Someone, maybe Ned Pine and Vic Vanbergen, maybe Dutton, somebody, had set him up for sure. And the setup had worked to perfection. He was damn sure set up, and boxed in.
Frank had just bellied down behind the rocks when the bullets started flying all around him. All he could do for several minutes was keep his head down and hope that no bullet flattened out against the rocks and ricocheted into him.
He wriggled into better cover during a few seconds respite in the firing. He hadn't made any attempt to return the fire, for as yet he didn't have any idea where the gunmen were. He didn't know if there were two or ten of them. He knew only that if it lasted for very long he was in for one hell of a mighty dry fight. His canteen was on his horse, and the animal had wandered several dozen yards away—no way he could get to it. And there was little chance he could expect any help.
The firing began again, and this time Frank could pretty well add up the number of shooters he was facing, for not all of them were using the same caliber rifles. Five shooters, Frank figured. And several of them were slightly above him.
Two of the four assassins from the ambush in the valley and town were still alive; could they be a part of this?
Frank didn't believe so. But they could also very well be a part of a much larger picture. Maybe Dutton had hired an entire gang to rid himself of Vivian and Conrad. But why so much emphasis on him? Had Dutton found out that he was now a minor stockholder in the Henson Company?
"Damn," Frank muttered. "This is getting too complicated for a country boy."
Frank got lucky. He caught a quick glimpse of what looked like part of a man's arm sticking out from behind cover and snapped off a fast shot.
"Goddamn it!" he heard the man holler. "I'm hit. Oh, damn. I'm hit hard."
"Where you hit. Pat?"
"My elbow. It's busted. Can't use my arm at all."
"Hang on. I'm comin'."
The man who was heading to help his friend jumped up, and Frank dusted him, the .44-.40 round entering the man's body high up on one side and blowing out through his shoulder. The second shooter never made a sound. He folded like a house of cards and went down, his rifle clattering on the rocks.
Another voice was added. "Nick?"
Nick would never make another sound on this side of the misty vail.
"That bastard's got more luck than any man I ever seen," a third voice called.
"Yeah," a fourth voice shouted from off to Frank's left. "Let's get out of here, Mack. Let that damn lawyer fight his own battles. I'm done."
Frank waited for a few minutes, trying to pick up the sound of horses' hooves, but could hear nothing. They must have left their horses some distance away. Frank edged out of the rocks and ran a short distance to more cover. No shots came his way. He worked his way toward the higher ground cautiously. He found a blood trail that led off toward a clearing, but did not pursue it.
Working his way through the rocks, he found the dead man. He rolled the body over and went through the clothing, looking for some identification. He did find a wad of paper money ... several hundred dollars. He shoved that in his back jeans pocket and dragged the man out of the rocks, then went back for the shooter's rifle. He began looking around for the man's horse, and after a few minutes found it. He led the animal back and hoisted the body belly down across the saddle, tying him securely with rope.
Frank managed to get the bank teller's tarp-wrapped body roped down in the pack frame, then headed back to town.
Townspeople paused on the boardwalk, watching Frank ride slowly up the main street. Doc Bracken came out of his office to meet Frank in front of the jail.
"The bank teller fellow's in the tarp," Frank told him. "I think it is, anyways. The other one is part of a gang that tried to ambush me. It was a setup to get me out of town. You seen that damn Charles Dutton fellow?"
"The Boston lawyer?"
"Yes."
"Not lately. Not since the shoot-out, I'm sure."
"I'll find him. How is Vivian?"
"Weaker, Frank. It's down to hours now, I'm sure."
"Conrad?"
"Finally accepting the fact that his mother is not going to make it."
"I'll get those bodies over to Malone." Frank reached in his back pocket and pulled out the wad of bills. "The shooter had this money on him."
"I'd give Malone twenty-five dollars and keep the rest, I was you."
"I'll give it to Jerry." Frank grinned. "For a wedding present."
"He and Angie have sure been making cow's eyes at one another of late."
"He'll make her a good husband, and she'll make him a good wife. Doc, you think this town is going to last after the mines play out?"
"Yes, I do, Frank. I just heard that a big cattle outfit is going to come in. The town will lose about half its population when the mines go, maybe more than that, but the solid citizens will stay. Why do you ask?"
"I told you. Doc. I'm pulling out. Jerry will make a fine town marshal."
"We'll hate to see you go, Frank."
"I forget the name of the writer who wrote that line about all things coming to an end ... something like that. It's almost time for me to move on."
Dr. Bracken's nurse came running out of his office and over to the men. "Doctor! Mrs. Browning just slipped away."
Doc Bracken looked at Frank.
"Correction, Doc," Frank said. "It's time to move on."
Twenty-seven
"Mr. Dutton left several hours ago. Marshal," the clerk at the hotel told Frank. "He had to make a very hurried business trip to Denver."
"Oh? How did he leave? There was no stage scheduled."
"Well, he had some rather rough-looking men escorting him. I'd never seen any of them before today."
"Thanks."
So much for Dutton, Frank thought, standing outside the hotel. I'll deal with him when I find him ... if I ever find him. Frank had a hunch the Boston lawyer would never again set foot west of the Mississippi River.
The man who had told Frank about the body of the bank teller had hauled his butt out of town. No one had seen him before, and no one knew where he had gone. Another dead end. Undertaker Malone had stopped all other work to prepare Vivian's body. She was to be taken to the railroad spur line just across the border in Colorado and then to Denver. From there she would be transported back east for burial.
Conrad was to escort the body all the way back to Boston.
Frank walked over to Malone's funeral parlor. Conrad was sitting alone in the waiting room. He did not look up as Frank entered.
