Avenger

by William W. Johnstone

  “That’s mighty generous of you,” Holloway said.

  “My fault the lead started to fly. Anyway, my lawyers tell me I’ve got more money than they know what to do with. Seems like helping a wrangler get back on his boots is a worthwhile cause.”

  “Well, I’m much obliged, and I’m sure Amos will be too.” Holloway held out his hand. “Anything I can do for you, Morgan, you just let me know.”

  Frank shook hands with the man, then headed for Hannah’s tent.

  When he called her name outside the entrance flap, she told him to come in. He found her dressed in a simple blue gown that looked good on her.

  “What time are you supposed to be at the Avalon Hotel?” he asked.

  “Two o’clock.”

  Frank nodded. “I’ll be there before that. I plan to get your gramps away from Wade and his pards before there can be any wedding.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “Not quite sure yet, but I’m pretty good at making things up as I go along,” Frank said with a smile. “Don’t worry. You’ll know what’s going on.”

  She laid a hand on his arm. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Mr. Morgan.”

  “I’m glad to do it. I knew as soon as I met Wade that I didn’t like him. The more I find out about him, the ornerier he gets. It’ll be a pleasure to ruin his plans for him. Besides, Bill Cody asked me to help you out, and Bill and I go back a long way.”

  “I imagine you know just about everyone who’s famous in the West, don’t you?”

  “No, there are plenty of fellas I never crossed trails with.” Frank inclined his head. “But I ran into quite a few, I reckon.”

  He knew that Hannah was still nervous and didn’t blame her for feeling that way, but there was nothing else he could do right now to make her feel any better. Nor was Buffalo Bill any less anxious when Frank paid a visit to his tent a short time later. As usual before any potential crisis, the waiting was the hardest part.

  A little after noon, Frank left the compound and walked to the Avalon Hotel. Just in case Wade or one of his friends might be watching the entrance, he found a rear door and went in that way, walking through the kitchen. Instead of wearing his gunbelt strapped around his waist, Frank had taken the Colt and tucked it behind his belt on the left side, with the butt forward for a quick, easy draw. He wore a coat to conceal the weapon.

  One of the kitchen workers said, “Excuse me, sir, but you’re not supposed to be back here.”

  “It’s all right, son,” Frank told the man. “You see, I’m one of the owners of this hotel now.”

  He left the man staring after him and went on into the lobby, checking it out carefully first before he approached the desk. A different clerk was on duty today, and he asked, “Can I help you?”

  “Need to talk to the manager,” Frank said.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, then, I can’t bother Mr. Dunnegan—”

  “Show him this,” Frank said as he put a yellow telegraph flimsy on the desk.

  The clerk glanced down at the wire, then looked again and actually read the words this time. His eyebrows went up in surprise.

  “I’ll take this to him right away, sir,” the clerk said as he picked up the telegram. He disappeared through a door behind the desk. Frank supposed the manager’s office was on the other side of the door.

  A moment later, an officious little man with a narrow mustache came out of the office and said quickly, “Mr. Morgan, won’t you come in, please? What can we here at the Avalon do for you today? If you need a room, of course you’ll have the best one in the house.”

  “No, I don’t need a room,” Frank said when the door was closed behind them and he found himself in a cramped little office with the manager. “I just need a job.”

  The manager stared at him. “What? But you’re a minority owner of the hotel. This telegram from the majority owner instructs me to offer you every assistance possible.”

  Frank nodded. He had burned up the wires between Chicago and Denver that morning, and by noon his lawyers had purchased for him a sizable percentage of the Avalon Hotel. That had seemed like the quickest, easiest way to insure the cooperation he would need to pull off his plan.

  “You have bellboys working here,” Frank said. “I want one of their uniforms.”

  Dunnegan eyed Frank’s broad shoulders and said dubiously, “I’m not sure we have one that will fit you, Mr. Morgan. Most of our boys are smaller in stature than you.”

  “Well, if it comes close, that’ll probably do. It won’t have to fool anybody for very long.”

