“Morgan probably got to both of ’em,” Lyle suggested, “or the other bastard shootin’ at us got ’em. We don’t know who the hell he could be.”
“Wonder what happened to Sam, Buster, an’ Tony,” Don Jones said, facing a window. “They shoulda been back by now if they had any luck.”
“Luck’s a funny thing,” Lyle said. “Lady Luck smiles on some folks and purely shits on some others. Sam an’ his boys may have run into Lady Luck when she was in a bad mood. They all oughta been back here by now.”
Slade leaned against the door frame. “My daddy always said that if a man is lucky, cow shit will do for brains. Charlie an’ Sam and his boys are all dead.”
“What the hell would you know about it?” Pine cried, both hands filled with iron.
Slade was not disturbed by Ned’s question, nor was he disturbed by Pine’s bad reputation. “I’m an authority on luck, good and bad, Ned. I say our luck just ran out. Whoever this bastard Morgan is, he’s good. It’ll take a lot of luck for us to kill him.”
Ned backed away from the window. “Untie that kid and bring him to me. We’ll see if Morgan is willing to shoot through his own flesh and blood to settle a score.”
Don Jones leaned against the windowpane. “There ain’t nobody out there,” he said.
Seconds later a bullet smashed the glass in front of his face. A slug from a .52-caliber buffalo gun entered his right eye.
“Damn!” Rich Boggs said when Don was flung away from the window.
Don Jones went to the dirt floor of the cabin with the back of his skull hanging by tendons and tissue. A plug of his brains lay beside the potbelly stove. A twist of his long black hair clung to the skull fragment.
“Holy shit!” Rich cried backing away to the center of the room. “Them’s Don’s brains hangin’ out.”
“Shut up!” Ned bellowed. “Untie that kid and bring him to me.”
“Why’s that?” Lyle wondered aloud.
“We’re gonna see if Mr. Morgan is all that quick to take a shot at his son when I’m using him for a human shield. Bring him to me!”
“Right, Boss,” Rich answered, moving carefully over to a straight-backed chair where Conrad Browning was bound hand and foot.
“Douse them lanterns,” Pine instructed. “I’ll walk this kid outside with my pistol under his throat while the rest of you saddle our horses.”
“We’re pulling out?” Slade asked.
Ned nodded. “For now. We’ll find a better place to fight Morgan, after we join up with Victor and his boys.”
“What makes you think Morgan will let us ride out?” Lyle asked.
“It’s real simple,” Ned explained. “Morgan followed us all this way to save his snot-nosed kid. He won’t take the chance that I’ll kill his son. Bring that kid over here. I’ll walk out in plain sight with my gun under his jaw.”
Twenty-three
Victor Vanbergen sat at a table inside the Wagon Wheel Saloon in Cortez, Colorado Territory. He and his men had ridden to town from their hideout at Gypsum Gap to buy staples, and more whiskey for the cold nights ahead.
It was darkening outside, and snow was falling. It had been a rough trip for Vic’s men across the eastern edge of the badlands.
“Let’s stay the night in town,” said Ford Peters, a former Confederate cavalryman who served time with Bloody Bill Anderson’s raiders during the war. “It’ll be a helluva cold ride back to Gypsum Gap in this snow. Hell, this is March and I can’t figure why it’s still snowing this time of year. A man could get to where he don’t like this cold country. To tell the truth, Vic, I ain’t taken much of a shine to it.”
“Relax,” Vic said. “This town’s got a sheriff and a telegraph line. If Morgan trailed us instead of Ned, there’ll be a killin’ to explain. Ned told us wait for him at the old mining town, an’ that’s damn sure what we’re gonna do. Ned’s real smart when it comes to these things. He’s been in more tight spots than all of us put together, and he knows what to do when things get tough.”
“It’s just so damn cold,” Ford replied.
Vernon Jenkins, a killer from Alabama, nodded. “It’s too damn cold to be ridin’ a horse, Vic. Ned an’ his bunch will take care of Morgan, if Charlie Bowers didn’t get him on our back trail, an’ that’ll be the end of it. I say we stay here where it’s warm. Where there’s plenty of women an’ whiskey an’ decent food. I’m tired of the crap Larry fixes us. I’ve never seen so damn many beans in my life. Larry can’t cook worth a shit, if you ask me.”
