"I will not! Are you insane?"
Vivian's entrance into the building probably prevented Frank from knocking the Boston lawyer on his butt. Frank could not take an employer berating an employee in public. It was something that set him off like a firecracker.
Leon handed Frank's short-barreled .45 back to him, and Frank tucked it behind his gunbelt and turned to greet Vivian. The look that she gave Dutton was a combination of ice and fire.
"This is your friend, Vivian?" Dutton asked, referring to Frank. "This ... bully with a badge?"
Vivian ignored that. When she spoke, it was to Leon. "What is the problem, Leon? Speak freely, please. Charles Dutton has no authority here."
"It, ah, concerned the weekly reports on the grade of silver being taken from mine number three, Mrs. Browning," Leon told her.
"The analysis of the purity of the silver?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Give the reports to Mr. Dutton, Leon."
Leon held out the laboratory reports.
Dutton looked at the papers without taking them. "What is the meaning of this, Vivian?"
"The lab is about one mile out of town, Charles," Vivian told him. "Anyone can point the way. Why don't you go up there and tell the engineer in charge that you are taking over, and will personally run the tests? Can you do that, Charles?"
"I am your attorney, Vivian, not a chemist or an engineer."
"Can you do it, Charles?" Viv persisted.
"No. I cannot, Vivian."
"Then why don't you shut up and tend to your business? Stay in your area of expertise, and stay out of areas in which you have no knowledge."
For a moment, Frank thought Charles was going to pop his cork. He turned red in the face, and his eyes bugged out. He struggled to speak and then, with a very visible effort, calmed down. "As you wish, madam," he said, very slowly. "However, I was only trying to help."
"And any constructive help you might offer is certainly welcome, Charles. But I personally do not believe in berating employees in private, much less publicly."
"I shall certainly bear that in mind."
"Thank you, Charles."
"If by chance you should need me this afternoon, I will be at the hotel."
"I thought the hotel was full," said Viv.
"Not the luxury suites at the end of the hall. They have private baths. I insisted upon that."
Frank rolled his eyes and looked heavenward.
Viv caught his eye movement and fought back a smile. "Of course you did, Charles."
"It's so primitive out here," Dutton complained. "I don't understand how you tolerate these barbaric conditions, Vivian." He plopped his hat on his head and walked toward the front door without another word.
"Nice fellow," Frank remarked.
Leon muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like 'He's a turdface!' But surely not, Frank thought.
"Frank," Vivian said. She had dropped the "Marshal Morgan" when addressing him. There was no point in any further pretense. The whole town knew they were seeing each other socially. "Could I see you in my office, please?"
Seated in Viv's office, Frank asked, "How's Conrad?"
"He's all right, but I insisted that he stay home today. I've just about convinced him that he should return east as soon as possible."
"I'm not sure about that now, Viv. As long as he stays here, there are plenty of us to keep an eye on him. Back there, he would have little if any protection."
Viv frowned, then slowly nodded her head in agreement. "You're right, Frank. I hadn't thought about that."
"Might be a good thing to keep him here until we get this situation straightened out and decide who's trying to kill us both. As if we didn't already know."
Before Viv could reply, they heard the sound of running boots in the outer offices. Jerry burst into the room. "Frank! Outlaws just hit the Lucky Seven. Got the payroll and killed the owner and his foreman."
Frank was on his boots instantly. "That's the mine about four miles from town, right?"
"That's it."
"Get a posse together. I'll get my horse and meet you at the office."
"Will do." Jerry left the office in a run.
"Be careful, Frank," Viv cautioned.
Frank winked at her. "Long as I got you to come back to, Viv."
"I'll be here."
Twenty
Frank looked at the bodies of the mine owner and his foreman and shook his head in disgust. The men had been shot to ribbons, each one more than a dozen times. Their faces had been deliberately shot away. He ordered the bodies taken back to town in a wagon.
"Marshal," said one of the men in the posse. "Those robbers used them men for target practice. They made a game of it."
