“I didn’t do nothin’ them others didn’t do!” Curly yelled.
“And they’re dead,” Frank reminded the man. “Or dying.”
“Oh, Jesus!” Curly hollered. “Don’t kill me, Morgan!”
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t,” Frank told him.
“I’ll lead you to the other camps,” Curly said. He cut his eyes as Dog walked up. “That’s a mean-lookin’ dog, Morgan. Don’t sic him on me. I’ll hep you find the camps. I swear I’ll hep you. Just keep that dog away from me.”
“He hates dogs,” one of the girls said. “He kills every one he sees. I’ve seen him shoot dogs.”
Frank lifted the muzzle of his rifle. “I like dogs,” he said, a cold edge to his voice. “I don’t like people who harm them.”
“You gonna shoot me ’cause I don’t like dogs?” Curly hollered the question. “Sweet Jesus, Morgan. That ain’t no good reason.”
Frank had watched the man edge one hand toward the back of his neck. He guessed the man had a knife there, the sheath suspended by a leather thong. It was a trick he’d seen more than once.
“No,” Frank said. “I’m going to shoot you because you’re a kidnapping, child-raping, low-down son of a bitch.”
Curly jerked a knife out and drew back to throw it at Frank. Frank’s bullet caught him in the neck, just under the jaw, and almost tore the man’s head off. Curly fell back and kicked a couple of times as the blood gushed and squirted out of the gaping wound.
“I hope they all burn in the hellfires forever,” one of the girls said, looking at the men sprawled in death.
“I suspect they will, girl,” Frank said. “Get some blankets and toss them over them. Before they contaminate us all with ugly.”
The girls smiled at that. Two of them went to fetch blankets while the third girl made coffee. “How long have you girls been captives?” Frank asked.
“I was taken two weeks ago,” one of the girls called. “I’d been playin’ at a friend’s house and was walkin’ back home when two men grabbed me. They done . . . things to me. We all got grabbed about the same time.”
The other two girls nodded their heads in agreement as they tossed horse blankets over the dead men. All three girls exhibited no visible signs of sickness or shock at the bloody and very dead outlaws.
“You girls gather up whatever you want to take with you,” Frank told them. “I’m going to have me a cup of coffee.”
“Are we goin’ home, sir?” one of the girls asked.
“Yes, child. I’ll take you home.”
Thirty
Frank took the girls back to Santa Fe and turned them over to the sheriff. Eastern newspapers had finally picked up on the story and reporters had converged on the town. Frank gave one short interview and then, after provisioning up, quietly rode out. He did not like reporters and made no effort to hide that dislike. Dog had picked up quickly on Frank’s dislike of the press, and had taken to snarling every time a reporter got close.
One reporter had referred to Dog as “the beast from Hades.” Dog certainly did his best to live up to that title.
Frank decided to pull out before Dog actually bit someone.
He made camp a few hours’ ride outside of town and fixed coffee. Frank was bone-tired; tired of the chase. He’d been on the trail of Val Dooley and his gang for months and was weary of it all. Weary of the killing, weary of the plight of the girls, weary and sick at heart of hearing their stories of beatings and rapes.
Dog came to Frank and lay down beside the man. The summer had been rough on the big cur too. Frank and Dog both needed a long rest.
Frank put a hand on Dog’s big head and petted him. “You want to stop the hunt, boy?”
Dog looked at him and growled low in his throat.
“Sure you don’t want to provision up and winter in my valley?”
Dog growled again.
“All right, we’ll spend a few more weeks on the trail. Val Dooley can’t keep running from me forever.”
Frank dozed for a few minutes under the shade of a small grove of trees not far from a tiny creek with only a faint trickle of water. He was awakened abruptly by the sounds of walking horses, and closed a hand around the butt of his Peacemaker.
“Hello, the camp,” a man shouted. “I’m friendly and that coffee shore smells good.”
“Come on in,” Frank called. “Light and sit.”
