Chapter I

Once, for a brief moment in time, this place had been a boomtown, a trail-drive town, the railhead where thousands upon thousands of cattle had been loaded on trains to begin their long journey to the slaughterhouses of Chicago.

But then the railhead had moved on farther west, taking the hell-on-wheels with it, and in the twenty-some-odd years since then, the town had settled down into a sleepy little farming community where nothing much ever happened. On this Tuesday morning, that was all about to change. Six men rode in about eight o’clock. The eastbound train was due at nine. The men tied their horses at the hitch rack in front of the depot and walked across the street to the hash house run by the Chinaman, Ling Woo They had flapjacks, scrambled eggs and bacon. and coffee as they sat at a table and talked quietly among themselves. Nobody paid much attention to them. At ftrst glance, they were ordinary-looking men.

That was because their coats covered the butts of their six-guns. Those guns gleamed with care, and the walnut grips were well worn from long use.

The men took their time eating. Around five minutes to nine, one of them took out a big fancy pocket watch, flipped it open, and checked the time. He looked around the table at the other men, nodded, and snapped the watch closed. As he stood up, he slipped the timepiece back in his pocket. The other men got to their feet as well.

The purposeful way in which they moved toward the door of the hash house was the first hint that something might be wrong. The strangers were brisk and businesslike now. As they stepped out of the building, the sound of a tram whistle came clearly through the morning air. The eastbound was on schedule.

Hell, it was even a couple of minutes early.

The men crossed the dusty street to their horses and shucked Winchester repeaters from saddle boots. Then they walked around the red-brick depot building to the platform, instead of going through the lobby. A few townspeople stood on the platform, waiting to either board the train or meet somebody who was getting off. Some of them glanced cun-ously at the strangers.

A couple of older men, who had been to see the elephant a time or two in their lives, looked with narrowed eyes at the strangers and then turned to walk quickly into the depot, as if they were getting out of the way of something.

The train was in sight now, chugging steadily toward the station from the west, black smoke rising from the diamond-shaped stack on the big Baldwin locomotive. The man who had checked his watch stepped to the edge of the platform, leaned out slightly to peer along the tracks, and then nodded in satisfaction. He turned 10 the other five and repeated the nod.

Inside the station, one of the old-timers was talking quickly and earnestly to the stationmaster. The stationmaster frowned dubiously at ftrst, but after a minute he nodded and gestured to one of the boys who worked at the depot. He gave some quick instructions to the boy, who then hurried across the lobby, banged through the doors, and took off at a run down the street, in the direction of the marshal’s office.

He wasn’t going to get there in time. The train was already pulling into the station.

Frank Morgan’s long legs were stretched out in front of him and his hat was tipped down over his eyes. He never slept very well on a train, so earlier that morning, after he’d gotten some coffee and a bite to eat in the dining car, he’d returned to his seat for a nap. He didn’t fall completely asleep, but he rested a little while remaining alert. That habitual caution was ingrained so deeply within him that it would always be a part of him, he supposed. When the train began to slow, Frank felt it and raised his head He opened his eyes and saw the conductor coming along the aisle. The conductor called out the name of the town where the train was about to stop. It didn’t mean much to Frank. The train was somewhere in Kansas, that was all he knew. Frank thumbed his hat back on thick dark hair streaked lib-erally with gray. He wore a faded blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up a little on his muscular forearms. The legs of his denim trousers hung outside the tops of well-worn horseman’s boots. His clothes might be nondescript, but his ruggedly handsome face possessed a power that sometimes made folks look twice at him. He didn’t appear to be a wealthy nian-but he was. One of the richest hombres west of the Mississippi, in fact, with business interests scattered from the Rio Grande to the Canadian border. Frank Morgan didn’t pay much attention to those business interests, though. He had a whole passel of lawyers and accountants in Denver and San Fran-He wasn’t just a drifter. He was The Drifter. A fast gun whose fame had spread across the frontier for years. A gunfighter in an era when civilization was on the ascent and men such as Frank Morgan mostly had been bypassed by time.

Not completely, though. Frank wasn’t obsolete just yet.

The conductor knew who he was and approached him with obviously mixed emotions. On the one hand, Frank could have sat on the board of directors of this railroad if he had chosen to do so, which meant the conductor had to treat him with some deference. On the other hand, Frank was a known killer who had gunned down countless men, and that made him an abomination to the conductor’s civilized nature. In the end, the man’s respect for money won out over his distaste for violence, and he forced a polite smile onto his face as he asked, “Everything all right this morning, Mr. Morgan?”

“Just fine,” Frank said quietly in a deep, controlled voice. The train lurched a little as its brakes began to take hold. “We going to be stopped here long?”

“No, sir, just long enough to take on any passengers and freight we’ve got waiting for us.”

Frank nodded. “Long enough for me to get out and stretch my legs a little, though? I’m a mite stiff after last night.”

“We would have been happy to find a sleeping berth for you, Mr. Morgan—”

“You mean you would have kicked somebody out of a berth they had reserved,” Frank cut in. He shook his head. “I’ll sit up all the way to Chicago before I’ll do that.”

“Well, ah, in answer to your question, we’ll be stopped here for at least five minutes if you want to walk around a little.”

“Thanks.”

The conductor moved on as the train rocked to a stop. Frank glanced over through the windows by the seats on the other side of the aisle. That was the side the station platform was on. He saw six men standing there with rifles in their

hands. As Frank watched, the group split up, three going toward the front of the car, three toward the rear. “Oh, hell,” he said softly.

He came swiftly and smoothly to his feet, his brain already racing as he decided on his course of action. The vestibule at the rear of the car was closer, so he turned in that direction. He wanted to get out of the railroad car as quickly as possible, out where he would have more room to move and where not as many innocents would be endangered by the lead that was about to fly.

Several people turned their heads to look as Frank strode down the aisle. He heard a Ilw startled mutters behind him as some of the passengers realized that something might be wrong. Then he reached the vestibule, stepped through it and out onto the car’s rear platform. His hand was already reaching for the Peacemaker on his hip as he turned toward the station platform.

The three rifle-toters got there at the same time. Their eyes widened as they looked up at him and saw that he was ready for them. One of the men yelled, “Rance! He’s back here!”

Then they jerked their rifles up.

Frank’s Colt whispered from leather. He fired from the hip, putting a bullet in the chest of the man who had shouted. The lead punched the man backward a couple of steps before he lost his balance and fell.

Frank turned slightly and fired again, so fast that none of the riflemen had had a chance to get a shot off yet. His second bullet shattered the shoulder of a would-be killer and sent the man spinning off his feet.

The third man managed to fire the rifle in his hands, but he rushed the shot and the bullet spanked off the brass fitting at the corner of the railroad car. Frank’s Colt blasted a third time. The last of the gunmen who had come in this direction doubled over as the slug tore agonizingly into his belly. He dropped his rifle, clutched his stomach, folded up, and collapsed on the station platform as blood welled over his fmgers.

Frank spun around and leaped off the other side of the train. He landed agilely and dropped into a crouch. There was open ground on this side of the train, and no place to hunt some cover. He ran toward the front of the car, bending low.

As he ran, he glanced underneath the car, hoping to spot the legs of the other three men who wanted to kill him so that he could tell what they were doing. All he could see, though, was the raised station platform.

He had nearly reached the front of the car when two of the assassins bounded across the platform at the back of it and began firing at him. He whirled toward them and went to one knee, squeezing off a couple of shots as he crouched.

One of the riflemen lurched, blood spurting from the side of his neck where Frank’s bullet had ripped it open. He stumbled around wildly for a second before falling in a limp sprawl.

The other man was hit in the body, but somehow he managed to stay on his feet and keep firing. His aim was none too accu-rate. Bullets from the Winchester whistled over Frank’s head.

Frank’s problem now was that the gun in his hand was empty. Under normal circumstances, like riding on a train, he carried it with the hammer resting on an empty chamber, and he had expended all five rounds that the cylinder held. There were fresh cartridges in the loops on his belt, but he would need a few seconds to reload, preferably when slugs weren’t coming so close to him that he could hear the wind-rip of their passage beside his ear.