Frank took off his hat, hung it on a rack, and sat down beside his son. "Don't you think we'd better talk?"
"We have nothing to discuss. Marshal."
"I'm your father, Conrad."
"Biologically speaking, I suppose I have to accept that as fact. I don't have to like it. Mr. Browning was my father. He raised me."
"And he did a fine job. I didn't know I had a son until your mother told me just a short time ago." Just a few weeks back, Frank thought. And now she's gone ... forever. "I want you to believe that."
"I believe it, Marshal. But it doesn't change anything. I want you to believe that."
It's too soon to be discussing this, Frank thought. I made a mistake coming over here. The boy is too filled with grief.
"I know that mother left you a small percentage of the company, Marshal. I will honor her wishes. I won't contest it."
"I didn't ask her for any part of the company, Conrad."
"I believe that, too."
"You want me to leave you alone?"
"I don't care, Marshal. You have a right to be here."
"I loved her very much. I never stopped loving her." Conrad had nothing to say about that.
"Did Malone say when the"—Frank started to say "body" but he couldn't bring himself to form the word—"when people can stop by here to pay their respects?"
"In a few hours."
Frank stood up and snagged his hat off the rack. "I'll le
ave you alone for a time."
Conrad met Frank's eyes for the first time since Frank entered the waiting room. "I appreciate that, Marshal."
"Well, maybe I'll see you in a few hours."
"All right."
Frank was glad to leave the stuffy and strange-smelling waiting room of the funeral parlor. He had never liked those places. He stood on the boardwalk and took several deep breaths of fresh air, then looked up and down the street.
Another town I'll soon put behind me, Frank thought. In a few months they will have forgotten all about me, at least for the most part. The town's residents will settle back into a regular way of life ... and I'll do what I do best—drift.
No, Frank amended. Not just drift. I have a big job to do. I'll find the men responsible for your death, Viv. I promise you that. If it takes the rest of whatever life I have left, I'll do it.
The news of Vivian Browning's death spread quickly through the town. People spoke in hushed, sorrowful tones to Frank as he walked back to his office. At his desk he wrote out a letter of resignation, effective when Jerry was able to return to work ... which, according to Doc Bracken, would be in a couple of days. He dated and signed the notice, then sealed it in an envelope.
He checked on the prisoners, then walked over to his house and began packing up his possessions, leaving out a clean shirt, britches, socks, and longhandles. He went over to the livery and checked on his packhorse. The animal was glad to see him, perhaps sensing they would soon be again on the trail.
Frank stored his packed up possessions in the livery storeroom and then walked over to the cafe for a cup of coffee and perhaps a bite to eat. Angle took one look at Frank's expression and brought two cups and the coffeepot over to his table and joined him.
She touched his hand. "I'm sorry, Frank."
"I have to think it was for the best, Angie. Better than her starving to death. It was just her time to follow the light."
"That's beautiful, Frank. Follow the light. Frank? How is her son taking it?"
"He's all right. He's tougher than he looks."
"And you?"
"Getting ready to pull out. Just as soon as Jerry is on his feet."
"That quick?"
"Yes. I have things to do."
"I don't have to ask what those things are. Is that what Mrs. Browning would want?"
"It's what I want."
She lowered her eyes from his cold stare. She struggled to suppress a shiver. Looking into his eyes that day was like looking into a cold, musty grave. Years back, Angie had surprised a big puma feasting on a fresh kill. The puma did not attack, but the eyes were the same as Frank's—cold and deadly. Angie backed away quickly and left the puma alone to eat.
Frank drank his coffee, declined the offer of food, and walked over to Willis's General Store. There he bought bacon, beans, flour, and coffee. He bought a new jacket for the trail, for his old one was patched and worn. He took everything back to the office. There, he sat and waited.
* * * *
Frank did not return to the funeral parlor to view Vivian's body. He respected her wish that he not have that image in his brain.
The next morning, Jerry came limping into the office about ten o'clock.
"You supposed to be up, Jer?"
"Doc said it was all right long as I don't try to run any foot races. Mrs. Browning's body is being loaded into the wagon now, Frank, for transport to the rails."
"I know."
"You're not going over there?"
"No." Frank stood up. "You ready to be sworn in, Jer?"
"I reckon so, Frank. If that's what you want."
"Wait here." Frank walked over to the bank and got Mayor Jenkins. Ten minutes later, Frank had handed in his badge, and Jerry had been sworn in.
Frank shook hands with Jerry and the mayor and walked out of the office. He did not look back.
A half an hour later, he was on the trail. He didn't know where the Pine and Vanbergen gangs had gone, but he would find them. All of them. One at a time.
End
About the Author
William W. Johnstone was born in Southern Missouri, the youngest of four children. Raised with strong moral values by his minister father, and well-tutored by his school teacher mother, William quit school when he was fifteen.
He was kicked out of the French Foreign Legion for being under age and joined the carnival. But still valuing his education, he returned home to finish his high school education in 1957.
Bill went on to work as a deputy sheriff, did a hitch in the army, and began a career in radio broadcasting, where he worked daily on his verbal and storytelling skills for the next sixteen years on the air.
Mr. Johnstone started writing in 1970, but it wasn't until late 1979 when The Devil's Kiss was published that William Johnstone became a full-time writer in 1980. Since that time Bill has written over two hundred books in a variety of genres including action, suspense, western, science fiction, and horror.
To the true William W. Johnstone reader, he is a best-selling author admired for the great diversity in his writing talents. Though most known for his western adventures, Johnstone was also a visionary writer.
His prophetic stories within his Ashes Series, Code Name Series, and his science fiction books, predicting the Gulf War and the political climate we live in today, was ahead of it’s time when it was written.
The Last Gunfighter: The Drifter Page 19