Judging by the way Dog sat down, stared at Caldwell, and snarled a little, the feeling was mutual. Frank suppressed a chuckle and swung up into the saddle.
“Come on, you shaggy varmint.”
Caldwell sniffed. “Are you talking to me?”
Frank pointed. “Talking to the dog.” He couldn’t resist adding, “I don’t reckon anybody’s ever going to take you for shaggy, Your Honor.”
Caldwell glared as he mounted up. Frank walked Stormy out of the barn. Dog loped out ahead of the two riders as Caldwell followed Frank. They would be on the trail most of the day, Frank reminded himself, and that was if everything went smoothly.
He wasn’t looking forward to spending hours in the company of Judge Cecil Caldwell.
As it turned out, things didn’t go too badly…at least, they didn’t once Frank gave up on trying to carry on a conversation with the judge. Caldwell grunted curt, noncommittal answers to every question Frank asked, so after a while Frank stopped asking.
That was all right. The rugged countryside was pretty, with its forests and creeks and mountains, and anyway, Frank was busy watching for signs of trouble. Dog ranged out ahead most of the time, as reliable a scout as if he had been human. Probably more so, Frank thought, since no human possessed such keen senses.
They stopped on the bank of a creek at midday to boil coffee, fry up some bacon, and heat biscuits, while the horses grazed on the lush grass along the stream.
“Sorry if this isn’t the sort of fare you’re accustomed to, Judge,” Frank said.
“It’s fine,” Caldwell said. “I’ve never cared all that much about what I eat. Meals are functional, that’s all.”
Frank felt a mite sorry for anybody who held that opinion, but he didn’t say as much, knowing that Caldwell wouldn’t take it kindly. Instead, he asked, “Are you from Nevada, Your Honor?”
“Wisconsin actually. I came out here to practice law back in the seventies.”
That was about the most responsive answer Frank had gotten from the man all day, so he pushed his luck a little.
“What brought you to Nevada, instead of staying in Wisconsin?”
Caldwell sipped his coffee, and for a moment Frank thought that the conversation had come to an abrupt end.
Then Caldwell said, “My father was a judge. He cast a rather large shadow. I thought my own career might flourish better elsewhere. As it turns out, I was correct.”
Frank understood that. Some men had no desire to follow in their father’s footsteps.
Caldwell surprised him by saying, “What about you, Morgan? What led you into a life as a wandering gunman?”
Frank took a sip of his coffee as he pondered the judge’s question.
“Some folks would say fate,” he finally answered. “When I came back to Texas after the war, I figured I wouldn’t ever do anything except work as a cowboy. But then there was a fracas and a fella drew on me, and I wasn’t going to stand there and let him shoot me. I slapped leather, too.” Frank shrugged. “It didn’t take long for word to get around that I was pretty fast with a gun. The more people knew about it, the more trouble dogged my heels. I figured it would be best to move on. I didn’t want to bring anything bad down on my friends and family.”
The fact that Mercy’s father hated him had something to do with his decision, too. Mercy…his first love…married for years now to another man, a good man, and happily married to boot. To this day, he didn’t know whether Mercy’s beautiful daughter Victoria was actually his child, too, although he suspected that was the case.
There was no doubt, however, that Victoria’s legs were useless because of the bullet that had shattered her spine. A bullet meant for Frank Morgan. Victoria would spend the rest of her life in a wheel-chair because Frank had come home to Texas one time too many. Whether she was his daughter or not, that fact would always haunt him.
Luckily, she had her mother and her husband, Texas Ranger Tyler Beaumont, to look after her, and she was strong-willed enough not to let the fact that she was crippled destroy her life. That strong will was one more indication that Frank was really her father, but in truth, she could have gotten it from her mother, too.
Frank pushed those thoughts out of his mind. They came to him from time to time, like now, but he wasn’t the sort to brood about the past. His eyes turned more toward the future.
“You couldn’t just refuse to fight those men who challenged you?” Caldwell asked, bringing Frank’s thoughts back to this noon camp on the trail between Carson City and Buckskin.