He threw himself to the side, rolled over the rail and under the train. The rough gravel of the roadbed poked at him through his shirt. Coming to rest on his belly, he opened the revolver’s cylinder, dumped the empties, and reached behind him to pluck live rounds from the loops of the shell belt. As he began to thumb them into the cylinders, he heard a man shout over the low rumble of the engine, “The bastard’s under the tram, Rance!”

“Well, find him, damn it!” came the reply in a harsh, gravelly voice.

Frank snapped the Colt’s cylinder closed and crawled toward the rear of the car. The sound of the engine would cover up the crunching of the gravel underneath him as he moved. He looked over and saw the booted feet of the man who was searching for him. The gunman was moving slowly and carefully toward the front of the car. Frank could have broken his ankle WIth a shot, but instead he planned to wait until the assassin had gone on by, then roll out behind him.

That plan fell apart before it had a chance to develop. The rumble of the engine suddenly got louder, and the drivers clattered as they engaged. The train began to move rolling slowly eastward. Frank’s cover was leaving. ‘

The leader of the killers, the man called Rance, must have run up to the engine and climbed into the locomotive’s cab. A gun at the engineer’s head would force him to move the train.

Frank jammed his gun back in its holster and rolled onto his back. He probably had time to slip out from under the car before the tram started moving too fast, but instead he reached up and grabbed hold of the undercarriage. He lifted his feet and twisted his ankles around a pipe. As he pulled himself up, he came clear of the roadbed. the train carried him along as he hung on tightly.

He clung there like a burr until he judged that the caboose was clear of the station. Then he dropped off, timing his move so that he would fall between cross-ties and ignoring the pain that shot through him as his back jolted heavily against the roadbed. The rest of the train passed over him, and when its shade was gone, the morning sunlight jabbed abruptly against Frank’s eyes. He squinted and rolled onto his belly again, drawing his gun as he did so.

The man he had wounded a few moments earlier was standing beside the tracks, across from the station platfor:m’ looking around in confusion. Clearly, he had expected to find Frank lying in the roadbed once the tram was gone.

“Hey!” Frank called.

The man whirled toward him, bringing up the rifle, but before he even started to line up a shot, the Peacemaker m Frank’s hand cracked. The range was a little long for a handgun, but Frank had plenty of experience at making such shots.

The slug thudded into the killer s chest and drove him backward as if he had been punched by a giant fist, His arms went up in the air and the Winchester flew from suddenly nerveless fmgers. He crashed down beside the steel rails.

With that threat disposed of, Frank leaped to his feet and turned toward the train.

He saw immediately that he’d been a little too slow. Rance had already climbed down from the cab of the locomotive, bringing the engineer with him. He had his left arm looped tightly around the man’s neck, and his right hand held a pistol with the muzzle pressed hard against the engineer’s head.

“Drop your gun, Morgan!” Rance yelled as he forced the engineer closer to Frank. “Drop it or I swear I’ll blow this poor bastard’s brains out!”

Chapter 2

Frank tried not to look into the engineer’s eyes, which were wide with terror. Instead he kept his gaze fixed on the gunman and said, “You know I can’t do that, Rance.”

“You know me?” Rance looked a little surprised at that. As a matter of fact, Frank had never seen the man before. He had seen the type, though, too many times to count A hired gun, a cold-blooded killer. Maybe a little smarter than the run-of-the-mill shootist, judging by the way he’d had his men approach the train. But in the end, he was just another gunman.

Frank didn’t say that. He said, “Sure. I know if I drop my gun, you’ll ventilate me a second later. So I can’t do it.”

Rance pressed harder on the engineer’s temple with the gun barrel. “I’ll kill him!”

Frank’s shoulders rose and fell in a minuscule shrug. “That’s too damned bad, isn’t it? Maybe what you should do is drop your gun. Your boys are lying back there at the station, either dead or shot up so bad they’re out of this fight, and I’ll wager that the local law is on its way. But you haven’t done anything today that’s a hanging offense. You haven’t killed anybody. So unless you’re wanted for something else, you can surrender and live throught this, Rance.”

There was no emotion on Rance’s weathered, rugged face. “The hell with that,” he said. “I took money to do a job. I aim to do it.”

“Took money from who?” Frank asked. He had a pretty good idea of what the answer was, but some confirmation of his hunch would be nice.

“Go to hell, gunfighter.”

“I hope you enjoyed spending Dutton’s money,” Frank said

The slight widening of Rance’s eyes told Frank that he’d been right about who hired the killers. Then, Rance jerked his gun toward Frank and fired,

The shot went wild because the gun in The Drifter’s hand had roared a shaved instant of time earlier. Frank’s bullet had already sizzled past the engineer’s ear, aimed at the narrow slice of Rance’s face that Frank could see. It struck Rance in the right eye and bored on into his brain just as the gunman pulled the trigger. The .45 slug went all the way through and burst out the back of Rance’s skull in a spray of blood, bone splinters, and gray matter. He stood there for a second with his arm still around the engineer’s neck before the rest of his body caught up with the fact that he was dead. Then he let go, slid down to his knees, and toppled onto his side.

The engineer fell in the other direction, passing out from fear and strain and the sudden relief of realizing that he was still alive.

Before Frank could holster his gun, a man’s voice called from behind him, “Drop it! Drop that gun, mister! I got a scattergun pointed right at you!”

Frank didn’t move. He asked, “Are you the law?”

“That’s right. I’m the town marshal here, and I got a shotgun and two deputies that’re armed too. You gonna put that gun down, or do we have to shoot?”

“Take it easy, Marshal,” Frank said. He bent forward and carefully placed the Colt on the roadbed. Then, he straightened and lifted both hands to shoulder level. “I’m turning around now.”

“Do it slow and careful-like, and don’t try nothin’ funny.”

Frank did as he was told, saw that the marshal was a stocky, middle-aged man with graying red hair. He was flanked by a couple of much younger and more nervous deputies. They worried Frank more than the marshal did. The local badge had the look of an experienced man who wouldn’t panic and start shooting unless he had good reason to.

“It’s all over, Marshal;’ Frank said, keeping his voice calm and steady. “Why don’t you tell your deputies to lower those Greeners? I’d hate for one of them to go off accidentally.”

“Won’t be nothin’ accidental about it if you try anything,” the lawman warned.

“I’m not going to. All I did was defend myself. Those men met the train with the sole intention of killing me. They were hired guns.”

The marshal frowned. “Who the hell are you, that somebody would send six bushwhackers after you?”

“My name is Frank Morgan.”

That meant something to all three of the star-packers. The eyes of the younger men got even wider. “Hell, he’s The Drifter!” one of the deputies exclaimed. “He’s in some o’ those yellowbacks I read!”

Frank tried not to sigh. Not for the first time, he thought there ought to be a law against pasty-faced scribblers making up a bunch of rubbish about real people and publishing it in dime novels.

“The Drifter, eh?” the marshal said. Without taking his eyes off Frank, he ordered his deputies, “Lower those scatterguns. Unless he’s got another gun hid somewhere on him, he’s unarmed, and I ain’t never heard nothin’ about Frank Morgan carryin’ a hideout. The lawman tucked his own Greener under his arm. “Now, what’s all this about, Morgan?”

“I’d be glad to come down to your office and tell you all about it, Marshal, but only if you can convince the conductor to hold the train for me. I don’t want to have to wait until the next eastbound comes through to be on my way.”

“I’ll see what I can do … but don’t forget, you ain’t the one givin’ the orders here.” The marshal turned his head and snapped at one of the deputies, “Go check on them fellas who got shot. Some of’ em might still be alive. Josh, you go fetch the doc.” As the deputies hurried to carry out the commands, the marshal asked Frank, “Did Endicott get hit?”

“Who?”

“Cleve Endicott. The engineer.”

“Oh,” Frank shook his head. “No, I don’t think he’s hurt. Looked to me like he just fainted.”

