The Forbidden

by William W. Johnstone

  Frank was in his mid-forties, just a bit over six feet tall. He was lean-hipped and broad-shouldered. His hands were big and callused and his arms were packed with muscle. His hair was brown and thick, graying at the temples. His eyes were a strange pale gray color. Women considered him a very handsome man.

  Frank pushed back his hat and leaned on the polished bar, nursing his whiskey and listening as the talk continued.

  “I looked at the hotel registry,” a man said, intentionally loud enough for Frank to hear. “Frank Moran is the name he signed in the book.”

  “I never heard of no gunslick by that name.”

  “Probably isn’t his real name.”

  The barkeep walked over to Frank. “Another drink, mister?”

  “I’m all right with this one,” Frank told him.

  The barkeep leaned on the bar and whispered. “I knew I’d seen you somewhere, mister. It finally come to me. You’re Frank Morgan.”

  “That’s right. But I’m not here to cause any trouble.”

  “I’d be surprised if you was. That ain’t your style.”

  “With any kind of luck, I’ll be provisioned up and out of here in the morning. I don’t want anything to do with the trouble in this valley.”

  “Actually, it’s half a dozen connectin’ valleys. But for a fact, trouble is comin’.”

  “Cattlemen and farmers. Same old story.”

  “And now we got sheep.”

  “More trouble. Cattlemen won’t stand for that.”

  “You’re tellin’ me? I have to listen to it, day after day.”

  “Hey, Chubby!” one the men at the table called. “Who’s your friend?”

  “A customer, Ben.”

  “Y’all gettin’ mighty close over there.”

  Chubby straightened and gave the man a hard glance. “You got a problem with me talkin’ to a customer?”

  “Don’t get all hot under the collar, Chubby.”

  “Then mind your own business, Wallace.”

  “All right, Chubby, all right. Sorry.”

  “I shouldn’t get mad at any of them,” Chubby said, again speaking to Frank in low tones. “Things are really beginnin’ to get nasty around here.”

  “How?”

  “Farmhouses and barns are gettin’ burned by night riders. Shots have been fired at farmers in the field. Pretty soon it’ll be crops gettin’ destroyed. No one’s been killed yet, but it’s comin’. Bet on it.”

  “How about the law?”

  “Frank, we never had any need for much law here in this town. We have a marshal, but he’s only part-time and he’s old. He don’t even carry a gun.”

  “Well, don’t look at me, Chub. I don’t want the job.”

  “I was kinda hopin’ . . .”

  “Forget it.”

  The batwings suddenly were slammed open and three cowboys walked in.

  “Oh, hell,” Chubby said. “Snake riders.”

  “What are they doing in this town?” Frank asked.

  “It’s a free country, Frank. They can come and go as they please.”

  “Well, lookie here,” one of the cowboys said. “Someone in this damn stinkin’ sheep-crap town is wearin’ a gun, boys. Reckon he knows how to use it?”

  “Here we go,” Chubby said.

  Frank turned slowly to face the three cowboys.

  TWO

  “The man shore ain’t no sheep farmer,” a cowboy said. “I think the clodhoppers done gone and hired themselves a gunhand.”

  The third cowhand had not yet spoken. He was intently studying Frank’s face. “Back off, Eddie,” he finally said.

  “We haven’t hired anybody,” one of the men seated in the saloon said.

  “Why should I back off, Tom?” Eddie asked. “It’s just one man and he don’t look like much to me. What do you think, Carl?”

  “Come to think of it,” Carl replied, “he looks sort of familiar to me.”

  “You got a name, mister?” Tom asked.

  “Frank.”

  “Frank what?”

  “Just Frank.”

  “Hell,” Eddie said with a laugh. “The man don’t even know his last name.”

  “Morgan,” Tom said softly. “That’s Frank Morgan.”

  “Aw, hell,” Eddie said. “Frank Morgan’s been retired for years. Or dead. That ain’t Frank Morgan, Tom.”

  “Frank Morgan?” one of the men at a table breathed. “Here, in Heaven?”

  “Are you really Frank Morgan?” another farmer asked.

  “Yes,” Frank said without taking his eyes off the three Snake riders. “I am. But I’m not looking for any trouble and I’m not looking for a job.”

