“Oh, I don’t know. I have heard some good things about you, Frank,” Doc Archer said.
“That would be a very short list, Doc,” Frank said, remembering the story about him in the book in the doctor’s office and how he’d been portrayed as a mad-dog killer.
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Do you believe in the Hereafter?”
“Sure.”
“That’s when the list will be read, Frank. It matters not what people here on earth believe.”
“You’re probably right, Doc. Well, I’m going to sleep. Night.”
“Good night, Frank.”
Frank threw his coffee in the fire and rolled over, fluffing up his saddle blanket on the saddle he was using as a pillow, and fell almost immediately asleep.
The doctor, not quite through with his coffee yet, sat staring into the fire as he slowly sipped the potent brew, trying to reconcile what he’d read about this famous figure of the West with what he’d seen so far.
While in medical school back East, in Philadelphia, not Boston as the reverend and his sister thought, Archer had been fascinated with all the lurid tales of the Wild West, as it was called back there. He’d read everything he could get his hands on about the West and the characters who lived there.
Before long, he’d decided that was where he wanted to set up his practice when he graduated. He began to haunt the mortuaries and morgues in the city, entreating the men who ran the establishments to let him see all the gunshot and knifing victims, sure that that would be the majority of his practice in the Wild West.
He chuckled to himself. So far he’d been out here almost six months, and the only gunshot he’d seen was one where a rancher blew his little toe off when he was bucked off his horse and his pistol had gone off accidentally.
Hell, he thought, so far he’d been more of a dentist than a doctor. He’d had no idea how bad people’s teeth could become if they weren’t taken care of, and cowboys, it seemed, took damn poor care of their oral hygiene.
His eyes flickered over to Frank Morgan lying a few feet away from him. Well, if the stories he’d been reading for the past six years were true, going to practice medicine in any town where Morgan lived would surely entail his treating any number of gunshot wounds.
* * *
They had just reached Van and Virginia Calen’s homestead, on the west end of the valley road, when Van ran out of the cabin and waved at the pair, yelling at them to stop.
“What’s the matter, Van?” Frank asked.
“The Watsons got hit night before last, Frank. Their house and barn burned to the ground.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“Hugh took a bullet in the shoulder. Passed right through. He’s hurtin’ some, but he’s up and around. Jessica and the kids are all right.”
“Thank the Lord for that.”
“That’s what I say too, Frank. Who’s your friend?”
“This is Dr. Archer.” Frank introduced the men.
“Your stuff come in a few days ago, Doc. Joe’s got it stored at the general store. Glad to see you made it. It looks like you’re gonna be busy here.”
“Certainly looks like it. Where is Mr. Watson now?”
“Just up the road at the Joneses’.”
“We’ll stop and I’ll have a look at him,” the doc said, thinking he’d been right the night before. Here he wasn’t even to the town yet and he was already being faced with treating a gunshot wound.
“Anybody taking responsibility for the attack, Van?”
“The men was ridin’ horses with both the GP and the Diamond brand, Frank.”
“It’s really started now.” Frank sighed. “Well, I knew it was coming. We’ll be pushing on. You and Virginia take care.”
“Will do, Frank.”
When Frank and Doc Archer rode into the Joneses’ yard, Reverend Carmondy’s buggy was there. “The local preacher,” Frank said. “He’s from back East. Boston.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” Frank said. “He and his sister figured you probably trained there in medical school.”
Doc Archer shook his head. “No, I trained at the University of Pennsylvania, though I do know some people from Boston. We probably have some mutual acquaintances back there.”
The doctor was introduced all around, and Lydia’s eyes sparkled when they exchanged pleasantries. Dr. Archer was a handsome man, and would be quite a catch for any woman, especially one as ambitious and as well bred as Lydia.
