As he approached the cutoff to the Wilson farm, a wagon came rattling out driven by Julie, with a young girl, maybe eight or so, sitting beside her. Frank caught up with the wagon and Julie reined up.
“Mr. Morgan,” she said. “I never thought I would see you again.”
“Like a bad penny, Miss Julie, I came back.”
“I’m so glad you did. I guess, ah, you haven’t heard what happened since you’ve been gone, have you?”
“Just that Trainor is hiring a lot of gunhands.”
“Phil was killed about a week after you left.”
“Phil? Your husband?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“A couple of Snake riders goaded him into a fight. One of them knocked him down and Phil hit his head on a rock. His skull was fractured. He died a few days later. He never regained consciousness.”
“I . . . I’m sorry. What happened to the Snake riders?”
“Nothing. Both of Trainor’s men said Phil started the fight and they were only protecting themselves. Which is a lie, of course, but . . .” She shrugged her shoulders. “The sheriff is in Trainor’s pocket.”
“Are you making out all right?”
“I guess. I hired a fellow to help bring in the crops this fall. And Phil Junior and Katie and I can work the garden and put up the vegetables.”
“How about the cattle Phil was running?”
“They’ve been pretty much on their own, I’m sorry to say.”
“I can take care of them, since we’re going to be neighbors.”
“Neighbors?”
“I bought the Jefferson place.”
“Frank! That’s wonderful!”
“I think it’s a good investment.”
“You can come over for dinner then.”
“I’d like that, Julie. I sure would.”
“How about sometime this week?”
“That would be fine. Come on, I’ll ride with you into town. But first, who’s that beautiful young lady sitting next to you?”
The young girl blushed and Julie said, “This is my youngest, Shelley. This is Mr. Morgan, baby.”
“How are you, sir?” the girl asked very politely.
“I’m doing well, Shelley. Tell you what. When we get to town, I’ll buy you some candy and a sarsaparilla. Would you like that?”
“Yes, sir!”
“It’s a deal then. Come on.”
Frank rode alongside the wagon to town, he and Julie chatting. Frank had been gone from the area for several months and a lot had occurred during his absence.
“Colonel Trainor and Don Bullard—he owns the Diamond . 45—and Ken Gilmar—he owns the Lightning spread—have been hiring gunfighters. They say they’re cowboys, but everyone knows they’re not. Trainor has about thirty new men now working for him, and the others have hired about twenty each.”
“That’s in addition to their regular hands?”
“Yes.”
Frank whistled softly. “That’s costing them a lot of money each month. How can they afford it?”
“They’re all rich men. All of them have stock in the mines up in Butte and they’re making more money than they know what to do with.”
“And Phil is sweet on Betty Lou Gilmar and Katie’s stuck on Donnie Bullard,” Shelley blurted out.
“You hush now!” Julie told her.
“But it’s true, Mama!”
“That don’t make no nevermind. Just be quiet about it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are there good carpenters in town?” Frank asked, quickly changing the subject.
“Oh, yes. Several of them. They do good work.”
“I’ll need them. I can do rough work, but I’m no skilled house builder.”
“Phil Junior can help,” Shelley said. “He used to help Daddy build things.”
“He can’t do much,” Julie said.
“Anything would be a help,” said Frank. “I’d sure pay him.”
“I’ll tell him. He needs to be around a man who will make him watch his p’s and q’s.”
Frank laughed at that. “I’m not much good at that. Don’t have any experience with kids.”
“You were never married, Frank?”
“Yes, I was. Right after the war. But we separated before my son was born. I didn’t even know I had a son until last year. He doesn’t have much use for me, I’m afraid.”
“That’s sad.”
“It’s life, Julie. You got to be ready for the thorns along with the roses.”
“You have a poetic streak in you, Frank.”
“First time anyone ever said that to me.”
Conversation came to a halt at the sound of several men riding up behind them. “Mama,” Shelley said. “It’s that awful Wells Langford and his men.”
