“I’ve arranged for Claude and Dan Jones to farm it on shares. I’m going to help Dave Moore plant his crop. Starting tomorrow.”
Adams sighed. “So the gunman is really going to farm.”
“He was raised on a farm, in the Midwest, I think. The land is in his blood.”
“But will he stick with it, or will the pull of adventure be too strong?”
“Only time will tell.”
“I suppose so.”
“We’re getting the farmers organized, Paul,” Claude said.
“So I hear. It seems that Frank Morgan has done in one day what I was unable to do over the course of several years.” He looked at Frank. “You must be a real wonder-worker, Mr. Morgan.” It was said with no small amount of sarcasm.
“No,” Frank said, getting very weary of Paul Adams’s attitude of superiority. “I just suggest things that the farmers should do. Not order them to do it.”
“I was an officer in the Union army in the War Between the States, Mr. Morgan. I have found that people need someone to take charge.”
“I was an officer in the Confederate army during the War of Northern Aggression, Mr. Adams,” Frank came right back. “My men did what they were ordered to do because they respected me.”
“Are you saying I have no respect?” Paul demanded, his face getting red from anger.
“Not at all. What I’m saying is there is a right way and a wrong way to do things.”
“Now, gentlemen,” Claude said.
“Claude’s right,” Frank said. “Let’s just leave it at you don’t like me and I don’t like you, Adams. But for the good of all, we’ll work together.”
“I can do that,” Paul said gruffly.
“Good,” Frank replied. Then he smiled. “Yonder comes your boy with the coffee. We’ll have a toast to working together and staying alive.”
A very small smile crossed Paul’s lips. “I’ll sure drink to that.”
* * *
Long after Grant Perkins had left the ranch house, Mark Rogers sat in the study alone, drinking coffee and brooding over the situation. He occasionally scowled at the thought of Frank Morgan buying farmland and taking sides with the sodbusters. Then that damned hired gun, Dave Moore, had to go filing on land.
“The country’s going to hell,” Rogers said. “The next thing you know there’ll be a damn church and then a schoolhouse for all the squatters’ brats.”
“What are you mumbling about, Mark?” his new foreman, Pat Sully, asked, stepping into the office. Rogers had fired his old foreman after the man refused to burn down any more homes of farmers.
“Pour us a drink, Pat,” Mark said, “and have a seat. We’ve got some war plans to make.”
“’Bout damn time,” the foreman said, pouring the whiskey. “Things is gettin’ out of hand with them sodbusters.”
“Frank Morgan is the man who’s gettin’ them all together. I want him dead.”
“We got some boys on the payroll who’ll be more’n happy to oblige you.”
“I want the squatters to see that Frank Morgan is not bulletproof. I want him shot down like a mangy coyote . . . in front of the squatters. Who is the best gunhand on the payroll?”
“Oh . . . Paco Morales, Pete Dancer, Steve Harlon. Take your pick.”
“Harlon still bunkin’ in town?”
“Yes. He don’t like associatin’ with normal people. He insists on a bath every day. Strange man.”
“That’s gonna make him sick one of these days. All that soap ain’t good for a body. No ... not Harlon. I hear tell him and Morgan is sort of friends.”
“I’d call on Paco then. Oh, by the way. The news in town is that when Moore rode into the country seat to file on his land, Frank had him file on a couple of acres to build a church house and a school.”
Mark threw his empty shot glass across the room into the cold fireplace. “Son of a bitch!” he shouted. “I knowed that was comin’.”
“It’s gonna be built just outside of town, west side. Joe Wallace done ordered all the materials.”
“Call Paco in. He’s got a job to do.”
* * *
The beginning of the end of the dynasty of the GP and the Diamond ranches came in the form of Reverend Richard Carmondy and his sister, Lydia. Richard was the new preacher and Lydia was the settlement’s new schoolteacher.
“I wonder how the central church committee back East heard of this place,” Pat Roykin said.
Frank was standing with a group of farmers in the general store when Roykin spoke.
Frank said nothing, only smiled briefly. Without the farmers’ knowledge, he had sent a number of wires out from the county seat.
“However they learned, it’s a godsend,” Dick Wilson said. “Now we have a real church and schoolhouse.”
“And the central committee back East is paying their salary for a couple of years,” Dan Jones said. “This town is on the move, folks. Don’t you agree, Mr. Morgan?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if several businesses didn’t start up soon,” Frank replied.
“Really?” Callie Hastings said. “Oh, that would be wonderful. I wonder what sort of businesses.”
Frank shrugged at that. “I wouldn’t know. I reckon we’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Earl Martin, the blacksmith from over at the county seat, is coming in to set up a place,” Joe Wallace said. “Least that’s what I heard.”
“I know Earl,” Tom Johnson said. “His wife, Mary, sings and plays the piano at the Methodist church. She’s really good too.”
“And we’re gettin’ a weekly stage run too,” John Platt said. “They’re gonna use my livery for team changes.”
“We’re goin’ to be a real town!” Bob Frazier said.
“Who’s that riding up?” Wilson questioned, gazing toward the edge of town.
Frank knew at first glance. “Paco Morales.”
