Frank sighed. “Maybe it already has, Bob. When you killed those whiskey peddlers—did it make you feel better?”
Three-Toed shrugged. “Some. Least ways I knew they wouldn’t be able to slaughter any more innocents. Justice was served, I reckon.”
“That’s all I’m looking for,” Frank said. “Justice.”
The other man gave him a crooked smile. “If anyone can mete that out to Ephraim Swan, it’s you, Morgan. I just hope you live long enough to take some pleasure in it.”
* * *
The next morning Frank chose a rangy black from the two outlaw horses. It bore no brand but where he was going, there wasn’t anyone likely to check such things. Bills of sale belonged to the man with the fastest gun.
Bob promised to take good care of Dog and the horses.
“Anybody can pull this off, you can, Drifter,” Three-Toed said from the small canvas awning over his front door. Rain still drizzled and the plain was a muddy mess. “Shoot straight and give no quarter, ’cause you’ll get none from the likes of Swan and his gang.”
* * *
The black had a smooth, five-beated gait and ate up ground with a vengeance. Two days ride from Three-Toed’s trading post took Frank to the edge of a set of scrubby flint hills that sheltered Swan’s town. He figured he was roughly twenty miles from the Texas line.
“Luke,” he whispered to himself and the wind. “If this works out, I may just come check up on your sorry hide.”
The town was just how Frank had envisioned it: ramshackle, tumbledown buildings all badly in need of repair. What had once been a thriving little community was now home to some of the most vicious killers on earth. Sullen eyes lined the muddy streets under leaky wooden awnings, watching Frank’s approach—sizing him up as a dog might size up a bone.
“Watch all you want to, boys,” Frank mumbled to himself. “You’re apt to see a lot more of me in the next few days.” As long as no one recognized him, he felt relatively safe.
He reined up the black in front of the largest building in town. It was a two-story affair of sun-bleached wood and peeling white paint. A crude, hand-painted sign hung above the awning: THE OXBLOOD.
“Saloon or hotel?” Frank asked a grinning man who lounged under the awning whittling on a short stick. A pile of shavings littered the cracked boardwalk at his feet. He’d been there a while.
“Both,” the man replied, glancing up under the brim of a broad, high-crowned hat. “If you don’t mind bad whiskey and buggy beds.”
Frank looped the black’s reins over the hitch rail. “You stayin’ here?”
“Hell, no. If you’re smart, you’ll stay at one of the abandoned shacks around town. Some of ’em have beds, some of ’em don’t. If they ain’t occupied, they’re up for grabs.” He pointed with his open jackknife up the long narrow street. “I’m floppin’ at that old green one up from the old church. Just stay ’way from that.”
“What, your shack?”
“I meant the church. Swan turned it into his private headquarters. He don’t take kindly to uninvited guests.” The man went back to his carving. It didn’t look like he was making anything in particular, just working away at the stick. “I expect that shack on the other side of mine is empty. Fellow that was in it got himself shot this morning.”
“Much obliged,” Frank said, pulling the collar of his mackinaw up around his neck to ward of the rising wind. He climbed back aboard the black and nodded to the man with the stick. “I’ll go stow my gear and come back and get something to eat. If you’re still here I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
“I’ll be here,” the man said. “I got nowhere to go.”
* * *
The dead outlaw’s shack proved to be comfortable enough. Anything of value had already been taken, presumably by whoever had done the killing. All that was left was an old saddle blanket and a half a Sears Roebuck catalog someone had been using for paper in the outhouse. A rope bed sagging in the corner was the room’s only furniture, but the dead man did leave behind a couple of beeswax candles to ward off the darkness.
Frank took the worn old Bible Three-Toed had given him out of his saddlebags. The black-leather front cover, all of Genesis, and most of Exodus bore the deep imprint of the stove foot, but he could still read most of it. He tossed it and his blankets on the bed. The candles would come in handy later if he wanted to read a little about vengeance, righteous indignation, and such.
