“That’s awful. Right here where we are.” She snuggled closer to his shoulder.
Frank shrugged. “Or thereabouts. Legend has it that the Utes cut the heads off all the women. For years trappers and traders coming through this area have told stories of seeing headless women walking around Pueblo and wailing in the dark.”
“Headless?” She shuddered and put her arm around his waist to pull in even closer to him.
“That’s what the legend says.”
“Do you think it’s true?”
“The massacre happened. That’s a fact.’”
“What about the ghost part?” Dixie cast her eyes through the sparse trees, then ducked her head against Frank so her voice was muffled. “Do you think the ghosts of those poor headless women still haunt this place?”
“No.” He grinned. “But it makes for a good story to make your woman bunch up tight and close-like.”
Dixie jerked away and narrowed her eyes. “You’re awful, Frank Morgan.” She tried to look mad, but couldn’t keep from grinning.
“I reckon I do have a bit of a mean streak.” Frank chuckled. “Just the same, I think it would be better if you stayed right next to me.”
She collapsed back into his arms. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Let’s get married here, Frank. Let’s not wait any longer. It doesn’t have to be anything big, but we could do it before Otis and Salina leave. How about it, Frank? Are you still in the mood to marry this old woman?”
It was Frank’s turn to shudder. “I don’t know which should scare you more, Dixie darlin’, headless Mexican ghosts or marryin’ a rough old cob like me.”
She looked off toward the sleepy little town. “I’m sure they got a justice of the peace or a minister or somebody who could do it proper.”
“All right,” Frank said, pounding his fist on the top of the wagon wheel. “We deserve some happiness too, don’t we?”
“Yes, we do.” Dixie covered the gunfighter’s calloused hand with her smaller one.
“I’ll go on into town, get the license, and pay the fees. You tell the girls to drag out their Sunday best, because you’re gonna have a wedding tomorrow.”
“Tonight, Frank. Who knows what the world will be like tomorrow? Let’s just do it tonight.” Her green eyes seemed to burn a hole right through him. She gave him a coy nod. “Then later, we won’t have to go sneaking off into the bushes.”
Frank kissed this stubborn, beautiful woman and grabbed her by both shoulders, staring at her face. “Tonight it is then, soon-to-be Mrs. Frank Morgan.”
“Promise? No matter what?”
Frank took off his hat and put it over his heart. “You have my word on it, darlin’.”
Dixie stayed with the wagons while Frank saddled Stormy and loped into town. There was a warm breeze in his face, and he felt a little dizzy as he slowed his horse to an easy trot adjacent to the little pink adobe cobbler shop at the edge of town. He looked down at Dog, who trotted beside them, his tongue lolling out, black lips pulled back as though he was smiling.
“Am I doin’ the right thing, boy?”
Dog whined, keeping pace with the jigging Appaloosa. His ears perked up at the direct attention.
Frank looked down and grinned. “You’re no help at all.”
Frank had the marriage license in hand an hour later. He still needed Dixie’s signature, but the justice of the peace assured him that could be taken care of just before the ceremony—especially for the famous Frank Morgan.
He stepped out onto the baked-clay road, returned the hat to his head, and drew in a deep lungful of high desert air—one of his last breaths of air as a free and single man. There was something to be said for drifting. He thought of Dixie, her green eyes and soft face. There was something to be said for settling down as well.
George Carlisle reined up in front of the justice of peace’s office and dismounted in a hurry. He looked up the street behind him, then at Frank. Two Mexican women were walking into the office behind him, and George held his peace until they were out of earshot.
“What’s the matter, George? You look a little green around the gills. You decide to get married today too?”
“You need to watch yourself, Morgan. I’ve been in town two hours and already run into someone who wants to kill you.”
“One of Swan’s men?”
“Likely. A towheaded giant they call Dakota Bob.” George nodded back down the street toward a false-fronted saloon called La Paloma Blanca: The White Dove.
“From what people tell me, he’s been sitting in there playing cards and spewing on all day about what he intends to do to you and your wagon train of women.”