The rider was lean, bowlegged, and brown from years spent in the sun. Frank found a cup and poured the stranger a cup.
“Thanks much, mister. I’m Slim Rodgers.”
“Frank. Frank Morgan.”
Slim paused in his lifting of cup to mouth and stared at Frank. “The Frank Morgan?”
“I reckon so. I haven’t run up on anybody else with that name.”
“Everybody in the territory is talkin’ ’bout you, Mr. Morgan. You savin’ all them girls.”
“I’m still looking.”
Slim sipped his coffee and nodded his head. “Yeah, I reckon you are. You got the rep as a man who don’t give up. You got any idea where this no-’count Val Dooley might be hidin’ out?”
“Not a clue.”
“I hear he’s some south and east of Ute Peak. In the San Juans.”
“You think that’s good information?”
“I heard it three days ago. And the fellers who told me seemed to know what they was talkin’ ’bout.”
“Seems logical. That’s rough country. Lots of places to hide. How about you, Slim?”
“Huh? What about me?”
“You drifting?”
“Oh. Yeah,” the cowboy said with a smile. “I been workin’ the high country in Colorado. Snow’s gonna start flyin’ in a few months. I ain’t gonna spend another winter in a line shack, choppin’ holes in the ice so’s the critters can drink. Figured I’d head down into the southern part of the country and find some work where it’s warm.”
“Don’t blame you a bit for that.”
Slim drained his cup and stood up. “I best be movin’ on. Got a few hours of daylight left. Thanks for the coffee, Morgan. See you.”
“See you around, Slim. Hope you find some work.”
Slim swung into the saddle and lifted a hand in farewell.
Frank finished the pot of coffee, and pondered for a few minutes whether he should put a few more miles behind him or stay put. He decided to stay put and get a good night’s sleep. Start fresh in the morning. He’d head on up toward the San Juans come the dawning. Maybe he’d get lucky and find Val Dooley. Put an end to this hunt.
One way or the other.
* * *
At a tiny village right on the New Mexico-Colorado line, Frank dismounted and stretched tired muscles. He looked around at the single short street that made up the business district. A general store, a saloon, several buildings with boarded-up windows, a barbershop-bathhouse, a marshal’s office with the front door missing, a livery that looked as though it had seen better times.
“A real bustling little town,” Frank muttered. He walked his horses over to the livery and to his surprise, a man stepped out and greeted him.
“I didn’t think you were open,” Frank said.
“Oh, yeah,” the man replied. “For a while, at least. Never was much to this town. Even less now.”
“Take care of my horses?”
“You bet. Say, ain’t I seen you around here before?”
“No. I don’t think I’ve ever been through here.”
“You got a brother livin’ close by town?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Man was in the saloon couple days ago sure resembled you. But now that I’m gettin’ a close-up look, I reckon he was a few years younger than you. Yeah, this feller wore a two-gun rig. Fancy guns, they was, too. Had two really hard-lookin’ men with him.”
Val Dooley, Frank thought. I’m getting close. “Those men, they ranching around here?”
“I don’t think so. They had them a couple of drinks, e
yed some girls that walked into the general store.”
“Young girls?”
“Twelve or so. The man that looked sorta like you, he had him a conversation with Sally Martin. She’s twelve. Made her laugh, he did. Then they pulled out. I heard him say he’d see her again. I figured that was just friendly talk. You know?”
“You know this Sally’s folks?”
“Sure. Her pa owns the general store. Why?”
“That was not just friendly talk, mister. That man was Val Dooley. I’ve been on his trail for months.”
“You got to be jokin’!”
“No. He’s a murderer and kidnapper of young girls. You have a marshal in this town?”
“Now I know you’re jokin’. In this town? Hell, no. Val Dooley? He’s notorious.”
“He’s pure scum. Where’s the nearest sheriff?”
“A good two days away.”
“You got a mayor in this town?”
“Ed Martin. Owns the general store.”
“You want a marshal?”
“Hell, we can’t pay nothing. You want the job? What’s your name anyway?”
