“All right, all right. Calm down a little bit.” Dog loved the trail, loved to stay on the move, seeing new country. “South it is. Now where south shall it be?” Frank poured a cup of coffee and sat down in a rocker. “How about Oklahoma Territory? We’ll check out this strip of territory called No-Man’s-Land. That sound good to you?”
Dog jumped up and down and barked.
“All right,” Frank said with a laugh. “Sounds good to me too.”
Frank drank his coffee and smoked a cigarette, then called it a night and went to bed, Dog sleeping on a rug beside his bed
* * *
Frank rode into town just as dawn was cracking open the dark skies. At the Sunburst Café, Charlie and Becky had the biscuits baked and the coffee ready to pour when Frank walked in and took a seat.
“Everything quiet last night?” Frank asked.
“Quiet as a church here in town,” Charlie replied. “You think Mark Rogers has left the country?”
“No. He’s still around. I figure as soon as he learns his brother is all right, he’ll make a move.”
“Then when that’s handled, the war will really be over, won’t it?” Becky asked.
“Should be,” Frank replied, sugaring his coffee. He buttered a biscuit with fresh-churned butter and took a bite. Delicious. The Jordans were really good cooks.
Frank would have been content to just sit and eat buttered biscuits for breakfast. But before he could fill up on biscuits, Charlie set a plate of ham and eggs before him.
“Enjoy, Marshal,” Charlie said, filling up Frank’s coffee cup.
After breakfast, Frank strolled over to the post office (which had been open for a couple of weeks), then to his office. There he sat down and looked over his mail. There was a letter from his attorney in Denver. A new gold strike had been hit in the mountains (the mine owned by one of the companies Frank owned stock in) and Frank was now considerably wealthier. The lawyer said the money was now on deposit at a bank in Denver. Frank put the letter in his pocket and smiled. The fifty a month he was being paid for his marshal’s work was going into the local bank. It would stay there until he found someone who needed it more than he did; Frank would never touch it. He sure as hell didn’t need it.
The other two letters addressed to him were from the legal firms handling his stock in railroads, shipping, and factories. He quickly scanned both letters. They told him how much he had earned thus far this year, and how much he currently had on deposit. It was quite an impressive sum. More money in various banks. It was a sum of money that was almost unbelievable to Frank.
More money than he could spend in several lifetimes... even if he went hog-wild crazy trying to spend it all.
What did he personally need that his money could buy? The answer was nothing. He had a couple of suits, some shirts. A fine pair of boots. Some jeans. He had his Peacemaker, and a short-barreled Peacemaker as a spare. He had a fine .44-40 rifle. He had a good saddle, a great horse. And Dog. He needed nothing more.
He rolled a cigarette and leaned back in his swivel desk chair. No, he needed only the time to roam, to drift, to be himself until that day when the bullet with his name on it caught up with him. When that day finally arrived, and Frank was sure it would, his attorneys knew what to do with his accumulated wealth.
The door opened, breaking into Frank’s reverie. John Platt walked in with a solemn face on.
“John,” Frank greeted him, wondering what new happening had caused his friend to be so gloomy.
“Pete Dancer just rode in, Frank. Alone. Stabled his horse with me and told me if he didn’t come back for him, I could have the horse and rig. Just pay for his funeral. Said he’d be waiting for you over at the new saloon.”
Frank grunted at the news and stood up.
“You don’t seem surprised at his ridin’ in, Frank.”
“I’m not. Pete’s too good a man to take orders from an asshole like Mark Rogers.”
“That don’t explain his comin’ in to brace you.”
Frank smiled. “It does to me, John.”
“I’ll never understand gunfighters,” the liveryman said.
“How could you?” Frank questioned. “We don’t really understand ourselves.”
Frank walked over to the saloon, pulled open the batwings, and pushed open the front door. The saloon was not due to open for several hours, but Pete had unofficially opened it . . . by threatening the old swamper. The gunslinger was propped up at the bar, drinking coffee.