  “Then what the hell are you doin’ here?” Eddie challenged.

  “Minding my own business, boy,” Frank replied. “Something that you obviously can’t or won’t do.”

  “I ain’t no boy!”

  “I’m going to finish my drink,” Frank said. “Leave me alone.”

  “I just might decide to finish you.” Eddie almost yelled the words.

  “You’re a damn fool,” Frank told him. He looked at the older of the Snake riders. “You better put a leash on that pup.”

  “He’s a man growed up,” Tom said. “He’s got a right to speak his mind.”

  Frank turned away and picked up his shot glass with-his left hand.

  “Don’t you turn your damn ass to me, Morgan!” Eddie shouted. “By God, I don’t take that from no man.”

  Frank ignored him.

  “Do you hear me, you old bastard?” Eddie yelled.

  “Shut up, Eddie,” Tom said. “Morgan ain’t here to bother none of us.”

  “He’s botherin’ me, by God!” Eddie said.

  “Settle down, boy,” Chubby cautioned him.

  “You shut your mouth, fat man!” Eddie snapped at him. “This here is between me and Morgan. Ain’t none of your affair.”

  “There is nothing at all between us, Eddie,” Frank said. “Have a drink on me and settle down.”

  “To hell with you and your drink, old man! By God, I think you’re tryin’ to worm out of this. I think you’ve lost your damn guts.”

  “Don’t push it, Eddie,” Frank warned.

  “Or you’ll do what, Morgan?” Eddie challenged.

  “Eddie,” Tom said. “Let’s get out of here. Drop this.”

  “You may be the foreman on the job, Tom. But we ain’t on the job. This is my business. None of yours.”

  Tom held up a hand. “I’m out of this, Morgan.”

  “Good,” Frank replied.

  “By God, I ain’t out of it,” Carl said, stepping forward. “I’m with you, Eddie.”

  The batwings pushed open and a man who looked to be in his late sixties or early seventies stepped in. There was a star on his chest and no gun on his hip.

  “What’s going on here?” the old marshal said.

  “None of your damn business, old man,” Carl said. “Stay out of it.”

  “I’m the duly appointed law in this town, young man,” the marshal said. “This certainly is my business.”

  “Come on, Eddie,” the foreman urged him. “This is stupid. If Morgan don’t kill you, the colonel is sure to fire you over this.”

  “This has-been ain’t gonna kill me, Tom. No way. I can shoot his eyes out anytime I take a notion to.”

  Frank sighed and put down his drink. He knew the time for talking was nearly over. He’d been through this too many times in the past. Eddie was not going to back down. Frank turned slowly to face Eddie and Carl.

  “Now just a minute here,” the marshal said.

  “Stand clear, Marshal,” Frank told him.

  “Morgan?” the marshal said. “Frank Morgan?”

  “Yeah, Marshal,” Chubby said. “That’s right.”

  “Dear God in Heaven,” the marshal said, shaking his head. “Frank Morgan.”

  “He ain’t jack-crap, Marshal,” Eddie said. “He’s an old used-up has-been. Nothin’ e
lse. But you best stand clear. If Morgan manages to clear leather, ain’t no tellin’ where he’s liable to throw lead after I shoot him. He’ll be like a dog, bitin’ at himself when he’s dyin’.”

  Frank sized up the situation fast: figuring he’d better take Eddie out first, then Carl. Carl was getting edgy, maybe figuring he’d gotten himself into something he was now quickly realizing he’d been better off leaving alone. Eddie was ready for a fight, standing tense, his right hand hovering over the butt of his pistol.

  “I won’t stand for this,” the old marshal protested.

  “Shut up,” Eddie told him.

  Frank stood silent and waiting and ready.

  “Come on, Morgan!” Eddie shouted. “Let’s see how good you are.”

  “It’s your play, boy,” Frank told him. “I won’t start this.”

  “Yellow!” Eddie said. “That’s what you are. Just plain yellow.”

  Frank stood silent.

  “Drag iron!” Eddie yelled.

  Frank didn’t make a move.

  “Damn you!” Eddie shouted. “Draw on me.”

  “You’ve got to start it, boy,” Frank said softly.