  “All right, I’ll see what I can do.” Dunnegan hesitated, then went on. “I received a report from the clerk on the evening shift about what happened last night. Is there going to be more trouble?”

  “Maybe not . . . but I wouldn’t count on that.”

  Dunnegan sighed and said, “You’ll take the responsibility, of course?”

  “Whatever happens, it’ll be on my head.”

  “Very well. I’ll see about getting that uniform.” Dunnegan shook his head. “Although I’m doubtful that anyone will be fooled into thinking that the famous Drifter has become a bellboy.”

  The bellboy’s trousers that Dunnegan came up with fit fairly well, but the short jacket was tight across the shoulders, just as he had predicted. Frank assured him it would be all right anyway. He had worn a white shirt, so he was able to keep it on when he donned the trousers and jacket. The jacket wouldn’t button, but that was fine because he wanted to be able to reach the gun in his belt without having to unbutton anything first.

  He stood in a corner of the lobby next to a large potted palm. From that position he could keep an eye on the entrance, as well as the staircase to the second floor.

  About one thirty, he spotted Edgar Wade coming through the front door of the hotel. Wade had Junius Driscoll with him. His hand was clamped around the older man’s upper arm. Three men followed right behind them. One was bound to be Lawlor, the man Hannah had seen with Wade the night before, and the other rough-looking hombre would be another of the hardcases from Wade’s gang. The fifth man was balding, pink-cheeked, and cherubic-looking, wearing a black suit and a clerical collar. That would be the minister, Frank thought.

  He stayed discreetly back so that he would be partially shielded by the potted palm as the group of men crossed the lobby and started up the stairs without pausing at the desk. He waited until they were out of sight, then left the cover of the palm and nodded to Dunnegan, who was behind the desk. Frank gave Wade and the others a couple of minutes to reach Room 214 and get inside; then he started up the stairs after them, carrying a tray from the kitchen that Dunnegan took from behind the desk and handed to him.

  When he reached Room 214, he knocked on the door and balanced the tray on his shoulder so that it concealed part of his face. A man’s voice asked harshly from inside, “Who is it?”

  Frank lowered his normally deep voice even more. “Bellboy,” he said. “You gents ordered some champagne?”

  The door was jerked open. One of the other men stood there, not Wade. He had never seen Frank before, so he didn’t recognize him. “No, nobody ordered any champagne,” the man snapped. “We don’t drink that damn French fizzy water. You ain’t got any anyway.”

  Frank looked past the man into the room. He saw Edgar Wade standing and talking to the preacher, while Junius Driscoll and the other man sat in armchairs near the window. Wade glanced in Frank’s direction, but the bellboy’s uniform and the tray did their job. Wade didn’t recognize him, didn’t even pay much attention to him.

  “Sorry, I was just checking to see if there was any particular brand you gents wanted before I fetched it,” Frank said. “Must have been some other room. I’ll check with the desk.”

  The hardcase grunted and started to swing the door closed. “You do that.”

  Frank turned away as the door shut behind him. He had seen w
hat he wanted to see. The window in 214 was open and unlocked, and Wade was relaxed, not expecting trouble. He thought he had Hannah and her grandfather right where he wanted them.

  When Frank reached the lobby, he nodded curtly to Dunnegan, who sighed and asked, “Are you sure about this, Mr. Morgan? I promise you, one does not bandy about lightly the idea of fire in Chicago.”

  “We’re not actually going to burn the hotel down, Mr. Dunnegan,” Frank said. He was already stripping off the bellboy’s jacket as he went into the office to reclaim his own clothes. “Give me five minutes to get ready.”

  “Very well,” Dunnegan said.

  When he was dressed in his own duds again, Frank left the hotel, going out through the kitchen as he had come in. He circled the building until he came to the side where Room 214 was located. One of those newfangled fire escapes that most taller buildings had now zigzagged down the outside of the wall. He jumped up, caught hold of the stairs, and pulled them down. They didn’t make much racket, and he was thankful for that. Moving as quietly as he could, he began climbing toward the second floor.

