If the name meant anything to the butler, for once Frank couldn’t see it in the man’s eyes. The butler turned to him and asked, “What’s the nature of your business? I’ll have to explain to Mr. Chamberlain why you wish to see him.”
“It’s about the bounty,” Frank said. “The bounty on that thing the loggers call the Terror.”
The butler’s eyes widened slightly, but only for a second before he controlled the reaction. He said, “Have you come to collect? Do you have the creature’s head with you?”
“No, and no,” Frank said. “I don’t much believe in bounties, and I sure don’t believe in hacking off somebody’s head just to collect one.”
“I don’t understand. Why do you wish to see Mr. Chamberlain if you don’t intend to collect the reward?”
“That’s between him and me.”
The butler looked at Rockwell. “I fail to see why you brought this man to the house. I don’t think he has any need to see Mr. Chamberlain—”
“I do,” Rockwell said. “Like I told you, he’s Frank Morgan.”
The butler shook his head. “Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”
“He’s The Drifter, for God’s sake! He’s a gunfighter. Some say the last real gunfighter, since Smoke Jensen and Matt Bodine hung up their guns and Wes Hardin’s dead. If he’s got something to say, I reckon the boss would be well-advised to listen.”
“Very well,” the butler said with a sigh. “Please, come in, Mr. Morgan. I’ll see if Mr. Chamberlain is willing to speak with you.”
Frank took off his hat as he stepped into the house. “Much obliged, Mister…?”
“Dennis, sir. Just Dennis. No mister required.”
“See you later, Morgan,” Rockwell said as he stepped back from the door. He lifted a hand in farewell, a gesture that Frank returned. He didn’t particularly like Rockwell, but the man didn’t seem like a bad sort.
“You can wait in the library,” Dennis said. The redwood floor in the foyer had been polished to a high sheen. The hallway down which the butler led Frank was the same way. Portraits of stern-looking men and impassive women hung on the walls.
Dennis ushered Frank through a pair of double doors into a large, rather dark room. Bookshelves lined all four walls from floor to ceiling. The furnishings consisted of a writing desk and several comfortable-looking armchairs. Thick drapes hung over the room’s single window. They were pulled back part of the way to let in some light.
“I’ll advise Mr. Chamberlain that you’re here, sir,” Dennis said.
“No hurry,” Frank told him, and meant it. The sight of all these books intrigued him. Like a lot of men who spent most of their time alone, he was an avid reader and nearly always had a book or two, sometimes more, stuffed in his saddlebags. He wouldn’t mind taking a look at the volumes Rutherford Chamberlain had collected.
Dennis left the room, closing the doors behind him. Frank set his Stetson on one of the chairs and walked over to the nearest bookshelf. Most of the books were bound in expensive leather. He always read cheap editions, because they took quite a beating from being toted around in his saddlebags. He spotted a novel he had read before and enjoyed, Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. This was a different edition, though, so he was about to take it down and flip through it when he heard the library doors open behind him. He turned, expecting to see either Rutherford Chamberlain or the butler Dennis, explaining that Chamberlain had refused to see him.
Instead, a blond, very attractive young woman had stopped just inside the library, and she seemed to be as surprised to see Frank as he was to see her.
Chapter 5
“I’m sorry, I was looking for my father,” she said. “Were you waiting to speak to him?”
So she was Chamberlain’s daughter, Frank thought. She was probably used to seeing men with pomaded hair, wearing expensive suits, waiting in here for her father—not hombres in dusty old range clothes.
And not hombres who were packing iron either, he thought as he saw her startled gaze go to the Colt on his hip.
“That’s right, Miss Chamberlain,” he said. “My name is Frank Morgan.”
She didn’t seem to recognize the name any more than Dennis had. “Father knows you’re here?”
“I suppose he does. That fella Dennis went to tell him.”
“I see. Do you mind if I ask what your business is with my father?”