Vic was about to put both men in their places when the front doors to the Wagon Wheel opened. A man in a duster coat, a derby hat, and lace-up shoes came in with snow dusting his shoulders and his hat brim.
“Could that stranger be the law, like a federal marshal or a goddamn Pinkerton detective or somethin’?” Ford asked softly, letting his right hand drop below the tabletop near the butt of his pistol.
“He ain’t armed,” Vic said, watching the newcomer pull off his coat. “You’re too damn edgy tonight, Ford. Have another drink of whiskey. I’ve never seen you so goddamn jumpy before, for no reason.”
But when the stranger in the derby spotted Vic and Ford and Vern seated at the table, he made straight for them with his duster over his arm. He sported a Van Dyke beard with a touch of gray in his sideburns.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said. “My name is Louis Pettigrew. I’m a reporter, a writer from Boston. I wondered if you might be able to tell me where I can find a gunfighter, a man by the name of Frank Morgan.”
“Maybe we’ve never heard of him,” Vic answered. “What the hell is a reporter from up in Boston doin’ looking for old Frank Morgan?”
“He’s a famous man. A shootist, or a pistolman as they call them in Missouri. I wanted an interview with him . . . to find out if all the stories about him are true. I was told he was in this area now.”
“I think he’s dead,” Vic said.
Pettigrew shook his head. “I just spoke with a city marshal over in Durango, a man by the name of Dickson. He said that Frank Morgan is very much alive, and that he’s off on some quest to save his estranged son, a young man he’s only seen once or twice since the boy was born. I took notes. The boy’s mother was killed a long time ago.”
Vic gave Ford and Vern a sideways look. “I don’t think that marshal knows what he’s talkin’ about. We heard it on good authority that Morgan was killed south of here. Somebody shot him an’ nobody knows who done it.”
“Oh, my lord,” Pettigrew sighed, dusting snowflakes from the brim of his bowler. “I suppose I’ve arrived too late. I really wanted to hear Mr. Morgan’s story. He’s known as one of the last gunfighters in the West.”
“I think his reputation was bigger’n he was,” Vic said evenly.
“Not according to my sources,” Pettigrew went on. “I’ve checked the records. Morgan has killed more than forty men, and that puts him in the same category as that boy madman from Texas, John Wesley Hardin. Hardin is in prison now, studying law, and he won’t grant any interviews. Frank Morgan is said to be the last of the old-time gunslingers. I wanted to write his life story.”
“Morgan wasn’t much,” Ford said. “I knew him.”
“He wasn’t much?” Pettigrew asked. “What do you mean by that remark?”
“He was nothin’ but a back-shooter, a bushwhacker. I never met anybody who saw him go face-to-face with a real gunman who knew his business.”
“Interesting,” Pettigrew said. “Can you tell me more about him?”
“He was a lowlife. A hired assassin. He never cared how he killed a man. He wasn’t honorable. He’d just as soon shoot a man in the back as sneeze.”
Pettigrew scowled. “That doesn’t fit with what others have told me about him.”
“Like I told you,” Ford replied “I knew the sorry son of a bitch. He was no good, and he deserved to be planted in the ground. One thing’s for sure, he damn sure wasn’t no gunfighter.”
“Would y
ou be willing to give me some details regarding his life?” Pettigrew asked. “I’ll gladly pay you for your time. My paper, the Boston Globe, will reimburse me. If Morgan is dead, as you say, then you may be the only source I have to set the record straight.”
Ford gave Vic a sideways look. “I’ll tell you plenty about him, Mr. Pettigrew. Only, you’re wrong about him bein’ a famous gunslinger. He was just an ordinary man with no courage. He shot most of his victims in the back. How much will you pay me to tell you about him?”
“But I’ve heard so many stories . . . I think my newspaper will go as high as twenty-five dollars for the facts surrounding Morgan’s reputation.”
“Mostly bullshit,” Ford said, as Vern gave him a wink and a half smile. “His reputation as a gunslinger was mostly bullshit, a bunch of half-truths. Every time some son of a bitch tells a story, it gets bigger.”
“May I join you at your table?” Pettigrew asked. “I’ll pay for a round of drinks.”
