The dog looked at him and wagged his tail.
“Dog it is.”
Frank drank his coffee and watched as Dog scratched himself... several times. And that got Frank scratching himself.
“This won’t do,” Frank muttered, rising from the bunk. He went outside, Dog following, and began looking around. He found a wooden bucket with a broken handle and a large metal pot in a pile of junk in back of the shed. “You’re going to have a bath,” he told Dog.
He filled the bucket with water from the creek several times and toted it inside, filling up the large metal pot. He stoked up the fire in the old cookstove and while the water heated, he got a large bar of soap from his supplies.
Dog sensed what was about to happen and hit the trail. It took Frank about fifteen minutes to coax him back and get a rope on him. “Now you get a bath, Dog.”
By the time Frank finished, they both had gotten a bath. But Dog was free of fleas . . . at least for the time being.
Frank fixed Dog a place to sleep in a corner of the room and pointed to it. “You sleep there,” he told the animal.
Dog looked at him, and promptly dragged the old blanket to a place under the bunk and lay down.
“All right,” Frank said, laughing. “I won’t argue with you. Stay put.”
Frank fixed another pot of coffee, and then sat down and made a list of the things he was going to have to buy in town. Then he built up the fire in the fireplace and fixed a cup of coffee. Sitting on the edge of the bunk, he rolled himself a smoke.
“I’m going to have to buy a chair,” he said. “Maybe a rocking chair,” he mused. “Hell, why not just go ahead and file on this place? It’s quiet enough. There hasn’t been one person ride by since I got here, and this strike probably won’t last long. It’ll be a place to come back to. Yeah, I’ll do that. That suit you, Dog?”
Dog wagged his tail.
“All right. That’s settled.”
Frank had money. Vivian had left him a percentage of the Henson Company and Conrad had not contested it. Frank didn’t know how much it was worth, but knew it was considerable. He probably would never have to worry about money again.
He smiled at that thought, thinking: Hell, I’ve never worried about money in my life.
He got up to pour another cup of coffee, and was walking back to the bunk when he heard a wagon rattle up and the driver whoa his team.
Frank told Dog to stay put and to his surprise, the animal obeyed him. He stepped outside on the small porch.
“Howdy,” the man on the wagon seat called.
“Howdy,” Frank replied.
“You settlin’ in, hey?” Before Frank could reply, the man said, “Well, you can shore have it, mister. That damn Henson Company’s done got all the good claims sewed up tighter than a miser’s purse.”
“I’ll just look around and maybe try my hand at panning.”
“Good luck to you.”
“Thanks. Say, you don’t know who owns this place, do you?”
“Nobody, mister. Same with my place down the way. I done checked on that. Too far away from the strike. You wouldn’t be interested in buyin’ some furniture, would you? I’d sure like to lighten this load.”
“Maybe. What do you have?”
Frank bought a table and chairs, a rocking chair, a bed with a nice feather tick, some bedding, a washtub, and some dishes and cooking utensils. It was too late to ride into the nearest land office to check on the property; he would do that tomorrow.
Frank arranged his new purchases, and found that he had suddenly turned a cabin into a home. Dog carefully smelled each new piece of furniture, and then walked over to his place under the bunk, lay down, and went to sleep.
It was full dark outside and a cold wind was blowing. Frank built a fire, made sure there was water in Dog’s bucket, then went to bed.
He went to sleep with a smile on his face. He liked this quiet place. Maybe he had found a home after all his long years of wandering.
He hoped so.
Four
Frank put Dog’s bedding on the front porch and told the animal to stay. The dog lay down and looked at him.
“I’ll be back,” Frank told him. “Count on it. And if I decide to leave for good, you’ll go with me. All right?”
Dog yawned.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Frank mounted up and rode into the mining camp.
The new town—as yet unnamed—was crowded with men seeking their fortune. A few wore pistols; most did not. Frank did not see anyone who looked or dressed like a gunfighter or trouble-hunter. But they would come, he was sure of that.
