“You mind some company, Marshal?”
“I’d welcome it. The folks in town send you out to look after me?”
“No. It was my own idea.”
“You’re not as ornery as folks make you out to be, Frank. There’s a decent streak in you a yard wide.”
“Don’t let it get out, Marshal. It would ruin my reputation.”
“I’ll keep it to myself.”
They both could smell the smoke long before they reached the burned-out farmhouse and barn ... that and the unmistakable odor of seared human flesh.
“Takes some real lowlifes to do something like this,” Handlen remarked.
“And a lower type to send them out to do it,” Frank added.
“Agreed, and Colonel Trainor is definitely a low-life son of a bitch.”
Frank glanced at the marshal. There had been considerable heat in the man’s voice. “The colonel do you a wrong sometime?”
“Not really. He’s just a no-good, that’s all. I knew that first time I set eyes on him. Thinks he’s better than anyone else. Come in here right after the war like some sort of hero, expecting everyone to bow down and lick his boots. A few did, most didn’t. I was one who told him to go right straight to hell.” Handlen smiled. “’Course I was some younger then. He hasn’t cared much for me since that time.”
“Were you in the war, Marshal?”
“No. I came West before the war started. Me and the wife and kids. The war had been going on for a year or more before we knew anything about it. We were too busy fighting Indians anyway. It was wild out here back then. Town was mostly burned down twice.”
“Where are your kids?”
“All of them went back East soon as they was old enough. The West wasn’t for them. Too hard a life, I reckon. I haven’t seen any of them in years. Wouldn’t know any of them now if I was to come face-to-face with them.”
“That’s sad.”
“In a way, yes. But you got to believe that everything is done for a reason. Those kids didn’t have what it took to live out here.” He pointed. “There’s lights up ahead. That would be Phil Wilson probably. Jeffersons’ nearest neighbor.”
“Farmer?”
“Yes. Has a small connecting ranch too. Nice fellow. Real pretty wife and several kids. There’s a story behind the two oldest kids. I’ll tell it to you sometime.”
“Marshal,” Wilson greeted them. “It’s still too hot to try to find the bodies. It’s pretty bad. Horses was burned up too.” He looked at Frank in the lantern light.
“This here is Frank Morgan, Phil. He’s just passing through this area and agreed to help me this awful night.”
“Nice of you,” Phil said, glancing at Frank. “Come on. But there isn’t much left ’ceptin’ ashes.” Phil started to walk on, then paused and turned around to face the two men. “Frank Morgan?”
“That’s right,” Frank told him.
“But you’re a . . .” Phil let that trail off into the silent darkness.
“He’s all right,” Marshal Handlen said. “Lead on, Phil.”
As the men drew closer, the smell of burned human flesh grew stronger in the night air.
“They burned everything,” the marshal said, then looked over at what remained of the barn. “Those poor animals.”
“I’ll look for tracks,” Frank said. “Might find a hoofprint that stands out.”
“I’ll help,” Handlen said. “Nothing else we can do.”
“It’s going to be several hours before we can try to retrieve what’s left of the bodies,” Frank said. “You live far from here, Phil?”
“Just a hop, skip, and a jump, Mr. Morgan.”
“You reckon your wife could make up a big pot of coffee?”
“She sure could. Be glad to. I’ll ride on over and get it going.”
“It’ll give him something to do,” Frank said when the farmer had ridden away. “And one less person stomping around.”
“It’s still too dark to see very good,” Handlen said.
“Be light enough in a few minutes,” Frank told him. “Let’s hold off until then.”
“That smell is gonna make me sick, Frank.”
“Wash your face with water out of your canteen. That might help.”
“You’re not feeling sick?”
“No. I’ve smelled it before.”
“I have too. But that was years ago, after a band of bucks burned out a farmer way north of here.”
“Before the ranchers moved in?”