“Take a seat,” Ford said. “I’m about to tell you the truth about Frank Morgan, only I don’t think you’re gonna like what I have to say, since you think he was so all-fired famous as a gunman. But first off, let me see the color of your money. Put the twenty-five dollars down on the table or I won’t say another word.”
Pettigrew pulled back a chair, reaching into his pants pocket. He took twenty-five silver dollars and placed them on the table in front of Ford. “All I want is the truth,” he said, settling down in his wooden chair.
“You’re about to hear the truth about Frank Morgan,” Ford said, enjoying himself. “It’s mostly a pack of lies, what folks say about him. He was yellow all the way through. He never braced a man in a contest at the draw. I know that for an honest fact.”
“My editor will be disappointed,” Pettigrew said, taking a pad and pencil from his coat. “However, my story must be accurate, down to the last detail. First of all, please give me your name as my source.”
“I’m Ford Peters.”
“And what is your profession, Mr. Peters?”
Vern chuckled and turned to a window to hide the mirth on his face.
“I’m a cattleman by trade,” Ford said. “How about that round of drinks?”
Pettigrew finished his notations, then turned toward the bar and waved his hand in the air. “Drinks all around!” he shouted.
Vic knew Ford would fill the newsman’s ears with falsehoods and outright lies. He laughed inwardly. It was a way to spend a snowy evening in the badlands of Colorado Territory, filling the reporter’s head with fanciful notions.
There would be no one to refute Ford’s accounts of Frank Morgan’s exploits. Vic was certain that Morgan was dead by now, with Charles Bowers lying in ambush for him on the trail up from Durango. Morgan was an old man, well past his prime, and Charlie was as good as they come at putting men in their graves. He had never made a mistake . . . not Charles. Frank Morgan was a dead man by now.
* * *
“He made a name for himself down in Texas,” Ford began, “but he’s ridden all over the western territories. He wears a brace of pistols. His favorite weapon is a Colt Peacemaker forty-five and a forty-four-forty saddle gun. Like I told you before, he’s a back-shooter, so a rifle is what he uses most. He can shoot a man from three hundred yards away without ever havin’ to show himself.”
“I’ve heard dozens of stories about his quick draw,” Pettigrew said.
“A pack of lies,” Ford replied. “He’s slow on the draw an’ he won’t face a good gunman in a showdown. I’d say he’s a man who knows his limitations.”
“How well did you know him?”
“We were close. Nearly like brothers right after the war. He was a small-time thief. Frank was yellow, when it came down to cases. He’d rob an unarmed man or steal cattle an’ horses from some poor farmer when he was dead sure he had the advantage.”
“That doesn’t sound like the same man I’ve been told about,” Pettigrew said, taking notes as fast as he could write. “In some parts of the country, Frank Morgan’s gunmanship is almost legendary.”
“It’s bullshit,” Ford said.
“How can so many other people be wrong?” Pettigrew asked, his brow furrowing.
Ford laughed. “They didn’t know him the way I did,” he said matter-of-factly.
“How did you come to know Morgan so well?” Pettigrew asked, his pencil poised above his pad.
Vic wondered how Ford would answer this question, since Ford only knew Morgan by reputation.
A balding barkeep brought over three glasses of whiskey on a tray.
“And what’s for you, sir?” the bartender asked Pettigrew.
“Brandy.”
“We ain’t got no brandy. Red wine is all we’ve got, unless you want this here whiskey.”
“I’ll have the whiskey,” Pettigrew said.
The barman put their drinks down. Vic tried to hide a smile, for the arrival of their drinks would give Ford Peters enough time to come up with some sort of answer to the newpaperman’s question, how it was that he knew Frank Morgan when he didn’t know him at all.
“Like I was about to say,” Ford continued, “I knew Frank down in Texas.” He tossed back his drink. “Morgan was a hired gun, only he wasn’t much good at it.”
“He wasn’t as good as his reputation?” Pettigrew asked with a startled look on his face.
“He went up against Shorty Russel down in Brownwood. Shorty wasn’t any great shakes as a gunman. Shorty drew first an’ put a lead slug through Morgan’s shoulder . . . but ol’ Frank was lucky that day. As he was fallin’ to the ground he got off a lucky shot that hit Shorty in the chest. Shorty fell dead in his tracks an’ that’s how Morgan started his reputation. I was there an’ I saw the whole thing.”