He went to the same general store he’d stopped at the day before, and bought enough supplies to last him for a week or so. Then he walked over to the land office and filed on his land.
“You sure filed on a lot of land. You find something way out there, mister?” the clerk asked.
“No, and I’m not looking. It’s quiet out there and that’s the way I like it.”
The clerk looked down at the name, then blinked and looked again. “Are you really? . . .” He swallowed hard and met Frank’s eyes.
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, ah ... I mean. Ah ... welcome to Gold Camp, Mr. Morgan.”
“Gold Camp?”
“That what some folks has taken to calling this place.”
“It’s as good as any name, I suppose.” Frank looked at the papers he’d just signed. “Is that it?”
“That’s it, Mr. Morgan. You now own, if you prove it up and keep the taxes paid, one hundred and sixty acres of the most worthless land in this territory.”
Frank smiled. “It’s priceless to me.”
“You plannin’ on doin’ some pannin’?”
“No. I just want to live quietly.”
“Good luck.”
Frank left the land office and walked over to the nearest cafe. He had an early lunch, which wasn’t very good, then decided to walk around the fast-growing town and get a feel for his surroundings.
He hadn’t walked fifty yards before he spotted Conrad Browning walking up the newly laid and rough boardwalk on the other side of the street. Frank quickly stepped into a saloon and stood on one side of the batwings, watching his son.
Conrad had two men with him, one in front, one in the rear. Bodyguards obviously. Very capable-looking men, but judging by their dress, not Western men.
Conrad walked on up the street and out of sight. Frank sighed and turned around, walking to the long bar. He really didn’t want a drink, but to better fit in with the already crowded bar, he ordered a beer.
Outside, the sounds of hammering and sawing easily penetrated the canvas-covered wooden frame of the saloon. Many of the buildings in the mining camp were canvas and wood. They would last just about as long as the gold strike, Frank figured. Maybe through the winter.
Frank sipped his beer, which was flat-tasting, and listened to the talk all around him. So far, no one had recognized him and pointed him out, but that was just a matter of time, for the man at the land office would be sure to spread the word.
Sipping his beer, Frank thought about making this his permanent home. If he was going to do that—and he was determined to do it—he’d better get busy building a small barn, or adding on to the lean-to, installing windows in the cabin, and building a fence around it.
Frank set his beer mug down on the bar. He’d start with that right now.
Back on the street, Frank stopped to ask questions of a crew working on a permanent structure on the main street.
“Where did you boys get the lumber and nails and such?” Frank asked.
One of the men pointed up the long and busy street. “See that fellow yonder in the lead freight wagon, just stopping in front of the Lucky Lode Saloon? That’s Wally Spalding. He runs a sawmill and freight service. He’ll fix you right up, for a price, and he ain’t cheap.”
“Thanks.”
Frank arranged with Wally for several loads of lumber to
be delivered to his cabin. Wally said he had it in stock and would deliver it to his place the next day, along with nails and such. Frank started to pay the man on the spot, and Wally smiled and held up a hand.
“I know who are you, Morgan. I recognized you right off. Your word is good with me. You’re going to need a hammer and saw and file and everything else, I reckon. I’ll bring it and you can pick it out.”
Frank thanked the man and said he’d see him the next day. Then he walked over to the general store and did some more shopping. His packhorse was loaded down with supplies when he rode out of town.
Dog was so excited to see Frank, he almost spooked the horses with his barking and racing around the yard when Frank rode up to the side of the cabin.
Frank calmed him down and got the horses in the lean-to, then began carrying his supplies into the cabin and putting them away.
“Shelves,” he said aloud. “Have to build some shelves too.” He looked around the cabin. “And have some lady in town fix up curtains for me.” He smiled. “After I replace the glass, that is.”