For the first time, a hint of amusement appeared on the lawman’s rugged face. “Swooned like a gal, eh? He’ll get some ribbin’ about that. I might’ve done the same thing, though. I saw that shot you made just as I was gettin’ here. That bullet couldn’t have missed him by much more’n an inch.”

“That was enough,” Frank said.

The marshal grunted. “Yeah. Come on, Morgan. Let’s go talk to the conductor.”

The conductor didn’t like holding the train, but he agreed to for half an hour. The engineer had to be brought around anyway, and given a little while to recover from his fainting spell.

The marshal, whose name was Harry Larch, walked down to his office with Frank. Larch had Frank’s Colt tucked behind his belt, and Frank had retrieved his hat from the roadbed where it had fallen off.

As he brushed dirt from the Stetson and settled it on his head, he asked, “Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet. I just want some answers, is all. There hasn’t been any real trouble here in my town for a long time, and I want to know why folks started dyin’ this morning all of a sudden.” The dying hadn’t started this morning, Frank thought. This was just the latest installment.

The marshal’s office was in a small, blocky building that also served as the town jail. A coffeepot sat on a cast-iron stove in the comer. After putting the shotgun back on the rack, Larch offered Frank a cup, and Frank accepted gratefully.

“I used to do some cowboying, and that’s where I learned to boil coffee,” the marshal said. “So this is pretty potent.”

Frank smiled. “Just the way I like it.”

Larch poured coffee for both of them and waved Frank into a chair in front of the battered, scarred desk. He took Frank’s gun from behind his belt and placed it on the desk. As he settled down in a swivel chair, he said, “Now tell me why somebody wants you dead, Morgan … other than the fact that a man like you must have a lot of enemies to start with.”

Frank took a sip of the strong black brew and nodded in appreciation. Then he said, “Those gunmen were sent to inter-cept me by a man in Boston named Charles Dutton.”

“Why would this fella Dutton do that?”

“Because he knows that I’m on my way to Boston to kill him.”

Larch’s bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. “Simple as that, eh?”

Frank nodded. “Simple as that.”

But it wasn’t simple, not really. Not at all. And the beginnings of it went back years. Maybe even decades, depending on how you looked at it.

It went all the way back to when he had met and fallen in love with and ultimately married a beautiful young woman named Vivian. Her father had been opposed to the marriage, and eventually had succeeded in having it set aside legally. But he couldn’t do anything about the child Vivian had been carrying when she and Frank parted, and even though Vivian had wound up marrying somebody else who had raised her son Conrad as his own, the boy was Frank’s and that connection would always exist between them.

Years later, they had met again. Vivian Browning was a widow by this time, and a very rich widow to boot. It was tben that Frank bad learned for tbe first time be bad a son. Conrad Browning’s dislike for Frank bad made his reunion with Vivian a bittersweet one, but given enough time, things might bave improved all around.

They didn’t get the chance to, because Vivian bad been betrayed and set up by one of ber attorneys, a man named Charles Dutton. Because of Dutton’s treachery, Vivian had been cut down by an outlaw’s bullet, ending her life and driving a wedge between Frank and Conrad that threatened to become permanent.

Fate had cast the two men together again on several occasions, and Conrad had overcome his resentment of his true father to form a grudging respect for Frank. They had even worked together to ward off threats to a railroad Conrad was building down in New Mexico Territory. They were partners whether they wanted to be or not, since Vivian’s will had left a large share of her business boldings to Frank and the rest to Conrad.

Frank had met Charles Dutton briefly, before Vivian’s death. He knew the man was responsible for what had happened, even though Dutton hadn’t actually pulled the trigger himself, and he was aware that Dutton had fled back to Boston. Frank had intended to go after him and settle the score, but other things had gotten in tbe way, keeping him from getting around to it.

And then while Frank was embroiled in a bloody range war down Arizona way, a hired killer had come after him and forced a showdown. Frank had emerged triumphant from that shoot-out. As the gunman lay dying, he had revealed that Charles Dutton had hired him to kill Frank. Clearly, Dutton felt that Frank’s very existence posed too much of a continu-ing threat and had decided to have him eliminated. .

Instead, the attempt on his life had served as a reminder for Frank, a reminder that he had unfinished business to take care of. Now he was on his way East, and nothing was going to sidetrack him until he had looked into Charles Dutton’s eyes and avenged Vivian’s death.

He quickly sketched in this background for Marshal Harry Larch, then said, “I suspect Dutton has spies keeping an eye on me. I rode from Arizona up to Denver and talked to my lawyers there, made arrangements for my horse and my dog to be taken care of while I was gone, and bought a train ticket to Boston. I see now that was a mistake, though.”

“How come?” Larch asked, clearly fascinated by Frank’s story.

“How come it was a mistake? Because if Dutton knows that I’m coming for him—and I’m sure he does-he’ll do his damnedest to try to stop me. He’ll try to have me killed before I can get anywhere close to him. He’s got the money to hire plenty of gunmen too … money he stole from my late wife.”

“What’s that got to do with you riding the train?”

“I’m an easy target on a train,” Frank explained. “There’s no room to move, and there are too many innocent people around. Not only that, but the men who are after me will always know where to find me.” He shook his head. “What I’ve got to do is throw them off the trail. That’s my best chance of getting to Dutton.”

Larch rubbed his jaw and frowned in thought. “Even if you make it to Boston, it won’t be easy gettin’ to Dutton. He’ll probably have himself a bunch o’ bodyguards.”

“I expect so,” Frank said with a calm nod.

“So you’re willin’ to fight your way through a whole army o’ hired guns and guards just to take your shot at this hombre.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

The marshal laced his hands together and leaned back in his chair as his frown darkened. “There’s one thing you’re for-gettin’, Morgan …. No matter how justified you may feel in seekin’ revenge, what you’re really talkin’ about is murder. This is a civilized country now. You can’t just walk up to a man and gun him down, no matter what he’s done. If you can prove that Dutton is responsible for your wife’s death, you need to go to the law and let them handle it.” .

Frank nodded. “I wouldn’t expect you to tell me any different, Marshal. And what you say would be mighty good advice for most people. But I’m in the habit of stompm’ my own snakes and I reckon I’m too old to change now.”

Larch sighed and reached out to rest his hand on Frank’s gun. He shoved the Peacemaker across the desk toward The Drifter. “All I can say is that I’m damn sure glad this fella Dutton is in Boston and not here in my town. This is gonna be some other lawman’s worry.”

Chapter 3

Only one of the hired killers had survived the shoot-out at the train station, the man whose shoulder Frank had broken with a bullet. He was expected to recover from his wound, although in all likelihood he would never have full use of that arm again. Frank and Marshal Larch stopped in at the doctor’s office to see the man on their way back to the depot.

The doctor’s office was in his house, about a block from the station. The wounded man was propped up in bed with bandages wrapped around his shoulder. One of Larch’s deputies sat in a straight chair next to the wall, a shotgun lying across his knees.

The gunman was pale from pain and loss of blood. He had a thin, beard-stubbled face and watery eyes. He didn’t look at Frank and the marshal as they came into the room.

Larch said, “In case you ain’t figured it out yet, you’re under arrest for attempted murder.”

“I didn’t try to murder nobody,” the man muttered sullenly. Still without looking at Frank, he waved his left hand in The Drifter’s general direction. “He’s the fella you oughtta be ar-restin’. He gunned down my friends for no good reason.”

“Other than the fact that you were shootin’ at him.”

“He shot first,” the gunman accused.

Larch glanced over at Frank, who nodded. “As a matter of fact that’s true,” Frank admitted. “I saw them through the window and recognized them for what they were. They split up half of them heading for the front of the car and the other three for the back. I met this man and two others at the back of the car They pointed their rifles at me and one of them yelled at the leader that I was back there. I figured that was justification enough.”

The deputy nodded and said, “That fits with the story Josh and me got from the witnesses, Marshal.”

“I never said you weren’t justified in what you did, Morgan,” Larch said. “I wish you’d picked some other town to shoot up though.” He held up his hands to forestall Frank’s response. “I know. It wasn’t really your choice, was it?”

The gunman said, “Morgan’s a killer. He’s killed hundreds of men, from what I’ve heard. He’s the one who oughtta be behind bars.”