  A moment later, he was crouched just below the window leading into 214. He heard the low murmur of voices through the curtains; then a sharp rapping sounded. That would be Dunnegan at the door. Frank heard Edgar Wade growl, “What the hell is it now? Better not be that damn bellboy back again.”

  Wade himself must have gone to the door, because a second later it was jerked open and he snapped, “Yeah?”

  Frank heard Dunnegan say, “Excuse me, sir, but there’s been a report of a possible fire on this floor. You’ll all have to leave—”

  “Fire!” That alarmed yelp came from one of the other men, possibly the minister.

  “I don’t smell any smoke,” Wade protested.

  “There may not actually be a fire,” Dunnegan said, “but we’re asking all the guests to step down to the lobby anyway, until we can make sure.”

  “I’ve got important plans at two o’clock—” Wade began.

  “I hope everything will be settled by then. Really, sir, I must insist.”

  “If this place is on fire, I’m not staying here.” That was one of the hardcases speaking up, as nervous now as the preacher was. Frank rose from his crouch and risked a look through the window. Wade, his two henchmen, and the preacher were over by the door with Dunnegan. Driscoll still sat in the armchair where Frank had seen him earlier. Frank leaned in the window, caught his eye, and motioned to him. Driscoll’s eyes widened in shock at the sight of a man sticking his head in through the window. Dunnegan continued to argue with Wade and the others, raising his voice now as he insisted that they evacuate the room. Frank hissed at Driscoll, “Hannah sent me! Come on, Gramps!”

  Driscoll didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted up out of the chair and lunged toward the window. Frank grabbed him and pulled him through. Inside the room, Wade let out with a startled, “Hey! The old man—”

  “Go on down the stairs!” Frank told Driscoll. “I’ll cover you.”

  “Thank you, young man,” Driscoll said. “I won’t forget this.”

  Then he scampered down the fire escape stairs with a spryness and agility that belied his years. Frank backed down the stairs, gun drawn. Above him, Wade ripped the curtains aside and leaned out, also with a Colt in his hand. “Morgan!” he shouted. He fired, the bullet ricocheting loudly off the steel of the fire escape. Frank returned the fire, deliberately aiming high so that his slug chewed into the brick wall just above the window. That was close enough to make Wade squawk and dive backward into the room.

  Driscoll had already reached the alley. Frank vaulted down the rest of the way and landed beside him. He caught hold of Driscoll’s slender arm and said, “You’re safe now. Let’s get out of here, Gramps.” Together, they started toward the mouth of the alley.

  That was when three men stepped into the opening with guns drawn, and one of them said savagely, “We’ve got you now, Morgan!”

  Chapter 21

  The men were clad in overcoats, despite the heat, and derby hats, and Frank knew from their getups that they were city toughs, not outlaws from Indian Territory like Wade, Lawlor, and the other man. That meant they were after the bounty put on his head by Charles Dutton. As they opened fire, Frank shoved Junius Driscoll behind some garbage cans and said, “Stay down!”

  Having rescued the old man from Wade, Frank didn’t want Driscoll to catch a stray bullet now.

  He sprinted for the far side of the alley, hoping to draw the fire away from Hannah’s grandfather. As the same time, he threw a couple of snap shots at the would-be assassins, coming close enough with his bullets so that the men scattered and scrambled for cover of their own. Frank dropped behind a crate that someone had left in the alley. It wouldn’t do a very good job of stopping a bullet, but it was better than nothing.

  Footsteps rang on the fire escape as Wade and his men emerged from the window and started down. One of the bushwhackers spotted them and yelled, “Get those cowboys! They must be friends of Morgan’s!”

  Nothing could have been further from the truth, but the misunderstanding was to Frank’s advantage. When bullets began to whine around the heads of Wade and the other two hardcases, they returned the fire, slamming shots downward toward the bounty killers. That distraction allowed Frank to lunge to his feet, grab Driscoll again, and start the old man running down the alley toward the rear of the hotel.