“I tried,” Frank said, “but the Good Lord didn’t put much back-up in me. When an hombre pushes me, I tend to push right back at him.”
“You should have reported them to the law.”
Frank felt a surge of irritation at the sanctimonious tone in the judge’s voice.
“No offense, Your Honor, but you weren’t there. And even if I’d backed down, in the long run it wouldn’t have done any good. Sooner or later, one of the men who came after me would’ve shot me anyway, probably from ambush, and then lied about killing me in a showdown. Too many fellas wanted to be known as the man who killed Frank Morgan. Some of ’em didn’t care how they did it either.”
“Again, that’s a matter for the law. If you’re threatened, you let the proper authorities deal with it. Otherwise, we’d have nothing but anarchy out here. Why, every man would have to carry a gun just to protect himself and settle his own disputes! Can you imagine?”
Frank sipped his coffee and tried to figure out whether the judge was serious or not. What Caldwell had just described was exactly the way the frontier had been for many, many years. Those days were just now starting to pass away, probably for good.
Caldwell looked like he meant the question, though, so Frank nodded and said, “Yeah. I can imagine.”
And if Brighton’s hired killers were lying in wait for them, as Frank suspected they might be, then the judge might be able to imagine it, too, before they reached Buckskin.
If he lived that long.
After their meal, they mounted up and started along the trail again. Caldwell’s claim that he was a good rider was true, as far as Frank could see. The judge sat the saddle well and didn’t seem to be in any discomfort from the journey.
Around mid-afternoon, Frank reined Stormy to a halt and motioned for Caldwell to stop, too.
“What’s wrong?” the judge asked. “The horses shouldn’t need to be rested again this soon.”
Frank pointed to a dim, narrow trail that led off in a zigzag path up a nearby slope, twisting through the thick growth of pines.
“That’s the trail we’re going to take.”
Caldwell frowned. “That’s hardly a trail. We’ve got a stage road right here that runs straight to Buckskin, I believe.”
He gestured toward the ruts that had been cut by the wheels of countless Concords. At least the judge hadn’t called it a perfectly good stage road, Frank thought wryly.
“Yeah, that’s the main road to Buckskin, all right, but Dex Brighton and his men know that as well as we do. That’s why they’re liable to be waiting for us somewhere up ahead.”
“There you go again, trying to prejudice Mr. Brighton’s case before the trial even begins.” Caldwell’s mouth was a thin, hard line. “I’m going to disregard that statement, Marshal, and proceed along this trail.”
“You do that and you’ll be riding right into a bushwhacker’s bullet, Judge. And it won’t matter who paid for it…You’ll be just as dead either way.”
Frank wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but Caldwell’s back got even stiffer and straighter.
“Are you ordering me to come with you, Marshal?”
“As a matter of fact, Your Honor, I am. The only reason I came to Carson City to fetch a replacement judge was so that I could be sure you got there alive, instead of dead like Judge Grampis.”
“You have no legal authority beyond the limits of Buckskin,” Caldwell insisted. “You’re only the town marshal.”
Caldwell stared at him for a moment before thrusting a hand out.
“Let me see that.”
Frank handed over the special commission that Sadler had signed the day before. He hadn’t said anything about it until now because he hadn’t wanted to make use of it if he didn’t have to. Wearing a town marshal’s badge was still new enough to him; he wasn’t sure he was comfortable with the idea of being a special agent for the governor. If this kept up, next thing he knew he’d be working for the president.
Caldwell unfolded the document and studied it for several minutes, even running a finger over the state seal that had been stamped into the paper. He finally looked up at Frank.
“This appears to be genuine.”
“That’s because it is.”
Caldwell gave the commission back to him. Grudgingly, the judge said, “It seems that I have no choice but to follow your orders, Morgan. Lead on.”
Frank put the paper away, then said, “Before we go…” He slid a hand into one of his saddlebags and pulled out a spare .45. “Do you know how to handle a gun by any chance, Your Honor?”