"I know," Frank replied. "They shot them in the knees, then the arms, then in the belly. They tortured them for the fun of it." Jerry walked up and Frank asked him, "How about the workers—did any of them see anything?"
"One did," Jerry said. "The other three were in a secondary shaft of the mine ... looking for gold," he added. "It was part of the Pine and Vanbergen gangs. The man is sure of that."
"How can he be sure?"
"He knows a couple of them. Was in jail with them once. They broke out, or was broke out. One or the other. He done his time for drunk and fighting, and hasn't been in trouble since."
"Those two gangs just keep getting more and more vicious," Frank said. "This is not the first time they've done something like this. It's fortunate that no women were out here. We all know what happens to women they take captive. Which way did they head out of here?"
"Straight into the mountains, Marshal," a posse member said. "They're long gone through the pass now. And I ain't goin' into the pass."
Frank did not have to question any of the others about that. He knew without asking none of the men would be willing to enter the outlaw-controlled pass through the mountains. And he really didn't blame them one bit
"Take the posse back to town, Jerry, and look after things until I get back. I'm going to prowl around some."
"You goin' to the pass, Frank?"
"I'm going to look it over, yes. I might not be back tonight. If that's the case, I'll see you late tomorrow."
After the posse was gone. Frank made sure his canteen was full of fresh water. Then he looped an ammo belt over his shoulder and across his chest. The belt was filled with .44-.40 rounds. Every loop in his gunbelt was full of .45 cartridges, and he had more rounds for the rifle and pistols in his saddlebags.
He began slowly tracking the outlaw gang through the rocky terrain. It wasn't that difficult, for the outlaws had made no effort to hide their tracks.
It took Frank a couple of slow-riding and very cautious hours to reach a good vantage spot about a hundred yards from the mouth of the pass. There he dismounted in a small patch of grass, eased the cinch strap, and let his horse blow and then graze. Frank took a pair of binoculars from his saddlebags, looped them around his neck, then slipped his .44-.40 from the boot. He climbed up the rocky ridge for about a hundred feet or so and settled himself in for a long, careful look-see.
What he saw was the nearly impassable entrance to the pass, and he had no doubts about it being guarded by at least two men around the clock. It was as he had been told: if you didn't know your way through, you would be in deep trouble. Even if you did know the tricky route, one of the Pine and Vanbergen guards would surely nail you if you tried.
The ways around the range were about forty miles east or west, and by the time a posse reached the outlaw stronghold they would be long gone.
"Damn," Frank muttered. He knew that north of the pass and the outlaw stronghold the terrain was badlands for miles and miles. A railroad spur line came down to a small town just north of the badlands, and that is where the mines in Barnwell's Crossing took their silver to be shipped out ... providing they could get it to the spur line by wagons, which meant rolling right through outlaw territory on the single road that led to the
tracks. Only about half of the silver-laden wagons had made it through thus far.
Frank watched the pass for half an hour before deciding he was accomplishing nothing by staying there. The only way the outlaw stronghold could be taken was with an army, and that would still mean a terrible loss of life.
Frank climbed down to his horse, tightened the cinch strap, and swung into the saddle, holding his rifle in his right hand, across the saddle horn. He headed back to town, feeling that he had accomplished very little with his long ride to the pass.
He rode into town just after dark, stabled his horse, and walked over to the jail. Jerry had fed the prisoners after Doc Bracken had made his daily visit to check on the wounded, and he had just made a fresh pot of coffee.
"Didn't expect to see you back this early, Frank."
"I looked over the entrance to the pass and decided this was not a good day to die," Frank said, pouring a mug of coffee. "The place is a death trap."
"The south entrance sure is. The best way in is from the north."
"But we don't have any authority up there," Frank told him, "I wonder why Colorado won't deal into this game with us?"
"I don't know if they've even been asked."
"I know there's a few small towns just north of the border with us. On the edge of the badlands. But Pine and Vanbergen are smart in that they don't pull anything up there, so they're not wanted in those areas."
