Frank blew him out of the saddle. The big .44-40 slug hit the man in the chest and lifted him out of the saddle. He flopped on the ground a couple of times, then lay still.
“Anyone else want to get antsy?” Frank asked.
No one did.
“Drop your guns on the ground,” Frank ordered. “Do it right now and do it slowly.”
Pistols were carefully pulled from leather and tossed to the ground.
“Now what, Morgan?” Little Ed asked.
“Gather up their guns, farmer,” Frank said. “Carefully. Including the rifles.”
When that was done, Frank told Ed, “You dismount and tie that dead man across his saddle. Snug him down good and tight.” He looked at the farmer, who still had a rather bewildered expression on his face. “What’s your name, mister?”
“Asher. George Asher.”
“Well, George. You keep that rifle on those ol’ boys while I do something. If they try anything funny, shoot to kill. Can you do that?”
“With a great deal of pleasure, Mr. Morgan.”
Frank stared at him. “I bet that’s the truth, for sure.” Frank wrapped up the guns in a blanket and tied that behind his saddle. Once more mounted, he waited until the body of the dead man was secure, then said, “Now we go to town. Lead off, boys.”
“What about my wife, Morgan?” George asked. “She thinks I been hung.”
“Your place far from here?”
“ ’Bout two miles.”
“We’ll swing by there and get her. Kids?”
“Four. Two boys and two girls.”
“We’ll take them to town too. I’ll treat them to some peppermint candy.”
“Kind of you.”
“Move out, boys,” Frank told the Simpson crew. “You all have a date with a jail cell.”
“You got to get us there first, Morgan,” Little Ed said.
“I’ll get you there, Ed,” Frank told him. “Or I’ll kill you. One or the other.”
Little Ed shut his mouth and kept it shut.
* * *
Practically everyone in town turned out to see the sight, alerted by a group of boys who had been fishing in a creek just outside of town.
Mrs. Asher was driving the wagon, her two boys in the bed of the wagon, the two girls sitting on the seat with her. Following the wagon were Little Ed and his two live hands, the dead one belly-down across his saddle. Bringing up the rear of the parade were Frank and George.
“You going to jail again, Little Ed?” a local called.
“Go to hell!” Ed snapped.
“They tried to hang me,” George called.
“Hang you?” a woman shouted. “Why, Mr. Asher?”
“They caught me hunting on Simpson land and said I was there to rustle cattle.”
A low murmur of rage began from the crowd of locals, soon swelling into a roar of hate.
“Get a rope!” a man yelled. “Let’s us have a hangin’ of our own!”
“Good idea, Ralph!” a woman yelled.
“Get us into jail, Morgan,” a Simpson hand said, twisting in the saddle and looking back at Frank “These people are crazy.”
“Crazy?” Frank called. “Why? For wanting to hang you? Isn’t that what you were planning to do with Mr. Asher?”
“You don’t understand?” the cowboy said.
“I reckon not,” Frank replied as he reined up at the marshal’s office. “But maybe a judge will. Get down and get into the jail, boys.”
Marshal Wright had stepped outside when the crowds began to gather, a shotgun in his hands. He opened the office door. “Get them inside, Frank. The crowd is gettin’ a mite ugly.”
“Yeah,” Frank replied. “We sure wouldn’t want a lynching now, would we?”
“You got to protect us!” Little Ed said. “That’s your sworn duty.”
“Oh, shut up, Ed,” Tom told him. “And get into jail.”
“My pa will be here ’fore long,” Little Ed said. “With our crew. By God, then he’ll show you who’s boss around here.”
“Right, Ed,” Frank said, pushing Ed into the office. “Keep hoping.”
“He’ll kill you, Morgan!”
“Is killing the only thing you ever think about?”
Little Ed cussed him.
Frank shoved him into a cell and clanged the barred door shut. “Relax, Ed. Take a nap. The rest will do you good.”
“Hell with you, Morgan!”
The Simpson crew safely locked down, Frank closed the door to the cell block and walked into the office. The Asher family was telling Tom what had happened at their farm. Tom was taking notes. Frank poured a cup of coffee and sat down.
