“You’re Frank Morgan, all right. He’s who he says he is, folks,” the citizen shouted. “That’s Frank Morgan.”
“Well, he shore looks like Val Dooley to me,” a woman yelled.
“He’s Frank Morgan,” another man yelled. “Here’s a book that’ll show his picture. Look at it.”
The crowd of locals gathered around the older man and stared at the penny dreadful, passing it around until everyone had an opportunity to look at the picture, then glance up at Frank, standing on the boardwalk, visually comparing the two.
“I reckon you’re who you say you are, Frank,” the town marshal said, holstering his pistol. “But you and Val Dooley shore resemble.”
“What’s going on out here?” a man asked, stepping out of the office behind Frank and the boy. “Johnny? What have you been up to now?” he asked the boy.
“Nothing, Pa,” the boy replied. “This here is Frank Morgan, the gunslinger.” He jerked a thumb toward Frank.
“You look like Val Dooley,” the lawyer said, peering closely at Frank. “But I can see a subtle difference.”
“Thank you,” Frank said. “I’d like to have a few moments of your time, if I may.”
“Certainly,” Lawyer Whitter said. “Come into my office.”
“Johnny,” Frank said to the boy, “would you take my horses down to the livery and tell the man to take care of them?”
“Sure will, Mr. Morgan.”
“Dog will go with you. Don’t worry, he won’t bite you.”
The boy led the horses away, Dog following, staying a few yards back.
“Just calm down everyone,” Lawyer Whitter told the crowd. “This man is not Val Dooley. Although the resemblance is uncanny. Come on into my office, Mr. Morgan. Let’s get this mess straightened out.”
Frank sighed. “I sure as hell hope we do.”
FOUR
“Val Dooley or Frank Morgan,” a man yelled. “It don’t make a tinker’s damn to me. Turn around and face me!”
Frank turned to once again face the crowd of citizens. A young man stepped out of the knot of people. He wore a tied-down pistol, left side. “I’m facing you,” Frank said. “What do you want?”
“If you’re Dooley, they’s reward money for you, dead or alive. If you’re Morgan, folks back East will pay to see you dead. Money for me whoever you are.”
“But first you have to kill me, boy,” Frank quietly reminded him.
“I ain’t no boy, damn you!”
“Ed Simpson,” the town marshal hollered, shoving his way through the crowd. “You take that gun off and git on back to your daddy’s spread, you hear me?”
“Shut up, Tom,” the would-be gunhand said. “You bes’ carry your fat ass back to your office and stay out of my way.”
“Why . . . you young pup!” the marshal said. “You can’t talk to me like that.” He took a couple of steps toward the young man.
Ed turned to face the marshal, his hand dropping to the butt of his pistol. The marshal stopped, his face flushing with anger. “Back off, Tubby,” Ed warned. “This is between me and what’s-his-name here.”
“Let them have at it, Tom,” a citizen told the marshal. “This ain’t worth you gettin’ shot.”
Ed again turned to face Frank, standing patiently on the boardwalk. “How about it, gunfighter?”
“How about what, son?” Frank asked.
“You and me, that’s what!”
“I don’t have any quarrel with you.”
“The hell you say!” Ed almost shouted the words. “I’m callin’ you out. Right now. You and me.”
“Calling me what, boy?”
A few people in the crowd chuckled at that.
“Don’t laugh at me!” Ed yelled, whirling around to face the locals for a few seconds. “Don’t you dare laugh at me.”
The crowd fell silent.
Ed again faced Frank. “Pull iron, gunfighter!”
“I’d really rather have a good meal and a pot of coffee, bony.”
“I ain’t no boy, damn you!”
“All right. If you’re a man, then act like one.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Let’s talk about this. There is no need for gunplay.”
“Listen to him, Ed,” the marshal urged.
“You shut your fat mouth, Tubby!” Ed yelled.
The marshal shrugged his shoulders. “It’s your funeral.”
Ed shook his head. “No. No, it ain’t my funeral. It’s his funeral!” He glared at Frank. “You gonna die, gunfighter!”
“We’re all going to die, boy,” Frank told him. “When the Lord decides to call us home, nothing can change that.”