It was a policy that was slowly dying out in the West, but for many years if a man was not wanted in a specific area or community, the local lawman would, in many instances, leave him alone as long as he did not cause trouble within that lawman's jurisdiction.
"Was either the mine owner or the foreman married?" Frank asked.
"Yes. Both of them. Wives are here. But neither of them had kids."
"That's good ... that is, if anything about this mess can be called good."
"What about this Charles Dutton fellow, Frank? I just don't like that uppity bastard."
"Neither do I, Jer. I think something is going to break loose here in town very quickly now."
"Because this Dutton dude is here?"
"Yes. And Big Bob Mallory and Kid Moran, and those four assassins who came after Viv and me, and all the rest of it. Dutton is tied in with it all. I'm sure of it. I just don't know the big picture yet."
"This is gettin' mighty complicated, Frank."
"A fellow named Sir Walter Scott wrote some verse once that went something like: 'O, what a tangled web we weave.' I don't remember the rest of it. But that much did stick in my mind."
"This mess is sure all tangled up, for a fact."
A citizen stuck his head in the office. "Marshal, sorry to disturb, but I thought you ought to know that Kid Moran is back in town. I was usin' the privy—just steppin' out, that is, after I—finished my business—when I seen him coming down the back way of the hotel. Usin' them steps that lead up to the fancy rooms. He was sort of slippin' down them, real quiet like, if you know what I mean."
"Thank you," Frank said. "I appreciate it."
"It's my pleasure, Marshal, for shore. If I see anything else suspicious like I think you should know about, I'll get right over to you with it."
"Thanks."
After the citizen had closed the door and walked on, Jerry asked, "What was that all about?"
"Charles Dutton has the most expensive suite in the hotel rented for his stay here."
"You think he's tied in with Kid Moran? A fancy Dan rich man like that?"
"It wouldn't surprise me any. Way this situation is shaping up here in town nothing would surprise me anymore."
"What was the line you recited? 'What a tangled web we weave?' I knew several families name of Scott back home when I was a kid. One of them was always quotin' that fellow Shakespeare. Like to have drove the rest of us goofy. You reckon they might be related to that poet?"
* * * *
The next morning, Frank took a good bath and then carefully shaved. He blacked his boots and dressed in a new suit he'd bought just recently. No special occasion—he just felt like putting on some fancy duds.
He stepped out into a beautiful day in the high country: a blue, cloudless sky and warm temperature. He walked up to the Silver Spoon and took a seat, ordering a pot of coffee and breakfast. Kid Moran was seated across the room, staring at him, smiling at him. The Kid had taken no part in the attempted kidnapping of Conrad and the killing of Hal ... at least, no part that could be proved. Kid Moran could come and go as he pleased.
Frank ate his breakfast and drank his coffee, ignoring The Kid. The Kid left the cafe before Frank, walking across the street and sitting down on a bench.
Angie came to Frank's table to clear off the breakfast dishes and said, "Be careful, Frank. There's something in the wind this morning."
Frank smiled up at her as he smoked his cigarette. "What do you think it is, Angie?"
"Killing you."
"You a fortune-teller? Maybe you can see the future?"
"Joke if you want to, Frank. But I've served half a dozen hard cases breakfast this morning."
"Sometimes it's difficult to tell a hired gun from a drifting cowboy, Angie."
"And sometimes it isn't." She refilled his coffee cup and said, "You watch yourself today. This town's become a powder keg, and the fuse is lit."
She turned to leave, and Frank put out a hand. "Angie, what is it you're not telling me?"
"Nothing that I can prove. It's just a feeling I get every now and then. But over the years I've seen the best and the worst out here. I saw Jamie MacCallister go into action once. I've seen his son, Falcon, hook and draw. I personally know Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont. I've been working in Western cafes since I was ten years old." She smiled. "And I'm no kid, Frank. I've got more than a few years behind me. You just be careful today, all right?"