  “This is the man you clodhoppers hired?” Eddie said. “He’s a coward. Just like the rest of you pig farmers.”

  “You got it all wrong, cowboy,” a man said. “We didn’t hire Morgan.”

  “You’re a damn liar!” Eddie snapped. “Why else would a man like him come to this nothin’ town?”

  “Just passing through, Eddie,” Frank told him.

  “Liar! You’re all damn liars. Every one of you.”

  Eddie had worked himself into a killing rage. Nothing was going to stop him now. Tom had backed up, out of the line of fire. He was holding his hand away from his gun.

  Frank waited. He was not going to pull on Eddie. Eddie would have to start this deadly showdown.

  “Damn you, Morgan!” Eddie yelled. “I’ll make you hook and draw.” His hand closed around the butt of his pistol. “Now, you coward! Pull iron!”

  Frank shot him, drawing and firing in one fast and smooth movement. The .45-caliber slug hit Eddie in the center of his chest. His feet flew out from under him and he stretched out on the floor, his right hand still gripping the butt of his six-gun. He had just cleared leather when Frank’s bullet knocked him down.

  “Good Lord!” Tom said, his voice awe-filled at Frank’s lightning speed.

  “Morgan was so fast I didn’t even see him draw,” a farmer said in a hushed tone.

  Carl was shaking his head. “Don’t shoot me, Morgan! I ain’t gonna draw on you. I’m out of this.”

  “Suits me,” Frank replied. “I didn’t want any of this.”

  Eddie groaned in shock and pain.

  “I’ll go fetch the doctor,” the old marshal said, heading for the batwings.

  Tom knelt down beside the fallen Snake rider. But he had seen many gunshot wounds in his time, and knew there was nothing the doctor would be able to do. Eddie was near death and fading fast.

  “Did I get him?” Eddie asked.

  “Are you kiddin’?” Tom said.

  “I got him, didn’t I?” Eddie asked.

  “Eddie, you just barely got your gun out of leather. Now lay quiet until the doc gets here.”

  “It’s really beginnin’ to hurt, Tom. I’m hard hit, ain’t I?”

  “Yes, you are, Eddie. I ain’t gonna lie to you.”

  “I done messed up bad, didn’t I?”

  “I reckon you did.”

  Frank had holstered his Peacemaker and was leaning up against the bar.

  “It always happens, don’t it, Frank?” Chubby said. “Folks just won’t leave you alone, will they?”

  “Seems that way, Chub.”

  “You want another whiskey?”

  “How about some coffee?”

  “Comin’ right up.”

  Tom looked up from the dying young Snake rider. “All hell’s gonna break loose because of this, Morgan.”

  “I didn’t start it,” Frank replied.

  “That don’t make no difference. Nobody kills a Snake rider and walks scot-free away from it.”

  “I don’t intend to walk away. I intend to ride away.”

  “Then you better saddle up and get out right now, Morgan.”

  “And nobody runs me out of any town.” Frank’s words were cold, with a hard edge to them.

  “Don’t bet on that, gunfighter.” Tom’s words were just as cold and hard. “I’m tellin’ you for your own good.”

  “Tom?” Eddie said. “I’m really hurtin’ something bad, Tom.”

  “You’re a dead man, Morgan!” Carl had decided to stick his penny’s worth into it. “I’ll kill you myself.”

  “Don’t let your butt overload your mouth, boy,” Frank told him. “Eddie was a damn trouble-hunter. He came looking for trouble, and he found it. He brought all this on himself. There is no need for revenge talk.”

  “I’d like to hear you tell the colonel that!”

  “I will if he has the grit to face me.”

  “The colonel?” Carl questioned. “He’s got the grit, Morgan. He was a hero in the war. Won all kinds of medals.”

  “What war?”

  “The Civil War.”

  “Which side?”

  “The right side, Morgan,” Tom said. “The same side I was on. The Union side.”

  “I was on the other side.”

  “Figures. A damn Reb.”

  “Tom?” Eddie called. “Where’s the doc?”

  “Right here,” a man said from the batwings. “I’m Dr. Everett.” He looked at Morgan. “And you’d be Frank Morgan.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I worked on what was left of two men who braced you down in Arizona some years back.”

