you tell them?"
"The same thing I told Conrad: that I knew you years ago when you were a young cowboy."
"Conrad doesn't believe that."
"You know something?"
"What?"
"Those ladies didn't, either."
* * * *
By nightfall, thanks in no small part to the ladies who had chatted with Viv earlier, it was the talk of the town that Mrs. Vivian L. Browning, president of Henson Enterprises, was seeing the town marshal, Frank Morgan. Tongues were wagging in every store, home, saloon, and bawdy house.
Frank and Jerry saw that the prisoners were fed and locked down, and then made their early evening rounds.
"There is the first wagon coming in," Jerry said, looking up the street. "They must have traveled all night after hearing the news off the wire."
"There'll be a hundred more by week's end," Frank opined. "We're going to have our hands full."
The sign on the side of the gaily painted wagon read:
DR. RUFUS J. MARTIN
DENTIST EXTRAORDINAIRE
"What the hell does 'extraordinaire' mean?" Jerry asked.
"Extra special, I suppose, would be one definition."
"What's so special about gettin' a tooth pulled?"
Frank did not reply to the question. His gaze was on a man riding slowly up the street. His duster was caked with trail dirt, and his horse plodded wearily. Rider and horse had come a long way.
Jerry had followed Frank's eyes. "You know that man, Frank?"
"Yes. That's Robert Mallory. Big Bob. From out of the Cherokee Strip."
"I've heard of him. He's a bad one, isn't he?"
"One of the worst. He's an ambusher, a paid assassin. He's probably got three dozen kills on his tally sheet ... at least. From California to Missouri. Most of them back-shot. He rides into an area, someone is found dead, he rides out."
"He's never been charged?"
"No proof that he ever did anything. Dead men don't talk, Jerry."
"But I've heard he's a gunfighter."
"He is. He's quick as a snake if you push him. Big Bob is no coward. Believe that. But he'd rather shoot his victim in the back."
"Frank, no one just rides into this town by accident. It's too far off the path."
"I know."
"You think he's after Mrs. Browning?"
"Only God, Big Bob, and the man who is paying him knows the answer to that. But you can bet your best pair of boots he's after somebody."
"Let's see where he lands for the night."
"The best hotel in town—that's where. Bob goes first-class all the way. That's his style."
"Frank ... he might be after you."
"That thought crossed my mind."
"You two know each other?"
"Oh, yes. For many years. And he dislikes me as much as I do him."
"Why?"
"The dislike?"
"Yes."
"We're opposites, Jerry. He'll kill anyone for money. Man, woman, or child. And has. He doesn't have a conscience. There isn't the thinnest thread of morality in the man. And he doesn't just kill with a bullet. He'll throw a victim down a deep well and stand and listen to them scream for help until they drown. He'll set fire to a house and burn his victims to death. He'll do anything for money."
"Sounds like a real charmin' fellow."
"Oh, he is. He swore to someday kill me. Swore that years ago."
"Why?"
"I whipped him in a fight. With my fists. Beat him bloody after he set a little dog on fire one night up in Wyoming. He still carries the scars of that fight on his face, and will until the day he dies. And I hope I'm the person responsible for putting him in the grave."
"Why did he do that? That's sick, Frank. Decent people wouldn't even think of doing that."
"Because he wanted to do it—that's why. He's filth, and that's all he'll ever be. Besides, I like dogs. If I ever settle down somewhere I'll have a dozen mutts."
"I've had a couple of dogs over the years. Last one died about five years ago. You know, it's funny, but I still miss that silly animal."
"I know the feeling. What was his name?"
Jerry laughed. "Digger. That was the durnedest dog for diggin' holes I ever did see." Jerry was silent for a moment. "Let's take a walk over to the hotel and see what name Mallory registers under," he sugg
ested.
"His own. He always does. He's an arrogant bastard. He knows there are no dodgers out on him. He likes to throw his name up into the face of the law."
"If he isn't after you, Frank, I'm surprised he came here, knowing you're the marshal."
"I doubt if he knows."
A man came running up. "Trouble about to happen at the Red Horse, Marshal," he panted. "Gun trouble."
"Go home," Frank told him. "We'll handle it."
"I'm gone. I don't like to be around no shootin'."
The man hurried away.
"Let's go earn our pay, Jerry," Frank said.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a single shot rang out from the direction of the Red Horse Saloon.
"Damn!" Jerry said, and both men took off running.
Twelve
Frank and Jerry pushed open the batwings and stepped into the smoke-filled saloon. A man lay dead on the dirty floor. Another man stood at the end of the bar, a pistol in his hand. Frank noted that the six-gun was not cocked. The crowded saloon was silent. The piano player had stopped his playing, and the soiled doves were standing or sitting quietly.
"Put the gun down, mister," Frank ordered.
"You go to hell, Morgan!" the man told him.
"All in due time. Right now, though, I'm ordering you to put that gun away."
"And if I don't?" The man threw the taunting challenge at Frank.
"I'll kill you," Frank said softly.
"Your gun's in leather. I'm holdin' mine in my hand, Morgan."
"You'll still die. Don't be a fool, man. If I don't get you, my deputy will."
Jerry had moved about fifteen feet to Frank's right.
"What caused all this?" Frank asked the shooter.
"He called me a liar, and then threatened to kill me. I don't see I had no choice."
"He's right, Marshal," a customer said. "I heard and seen it all."
"All right," Frank replied. "If it was self-defense, you've got no problem. Why are you looking for trouble with me?"
"'Cause you ain't takin' me to jail—that's why."
"I didn't say anything about jail, partner. I just asked you to put your gun away."
"You ain't gonna try to haul me off to jail?"
The Last Gunfighter: The Drifter Page 8