“Wonder what he wants,” Claude said.
“Me,” Frank said.
Nine
Paco reined up in front of the saloon and slowly dismounted. He turned to face Frank, standing on the boardwalk in front of the general store. Paco smiled. “Frank,” he said politely.
“Paco,” Frank said, returning the greeting.
“Is it a good day, Frank?”
“Seems to be.”
“For dying?”
“Are you planing on dying this day, Paco?”
Paco laughed. “Oh, no, Frank. Not me. You.”
Frank smiled at him. “I have no plans to die this day.”
“Plans can change.”
“Did Mark Rogers pick you to brace me, Paco?”
“You might say that.”
“Did he pay you yet?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because I want you to have enough money in your pockets to bury you.”
Paco got a good laugh out of that. “You’ve very amusing, Frank. I always enjoyed your sense of humor.”
“Ride out of here, Paco. Ride out and live a long life.”
“Ah, Frank. You know I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“I took the man’s money.” He frowned. “No matter what people say about me, I am not a thief.”
“I never said you were.”
“But you want me to become one.”
“Throw Rogers’s money on the ground, Paco. That way your honor is secure.”
“Then I would be a liar.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
Paco shrugged his shoulders. “It really makes no difference to me how you see it, Frank.”
“Claude,” Frank said, without taking his eyes off of Paco, “get everyone out of the way.”
Upon hearing those words, Paco walked to the center of the wide street. “All this could be avoided, Frank.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. You get on your horse and ride out of this area.”
“Can’t do that, Paco.”
“W
on’t do it,” Paco corrected.
“This is my home, Paco. I live here.”
“You live nowhere on a permanent basis, Frank. That’s why you are known as The Drifter.”
“Maybe I’ve changed, Paco. People do change, you know.”
Paco laughed at that. “Not you, Frank. You are like that man in the fairy tale. That Robin Hood person.”
“That’s quite a compliment.”
“It was not meant to be such. Enough talk, Frank. It is time for you and me to settle this.”
A small crowd had gathered, the crowd making up the entire population of the settlement.
“It’s your play, Paco.”
“It’s your life, Frank.”
“Works both ways,” Frank reminded the man.
“I suppose that is true. Really, though, it is a pity.”
“Dying usually is.”
“Oh, not that,” Paco said. “What I meant is that the legend of The Drifter ends here.”
“Perhaps not, Paco. Have you given that any thought?”
“Men like you and me, Frank, we cannot entertain such thoughts. We have to believe our time will never end.”
“When I am too old to live by the gun, Paco, I will hang mine up. Ride out of here. Go back home and live a long life. Mark Rogers is not worth dying for.”
“I could say the same for your little piece of land.”
“Then I suppose we have nothing else to talk about, Paco.”
“It would seem so.”
“You wanted this showdown, Paco. It’s your play.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Frank was aware of a buggy stopping just at the edge of the short street. A man and a woman.
“Reverend Carmondy and his sister, Lydia,” Frank heard someone in the crowd say.
“They sure picked a hell of a time to ride into town,” another farmer replied.
“It’s been interesting having your acquaintance, Frank,” Paco said. “I will certainly attend your funeral services to show my respect.”
Frank said nothing. His cold pale eyes bored into the gunfighter’s black eyes. The men were about forty feet apart, Frank standing on the edge of the boardwalk, Paco in the street.
The buggy rolled closer.
Claude stepped off the boardwalk and walked into the street, halting the buggy. “Don’t come any closer, Reverend,” Frank heard the farmer say. “There’s about to be some gunplay.”
“Some cowboys crazed by strong drink, I’m sure,” Lydia said. “How dreadful.”
“No, ma’am,” Claude said. “That’s the Mexican gunfighter, Paco Morales, in the street, facin’ Frank Morgan yonder on the boardwalk.”
“That man is really Frank Morgan?” Reverend Carmondy asked.
“Yes, sir,” Claude replied.
“Heavens!” Lydia said, fanning herself with a little hanky.
“This is terribly barbaric,” Reverend Carmondy said. “Can’t you stop this, sir?”
“No, sir, I can’t,” Claude told him.
“Paco, honey,” a soiled dove called from an open window on the second floor of the saloon/hotel.
“Not now, Alice,” Paco said. “I’ll be with you in just a few minutes.”
“Hurry, Paco,” Alice called.
“She’s going to have a long wait, Paco,” Frank said. “Unless she plans to crawl into the pine box with you.”
Paco smiled. “You are being foolish.”
“I’m tired of this, Paco. Make your play.”
The smile faded from the Mexican’s face. Frank could sense that Paco was ready to hook and draw. Steve Harlon had stepped out of the hotel to stand on the boardwalk, far out of the line of fire. He stood watching with a look of interest on his face. And well he should be interested, for the odds were very good that he too would soon face Frank Morgan.
“Somebody should stop those men,” Reverend Carmondy said.
“I wouldn’t get in their way for no amount of money,” Hugh Watson said.
“Oh, I simply can’t continue to watch this!” Lydia said. But she made no attempt to avert her eyes.
“Are you going to stand there in the road like a potted plant, Paco?” Frank taunted the man. “Or make your play?”