“Who is Wells Langford?” Frank asked, taking a quick look behind him at the six mounted men.
“The Diamond .45 foreman,” Julie said. “He’s killed several men in gunfights. He’s a really dreadful person.”
“And the men with him?”
“I don’t know them,” Julie said, looking behind her.
The Diamond .45 hands reined up alongside Frank and the wagon.
“Got you a new hand, Mrs. Wilson?” Wells asked, giving Frank a quick visual once-over. From the expression on his face, he didn’t much like what he saw.
“A friend of mine, Mr. Langford,” Julie said stiffly.
“Where did you come from and who the hell are you?” Wells asked Frank in a very demanding tone.
“Watch your mouth around the ladies,” Frank said.
“Or you’ll do what, mister?” Wells asked.
“Close it for you . . . permanently.”
That shut Langford’s mouth for a few seconds. He stared at Frank. “You must think you’re really something, cowboy!”
“He is,” one of the other .45 hands said. “That’s Frank Morgan, Wells.”
Frank cut his eyes to the hand who had identified him. He knew him. A bad one who went by the name of Davis. “Haven’t seen you in a long time, Davis.”
“About five years or so, Morgan. Since that night you killed my saddle pard down in Colorado.”
“He needed killing.”
“He shouldn’t have braced you, that’s a fact. You didn’t start it. But he’d had a few drinks too many.”
“That’s no excuse, Davis.”
Davis had nothing to add to that.
“I thought Colonel Trainor told you to get out of this area and stay out, Morgan,” Langford said.
“I don’t take orders from Trainor,” Frank replied. “Or from anyone else, for that matter.”
“What brought you back, Morgan?”
“I like the people . . . those that live in the south end of the valleys, that is.”
“These valleys belong to the ranchers, Morgan. And that’s a hard fact.”
“That’s nonsense, Langford. And courts have said as much. The farmers are here to stay and you’d better get used to it.”
“When hell freezes over, Morgan.”
“Hell can’t freeze,” Shelley piped up. “It’s too hot down there.”
Julie smiled at her daughter’s words and said nothing.
“Let’s get to town, boys,” the Diamond .45 foreman said, and spurred his horse.
The men rode ahead, leaving a cloud of dust behind them.
Julie and Shelley fanned themselves until the dust cloud dissipated. “I don’t like that man,” Julie said.
“I can certainly see why,” Frank replied. “Let’s get to town, ladies. I’ll buy you both a sarsaparilla.”
EIGHT
When the wagon, with Frank riding alongside, rolled into town, a lot of heads turned to gawk and whisper.
“The rumor mill has started,” Frank said.
“Let them talk,” Julie said. “It’ll take their minds off of the big trouble.”
Frank reined up in the front of the store and went inside,
while Julie pulled around to the rear of the general store and backed the wagon up to the loading dock. He bought Shelley some hard candy and a bottle of sarsaparilla, and then went in search of a wagon and team he could rent or buy. He found a wagon and team at the livery and arranged for its purchase. He told the liveryman to get the team into harness, he’d be back.
He walked back over to the general store and started buying the basic supplies he figured he’d need until the house was built. Then he went to the bank and deposited several large bank drafts. Frank was suddenly Mr. Morgan to Banker Simmons. He then went looking for the carpenters Julie had told him about. After speaking with them, he set up a line of credit at the sawmill.
“You going to farm, Mr. Morgan?” the sawmill owner asked.
“I’ll plant some wheat and corn and oats, for sure.”
“You’ll need farmin’ implements.”
“When the time comes, I’ll get them.”
“And a good mule or two.”
“I’m sure you’ll be able to get them for me,” Frank said dryly.
“You just say the word.”