Frank didn’t have much. He’d left anything of value except his Peacemaker and Winchester back at the trading post. The old outlaw had promised to sell everything and send the money to Dixie’s girls. He’d also scratched out a rough will; leaving the information about his sizeable bank account so the girls would never want for anything should anything happen to him.
After he stowed what little gear he had, he rode to the livery stable down the block from the Oxblood. A bent old man, smoking some noxious herb in a corncob pipe, took his horse and promised to grain and water it well. He told Frank he’d see the animal got a good home if he didn’t happen to come back. Frank assured the man he’d be back. The old fellow drew deeply on the pipe and chuckled. “You’d be surprised,” he said.
* * *
The man with the jackknife still whittled away at his stick on the front porch of the Oxblood when Frank slogged back through the mud from the livery.
“You survived your first half hour in town,” the man said, glancing up from under his huge hat. “That’s a good sign.”
“Some kind of record?” Frank stepped up on the boardwalk and scraped the mud off his boots. He pulled out his makings and rolled himself a smoke. When he was finished, he held out the papers and pouch to the other man.
“Don’t mind if I do.” The man folded his jackknife and stuck his whittling stick in the pocket of his gray wool vest. Once they’d both lit up, he held out his hand.
“Johnny Nugget.”
Frank shook Nugget’s hand. “Joshua Bean,” he said. He knew the other man’s name was likely an alias as well. “This looks like a good place to lay low for a while.”
Nugget shrugged. “As long as you keep spendin’ money and don’t get crossways with some of the hot-tempered sorts around here, Swan will let you hang around. If your money dries up, you’re out on your ear—or worse.”
Frank rubbed his chin and thought. “You got some short-fused ones around here, do you?”
“Hell, yeah. We got Amos Crocket. He’s the one shot the man who was floppin’ in that shack you’re in now. He musta looked at him wrong. Jim Nettles—he’s the fastest gun in Wyoming. Bob Worth rode in a few days ago. He’s . . . ”
“I’ve heard of him. He’s supposed to be as fast as Frank Morgan,” Frank said with a straight face.
“Ain’t nobody as good as Frank Morgan was. Shame he’s dead. Swan brags about it all the damn time.”
“You know Morgan?” Frank asked.
Nugget shook his head. “Wish I had. He knew my ... never mind. What say I take you up on that cup of coffee?”
“You’re on,” Frank said, wondering what the young man was about to say. “I’m in the mood for a beefsteak.”
“Hope you got plenty of money. Food’s higher than a cat’s back around here. If your can afford it, they serve up pretty decent vittles. Cook appears to know what he’s doin’. Almost makes you forget he was sentenced to hang for poisoning a feller with an apple pie.”
Nugget unfolded himself from the wooden chair and stood up. He was a young man, not yet thirty, with broad muscular shoulders and powerful arms as big as some men’s legs. For all his muscles, though, he didn’t quite make it to Frank’s shoulder in height.
“Go ahead and make a comment about it. It don’t bother me.” Nugget watched Frank’s face for a reaction.
Frank looked him right in the eye. “What do you mean, Johnny?”
“In case you haven’t noticed. I’m awful short.”
Frank grinned and slapped the other man on the back. “Well,
in case you haven’t noticed, I’m awful old. I think we’ll get along just fine.”
Chapter 32
Dixie’s finger floated in a corked bottle on a shelf behind the bartender. Frank stumbled when he walked up to the bar and saw it. His stomach roiled. He clenched his jaw and fought to keep from vomiting. There was a familiar pounding in his ears, and he was carried instantly back to the day of the ambush. The smoky room seemed to close in around him.
“You all right?” Nugget asked, staring at his face. “You’ve gone white as a sheet.”
Frank snapped out of his daze and forced himself to stare at the grizzly decoration. “That’s Morgan’s wife’s finger.”
“Yeah,” Nugget grunted. “Tells you somethin’ about Swan, don’t it?”
“Let’s get us a table,” Frank said, turning his back to the bar. His stomach was rebelling again. Looking at the finger, he couldn’t help but think of Dixie. If Swan would have been in the room, he’d have shot him right there and let the chips fall where they might.