Caldwell’s face flushed.
“Put that away,” he snapped. “Special deputy for the governor or not, you can’t make me carry a gun. I stand for law, not lawlessness, and that’s what that gun represents.”
Frank looked at Caldwell’s determined expression and put the gun back in the saddlebag.
“All right,” he said. “I reckon I can accept that decision. I just hope you don’t regret it before we get to Buckskin, Your Honor.”
“I’m already beginning to regret becoming involved in this entire matter. I think you would prefer it if you could just shoot everyone who’s opposed to you and your friends.”
Frank chuckled. “Well, it’d sure simplify matters if I could.”
Caldwell looked appalled, but he didn’t say anything else, just fell in behind as Frank pointed Stormy up the game trail that wandered over a mountain and into an adjoining valley. This was just the start of the roundabout route he had planned to take them into the settlement. He hoped that Brighton wouldn’t have gunmen posted on every trail leading into Buckskin, but it wouldn’t surprise Frank a bit if that turned out to be true.
He had to give the judge credit. Caldwell didn’t complain even though the going got considerably rougher over the next hour or so. The trails they followed were so faint in places that Frank relied on Dog to sniff them out. Sometimes, they had to dismount and lead their horses when the slope was too steep up or down or the footing was treacherous. Sometimes, their route took them over ledges that crawled along the side of a cliff with sheer rock above and echoing emptiness below. In other places, they made their way through cuts so deep and narrow, the horses’ flanks scraped against the sides and the sky was only a thin blue line hundreds of feet above them. Even though Frank was accustomed to country like this, it had to be a nerve-racking journey for Judge Caldwell.
By late afternoon, Frank judged they were about five miles west of Buckskin. They rode up out of an arroyo and into a relatively flat stretch of land that ran east and west, with the broken land through which they had come to the north and a line of vermilion cliffs jutting up to the south.
Frank pointed toward the cliffs and told Caldwell, “Those run for miles, and there’s no way to get a horse up or down them. A man might be able to make it with ropes, but it would be a rough climb.” He turned in the saddle and jerked a thumb toward the breaks. “Those badlands are volcanic in origin. Except for that arroyo we followed through them, the rocks are so sharp they’ll cut a horse’s hooves to ribbons in a few hundred yards. Same with a man’s boots. But if we follow this open stretch for a few miles, we’ll come out pretty close to Buckskin.”
Caldwell was beginning to look a little worn and drawn, as if the long ride was finally starting to catch up to him. But he gave Frank a curt nod and said, “Lead the way, Morgan. I’ll be right behind you.”
Instead, Frank swung down from the saddle.
“Let’s give the horses a breather,” he suggested. “There’s not much graze here, but they can rest a spell anyway, and so can we.”
The men stood in the shade of a scrubby pine and watched as Stormy and the judge’s chestnut plucked at the sparse clumps of grass growing from the rocky ground. Dog poked around some bushes about fifty yards away, probably looking for a small animal to chase.
“You think you’ll be able to hold the trial tomorrow morning, Your Honor?” Frank asked.
“I don’t see why not,” Caldwell replied. “From what you’ve told me, both litigants are represented by capable counsel, and they’ve had adequate time to prepare their cases. I’ll call the court to order at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, and if either party requests a delay, they’ll have to show cause why such a delay should be granted. Otherwise, we’ll proceed with the trial immediately.”
“Sounds good to me,” Frank said, “and I’m sure it will to Tip Woodford, too. He’s had this hanging over his head for too long already.”
“It shouldn’t take long to hear the evidence. I expect the trial won’t last more than a day or two.”
“I hope you’re right, Judge.” A frown creased Frank’s forehead as he watched Dog, who had abandoned his exploration of the brush and now stood stiff-legged, gazing off to the west. “What’s got into that critter…?”
Even at this distance, Frank heard the deep-throated growl that suddenly came from the big cur.