Smiling, Frank went back to the general store to check on Julie and Shelley. He wanted to convoy back with them. It seemed to him that they were looking at every item in the store . . . and buying very little. Julie said they’d be ready to go in about an hour. Frank walked over to the saloon to listen to the gossip. He wasn’t in the mood for hard liquor or a beer, so he ordered coffee. The .45 crew was there, sprawled all around two tables, halfheartedly playing penny-ante poker. Frank ignored them.
“The famous Frank Morgan,” the foreman of the .45 spread said in a sneering tone of voice. “Gonna be a sodbuster now. You gonna raise sheep too, Morgan?”
Frank did not turn around. He sipped his coffee and smiled.
“I’m talkin’ to you, Morgan!”
Frank knew he should just walk away from this. But running away was not something that set well with Frank Morgan. He set his coffee cup on the bar and turned around to face the .45 crew. “What brings you boys to this end of the valley, Langford?”
“It’s a free country, Morgan. Ain’t it?”
“So I’m told.”
“’Sides, we like to come down here. It’s a nice friendly town.”
“Unlike the town at the north end?”
Langford frowned. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with Hell.” Then he scowled at his own words.
Frank laughed. “I bet the preachers in your town would disagree with that, Wells.”
“There ain’t no preachers in Hell, Frank,” a local said. “They got an empty church and that’s all. They can’t get a preacher to come to Hell.”
“I wonder why,” a local said. “Could it be the name?”
Langford glanced at the local. “You shet your damn mouth, farmer.”
“Why should he, Wells?” Frank stepped in. “This is his town. You boys are just visiting here. And I doubt you were invited.”
“You tellin’ us to get out, Morgan?”
Frank shrugged his shoulders. “Nope. You don’t see any badge on me, do you? I’m just a private citizen.”
“Nobody runs us out of nowhere, Morgan,” Davis said. “Especially you.”
“I don’t recall anyone asking you to leave, Davis.”
“Just makin’ things plain.”
“Tell me this, Wells. Why do you boys want to come to a place where you know you’re not welcome?”
The foreman smiled. “Oh, I think you know the answer to that.”
“Yes, I suppose I do. So you can strut around and shoot anybody who dares challenge you, right, Wells?”
The .45 foreman stared at him and offered no reply.
“Now let me add this,” Frank said. “I just bought the old Jefferson place. The place where night riders burned the whole family to death a few months back. And I bought land surrounding the place. If I find any of you Diamond .45 people, or Circle Snake riders, or Lightning hands on my property, I’ll kill you and I won’t ask questions before I do it. I’ll just blow you out of the saddle and leave you for the buzzards and the bears. You understand all that?”
Wells’s eyes bugged out and his face flushed from sudden rage. His hands gripped both arms of the chair until the knuckles turned white. “That’s hard talk, Morgan.”
“You are damn right it is. And I mean every word of it. I’m no helpless woman or child. Or a man who isn’t used to guns. And if you doubt it, stand up and get ready to drag iron.”
Wells slowly relaxed and leaned back in the chair, being careful to keep his hands away from his pistol. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Drifter?”
“I’m no drifter anymore, Wells. I own a farm and a small ranch, and I’m also looking after the cattle that belong to the Wilson family. The same rules apply to the Wilson property.”
“That’s mighty nice of you, Morgan,” a .45 hand said. “You liftin’ the skirts of that fine-lookin’ woman for payment? She give you a good roll in bed for all your help?”
Frank was away from the bar in a heartbeat. He reached the mouthy cowboy in the next heartbeat, just as the man was getting to his boots, both hands balled into fists.
“Finish him, Cort!” one of the hands yelled.
Frank hit Cort in the mouth with one big fist. Cort’s boots flew out from under him and he landed on the table behind where he’d been sitting. He rolled and got to his feet, his lips dripping blood.
“I’ll kill you for that, Drifter,” he said, calling Frank the nickname that an Eastern writer had hung on him in an article.
“Come do it,” Frank told him.
