“Well, you can’t do that either. Now move along, old-timer. You don’t want us to have to rough you up and throw you out of here.”
Frank snorted in contempt. “As if you could.”
That brought angry scowls to the faces of all four men. The spokesman said, “Just who the hell do you think you are?”
“My name is Frank Morgan.”
With that, Frank heeled the dun into motion again. He was going to ride through them or over them, their choice.
“Yeah, and I’m Jesse James,” the cowboy said. “Get him!”
Chapter 14
One of the first things Frank had noticed about the men was that none of them were armed. They were all big and burly and no doubt experienced brawlers, but since they weren’t packing iron, he didn’t figure they had much chance of stopping him.
To tell the truth, even if they’d had guns on their hips, it wasn’t likely they would have been able to stop him.
His Colt whispered out of leather as they started to close in on him. The four men stopped short, their eyes widening in surprise and a little fear. “Take it easy, mister!” the spokesman said quickly. “You might accidentally hurt somebody with that hogleg.”
“If I hurt anybody, it won’t be by accident,” Frank said coldly. “Now move aside and leave me alone.”
Before the men could respond to that, a shrill whistle sounded behind Frank. He threw a glance over his shoulder, and saw a man in a blue uniform with brass buttons running toward him. The man wore an odd-looking black hat and carried a club of some sort.
“Here, you!” he called to Frank. “Put that gun up, or I’ll arrest you!”
Frank had seen uniformed policemen in Denver and San Francisco. They were a far cry from the deputy sheriffs and marshals he was accustomed to seeing in Western settlements. This one was red-faced from both heat and anger, and he shook his club threateningly as he came up.
“Holster that gun, I say! I ought to arrest you anyway, since it’s illegal to carry firearms around here, but I’ll give you a break since you’re obviously just an ignorant cowboy.”
Frank’s eyes narrowed as he considered shooting that silly-looking hat off the officer’s head and taking that club away from the man and breaking it over his knee. But he had enough respect for the law to refrain from doing those things, even though star-packers usually didn’t have much respect for him. His reputation as a gunman had preceded him into too many places.
“Take it easy,” he growled as he lowered the Peacemaker and then slid it back into its holster. “I’m not looking for trouble, Officer.”
The policeman came to a stop and glared at Frank with his fists planted on his hips. “Then what are you looking for?”
“I just want to talk to Bill Cody,” Frank said for what seemed like the dozenth time since he had ridden up to the compound around the big arena.
“He’s a gate-crasher, Clancy,” the leader of the four cowboys said to the policeman. “You better arrest him anyway.”
“My job here is to keep the peace,” the officer snapped, “not to collect ticket money for you. And my name’s not Clancy, it’s Flanigan. If you’ve got a problem with this gent, you can escort him out . . . but no gunplay!”
The cowboy smirked at Frank. “Hear that, old-timer? The law says we can toss you out of here.”
“You can try,” Frank said. “Doesn’t mean you can actually do it.”
He knew he was being proddy, and didn’t much care. He didn’t like Chicago, didn’t like the noise and the stink and the fact that there were just too many people around. This whole “Wild West” business rubbed him the wrong way too. He knew Cody was just putting on a show for people, but it was so . . . undignified.
So he almost welcomed what happened next, as the leader of the cowboys urged his horse next to Frank’s and leaned over to reach out and grab the dun’s reins.
Frank hit him with a short, straight, hard right that knocked him clean out of the saddle.
The impact that shivered up Frank’s arm from the blow felt good. He didn’t have much time to appreciate it, though, because the other three cowboys yelled startled curses and charged him. One of them left his saddle in a diving tackle. His arms went around Frank and hauled him off the dun. Both men fell to the ground, almost landing under the hooves of the horses. The men who were still mounted jerked their animals aside to keep Frank and the man who had tackled him from being trampled. They dismounted hurriedly to watch as Frank and his opponent rolled over on the dusty ground, grappling with each other.
