He sat for a time, letting hot anger wash over him. Frank drank a cup of good strong coffee and glanced over at Dog. The animal was awake and looking at him. Dog wagged his tail, and Frank smiled at him. “I been told that more men have died fighting over God and animals than have been killed fighting over women. I believe it. They shouldn’t have shot you, fellow. I can rebuild a cabin. But you . . . that’s another story.”
Frank leaned back against a support post and sipped his coffee. He thought: I was going to live and let live, boys. The hunt was going to end right here. But you boys don’t want that. All right. Suits me. But you better bear one thing in mind: You started this dance. Now, by God, you’d better be ready to pay the band.
Frank dozed lightly through the night, awakening often to check on Dog and to build up the small fire. Come daylight, Dog was standing up on his own. He was a bit shaky, and hobbled around with a limp, but he was going to make it.
Frank dug out the stones around the base of the fireplace and retrieved his money. Some of the bills were a bit crispy around the edges, but spendable.
Frank found a skillet in the rubble and cleaned it up. Then he sliced some bacon and started it frying. Frank and Dog had bacon and pan bread for breakfast.
After some food, Frank checked Dog’s wounds and cleaned them, applying some antiseptic . . . which Dog did not like at all, showing his teeth in protest. But he made no attempt to bite Frank.
Frank lounged around the ruins of his cabin for several days. When he was sure Dog was well on the way to healing, Frank packed up. He fixed Dog a place to ride on one side of the packsaddle, and on a very cold and frosty morning, pulled out. He headed first into the mining camp and bought supplies and new clothing. Then he had a bath and shave and haircut.
“You ready to hit the trail, boy?” he asked Dog, resting in his perch on the packsaddle.
Dog barked.
“Let’s do it then.”
In the saddle, Frank glanced across the street. His son, Conrad, was standing in front of a tent cafe, looking at him. Frank smiled and lifted a hand in greeting. His son nodded his head curtly and without expression, then turned and walked away, his bodyguards with him.
The coldness of the young man neither surprised nor upset Frank. Conrad did not like his father and had never made any attempt to hide his feelings. Frank lifted the reins and rode on out of the mining camp. He did not look back.
Frank also had a hunch that Conrad would haul his ashes out for a warmer clime before icy winter locked up everything.
Frank had received word on the way to Denver that the Pine and Vanbergen gangs would not winter in the deep Rockies. It was just too damn cold and the gangs ran the risk of getting snowed in and trapped. Frank did not know whether to believe that or not, but without a warm place to hole up, he had no desire to stay in the middle of the high country when the temperature dropped to thirty below zero.
Frank headed southwest. He had him a hunch, and he often played out his hunches. Besides, Frank had learned that the southwest part of Colorado Territory was Pine’s old stomping grounds. He had kin down there. Ned had not been born there, but came to that part of the territory when he was run out of wherever the hell he did come from . . . and the stories about that were many and varied. The stories about Vic were also many and varied. No one really knew what to believe about either of the gang leaders, except that they were both vicious killers without a shred of morals or conscience.
The area around Durango had more than its share of gold and silver mines that were still producing, there was lots of money floating around, and that would be a good place for the gangs to winter. Although Frank knew that the winters down there could be tough.
Frank was in no hurry, and he stopped often to check his back trail and to let Dog limp around, stretch his legs, and tend to business. Dog was healing fast and putting on weight, each day spending more time on the ground and less time riding the pack animal.
Frank was astonished at the number of people he saw on his way south. The country was filling up fast and settling.
Indian trouble was, for the most part, over. There would occasionally be a band of young bucks jumping the reservation and causing some trouble, but that was happening less and less as more settlers moved in.
Frank spent a lot of time wondering why Pine and Vanbergen would do such a stupid thing as hunt him down and burn him out, then leave a direct challenge for him to come get them.