“Oh, yeah. These connecting valleys used to be all farms. Colonel Trainor and his men came in and the farmers began being forced out. About ten years ago we made the crossroads the line. I knew it would be only a matter of time before the big ranchers would start something like this.”
“And now it’s happened.”
“Yes.”
The dawning came slowly, pushing the night away, and Frank began a slow circling of the ruins of the farmhouse and barn. He finally found a track he could identify if he ever saw it again. He pointed it out to Marshal Handlen.
“It’s a big horse, carrying a big man, looks like to me,” Handlen said. “And it’s got a strange mark on that right front shoe.”
“And the riders all headed back north.”
“That goes without saying,” Handlen said dryly.
“Here comes a wagon,” Frank said, standing up.
Handlen squinted into the early morning light. “Phil and his wife, Julie. She’s about the best-lookin’ woman in this area. Thank God they left their kids to home.”
Frank stared hard as the wagon drew nearer. “She doesn’t look old enough to have many kids.”
“They have three. Twins, a boy and a girl, ’bout fourteen or fifteen, and a younger girl, ’bout eight or nine. I reckon Julie’s ’bout thirty-five. But you’re right: she don’t look it.”
“Phil’s some older, seems like.”
“Yes. He’s in his mid-forties. They come out here when the twins was just babies. He’s a good farmer and a good father. But those twins . . .” He shook his head. “I’ll tell you about them later on. It’s a story.”
The couple got down from the wagon seat, and Julie pulled a big pot of coffee from the bed of the wagon while Phil got the tin cups.
“It’s still plenty hot,” Phil said. “And Julie had just made some biscuits. I brung butter and honey.”
“Sounds good,” Frank said.
“This here is Frank Morgan, Julie.”
Julie put her blue eyes on Frank and smiled. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morgan.”
“Frank, please. That coffee smells good.”
“I’ll put the biscuits and the butter in the back of the wagon,” Julie said. “Help yourselves whenever you like.” She waved a hand in front of her nose. “But that smell is really awfully bad. Is that? . . .”
“Yes,” Frank told her. “The Jefferson family.”
“What a terrible thing.”
“Yes, ma’am. It really is.” Frank poured himself a cup of coffee and went over to a tree and squatted down. He rolled a cigarette and enjoyed a quiet smoke while sipping his cup of really good coffee.
Julie came over and sat down on the ground beside him.
“You’ll get your dress all dirty,” Frank said.
“It’s just an old thing I wear when I’m doing chores.”
“Looks pretty to me.”
“Thank you, sir. Are you really Frank Morgan the famous gunfighters?”
“I guess so, Julie. But the title of gunfighter was never something I wanted.”
“I’ve read a number of books and articles about you. A lot of the articles made you out to be a vicious killer.”
Frank smiled. “Well . . . I hope now that you’ve met me you can see I don’t quite fit that role.”
She laughed and tossed her blond curls. “I do, Mr. Morgan.”
“Frank?” Marshal Handlen called. “I got some shovels out of the shed. It wasn’t burned that bad. You want
to try to find the bodies?”
Frank stood up. “Be right there, Marshal.” He looked at Julie. “You might not want to see this, Miss Julie. It’ll be pretty grim.”
“You’re right,” she said, holding out a hand for Frank to help her up. “I’d better get back and see to the kids. They have chores to do.” She stood up and stood very close to Frank. Close enough to make Frank sort of uncomfortable, for Julie was a very well endowed woman. “And you know kids: they can find all sorts of ways to shirk their chores.”
“Yes,” Frank said. “I was the same way when I was a kid.” Frank stood looking at her for a moment. Julie Wilson was really a beautiful woman. Smelled good too. He was reluctant to release her hand, and didn’t until Marshal Handlen called again for him.
“Come on, Frank. I spotted the bodies.”
“Be right there, Marshal.”
“I hope I see you again, Mr. Morgan,” Julie said. “And my children would be just thrilled to meet you.”
“Perhaps we’ll see each other again, Miss Julie.”