“Come in and have a cup, Morgan,” Pete said at the sound of the batwings and door opening. He didn’t bother to look and see who it was . . . he knew.
“Believe I will, Pete,” Frank replied, picking up a cup and walking behind the bar to the coffeepot. The swamper had headed out the back door with Frank’s approach.
“You queered a good deal for us, Frank,” Pete said.
“Oh? Now how did I do that?” Frank asked.
“Sidin’ with the sodbusters and convincin’ the GP to call off their fight.”
“It’s called progress, Pete. There’s land enough for everybody.”
Pee grunted his reply to that and sipped his coffee. After a moment he said, “You know why I come into town, Frank.”
“This doesn’t have to be, Pete. The war is over. Ride on out of here. I won’t try to stop you.”
“I plan on ridin’ out, Frank.”
“Is that why you told the liveryman to keep your horse and rig if you don’t come back to claim them?”
Pete smiled at that. “You’re pretty good, Morgan. I like to get everything covered after I make up my mind to do something.”
“That’s a wise move.”
“Our day is just about over, Morgan. I figure men like us should go out the way we’ve lived.”
“I don’t plan on going out any time soon, Pete.”
“Yeah . . . well . . . you probably won’t.”
“You go into this fight with that attitude and you won’t make it, Pete. So why go into it?”
“Got to, Morgan.”
“No, Pete. You don’t have to do this. And I don’t want to do it.”
“What the hell’s the matter with you, Morgan?” Pete sat down his cup and looked at Frank.
“Nothing. I’m just talking to a man I’ve known for years.”
“We’re not friends, Morgan.”
“But we’ve never really been enemies.”
“Well . . . I reckon that’s true.” Pete drew a long breath and exhaled slowly. “I reckon I could just ride out and we could call this a draw, couldn’t we, Morgan?”
“We sure could, Pete. Why don’t we just call it even and both of us walk away?”
Pete chuckled softly. “I come in here ready to die and damned if you ain’t talked me out of it. You ever think of becomin’ a preacher, Morgan?”
Frank laughed and walked down to stand close to Pete Dancer. “No, Pete. I’ve never given that any thought at all.”
“You ever thought of hangin’ up your gun?”
“Plenty of times.”
“You know anyone who’s ever done it?”
“Several. Dave Moore did just a few months ago. He’s farming out in the valley now.”
“I know. How’s he doin’?”
“Working from can to can’t and loving every minute of it.”
“You see him, give him my best.”
“I will. Pete? I’m told Oregon is good farm country and there’s plenty of land to be had for a man who isn’t afraid of work.”
“I growed up on a farm, Morgan. I damn sure ain’t afraid of work. And I know somethin’ ’bout farmin.”
“Might think about that, Pete.”
“Yeah . . .” Pete scratched his chin. “Yeah, I will. You really think a man like me could give it all up?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You haven’t.”
“You had any plays performed, songs sung, and books and news articles written about you, Pete?” Frank asked, a twi
nge of regret in his voice, which Pete picked up.
The gun handler cut his eyes to Frank. “No. Thank the Good Lord. But I see what you mean. I read some of the books about you. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I laughed all the way through them.”
“They’re awful, for a fact.”
“Farmin’, huh? Well, it’s a thought.”
“Do it, Pete. Show us both you can do it.”
Pete nodded his head, then smiled. “By the Lord, I think I will, Frank. Yes, I will.” He looked again at Frank, his eyes narrowing just a bit. “You ain’t asked question one ’bout Mark Rogers or the men with him.”
“I’m not worried about them, Pete.”
“I left them ’fore we reached the mountains. Mark is crazy as his pa. Maybe worse. That’s a bad bunch with him, Frank. Some of them has sworn to kill you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know what they’re plannin’. I left ’fore Mark could lay out any scheme.”
“Ride west for a few days, Pete. Then cut north. Keep a close eye on your back trail.”
“Good idea. I can do that. Frank? Will you shake hands with me ’fore I pull out?”
