“And?”
The boxer shook his head. “You’ve no doubt heard of the ten-thousand-dollar reward Swan has put on your head.”
Frank was already watching two trouble-hunting young men strolling across the street toward him like they owned the place. “And what business is this of yours, Mr. Carlisle?” he said while he watched the newcomers approach.
“Swan is a ruthless man.”
“I don’t reckon I need you to tell me that. Pardon me. It looks like I have to take care of a little something.” Frank stepped off the boardwalk to face the two young men. One of them was big and oafish, with a lumbering gait that left huge tracks in the soft dirt of the street. The other, a head shorter than his compadre, wore a brace of two ivory-handled pistols and a frown.
“Do you think he can use both those guns at the same time?” Carlisle had followed Frank into the street.
“Some are able to. I’m a fair hand with two guns,” Frank said without taking his eyes off the men. “Now, Mr. Carlisle, I don’t mean to be rude, but there just might be gunplay here. Why don’t you scoot back up on the sidewalk where it’s safe?”
“I’ll be fine.” Carlisle didn’t move. “This might prove interesting.”
The two challengers stopped twenty feet away.
“You Frank Morgan?” Two-Gun demanded.
“I am. What’s on your mind?”
The bigger of the two lumbered closer. He had squinty eyes, and probably needed to get closer just to make certain he could see well enough to aim. He stopped five feet away and glared. “I think you’re gettin’ a little gray around the edges, old man.”
“Could be.” Frank shrugged. “Happens to us all sooner or later.”
“I don’t think you’re as all-fired good as folks say you are,” Two-Gun added. “You look all beat up to me. Maybe traipsin’ along with all those women has turned you into a woman your own self.”
Frank sighed.
“Who’s this dude with you, Morgan? Your nanny?” The big kid sneered. “Looks like he’s wearing half a melon on his head.”
“I want you to think about this, boys,” Frank said. His voice was barely above a whisper.
“We ain’t boys,” Two-Gun flared. “I beat Matt Sunday not a month ago.”
“You killed Matthew Sunday?”
“Damn right I killed him,” Two-Gun grumbled. “He’s planted in the cemetery on the edge of town.”
“You must be fast then. Sunday was supposed to be pretty good.”
“He was faster than you,” the big oaf drawled, spitting into the dirt and narrowly missing his own boot. He turned to Carlisle. “You know, while my friend shoots Morgan and earns us a quick ten thousand, I think I’ll whip your ass just for the fun of it.”
Carlisle smiled an easy smile. His left hand shot out in a quick jab, just grazing the big oaf’s nose, his right following, pulling the giant’s gaze and his guard with it. A brutal left hook smashed into the young man’s face. He tottered for a moment, dazed, and then collapsed to the street in a mighty puff of dust.
“You as fast as your friend there?” Frank said, nodding to the unconscious lump.
Two-Gun was silent, but he glared daggers at both men.
“How fast are you?” Frank said, stepping in and snatching both ivory-handled pistols from the young man’s holster. “Not fast enough to keep me from doing this.” He brought both barrels straight down on, thumping the astonished man on top of his noggin.
Chapter 14
“That was some respectable fisticuffs, Mr. Carlisle,” Frank said a half an hour later over a cup of coffee. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
“I’ve done a bit of boxing in my time.”
“I’ll bet your have, sir. I seem to remember reading about a George Carlisle who was bare-knuckle boxing champion on the Eastern Seaboard a few years back.”
“Too many years, I’m afraid,” the boxer said rubbing his hands.
“So.” Frank leaned back in his chair and stared at the man. “What’s your national detective agency got an interest in me for?”
“Two things really.” Carlisle leaned forward across the small table. “I’ve been commissioned to offer you a job.”
“Not interested,” Frank said quickly.
“Don’t you even want to hear the particulars?”
“Not really.” Frank took a sip of his coffee. “Now, what’s the other thing?”
Carlisle put down his cup and smoothed his napkin out on the table in front of him. “It’s your son, Frank.”
