“That looks plumb awful,” a man said. “I reckon we’ll have to scoop him up with shovels.”
“Hey,” another local said, looking down at the bodies of the three outlaws. “I think one of these yahoos is alive.”
The wounded and bloody outlaw was hauled into a chair. He was near death, but still able to speak. He groaned a couple of times.
“You got a name, feller?” he was asked. “I hate to bury a man not knowin’ his name.”
“Dick,” the outlaw moaned. “Dick Bates. Them other two is Noble and Henry.”
“Where is the gang’s hideout?” Frank asked the man.
“Nowheres now. Val busted up the gang. We was all that was left.”
“Don’t lie, man,” a local said. “It ain’t good to meet the Lord with a lie on your lips.”
“I ain’t lyin’, I swear it.” Dick groaned, closed his eyes, and fell out of the chair dead.
“I wonder which one is Noble and which one is Henry,” a man said.
“Hell, what difference does it make?” another said. “Put ’em in a big bag and shake ’em up and you won’t be able to tell the difference nohow.”
“I reckon so,” the man said.
Frank walked slowly out of the saloon and over to his office. There he bathed his wounds with alcohol and bandaged his leg. He’d been hurt a lot worse during his long years.
He’d thought he’d feel happy when Val Dooley was finished on this earth. But instead he felt depressed; didn’t understand why that was. He looked up as Ed Martin walked into the office.
“I guess you’ll be moving on now,” Ed said.
There was a hopeful note in the man’s question that caused Frank to smile. Same old story. Gun-handlers were welcome in a town when the chips were down, but let the table get clear, with a new deck in the game, and men like Frank Morgan were sometimes not too politely asked to get out.
“I reckon so,” Frank said after a moment of silence while he stared down the man. The merchant shuffled his brogans on the floor in quiet embarrassment.
“I want you to know we certainly appreciate what you’ve done, Marshal,” Ed finally said.
“Right.”
“And any provisions you need for your trip will be on the house.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Well . . .” Ed said.
“I’ll be pulling out about midmorning,” Frank said. “I’ll provision up at your store first thing.”
“I’ll be there, Marshal. Oh, and there won’t be any charge for stabling your horses.”
“Thanks.”
The merchant quietly left the office. Frank looked down. Drops of his blood were leaking from his leg wound, puddling on the floor.
Thirty-three
Frank put the tiny town behind him and headed east, toward Texas. He was in no hurry, didn’t even know why he was Texas-bound—he just was. He was drifting.
Frank had thought about wintering in his New Mexico valley, but he quickly changed his mind about that. Julie had loved that valley, and Frank had been quite fond of Julie.
“Drifting again,” he muttered on his third day out. The weather was cool and very pleasant, the nights getting downright chilly. Frank had no intention of wintering in North Texas, for the winters could get rough in that part of the state.
After several weeks on the trail, Frank crossed over into the panhandle of Texas, stopping at a tiny town just across the New Mexico-Texas line. Frank wanted a bath, a haircut, and a shave. Then he wanted a meal he hadn’t cooked over a campfire. He stabled his horses at the livery, got some scraps from a café for Dog, then walked over to the barbershop-bathhouse. An hour later, he was both feeling and looking human again as he entered the town’s only saloon for a drink before he ate supper.
No one paid him much attention as he stood at the end of the bar and ordered a whiskey. Frank was dressed in jeans, dark shirt, and waist-length leather jacket. The bartender poured his drink and leaned close.
“I used to bartend up in the Dakotas, Morgan. I seen you up there when them Calhoun boys pushed you into that fight. Remember?”
“Oh, yes, I sure do.”
“Three hard-lookin’ ol’ boys come into town ’bout two, three hours ago. They’re on the prod, lookin’ for someone. They got ’em a room up over the saloon. I figured I best warn you ’bout ’em.”
“Did they mention my name?”
“No, sir. But I caught their name. Real funny name. Bookbinder. You know ’em?”
“I’ve heard of them. And you’re right: they’re on the prod. For me.”