“Amen,” a woman spoke softly.
“I’m tired of this,” Ed said. “Drag iron, gunfighter.”
“I don’t think so,” Frank said calmly. “It’s too pretty a day for a gunfight.”
“What?” Ed shouted. “What the hell has the weather got to do with anything?”
“Everything,” Frank told him.
“I think you’re crazy!” the young man said.
“Could be,” Frank agreed. “I’ve sure been called worse. How about you?”
“How ’bout me what?”
“Are you crazy?”
“Hell, no, I ain’t crazy!”
“Are you sure? You seem sort of crazy to me.”
“Are you callin’ me crazy?”
“Maybe a little.”
Many in the still-growing crowd began to smile; still others began to chuckle as they sensed what Frank was doing. Frank Morgan didn’t want to shoot the young man; he was turning the townspeople against Ed Simpson. And it was working.
“Aw, go on, Ed,” a man hollered. “Get on back home and act your age.”
“You shut up, George!” Ed yelled. “This is none of your business.”
“And this isn’t Dodge City, Kansas,” a woman shouted. “We’re a law-abiding community here. So just go on home, Ed.”
“Not until I do what I come here to do!” Ed yelled. “And I come here to face Frank Morgan and collect the bounty that’s on his head. And by God, that’s what I aim to do.”
Ed had turned away from Frank as he talked to the crowd. He did not see Frank move swiftly off the boardwalk and come up behind him. He felt someone tap him on the shoulder, and turned around just in time to catch Frank’s hard right fist on the side of his jaw. Ed Simpson collapsed onto the dirt of the street, out cold.
Frank reached down, jerked Ed’s pistol from leather, and handed it to the marshal. “Keep this, will you, Marshal? Until someone can talk some sense into this boy’s head.”
“You could have shot him, Morgan,” a man stated.
“I didn’t want to shoot him,” Frank replied. “He’ll have a headache and a sore jaw when he wakes up, but he’ll be alive.”
“And he’ll be comin’ for you,” another local said. “He’ll be mad as a hornet.”
“He won’t come after Morgan if he’s in jail,” the marshal said. “Some of you boys carry him over to the jail, will you? We’ll let him cool off in a cell for a few hours. Matthew, will you ride out to the Simpson spread and tell his daddy what happened here? Tell him to come in and fetch his boy.”
“Sure thing, Marshal.”
Ed Simpson was toted off to the jail and the crowd began to drift away. Frank stepped back up on the boardwalk to stand by Lawyer Whitter.
“You saved Ed’s life, Mr. Morgan,” the attorney said. “Most men would have just shot him and been done with it.”
“It would suit me if I never had to shoot another man,” Frank replied. “Hell, I really didn’t want to shoot the first one ... and that was many years ago. After it was over, I got sick and puked all over the place.”
“Wow!” Johnny Whitter said. He had stopped to watch the action on his way to stable the horses. “Frank Morgan right here in town. I can’t hardly believe it. How come you didn’t hook and draw and shoot Ed Simpson, Mr. Morgan? I would have liked to se
en that.”
“No, you wouldn’t, Johnny,” Frank told him. “There is nothing pleasant about seeing a gunfight.”
“I wouldn’t know,” the boy replied. “I ain’t never seen one.”
“Ain’t?” his father said sharply.
“I mean, I’ve never seen one,” Johnny quickly said.
“That’s better, son. Now go tend to Mr. Morgan’s horses.”
“Yes, sir. I’m going.”
Frank smiled. “Good boy there.”
“Thanks. But he’s a handful, I assure you.”
“I ’spect he is.” Frank cut his eyes as a woman walked up to stand by Lawyer Whitter. And what a woman! She was surely one of the most beautiful women Frank had ever seen. Blond hair and blue eyes. Frank immediately took off his hat.
“Mr. Morgan,” the lawyer said, “this is my wife, Lara. Lara, Frank Morgan.”
Lara smiled and held out a hand. Frank gently took the softness in his hard and callused hand. “A pleasure, Mrs. Whitter.”
“Mr. Morgan,” Lara said softly. “The famous pistol shooter?”