Frank sat up straight. “What’s wrong with Conrad?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Quite the contrary. He’s doing well. He heard about the ten-thousand-dollar bounty Swan put on your head and hired us to protect you.”
Frank relaxed. “Damn fool kid,” he said, feeling a bit of pride in his chest that his estranged son would worry about him like that. “He should know enough to know I, of all people, don’t need a bodyguard.”
Carlisle shook his head sadly. “At one time or another, everyone has to rest. That’s where we come in. We take up the slack. That’s why they call us ’the eye that never sleeps.’”
“So you are from Pinkerton then.”
“Afraid so, Morgan. Look at this way. I can be of help to you seeing to it that the women are safe.”
Frank rubbed his chin whiskers and thought. This Carlisle was a likeable enough person. He was sure enough handy with his fists.
“What kind of gun do you carry?”
The boxer opened his coat to reveal a shoulder rig and the round butt of a short-barreled revolver. “It’s a three-inch Colt with bird’s-head grips. I had a little action work done on it by a gunsmith I know in Boston. A real pleasure to shoot.”
“Are you any good with it?”
Carlisle laughed out loud and let his coat fall shut. “I’m good. Good enough to know I don’t ever want to tangle with you when it comes to gunplay.”
Frank finished off his coffee and put a tip on the table. “Well, George, I don’t think I’d want to box against you either. Now let’s go and introduce you to the girls.” He suddenly turned on Carlisle. “But I want you to get one thing straight. You’re not my bodyguard. I’m bringing you along to help me look after these women. Are we clear on that?”
The boxer nodded. “Crystal.”
* * *
George Carlisle rode a tall, flea-bitten gray that had a good deal of white in its eye and a surly disposition. Dog gave the grumpy horse a wide berth.
Frank gathered the women around him and introduced their new traveling companion as an acquaintance of his son’s and a trustworthy man. Though Frank considered him somewhat of a dandy, the women seemed to think he was handsome enough. Paula Freeman almost swooned when he dismounted to help her into her wagon.
“Are you certain you can trust him?” Dixie said a short time later as Frank trotted Stormy up next to her. Carlisle had taken a seat on the wagon next to Paula and they were carrying on what appeared to be a lively conversation.
“He seems honest enough,” Frank shrugged. “He stood by me in a fight. With my reputation for drawing bullets, a lot of men would have hunted somewhere else to be.” He rested his hands on the saddle horn and gazed at the chattering couple in the wagon behind him. “In any case, Paula seems to be quite taken with him.”
Dixie nodded. She opened her mouth to say something, then stopped. “How far would you say it is to Colorado?”
Frank pointed to the line of willows and Russian olive trees ahead. “That’s Two Buttes Creek. The line runs more or less along there. Should be an easy crossing for us. This marks the beginning of what people are calling the Arkansas Valley. We’ll be following the Arkansas River for a good way. . . .”
Carlisle had reclaimed his gray, and rode up next to Dixie’s wagon. “Beg your pardon, Mrs. Carpenter. Morgan, did you see that thin line of smoke down by the trees ahead?”
Frank nodded. “I did. This is a well-used cros
sing, but I suppose I should ride up and take a little reconnoiter before we commit the wagons down the hill. I’d appreciate you keeping an eye on the ladies while I’m gone. Shouldn’t take long.” Without waiting for an answer, he squeezed Stormy into a gentle, rocking-horse lope toward the creek.
He rode to the lip of the creek bed cautiously, but let himself relax some when he saw another Conestoga wagon alongside four mules grazing on the narrow green flood plain of Two Buttes Creek. A Negro man walked out from under a smoke-colored camp awning with a rifle in hand.
“I’m friendly,” Frank called. “Leading a small wagon train west. Mind if I dismount?”
“Step down and have a rest.” The man smiled and let the rifle swing down to one hand like a walking cane. “To tell you the truth, I could use some conversation.” There was a trace of an accent in the man’s voice, but Frank couldn’t place it.
He stepped down from the saddle and shook the black man’s hand. “Frank Morgan.”
