Frank wished that things were different between him and Conrad, but wishing never brought a man much. Conrad had chosen to go his own way, and Frank had had no choice but to let him.
Now they were face-to-face again, and it was Conrad’s doing. That had to give Frank at least a little hope for a reconciliation.
Conrad had filled out some. He wasn’t a college boy anymore, but rather a young man in the prime of life, wearing an expensive suit and a fine hat. He had even cultivated a closely clipped mustache. He wore his sandy hair long, over his ears. Frank supposed that was not only to be fashionable, but also to cover up Conrad’s disfigured left ear, the top of which had been cruelly sliced off by one of the outlaws while he was their prisoner.
“I need to talk to you,” he said coolly to Frank. He gestured toward the barroom and went on. “Why don’t we go in there? I’m sure the smell of freshly burned gunpowder won’t bother you.”
Frank’s jaw tightened a little. That last comment hadn’t been necessary. It was starting to look as if Conrad wasn’t interested in being friends, let alone having a real father-and-son relationship with Frank after all.
If that was the case, then so be it. Frank said, “Sure. I’ll buy you a drink.”
They went into the barroom and sat down at a table well away from the spot where Jud Callahan had died. Without asking what Conrad wanted, Frank called over to the bartender to bring them each a beer.
“Excuse me,” Conrad said. “I’d rather have a cognac. With water on the side.”
Frank shrugged. He didn’t care what Conrad drank. “Your letter caught up to me while I was down in South Texas,” he said. “I’m glad I was able to get out here to El Paso while you’re still here.”
“I would have waited for you as long as I possibly could. It’s very important that we talk.”
Frank nodded. “I agree.”
“A lot of money is riding on it.”
Money . . . but Conrad’s impersonal tone made it clear that nothing else was involved here. This meeting was just business. That was all.
The bartender brought over their drinks. He still looked a little pale and shaken. Frank picked up the mug, sipped the beer, and said to Conrad, “Tell me about it. What brings you to El Paso?”
“I came to talk to you, of course.” Conrad took an appreciative sip of his cognac. “This is the closest large city to Ophir . . . although compared to Boston, it’s hardly a city at all, of course.”
Frank’s eyes narrowed. “What’s Ophir?”
“I’m getting ahead of myself,” Conrad said with a little shake of his head. “Perhaps I’d better start at the beginning.”
“That’s always a good place,” Frank murmured.
“Since my graduation from Harvard I’ve taken a more active hand in the running of our businesses. I trust you’ve been getting regular reports from your attorneys?”
Frank nodded. “When I stay in one place long enough for them to catch up to me.”
“Then you’ve seen for yourself that the various companies are doing quite well and turning a healthy profit.”
“You’ve done a good job. I’m sure your mother would be very proud of you.”
Frank saw Conrad’s fingers tighten on the glass and supposed he shouldn’t have mentioned Vivian. That just dredged up bad memories and piled them on the table between them.
“Yes, well, you may not be aware that we’ve recently purchased a railroad.”
Frank’s eyebrows went up. “No, I don’t recollect seeing anything about that.”
“The New Mexico, Rio Grande, and Oriental line. We’re building a spur route from Lordsburg up to Ophir, in southwestern New Mexico Territory.”
“So Ophir is a town. I hadn’t heard of it.”
“A boomtown actually. It hasn’t been there very long. It sprang up because of the gold and copper and silver deposits in the area. There are quite a few lucrative mines near there in the Mogollon and Mimbres Mountains.”
Frank nodded. He was familiar with the area, although it had been a long time since he’d passed through those parts.
“Browning Mines and Manufacturing owns several of those mines,” Conrad went on with a note of pride in his voice. “I expect that they will make us richer than we already are. As will the railroad too, of course . . . if it gets built.”
That last bit sounded a little ominous to Frank. “Having trouble with the railroad?” he asked.
Conrad got a pained look on his face. “The railroad has been nothing but trouble, right from the start. We’ve run into numerous delays. Some trouble is to be expected, of course, in an undertaking as major as the construction of a rail line, but I’m not just talking about bad weather and construction difficulties. According to the superintendent, there have been numerous instances of deliberate destruction. On top of that, one of our payroll shipments was stolen, and the workers threatened to quit unless they received a bonus to compensate them for their pay being late. To make matters worse, they’ve also been threatened by some of the local savages.”
“Indian trouble?” Frank asked with a frown. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard about any of that. Old Victorio was killed more than ten years ago down in Mexico, and Geronimo and his warriors are on the White Mountain Reservation, living in peace for a change.”
“Not all of them evidently. From what I’ve been told, the marauders are definitely Apaches.”
Frank drank some more of his beer and mulled that over. While supposedly all the young men had surrendered to the U.S. Army along with Geronimo several years earlier, it was possible that a few bands of renegades were still hiding out in the mountains. There had always been rumors of such things, and they were aggravated every time any horses went missing from some isolated rancho.
“It sounds like you have trouble, all right,” Frank said after a moment.
“We have trouble,” Conrad corrected him. “Although your percentage is relatively small, you own part of these businesses too.”