“They’re bad ones, Morgan. I can tell. I’ve seen more than my share in my time.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it. Are you lookin’ for a bed tonight?”
“I was planning on it.”
“You don’t want to stay here with them Bookbinders, do you?”
Frank smiled; a grimace more than a humorous curving of the lips. “Either me or those three won’t be needing a bed, friend.”
The bartender nodded his head. “I understand, Morgan.”
“But I will take that room.”
“You might want to delay on walkin’ upstairs. Yonder comes the Bookbinder boys.”
Frank turned and met the eyes of Jules Bookbinder. Frank remembered him now. It had been a number of years, but Frank knew him. Jules stopped halfway down the stairs and stared at Frank. Then he turned and spoke in low tones to his brothers. The brothers all looked at Frank for a moment. Jules continued on down the stairs, his brothers, Kenny and Alvin, following. The three brothers walked to the bar and ordered drinks.
“Smells like polecat down at the end of the bar,” Alvin said. “You smell that turrible stink, brothers?”
“Shore do,” Kenny said.
Jules said nothing. He was an experienced gun-handler; he knew Frank Morgan wasn’t going to get rattled by words.
Frank sipped his drink and waited for one of the brothers to make a move.
The batwings pushed open and an older man with a white handlebar mustache stepped inside. The man wore a badge on his jacket. Texas Ranger. The Ranger walked up to the bar, took a place between Frank and the brothers, and ordered a whiskey. While his drink was being poured, he gave Frank a once-over. Frank gave him a look right back.
“I know you,” the Ranger said. “Frank Morgan.”
“That’s right.”
“I recall the time you and Red Douglas locked horns down south of here. Red didn’t even clear leather ’fore you put two holes in him.”
“I remember.”
“You on the prod, Morgan?”
“No. Just passin’ through.”
“That’s good. I hate paperwork. Times are sure changin’. Now when there’s a shootin’, a lawman’s got to spent a damn hour scribblin’ down everything he seen. Damn nuisance, if you ask me. I’m just passin’ through myself. Seen your horse over to the livery. Fine-lookin’ animal. That your ill-tempered dog in the stall with him?”
“He isn’t ill-tempered toward me,” Frank said with a smile.
For the first time, the Ranger smiled. “I reckon not. That’s all a man needs, a good horse and a good dog. A woman won’t bring a man nothin’ but grief. I had me a good dog once. Named him Cornelius. Best dog in Texas. I still miss him. My wife left me after ten years of marriage. I don’t miss her at all.”
Frank chuckled at the Ranger’s words and took a tiny sip of his whiskey. The Ranger cut his eyes to the Bookbinder boys and then quickly back to Frank.
“I know that crew down there,” he whispered. “The older one’s Jules Bookbinder. I know he’s wanted all over the place, but I don’t have any papers on him. They after you?”
“Yes.”
“Damn. And I thought I could make this run without havin’ to do a lot of paperwork.”
“Sorry to have to spoil your trip.”
“Don’t think nothin’ of it, Morgan. These things happen. Yo
u want me to jump in or you plan on handlin’ this yourself?”
“Just keep your eyes open, if you will. Jules is a big man. He’ll be hard to put down.”
“Will do.”
“What the hell are you two whisperin’ about down there?” Alvin asked, his tone demanding.
“None of your damn business,” the Ranger told him. “I don’t answer to worthless turds like you three.”
“You callin’ me a turd?” Kenny shouted.
“I’ll call you a low-down son of a bitch if I take a mind to do it,” the Ranger popped right back. “Now shut up your trap and let me continue my conversation with my friend here.”
“Be quiet,” Jules cautioned his brother. “We don’t want no trouble with you, Ranger.”
“Fine. What are you boys doin’ in Texas anyway?”
“Lookin’ for work,” Jules said. “Maybe working line shacks during the winter. You know of any work?”
“Can’t say as I do, boys. But was I you three, I’d try somewheres else. It might not be real healthy around here.”
“What do you mean by that?” Alvin asked.
“You might say you boys have a reputation as trouble-hunters. I don’t like trouble-hunters. You get my drift?”