“I never killed anybody who didn’t have it coming,Frank said. “And I’d challenge anybody to prove otherwise.

“Never mind about that,” Larch said. ‘All I’m concerned with is what happened here, and I’m satisfted you acted in self-defense. I’ll testify to as much at the inquest, which is the only reason I’m willin’ to let you catch that train and,leave town.” He turned his attention back to the gunman. “Now, who hired you and those other boys to kill Morgan?”

The man’s expression grew even more sulky. “Nobody hired us. I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Was it a man named Dutton?” Larch asked, ignoring the gunman’s denial.

Frank was watching the man’s eyes closely, and he saw no sign of recognition in them. The gunman had never heard of Charles Dutton. That didn’t really come as a surprise. Rance had been the leader of the bunch, and it was entirely possible he was the only one who had known who they were working for.

“This is all crazy,” the gunman insisted, refusing to answer Larch’s question. “Morgan started shootin’ at us for no reason.”

Larch nodded wearily. “You just stick to that story, son. We’ll see whether or not ajury believes it … and then you’ll have a nice long time to think about it in prison.”

Frank caught the marshal’s eye and gave a little shake of his head. Larch was wasting his time. The would-be killer didn’t know anything that could be used legally against Dutton. As usual, the slick lawyer had covered his tracks, although it was lucky for Dutton that Rance had been killed in the shooting.

“Stay here and keep an eye on him for now,” Larch ordered the deputy. “As soon as the doc says it’s all right, we’ll move him down to the jail. He can recuperate there while he’s waitin’ to stand trial.”

With that, Frank and the marshal left the doctor’s house and walked on to the railroad station. The stationmaster, the conductor, the engineer, and the brakeman were conferring on the platform. They turned to look at the newcomers, and the conductor asked irritably, “Are we about ready to roll again? The head office ain’t gonna be happy about us fallin’ this far behind schedule.”

The stationmaster put in, “I wired on ahead to the next stop so they’d know to expect a delay. Shouldn’t cause too much of a problem. Cleve can make up a little time between stops.”

The engineer seemed to be none the worse for his perilous experience earlier. He frowned at Frank and said, “Mister, you damned near shot me.”

“But I didn’t,” Frank replied coolly. “When you get right down to cases, that’s all that really counts, isn’t it?”

The engineer’s reply was a grudging, “Maybe. But what if

I’d moved my head a little just as you pulled the trigger?”

“That would have been a shame,” Frank said. “I was counting on you being too scared to move.”

The engineer glared, but didn’t make any reply to that. He looked at the other men and said, “I’ve got steam up. Let’s get the hell outta here.”

Frank went back to the passenger car where he had been riding earlier. As he found a seat, he felt the eyes of the other passengers watching him. They had been talking animatedly among themselves about the gun battle they had witnessed, but they fell silent as Frank walked past them. Everybody in here now knew that the notorious gunslinger known as The Drifter was among them. Some were intrigued and impressed, but most of them were just plain scared. Frank couldn’t blame them for feeling that way either. When they had gotten on this train, they hadn’t known that they would be riding with a famous gunfighter with a habit of attracting trouble.

That was truer now than ever. Frank had no doubt that if he remained on this train, he would draw more killers than honey did flies.

About five miles east of the town where the shoot-out had taken place, there was a grade that, while not steep, was long enough to cause the train to slow down a little. At the top of that grade, Frank Morgan tossed the carpetbag, he had purchased in Denver from the rear platform of the caboose and then swung down to the ground himself, running a few steps before he caught his balance and stopped.

He looked up at the caboose, where the conductor stood with his arms crossed and an unfriendly look on his face. Clearly, the conductor was glad to see Frank leave the train, even if it wasn’t at a scheduled stop.

As the train chugged on eastward, receding into the distance, Frank picked up his carpetbag and walked in the same direction. Like most men who had spent the greater portion of their lives in the saddle, he didn’t care much for walking, but his low-heeled boots didn’t hurt his feet too much. Besides, he didn’t have very far to go. Only a couple of hundred yards ahead was a line of cottonwood trees that marked the course of a creek. That was his destination.

He walked beside the gleaming steel rails until he reached the creek, which was spanned by a short trestle. Moving under the trees, he found a log where he could sit down and wait with his carpetbag at his feet. The shade was welcome. The sun had risen high enough by now that the day was beginning to heat up.

Frank had been waiting only about half an hour when he heard the hoofbeats of several horses approaching. He stood up and turned toward the sound. Out of habit, his hand hovered near the butt of the gun on his hip. After a moment, he relaxed as he recognized the man riding toward the creek and leading two horses behind him.

Marshal Harry Larch rode into the trees and brought his mount to a halt. He swung down from the saddle and handed the reins of the two riderless horses to Frank.

Larch said, “I’m damned if I know why I’m doin’ this, Morgan. I ought to arrest you, considerin’ the errand you’re on.” He shrugged. “But I’m old enough to remember a time when the only law west of the Mississippi was what a man packed on his hip. Those were worse times in a lot of ways … but by God, I’m not convinced that justice wasn’t better served back then too.”

“That’s one of the burdens of getting older, Marshal,” Frank told him. “You see too many changes, good and bad.” He looked over the horses Larch had brought him. Both were geldings. One was a rangy lineback dun with a bit of a mean cast to his eyes, the other a sturdy chestnut with a white blaze and three white stockings. The dun was saddled, while the chestnut had several bags full of supplies slung over its back.

Frank transferred the contents of his carpetbag to the saddlebags on the dun, then handed the empty carpetbag to Larch and said, “If you know anybody who can make good use of that, they’re welcome to it.”

“Hell, it’s nearly brand-new.”

“I’m used to traveling light,” Frank said with a shrug.

“And money don’t mean a whole lot to you, does it? With what you gave me back in town, I was able to pay the livery owner a good price for these horses.”

“Anybody who claims money doesn’t matter has never been without it,” Frank said. “I know what it’s like to be poor. I have been, plenty of times in my life. But I also know that money’s real value is in what it can accomplish. I’d spend every penny I have if it helped me settle the score with Dutton.”

Larch grimaced. “Just take the horses-you paid for ‘em-and don’t remind me that you’re on your way to kill a man.”

Frank nodded. He put his foot in the stirrup and swung up into the dun’s saddle. Then he reached down and held out his hand to Larch. The marshal hesitated for a second, but then took it in a firm grip.

“I don’t know whether to wish you luck or not,” Larch said gruffly, “but I reckon I hope you don’t get yourself killed, Morgan.”

“I’ll settle for that,” Frank replied with a grin. “So long, Marshal,”

As he rode out from under the trees, Frank though he heard Larch mutter, “Vaya con Dios” behind him.

It wouldn’t be long before Dutton heard about the shoot-out at the railroad station. In these days of telegraphic communica-tion, news could travel hundreds of miles, even thousands, in no time at all. It was even possible that Dutton had an agent on the same train as Frank, keeping an eye on him.

But even if that was the case, no one would know for sure that Frank was no longer on board until the train reached the next town. No one except Marshal Larch and the train’s conductor, that is, and Frank didn’t think either of them would reveal what they knew. Frank had worked out the plan with Larch and given the marshal money to buy the horses and supplies, and not until the train was already moving had Frank sought out the conductor and explained to him what he was going to do. That had been fine with the conductor, who was happy to see Frank gone before more trouble broke out.

Of course, it was going to take a lot longer to reach Boston on horseback than it would by rail, but that delay couldn’t be avoided Besides, Frank thought, he sort of liked the idea that Dutton would have longer to wait and worry this way. Maybe It was a little malicious to feel like that—but Frank thought that his grief over Vivian’s death had earned him the right to feel some malice toward Dutton.

He cut north from the railroad, heading for the low, rolling mounds of the Smoky Hills. He wasn’t quite sure just how a fella would go about riding a horse all the way to Boston but he supposed that if he kept heading in the right general direction, he would get there sooner or later.

By nightfall, he was a long way from where he had left the train, and he wondered if Dutton had found out by now what had happened.