Frank wound up on top and slammed a couple of fast punches to the man’s face. A second later, a booted foot crashed into his ribs as one of the other men swung a vicious kick that knocked Frank sprawling. Frank ignored the pain in his side and came up on his feet again, launching an uppercut as he did so. His iron-hard fist crashed into the jaw of the man who had kicked him. That hombre obviously hadn’t expected Frank to get back up so fast. The uppercut lifted his boots right off the ground. He landed on his back hard enough to knock all the wind out of him.
That left just one of the four cowboys who had barred Frank’s way still in the fight, at least for the moment. But the ticket-seller, who was a good-sized man himself, had left his booth again and was hurrying toward the scene of the fight, and as he came he yelled, “Hey, rube! Hey, rube!” That told Frank the man had worked for a circus or a carnival at some time in the past, and he knew the rallying cry would bring more tough roustabouts on the run, all of them probably eager for a fight. Frank glanced at the policeman, who stood by with a big grin on his broad Irish face. The officer would probably put a stop to the ruckus eventually—but maybe not until Frank had gotten a good thrashing.
If that was how it had to be, then Frank would give a good account of himself as long as he could. He clenched his fists, looked at the last of the four cowboys, and said, “Come on, son. If you want to throw me out of here, you’ve got it to do.”
The cowboy hesitated, but he could see that plenty of reinforcements were on the way. With a snarl on his face, he started toward Frank.
A gunshot roared, freezing everybody in their tracks.
Frank looked toward the arena and saw a man in a fringed buckskin suit that had been dyed white striding toward them. The big white hat was unmistakable, as were the long hair, the goatee, and especially the piercing eyes that had squinted through gun smoke during many an Indian fight. He had a Winchester in his hands, and that was what he had used to fire the shot into the air.
Colonel William F. Cody came to a stop in front of Frank, stared at him in disbelief, and said, “My God, is it really you? Frank Morgan, as I live and breathe!”
The three cowboys Frank had fought were picking themselves up off the ground. At Cody’s words, all four stared at Frank and the showman, and one of them exclaimed, “You mean he really is Frank Morgan, Colonel? The famous gunfighter?”
“Of course he’s Frank Morgan,” Cody snapped. “Who did you think he was?”
“Well, uh . . . some old-timer who was just pretendin’ to be somebody famous?”
Cody snorted in disgust. “You boys wouldn’t recognize the genuine article if it walked up and bit you on the—” He stopped short as a young woman came up and stood at his side. “There you are, Little Miss,” Cody went on. “I want you to meet somebody.” He took her arm and turned her toward Frank, who had picked up his hat and was trying to knock some of the dust off it and get it back into shape. “Frank, this is Annie Oakley. Annie, meet Frank Morgan.”
Frank put his hat on and tugged the brim politely as he nodded to the woman. He saw now that she wasn’t quite as young as he had thought at first. She was probably in her mid-thirties. But she was attractive, in a buckskin dress with an abundance of spangles and fringe, and she had an air of youthful vitality and enthusiasm that belied her true age. A broad-brimmed Stetson with a rattlesnake band studded with silver conchos perched on a mass of blond curls. She held out her hand to shake like
a man, and as Frank took it, she said, “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Morgan. I didn’t know if I would ever cross trails with the famous Drifter.”
“It’s my pleasure, ma’am,” he told her.
The policeman came up to Cody and asked, “Do you want me to arrest this man for disturbin’ the peace, Colonel?”
“Arrest him? I should say not! Frank Morgan’s an old friend of mine.”
One of the cowboys said, “He wouldn’t pay to get in like he’s supposed to, Colonel.”
“And he doesn’t have to,” Cody said. “He’s my guest, and as long as he’s in Chicago he’s welcome here anytime.” Cody raised his voice as he looked around at the workers who had gathered in response to the cry of Hey, rube. “Does everyone understand that?”
Everyone nodded, even the battered and bruised cowboys and the ticket-seller who had started the whole ruckus.
Cody clapped a hand on Frank’s shoulder and said, “Come with me. We’ll go to my tent and get something to drink. Some cold lemonade perhaps.”