Frank smiled. “I reckon, ma’am.”
“My word!” She fanned herself with a gloved hand. “What in the world brings you to our little town?”
“Just passing through, ma’am.”
“Please call me Lara, Mr. Morgan.”
“As you wish, Lara.”
“May we speak for a moment, John?” Lara asked her husband. “It’s rather important.”
“Do you mind, Mr. Morgan?” the attorney asked.
“Not at all. Take your time. I’ll just sit down out here and have me a smoke.”
The lawyer and his wife stepped into the office. Frank sat down on a bench on the boardwalk and rolled a smoke. Before he had finished his cigarette, half a dozen locals appeared, each carrying a penny dreadful, asking that Frank sign their copy.
“Be glad to,” Frank told them. “Just don’t believe all that’s written on the pages. Most of it is nonsense.”
“You mean these writers are telling lies about you?” a woman asked.
“Well,” Frank said with a smile, “let’s just say they’re stretching the truth a mite.”
“You don’t look like a depraved killer,” a man stated.
Frank glanced at the man. “What does a depraved killer look like?”
The local grinned sheepishly. “Good point, Mr. Morgan.”
Just as the autograph seekers were leaving, the marshal huffed up and sat down on the bench beside Frank. He mopped his sweaty face with a bandanna and said, “You always create this much of a stir when you hit town?”
“Not usually, Marshal. How’s the young gunhand?”
“He has a sore jaw and a big mouth. But I keep reminding him that he’s still alive. You would have been justified in killing him, Morgan.”
“I know. But it all worked out my way.”
“Until I turn him loose.”
“Maybe he’ll cool down by then.”
“Where’s Lawyer John?”
“With his wife in the office. Beautiful woman, that Lara.”
“You’ll get no argument from me about that. She’s a big-city woman. From somewheres back East.”
“She like it out here?”
“Not much,” the marshal said. “Place ain’t refined enough for her tastes. She told one woman here in town that she missed the opera and the symphony and high-toned e-vents like that. Ballet too, I think she said.”
“I guess moving out here would be quite a letdown.”
“I reckon. You gonna be in town long, Morgan?”
“Day or two, I reckon. I want to get this mess about who I am straightened out, and get some supplies and a couple of meals I don’t have to cook myself. Don’t worry, Marshal. I’m not planning on starting any trouble.”
“Oh, I wasn’t thinkin’ you would, Morgan. Nothin’ like that.”
“What is it, Marshal? Something is gnawing on you.”
The marshal sighed. “Val Dooley is in this area, Morgan. I was warned by telegraph ’bout it. He’s got him a big gang and the sheriffs all around in a five-county area is sendin’ out warnin’s ’bout the gang hittin’ the towns.”
Frank nodded his head in understanding. He waited.
“This is a rich town, Morgan. I mean rich! The bank is fairly bulgin’ at the seams. I’m tellin’ you this ’cause I know now you ain’t Val Dooley. I went back to the office and took me a peek at some new dodgers on Dooley. I figure you’re maybe five or six years older than Val. But the resemblance is really spooky.”
“And you think you night need some help?”
Once again, the marshal sighed. “That’s it, Morgan. I ain’t no young squirt no more. I took this job ’cause I’m too damn lazy to farm or log.” He smiled. “But oddly ’nuff, I’ve turned into a pretty fair lawman.”
“I’m sure you are, Marshal.”
“How ’bout it, Morgan. Want to help out an old fat man?”
Frank smiled. “I’ll stick around for a time, Marshal. Things might prove real interesting here in Chance.”
“Boy, that’s a relief to my mind, Morgan.”
“Call me Frank, please.”
“Frank, it is. I’m Tom.” He stood up and stuck out his hand. “I’m right proud you’re gonna be helpin’ out.”
The office door opened and Lara stepped out to stand close to the bench. Frank could smell the heady fragrance of her perfume. He looked up; her blue eyes locked with his. Frank knew right then he was in trouble. Silent messages passed between the gunfighter and the lady. Totally inappropriate missives.
Frank stood up and removed his hat. “Ma’am,” he said.