“I’d be proud to do that, Pete.”
The two top guns shook hands, and Pete Dancer walked out of the saloon and into the cool morning. Frank stood for a moment at the bar. The old swamper stuck his head around a corner.
“No shootin’?”
“Nope. We talked it out.”
“Talked? Well, I’ll be damned. Ain’t that somethin’?”
John Platt walked in a few minutes later, accompanied by Doc Archer and Joe Wallace.
“Dancer come got his horse,” John said. “He was smilin’. What the hell did you two talk about?”
“Life and death and choices a man had while on this earth, John,” Frank replied.
“Don’t tell me he’s givin’ up gunslingin’.”
“He’s going to try.”
“Headin’ west when he left my place,” the liveryman said. “He goin’ to California?”
Frank hesitated for just a few seconds. Might as well give Pete another small chance in this game of life and death. “Yeah, John. Southern California. He owns a business out there. Dry goods, I think.”
“Do tell. Well, I wish him luck.”
“So do I, John. So do I.”
“He say anything ’bout Mark?”
“Just that he was crazy.”
“Well, hell, we all knowed that.”
“We’ll deal with Mark when we see him, I reckon.” Frank looked at Doc Archer and smiled. “How’s Mike?”
“In good shape. He can go home in a couple of days.”
“We’re gonna have us a right nice town here,” the mayor said. “Yes, sir. A right nice town.”
“I think you already do, Mayor,” Frank said. “Ain’t no ‘gonna’ about it.”
“Now that we’ve all agreed on that,” John said, rubbing his chin, “an’ seen’ as how the saloon’s already open, how about us breakin’ open a bottle of the good stuff and havin’ us a drink on it?”
Frank laughed and pushed his coffee cup across the bar away from him. “Damned if that ain’t a great idea, John.”
Thirty-one
Several weeks passed very uneventfully. Mike Rogers went back to his ranch and after a few days in bed, began doing light office work. Mike and Lucy Perkins announced their engagement, as did Peaches and her gentlemen friend who ran a ranch over near the county seat. It was to be a double wedding, held in Valley View, with the services conducted by Reverend Richard Carmondy.
The crops were all in for that growing season, and it was a bumper crop for the homesteaders in the valleys.
School had started in Valley View, and the schoolhouse was filled with kids . . . some of whom had never before attended a regular school . . . having been schooled at home by their parents, if they had any schooling at all, and many had not.
In one short summer, the size and population of Valley View had grown phenomenally. The governor of the territory was making plans to visit the town.
“When the governor’s plans are firm,” Frank told the mayor and town council, “I’ll pull out. You boys better be thinking about a new marshal.”
“What are you talking about, Frank?” Joe Wallace asked. “We want you to stay.”
“I’m a known gunfighter, Joe,” Frank replied. “It wouldn’t look good for someone like me to be wearing a star in your town.”
“That’s nonsense!” John Platt said bluntly. “We don’t want nobody else, Frank.”
“I’ll be moving on,” Frank told the gathering. “Start looking for a new marshal. Believe me, it’s for the best. Otherwise you’ll end up with a bunch of reputation-hunters coming around here tryin’ to make a name for themselves by killing me.”
“But you settled the troubles of not only this town, but of the entire valley,” Joe said. “We want you to stay.”
“I’ll be moving on,” Frank said, a finality in his voice. The men present knew to argue further would be futile.
“How can we ever repay you?” another council member asked.
“Your friendship is plenty payment enough,” Frank told the men. “I’ll never forget this town—or the many friends and neighbors I’ve met here. Believe it.”
Frank made arrangements to give his farm—lock, stock, and barrel, so to speak—to a young couple who had just moved into the valley. They had lost everything to a fire on the trail. To say they were stunned at the generosity of Frank Morgan would be an understatement.
“I don’t know what to say,” the young farmer said.
“Then don’t say anything,” Frank told him.