She came closer as she asked the question. Frank saw intelligence in her brown eyes. He saw something else, too. Worry at the very least. Maybe even fear.
He was too polite to refuse to answer. Anyway, he was curious about her interest. He said, “I want to speak to Mr. Chamberlain about the bounty he’s placed on that thing they call the Terror.”
The young woman wore a dark blue dress with long sleeves and a high neckline. Despite its demure cut, the dress was snug enough to reveal an excellent figure. Her breasts lifted as she inhaled sharply, and the look in her eyes definitely became one of fear.
“Are you here to collect?” she said. That was the same question Dennis had asked, Frank noted, but there was a lot more urgency in this young woman’s voice. “Have…have you killed…it?”
Frank shook his head. “No, ma’am, I haven’t. I haven’t even seen it.”
She sighed in relief.
“But I’ve seen its handiwork,” Frank went on. “It killed eight men this afternoon.”
The blonde shrank back a step as if he had lifted a fist and threatened to hit her. “No!” she said, the exclamation coming from her in a strained half whisper. “That can’t be true!”
He knew she wasn’t actually calling him a liar. She just didn’t want to believe what he had told her. Nodding solemnly, he said, “I’m afraid it is. I saw the bodies myself. They’ve been taken into Eureka.”
“Do you…do you know who they were?”
“Six of them were loggers from a crew working about five miles south of here,” Frank said. “The other two men were hunters who were after the bounty on the Terror. It got them instead of the other way around.”
“How…how terrible.”
He had a feeling that she had to force herself to say it, as though she was glad it hadn’t been the other way around.
“Are you going after the Terror, Mr. Morgan?” she continued.
“I’m not a bounty hunter, of men or monsters,” he said. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going after the Terror—he hadn’t decided about that yet—but if she got that impression from his words, fine. He went on. “What do you know about it? Have you ever seen it?”
She didn’t answer him. Instead she looked around, then said, “I have to go.” Before Frank could say anything else, she turned and disappeared through the double doors. He heard the quick patter of her feet on the hardwood floor of the corridor.
A second later, more footsteps approached the library. These were heavier, a hard, determined stride that had to belong to Rutherford Chamberlain. The young woman must have heard them coming. Frank thought that must be why she had rushed out of the library. For some reason, she didn’t want her father to know that she had been in here talking to the visitor.
The woman had left the doors open. A moment later, a man in a brown tweed suit appeared in them. He was about the same height as Frank, and his broad shoulders indicated that he had been a powerful man at one time. Age had drained him of some of his vitality, though. Age and perhaps grief, Frank thought as he recalled Rockwell’s comment about how Chamberlain’s wife had died several years earlier. Chamberlain’s hair and mustache were iron gray. Deep-set eyes looked out from a face that tended toward gauntness. The collar of his shirt was a little too big for his turkey neck.
Despite his appearance, there was nothing the least bit frail about his voice. It was deep and commanding. “You’re Morgan?” he asked as he came into the library.
“That’s right.”
“I’m told that you’re a…gunfighter. What’s your business with me, s
ir?”
Right to the point. That was fine with Frank. “It’s about the bounty on the Terror.”
Chamberlain gave an impatient wave of his hand. “You’re free to go after it just like anyone else. You don’t have to make any special arrangements in advance.”
“I don’t want the bounty,” Frank said. “I think you should call it off.”
“Call it off?” A snort of disbelief came from the timber baron. “That creature has killed almost half a dozen men. If the bounty helps rid the forest of it, the money will be well worth it, sir.”
“It’s killed more than half a dozen men now. Eight more died this afternoon.”
Chamberlain’s eyes widened in a look of shock. “Eight men?” he repeated, his voice going hoarse. “But who…how…”
Quickly, Frank explained about the deaths of the loggers and the two bounty hunters. As he spoke, the hollows in Rutherford Chamberlain’s cheeks became even more pronounced. “Dear Lord,” he whispered when Frank was finished. “Dear Lord.” Chamberlain’s back stiffened. “Perhaps I should invoke the Devil’s name instead, since that creature must come from the foulest, deepest pits of Hell!”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Frank said. “All I know is that you’re going to have more men dying in those woods if you leave that bounty in force. They’ll be killing each other by accident, rather than running into the Terror. It almost happened this afternoon.”