“Sounds good to me,” Frank agreed. He wasn’t much of a drinking man, although he liked a glass of beer or a shot of whiskey every now and then. By and large, though, he preferred coffee or phosphates or even lemonade.
“Come along with us, Little Miss?” Cody asked Annie Oakley.
“No, I’d better not, although I’d like to talk to Mr. Morgan some other time. Frank’s waiting for me.” At the puzzled look her comment received from The Drifter, she added, “My husband’s name is Frank too, Mr. Morgan.”
“I see.” He touched the brim of his hat again. “Well, be seeing you, ma’am.”
She laughed brightly. “Oh, heavens, call me Annie.” With that, she waved and walked off through the crowd, heading for one of the tents. Frank saw to his surprise that the tent had a garden of sorts in front of it. Somebody had planted flowers there, and they gave the tent a colorful, homey look.
The crowd began to break up as Cody took Frank’s arm. Frank held back and said, “I’ve got to do something with my horses.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Cody said. “These men work for me as wranglers. They’ll see to your horses.” He gestured to the leader of the men who had jumped Frank. “Holloway, take care of Mr. Morgan’s horses.”
“Yes, sir, Colonel,” the cowboy called Holloway said. He didn’t sound too happy about it, though.
Cody led Frank to a large tent, and when they went inside, Frank saw that it was furnished more like a house than a temporary dwelling. A wooden floor had been laid down, and there were rugs and furniture and even gas lamps.
Cody opened a cabinet and took out a pitcher of lemonade. As he closed the cabinet, he said, “Have you seen one of these before, Frank? It’s called an icebox. There’s a block of ice in the bottom to keep things inside cold.”
“Yeah, they’ve got ’em in Denver and San Francisco too,” Frank replied. “There’s just no limit to the contraptions folks come up with these days, is there?”
“Doesn’t seem to be,” Cody said as he poured the lemonade into glasses and then handed one to Frank. The liquid was so cold that beads of moisture formed on the glass almost immediately. “Cheers.”
They drank, and Frank licked his lips at the cold sweetness of the lemonade. “Could’ve used one of those iceboxes in some of the places I’ve been, like Tombstone in the summer.”
“Or pinned down in a buffalo wallow by a war party of angry Cheyenne, eh?” Cody smiled at the memory, although it hadn’t been very pleasant at the time. “You were just a youngster then, Frank, but you already had a reputation as a fighter. I was glad to have you with us that day. We might not have made it out with our hair if you hadn’t been. You didn’t do much buffalo hunting after that, did you?”
“No, I’d had my fill of it, Colonel.”
“You can forget about that Colonel stuff. We’ve known each other too long for that.” Cody sat down in an armchair and motioned Frank into another one. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and went on. “What brings you to Chicago? Did you come to see the Exposition?”
“No,” Frank said, “I’m just passing through. I’m on my way to Boston.”
Cody’s white eyebrows arched. “Boston? As hard as it is to imagine Frank Morgan being in Chicago, it’s even more difficult to think of you visiting Boston. Why in the world are you going there?”
“On business,” Frank said.
He thought about explaining everything to Cody. If anybody would ever understand about the need to settle a score, it was the old Westerner. Like Frank, Cody remembered what it was like when the only justice on the frontier rode in a holster on a man’s hip and dispensed its judgments in hot lead.
But Frank didn’t feel much like stirring up those particular memories right now, so he said, “When I heard that you were in town, I came to see you because I thought maybe you could tell me which train to take to get there as fast as I can.”
“Of course I can. I’m on good terms with the railroads, use ’em all the time to transport my show around. If you’d like, you can leave all the travel arrangements to me.”
“Well, that would be just fine,” Frank said. “I’ll be much obliged, Bill.”
Cody got a calculating look in his eyes, though, as he continued. “But maybe I could prevail on you not to be in such a big hurry to leave Chicago, Frank. To tell you the truth, now that I see you, it occurs to me that you could do me a tremendous favor and really help me out with a problem I have.”