“I see.” Frank pulled his Peacemaker and checked the rounds. “Don’t know why I thought this town would be any different. Until I address this problem with Swan, there’ll be no rest from these two-bit gunmen out to make their fortune.” He slid the revolver back into its holster.
“What do you want to do, Frank?” George reached under the edge of his jacket and touched the bird’s-head grip of his pistol. “You know I’ll back your play.”
“I know it, and I appreciate it. But there’s no sense in you taking the chance of gettin’ yourself hurt. Paula would never forgive me.”
George waved that off. “And Dixie would never forgive me. Forget it, Frank. This is not about my job now. You’re my friend.”
“You could help me the most by going back to the wagons and checking on my wife-to-be. I’ll keep my head in the fight better if I know she’s being taken care of.”
“All right,” George said. “But I don’t like it. Why don’t we go get Dixie settled with Otis and Salina? Then we can both go take care of this.”
The gunfighter swung into his saddle. He patted the folded papers in his vest pocket. “No, I reckon I better go on and see to this Dakota Bob now before he finishes his card game and comes to bleed all over Dixie’s weddin’.” Frank touched the brim of his hat, nodded, and spun his horse on its haunches to lope up the street toward the Paloma saloon.
Frank knew two things. If something needed to be done, it was better to get to it right away—and it was generally better if he tended to it by himself.
Chapter 23
Flies darted and buzzed around the entrance to La Paloma Blanca as if even they knew better than to go inside. Frank looped Stormy’s reins over a rough cedar rail in front, next to a gaunt bay with a sagging lower lip. He told Dog to stay outside and guard the horse.
Inside, the bar was busy for an early afternoon. It was two o’ clock—siesta time—and those that couldn’t sleep chose to come and spend their afternoon rest in the smoke-filled air of the greasy establishment.
The buzz of several card games hummed under a pall of smoke in back of the dim room.
Two Mexican hostesses slouched at the bar, sipping clay cups of mescal. Both looked well past their prime. One was at least as old as Frank. The other, though younger, filled her threadbare peasant dress to the point of bursting. Chubby, round cheeks almost hid her tired eyes. Both smiled dutifully at Frank, but neither seemed to have the energy to get up and speak to him.
The bartender was a short, dark man with a stained apron and yellowed shirt. He had a curled black mustache and wore his hair slicked straight back.
“Can I help you, Señor?” he asked, putting both hands flat on the surprisingly tidy bar.
“Beer?” Frank said, nodding to the older of the two women, who stared at him as if he were a juicy steak.
“I am sorry but we have no beer,” the bartender said. “The supplies have yet to be delivered from Denver. I can offer you some of the best tequila this side of the Mexican border.”
“No, thanks. Gives me a whompin’ headache. You got any coffee?” Morgan scanned the room.
“Of course, Senor. I have sugar as well if you wish. Except for beer, we have anything you might desire after a long day’s journey under this sun.” The bartender dipped his head toward the two women at the end o
f the bar.
Frank suppressed a shudder, and thought of sweet Dixie back at the wagons. “Black coffee will suit me just fine, thank you.”
It was easy enough to tell which of the cardplayers was Dakota Bob. The hulking man sat at a table of dust-covered drovers, chewing on a green cigar as big around as a small shrub. He was winning, and the drovers were too afraid of him to get up and leave.
Bob took a match out of his vest pocket and lit it on the end of a yellowed thumbnail. He touched the flame to the gray ash of his cigar and puffed it back to life. He was clean enough, but his clothes looked homespun and poor. His long blond hair was pulled back into a tight braid, tied off at the end with a leather string and a brown eagle feather. Frank guessed him to be in his late thirties.
“Hurry up and bet, boys,” the big man bellowed. “I got me a date with Mr. Frank Morgan as soon as I win all your hard-earned cash.”
Frank leaned against the bar and drank his coffee, watching the blowhard.