He told Chamberlain what had happened when the two groups of bounty hunters opened fire on each other. Chamberlain’s impatience grew visibly as he listened.
“It’s not my fault if those men are careless,” he snapped. “I fail to see where it’s my responsibility.”
“Your bounty is the reason they’re out there in the first place, running around the woods and shooting at everything that moves,” Frank argued. “You can put a stop to it by spreading the word that there’s not going to be any bounty.”
Chamberlain shook his head stubbornly. “I won’t do it. I want that thing dead, no matter what it takes.”
“What about when your own loggers start getting shot by men who are hunting the Terror? That won’t be very good for morale among your crews. They’re liable to walk off the job.”
Chamberlain frowned for a moment as if that possibility hadn’t occurred to him, but then a sneer replaced the frown. “There are always more men looking for jobs,” he declared. “If anyone is afraid to work in the woods, let him quit and I’ll simply hire someone to replace him. Anyway,” Chamberlain went on, “don’t you think I’ve already had men quit because they’re afraid of the Terror?”
Frank supposed Chamberlain had a point there. “All I’m saying is that the woods aren’t going to be safe for anybody as long as a bunch of trigger-happy fools are roaming around with visions of ten thousand dollars in their heads.”
Chamberlain looked at him intently for a moment, then said, “Ah, now I see where this is going. You want me to rescind the bounty and then hire you to hunt down and kill the monster. And I suppose the fee you’ll suggest will be the same amount as the bounty, only you won’t have to deal with any competition.”
The accusation took Frank by surprise. He shook his head and said, “You’ve got it all wrong, Chamberlain. I didn’t come here to get the job for myself.”
“Why not?” Chamberlain hooked his thumbs in his vest and glared at Frank. “You’re a gunfighter. You admitted as much. That means you sell your skills as a killer to the highest bidder, doesn’t it?”
“I’m not a hired gun,” Frank snapped. “Never have been. Any time I’ve fought, it was to save my life or the life of someone else, or because I believed in a cause.”
“If you kill the Terror, you’ll be saving the lives of all the men who might die because of it in the future.” Chamberlain nodded emphatically. “Now that I think about it, this is an excellent idea. Set one cold-blooded killer to catch another. I like it.”
Anger welled up inside Frank. “I reckon we’re done here,” he said as he picked up his hat and took a step toward the library doors.
“Wait a moment, Mr. Morgan,” Chamberlain said. “I’ll do what you want. I’ll rescind the bounty on the Terror…but only if you agree to hunt down and kill the creature yourself.”
Frank shook his head. “Forget it.”
“Of course, since you’ve seen what the monster can do, I can understand if you’re afraid to go after it by yourself.”
Frank had to laugh, a reaction that startled Chamberlain. “I’ve had plenty of damned fools try to prod me into gunfights by calling me a coward,” he said. “It didn’t work then, and it’s not going to work now. You can say whatever you want. I’m not taking the job.”
“Then I suppose we are done, just as you say,” Chamberlain responded coldly.
Frank clapped his hat on his head, gave the timber baron a curt nod, and started toward the door.
“But you realize, of course,” Chamberlain added to his back, “this means the ten-thousand-dollar bounty is still in effect.”
“Folks do foolish things all the time,” Frank said without turning around. “I can’t talk sense into all of them.”
He stalked out of the library and headed toward the front of the house. The butler, Dennis, wasn’t around, but Frank didn’t need any help finding his way out.
Just before he reached the front door, though, a voice spoke from a door to the side of the foyer. “Mr. Morgan, please wait.”