“Arrogance, I reckon,” Frank muttered. He had been on the trail for a week, and had just entered the high grassland basin in the center of Colorado Territory, on the east side of the Platte. He had made camp for the evening with a lot of daylight left and had just dumped in the coffee and pulled the pot off the fire, setting it on the rocks that circled the small fire. He added a bit of cold water to settle the grounds, and leaned back against his saddle. Dog was lying by him when the animal suddenly raised his head and uttered a low growl.
“Easy,” Frank said, putting a hand on Dog’s head. “Quiet now, boy.”
“Hello, the fire.” The shout came out of the brush. “I’m friendly. That coffee sure smells good.”
“Come on in,” Frank called. His hand was on the butt of his .45.
A young man stepped into the small clearing, leading his horse. The man looked to be in his mid-twenties and was not wearing a pistol . . . at least none that Frank could see.
“Howdy,” the young man said. “Name is Jeff Barton.”
“Glad to meet you,” Frank said. “I’m Frank. Come on in. Coffee will be ready in a few minutes.”
“Let me take care of my horse,” Jeff said. “He’s tired.”
“Looks it. There’s a little crick over there.” Frank pointed. “Come a long way?”
“A fair distance,” Jeff replied. He let his horse drink a little, then pulled him back, stripped the saddle from him, and hobbled the animal. He got a cup from his saddlebags and walked over to the fire, settling down with a sigh of contentment.
Frank hid his knowing smile. Jeff was no horseman. He was butt-sore. “Weary some?”
“You bet. It’s that obvious, hey?”
“Somewhat. New to this country?”
“New to the West,” Jeff admitted with a smile. “Tell you the truth, Frank, I’m sort of lost.”
Frank chuckled. “Heading for the goldfields?”
“Yes. You?”
“I’m going that way. But I’m no miner. Doesn’t interest me.”
Jeff looked at him. “Gold doesn’t interest you?”
“Not unless I can find it laying on top of the ground, within easy reach. I guess the gold bug never bit me. Where did you get your horse?”
“My horse? Oh ... in Denver. Something wrong with him?”
“It isn’t a him, it’s a mare. Where are you from?”
“New York City. I, ah, don’t know much about horses. But I did know it was a mare. I guess I’m what you Westerners call a tenderfoot.”
Dog walked over and smelled the newcomer, then backed away and lay back down beside Frank.
“Do I pass inspection?” Jeff asked.
“He didn’t bite you.”
“I see. Why did you ask about my horse?”
“She’s a very tired animal. Needs a day or two of rest. That’s an awful lot of stuff you had hanging off of her.”
“Oh. Well . . . I’ll just do that then.”
“Need to get you a packhorse.”
“I wonder why the livery man in Denver didn’t tell me that.”
“Did you ask about one?”
“Ah . . . no.”
“Have some coffee. It’ll cheer you up. You hungry?”
“Come to think of it, I am.”
“I’m going to have bacon and beans and pan bread. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds very good. I’m not much of a cook.”
Or much of a horseman, Frank thought, eyeballing the piece-of-crap saddle Jeff had stripped from his horse. Somebody saw you c
oming, boy.
Frank put the beans on to cook and settled back with his cup of coffee. “You know anything about mining, Jeff?”
“I read some books on the subject.”
“Well, that’s a start, I reckon.”
“I really wanted to get out of New York and start over here in the West.”
“You’re not wanted by the law, are you?” Frank asked with a smile.
“Oh, no!” Jeff said quickly, then realized that Frank was kidding him. “My fiancée decided she didn’t want me either.”
“Ahh, I see. Affairs of the heart. I can certainly understand that.”
“I was devastated.”
“Drink your coffee, you’ll feel better.”
“It’s amazing, really. But in the weeks I’ve been gone, her face is becoming dimmer in my mind.”
Then it wasn’t love, boy, Frank thought. Vivian’s face is as fresh in my mind now as it was twenty years ago.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, Frank, you look familiar to me. I could swear I’ve seen you somewhere. Have you ever been to New York?”