Pettigrew was writing furiously to keep up with Ford’s wild tale.
“So that’s what started Frank’s rep as a gunfighter,” Ford went on. “He shot a man whose aim was bad. But Frank was slow, too damn slow to keep that slug from going through his right shoulder.”
“My goodness,” Pettigrew exclaimed. “It would appear that Mr. Morgan is something of a fraud . . . he was something of a fraud if, as you say, he’s dead.”
“He’s damn sure dead,” Vic said, draining his own glass of whiskey. “If you’ll buy us another round of drinks, Mr. Pettigrew, I’ll tell you what I know about Frank Morgan.”
The writer’s drink came to the table just as Vic was saying this. Pettigrew looked up from his notepad.
“Bring these gentlemen another round,” he said.
Vic planned to invent his own story about Morgan, something that would keep the Easterner buying whiskey well into the night.
“You also knew Morgan?” Pettigrew asked.
“Not as well as Ford, but I saw him go up against this paid shootest down in Abilene. I’ll tell you about it, soon as I’m done quenching my thirst.”
Twenty-flour
“I know it’s you, Morgan! If you fire one more shot, I’ll blow the kid’s goddamn skull all over Lost Pine Canyon and leave him for the wolves!”
Pine edged out the front door of the cabin with his pistol under Conrad’s chin.
“My men are gonna saddle our horses!” Pine went on with a fistful of Conrad’s hair in his left hand. “One more gunshot and I blow your son’s head off!”
Only silence filled the canyon after the echo of Ned’s voice died.
“You hear me, Morgan?”
More silence, only the whisper of snow falling on ponderosa pine limbs.
“Answer me, you son of a bitch!”
The quiet around Ned was absolute. He squirmed a little, but he held his Colt under Conrad’s jawbone with the hammer cocked.
“I’ll kill this wimpy little bastard!” Ned warned what seemed like an empty forest.
And still, there was no reply from Morgan.
“Whoever you’ve got shootin’ from up on the rim, you’d best tell that son of a bitch I mean business. If he
fires one shot I’ll kill your boy.”
Conrad Browning had tears streaming down his pale face and his legs were trembling. A dark purple bruise decorated one of his cheeks.
Ned looked over his shoulder at the cabin door. He spoke to Slade and Lyle. “You and Rich and Cabot get out there and saddle the best horses,” he snapped. “Tell Billy Miller to keep his gun sights on the back.”
“He ain’t gonna shoot us?” Slade asked.
“Hell, no, he ain’t,” Pine replied.
“What makes you so all-fired sure?”
“Because I’ve got a gun at his boy’s throat. He came all this way to save him. Morgan knows that even if he shoots me, I’ll kill this kid as I’m going down. Now get those goddamn horses saddled.”
“I see somebody up top!” cried Billy Miller, a boy from Nebraska who had killed a storekeeper to get a few plugs of tobacco.
“Kill the son of a bitch!” Ned shouted.
“He’s gone now, but I seen him.”
“Damn,” Ned hissed, his jaw set. He spoke to Slade and Lyle again. “Get out there and put saddles on the best animals we’ve got. Hurry!”
“I ain’t so sure about this, Ned,” Lyle said, peering out the doorway.
“Get out there and saddle the goddamn horses or I’ll kill you myself!” Ned cried. “Morgan ain’t gonna do a damn thing so long as I’ve got this gun cocked under his little boy’s skull bone.”
Rich Boggs, a half-breed holdup man from Kansas, came out the front door carrying a rifle. “C’mon, boys,” he said in a quiet voice.
Lyle and Slade edged out the door with Winchesters in their hands.
“I don’t like this, Lyle,” Slade said.
“Neither do I, Slade, but we can’t stay here until this snow melts.”
Cabot Bulware, a former bank robber from Baton Rouge, was the last to leave the cabin. He spoke Cajun English. “Don’t see no mens no place, mon ami,” he whispered. “Dis man Morgan be a hard batard to shoot.”
“Shut up and get the damn horses saddled,” Ned said, his hands trembling in the cold.
“Please don’t shoot me, Mr. Pine,” Conrad whimpered. “I didn’t do anything to you.”
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