Frank found a good place to camp among the hills, next to a small stream. He unsaddled the dun and took the supplies off the chestnut and hobbled both horses. If he’d been riding his stallion Stormy, he would have just turned him loose knowing that Stormy wouldn’t stray far. As he built a small fire and settled down to fry some bacon, he thought about Stormy and the big cur called Dog, and he hoped both of the animals were doing all right back in Denver. He wouldn’t have left them behind if he had known how things were going to work out, but at the time he had planned to travel all the way to Boston on the train, and had figured that having the animals along would only complicate things, especially once he reached the city.

The biggest towns Frank had ever seen were New Orleans St. Louis, and San Francisco, although Denver was starting to get some pretty good size to it. He wondered what Boston would be like. The thought of being surrounded by thousands and thousands of people made him a little uneasy. Not only that, but he had heard that there were towns everywhere back East, instead of just every so often along the trail, Thinking about that made Frank shake his head. He wasn’t sure why folks would want to live like that. He’d have trouble breathing if he couldn’t get out away from everybody else once in a while … like in these Smoky Hills of Kansas. .

Which were about to get more crowded, he realized suddenly as he lifted his head and listened to the sound of hoofbeats that came out of the night. Riders … .

A lot of them, from the sound of it, and they were commg fast.

Chapter 4.

There had been a time when a man wouldn’t want to travel alone out here, and if he did, he sure wouldn’t build a fire at night. That was just asking to have a bunch of Cheyenne or Pawnee come along and lift his hair.

Frank knew, though, that all the Indians were on reservations now, and the odds of it being a war party galloping toward him ranged from pretty slim to almost none. Despite that, he set the frying pan aside, stood up, and kicked dirt over the flames, quickly extinguishing them. He didn’t want to announce his presence here until he had a better idea what was going on. He moved over by his horses and put his hands over their noses to keep them quiet.

Waiting in the shadows next to a clump of brush, Frank stood motionless as about a dozen riders came up to the creek and stopped about twenty yards downstream from him. He heard a man say, “We’ll let the horses drink for a minute.”

It was dark enough so that Frank couldn’t see the men very well. They all wore broad-brimmed hats, but there was something odd about the shape of the heads under those hats. They looked … lumpy somehow, like they weren’t even human. Frank felt a chill go through him.

But then one of the men reached up, took off his hat, and pulled something else off his head. He dragged the sleeve of his shirt across his forehead, wiping away sweat.

“Put that back on,” snapped the man who had given the order about letting the horses drink.

“Sorry, Boss,” the other man said. He quickly donned both of the items he had taken off.

It made sense now to Frank. The riders were masked. They wore some sort of hoods, probably made out of flour sacks with eyeholes cut in them, or something like that. Their hats were crammed down on top of the hoods.

In Frank’s experience, men who went around with masks covering their faces seldom did so because they were up to anything good. They were usually bent on mischief and didn’t want anybody to recognize them.

The dun and the chestnut stirred uneasily. Frank knew they wanted to call out to the other horses, so he tightened his grip on their noses. The horses ridden by the masked men nickered at Frank’s animals, but no one seemed to notice.

“How much farther you reckon it is, Boss?” one of the other men asked.

“Not far. Remember, we don’t plan on killing anything except livestock. But if you have to shoot to kill to protect yourself, that’s all right. And if some of those sodbusters happen to get in the way of stray bullets, I’m not going to lose any sleep over it.”

Frank’s jaw tightened with anger as he heard those callous words. These masked men were on a mission of murder, and he might well be the only one besides them who knew about it.

Another voice said, “You know, I thought I caught a glimpse of a light up here as we were ridin’ toward the creek, Boss. You think there could be somebody around?”

“Anything is possible,” the leader replied, “but I didn’t see a light.”

“Well, it went out right quick. Do you want some of us to take a look up and down the creek, just to make sure there ain’t nobody lurkin’ around?”

“No, you do it, Bonner. I can’t spare anyone else. And you’d better catch up with us before we get there.”

The man called Bonner sounded like he wished he had never brought up the subject as he said reluctantly, “Sure, Boss. I was probably wrong anyway.”

“Just on the chance that you actually did see something, I want you to check it out. We don’t need trouble coming up behind us tonight. The rest of you, let’s go.”

The horses splashed across the creek, except for Bonner’s. Frank heard the man muttering to himself as the rest of the hooded riders pushed their horses into a trot and headed on north toward their destination.

Bonner turned his mount and rode slowly along the creek bank toward the spot where Frank stood. Even though whatever was going to happen tonight was none of his business, Frank wasn’t the sort of man who could stand by and let innocent people suffer if he could do anything about it. His mind was racing, and he had already come up with the beginnings of a plan. He stood stock-still and waited for the masked gunman to come to him.

The moon wasn’t up yet, but Frank saw starlight reflect off the gun that Bonner gripped in his hand. Bonner wasn’t taking any chances. He was ready to fire at an instant’s notice. That was going to make things trickier for Frank. He would have to move as fast as he possibly could.

He kept pinching the nostrils of the dun and the chestnut so they wouldn’t give him away, until Bonner was less than ten feet from him. Then Frank lunged at the gunman, reaching up with his left hand toward Bonner’s gun. Moving with blinding speed, he closed his hand tightly around the revolver’s cylinder so that even if Bonner pulled the trigger, the gun couldn’t fire. With his right hand, Frank grabbed the man’s arm and hauled hard on it.

Bonner came out of the saddle with a startled yell. Frank kept his grip on the man’s gun as he flung Bonner to the ground. He gave the weapon a hard wrench and heard the snap as Bonner’s finger, trapped in the trigger guard, broke under the strain. Bonner shouted again.

Frank dropped on top of the man and drove his right fist to Bonner’s jaw in a sledgehammer blow. Bonner jerked under the impact and then went limp, knocked senseless by the ter-rific punch. Frank pulled the gun out of nerveless fingers and stood up.

He didn’t know if the others had heard Bonner’s two shouts, but he thought it was unlikely. They were far enough away and the sound of their horses’ hoofbeats would cover up some noises. A shot would have been a different story-that they would have heard-so he’d had to make sure that Bonner wasn’t able to fire.

Now Bonner was unconscious and had a broken finger to boot, so Frank didn’t think he would be much of a threat. To make certain of that, he pulled Bonner’s belt out of the loops on the man’s trousers, rolled Bonner onto his stomach, and used the belt to tie his hands behind his back. Bonner would probably be able to work himself loose, but it would take him a good long while.

Bonner was wearing a long duster. Frank had a similar one rolled up in his gear. He broke it out, unrolled it, and put it on. Then he pulled the hood off Bonner’s head. He had guessed right; the thing was made from a small flour sack. It even still smelled a little like flour as Frank put it on.

His own hat was the same sort that Bonner wore, so he settled it on top of the hood rather than using the gunman’s hat. Satisfied that he could pass for Bonner in the dark, he took the reins of the man’s horse and swung up into the saddle. He rode across the creek and then urged the animal into a faster pace. He wanted to catch up to the hooded men before they reached their destination and started making trouble for somebody.

Sodbusters. That was the word the leader had used. Frank remembered how stubbornly the ranchers who had been some of the first settlers on the frontier had resisted the steady influx: of farmers bent on carving up the vast cattle empires and grabbing some of that land for themselves. That conflict had inevitably resulted in trouble, often gun trouble, from Texas to Montana. Ranchers-and the Colt-men they had hired-had burned down barns, stampeded cattle through crops, killed livestock, and beaten and sometimes killed the farmers, who had been encouraged by the government to move in and homestead on land the ranchers considered their own, whether it had ever been legally filed on or not.

Not that all the right had been on one side and wrong on . the other. Farmers had been known to do some barn-burning of their own, and sometimes they poisoned water holes when they couldn’t fence them off, resulting in the deaths of hundreds of cattle. They had imported gun-throwers of their own. Hired killers didn’t care who they worked for, as long as the price was right.

Such bloody wars between cattleman and farmer still went on sometimes, but farther west now, in places like Wyoming and Colorado. Kansas had long been established as the farmers’ domain. The extension of the railroads into Texas and the resulting end of the cattle-drive era had seen to that.