“Never have, Jeff.”
“You certainly remind me of someone.” Jeff stared at Frank for a moment, then softly exclaimed, “Oh, my God!”
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re Frank Morgan!”
“That’s my name, boy.”
“I saw a likeness of you on the cover of a book I read. You’re the gunfighter!”
“I been called that, Jeff.”
“You’ve killed five hundred white men and a thousand Indians! Good Lord! I’m actually sitting here conversing with the most famous gunfighter in all the West.”
Frank chuckled as he poured another cup of coffee. “Those figures are a tad high, Jeff. Don’t believe everything you read in those dime novels.”
“I thought you would be a lot older, Mr. Morgan.”
“I do sometimes feel a lot older, for a fact.”
“I did not mean that as a slur, sir.”
“I know it. And stop calling me sir. My name is Frank. How’s your coffee?”
“What? Oh. It’s delicious.”
“Want another cup?”
“Yes, please. I’m afraid I haven’t discovered the knack of making good coffee on the trail.”
“Boil the water and dump it in. Then add some cold water to settle the grounds.”
“I’ll remember that. What is your dog’s name, sir . . . ah, Frank?”
“Dog.”
“Well . . . that certainly fits him.”
Frank laughed at that. He liked this young tenderfoot, and wondered how he’d gotten this far without running smack into danger. “Tell you what, Jeff. You can tag along with me. I’m heading down your way.”
“You mean that?”
“I said it.”
“That would be grand!”
“All right, then. Let’s have another cup of coffee and I’ll show you how to make pan bread.”
“I’m very grateful to you, sir . . . ah, Frank. That means a lot to me.”
Dog raised his head and growled, looking off toward the north. Frank’s .45 appeared in his hand, hammer back. Jeff sat staring, his eyes bugged out.
“My word!” the young man said. “I didn’t even see you pull the gun out.”
“Comes with practice. Now be quiet.”
Dog growled again, low in his throat, his ears laid back, teeth bared.
“Steady, boy,” Frank whispered. “Let them come on.”
“Who is it, do you suppose?” Jeff whispered.
“Someone up to no good, you can bet on that.”
Frank heard the faint metallic click of a hammer being jacked back, and shoved Jeff backward. “Stay down!” he said, then threw himself to one side just as the late afternoon air was filled with gunsmoke and lead.
Six
Frank’s .45 roared five times, so fast Jeff could not count them. Frank rolled to one side, grabbed his .44-40, and cut loose with it.
Dog ran behind Frank’s saddle and stayed there.
One of the bullets from the hidden ambushers hit the coffeepot and blew a hole in it, knocking the pot spinning. Another punctured the small pot of beans and knocked it off one side of the rocks and into the fire.
“There goes supper,” Frank muttered. “Damnit!”
“Get ’im!” the shout came from behind the brush.
A man burst out of the brush just to Frank’s right, and Frank spun around and drilled him in the brisket. The .44-40 round doubled the man over and sat him down on his butt.
“Oh, God!” the gut-shot man yelled.
“Stupid play,” Frank said, levering another round into his rifle. He waited.
“Cloy?” The one-word question was thrown out from somewhere to Frank’s left.
Whoever Cloy was, he either couldn’t or didn’t reply.
One of my bullets must have hit him, Frank thought. Lucky shot.
“Daniel?” the voice called.
“I’ve had it, Jack. Hard-hit in the belly.” Then Daniel started yelling as the pain struck him, hot and heavy.
“To hell with the kid and to hell with you,” Jack said. “I’m gone outta here.”
“You can’t just leave me!” Daniel hollered.
“Watch me,” Jack said.
Frank emptied his rifle where he thought the hidden voice was coming from, and quickly reloaded.
“What kid are they talking about?” Jeff asked.
“You, I reckon. They must have thought you had some money.”
“I wish.”
“I’m a-hurtin’ somethang fierce,” Daniel hollered. “Y’all got to hep me!”