Doc Archer cleaned up Hugh’s wound and put on a fresh bandage. “The bullet hit nothing major,” he said. “You’re fortunate in that respect. You’ll be good as new in no time, assuming infection doesn’t set in.” He got to his feet, and added to Hugh’s wife, who was standing nearby, “You need to change the bandages at least once a day, and be sure to boil the new ones before you put them on the wound.”
She nodded as Hugh spoke. “I’m going to rebuild,” he said. “I’m going to stay. No low-down snake of a rancher is going to run me and my family out.”
“I’ll help you rebuild your house and barn, Hugh,” Frank said.
Doc Archer smiled when he heard Frank say that. He thought: The list is much longer than you think, Frank.
“You men step outside,” Dan said. “There is something you need to know, Frank.”
“You can speak in front of us,” Hugh’s wife said. “We agreed a long time ago there would be no secrets between us, Dan.”
Dan nodded his head, and then he cut his eyes at Frank. “A man rode into town right after you left for the county seat, Frank. He’s a hired gun. Says his name is Scott Dice.”
Frank slowly nodded his head. He was silent for a moment. “Scott Dice,” he finally said, his voice low.
“You know this man?” Dan asked.
“I know him.”
“Is he fast?” Hugh asked.
Frank smiled. “Fast? Scott Dice is the best.”
Doc Archer, who was washing his hands in a basin in the corner, looked up at this statement by Frank. In the books he read, all the gunfighters were inveterate braggarts and never admitted any other gunman was any good with a gun.
“I always heard you were the best, Frank,” Hugh said.
Frank laughed. “You know what the definition of the best gunfighter is, Hugh?” he asked.
Hugh shook his head.
“Someone who just hasn’t met anyone faster . . . yet,” Frank answered.
Nineteen
“If this Scott Dice is so good, why isn’t his name as widely known as yours?” Dan asked.
“Because he’s very secretive,” Frank replied. “Someone hires him, he comes in, does the job, and is gone within hours. He works under a dozen names.”
“But not this time obviously,” Doc Archer said. “And why would that be?”
“Because he’s going up against me. He wants it known he’s the man who put me down.”
“Can he do it?” Hugh asked.
Frank shrugged his shoulders. “He’s got as good a chance of killing me as any man I’ve ever faced.”
“You say that calmly enough, Frank,” Archer said.
“No point in denying it. It’s the truth.”
“So what are you going to do?” Hugh asked.
Frank looked at the homesteader. “Ride into town and face him.”
“Now?” Archer asked.
“Right now.”
* * *
“You heard what happened out at the Watsons’?” John Platt asked, coming out to meet them as Frank and Doc Archer rode up to the livery.
“We stopped out there.”
“Then you know who’s in town?”
“Scott Dice.”
“He’s over at the saloon now.”
“How’s he looking?”
“Mean, Frank. He didn’t make no bones ’bout who he was or what he was doin’ in town. Come right out and said he was here to kill you.”
“He’s got it to do.”
“Can you take him, boy?”
“I reckon we’ll see. This is Dr. Archer, John.”
“Pleasure, I’m sure,” the liveryman said, shaking Archer’s hand. “Did you see Hugh Watson? I heard he got shot by those bastards who tried to burn him an’ his wife out the other night.”
“I did,” Doc Archer replied. “He’s going to be all right.”
“We got us a name for the town, Frank.”
“I heard. How’d it come about?”
“Joe Wallace wrote the governor months ago. We all forgot about it—including Joe. Letter come in the day you left. It’s now official. Valley View it is.”
“Sounds good to me.” Frank squatted down and petted Dog for a moment. Without speaking, he looked up over his shoulder at John Platt and raised his eyebrows.
John nodded, indicating he’d take care of Dog if Frank didn’t survive his upcoming battle.
After speaking a few soft words to Dog that the others couldn’t hear, Frank stood up, removed the hammer thong, and slipped his Peacemaker in and out of leather a couple of times. “I think I’ll go over to the saloon and have me a beer. Cut the dust out of my throat.”
“I’ll go with you,” John said.
“So will I,” Doc Archer said.