Once seated along the back wall, he was able to calm down some. He rolled another smoke and surveyed the crowd. He figured there were around twenty-five outlaws seated at various tables around the room. Four bar girls worked double duty tending to the rowdy crowd, enduring leers and comments, but amazingly enough, no groping. Swan must have certain rules about his working women, Frank thought. They likely didn’t give out anything for free.
“The boys at the bar are sure enough giving you the once-over.” Nugget inclined his head toward a motley group of four outlaws. “One of ’em is bound to try you. They check the sauce of every newcomer.”
“Oh, yeah? I’d hate to see the fella who tried you.”
Nugget chuckled. “See that feller with the bandaged flat nose spread all over his face, talkin’ like he can’t quite open his mouth—that’s Tom Shively. He’s the smart-mouthed bugger that decided he wanted a little lesson from me in fisticuffs.”
“And you gave him one.” Frank smiled.
“Yes I did. I . . . Oh, no. You done grabbed Big Un’s attention and that ain’t good. He’s like a dog with a bone once his tiny brain grabs ahold of something.” Nugget smacked his lips and shook his head slowly. “No, this ain’t good at all.”
“Big Un?”
“That’s all I ever heard anyone call him. Dammit,” Nugget hissed. “He’s comin’ over here. Don’t say nothin’ to rile him, Joshua. I seen him kill two men with his bare fists and I only been here a week.”
Frank turned to see nearly seven feet of stinking, red-faced outlaw lumbering his direction. If he ever wanted to get to Swan, he had to deal with these idiots who wanted to test him.
Frank had been in his share of fistfights and if he’d learned anything, he’d learned that if there was sure enough going to be a fight with a larger opponent, he’d better try and get in the first blow. He chuckled to himself in spite of the situation as the giant made his way over to the table. He wondered if George Carlisle would ever forgive him for what he was about to do, but in a fight with someone as huge as this, the Marquis of Queensbury rules went straight out the window.
“I’d hate to be your horse, you fat-assed son of a bitch,” Frank said, shifting to the balls of his feet to get ready to move.
Big Un was half drunk, but he was surprisingly fast, and he picked up speed like a locomotive at the insult. “I’m gonna rip off your arm and beat you to death with the stump,” the giant growled in a voice higher than Frank had expected.
The gunfighter feinted left, then ducked right behind the ogre, springing up behind him and hopping up on a chair. He grabbed the brim of the big man’s hat with both hands and jerked down with all his might, yanking it down over the giant’s ears and effectively blinding him.
While Big Un struggled to pull up the tight hat so he could see again, Frank hit him twice as hard as he could in the unprotected kidneys. The man yowled in pain and swayed on his feet. Taking advantage of his unsteadiness, Frank grabbed up a wooden chair and swung it across the back of the man’s legs like an ax to a tree trunk.
The huge outlaw fell with a resounding thud, knocking over two tables and spilling whiskey as he went down. The hat was still pulled tight over his forehead and eyes, and his ears stuck absurdly out to each side of a broad face.
Without waiting for his opponent to recover, Frank reared back and kicked the downed man square in the side of his head. He put all the power he could muster behind the blow, and his boot connected with a sickening crack. Spittle and blood flew through the air. Bits of teeth clattered against the far wall. The big man twitched, and Frank kicked again.
Big Un moaned once, then lay still. Bloody drool oozed from his half-open mouth.
His Goliath down, Frank bent over and rested his hands on his knees, panting. Even though he’d never even been hit, he could tell the fight had taken a lot out of him.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Nugget came up and toed the unconscious outlaw. “I never thought I see that big bastard bested in a fight.”
“I wouldn’t want to be you when he wakes up,” another man said, whistling in wonderment by the bar. “He’ll kill you first chance he gets.”
“I doubt he’ll be able to see straight for a couple of weeks,” Frank managed. He was still panting. He readjusted his own hat and sat back down at the table across from Johnny Nugget.
A wilted little blonde with a gold front tooth brought two beers and set them on the table in front of Frank and Nugget. She was skinny as a picket rail and looked no older than seventeen or eighteen.