“Bye, Mr. Morgan.”
Frank walked over to the ruins of the house and picked up one of the shovels Handlen had found.
“Right over there,” Phil Wilson said, pointing to a spot in the ashes and still-smouldering rubble.
“Let’s do it,” Frank said.
FIVE
The bodies were finally dug out—the entire family and the dog. The smell was awful, and the men had to stop several times to bathe their faces in cold well water to refresh themselves. Wilson and Marshal Handlen both got sick, and had to stop and vomit when the body of Mrs. Jefferson literally fell apart while they were picking it up. Frank dragged the several sections of the woman to the side of the burned-out house and covered the pieces with a blanket.
“I hope to God I never see anything like that again,” Wilson said.
“I hope the men who did this burn in hell forever,” Handlen said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Goddamn them all to the hellfires.”
“Mount up and go get your wagon, Phil,” Frank said. “We’ll load them up and take them into town for burial.”
“Good idea,” the farmer said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Go with him, Marshal,” Frank said softly. “I’ll wrap the bodies in that old sacking you found in the shed.”
“You don’t mind, Frank?”
“I’ve seen worse, Marshal. Much worse.”
“We’ll be back as soon as possible.”
“Take your time. I’m going to take mine in doing this, believe me.”
Handlen gave him a wan smile and walked to his horse and mounted up, following Wilson back to his farm.
Frank gathered up the raggedy blankets and sacking from the shed and went to work. He almost lost his biscuits and coffee several times, but managed to get the job done just as the Wilson wagon came rattling up the road, Handlen riding along beside the wagon.
“I’m sure glad you left your wife at home,” Frank told the farmer. “This is not something she should see.”
“That’s what I told her,” Phil said. “Then we had sort of a fuss about it. She will be coming into town later on. Riding with some of our neighbors. Several of the older boys and girls in the area will keep all the kids safe.”
“Word’s already gone out through the south end of the valleys,” Handlen said. “They’ll be a big town meeting tonight.”
“Better leave some men behind with the kids,” Frank cautioned. “Men who know how to use guns.”
“Good idea,” Phil said. “I’ll see to it personal.”
The men loaded the burned bodies in the bed of the wagon, and Wilson and Marshal Handlen made ready to head back to town.
“Coming with us?” Handlen asked Frank.
“Not yet. I’ll be a few minutes behind you,” Frank told him. “I’m going to look around a little more.”
Frank slowly circled the cleared area around the burned house and barn, and found a couple more hoofprints that stood out from the others. He would be able to recognize them if he ever saw them again. There was nothing else for him to do, so he mounted up and headed back to town, catching up with Handlen and Wilson a few miles later.
They met half a dozen farm families standing solemnly by the road as they rolled along toward town. The men and women didn’t say a word, just stood silently and watched as the death wagon rolled past, the men standing with hats in hand.
Wilson pulled the wagon behind the undertaker’s office. Frank headed back to the hotel to wash up and get the smell of death off him, then shave and get into some clean clothes.
“They all dead, Mr. Morgan?” the desk clerk asked.
“All dead,” Frank said. “Including the dog and some of the horses.”
“Damn!” the clerk whispered.
“Get some hot water up to my room, please,” Frank requested.
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
A half hour later Frank was cleaned up, packed up, and ready to go. He figured Horse would be rested enough for the trail and Dog would be ready to go. Now all he had to do was buy a packhorse and packsaddle, provision up, and get moving. He stopped by the cafe and bought a half dozen biscuits for Dog.
Dog was glad to see him and the biscuits, and Horse looked fit and trail-ready. The liveryman did not question Frank about the Jefferson family, sensing that Frank did not want to talk about that morning’s events. Frank bought a packhorse and then walked over to the general store for supplies. He bought coffee, beans, salt, bacon, potatoes, flour, and cartridges for pistol and rifle. Back at the livery, he paid his bill, then packed up and was ready to swing into the saddle.