“Both of you stay out of my way,” Frank told them. “Things might get raw in a heartbeat.”
When Frank walked into the saloon, every patron except one jumped to their feet and left in a hurry. The one remaining was seated at a table, his back to a wall. He did not look up as Frank entered. Frank walked to the bar and ordered a beer. Mug of beer in his left hand, Frank turned from the bar to looked at the man seated alone.
“Hello, Scott.”
“Frank. Nice day, isn’t it?”
“Real nice. Long time since I’ve seen you.”
“Years, Frank. It was back in ’68 or ’69, I believe.”
“El Paso, I think.”
“Yes. Somewhere down along the border.”
“What brings you to town, Scott?”
Dice smiled, a cold movement of the lips that didn’t extend to the rest of his face or to his eyes. “Money. A lot of money.”
“To kill me?”
“Yes,” Dice replied.
“Somebody must want me dead awful bad.”
“Somebody does, Frank.”
Frank knew better than to ask who hired Scott. Scott followed the gunman’s code closely. He would never tell.
“Even if you got lucky and killed me, Scott, that alone wouldn’t make the homesteaders quit the land.”
A flash of irritation crossed Dice’s face. “I don’t have to get lucky to kill you, Morgan.”
“I’d say you’re going to have to get very, very lucky to kill me, Scott. Because, speaking quite honestly, you’re just not that good.” Frank drawled out the last few words, slurring them with derision.
“Damn you!” Scott chuckled, smiling at Frank’s ploy to get him riled up so he’d act without thinking.
Frank smiled when his trick didn’t work. He shrugged slightly and took another sip of his beer, his eyes never leaving Scott’s.
“Well, looks like it’s time to strike up the band and have ourselves a little dance,” Frank said, his voice level and cool.
As Scott got to his feet, the bartender slipped out the side door of the saloon.
Scott moved his shoulders a little, getting loose and ready as he stared back at Frank, neither man showing the slightest trace of fear.
Suddenly, Scott’s hand closed around the butt of his .44.
Frank’s draw was cat-quick, but even as fast as he was, Scott matched his speed. Frank’s .45 and Scott’s .44 roared simultaneously. Scott’s bullet dug a painful slash on the top of Frank’s left shoulder, spinning him half around. Frank’s bullet ripped into Scott’s chest with a wet, thunking sound, causing him to take a quick step back to stay on his feet. Scott grinned in a macabre fashion as blood began leaking from his mouth. He cocked his .44 and lifted the muzzle. Frank raised his pistol and drilled him again, this time in the belly. Scott moaned as he doubled over and took several steps backward, to lean against the wall. His pistol discharged and blew a hole in the table in front of him.
“You bastard,” Scott said, choking on the blood in his mouth.
Frank said nothing. He felt the slow drip of blood leaking down from the top of his shoulder.
“Damn, you’re good,” Scott said, paying Frank the ultimate compliment he could offer. Again, Scott lifted his .44 and slowly cocked the weapon, using the palm of his left hand to ear back the hammer.
Frank put a third round into the man, about an inch from the first one in his chest. This time Scott went down to the floor, sliding down the wall to come to rest on his butt. His pistol clattered to the floor between his legs, the fingers of his right hand moving but unable to pick it up.
Frank walked over to the man and looked down at him. Scott’s face was deathly pale, his lips bloody. “I guess . . . I just wasn’t lucky enough this day, Drifter.”
“I reckon not, Scott.”
“But I got lead into you anyway.”
“You hit me.”
“Do me a favor, Drifter.”
“Name it.”
“Bury me proper?”
“You got it.”
“One more thing . . . tell me I’m the best.”
“You were until today.”
“I guess that’ll have to do. See you in hell, Drifter.” Scott Dice closed his eyes for the final sleep.
The batwings flew open and Dr. Archer and John Platt rushed into the saloon. They’d been watching through the front windows and had seen the gunplay firsthand.