From the sound of what Frank had overheard, somebody was trying to bring back the bad old days in these parts. Once Frank was sure what the situation was, he would do what he could to stop it before innocent folks got hurt.

It wasn’t long before Frank came in sight of the other riders. At first, they were just a dark mass moving over the rolling hills, but soon he was close enough to make out the individual figures. They were bunched up, which was a shame. If they had been spread out, he might have been able to come up to one or two of them and fool them into thinking he was Bonner until he was close enough to bend a gun barrel over their heads. It didn’t look like that was going to be an option, though.

One of them must have noticed him and told the others, because they all reined in and paused a moment to wait for him. As Frank came up to them, the leader asked, “Did you find anything, Bonner?”

Frank was trusting to the hood to muffle his voice and disguise it. He also pitched it lower than normal as he replied curtly, “Nothin’.”

“I didn’t think so,” the leader said. “Come on.”

He urged his horse into motion again and the others, now including The Drifter, fell in with him.

A few minutes later, they came in sight of a scattering of lights. As they rode closer, those pinpoints of illumination became the warm yellow glow of lamplight through windows. This was some sort of community they were approaching, Frank thought. Maybe a group of farmers who had all settled together.

The hooded riders paused again at the top of a small rise. Frank estimated that there were at least a dozen houses spread out before them, along with barns, smokehouses, storage buildings, and the like. Beyond the little settlement, carefully cultivated fields stretched for as far as the eye could see. Frank spotted a couple of grain silos in the distance. A lot of hard work had gone into this community, hard work that these hooded riders seemed intent on wrecking.

“Remember what I told you,” the boss said harshly. “Let’s go.”

He heeled his horse into a gallop and started down the gentle slope. The rest of the gunmen were right behind him.

Frank came last, trying to hang back without being too conspicuous about it. His left hand held the dun’s reins, while his right drew the Peacemaker from its holster.

The other men had drawn their guns too. The sound of the galloping horses must have been heard, because a door was thrown open in one of the houses and a couple of men ran outside. Frank thought they were carrying rifles. One of them shouted, “Who’s there? Damn it, who are you?”

The only answer was a sudden spurt of gunfire from several of the hooded riders, including the leader. Colt flame bloomed in the darkness as they started shooting.

The two men scrambled for the safety of the house, but one of them suddenly dropped his rifle, grabbed at his leg, and tumbled off his feet. Frank knew the man must have been wounded. The hooded riders veered their horses toward him. The man who had been with the wounded man ran back out, got hold of him under the arms, and hurriedly dragged him into the house before the riders could trample right over him.

Frank edged the horse up next to the closest of the hooded men. He reversed the Colt in his hand and struck out with it, smashing the butt of the gun into the man’s head. The hat and hood absorbed some of the force of the blow, but it was hard enough to knock him out anyway. He pitched out of the saddle and landed hard on the ground, rolling over a couple oftirnes before coming to a stop.

None of the other hooded riders noticed what Frank had done. They were too busy firing their guns and whooping stri-dently in an attempt to strike terror into the hearts of the farming families. Frank was able to move up next to another one and strike again, and again one of the raiders tumbled senseless out of the saddle.

That didn’t pass unnoticed this time. One of the riders yelled, “Bonner, what the hell—?” Then, as Frank came closer, the man bellowed, “You ain’t Bonner!” He tried to jerk his pistol into line for a shot.

Frank didn’t give him the chance. He rammed his mount into the man’s horse and then struck him across the masked face with the pistol. The man sagged, but managed to stay mounted. He wouldn’t be yelling anymore, though; Frank had felt the jawbone shatter when he hit it with the Colt.

That was three of the eleven accounted for, but that still left eight gunmen who were starting to get the idea that something was wrong. Several of them wheeled their horses around. The leader shouted, “That’s not Bonner! Get him! Shoot the son of a bitch!” Mounted killers leaped toward Frank, flame spouting from the muzzles of the guns in their hands

Chapter 5

The hooded riders might not have intended to kill any of the farmers whose community they were raiding, but when it came to the mysterious stranger in their midst, all bets were off. Lead whistled around Frank’s head as the gunmen closed in on him.

They called the tune, he thought. They could damned well dance to it now.

He flipped the Peacemaker around so that the butt settled comfortably in the palm of his hand. The revolver bucked and roared as he began squeezing off shots.

A couple of the raiders cried out in pain and slumped in their saddles as Frank’s bullets tore into them. One slid all the way off his horse. At the same time, Frank drove his heels into his horse’s flanks and sent the animal leaping forward, not only meeting the gunmen’s charge, but smashing right into the middle of them. Suddenly, in the darkness, Frank was in-distinguishable from the other hooded men all around him, and they had to hold their fire because they didn’t know who was who.

That unexpected maneuver was effective for the moment. but it had its drawbacks too. The raiders didn’t know which one he was, but the people inside the houses didn’t know that he was on their side either. They opened fire with rifles and shotguns, and the deadly lead that clawed through the night was just as likely to strike Frank as it was the others.

He leaned forward over the horse’s neck, making himself a smaller target, and burst out from the clump of raiders. Twisting in the saddle, he threw a couple of shots at them, and saw one of the gunmen grab at a wounded shoulder. The Peacemaker was empty, so Frank jammed it back in its holster and then reached up to take off his hat and rip the hood from his head. He whirled the horse and rode around one of the settlers’ houses. A couple of the raiders pounded after him.

In a matter of moments, he had struck a significant blow at the crew of gunmen. Half of them were either unconscious or wounded, and the people who lived here were putting up a good fight and peppering the remaining raiders with hot lead.

So Frank wasn’t surprised when he heard the leader of the gunmen bellow, “Let’s get out of here!” Having met stiffer resistance than he’d expected, and an equally unexpected enemy in the midst of his gang, he was prepared to cut his losses.

The order to retreat didn’t slow down the two men who were giving chase to Frank. Shots blasted after him, searching for him in the darkness. One of the bullets came so close, he heard it whisper past his ear. He sent his horse darting around the comer of a barn, and in the brief moment when he was out of sight of his pursuers, Frank pulled his Winchester from the saddle boot and dropped off the back of the horse.

He pressed himself against the wall of the barn, holding the Winchester slanted across his chest. The two raiders thundered around the comer. Frank stepped out and swung the rifle, gripping it by the barrel. The stock slammed into one of the riders and swept him backward, right out of the saddle. He crashed to the ground on his back with a loud grunt.

Frank turned the Winchester around, held it normally, and snapped it up to his shoulder as the other gunman wheeled his horse. The man triggered a wild shot at Frank that thudded into the barn. Frank’s rifle cracked, a tongue of flame lick-ing from its muzzle. The gunman slewed sideways under the impact of the bullet, and then fell off his horse. One of his feet hung in the stirrup, though, and he was dragged along as the horse bolted. .

If the bullet hadn’t killed the man, being dragged like that probably would. Frank didn’t have time to worry about that He spun around in time to see the other man, the one he’d knocked off the horse, struggle to his feet and take off in a stumbling run. All the fight had been knocked out of him.

Frank fired at the fleeing man, aiming low in an attempt to knock a leg out from under him and bring him down without killing him. The man didn’t slow down, so Frank knew his shot had missed. The raider vanished into the darkness.

The rest of the shooting had stopped. Frank heard rapid hoofbeats receding in the distance. That would be the hooded riders taking off for the tall and uncut. He wondered if they had taken their wounded with them. He hoped at least one of the raiders had been left behind so that Frank could get the answers to some questions.

At the moment, he had another problem, because several men came running around the barn and leveled shotguns at him. “Don’t move, you bastard!” one of them yelled. “Drop that rifle or we’ll blow you apart!”

Frank didn’t drop the Winchester, but he lifted both hands to shoulder level so that the men could see he meant no harm. “Take it easy,” he said, keeping his voice calm and level so that maybe they would be calm too. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not wearing a hood. I’m not one of the bunch that rode in yelling and shooting.”