“Hit the saddle, Judge!” he snapped as he reached for Stormy’s reins. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
“Blast it, Morgan, what are you—”
Caldwell didn’t get to finish his indignant question, because just then a bullet slapped through the air next to him, followed instantly by the crack of a rifle.
Chapter 26
The judge stood there openmouthed for a heartbeat, as if he couldn’t believe that he’d just been shot at. Frank hadn’t swung up into the saddle yet. He lunged toward Caldwell, grabbed the man’s arm, and practically threw him at the chestnut.
“Mount up, Judge!” Frank ordered. “Now!”
A bullet struck a nearby rock and screamed off in a ricochet. That sound seemed to penetrate Caldwell’s brain and convince him that he was in deadly danger, because he took hold of the reins and began scrambling up onto his horse’s back. He missed his first try at the stirrup and almost fell, and Frank bit back a curse as he wondered if he was going to have to help the judge mount.
Caldwell made it on his second try, though, grabbing hold of the saddle horn and awkwardly swinging his leg over the chestnut’s back. Two more shots rang out while he was doing that.
Frank pulled his Winchester from the saddle boot while he was mounting up. He hauled Stormy around and looked off toward the west, where four riders were galloping toward him and the judge. The horsemen were about three hundred yards away.
“They should’ve gotten closer and then opened up on us,” Frank called to the judge. He pointed east, toward Buckskin. “Get moving, Your Honor, as fast as you can that way!”
The shots had spooked the chestnut a little. Caldwell fought against the reins and asked, “What are you going to do, Morgan?”
“Try to slow those varmints down a little.” Frank jerked his Stetson from his head, leaned over, and slapped the hat against the chestnut’s rump. “Go!”
Caldwell went. He didn’t have any choice, because the horse underneath him took off in a lunging gallop. The chestnut was heading in the right direction, though, so all Caldwell had to do was hang on and let the horse do the work.
Meanwhile, Frank swung Stormy around and lifted the Winchester to his shoulder, working the lever to jack a cartridge into the chamber as he did so. Stormy was w
ell accustomed to gunfire; the rangy gray stallion didn’t budge as Frank cranked off three rounds as fast as he could work the rifle’s lever.
The attackers—some more of Brighton’s hired gunnies, Frank was sure—were still firing as they gave chase, but the hurricane deck of a racing horse was no place for accuracy. Their bullets either went over Frank’s head or well off to the side.
By contrast, Frank’s aim was deadly. One of the men was knocked backward out of the saddle as a round fired by The Drifter plowed into his chest. His left foot hung in the stirrup as he tumbled off his mount, and his limp body bounced high off the ground, again and again, as the horse continued its gallop.
Another of Frank’s shots had found the mark. A man sagged forward, clutching at a bullet-shattered shoulder, but managed to stay mounted and gradually slowed his horse as it veered off to the side.
That left two of the ambushers, and since they were still more than a couple of hundred yards away, Frank whirled Stormy around and trusted to the stallion’s speed and strength to outdistance them. He heeled Stormy into a run, following Judge Caldwell toward Buckskin. Frank saw the judge about fifty yards ahead of him. The chestnut was still running full tilt. Caldwell grasped the reins with one hand and held his derby on with the other.
It didn’t take long for Stormy to cut down the gap between Frank and the judge. When Frank glanced over his shoulder, he saw that he had pulled away even more from the pursuers.
He would have to slow down when he caught up with Caldwell, though. It would be touch and go whether or not the judge’s horse would be able to outrun those bushwhackers.
Caldwell must have heard the pounding beat of Stormy’s hooves on the hard ground, because he looked back to see who was closing in on him. His face was white with fear. Frank waved him on. They couldn’t afford to slow down.
Stormy drew even with the judge’s horse. Frank gave Caldwell an encouraging nod and pulled back a little on the reins, slowing Stormy so that they wouldn’t sweep right on past. He didn’t know if the pursuit would continue all the way to Buckskin, and another worry on top of that had occurred to Frank.
The Last Gunfighter: Killing Ground Page 21