Kenny stepped away from the bar. “You tellin’ us to clear out, Ranger?”
“I ain’t tellin’ you no such of a thing, boy. I’m merely strongly suggesting it.”
“Nobody tells me where I can come or go,” Jules said softly. “I think you’re throwin’ in with Morgan there, Ranger.”
“Well, now, son,” the Ranger drawled, “that might be true. You see, I sorta like Frank Morgan. I don’t like you.”
“That don’t mean squat to me, Ranger,” Jules said. “We’re spendin’ a few days in this town, restin’ ourselves and our horses. And if you don’t like that, that’s just too damn bad.”
“Paperwork,” the Ranger muttered. “Good Lord, I can see paperwork in my future.”
“What’d you say?” Alvin hollered. “Are you talkin’ ’bout us? I don’t like people whisperin’ things ’bout us.”
“Boy,” the old Ranger said, “I don’t much give a tinker’s damn what you like or dislike. Now just stand over there with your brothers and enjoy your drinks and shut the hell up!”
“I’d do what he says, boys,” the bartender told the trio. “That’s Ranger Keller. He was a Ranger when they was carryin’ Walker Colts. Leave him alone is my advice to you.”
“Who the hell asked for your advice?” Kenny said. “Mind your own knittin’ and tend to polishin’ your glasses.”
The bartender shrugged and looked down at Frank and the Ranger. “I tried,” he said.
“Some folks is just plain hardheaded,” Ranger Keller opined.
“You are callin’ us names!” Alvin said. “You ’bout a meddlin’ old fool, that’s what you are.”
“Boxes and boxes of paperwork,” Ranger Keller muttered. “Oh, Lord, I can see me scribblin’ for hours and hours.”
Frank slid his gaze sideways and smiled at the Ranger’s expression. “Well, Ranger, if we get it over with quickly enough, we’ll still have time for supper.”
The Ranger smiled at that. “Well, I suppose I could take some comfort in that. Are you ready?”
“I stay ready, Ranger.”
“Yeah . . . I reckon you do, boy. I really reckon you do.” He looked over at the Bookbinder brothers. “You boys back off and leave me be. That’s the only warning I’m goin’ to give you. You best heed it.”
“I ain’t never killed me no big-ass Ranger,” Kenny said.
“You ain’t goin’ to kill this one either, boy,” Ranger Keller told him. “Now I give you a fair and open warnin’. Whatever else happens is on your head.”
“Hell with you, Ranger!” Kenny told him, and grabbed for his gun.
Ranger Keller may have been past his prime in age, but his gun hand was still quick and smooth. He drilled Kenny in the belly just as Frank pulled iron and gave Jules Bookbinder a .45 round in the chest. The older brother was slammed up against the bar, his pistol just clear of leather.
“Bastard!” he yelled at Frank as he lifted and cocked his six-gun.
Frank shot him again, then once more. Jules staggered and went down on the barroom floor, still cussing.
Alvin threw up his hands and yelled, “I’m out of this, boys! Don’t shoot no more. I’m done.”
“Oh, Lord,” Kenny groaned, hanging on to the side of the bar. “I done messed up bad this time.”
“I’d say so,” Ranger Keller told him.
“I’ll kill you both,” Jules gasped. “I’ll kill you.”
“No, you won’t, boy,” the Ranger told him. “Just be quiet and die easy.”
“I ain’t gonna die,” Jules said. “Not by a long shot.”
“I wouldn’t take no bets on that,” the Ranger replied.
Frank jerked Alvin’s gun from leather and tossed it on a table.
“I need me a doctor,” Kenny said. “I mean, I really do.”
“You and your brother need a preacher and an undertaker,” Ranger Keller told him. “In that order.”
Kenny lost his grip on the bar and fell to the floor, stretching out beside his brother. “Is you still alive, Jules?” he asked.
Jules stared at his brother with wide-open yet lifeless eyes.
“I believe that does it,” Ranger Keller said.
“What am I gonna do?” Alvin hollered.
“Ride a mighty lonesome trail, I reckon,” the Ranger told him.