“Little Ed slapped you, Mrs. Asher?” Tom asked. “That’s how you got that bruise on your face?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bastard!” Tom muttered under his breath.
“Beg pardon, Marshal?” George asked, leaning forward in his chair.
“Nothing, George,” Tom said. “Just talkin’ to myself.”
“And the hands threatened to strip Amanda and ... well... you know,” Mrs. Asher said, her face reddening from embarrassment.
“They said that in front of the girl?” Frank asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Frank and Tom exchanged glances. The threat of sexual assault on a good woman was grounds for a sure-enough hanging in the West. If word about that got out, no jail would be strong enough to hold back the folks with hanging on their minds.
“Keep that to yourselves,” Tom told the Asher family. “How old is the girl now, George?”
“Thirteen last month.”
Tom cut his eyes to Frank, and Frank nodded his head in understanding at the silent glance. Threatening to strip naked and assault a good woman was bad enough, but to threaten to do that to a young girl would be enough to cause the locals to riot and charge the jail.
Frank got a cup of coffee, sat down, and drank it while Tom wrote down the rest of Asher’s story and the farmer and his wife both signed it.
“No bond for this, Frank,” Tom said, closing the ledger and putting it away in the safe. “But you can bet broke ribs or not, Big Ed will be comin’ into town, raisin’ hell about his son.”
“And Little Ed’s mother?”
Tom grimaced. “Lord, I hope not. Not that foul-mouthed hellion.”
Frank smiled at the marshal’s expression. “I’m going over to O’Malley’s and get some candy for the kids, Tom.”
“Get some for me too while you’re at it.”
Frank bought a sack full of various types of hard candy for the kids and a big peppermint stick for Tom. The kids and Tom were delighted. Tom immediately started sucking on the peppermint stick.
“You folks hungry?” Frank asked the Ashers.
“I could eat,” George said. “How about you, Mother?”
“Tom?” Frank asked.
The marshal waved the peppermint stick. “This’ll do me till my noonin’.”
While the Ashers ate an early lunch, Frank had coffee. “How many of the farmers will stand up against the Simpson crew?” he asked.
“Near ’bout all that’s left will, I reckon,” George answered. “Them that didn’t have the stomach for it have already been buffaloed and pulled out.”
“Stock up on ammo and watch for night riders,” Frank warned them. “And I’ll have a chat with Big Ed about any more rough stuff.” Frank finished his coffee and pushed back his chair. “Your meal’s on me. See you later.”
“Much obliged, Mr. Morgan,” George said, and his wife smiled her thanks at Frank.
Walking along the boardwalk, Frank noticed a man wearing a very natty suit and bowler hat putting up posters. He stopped to read one. An opera company was coming to town. They would be performing arias from operas whose names Frank could not pronounce and wouldn’t even try.
“You have to see this show, Deputy,” the fancy-dressed man said, observing Frank’s interest. “It’s a good one. We just finished two
sellout weeks in San Francisco.”
“Is that right?”
“Certainly is. I’m proud and happy to say that we’re bringing sophistication to the once-wild West.”
“Do tell?”
“Absolutely. Do you like opera music?”
“I can’t say one way or the other. Never been to an opera concert.”
“You’ll enjoy it. I guarantee it. Here, let me give you these.” The man reached into his suit pocket and handed Frank a couple of tickets. “You and a friend come to the show on us. Is that fair, Deputy?”
“Sounds fair to me. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Just enjoy the music and singing.”
“I’m sure I will.” Frank walked on, cutting across to the hotel. He saw Lara sitting in the lobby, reading the local newspaper. He took a seat beside her and she smiled at him. The smile brightened his entire day.
“Morning, Frank.”
“Lara.”
“I saw you bringing in Little Ed and some of his hands. One across his saddle.”
“Yes.” He told Lara about the incident.
“How horrible for the Asher girl!”
“Keep what I said to yourself, please. I don’t want a lynching in town.”
“I won’t say a word.” She smiled again. “Who would I say it to? Most women in this town won’t even speak to me.”
“Their loss, Lara.” He told her about the opera company coming to town and showed her the tickets. “Would you like to attend?”