“On the house, boys.” She smiled and batted her painted eyelashes. “We all enjoyed the show. Besides, I was the unlucky girl who drew the short straw tonight, and I had me an appointment with that big galoot later.” She looked Frank in the eye. “Mister, you saved me a hell of a lot of trouble and grief.”
Frank counted out a handful of coins and gave them to the girl as a tip. When she left, Johnny sipped his free beer.
“I ain’t believin’ this. You did good, Bean, but Big Un’s gonna kill you when he wakes up.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why, what do you plan to do, shoot him?”
Frank ran a finger down the condensation on the side of his beer mug. “If I have to.”
Nugget shook his head. “Big Un don’t even carry a gun. You’d be able to claim self-defense anywhere else, but the folks in this town have their own special set of rules. They’d hang you for sure if you shot an unarmed man. Even one as big as Big Un.”
Frank sipped at the froth on top of his mug and shook his head. “You know what that hat did beside make it so the big son of a bitch couldn’t see me?”
“What?”
“It kept his eyes from poppin’ out of his thick skull. I kicked a man like that once before and sent one of his eyeballs flying across the room just like Big Un’s teeth.” Frank took a long draw on his beer. “Believe me, Johnny. When he wakes up, I don’t think he’ll be seein’ much of anything including me.”
Johnny Nugget set his beer down on the table and stared across the table. “Bean, are you as bad as you think you are?”
“Badder.” Frank winked. “By a damned sight.”
* * *
Big Un finally sputtered back to consciousness twenty minutes and six pitchers of cold water later. He struggled to his feet with the help of three friends, and promptly vomited all over them. It took two more to keep him from falling over and help drag him out the door.
Frank tried not to smile. No, Big Un wasn’t going to be much of a problem—he wouldn’t have time. Just getting over a kick to the head was a full-time job.
Frank and Nugget both ordered steaks, and sat for a time enjoying being left alone. There was a different sort of notoriety that came with beating the giant, and though the rest of the bar had stayed away from him, if he wasn’t the talk of the place when he was a newcomer, he was now.
Every eye in the bar turned to him every few minutes, studyi
ng, probing, sizing him up, and trying to figure out how they would beat him. A rumble of angry voices began to grow among a group of outlaws at the bar. Frank cut his steak and savored the bite of meat. It was a little tough, but it was a change of pace from mutton stew. The group became more animated. It was only a matter of time before someone tested him with something more deadly than Big Un’s fists.
The test came before he finished his supper.
“You ain’t Joshua Bean,” a man shouted from the bar.
Frank set his knife and fork down on top of his unfinished steak and wiped his mouth with a checkered napkin. The room had gone dead quiet, and the grating sound of his chair sliding back on the wooden floor made the men at the table next to him jump.
“I know who you are,” the man screamed from the bar. He was red-faced, and the veins on the side of his neck throbbed as he spoke.
Frank stood, expecting to be gunned down by everyone in the room as soon as the word of his true identity escaped the challenger’s lips. He nodded at Johnny Nugget, and prepared to take out as many of the outlaws as he could.
“You’re Jim Crawford,” the man screamed. Spit hung from the corners of his lips. “I figured it out. You’re the lousy bastard who killed my cousin up in Ogallala.”
Frank slowly let out a tense breath and held up his hands. “Now hold on a second, mister, I’m not Jim Crawford. You don’t want to be shot by somebody you don’t even know.”
The man’s beet-colored head shook as he spoke and looked as if it might explode at any moment. “You’re a liar. You was hired by the Circle T to kill homesteaders. One of the men you kilt was my cousin.” The man’s bloodshot eyes raged at Frank.
Frank’s hands dropped closer to the butt of his gun. He shook his head slowly, trying not to incite the frenzied man any more than he already was. “I’m gonna tell you this one last time. I’m not Jim Crawford and I don’t hire out my gun.” He stood quietly waiting for the other man to make his play.
It wasn’t long in coming.
Chapter 33
No Man's Land Page 17