Many of the gunslingers that had ridden off with Mark Rogers had been spotted as far south as Kansas, riding alone or in pairs. One had been arrested for stealing, and he had told a sheriff that most of the gang had broken up, each going his separate way. Mark had refused to share with them the money he had taken from his late father’s safe, and then had killed one of the gang for no reason, according to the gunhand. He had no idea where Mark Rogers was, but he hoped he was dead. Adding: “The rotten son of a bitch!”
Frank shared that telegram with Mike, and Mike could only shake his head. “I guess we’ll never see my brother again.”
“He’s crazy, Mike,” Frank told him. “Don’t let your guard down just yet. There is no telling what he’s liable to do.”
“I guess you’re right, Marshal. Say, me and Lucy will be getting married this fall. I guess you heard.”
“I did. I’m happy for you both.”
“Will you be here for the wedding?”
“Probably not, Mike. I plan to pull out in a few days. I just wanted to stop by and give you my congratulations and best wishes . . . and to say good-bye.”
“Good luck to you, Marshal Morgan. I won’t forget you.”
“Give my best to Lucy and to your sister.”
“I will. I wish you were staying. But you’re welcome here anytime, Marshal. I mean that.”
“I know you do. See you around, Mike.”
On a cool, crisp early fall morning, just before dawn, Frank Morgan rode out of the town, drifting south. He did not look back at the town of Valley View. The town he’d helped build.
He couldn’t help feeling some pride in his soul when he passed farm after farm along the way, farms that wouldn’t’ve been there except for him. “See that, Dog?” he said to the cur trotting alongside Stormy as they passed yet another farm with a man and his wife out working in the fields. “Your master did that. Aren’t you proud of me?”
Dog glanced up, his tongue hanging out as he panted a bit from the heat. There was a question in his eyes, as if to say, “Master? What are you talking about? It’s plain to see who the boss is around here.”
Frank glanced down at him, and had to laugh. Yep. He was sure that was what Dog was thinking.
The man in the field stopped his work and leaned on the handle o
f his hoe. He took off his hat and sleeved sweat off his brow. And then he nudged his wife and waved at Frank. “Howdy, Marshal. Like to come in and have a piece of pie and some coffee?” he yelled.
Frank thought about it for just a moment, and then he chuckled. Why the hell not? Who knows how long it’d be before he was again treated to homemade pie?
“Sure, I’d be right obliged,” he hollered back, and pulled Stormy’s head around and headed up the trail toward the farmhouse in the distance.
* * *
Just across the line in Colorado, Frank stepped down from the saddle in front of a country store three days later. Before he could turn around, a very cold voice told him not to. Frank knew that voice.
“Reggie?”
“Yeah, Drifter. Reggie. Now I’m going to kill you. Step away from your horse and then slow-like, turn and face me.”
Frank walked away from Stormy and then slowly turned to face the gunslinger. “I heard you boys pulled out from Mark Rogers. The war’s over. What’s your beef with me now?”
“You’re you, that’s what.”
“That’s not much of a reason, Reggie.”
“It’s reason enough. You ready, Drifter?”
“I’d rather we talked this out, Reggie.”
“You done turned yeller on me, Drifter?”
Frank smiled at that. “No, Reggie. I just don’t want to have to kill you, that’s all.” He glanced around at the clear blue sky and the snowcapped mountain peaks in the distance. “It’s a damn pretty day, Reggie. Shame to spill blood on a day like this.”
“Huh? Hell, Morgan. You’re an old man. I seen gray in your hair. You’re all used up.” He leaned to the side and spat in the dirt at his feet. “Hell, a man talkin’ ’bout how pretty the day is ain’t no danger to anybody anymore, that’s for sure.”
“Then there isn’t much point in standing here jawing, is there?”
“I reckon not.”
Reggie pulled iron.
Frank put two bullets in the man’s belly before Reggie could clear leather.
“Damn!” Reggie said, doubling over with his hands crossed over his stomach as he sank to his knees in the dirt. He dropped his six-gun. “I should have known better,” Reggie gasped. “I should have just gone on with them others and let you be.”
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