  “Did they live?” Frank asked.

  “No.” The doctor knelt down beside Eddie and opened his bloody shirt. After quickly examining him, he took off his stethoscope and dropped it back into his bag, standing up.

  “Am I gonna live, Doc?” Eddie asked.

  “Not damn likely.”

  “Well . . . that’s a hell of a thing to tell a man!” Eddie protested.

  “I’m not going to lie to you, boy. The bullet went right through a lung and nicked the heart. You’re filling up with blood and there isn’t a damn thing I can do. Your heart’s going to stop beating any minute now.”

  “Damn!” Eddie said weakly.

  “You best make your peace with God. You want me to get the preacher?”

  “I want you to get me a doc that knows what the hell he’s doin’,” Eddie said, his voice very weak. “That’s what I want.”

  “I’m the only one in town, boy. And I know what I’m doing.” He turned to the foreman. “You damn Snake riders finally met up with a man you can’t push around, hey, Tom?”

  “You go to hell, Everett,” the foreman replied. “The Snake ranch has got as much right to these valleys as anyone.”

  “Nonsense, Tom. Everything the people here in the south end did was legal. They filed on their land and proved it up. Your brand and the other ranchers are in the wrong. And the sad thing is, you know it.”

  “Has everyone done forgot about me?” Eddie asked as his lifeblood leaked from him, staining the floor. “I’m dyin’ and no one gives a damn.”

  Frank sipped his coffee and listened.

  “Bah!” Dr. Everett snorted his contempt and turned to the bartender. “Chubby, pour me a whiskey, please.”

  “Where’s the preacher?” Eddie asked.

  “The marshal’s gone to get him,” one of the men seated at a table said.

  “I wish he’d hurry,” Eddie said. “I need some comfortin’. How much time do I have, Doc?”

  “A few minutes. Maybe half an hour. Hell, you might live until dawn.” Everett took a tiny sip of whiskey.

  “You a damn cold doctor,” Carl said. “’Bout the coldest I ever seen.”

  Everett did not reply to that
, just shook his head and looked disgusted. He cut his eyes to Frank. “Are you planning on staying in town long, Morgan?”

  “My plans are to pull out tomorrow, after I provision up.”

  “Maybe you should postpone your departure date,” the doctor suggested.

  “Why?”

  “Oh, things might get interesting around here if you’d stay.”

  “I’m sure they would.” Frank’s reply was very dry.

  Dr. Everett smiled and took another tiny sip of whiskey. “You have a reputation of fighting for the underdog, Morgan.”

  “Only when pushed into it, Doctor.”

  The batwings squeaked and pushed open. A very large man lumbered into the saloon and looked around him, disapproval in his eyes. “What a horrid place,” he said.

  “Reverend Philpot,” Everett said. He pointed to Eddie. “He needs your gentle words of comfort, Preacher. He is a sinner of the first degree and he’s not long for this world.”

  “Go to hell, you old quack!” Eddie said.

  “Here now, son,” Philpot said, as he walked over to the dying Eddie. “Don’t let your spirit approach the glorious gates of forever with a curse on your lips.”

  “Say a prayer, or something,” Tom said.

  The marshal pushed a chair over for Philpot to sit in. Good thing, Frank thought. If Philpot tried to squat down, it would take a dozen men to get him back on his feet.

  “Have you been saved, son?” Philpot asked.

  “I reckon,” Eddie said. “I was dunked in a crick by a lay preacher once.”

  “Did you give your heart to God then?”

  “I was in love with Druilla Simpson at the time.”

  “That’s not exactly what I meant, boy.”

  “We used to meet every Sunday behind the outhouse at the church,” Eddie replied.

  Philpot sighed. “This is going to take a lot of preaching.”

  “He doesn’t have that much time,” Everett said. “Can you make it the short version?”

  “You’re a heathen, Everett!” Philpot said. “And a disgrace to your most honorable calling.”

  “Is that coffee fresh, Morgan?” Everett asked, ignoring Philpot.

  “Tastes good to me.”

  “I’ll have some,” Everett told Chubby.

  “I brought the choir with me,” Philpot said. “But I forbade any of the good ladies to enter this den of inebriety and impiousness.”