"All right, Angie."
Frank looked out the window. The Kid was still sitting on the bench across the street, staring at the cafe.
Frank paid his tab and stepped out onto the boardwalk. None of his mental warning alarms had been silently clanging that morning, so what did Angie feel that he didn't? And why? The Kid was in town, probably to try to provoke a showdown with him. That was something that Frank had felt all along was bound to happen—no surprise there. And it might well come to a head on this day. If so, so be it.
The hard cases she had mentioned? Did she personally know those bad ole boys, or had she just recognized the hard case look? Probably the latter, Frank concluded. And Frank knew that many toughs wore the same look, or demeanor.
Frank walked one side of the main street looking at the horses at the hitch rails. There were some fine-looking animals there, and none of them wore the same brand. But what did that prove conclusively? Nothing. Nothing at all.
Frank cut his eyes. Kid Moran was pacing him on the other side of the street. Maybe it was time for Frank to settle this thing. He hated to push it, but damned if he was going to put up with being shadowed indefinitely. It was already beginning to get on his nerves.
He looked up the street. Damned if more newcomers weren't pulling into town. Two wagons coming in, four outriders per wagon. And Frank felt that was odd. Most Indian trouble was over, so what could the newcomers be hauling to warrant eight guards? The wagons weren't riding that heavy.
Frank paused for a moment to watch the wagons as they rolled slowly into town. One wagon stopped at one end of the street; the other one rolled on and stopped at the far end of the main street.
"What the hell?" Frank muttered. He looked over at the bank building. The guard was just unlocking the front door, getting ready for another business day.
"'Mornin, Marshal," a citizen greeted Frank.
"'Morning," Frank responded.
The citizen strolled on, whistling a tune.
Frank looked at Kid Moran. The Kid was standing on the boardwalk, directly across the street, staring at Frank, smiling at him. Even at that distance, Frank could tell the
smile was taunting, challenging.
"What the hell is with you, boy?" Frank whispered. "What's going on here?"
Jerry walked up, smelling of bath soap and Bay Rum after-shave.
"Jerry," Frank greeted him.
"Frank," Jerry replied. "You're lookin' spiffy this mornin'. You're duded up mighty fancy."
"And you smell like you're goin' on a date," Frank said with a smile. "You got you a lady friend?"
Jerry laughed. "Well ... me and Miss Angle might go for a walk this mornin'. We both been makin' goo-goo eyes at each other here of late. She's a nice lady."
"Yes, she is. And a damn good cook, too."
Jerry patted his belly. "I know!"
"Going to get serious, Jer?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Luckily we're both adults, and have been up and down the road a time or two. It isn't something new to either of us. So we're cautious." Jerry paused and looked at the wagons that had just rolled into town. "What the devil are those wagons doing, Frank? Looks to me like they're going to block both ends of Main Street. My God, they are blocking both ends."
Frank looked first at one end of the street, then the other. The wagons were not long enough to completely block off the wide streets, even with the teams, but it looked as if they were sure going to cause some major problems for other wagons trying to get past.
"Frank, they're folding back the canvas on both wagons. Heck, maybe it's some sort of circus come to town, or some minstrel show. You reckon?"
"I don't know what's going on, Jer. But I damn sure intend to find out."
"I'll take this end," Jerry said, pointing. "You take the other."
"Marshal Morgan," Jiggs said, walking up. "What in the world is happening? Those wagons are blocking the street. That can't be allowed."
"We were just about to straighten out this mess, Jiggs."
"I swear, Marshal, some people have no consideration for others, do they?"
Before Frank could reply, Jerry said, "Frank, what is that machinery those guys are uncovering? I never seen no minin' equipment that looked like that."
Frank looked and felt cold sweat break out on his face. He blinked, thinking he was surely mistaken. He stared. No doubt about it: his first look was correct. "Those are Gatling guns, Jer!"
The Last Gunfighter: The Drifter Page 14