“Yes, sir, boys, after I put a bullet in Morgan’s gizzard, then I’ll show them women what a real man is like.” He thumped his chest. “It’ll take most of ’em just to satisfy a man like me.”
Frank had heard enough.
“And what kind of a man is that?” he asked, still leaning against the bar, coffee cup in hand.
Dakota Bob froze. Slowly, he put his cards on the table and turned his head toward Frank. “Did I hear a little ground hog chirpin’ over there?”
“Nope. Just me.” Frank toasted him with the coffee cup. “I was just wonderin’ what kind of man it was who would have to go around blabbin’ about killing somebody they never met and molesting a bunch of defenseless women.”
Bob’s already pink face flushed red. “What are you tryin’ to say, mister?” He pushed back from the table and stood.
Frank shrugged and set down his cup. “Oh, nothing really. Name’s Frank Morgan. I was just wondering why you don’t just come and find me instead of sittin’ around in here all day talkin’ about it. Then it hit me. I figure you just need the time to work up the courage to look me in the eye.”
“You cocksure, uppity son of a bitch. It’s gonna be a pleasure to skin your sorry hide.”
The drovers scattered to the edges of the room, leaving what money they had on the table. They didn’t want to be in the line of fire, but they didn’t want to miss the show either.
“Well, I’m here, Bob. You go ahead and do what you think you need to, because I got things to do.”
Dakota Bob’s hand dropped to his gun.
* * *
Morgan stood, his Peacemaker smoking in his hand.
The other gunman swayed, staring into space. He’d drawn his pistol and cocked it, but hadn’t had time to fire. He grabbed at the edge of the table, flipping it as he fell and scattering money and cards across the dusty floor.
The outlaw slumped, both legs splayed out in front of him. He raised his gun. A look of surprise crossed his face. “You . . .”
Frank’s Colt spit fire again, knocking Bob backward. The cocked revolver slipped from his grasp and hit the floor beside him. The impact caused it to fire, and Frank ducked instinctively.
He heard a yelp behind him, and saw the heavyset barmaid clutch her round behind and slide to the floor. Frank couldn’t speak Spanish, but he understood enough to know she’d been shot in the rear end. The poor woman squealed like a stuck pig while the bartender and other woman knelt to check on her.
Frank walked up to Bob and found he was still alive.
“You bastard,” the outlaw said. “I can’t feel my legs.”
Frank kicked the gun away and squatted next to the dying man. A growing pool of blood soaked into the dirt floor under him. “Afraid I shot your spine out, Bob. Wish I could have killed you cleaner.”
The man gasped. He was losing color quickly in his face and his big hands began to flutter.
“Tell me who sent you,” said Frank.
“Mean son of a bitch named Ephraim Swan. Meaner than me by a long shot.”
Frank nodded and got to his feet.
Dakota Bob clutched at his pants leg. “Don’t just leave me here. I can’t move. Show some mercy, for pity’s sake.”
“Like you would’ve showed those women?” Frank shook his foot loose and left the hired gun to face his death alone on the dirty floor.
At the bar, the older hostess had the wounded girl’s dress pulled up to her waist so she could check on the wound. The chubby prostitute bit at her knuckle and wailed as if the world were about to end.
“How is she?” he asked the bartender.
“Oh, Señor,” the little man cried, clutching at his chest as if he was the one who’d been shot. “The bullet, it passed through her buttock.”
Frank nodded. “That’s not so bad then. It could have been much worse.”
“You don’t understand, patron. Margarita, she is lazy. She didn’t work too much before. Now she will milk a little wound like this and be good for nothing for weeks.” The bartender ran a hand through his slick hair and swore. “Oh, Dios mio. I was a poor man to begin with. Now I will be ruined for sure.”
Frank gave the man ten dollars for the damage, and told him he could have what had spilled off the table and whatever was in Dakota Bob’s poke.
Frank reloaded and walked out of the dim bar, leaving the bartender wallowing in his sea of troubles.
He slipped the Colt back into his holster and took a deep breath. As long as Ephraim Swan was still alive, he would have trouble of his own.