Cort charged him and Frank met him square on with both fists, a series of lefts and rights to the stomach and face that sent Cort stumbling backward. Frank pressed the .45 hand hard, hitting him solidly on the side of the jaw with a right fist that glazed the man’s eyes and caused his knees to buckle a bit.
Cort backed up, shaking his head and spitting out blood. Frank came on without hesitation, coldly and mercilessly. He slammed a left to the man’s belly and a right to his face. Cort’s nose flattened and the blood and snot flew. He backed up, hurt and dazed and shaking his head, splattering blood.
“You son of a bitch!” Cort said, taking a swing at Frank.
Frank grabbed the man’s arm, just at the wrist, and using his forward momentum, threw the man out one of the front windows of the saloon. Cort bounced on the boardwalk and rolled off into the dirt of the street.
Frank was out the batwings after him before Cort could get up and get his shaky legs under him. The Diamond .45 hand was bleeding from a dozen cuts from the broken glass, but he was still game. He tried to climb up on the boardwalk. He didn’t make it. Frank kicked him in the belly, and Cort doubled over and went to the ground, both hands holding his belly and horrible gasping, choking sounds coming from his mouth.
Frank stepped off the boardwalk and then for the next several minutes, methodically beat the man to a bloody pulp. Like a steam-driven piledriver, Frank’s fists smashed Cort’s face and belly. When he finished, Cort was unconscious, his face torn, bloody, and unrecognizable. The Diamond .45 puncher was slumped against a water trough, his chin resting on his chest. Incredibly, Cort had not landed even one blow on Frank.
Frank splashed water from the trough on his face and stepped back onto the boardwalk, walking up to the Diamond .45 foreman. “Have I made my point, Langford?”
“Yeah, I reckon you did, Morgan,” Wells said tightly. “But it ain’t gonna be forgot no time soon.”
“I hope you never forget it. And be sure and tell your boss about it. I’ll do the same damn thing to him if his actions or remarks ever warrant it.”
“You’re a fool, Morgan,” Wells said in a low voice. “You can’t fight every rancher on the north end of the valleys.”
“You want to bet your life on that?”
The foreman elected not to respond. He turned away with a muttered curse and said, “One of you boys get a buck
board from the livery to haul Cort back to the ranch.”
“You want me to get Doc Everett to look at him ’fore we do?” another hand asked.
“No. I don’t want that mean-mouthed bastard to look at him. We’ll get Doc Woods.”
Frank stood on the boardwalk and listened to the Circle. 45 hands talk, all the while flexing his fingers to help keep them from stiffening up. They would be sore from the pounding against Cort’s face, but nothing was broken. He would soak both hands in hot water and salt later on.
He glanced up and across the street at the crowd that had gathered on the boardwalk, Julie and Shelley among them. He started to step off the boardwalk and walk across to them when Cort suddenly moaned.
“I’ll . . . kill you . . . for this,” the busted-up cowboy mumbled through loose teeth and smashed gums. “That’s a... promise.”
“And if he don’t, I will!” another Circle .45 hand blurted out.
“Shut up, Dick,” Langford said. “We’ll get our evens ’fore long, you can bet on that.”
“I’ll sure be around,” Frank informed them. “And you boys best keep in mind what I said about staying off my property and Miss Julie’s property.”
Both of Cort’s eyes were almost swollen shut, but Frank could see the hate shining through the swelling. I’ll have to kill that man someday, Frank thought.
Doc Everett strolled up and glanced at Cort, then over at Langford. “You want me to take a look at him, Wells?”
“I want you to keep your damn hands off him!” the foreman lashed out.
“With pleasure,” the doctor replied. “Maybe the community will get lucky and he’ll die.”
“You’re a mean bastard, Doc,” Dick said.
“I’m a realist.”
“Huh?” Dick asked.
“Never mind. It would take the rest of the day trying to explain it to you.” He looked at Frank. “Heard you were back in town. Julie told me moments before the fight. She seems quite fond of you.”
“She’s a nice lady.”
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