The man’s eyes widened for an instant. Then he regained his composure. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Morgan. I’m Otis Chapman and this is my wife Salina. Those three sets of eyes peaking out from under that canvas tarp are my sons Shadrach, Meshach, and Alphonse.”
“No offense, but what happened to Abed-nigo?”
“Alphonse is the oldest. We didn’t happen on the Israelite theme until after he was born.”
“That’s a shame,” Frank said. “They’re nice names on the ear.”
Chapman smiled and winked at his chubby little wife, who shook her head and looked at the ground with a sly grin. “Oh, don’t you worry, Mr. Morgan, Salina and I are hard at work to bring forth a little Abed-nigo.”
“May I offer you some coffee?” Salina asked, shooing the younger two boys back into the wagon. Frank guessed them to be no more than six or seven years old. Alphonse, who was every bit of seventeen, was allowed to stay out with the adults.
The coffee was tasty, with just a hint of chicory. Salina noticed the expression on Frank’s face and smiled.
“My mother was from Louisiana. When she came north to Massachusetts, she brought some fine recipes with her, including the one for this coffee.”
Frank held up his cup in a salute and winked. “My compliments to your mother then. So, you’re from Massachusetts?”
“Born and educated there,” Otis said. “My father was a free man and so was I. I fought with the all-colored 51st.”
Frank bowed his head. “You’re lucky you made it out alive. Most of the 51st didn’t.”
“I was wounded about a month before the ill-fated assault on the fort. Were you in the war, Mr. Morgan?”
“Yes, on the other side. Cavalry. From start to finish.”
“Does it bother you, seeing a colored man like me out here like this?” Otis looked him straight in the eye as he spoke.
“Mr. Chapman, I didn’t own any slaves. Never had a stomach for such a thing, but I wasn’t fighting for that. It wasn’t about that for me at least.”
“States’ rights?”
“Exactly. I had to follow the dictates of my conscience.” Frank handed the empty cup back to Salina Chapman and stood up with a groan. “How far are you folks heading?”
Otis glanced at his wife. “Pueblo, or thereabouts.”
“Well,” Frank said, “there’s strength in numbers, and if you don’t mind traveling with a bunch of women, a New York dandy, an ugly dog, and a man with a price on his head, you’re welcome to throw in with us.”
“We all seem to be going the same way, and we’re bound to bump into each other over and over anyway. I would certainly enjoy the conversations. I don’t see why we shouldn’t join up. Do you, Salina?”
Mrs. Chapman shook her head. “No, Otis, I don’t see any reason at all. As a matter of fact, you boys are beginning to grate on me. I could use a little female companionship.”
“It’s settled then,” Frank said, climbing back on his horse. “Oh, and Mrs. Chapman, one more thing—would you happen to have any nutmeg? One of our women is always on a hunt for good nutmeg.”
“Well, of course. I got a whole jar of it.”
“Good to hear.” Frank said. He trotted off to fetch the others, already tasting hot apple pie.
Chapter 15
Trouble trotted up behind the wagons on the second day after the Chapmans joined the procession—in the form of a longhorn cow and calf. Alphonse pointed it out to Otis, and he in turn rode up to the head of the train to tell Frank.
“Not a brand on either one of them,” Frank mused as he and Otis watched the piebald calf suckle. “But they’re not wild. A maverick cow wouldn’t be caught dead this close to people, particularly with a calf that young.”
The wagons had all stopped so the youngsters could come back and look at the new arrivals.
“He’s just precious,” the little Ellington girl said to her mother. “Can we keep him?”
“Oh, no.” Frank shook his head. “They don’t belong to us. Livestock will get a man in trouble quicker than wife-stealing around here. We can’t keep them from trailing along behind us, but they’re on their own.”
“Wolves might get them come nightfall,” Otis observed.
“Might, but I think the mama will keep a good watch. She probably got separated from a herd to calve and now looks at us as her keepers.”
George, who’d been on a scouting trip, reined up his gray beside the Chapmans’ wagon and tipped his hat at Salina. “Riders coming in, Morgan. Four of them.”
“I see ’em. This is what I was afraid of.”