Frank built a fire in the cookstove, fixed a pot of coffee, had a couple of cups and a smoke, then started toting in water to heat. He carefully scrubbed and washed all the bedding he’d bought from the mover, and hung it out to dry—although as cool as it was, the bedding would probably take twenty-four hours to dry. Then he heated more water and washed all the dishes he’d bought.
“Damn, a lot of housework,” Frank muttered, sitting down to have another cup of coffee. He pulled off his boots and found his moccasins. “Who says women don’t work around the home?” Before he pulled on the soft moccasins, he noticed his big toe sticking out of a hole in his sock. “Something else to repair,” he said. Then he remembered that he didn’t have any needles or thread. “Or throw them away and buy new ones,” he decided aloud.
That reminded him that he’d better write a letter to his lawyers and see how much money he had earned from his shares in the Henson Company, and how much he had left. He’d do that right now, and ride into the mining camp after his lumber was delivered and post the letter.
Then he remembered he had no paper or pen or ink. “Damn!” he said. “Something else to buy.”
Dog left his place under the bunk and came to Frank’s side by the chair. Frank petted the animal. “Lots of things to do, boy,” he said. “But what the hell? I’ve got nothing but time.”
Frank stood up and took off his shirt, removing the money belt he wore around his waist. He knew he had ample funds. But the belt was uncomfortable, chafing him. He spent the next hour carefully digging out a rock on the outside far left side of the fireplace, close to the floor. He hid much of his money there and replaced the rock. The cabin could burn down and his money would be safe . . . he hoped.
There was no bank as yet in the town called Gold Camp. But Frank knew if the town lasted for any length of time, someone like Wells Fargo would come in with some kind of banking institution or repository.
The shadows were deepening around the cabin when Frank finally called it quits for the day and started thinking about supper for himself and Dog.
He put some beans on, sliced bacon, and made ready to fix some pan bread. Then he lit the lamps and filled the cabin with welcome light. While supper was cooking, Frank found the book he’d bought in town from a peddler and read for a time. It was a small book of poetry by Robert Browning.
Frank read:
I give the fight up: let there be an end.
A privacy, an obscure nook for me.
I want to be forgotten even by God.
Frank closed the volume and sat for a time. “Yes,” he finally said, as he rose from the chair, walking to the stove to turn the thick-sliced bacon. “That’s me. I give up the fight. The Pine and Vanbergen gangs can go their own way as long as they leave me alone.” He had known all along that Vivian would not want him to risk his life for her memory.
And if Conrad is touched by all this? The thought jumped into his brain.
He’s a grown man running a multi-million-dollar company, Frank thought. He can afford to hire an army to fight his battles. Besides, he doesn’t want anything to do with me. He made that clear enough several months ago.
No, he’s got to learn to stand on his own. Especially if he wants to make it out here in the West. Folks out here still demand that a man saddle his own horse and stomp on his own snakes.
He stirred the beans and added some sliced onions to flavor up the beans. Supper wouldn’t be long now.
Dog padded over and sat by the stove, looking up at him. “Won’t be long, boy,” Frank told him. “It ain’t much but I’m sure gonna share. Fifty-fifty, Dog. Gotta put some weight on you. You’re plumb skinny. I figure another ten pounds and you’ll be about right.”
That would put the animal at about forty pounds.
Frank and Dog ate supper, and Frank put Dog outside to do his business. It had turned much colder and Frank built a fire in the fireplace, letting the fire in the stove slowly die out. There would be a blanket of frost on the ground come morning. Wasn’t long before Dog scratched at the door and Frank let him in. Dog went immediately to his bed, curled up, and went to sleep.
“I won’t be far behind you, boy.”
Frank checked on the horses, did a quick walk-around of his place, and then turned in. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day for sure.
* * *
Frank slept deep and dreamless, rising about four o’clock. And it was sure enough cold. He quick-stepped to the privy and back, shivering both ways. He made coffee and fixed some bacon and bread, then sat in front of the fireplace until the chill left his bones.