“With you, Frank?”
“Why . . . ah, sure.”
“I would love it.” Again, she smiled. “That will really set tongues wagging.”
“Let them wag. We haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Yet,” she said, and this time she wasn’t smiling.
“Yes. Yet.” Frank looked up the street at the sound of many horses. A dozen Simpson riders were riding into town, a half dozen in front of a buggy, a half dozen behind. Big Ed Simpson and a woman were in the buggy.
“Stay in the hotel, Lara. Big trouble just rode in.” Frank stepped out onto the boardwalk.
“You!” Big Ed yelled, pointing at Frank. “I want to talk to you!”
SIXTEEN
With Lara safely out of danger, Frank stepped to the edge of the boardwalk and said, “I’m right here, Simpson.”
“You get my son out of jail!”
“You go straight to hell, Ed.”
Big Ed immediately puffed up like a big ugly bullfrog and started yelling and cussing and waving his arms.
“Oh, shut up, Ed,” Frank called. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”
“Are you going to let him get away with that, Ed?” the woman beside him shrieked. “Tell him to kiss your . . .” She launched into a string of profanities that were as filthy as any Frank had ever heard coming from a female mouth. She finished with: “And tell him to go get our son out of that damned jail.”
“Elsie Simpson,” a man standing in the doorway behind Frank said. “She’d be a really pretty woman if it wasn’t for that chamber pot of a mouth.”
Frank nodded his head in agreement, keeping his eyes not on Big Ed, but on his hands, who had all lined up abreast in the street, six on each side of the buggy, all facing Frank. They were all hardcases, all of them, and Frank knew many of them. They had all been staying in town when Frank had arrived. Now he knew where they’d gone. And many of them were tough and hard as nails, with no backup in them. They were gunslingers, but Frank knew that once they signed on, they by God rode for the brand.
“Your boy tried to hang a man, Ed,” Frank called, watching Marshal Wright quietly ease up the boardwalk on the other side of the street. He carried a Greener in his hands. “And assault a young girl.”
“That’s a damn dirty lie!” Elsie squalled, her voice carrying all over the main street, from one end to the other. “My son’s a good boy!”
“Well, your good boy is in jail,” Frank told her. “And he’s going to stay in jail.”
“The hell he will,” Elsie hollered. “You two-bit piece of coyote crap!”
“I turn my boys loose on you, Morgan,” Big Ed said, “and you’ll be shot to bloody bits. I’d think about that were I you.”
“And when your boys drag iron,” Marshal Wright said from behind Big Ed, “I’ll blow you and your bad-mouthed wife all to hell and gone.”
The gunhands all stiffened in their saddles at the cold sound of Tom’s voice. Big Ed and Elsie slowly turned their heads to look at him. Elsie said, “Aw, hell, that fat ass ain’t gonna do a damn thing. He’s a big-mouthed tub of guts, that’s all.”
Tom eared back the hammers on the Greener. “Try me, Elsie,” he told the woman. “Just try me.”
“Shut your damn flappin’ mouth, woman,” Big Ed tersely told his wife. “And keep that trap closed tight.”
“Don’t talk to me like that!” Elsie yelled.
“Shut up, goddamnit!” Big Ed said. “Before you get us all killed.”
“And when your boys pull iron,” Frank said, “I’ll kill at least two and maybe three of them before they get me. You, Idaho, I’ll kill you first, then Handy, then Curly. So if you boys are ready, make your play.”
“Now wait just a damn minute, Morgan,” Big Ed quickly said.
“No, you wait just a damn minute, Ed,” Elsie yelled. “I got me a gun too. And I, by God, know how to use it.”
Big Ed appeared just about ready to belt the woman out of the buggy. “All right, Morgan,” he said, looking at Frank. “What’s next?”
“You and your wife go on back home and take your hands with you. It’s just that simple, Ed.”
“And what about my son?”
“He stays in jail until a judge can set a bond for him.”
“The hell he will!” Elsie yelled.