A moment later the four cowboys blew up beside them in a cloud of dust. Frank took off his hat to fan the air. “You boys sure know how to be a damned nuisance.”
“You got a big mouth, mister,” the lead cowboy said. He had a loud purple scarf around his neck, and a wide-brimmed hat hung off his back on a leather stampede string. “Maybe somebody ought to close it for you.”
Frank raised a hand. “Hold on there. Don’t get so riled. I was talking to my friend there as well as you.” He pointed at George Carlisle. “He brought in as much dust as you.”
“Well,” the cowboy said, “I ain’t your friend, so shut your pie hole. Them cattle is ours. Down our way, we hang rustlers.”
“Well, we’re not down your way.” Frank smiled. “And the cattle wandered up unbranded. They’re not rustled. If they’re yours, take them.”
“I say they’re stolen,” another cowboy spit, glaring at the Chapmans. “And I bet I know who stole ’em.”
“You’d lose your bet.” Frank set his jaw. These men didn’t want the cattle back. They wanted a fight. “Now take your livestock and clear out.”
“We don’t take orders from you, Morgan. Them niggers stole our cattle. Get out of the way. We got ways of dealin’ with thieves.”
“Stand fast, boys,” Frank hissed, but their minds were made up.
Frank’s Peacemaker spit fire and smoke. An instant later the lead cowboy lay dead on the ground, his boot still dangling from the stirrup.
The other three cowboys didn’t move, but glared at Frank and the others. One of them, an older man, hung back a little from the others and eyed Dixie with such contempt, Frank thought about shooting him on the spot. He had a familiar face, something about his jawline and the way he slouched on his horse . . . Of course. He’d been one of the men with Swan that day on the prairie. One of the men coming to gun him down and take back the women and the wagons.
Frank kept the pistol pointed at the three men. “Your leader there called me by name before he died. Funny, I don’t recall introducing myself.”
“Everybody knows who you are, Morgan,” the youngest of the three cowboys said, his hands raised high above his head. Frank thought it best to let the fact he recognized one of them slide until he could figure out what was going on. He had no doubt he would be able to take all three men, but there were too many innocents behind him and a stray bullets might find an unintended mar
k. “You boys collect your friend there and git. Take your cow with you.”
“Nobody messes with the Circle V,” the cowboy on the mouse-brown gelding whispered. “Particularly not some nigger-lovin’ two-bit gunfighter with a swelled-up view of his self. My Uncle Vic will have a word to say about this.”
“Keep your mouth shut, Sonny,” the older cowboy hissed while he tied the dead man across the vacant saddle.
Sonny shook out his lariat and built him a loop. He tossed it easily around the cow’s horns. If he was an outlaw, he was a talented cowboy as well. “Let’s get back. I’m sure Uncle Vic will want to hear about this.” The young man took a dally around his saddle horn and turned to face Frank. A cruel grin crossed his face. “Mark me, Drifter. Your day is comin’ and it’s comin’ soon.” With that, he spun his cow pony and took the cow off at a trot toward the southeast and the herd. Keeping their eyes on Frank as long as they could, the other two cowboys turned their horses and followed their hotheaded partner.
“They didn’t come from that direction,” Dixie said after the cowboys were out of earshot.
“Maybe they were just out hunting strays and ran into us,” Carlisle offered.
“Or hunting us,” Frank said, sliding his gun back into the holster. “That older fellow was with Swan’s men when they came after us on the prairie back before we hit Dodge.”
“Swan?” Dixie asked.
“Wilson’s real name is Ephraim Swan and he’s as bad as they come according to Bat.”
“What’s one of Wilson’s ... Swan’s gang doing herding cattle with the Circle V?” Dixie shook her head.
“I don’t know,” Frank said, climbing on his horse. “But I don’t like it one bit. Everybody stay close. We’ll make an early camp. George, you, Otis, and I will rotate a watch tonight. We’re a pretty easy target out here like this.”
The wagons began to creak forward again and George rode up on his gray, out of earshot of the others.
“Do you think they’ll hit us tonight?” He didn’t look worried, just interested.
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