“Frank Morgan.”
“Frank Morgan?”
“Yes. You got a telegraph here?”
“No. You really Frank Morgan?”
“Yes. Do I get the job?”
“What do you think?”
* * *
Frank replaced the door to the marshal’s office that afternoon; did the work himself. He aired out his blankets and made up the bunk in the small room off from the main office, then laid in some firewood for the potbellied stove. After that, he rubbed the silver badge Ed Martin had given him after swearing Frank in until it shone. Then he walked over to the saloon.
The bartender-owner gave him a nervous look as Frank walked up to the bar. “Evenin’, Marshal Morgan.”
“Evening. You got anything to eat here?”
“I can have a steak fixed for you. Steak and boiled taters and chess pie for dessert.”
“Sounds good to me. Bring me a cup of coffee over there.” He pointed to a table.
“Yes, sir.”
Frank relaxed and drank his coffee while his steak was being cooked. A couple of farmers strolled in and took a table. Frank knew they were farmers by their clothing and footwear: one wore clodhopper shoes and the other wore low-heeled boots. Both wore strap overalls. The farmers glanced and nodded at Frank, but did not speak.
A few minutes later, two more men wandered in. They looked like cowboys—and one probably was—but the other one wore his guns tied down. That gave him away as something else. The one with the tied-down guns gave Frank a long once-over. Then he turned his back to him and ordered a drink.
“You the new marshal?” one of the farmers asked, speaking with a thick accent.
“Yes,” Frank replied. “For a while.”
“I didn’t know we needed one,” the other farmer said.
“You don’t now,” Frank told him.
“That’s a good one,” his partner said with a laugh. “He got you on that one, Amos.”
Amos laughed and the men returned to their mugs of beer.
One of the men at the bar turned to stare at Frank. “You think you’re man enough to wear that badge?”
“I reckon so,” Frank told him, sugaring his second cup of coffee.
“Somebody might decide to take it off you,” the man said.
“Somebody had better think twice before they try,” Frank said softly.
“That’s enough, Del,” the other man said.
Del ignored that. “You look mighty familiar, Marshal. I think I seen you before. What happened, did you give up sodbustin’ around here and turn to marshalin’?”
“No,” Frank said, rolling a cigarette.
“I think you did.”
Frank said nothing, just popped a match into flame and lit his smoke.
“You got anything to say about that?” Del persisted.
Frank sipped his coffee and smoked his cigarette.
“I axed you a damn question!” Del said, raising his voice.
“I heard it,” Frank said. “I chose to ignore it. Now why don’t you just enjoy your drink and leave me the hell alone?”
Del stepped away from the bar. “I don’t like you, Marshal.”
“I’m heartbroken about that,” Frank said. “I can’t tell you how much that upsets me. I’ll probably lose hours of sleep just worrying about your dislike of me. Now I have a suggestion for you.”
“What’s that?” Del asked.
“Shut the hell up!”
“No man tells me that!” Del snapped the words at Frank. “Stand up, mister.”
“I don’t feel like standing,” Frank told him. “I feel like eating. My steak should be out of the skillet any second now.”
“You won’t need food where I’m fixin’ to send you. You’ll need something to keep the chill of the grave off’n you.”
“What’s your problem with me, Del?” Frank asked. “How come you’re on the prod?”
“I don’t like two-bit deputy sheriffs.”
“I’m not a deputy. I’m a town marshal.”
“That’s even worser. Stand up, damn you!”
Frank pushed back his chair and stood. “All right, Del. I’m standing.”
“Del,” the bartender said, “that’s Frank Morgan.”
Del caught his breath, and his shoulders slumped for just a moment. Then he took a deep breath and straightened up. “I don’t believe that. What the hell would Frank Morgan be doin’ in a two-bit crap-house town like this?”
“Believe it, Del,” Frank told him.
“I don’t give a damn who he is. Don’t make no difference to me nohow. You apologize for tellin’ me to shut the hell up.”