“I let other folks handle that,” Frank said with a shrug. “Folks who know what they’re doing when it comes to that sort of thing.”
“Who knows more than the famous Drifter about handling trouble?”
There was a slight sneer in Conrad’s voice as he asked the rhetorical question. Frank felt anger flare inside him. From the sound of things, Conrad was getting around to asking for his help, but yet the young man couldn’t keep from expressing, at least a little, his disapproval of his father. Maybe what Frank ought to do, he thought, was tell Conrad to stomp his own snakes.
But before Frank could do or say anything, a heavy footstep sounded in the entrance to the barroom. Frank glanced in that direction and saw a bulky man in a dusty black suit coming into the room. Light from the oil lamps reflected on the tin star pinned to his lapel. He spotted Frank and Conrad sitting at the table and came toward them with a determined look on his dark-complected face.
“Frank Morgan?” he said as he came up to the table.
Frank nodded. “That’s me.”
“I hear tell you killed a man in here a while ago.”
“That’s right. He drew first, or at least he tried to.”
The lawman snorted. “Hell, you’re The Drifter! Anytime you draw against anybody, it’s the same thing as murder in my book.”
“Then it’s a good thing for me your book isn’t the same as the law,” Frank said.
The man glared at him. “I’m the constable hereabouts, name of John Selman. I’d arrest you if I could, Morgan, but since I can’t, I’ll just say I want you out of El Paso.”
“A warning like that usually comes from the sheriff or the city marshal,” Frank pointed out. “I don’t see them here.”
“My say-so’s good enough,” Selman blustered. “Better get on your horse and ride.”
Frank had heard of John Selman, although their trails had never crossed before. The man had a long reputation as a shootist and a shady character operating on both sides of th
e law. Frank considered it a minor miracle that someone like Selman had evidently been legally elected to a law enforcement position, but he supposed that was the prerogative of the citizens of El Paso.
“I won’t be in town for long,” Frank said. “I have business elsewhere.”
“Well, see that you don’t linger. The law can’t guarantee your safety from Simon Callahan. You killed his brother, and he’s liable to come after you to settle the score.”
“And you wouldn’t lose any sleep over it if Callahan was successful in that, would you, Constable?”
“Not a damn bit,” Selman growled. “I hate all you famous gun-throwers. Somebody ought to shoot the whole lot of you.”
“But it won’t be you, will it, Selman? Not unless they all turn their backs on you.”
Frank knew it was a harsh thing to say, but he felt a deep, abiding, instinctive dislike for John Selman. The man just had the look of a backshooter about him.
Selman’s face turned pale with rage, but he was able to contain his anger. “I’ve had my say,” he snapped. “If you stay in El Paso, then whatever happens is on your head, Morgan.”
Frank didn’t say anything. After a minute, the fuming Selman turned and stalked out of the barroom. His boot heels rang on the lobby floor as he crossed to the hotel entrance and slammed out.
“I see you make friends just as easily as ever,” Conrad commented dryly.
“I’m not interested in being friends with a polecat like Selman.” Frank drained the last of his beer and set the empty mug aside. “Now, Conrad, you were talking about all the trouble you’re having getting this railroad spur to Ophir built.”
“Yes, and I was wondering. . . .” Conrad paused and drank the last of his cognac, chasing it with water from the glass at his side. He took a deep breath, obviously struggling with what he was trying to say. Finally, he blurted out, “I was wondering if you’d help.”
“Help get that spur line through?” Frank asked, wanting to make sure there was no misunderstanding.
“That’s right.”
“I don’t know a damn thing about building a railroad.”
“I do,” Conrad said confidently, “and so does my construction superintendent. What we need you to do is to find out who’s responsible for all the problems plaguing us and put a stop to them.”
“In whatever way is necessary?”
“In whatever way is necessary,” Conrad said flatly. “The company has sunk a great deal of money into this project already. Not only that, but to make the most from our mining interests that we can, that railroad needs to go through. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that our financial survival depends on this, but it is important, Frank. Very important.”
Although he hated to admit it even to himself, there was a part of Frank that wanted to tell Conrad to go straddle a stump. The boy had made it plain, not only today but in all their previous encounters, that he didn’t like Frank, didn’t think of him as a father, and just flat didn’t have much use for him.
But that had changed now, at least the part about not having any use for him. Now Conrad needed him. But not as a father. No, not that.
He needed Frank Morgan’s skill as a gunfighter.
Walk away, Frank told himself. Stand up, walk out of here, and don’t look back. The boy had wanted to stand on his own two feet. Now let him.
And yet, Conrad didn’t know how to handle a situation like this. He had no idea what he was facing. If Frank refused him, he would have to hire some other troubleshooter, somebody who might not be as honest or as capable as Frank was.
“All right,” Frank said, “I’ll do it. . . .”
A look of relief began to appear on Conrad’s face.
“For a hundred dollars a month and expenses,” Frank finished.
“What?” Conrad asked, a startled frown on his face.
“A hundred a month and expenses,” Frank repeated. “Those are fighting wages. At least, they used to be the last time I took a job like this.”
Conrad stared across the table at him. “Let me get this straight.... You want me to hire you?”