“My God!” Dr. Archer said, his voice filled with awe. “I must take pen in hand and put today’s events to paper. This is a story the newspapers will be clamoring to print.”
Frank let the hammer down on his .45, twirled it once, then slipped it into leather.
John Platt laughed at the sight and slapped his knee.
“One more obstacle gone on the way to peace in the valleys,” Joe Wallace said from the batwings.
Frank walked to the bar and waited until the barman slipped back in the side door before he ordered coffee. He looked up as Reverend Carmondy stepped into the saloon. The preacher walked over to stand looking down at the bloody body of Scott Dice.
“Oh, Lord,” Carmondy said, and cut his eyes heavenward as he clasped his hands together. “When will it end?”
“When Grant Perkins and Mark Rogers are dead,” John Platt said simply, grinning at the thought.
“More killings?” the preacher asked, turning away from the body of the dead man.
Frank did not reply to that. He walked over and stared down at the body of Scott Dice, thinking: That will be me someday. There lies my fate, sure as hell. But what can I do to change it? Move to a big city, like maybe Boston or New York City, change my name, wear a fancy suit and stiff collar and uncomfortable shoes? I couldn’t live like that. I won’t live like that. So that leaves me? . . .
He shook his head, and turned away and met Reverend Carmondy’s eyes. “I’ll get some people to wrap him up in a blanket and carry him off. Get one of the carpenters to knock together a coffin. He asked me to give him a proper burial. I said I would.”
“What were you thinking while you looked down at that poor man, Frank?” the preacher asked.
“Nothing of any importance.”
Doc Archer set his black bag on a nearby table and motioned for Frank to join him.
Frank moved over to the table and took a seat while the doc opened his shirt and peered down at the wound on his left shoulder. He pursed his lips. “The bullet cauterized the wound, Frank, and the bleeding has already stopped. I’m going to put a small bandage on it to keep it clean, and you’ll need to let me change it every day for at least a week,” he said as he applied a soft cloth to the wound and taped it in place.
“Thanks, Doc,” Frank said, and he got to his feet, fixed his shirt, and walked out of
the saloon.
Frank looked up and down the street for a moment, then began pacing out his just-purchased lots. That done, he walked over to the workmen and spoke with the foreman.
“You sure about this, Mr. Morgan?” the foreman asked. “This is gonna cost you some good money.”
“I’m sure,” Frank told the man. “This is going to give you men steady work for a long time.”
“Damn sure will,” the foreman agreed. “All right, sir. I’ll do a work order and get the material ordered.”
More than one way to bring the big two ranchers to a cease-fire, Frank thought. And I can damn sure afford it, so what the hell? Might as well do something worthwhile with my money.
Frank walked back to the livery, a smile on his face.
* * *
He took a small bottle of whiskey from where he’d seen John Platt hide it, sat down in the hay next to Dog, and slowly scratched the dog’s ears as he thought about his life and how close it’d come to be ended for him a short while ago.
He smiled at the thought of the lawyers and money managers in San Francisco and Denver when they read his will. They would be terribly disappointed to lose control of so much money, but all of it would go to good causes. He had a list of cities where the money would be used to open and fund orphanages, libraries, and in some cases small hospitals. But his favorite use of the money was in his instructions for the lawyers to search out men who’d served in the Confederacy and had fallen on hard times. Frank planned that at least a third of the money remaining at the time of his death would be used to make life a little easier for these veterans of the War of Aggression by the North. Lord knows, they hadn’t had it easy in the war, but by God, if he had anything to do with it, their last remaining days would be a little bit better than they had been.
Dog moaned and moved his head under Frank’s light touch, showing he’d missed his master the last few days. Frank reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a piece of bacon he’d saved from breakfast. He held it up where Dog could see it until the cur’s mouth drooled.
Finally, with a short laugh, Frank pitched the bacon high and watched as Dog jumped and caught it in midair.
Twenty
“He did what?” Grant Perkins almost screamed the words.
Burning Page 15