“You were with them,” one of the men replied. “You had to be.”

“That’s because I knocked out one of them, stole his hood, and took his place until I could find out what they were going to do. I heard them talking when they came by my camp, and I knew they were up to no good-“

“No good?” another man broke in. “All they want to do is run us off our own land, and if they can’t do that, they’ll kill us all! I’d say that was bein’ up to no good.”

“So would I,” Frank agreed. “That’s why I wanted to stop them. Were any of your people badly hurt?”

“Roy Wilson got a bullet through the leg. Reckon he’s the only one who was wounded. They shot a couple of milk cows too.” There was a tone of grudging respect in the first man’s voice as he added, “But I expect they would have done a lot worse if they’d gotten the chance. You can put your hands down, mister.”

Frank lowered his arms gratefully. The Winchester had been getting heavy. He asked, “What is this place?”

“We call it Elysium. It’s from mythology and means a place

of perfect happiness.” .

The man’s voice held some bitterness as he explained what the community’s name meant. Based on what Frank had seen tonight, he would have been willing to bet that things hadn’t been perfectly happy around here lately.

“The Elysian Fields were the abode of the dead,” he pointed out, having read the classics himself. He always had a book or two in his saddlebags. “Some folks might not want to name a settlement after a place like that.”

“Yes, well, this isn’t the time or place to argue such things,” the man who seemed to be the leader said. “Come with us.”

They stepped back to let Frank go in front of them. He noticed that although they lowered their shotguns slightly, they kept the Greeners pointed in his general direction. He walked back to the large open area in the center of the settlement. The houses were scattered around it, so that it formed a sort of public square.

Lamps burned brightly in all the houses, and several men in the large group that had gathered in the square held lanterns. As Frank and the men with him came up, one of the men carrying a lantern swung it toward them and asked, “Who’s that? Did you catch one of the miscreants, Horace?”

“He claims he’s not one of them,” the leader replied. “Says he pretended to be so that he could try to stop them from harming us.”

A man snorted in disbelief. “A likely story! He’s just trying to save his own hide!”

“I’m not so sure about that,” another man put in. “I was watching, and I saw one of them who seemed to turn suddenly on the others. He shot at them and then rode off with a couple of them chasing him. That must have been this fellow.”

Frank looked around the group. Some were fully dressed, some just wore trousers pulled on over long underwear, and a couple were dressed in nightshirts. They must have turned in early, only to be shocked out of bed by gunfire. Most had the rangy, weathered look of men who worked long and hard and spent most of their time outdoors. Frank wasn’t surprised that they were farmers. They looked the part.

“Yes, that was me,” Frank said. “Like I told you, I was trying to stop them.”

“Looked like he did for four or five of them. I think he must be tellin’ the truth, Horace.”

The leader grunted. “We’ll reserve judgment on that.” He said to Frank, “Who are you, mister?”

Not for the first time in his life, Frank thought about giving a less-than-honest answer to that question. His reputation was widespread, and it often caused him more problems than it did benefits. But lying went against the grain, so he said, “My name is Frank Morgan.”

He saw the quick glances that several of the men exchanged and knew they recognized his name. One of them said, “Morgan the gunfighter?”

Before Frank could answer, one of the others said, “Yeah, it is him! I’ve seen his picture in the Illustrated Weekly and the Police Gazette!”

Horace asked, “Is this true?”

Frank couldn’t resist responding, “Which part? The fact that some call me a gunfighter or the business about having my picture in those magazines?”

Horace frowned. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, rawboned man with a lined, sunburned face and white hair. He said, “You know damned well which one I meant, Mr. Morgan.”

“You seem to have made up your own mind, so there’s not really any point in me answering, is there?”

“Yeah, he’s the gunslinger, all right,” another man said nervously. “You better be careful, Horace. You don’t want to rile him.”

For God’s sake, Frank thought, what was wrong with these people? He had risked his life to help them, and now they were suddenly looking at him as if he were some sort of rabid beast that had wandered into their community.

Although he wasn’t in the habit of explaining himself, he said, “Look, I don’t mean you folks any harm. Like I told you, I just happened to hear those men talking, and when I saw that they were wearing masks, I knew they were going to cause trouble for somebody. I’ve seen their sort before.”

“So have we,” said Horace. “They’re hired guns. They work for a man named Carter. Their boss is called Parmalee.”

The name Parmalee was familiar to Frank, but he couldn’t quite place it right off. “You know who they are and why they attacked you?”

Horace snorted in disgust. “Of course we know. We’re not fools. This isn’t the first time they’ve raided us. But they wear those masks so it wouldn’t do us any good to call in the law. We couldn’t identify them positively or testify against them in court.”

“Say,” one of the men suddenly exclaimed, “Carter hired Parmalee and his killers. Maybe we could hire Morgan here to fight back against them.”

Frank stiffened. “No matter what you’ve heard about me, my gun’s not for hire.”

“You’ve gotten mixed up in plenty of shooting wars before, unless everything we’ve heard about you is a lie.”

“I’ve seen my share of trouble,” Frank admitted. “But any ruckus I took part in was because friends of mine were in trouble, or because one side was clearly in the right—”

“We’re in trouble,” a man said.

“And we’re in the right,” added another. “We just want to be left alone to live our lives and raise our crops and our families.”

“We don’t have a whole lot of money,” a third man said, “but we could pool all our resources and afford to pay you something—”

“Forget it,” Frank broke in. The hated image of Charles Dutton lurked in the back of his mind. “I’m sorry you folks are in trouble, but I have business of my own to attend to. I’m just passing through these parts.”

“But—”

Horace interrupted the plea before it could really begin. “You heard what the man said.” He went on gruffly. “Look, Mr. Morgan, we appreciate what you did for us tonight. But this is our problem, not yours, and if you want to just move along, don’t let us keep you.”

Frank wondered for a second if Horace was trying to trick him into offering his help, but he decided that the man was too genuine and plainspoken to do that. Horace was the sort of man who said what he meant and meant what he said.

“Did all of them get away?” Frank asked as he looked around

“Yeah,” one of the farmers said. “The fellas who weren’t hit picked up the ones who were and carried them off.”

“Well, I know where I left the man I knocked out and whose place I took. I’ll go get him, and you can turn him over to the law. Maybe he’ll talk and implicate the others.”

Frank’s offer caused a mutter of excitement among the men. “That could help us, all right,” Horace said. “If one of their own men testified against Parmalee and Carter, the authorities wouldn’t have any choice but do something about them.”

“Just let me find my horse,” Frank said.

Horace spoke decisively. “We’ll do more than that. Some of us will go with you.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Maybe not, but Parmalee and his men could still be out there somewhere. If you were to run into them, it could go badly for you.”

Frank shrugged. “All right, but let’s get moving. The longer we wait, the more chance that hombre has of getting away.”

Chapter 6

The horse Frank had taken from Bonner hadn’t gone very far. It didn’t take long to find him, and while Frank was doing that, Horace and several of the other men saddled horses to accompany him.

Their mounts were all plodding, shaggy farm animals, Frank saw as they gathered in the square. They didn’t have very far to go, though, so he supposed the others would be . able to keep up.

“The rest of you men stay here and be alert for trouble,” Horace told the ones who weren’t mounted. “I don’t think Parmalee and his bunch will come back tonight, but you can’t ever tell about renegades like that.”

Frank headed back the way he had come with the rest of the men following him. He had been through the Smoky Hills in years past, but that had been quite a while ago and he didn’t know his way around all that well. It was night on top of that, so he had to be careful not to lose his way. He had kept his eyes open after leaving his campsite, though, and he had the frontiersman’s knack of being able to follow a trail once he had been over it.

Horace moved up alongside him and said, “We weren’t properly introduced back there. I’m Horace Duncan. And I know who you are, of course.”

“Pleased to meet you, Horace,” Frank said. “Even under the circumstances.” He paused, unsure whether to say what he was thinking, but curiosity and his own plainspoken nature compelled him to go on. “You strike me as a well-educated man. Most of the others do too.”