“Turn around and drink your drink and leave me alone, Del,” Frank told him.
“Come on, Del,” his partner urged him. “Let’s just forget this.”
“You forget it, Roger,” Del said. “And I don’t believe that there’s Frank Morgan.”
“Your steak’s ready, Marshal,” the barkeep called.
“Hell with his damn steak!” Del yelled.
“Bring it on,” Frank said. “I’m hungry.”
“Huh?” Del shouted. “What’s wrong with you, Marshal? I’m challengin’ you. Ain’t you got enough sense to see that?”
“I have enough sense to try and save your life, cowboy,” Frank said as the barkeep walked toward him, a plate of food in one hand and a pot of coffee in the other. “Just set it right down, friend. And let me get to eating.”
“I ain’t believin’ this,” Del said, watching Frank sit down and pick up knife and fork.
“I’m a mite hungry myself,” Roger said.
“You . . .” Del pointed a finger at Frank. “You best enjoy that meal, Marshal. ’Cause when you’re done stuffin’ your face . . . I’m gonna kill you!”
Thirty-one
Frank took his time eating. He was hungry and enjoyed every bite. The longer he took, the more agitated Del became. The man paced up and down in front of the bar, muttering curses under his breath.
A dozen more locals had entered the saloon as the word had spread through the tiny town. The men had trooped in and taken seats, being careful not to get between Del and Frank Morgan. Finally, Frank pushed his empty plate away and refilled his coffee cup. Then he leaned back and rolled himself a smoke.
“Now, by God!” Del shouted. “You’ll stand up and fight!”
“After I finish my cigarette and coffee,” Frank said.
“I ain’t believin’ this!” Del yelled. “I’m tellin’ you to stand up and face me!”
“Why should I?” Frank questioned.
“Because I . . . because I told you to do it!”
“That’s not good enough, Del,” Frank said. He had been hoping his stalling would bring some sense to the frustrated man. It wasn’t working . . . so far. “I got no reason to shoot you, and you don’t have an
y legitimate reason to want to shoot me.”
“You insulted me!”
“And you believe that’s reason enough to risk death or serious injury?”
“Damn right! It’s my honor we’re talkin’ ’bout.”
“Del.” Frank spoke softly, but loud enough for the man to hear. “Go home. Let’s shake hands and put an end to this.”
“That’s one of the men who was with Val Dooley the other day,” the man from the livery suddenly said. “Took me a while to recognize him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that other feller.”
“You sure?” Frank asked.
“I’m sure.”
A coldness spread over Frank. He slowly stood up and faced Del. “Now I’ll face you, Del. Anyone who would ride with Val Dooley is scum.”
Roger held up his hands. “I’m out of this. I just hooked up with Del yesterday. I don’t know nothin’ ’bout Val Dooley.”
“You better be telling me the truth,” Frank said.
“I swear to God I am,” Roger said. “I been workin’ up north of here. Just driftin’ south when I come upon Del here.”
“He’s tellin’ the truth,” Del said. “I never seen him ’fore yesterday. He ain’t nobody. Now, Marshal Morgan, or whoever you are, you get ready to die. ’Cause now you got me to deal with.”
Frank’s smile was very thin. “With a great deal of pleasure, Del.”
Roger backed away. “Leave me out of this, boys. I punch cows. I ain’t no gun hand.”
“Stand clear then,” Frank told him.
Roger backed farther away.
“Val Dooley is a great man,” Del said.
“Val Dooley is a piece of coyote crap,” Frank told him.
“Too bad you’ll never live to say that to him in person,” Del said with a sneer.
“Oh, I plan on telling him that,” Frank replied. “Among other things. Just before I put lead in him.”
“You got to get by me first.”
“I don’t see that as any great hill to climb.”
“You ’bout a cocky bastard, ain’t you? For a man with some gray in his hair and some years on his face.”
“Experience, boy,” Frank said. “Too bad you’ll never live to gain that experience.”
Del laughed. Frank waited. It was Del’s play.
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