“Are you arrestin’ me?” Alvin asked.
“Nope. I ain’t got nothin’ to hold you on. You didn’t pull on me. Your brothers did.”
“It’s a-gettin’ dark!” Kenny said. “Is it nighttime so soon?”
“It is for you,” Ranger Keller told him.
“Oh, Lord!” Kenny hollered.
“You mean I can go?” Alvin asked.
“Right after you see to the plantin’ of your no-’count brothers.”
“I can do that. We got money.”
“You don’t seen too almighty broke up about their passin’,” Ranger Keller said.
“Well, I’ll miss ’em, for shore.”
“That’s mighty big of you, boy,” the Ranger observed, just about as dryly as the desert at high noon in July.
“Well, I never really got along with either of them. They kinda drug me into outlawin’, you see.”
“Yeah, I’m shore they did,” the Ranger said.
“I need to see a preacher,” Kenny whispered.
“You need a hell of lot more than that, boy,” the Ranger said.
“I want to go to heaven and see my mama and papa.”
“You can wave up to ’em,” the Ranger said. “That’ll have to do.”
“I think I’m done for,” Kenny said.
“Can I have your guns, Kenny?” Alvin asked. “You know I’ve always admired ’em.”
“Take ’em and go to hell with ’em, you whiny piece of snake crap,” his brother replied.
“Such affection is truly heartwarmin’,” the Ranger said, pouring himself a drink.
“It must have really been a close family,” Frank replied.
“How about your horse?” Alvin asked.
But Kenny didn’t reply. He was stone dead.
Alvin quickly took off his brother’s gun belt and started to reach for his Colt, thought better of it, and looked back at Ranger Keller and Frank.
“Go on,” Frank told him. “Get it and clear out. You make me want to puke.”
After Alvin had dragged his brothers out back, Ranger Keller said, “You’ll be seeing him again, Morgan. He’ll probably try to back-shoot you. He shore ain’t got the sand to meet you eyeball-to-eyeball.”
“I’m sure you’re probably right. But I’m used to checking my back trail.”
Keller smiled. “Ain’t we all, boy. Ain’t we all.”
Thirty-four
Frank
spent two days in the small town, provisioning up, resting, and enjoying meals he didn’t have to prepare himself. Dog ate and slept in the stall with Stormy. Frank and Ranger Keller rode out together, but parted at a crossroads a few hours later.
“It’s been a pleasure, Morgan,” the old Ranger said. “Watch your back.”
“Same to you,” Frank replied.
Weeks later, with the weather turning definitely toward winter, Frank rode into Fort Worth. He checked into a hotel, got himself cleaned up while his suit was being pressed and his shirts laundered, then went to a Wells Fargo office to see if he had any messages. He had several from his attorneys.
One of the messages advised him that he was several thousand dollars richer due to some highfalutin stock deal his assigned broker had pulled off in New York City. Another message was that a Miss Judith Barnes had settled in Kansas City and was now teaching school. Another message advised him that his son, Conrad, was now touring Europe with some lovely New York City society woman.
“A real playboy,” Frank muttered. “Well, good luck to you, son.”
Frank and his son did not get along, and seldom saw each other.
He stepped into a saloon and ordered a beer. No one in the crowded place seemed to recognize him, and Frank breathed a sigh of relief for that. He sipped his beer and looked around the large interior of the saloon. Painted ladies working the table, and a banjo player, a fiddler, and a piano player were hard at work entertaining the late afternoon crowd.
A man stepped into the space beside Frank, and Frank cut his eyes to the man. A Texas Ranger.
“Morgan,” the Ranger said.
“That’s me.”
“We got a wire from Ranger Keller. Said he met you and you and him came out on top in a shootin’ scrape. He said you was a man to ride the river with. Comin’ from an old salty dog like Keller, them words is mighty high praise, believe you me.”
“I believe it. Keller impressed me.”
The Ranger looked at Frank through hard eyes. Then a smile formed on his lips. “I’ll tell Keller you said so. That’ll tickle him. Finish your beer, I’ll buy you another.”
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