Читать книгу Killing Ground - William W. Johnstone - Страница 11

When Frank got back to Buckskin, he found that the settlement was relatively quiet. Even though it was still considered a boomtown, with new people coming in all the time, word had gotten around that the marshal was a dangerous man to cross. In fact, he had quite a reputation as a gunfighter. Because of that, even the roughest hombres tended to walk a little softer and think twice—or three times—before they started trouble.

The exceptions to that were the hombres who came to Buckskin because Frank Morgan was the marshal. The ones who wanted to make a name for themselves by gunning down the man known as The Drifter.

Like the two who showed up the next morning.

Frank was still in the office, having a cup of coffee. He had been out earlier and had breakfast at the café, then returned here while Jack made the morning rounds. Frank sat at the desk with his feet propped up, flipping through the stack of wanted posters that had come in while he was gone to Arizona.

As usual, it was a pretty sorry assortment of owlhoots. But his own face had graced a wanted poster from time to time—always unjustified, but there nonetheless—he reminded himself. Some of these fellas might not be as bad as they were made out to be. But most of them probably were.

The door opened and Jack came into the office, hurrying enough so that Frank knew something was wrong. He took his feet off the desk and sat up straight.

“What’s wrong?” he asked his deputy.

Jack pulled at the tuft of whiskers on his chin.

“Couple o’ hombres are over at the Silver Baron jawin’ about how they come to Buckskin to try you out, Frank. They think they’re fast guns, but they’re just young and stupid, as per usual.”

“Did you talk to them?”

Jack shook his head. “Nope. Just heard about it from Vern Robeson.”

“Vern gets around, doesn’t he?” Frank chuckled, apparently unconcerned, but a grim look lurked in his eyes.

He had long since grown weary of killing young, ambitious men who wanted to make a name for themselves. And there was always the chance that one of these days, one of those would-be gunslingers would turn out to be faster and more accurate than him. It was inevitable that someday Frank would run into someone who could beat him to the draw…unless he hung up his guns and somehow made it stick.

That was mighty unlikely.

“All right.” Earlier, he had dropped his hat on the desk rather than hanging it from the nail on the wall. He reached for it now as he went on. “I’ll go see about it. Maybe I can talk some sense into their heads.”

Catamount Jack snorted. “You’d be more likely to fill up a rat hole by poundin’ sand down it. It wouldn’t be as empty as those young fellas’ heads are o’ brains.”

Frank put his hat on as Jack went to the wall rack and took down one of the shotguns hanging there.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Frank asked.

“Goin’ with you, o’ course.”

Frank shook his head. “There’s no need for that.”

“What if those varmints try to gang up on you? You might need me to handle one of ’em whilst you deal with the other.” Then Jack grimaced and went on. “But if they do that you’ll just have to kill ’em a mite quicker, won’t you?”

“You’re the law in this town if anything happens to me,” Frank pointed out. “And even at this time of day, there are probably enough people in the Silver Baron that you don’t need to be firing a scattergun in there.”

“And in a gunfight, I can’t haul out this old percussion pistol o’ mine fast enough to do you much good as a partner,” Jack said with a bitter twist in his raspy voice. “You’re tryin’ not to tell me that I’d be more of a liability than a help.”

“I’ve never thought of you as a liability, Jack,” Frank said honestly. “If I did, I never would have gone off and left you in charge here like I did. It’s just that I’m better suited to handle some things than you are, and vice versa.”

“Yeah, I’m better at bein’ a useless ol’ geezer.”

Jack started toward the door, an angry look on his face.

Some genuine anger of his own welled up inside Frank. He caught hold of his deputy’s arm and snapped, “Blast it, Jack, you’re blowing this way out of proportion. You’re about as far from useless as anybody in Buckskin. I could take this badge off right now and leave you in charge permanently, and I wouldn’t lose a bit of sleep worrying about leaving the town in your hands.”

“I couldn’t handle gunnies like those two in the saloon, and you know it.”

“You wouldn’t have to if I wasn’t here. The only reason men like that even come to Buckskin is to try their hands against me.”

Jack couldn’t argue with that. They both knew it was true. From time to time a crooked gambler set up a game, or some miners got in a fight, or somebody got knocked out and robbed in an alley after leaving some soiled dove’s crib, but that was just about the normal extent of trouble in Buckskin these days. Jack was tough enough, and respected enough, to handle things like that.