Big Ed shoved her out of the buggy. Elsie landed on her butt in the dirt of the street, right in the middle of a pile of horse crap. She jumped up, cussing and slapping at her denim-covered butt. “You rotten lousy, no-good son of a ...” She let her husband verbally have it, calling him every obscene name she could think of.
“Shut up, you whoor!” Big Ed hollered at her.
“Whoor!” Elsie squalled, horse droppings sticking to her jeans. “You callin’ me a whoor, you pile of pig crap!”
Big Ed stepped down from the buggy and slapped his wife.
She balled a hand into a fist, rared back, and busted her husband in the mouth, snapping his head back and bloodying his lips.
Big Ed roared his anger. He wiped his suddenly bloody lips and slapped her, knocking his wife down into the street.
Elsie jumped up and tried to kick her husband in the groin.
Ed sidestepped the boot, grabbed her foot, and gave a heave. Elsie sailed backward a few feet and again landed on her butt in the dirt. She jumped up, yelling and cussing.
The boardwalks on both sides of the street had filled with locals, all watching and enjoying the show between Big Ed and Elsie.
“You son of a bitch!” Elsie cussed her husband.
“Whoor!” Big Ed yelled at her.
“What the hell is goin’ on out there?” Little Ed yelled from the jail.
“Shut you, you ignoramus!” Elsie yelled at her son.
“Is that you, Mama?” Little Ed hollered.
“It ain’t your local preacher’s wife, you ninny!” Elsie shouted back.
“Shut up, boy!” Big Ed yelled. “We’ve come to take you home.”
“Don’t count on that, Ed,” Tom yelled. “You’re stayin’ put till the judge sets your bond . . . if he sets one, that is.”
“You ain’t keepin’ my baby in that damn stinkin’ jail, you lard-ass!” Elsie yelled at the marshal. “I’ll kill you first.”
“That does it,” Frank said, stepping off the boardwalk and walking toward the center of the street.
“Tom,” Frank said, “if any one of those hands makes a move, kill Big Ed.”
“I’ll
sure do it, Frank.”
“Now wait just a damn minute!” Big Ed hollered.
Frank grabbed Elsie by the shirt collar and the back of her belt and shoved her toward the jail, hard. She was propelled across the street, stumbled, and fell flat on her face in the dirt, eating about a peck of dirt as she slid.
Elsie came up spitting and coughing and hollering and cussing. Frank grabbed her again and again gave her a hard shove. She went stumbling and staggering and cussing to the edge of the boardwalk, spitting out dirt as she went.
“You son of a bitch!” Elsie yelled. “I’ll kill you, you bastard!”
“That’s two counts of threatening the life of a peace officer,” Frank said. “One count of disturbing the peace, and one count of disorderly conduct. Keep trying, Elsie. We’ll see how long we can keep you in jail.”
“You’re going to put me in jail?” Elsie screamed. “Me?”
“You,” Frank told her, picking her up bodily and tossing her onto the boardwalk. “Now get your butt in that jail.”
“You go to hell, bastard!”
“Another count of disorderly conduct and another count of disturbing the peace.”
“You sorry piece of ...” Elsie really let the profanities fly, practically turning the air blue.
“For God’s sake, shut the hell up, Elsie!” Big Ed yelled. “He means it.”
Frank jerked the woman into the office, shoved her into the cell block, and tossed her into a cell, slamming the door.
“Mama!” Little Ed said.
“Hell yes, it’s your mama, you nincompoop!” Elsie squalled. “It ain’t Christopher Columbus!”
“Morgan, you can’t arrest my mama!” Little Ed said.
“I just did, boy.”
“But that ain’t fittin’ a-tall.”
“Shore ain’t, Morgan,” one of the other jailed men said. “This ain’t decent. Supposin’ one of us ... or her, has to use the facilities.”
“I’m ’bout to bust now,” the other one said. “I was just reachin’ for the pot when you brung her in.”
“Oh, hell,” Elsie said. “You ain’t got nothin’ I ain’t seen plenty of before, Lonesome.”
“Well, I ain’t haulin’ nothin’ out of my britches and doin’ it ’fore her!” Lonesome said. “My mama taught me better than that.”
“Hell with your mama too,” Elsie said.
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