  “Get out of here!” Frank told him. “Find Hannah. She’s probably somewhere between here and the Wild West show!”

  A bullet tugged at his sleeve, prompting him to whirl around again. One of the assassins had emerged from cover and was walking steadily toward Frank, his arm extended and the gun in his hand blazing. Frank threw himself to the side, heard a slug sizzle past his ear, and then triggered twice. Both bullets crashed into the chest of the gunman and pitched him backward.

  From the fire escape, Wade yelled, “Get Morgan! It’s him we want!”

  More bullets smacked into the cobblestone floor of the alley around Frank as he backed away. He had only two bullets left in his Peacemaker. He directed one of them toward Wade, but the man moved aside just as Frank pulled the trigger. The slug missed him and grazed Lawlor instead. Lawlor howled in pain and collapsed on the fire escape stairs.

  Frank fired his final round at one of the hired gunmen who had interrupted his rescue of Junius Driscoll. The man had poked his head up too far from cover, and Frank’s bullet hit him right between the eyes, boring on through his brain and exploding out the back of his head. The man flopped on the dirty floor of the alley, spasming as death overtook him.

  A glance along the alley told Frank that Driscoll must have gotten away. He didn’t see the old man anywhere. But with Wade, Lawlor, and the other hardcase from Indian Territory targeting him, along with the surviving member of the trio of assassins, and Frank with an empty gun and no time or shelter where he could reload, there was only one thing he could do.

  He leaped onto the crate and then vaulted off it in a dive at the nearest window, crashing through it in a shower of glass.

  As he landed inside the hotel and rolled across a floor covered with shards and splinters of glass to surge once more to his feet, he looked around and saw that he was in what appeared to be a laundry room. Steam rose from big tubs where linen was soaking and made the air unpleasantly sultry. Several workers, all of them black women in white uniforms, screamed and ran from the room. Frank ducked behind one of the tubs, crouched, and began reloading the Colt with cartridges he took from his coat pocket. He dumped the empty brass and thumbed fresh rounds into the gun’s cylinder.

  A shot blasted at the window. Lead sang off the big metal tub behind which Frank crouched. When he lifted his head, a second bullet came near to parting his hair for him. But he saw the third derby-hatted gunman in the shattered window, and fired with that smoothness and instant coordination of hand and eye that had kept him alive through the long and perilous years. The derby leap
ed in the air as a red-rimmed black hole appeared in the center of the killer’s forehead. He fell backward, dead before he hit the alley floor.

  That left Wade and the other two, but as a tense moment ticked by, none of them came to the window to make another try at Frank. He wondered if they had decided to cut their losses and flee from the scene.

  That turned out to be exactly what had happened. Dunnegan, the manager of the hotel, hurried into the laundry, his attention no doubt drawn by the screaming women who had gone rushing out. “Mr. Morgan!” he called anxiously. “Mr. Morgan, are you all right?”

  Frank stood up, keeping a wary eye on the window just in case somebody else tried to take a potshot at him from it. “I’m fine,” he told Dunnegan. “Did you see what happened to Wade and the others?”

  “Yes, I was watching from the window of 214. When they reached the bottom of the fire escape, they fled. I don’t know where they went, but they’re not around the hotel anymore, at least as far as I know.”

  “Took off for the tall and uncut,” Frank muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Frank shook his head. “They’re gone, all right,” he said. “I’m not surprised. When they lost Driscoll, they lost their hold over Miss Sterling.”

  “You’re speaking of the elderly gentleman?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s in the lobby. He came in a minute ago with an attractive young woman and several policemen who came to investigate the shooting.”

  Frank nodded in relief, pleased to hear that Hannah and her grandfather were all right. He had known that she would be approaching the hotel, and had hoped that Driscoll would be able to find her. The fact that they had run into some police officers to keep them safe was an added stroke of luck.

  “There are dead men littering the alley outside,” Dunnegan said with disapproval. “The police are going to have a lot of questions, and this is going to create a considerable amount of notoriety for the hotel. Who were those men anyway?”