“You must be in a hurry to die,” Paco replied.
Frank smiled, for he detected a slight note of nervousness in the man’s voice.
Frank waited on the boardwalk.
Paco’s hand suddenly twitched and Frank pulled iron. As fast as a rattler’s strike Frank pulled, cocked, and fired his Peacemaker—faster than the human eye could follow.
The muzzle of Paco’s Colt had just cleared leather when he felt a hard blow in his chest. Paco’s boots flew out from under him and he found himself on his back, in the middle of the street, looking up into a clear blue western sky.
“Sweet Mother of Jesus,” someone in the crowd whispered.
“No,” Paco said. “This cannot be. No man can match my speed. No one can best me.”
“I must go to that man,” Reverend Carmondy shouted, clucking at his horse. “He needs spiritual comfort in his hour of need.”
“What he needs is a damn good doctor,” the soiled dove hanging out of the second-story window shouted.
“You watch your mouth!” Lydia shouted at the woman.
The soiled dove told Lydia where to stick her comment.
“I beg your pardon!” Lydia shouted as her brother was getting out of the buggy.
The painted lady of the evening repeated her suggestion, adding, “And do it sideways, sister.”
“Well . . .” Lydia huffed. “I never!”
“Well, in that case you ought to try it, lady,” the soiled dove called. “Hell, you might like it.”
Frank stepped off the boardwalk and walked over to where Paco lay. Reverend Carmondy was saying a short prayer over the dying Mexican. He looked up at Frank.
“You should be ashamed of yourself!” the preacher said.
“Why?” Frank asked.
“You’ve critically wounded this man!”
“No, I haven’t,” Frank said. “Take another look at him. He isn’t wounded. He’s dead!”
* * *
The body of the Mexican gunhand was hauled off to the local undertaker’s, where it would be displayed on the boardwalk in an upright coffin for a couple of days until it made its final trip to the nearby cemetery. The crowd had resumed their talking and shopping at the general store. Frank was sitting at a table in the saloon, having a drink.
Steve Harlon walked in and up to Frank’s table. Frank waved him to a chair and Steve sat down.
“You’re pretty good, Drifter,” Steve said. “But I think I can take you.”
Frank smiled at that. “Want a drink, Steve?”
“The barkeep knows what I want. He’s making a fresh pot of coffee. My comment doesn’t worry you, Frank?”
“About you taking me? No. Not at all.”
“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“I suppose so.”
A pot of coffee and two cups were placed on the table, and the bartender quickly backed away, leaving the two men alone.
“Paco was sure of himself too,” Steve said.
“Paco didn’t make a study of his opponents.”
“And you have done that?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You’re studied me?”
“Indeed I have.”
“And you think you’re better?”
“I know I am.”
“You are a very arrogant man, Drifter. Either that or you’re playing mind games with me.”
“Up to you to decide which, Steve.”
Steve poured a cup of coffee. A look of irritation passed over his face when he discovered there was no sugar bowl. He softly cursed.
Frank waved at the barkeep, making a spooning and stirring gesture. The barkeep nodded his head.
“Settle down, Steve. Sweetener’s on the way.”
“I like sugar in
my coffee when I can get it,” Steve said. “It’s simply one of life’s little pleasures.”
A group of farmers entered the saloon and lined up at the bar, ordering drinks. Steve glanced over at them.
“Sodbusters,” he said. “Willing to die for a few acres of land. I don’t understand them.”
“The backbone of this nation, Steve,” Frank told him.
“So I’ve heard. Why don’t they stay east of the Mississippi River and let the cattlemen have the land west of the river?”
“There’s land aplenty for everybody out here, Steve. It’s just a matter of working together and managing it.”
“Sodbusters are a bother, Frank. I don’t like them. I don’t like the fences they’re always stringing.”
“You’d better get used to it. The farmers are here to stay in the West.”
Steve turned his hard eyes to Frank. The two fast guns locked glances. “Not in this area, Frank.”
“Yes, Steve. In this area.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Frank. That makes us enemies.”
“Doesn’t have to,” Frank countered. “You could always ride on out of here.”
Steve picked up his coffee cup and pushed back his chair. “You can keep the pot here, Frank. I know how you like your coffee. I’ll just get me a place at another table.”
“Don’t you like my company, Steve?”
“You’re beginning to stink like pig shit, Frank. I just never did like that smell.”
Frank did not take offense. Instead, he startled Steve by laughing out loud.
“Something funny about pig shit, Frank?”
“You eat bacon, Steve?”
“You go to hell, Drifter!” Steve said. He turned his back to Frank and stalked off to a table across the room.
Frank watched him walk away. He knew Steve was not looking for gunplay this day. It was not yet time for that. But it would come. Soon enough.
Ten
“When you’ve finished your coffee, I want you to meet someone, Frank,” Claude said, walking over to Frank’s table.
“The preacher and his sister?” Frank said.
“How did you know that?”
“They’re the only two people in town that I haven’t met,” Frank replied with a smile.
“Oh. Sure. That’s right. They’re really nice people.”
“I don’t believe they have much use for me, Claude. Maybe we’d better put off this meeting.”
Burning Page 8