But the would-be shootists and pistoleros were a different story. Those were Frank’s responsibility.

And he had two of them waiting for him now.

“Come along with me if you want,” he told Jack, “but leave the Greener here and stay out of the fight, if there is one.”

“Oh, there’ll be one,” Jack said with grim certainty. But he went back to the rack and hung up the shotgun again, then fell in step beside Frank as the two of them started down the street toward the Silver Baron.

Even after all these years, it never failed to amaze Frank how quickly word could spread of impending violence. As he and Jack approached the saloon, he saw several people gathered on the boardwalk in front of the place. More were headed in that direction.

Vern Robeson was one of the men peering in the Silver Baron’s front window. He turned to greet Frank with an eager grin.

“Looks like there’s gonna be two more notches on your gun pretty soon, Marshal!”

“I don’t carve notches on my gun, Vern,” Frank snapped. “I don’t know any real gunfighters who do.”

Vern’s grin disappeared. He shuffled his feet and looked down at the boardwalk.

“Sorry, Marshal. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“I’ll bet Amos is wondering where you are.”

“I’ll go on along down there to the stable…in a few minutes.”

Frank knew what the hostler meant. He was going to stay right here to see what was going to happen. If anybody died this morning, Vern Robeson wasn’t going to miss it. And that was his right, Frank supposed. Vern wasn’t breaking any law by standing on the boardwalk.

Frank pushed the batwings aside and stepped into the saloon. Catamount Jack was right behind him. Every nerve in Frank’s body was alert, every muscle taut and ready for action. It was always possible in a situation like this that the men who were waiting for him might slap leather and start their guns blazing as soon as he walked into the room.

They didn’t, though. In fact, the two young men standing at the bar didn’t even realize he was there until they saw Willie Carter, the only bartender working at this time of the morning, looking intently at the door. Even then, they leisurely finished the drinks in front of them before they turned to face The Drifter.

Instantly, Frank saw the resemblance between them. They were brothers, probably no more than two or three years apart in age. Sleekly built, flashily dressed, handsome in a cheap way. Saloon gals probably fawned all over them. And when they grinned, the expressions reeked of arrogant confidence.

“Well, if it ain’t the marshal,” the older one said.

“See, Rand?” the younger one said. “I told you he wouldn’t be scared to face us…even though he oughta be.”

“You were right, Brock. I figured Frank Morgan was so old that he would’ve lost all his guts by now.”

“If he ever had any to start with. Maybe he backshot all those fellas he’s supposed to’ve killed. I mean, jus’ look at him. I wouldn’t put it past him, would you?”

Rand shook his head. “Nope. I reckon he never was any more’n a puffed-up bag o’ shit.”

Frank laughed, causing both brothers to look surprised. He couldn’t help it. They had probably rehearsed those lines before they ever rode into town.

His reaction had thrown them off stride. They were confused and angry now.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” the one called Rand snapped. “You gone soft in the head, Morgan?”

“Nope,” Frank said. “I’ve just heard that sort of garbage so many times, for so many years, that it just sounds foolish to me now. What do you reckon every would-be gunslick does when he decides to face me down? He tries to needle me into drawing, just like you two are doing. He tries to get under my skin, to make me mad, to make me careless.” Frank shook his head. “It’s never worked that way before, and it’s not going to work now.” He chuckled again. “But you boys go right ahead with whatever routine you’ve worked out. You might get me to laughing so hard that it might just give you a little bit of an advantage. I don’t think so, but you never know.”

“Why…why you crazy old fart!” Rand sputtered. “Don’t you know who we are?”

“He’s Rand Johnson, and I’m Brock Johnson,” the younger brother said. “We’re the Johnson brothers!”

Without looking around, Frank asked, “Those names mean anything to you, Jack?”

“Not a damned thing,” the deputy replied. “I never heard of ’em. But then, I can’t keep up with every loco kid who thinks he’s fast with a gun.”

“I killed Sammy Carlisle!” Rand said. “And Brock gunned Wichita McHenry and Pete Cragg! We’re gonna be more famous than Frank and Jesse James or the Daltons!”

“I think I sorta heard o’ that McHenry fella,” Jack said, “but I ain’t sure.”

“I saw Pete Cragg in Yankton a few years back,” Frank said. “He was a two-bit owlhoot and slow as mud on the draw. Carlisle’s a new one on me. He must not have been around for very long.”