“My husband will see you now, Mr. Morgan,” Lara replied.
“Thank you.”
Lara glanced at the marshal. “Marshal,” she said, acknowledging his presence.
“Mrs. Whitter,” Tom said. “You’re looking well.”
She nodded and stepped closer to Frank. Any closer, Frank thought, and we would be subject to a lot of gossip.
“Good day, gentlemen,” Lara said. She brushed against Frank as she walked away. The scent of her lingered.
“That there is one helluva woman,” the marshal said softly. “Too much for any one man to handle.”
“You’re probably right about that, Tom.”
“I been told that she and her husband are havin’ a mite of trouble. I also been told that John is a man that’s prone to hittin’.”
“He hits her?” Frank asked.
“That’s the word around town.”
“Has she been unfaithful to him?”
“Lara? Oh, no. And believe me, in a town this size, I would know.”
“Hard to believe a man would strike something that beautiful.”
“He does, though,” the marshal said. “Dr. Evans has... well . . .” He paused for a few seconds. “I’m talkin’ too much. When you get your business done with John, come see me, Frank.” “I will.”
The marshal walked away, and Frank stepped into the lawyer’s office. The scent of Lara lingered in the hallway.
It was very disconcerting.
FIVE
John Whitter and Frank went over to the bank, met with the bank president, and began the process of verifying Frank’s identity. It didn’t take long. By closing time, Frank’s bankers in both Denver and San Francisco, and his attorney, working with John Whitter, had established who he was beyond any shadow of a doubt.
Frank walked over to the marshal’s office, and Tom smiled when Frank opened the door. “Coffee’s hot and fresh,” he said. “Cups hanging on hooks on the wall.” He pointed. “Help yourself, Frank.”
Coffee poured, Frank sat down and rolled a smoke. “I’ve decided to take you up on your offer, Tom. Who swears me in?”
“I do. Stand up and raise your right hand.”
The quick ceremony over, Frank pinned on the star and sat back down to enjoy his coffee and smoke.
“You sp
eak to the town council about this?” Frank asked.
“Yes. While you were meeting at the bank. They were all in favor of it.”
“That’s very interesting, Tom.”
“How so?”
“I’m a gunfighter, Tom. Not exactly what many would consider a model citizen. And I’ve only been in town a few hours.”
“You’ve worn a badge before,” the marshal countered. “Several times. And you’ve always done right by the job. The mayor says you were pushed into being a gunfighter.”
“I had some help, sure. In the beginning. But in the end it was my decision. I’ve learned to accept that.”
Tom drummed his thick fingertips on his desktop as he stared at Frank. “Maybe this will be the town that settles you down.”
Frank smiled. “Doubtful.”
“You might meet that special lady here. There are some fine-lookin’ widder women around here.”
Lara suddenly popped into Frank’s head. He could smell her perfume. He pushed that image away. Dangerous, he thought. Besides, she’s a married woman, and it isn’t right to steal another man’s wife. “Maybe so, Tom. But I’m not looking for a marriage partner. Especially a grass widow.”
The marshal smiled. “Oh, you’d probably be good with kids.”
Frank’s only reply to that was a smile. “What shift do you want me to work, Tom?”
“Same as mine,” the marshal replied. “We’re both on call twenty-four hours a day. But not much happens here in Chance. The occasional drunk, a fight now and then, kids acting up, getting into some harmless mischief.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“Exciting enough for an old fat man,” Tom replied with a laugh, heaving himself out of the chair. “You got a room at the hotel yet?”
“Yes, I’m all set up.”
“Well, I’m goin’ home then. I live on Walnut Street. Everybody knows where. Just ask. I done give Smart-Aleck Ed his supper. Soon as his pa shows up, you can cut him loose.”
“Will do, Tom. See you in the morning.”
Tom waved and left the offce. Frank walked into the cell block area to check on Ed Simpson.
“I’m gonna kill you, Morgan!” the young man said as soon as he spotted Frank. “Just as soon as I get out of here.”
“Don’t be a fool, boy. I don’t think that bounty on my head is anything but a rumor. Where would you go to and who would you ask to collect it?”
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