Frank hesitated in answering. He and Cody went back a long way, and normally he wouldn’t hesitate to do anything he could to help the showman. But he felt the press of vengeance that had been long denied....
“As long as it doesn’t take too long, I might consider it,” he finally said.
“Oh, it shouldn’t take very long for you,” Cody said. “I just want you to kill someone, that’s all.”
Chapter 15
While Frank stared at Cody, dumbfounded by the old showman’s statement, Cody waved a hand and went on. “Maybe I put that a mite too strongly. While I’d certainly like for you to kill this individual, that might not be necessary. He might back down when he realizes that he’s facing one of the deadliest gunfighters in the history of the West.”
“Save that kind of talk for your show,” Frank said tersely. “What’s this all about, Bill?” He knew it had to be something serious for Cody to even consider asking for help. Buffalo Bill was the sort of hombre who always stomped his own snakes.
Cody set his glass of lemonade aside and said, “You see, there’s this young lady. . . .”
Somehow, Frank wasn’t surprised to hear that. Bill had always had an eye for the ladies, and more importantly, women always seemed to be attracted to him. He was tall and stately and handsome in a rough-hewn way, and women had always flocked around him like moths around a flame. As far as Frank knew, Cody was faithful to his wife, but the colonel certainly enjoyed flirting and being flirted with.
“I don’t like to get mixed up in anybody’s personal life, Bill,” Frank began.
Quickly, Cody shook his head. “It’s nothing like that, I swear. This girl’s name is Hannah Sterling, and she’s in the show. Does an equestrian act. Trick riding.”
“I’m familiar with the word,” Frank said.
“Yes, of course. I’d forgotten how you were always reading. Still carry a book or two in your saddlebags all the time?”
Frank nodded. “Go on with what you were telling me.”
“Yes, well, Hannah is from Arkansas. Fort Smith, to be precise. And one reason she left her home and joined up with my show was that she wanted to get away from a fellow who was smitten with her. A man named Wade. Edgar Wade. A ruffian from over in Indian Territory. From what Hannah tells me, he was suspected of rustling and selling whiskey to the Indians, but Judge Parker’s deputies were never able to get the proof they needed to arrest him.”
Frank knew that the deputies who worked for Judge Isaac
Parker, the famous “Hanging Judge,” were highly capable manhunters for the most part. If Edgar Wade had been able to elude their justice, he was tough or lucky or both.
“Let me guess,” Frank said slowly. “Wade still wants the girl, so he’s followed her up here to make trouble for her . . . and you.”
“Yes, and he’s brought some of his outlaw friends from the Territory with him. Naturally, since I look on all the performers in my show as my children, I want to protect Hannah from him.”
Frank suspected that maybe there was more to it than that. The fact that Cody had said first that he wanted Frank to kill Edgar Wade indicated a little deeper attachment between Cody and Hannah Sterling than just the impresario of a show looking out for one of his performers. But that didn’t have anything to do with the fact that Cody had trouble on his hands, and he had asked Frank for help.
For a moment, Frank weighed the debt of friendship against the need for vengeance. And again, he came to the inescapable conclusion that since settling the score with Charles Dutton had waited this long, it could probably wait a little while longer.
“I reckon I could have a talk with this fella Wade,” he said. “That shouldn’t take long, and then I can be on my way.”
Cody’s face lit up in a smile. “I can’t thank you enough, Frank,” he said as he reached for his snowy, high-crowned hat. “Come on. I’ll take you over to Hannah’s tent and introduce you to her.”
The arena, with its tall grandstands, rose to the left as Cody led Frank through the compound. There were dozens of tents for the performers, as well as corrals for the horses. A Concord stagecoach, painted a bright red and yellow, rattled past the two men, swaying on the broad leather thoroughbraces that supported it. A bearded man in a buckskin vest, flannel shirt, and battered old hat with the front brim turned up was on the driver’s box, handling the team with an expert touch that spoke of long experience. He waved a gauntleted hand at Frank and Cody as he drove past.
“Was that old Salty?” Frank asked in surprise as he returned the jehu’s wave.
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