Spalding’s freight wagons were at Frank’s place by nine o’clock, the men off-loading his building materials, including hammers and nails, several saws and axes, one of them a broadaxe and another a hand adz.
“Mr. Spalding said you can catch him in his office in town sometime and pay him off, Mr. Morgan. We’ll see you. Take it easy and don’t work too hard now.”
Frank looked at the huge pile of lumber by the side of the house as the empty freight wagons rattled off down the road. “Of course not,” he muttered.
Frank was no expert carpenter, but he knew the fundamentals of building. He went to work.
Frank worked sunup to sundown for the next several weeks, riding into town only twice during that period, once to arrange for a load of hay to be delivered. He built a small barn for the horses, adding it on to the lean-to. He added a room to the cabin and then built a fence around the cabin, taking in about an acre. The glass for the windows arrived and Frank installed that. His carpentry work was not expert by any means, but it was functional. Frank had recalled and kept in mind what a workman had told him years back, “Measure twice and cut once.”
On his second trip into town, Frank picked up a letter posted to him by attorneys representing the Henson Company. Frank sat for a long time digesting the contents of the letter detailing just how much money he had earned from his stock in the company. It was difficult for him to accept, for it was a staggering amount.
Frank was a moderately rich man for the times. He would never again have to worry about money.
With ninety percent of the work done, Frank decided to take a day off and ride into town for supplies. He was running out of essentials.
When he returned late that afternoon, his cabin had been burned to the ground and Dog was lying still in the front yard. He had been shot. There was a note nailed to the gate.
MORGAN: WE BURNED YOUR SHACK AND KILLED YOUR DAMN STUPID DOG. ITS YOUR MOVE. COME GET US YOU SON OF A BITCH.
It was signed Ned Pine and Vic Vanbergen.
Five
Passing by the still form of Dog, Frank saw one of the animal’s back legs twitch. Dog was still alive. Frank knelt down and inspected his pet. There was a wound on Dog’s side, and the top of his head was bloody. Frank got his canteen, wet a bandanna, and cleaned the head wound. A bullet had creased Dog’s head
, leaving a gash, and knocking the animal unconscious, but Frank did not think it was serious. Then he looked at the wound in Dog’s side. A bullet must have ricocheted off something, tearing the lead apart. A small piece of lead was imbedded in Dog’s side. Frank popped it out with the point of his knife. He picked Dog up and carried him back to the lean-to, placing him on a pile of hay. Dog would either come out of his stupor, or he would not. There was nothing else Frank could do.
Frank looked at the still-smoking and hot embers that were once his cabin. He had lost everything.
He walked over to the fireplace, thinking he would dig out his money from the fireplace stones, but it was still too hot. The log cabin would have burned quickly, so Frank figured the fire had been set no more than a couple of hours ago. Maybe less than that. It would probably be another hour before he could dig out his money.
He walked back to check on Dog. The animal was still breathing but still unconscious.
Frank unloaded his supplies, stashing them in the new addition to the lean-to, then stabled his horses. He could spend the night in the small new addition. It would be cold, but he had experienced worse in his time. He got a shovel and dug a hole in the ground, in the center of the barn, lining the outside area of the hole with rocks, then built a small fire. It would knock the chill off and keep a man warm, if he stayed close enough to the fire.
He heard Dog whimper, and knelt down beside the animal. “Well, ol’ boy,” he said. “Glad to see you alive. You just lay still for a time and you’ll be all right.”
Dog licked his hand and Frank carefully petted him. “You want some water, boy. I’ll get you some.”
Frank found Dog’s outside bowl and filled it with water. Dog drank half the bowl’s contents, then laid his head back down on the hay and closed his eyes.
“Rest is good for you, Dog. I know. I been shot a few times myself.”
Frank found the small coffeepot he used on the trail and started water boiling. He had eaten a good meal in town and wasn’t hungry. But he was getting mad.
Reprisal Page 3