“You’re not going to stay with us, Mr. Morgan?” the liveryman asked.
“No.”
“Heaven’s a nice town.”
“Yes, it is. Very pleasant.”
“Be a nice place to settle down in.”
“I’ve sure seen a lot worse.”
“Maybe you’ll come back.”
“Might do that.”
Frank mounted up and headed out without another word. People gathered on the boardwalk on both sides of the street to watch the gunfighter ride out. A few raised their hands in fare-well, including Marshal Handlen.
“Come back and see us, Frank,” the marshal called.
Frank touched the brim of his hat in reply and headed for the crossroads, putting the town of Heaven behind him. There was nothing else for him here. Nothing else for him to do ... except get involved in a war, and that was not something he wanted.
He looked down at Dog, padding along beside him. “Let’s go see some country, Dog.”
* * *
Weeks later found Frank in the copper and gold mining town of Butte. The town was wide-open and roaring, with dozens of saloons that stayed open around the clock. Painted-up soiled doves were hanging out of windows above the saloons and in homes with a red lantern on the front porch, inviting any and all to come sample their wares.
Frank was camped on the edge of town, since there were no hotel rooms to be had at any price. But that was all right with Frank, for he didn’t plan to spend much time in the town; just long enough to buy supplies and then get away from all the smoke and noise and hustle and bustle of too damn many people. Frank had found a couple of very nice families who were opening businesses in Butte. Due to the housing shortage, both families were living in and under their wagons until houses could be built for them. The women and kids agreed to look after Dog while Frank went into town for a bath, a haircut, and supplies.
“And new boots,” Frank reminded himself as he rode into town. His old boots were literally coming apart on his feet, and Frank decided to treat himself to a new pair, and a new hat as well.
“Might as well,” he muttered. “I can damn sure afford it.”
Frank bought his supplies, told the clerk he’d be back for them, then toted a sack full of dirty clothes over to a laundry. He had himself a shave, a haircut, and a bath,
dressed in clean long handles, jeans, and shirt, then went in search of a boot and hat shop. He bought new boots and a new Stetson. He felt like a brand-new man as he walked over to a saloon to have a drink before he found a cafe and had something to eat.
The saloon had plenty of customers but there was room at the long bar, and Frank bellied up and ordered a whiskey—the first drink of whiskey he’d had in weeks—and listened to the gossip around him. It was mostly about mining, and Frank paid no attention. Then he heard his name mentioned and he perked up and listened.
“I heard some big rancher down some south and east here run Frank Morgan out,” a man said.
“Do tell?” his drinking companion said.
“Yes, sir, he did. Man by the name of Colonel Trainor. Runs the Circle Snake spread. Made ol’ Frank Morgan tuck his tail ’tween his legs and run, he did.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Some cowboy passin’ through yesterday. Seems this Trainor feller is hirin’ guns for his spread. Payin’ big money too. Gonna run all the farmers and sheep herders out of the valley.”
“Hard to believe that Frank Morgan would run from anybody.”
“Well, hell . . . Frank’s gettin’ old, I reckon.”
“ ’Bout forty-five, so I understand from an article I read once. That ain’t old.”
“Maybe he just lost his nerve. It happens, you know.”
Frank smiled into his shot glass. The rumor came as no surprise to him. Others like Trainor, full of arrogance and self-importance, had made the same type of claim against other men. A few, a very few, had laid those remarks on Frank in the past. Frank had always ignored them. But this time the charge of cowardice rankled in him. Perhaps it was because he had taken such an instant dislike to Colonel Trainor.
“I’d like to run into that damn Morgan!” another voice shouted, rising above the crowd of men at the end of the bar.
“Oh, hell, Rob,” a man said. “What do you think you’d do if you did see him? You think you’d maybe crowd him into a fight?”
“Damn right I would,” Rob said. “I’m tired of reading all them books and newspaper stories about him. I want to see firsthand if he’s got the backbone to face a really fast gun.”
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