Frank stopped and frowned. He turned and saw Chamberlain’s daughter standing there just inside the open doorway, which led into what appeared to be a small sitting room.
“I need to talk to you,” she went on.
“I don’t want to be rude, Miss Chamberlain,” he said, “but your father and I have finished our business.”
“I know. I hope you’ll forgive me, but…I was listening just outside the library door. I knew you were talking about…the Terror…and I wanted to hear what you said.”
Frank remembered her earlier reaction. He might be wrong, but he thought the idea that the Terror had been killed had frightened her. He didn’t have any idea why that would be true, but the possibility intrigued him enough that he wanted to find out if his hunch was right.
“Your father’s liable to try to have me thrown out if he realizes I’m still here, but I reckon I can spare you a minute or two.”
“Thank you,” she said, obviously relieved. “Please, come in here, where we won’t be disturbed.”
She moved back. Frank stepped into the sitting room, which was furnished with a pair of armchairs and a small table with a lamp on it. The blonde eased the door closed, then turned to face Frank, whose natural courtesy where womenfolks was concerned had prompted him to remove his hat again. Holding the Stetson in front of him, he asked, “What can I do for you?”
“We haven’t been formally introduced,” she said. “My name is Nancy Chamberlain.”
Frank nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, miss. Wish it had been under better circumstances.”
“So do I. I heard my father offer you the job of tracking down and killing the Terror.”
“Yes, ma’am. I turned him down, though.”
“He said he’d take back that damned bounty if you did.”
The vehemence in her voice surprised him. So did the way she clasped her hands together in front of her, so tightly that she squeezed the blood out of her fingers and made them turn pale.
“That’s right,” Frank said. “I don’t think the bounty’s a good idea, but I still don’t want the job.”
“I wish you’d take it,” she said. “You look like the sort of man who…who can handle a difficult job.”
“You want me to find the Terror and kill it?”
Nancy Chamberlain shook her head. She took a deep breath and said, “No, Mr. Morgan, I want you to find the Terror…and bring him home.”
“Him?” Frank repeated with a surprised frown.
“That’s right. You see,
Mr. Morgan, the Terror is my brother.”
Chapter 6
Frank couldn’t help but stare at her. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from her, but the news that the Terror was not only human, but her brother as well, sure wasn’t it.
That would help explain, though, why she had seemed to be more worried about the Terror than about the men who had died that afternoon.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to explain that, ma’am,” Frank said slowly.
Nancy’s fingers knotted together even tighter. “What people have started calling the Terror…he’s my brother, Benjamin. He’s not a monster, not at all.”
“Miss Chamberlain, less than two hours ago I talked to a man who had just seen the Terror. He said the thing was nine feet tall, covered with hair, and had claws so big and sharp that it could, well, tear men apart with them.”
Nancy grimaced and shook her head. “You know how people exaggerate when they’re scared. Ben is big…well over six feet, in fact…and I suppose since he’s been living in the woods, his hair and beard have gotten a little long and shaggy. As for the claws, I just don’t believe it.”
“I saw what they did with my own eyes,” Frank said as gently as he could. “It was bad, ma’am, mighty bad.”
“I don’t care!” Nancy burst out. “Ben couldn’t hurt anyone! He’s too gentle! And if he did, it…it’s not his fault…. There’s something wrong in his head…”
She raised her hands, covered her face with them, and began to sob.
Despite his age and experience and almost supernatural skill with a gun, Frank was like most men in one respect: He didn’t have any idea what to do when confronted by a crying woman. He shifted his feet awkwardly, thought about patting Nancy on the shoulder and saying, “There, there,” then decided that would probably be the wrong thing to do. So he just waited quietly instead.
After a couple of minutes, Nancy’s sobs died away to sniffles. She lowered her hands from her red-eyed face and looked at Frank. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you, ma’am,” he said. “But like I told you, I saw those men who’d been killed. It’s hard to believe that whatever did it could even be human.”
The Last Gunfighter Page 4