“Seems fair,” Frank said with a shrug. “Since we’re just talking business and all.”
“But . . . you own part of the company!”
“You’ll be paying me with company funds, so I reckon I’ll be footing part of the bill for my own wages. You don’t hear me complaining about that.”
“This is insane! You’re my—” Conrad stopped short. Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Oh. This is your way of getting back at me for not calling you Daddy.”
“I’ve told you my terms,” Frank said. “Take ’em or leave ’em.”
Conrad glared at him for a moment before a resigned look came over his face. “I’ll take them,” he said.
Frank held out his hand. Conrad hesitated for a second, and then the two men shook on it.
Chapter 3
Since it was too late in the afternoon to get very far, they made arrangements to leave El Paso the next day. That would give Frank a chance to stock up on supplies too.
“You have a saddle horse?” he asked his son.
Conrad shook his head. “No, I arrived here on the train, and I haven’t had need of a horse.”
“You need one now,” Frank said. “I’ll see about getting you a good mount.”
“We could take the train to Lordsburg,” Conrad suggested.
“No, I’d rather ride. Stormy doesn’t cotton much to being cooped up in a train car, and neither does Dog.”
For that matter, Frank didn’t care much for it either. He preferred being out in the open air. It would take several days longer that way, of course, but the ride would be a pleasant one in the mild spring weather.
And maybe he was just being a little contrary, he told himself, as well as curious. He wanted to get Conrad on the back of a horse and see how the boy handled himself.
Conrad was also staying at the Grand Central Hotel. Built by former Army officer and El Paso businessman Anson Mills, it was the finest hotel in the city, quite possibly the finest between San Antonio and Los Angeles. Frank thought they might have dinner together in the Grand Central’s dining room, but Conrad begged off.
“If we’re going to be traveling all the way to Ophir on horseback, I need my rest,” he said. “I believe I’ll take dinner in my room and retire early.”
“Suit yourself,” Frank said with a shrug. “Just be ready to ride first thing in the morning.”
“If you insist.”
Frank’s lips tightened, but he didn’t say anything. He went up to his own room, dropped off his saddlebags, and then walked down the street to Gomez’s Livery, where he had left Stormy and Dog.
Pablo Gomez was a wiry little Mexican with sweeping white mustaches and a knowing way with a horse. Even Stormy seemed to like him, and the Appaloosa was pretty much a one-man horse. Frank saw that Stormy had been placed in a roomy stall with clean straw and had been curried and combed as well. Dog appeared content too, lying in the entrance of the livery barn with his tongue lolling out.
Frank rubbed the thick fur around the big wolflike creature’s neck, then said to Gomez, “I need to buy another saddle horse.”
“Why, Señor?” the little stableman asked. “You will not find one anywhere that is better than the horse you rode in here.”
“I know, but this is for somebody else. A . . . business associate.”
Frank didn’t know if Conrad had mentioned their relationship to anyone in El Paso. It might be better to keep that quiet. More than once in the past, trouble had descended on Conrad’s head simply because he was the son of Frank Morgan. It wasn’t fair, but it was a fact and had to be dealt with.
“This man, is he a good rider?” asked Gomez.
Frank remembered seeing Conrad dressed up in a fancy English riding outfit, sitting an odd-looking little saddle that didn’t even have a horn on it. He had wondered at the time how in the hell a fella was supposed to take a dally with a s
addle like that, in case he needed to dab a loop on something. He supposed that gents who used such saddles didn’t do much lasso work.
Despite those trappings, though, Conrad had stayed on the back of his horse just fine. He’d had plenty of practice back in Boston. So Frank nodded and said to Gomez, “He can ride.”
The Mexican crooked a finger and led Frank out to the corral behind the barn. “That one,” he said, pointing to a fine-looking black horse mingling with the other horses in the corral.
Frank let out a little whistle of admiration.
“His name is El Diablo,” Gomez went on. “He has plenty of speed and stamina, what you Texans call sand. You can ride him all day and he will not tire.”
Frank sensed that something wasn’t quite right, despite what Gomez said. A horse that impressive, with all the good qualities Gomez listed, ought to cost a pretty penny. “How much?” he asked.
“For you, Señor . . . with saddle and tack thrown in . . . two hundred American dollars.”
“I expected you to say at least five hundred,” Frank said with a frown.
Gomez shrugged eloquently. “El Diablo was born and bred to be a racehorse. He is fast enough. But when you put him on a track with other horses . . . they run away from him. He is happy to run behind them, no matter how hard his rider whips him. He has not the . . . the fire in the belly, Señor. So his owner, in disgust, brings him to me and says, ‘Gomez, sell this horse for me. I do not care how much you get for him, just sell him fast, so I can forget about what a disappointment he is to me, what a dagger in my heart it is to see him running behind horses he could easily defeat.’”
The little stable man sighed and shook his head dramatically.
“So that’s the story, is it?” Frank asked.
“Sí,Señor. As a horse to ride, El Diablo will do very well for your friend. It is only as a racehorse that he is unsuited.”
“Let me take a closer look at him.”
“Of course, Señor.”
Savage Country Page 2