Chapter 24
Dixie didn’t have anything white, but decided it didn’t matter. Once the other women found out she and Frank had decided to go ahead and tie the knot, they all joined in to make everything ready.
Carolyn Brandon worked on a pie crust and kept looking toward the southern horizon. “I wish Luke were here. I hate to think about him sleeping all alone out there with the snakes while we’re having a wedding and a party.” Carolyn had become animated after she’d met Luke Perkins, as if she’d been reborn. Her girls had noticed it, and begun to come out of their own stupor and giggle and play like the others.
“He’ll be here soon.” Dixie patted her on the shoulder. She’d heard about the shooting, and couldn’t help but wonder if things would always be this way. She wanted to marry him—wanted it worse than she’d wanted anything in a long time—but as much as she trusted Frank and respected his ability with a gun, she hated the idea of worrying about him every time he left her sight. One thing Dixie was sure of: Frank Morgan was worth fighting for, there was no doubt about that.
A few moments later, Frank came riding up to camp. He dismounted and started over to Dixie until Betty chased after him with a wooden spoon.
“You get out of here, mister. It’s bad luck to see the bride before the festivities.”
Surprised by the sudden outburst from the women, the gunfighter jumped back aboard his horse and trotted off. Safely out of range of Betty and her spoon, he wheeled his horse and waved at Dixie.
“If you need me to come rescue you from these wild women, give me a shout. I’ll be with George and Otis trying to figure out the secret to you females.” He turned and rode away.
Just seeing him—looking at his smile—put all her fears to rest.
* * *
The Pueblo justice of the peace was a bushy-haired old gent who seemed disappointed Dixie was marrying Frank instead of him.
“You sure you want to go through with this, little lady?” the man said, giving a thoughtful rub to his three-day growth of gray chin whiskers. “Someone as pretty as you is bound to do a whole bunch better if you’d just wait a dab.”
Dixie blushed at the compliment and looked at Frank, who stood beside her. She wore her best green linen dress and a white ribbon in her hair. The girls had picked her a shock of wildflowers, and she held the bouquet in her hand.
“No,” she said. “I’ve made my choice. I believe I’ll stick to it.”
&nb
sp; “Take a good look at him, now before we do this—that mean look in his eye, the cruel grin,” the J.P. said out of the corner of his mouth as if Frank couldn’t hear every word he said. “You still got time to change your mind. Remember, this is Frank Morgan, the notorious gunman and killer.”
Frank cleared his throat and glared at the old man. “Judge, you might do well to follow your own advice and remember who I am.”
Dixie giggled behind her flowers, and Frank continued. “It’s not too late for me to go get a priest. After he’s done with your last rites, he can finish up with the weddin’.”
The old judge set his jaw and hurried through the ceremony. When he finished, he shook his head in sorrow as he looked at Dixie.
* * *
“I do believe you broke that man’s heart,” Frank said after they were outside. “He fell in love with you as soon as we walked in the door.”
Betty and Paula began to herd everyone back toward the wagons, where they’d laid a sumptuous meal of lamb, tortillas, and roast vegetables. It was getting dark, and the cook fires cast shadows among the canvas wagon tops. A cool breeze blew.
Frank had hired a young guitarist, and everyone danced late into the night.
“The girls are going to stay with Betty tonight,” Dixie whispered as they swayed to a slow Spanish waltz.
Frank shrugged. “I don’t care if they stay in the wagon.”
“Frank! It’s our wedding night.” She tried to pull away, but he held her tight and kept dancing.
“I don’t care if they stay in the wagon because I got us a room at the hotel in town.” He felt her relax again. “A woman like you shouldn’t have to spend her honeymoon on the trail.”
“You spoil me.”
“That lecherous old judge was right about one thing. It’s a hard enough life you’ve chosen, just livin’ with the likes of me. I reckon you deserve to be spoiled a little.”
“What about that poor woman who got shot in the behind?” Dixie asked later as they walked slowly toward the hotel.
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