“Go to hell,” Frank told him.
“You cain’t mean that! We didn’t mean you a bit of harm, mister. We was after the kid’s money, that’s all. Oh, God, I hurt so bad.”
“Tough luck,” Frank told him.
“Jack!” Daniel hollered. “Oh, Jack.”
Jack did not respond.
Frank waited.
“Help me, Jack!” Daniel yelled, his voice much weaker.
A faint groan came from the brush. Then a thrashing sound. Then silence.
“I think Jack is beyond help, Daniel,” Frank called.
Daniel cursed him. “You’ll rot in hell for this,” he said. “We didn’t mean you no hurt. There wasn’t no need for you to shoot us.”
“You’re a fool.”
“Now what?” Jeff asked.
“We wait,” Frank told him. “Stay down.”
“Are you going to help those wounded men?”
“Hell, no.”
Several minutes passed in silence. There was no more sound from the brush and Daniel’s moaning ceased.
“Stay put,” Frank told the young man.
“What are you going to do?”
“Check it out. Don’t move and keep your head down.”
Frank eased out of cover and slipped into the brush. He had taken only a few steps before he found Jack’s body. One of his .44-40 rounds had struck the man in the center of his chest. He moved on and found the body of the man called Cloy. He had taken a round from Frank’s pistol in the center of his forehead. Frank walked back to the clearing and looked down at Daniel. The gut-shot man stared back at him through pain-filled eyes.
“My pals?” Daniel asked.
“Dead.”
“You an evil man, you are.”
“And you’re a fool.”
“What be your name? I got a right to know that much, don’t you think?”
“Frank Morgan.”
“Oh, good God!” Daniel said. He sighed and shook his head. “Frank Morgan!”
“You got any kin that might give a damn about your dying?” Frank asked.
“I got a brother and sister up in Oregon. But they disowned me years ago.”
“I don’t blame them. Anybody else?”
Jeff walked up, his face pale. Dog had wisely elected to stay behind cover.
Daniel cut his eyes to the young man. He took a deep breath and shuddered in pain. “I hate you.”
“Why?” Jeff questioned. “What did I ever do to you?”
Daniel shifted his gaze back to Frank. “And I hate you too, Morgan.”
“I’m overcome with grief.”
Daniel closed his eyes and never opened them again.
“Is he dead?” Jeff asked.
“Yep.”
“The others?”
“Stone dead.”
“They were going to kill me for the few dollars I have, weren’t they?”
“Yep. They sure were.”
“Now what?”
“Have you ever fired a pistol?” Frank asked.
“No.”
“Rifle?”
“No. But I fired a shotgun once.”
“Wonderful. Get the pistol belts from the dead. I’ll get their horses.”
“You want me to handle the dead?”
“Do you know of a better way to remove their gunbelts, Jeff?”
“Ah ... no, I guess not.”
“They won’t bother you.”
“I suppose not. Very well.”
Frank found the horses about a hundred yards from the clearing. They were all fine animals. Frank wondered if they were stolen. He led them back to the creek and let them drink, then stripped the saddles and bridles from them, then went through the bedrolls and saddlebags.
He found a coffeepot and a cook pot and laid them aside. He found a bill of sale for the chestnut and read it. It looked legitimate enough. Frank could transfer sale to Jeff easily enough.
“What are you going to do with the dead people?” Jeff asked.
“Kick some dirt over them and then start supper.”
Jeff swallowed hard and then cleared his throat. “You’re certainly taking this calmly.”
“No point in getting all excited about it. It’s over.”
“I owe you my life, Frank,”
Frank shrugged that off. “Life is still pretty cheap out here. Not as cheap as it was ten years ago, but many folks are still fairly casual about killings.”
“I’m beginning to understand that. There was a shooting during a train stop in Kansas. Two men shot it out in the middle of the street.”
“Who won?”
“They both were shot.”
Reprisal Page 4