Both of the Johnson brothers were red in the face with fury now.

“Quit your jabberin’, damn it!” Brock said. “You’ll know who we are when you got our lead in your carcass, blast you! Now fill your hand, Morgan!”

Frank shook his head. His joking demeanor was gone as he said, “I don’t want to kill you, son. But that’s what’s going to happen to you and your brother both if you don’t get on your horses and ride out of here right now. What you’re doing is foolishness, sheer foolishness, and I don’t want any part of it. Go find somebody else to kill you, if you’re that determined to die.”

For a moment, he thought they were going to listen to him. He thought this might be one of the rare occasions when his words actually got through those lying dreams of fame and glory that had led many a young man to the grave.

But then Rand and Brock Johnson both snarled and grabbed for their guns, clawing the weapons out of their holsters.

Frank had no way of knowing which one was faster. Brock claimed two kills while Rand had mentioned only one, so Frank took him down first, smashing a slug into Brock’s chest that caused the young man to stumble back against the bar.

Then, faster than the eye could follow, the muzzle of Frank’s Colt tracked to the right and spewed flaming death once again. Rand was moving and trying to bring his gun up as Frank fired, so the bullet hit him on the right side of the chest instead of dead center in his heart. It tore through his lung, though, and instantly filled that organ with blood. Rand gasped in shock and pain as he began drowning in it. He managed to stay on his feet and tried again to raise his gun.

Frank fired a third shot, and this time the bullet found Rand’s heart, putting an end to his suffering as he crumpled to the floor. The sawdust that normally soaked up spilled beer caught the crimson stream that flowed from the young man’s mouth instead.

Brock was still on his feet, leaning against the bar. He should have gone down by now, but somehow he had found the strength to stay upright. His gun slipped from nerveless fingers and thudded to the floor as he gasped, “You…you…nobody’s that…fast!”

“That was your mistake, son,” Frank told him. “Somebody, somewhere, is always that fast.”

Brock’s eyes rolled up in their sockets, and he pitched forward on his face, dead when he hit the floor.

“Son of a gun,” Catamount Jack breathed. “Neither of ’em even got a shot off! Not that I was expectin’ ’em to,” he added hastily.

Frank took fresh cartridges from the loops on his gunbelt and replaced the spent rounds in the Colt’s cylinder.

“I imagine somebody’s gone to fetch Claude Langley already,” he said, “but if they haven’t…”

“I’ll take care of it,” Jack said.

Frank holstered his gun and looked at Carter behind the bar.

“Sorry, Willie. I’d just as soon not kill people in here if I didn’t have to.”

“It’s all right, Marshal. You gave those two every chance in the world to light a shuck outta here. It’s their own dumb fault that they didn’t.”

That was true…but it didn’t make Frank feel any better about adding two more graves to Buckskin’s Boot Hill.

People crowded around to congratulate him as he left the saloon, of course. They always did. Frank accepted their words with polite nods, but then the sight of a rider trotting along the street caught his attention. The man on horseback was the fella he had sent to Carson City with the wire for his lawyers in San Francisco.

“Howdy, Phil,” Frank hailed him. “You get a reply back from that telegram?”

“Sure did, Marshal,” the man said as he reined in. He reached into the pocket of his cowhide vest and took out a folded paper. “Here you go.”

“I’m much obliged.” Frank took the paper and handed Phil a gold eagle in turn. The man had worked as a miner until he developed a cough that kept him from spending long hours underground. He still had a family to feed, though, so Frank had him doing odd jobs and running errands such as this whenever the need arose.

Frank opened the message, read it, and nodded in satisfaction.

“What’s it say?” Catamount Jack asked.

“Leaving immediately for Buckskin, stop. Will arrive Friday latest, stop. Am confident of victory, stop. Look forward to meeting you Morgan, stop. Signed, Turnbuckle.”

“That’s one o’ those lawyer hombres, right?”

Frank nodded. “One of the best lawyers west of the Mississippi, or at least he’s supposed to be. I reckon we’ll find out whether he is or not.” He looked around. “Claude Langley?”

“Here he comes with that meat wagon o’ his right now.”

More work for the undertaker, Frank thought. All because two young fools had thought more of gun glory than they did of their own lives.

He bet his coffee was cold by now, too.