“For a bunch of farmers, you mean?” Horace grunted testily. “You don’t have to be ignorant to till the soil, you know. As a matter off act, I used to teach botany and horticul-ture at one of the universities back East. Most of us have at least some college education. Before we came out here, we all decided to settle together and apply scientific methods to our farming. There’s a fellow out in California named Bur-bank who’s had quite a bit of success crossbreeding various strains of plants to improve the crops, and we’re trying to follow his example.”

Frank chuckled. “Yeah, I can tell you used to be a professor. Warm up real nice to your subject, don’t you?”

“You asked,” Horace said tartly.

“Yeah, I reckon I did.” Frank paused for a moment, then went on. “I think I’ve heard of Parmalee. He’s just a hired gun, maybe a little worse than some. But who’s this fella Carter who’s got it in for you? I didn’t think there were any cattle barons left in this part of the country. All the big ranches are farther west.”

Horace sounded a little confused as he said, “Carter’s not a rancher. Why would you think that?”

“Who else would want to run a bunch of farmers off their land?”

“Thaddeus Carter works for the railroad. He’s a businessman. He hates us because we’ve formed a Grange with some of the other farmers in the area and we’ve been trying to persuade the state legislature to regulate freight rates on the rail lines. They’re so high that no matter how efficiently we produce our crops, we can’t make a decent living because we have to pay so much to ship them to market.”

Frank reined in. “Wait a minute. You mean this fella Carter hired a bunch of hooded night riders because of a business dispute?”

“It may not be the sort of trouble you’re used to,” Horace said stiffly, “but I assure you, it’s serious to us. Deadly serious. You could see that for yourself tonight.”

“Yeah, I reckon,” Frank said. He clucked to the horse and got it moving again. If he had needed any more evidence that the West was changing, surely this was it. People had started shooting at each other over freight rates and political arguments. More than ever, Frank felt like a relic of a vanished time.

He wasn’t going to sit around and brood about it, though. For one thing, he and the other men had reached the creek where he’d made camp earlier. The dun and the chestnut he had left here nickered, calling out to the other horses.

Frank rode across the creek and dismounted. Bonner was gone. Frank looked at the place where he had left the unconscious gunman lying and saw that it was empty. He bit back a curse.

“He’s not here. I tied him up, but it looks like he worked himself loose quicker than I thought he would.” .

“Damn it,” Horace said. “This was finally our chance to get something we could use against Parmalee and Carter-“

Frank lifted his head suddenly and held up a hand for silence. He had heard something, a faint rustling in the brush along the creek. …

“Get down!” he called sharply, instinct taking over. He dived to the ground as a gun roared. The muzzle flash came from the brush where Frank had heard the noise. With a sound like the crack of a whip, the bullet passed over his head.

His Colt was already in his hand when he hit the ground. He pulled the trigger twice, aiming low and neatly bracketing the spot where he had seen the flash of the other gun. No more shots came from the brush, but Frank heard.a groan of pain.

“Anybody hit back there?” he asked Horace and the other men behind him.

“No, we’re all right,” Horace replied. “What about you, Mr. Morgan?”

“I’m fine,’ Frank said as he climbed to his feet, keeping his gun trained on the dark clump of brush. He advanced slowly toward it.

“Be careful,” Horace warned. “The man could be trying to trick you.”

Moans still came from the brush. “Could be,” Frank said, “but I don’t think so.”

Using his left hand, he dug in his shirt pocket and found a match. He snapped it to life with his thumbnail as he reached the brush. The harsh glare from the match showed him a man lying in the undergrowth. Frank recognized Bonner’s duster. Now there was bright red blood splashed on the long coat.

Bonner lifted his head, and in the light from the match Frank got his first good look at the man’s face. It was the lean, beard-stubbled countenance of a typical hardcase, but now it was pale and had lines of pain etched on it.

“For God’s sake, mister!” Bonner grated. “You already broke my finger, and now you’ve shot me!”

Frank pushed some of the brush aside, reached in with a foot, and kicked the gun that Bonner had dropped well out of the man’s reach. “A couple of you boys come here and drag him out,” he said. “His fangs have been pulled.”

Two of the farmers came forward cautiously and reached into the brush to haul Bonner into the open. They propped him up with his back against the trunk of a cottonwood. Frank holstered his gun, struck another match, and while Horace and the others covered Bonner just in case the gunman tried something, Frank examined his wound.

The bullet had dug a deep gash in Bonner’s side, but it hadn’t lodged in his body. “You’ll be all right once that’s patched up,” Frank told him.

“You gonna … take me to a doctor?” Bonner panted.

“Someplace better.” Frank grinned “You’re going to Elysium.”

Bonner bitched and moaned the whole way. Frank tore strips off the gunman’s shirt to serve as rough bandages and bound up the wound for the time being; then Bonner was lifted onto the back of his horse. Now that Frank had his hands on Bonner, he wanted to get the man back to the settlement as quickly as possible. Bonner might well be the key to ending the trouble for Horace Duncan and the other members of the farming community.

“lf I’d just been able to get loose quicker, I’d’ve been long gone ‘fore you bastards got back,” Bonner complained. .

“Yeah, well, if you hadn’t been such a ruthless, greedy son of a bitch to start with, you wouldn’t be in this fix either,” Frank pointed out. “Nobody made you sign on with Parmalee and Carter to terrorize a bunch of innocent folks.”

That finally shut Bonner up, at least to a certain extent. “Don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” he muttered. “I never terrorized nobody.”

“Not tonight maybe,” Frank said.

“You’re the one who jumped me, mister. I was ridin’ along peacefully when you attacked me.” “Just riding along peacefully with a hood over your head.”

“What hood?” Bonner challenged with a sneer. “I don’t see no hood. I tell you, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about … and that’s what I’ll tell the law too.”

Bonner was a hired gunman, Frank thought, but he wasn’t a complete fool. He had already figured out what Frank had in mind, and he was serving notice now that he wasn’t going to testify against the men who’d been riding with him earlier.

They would just have to see about that, Frank mused.

Several armed men were waiting for them when they got back to the settlement, and Frank was glad that the farmers had had enough sense to post some guards. Horace led the way toward one of the houses, saying, “We’ll take this man to my place. My wife can tend to his injuries.”

“I want a doctor,” Bonner said. “A real sawbones. I want somebody to fetch the sheriff too.”

“You’re in no position to be making demands, mister,” Horace told him curtly. “And we’re in no mood to be listening to them either.”

“Better pay attention, Bonner,” Frank said dryly. “I don’t think these folks are in a very forgiving mood right now.”

Bonner’s complaints subsided, but he still scowled darkly as he was helped to dismount and then marched up the steps and into Horace’s house, a neat frame structure with white-washed walls.

Horace’s wife was waiting for them with a rifle tucked under her arm and a resolute expression on her face. She was a middle-aged but still attractive woman with graying blond hair. “Is this one of them?” she asked as Bonner was brought in.

“That’s right,” Horace told her.

She lifted the rifle a little. “Do you want me to shoot him?”

Bonner blanched a little more at the hard-bitten, matter-of- fact question.

“No, Mildred, I want you to clean and bandage that bullet wound in his side,” Horace explained. “He’s got a broken finger too that I suppose could use splinting.”

Mildred Duncan snorted. “I’d rather shoot him … but I suppose I’ll do as you say, Horace.” She turned to look at Frank, who was smiling at the woman’s outspokenness. “And just who are you, mister?”

The Drifter took off his hat and said, “Frank Morgan, ma’am.”

That name didn’t seem to mean anything to Mildred. Frank supposed that a lady like her didn’t read dime novels or the Police Gazette.

“Mr. Morgan’s the man who helped us fight off Parmalee’s bunch earlier,” Horace explained.

Mildred’s expression softened slightly. “In that case, thank you, Mr. Morgan, and welcome to our home.” To the men who were holding up Bonner, she said, “Asa, you and Caleb take that man into the spare bedroom and put him on the bed. Take my good comforter off of there first, though. I don’t want blood getting all over it. I’ll gather what I need and be in there in a minute to tend to him.”

“Keep a close eye on him too,” Horace told the men. “He might still try to get away.”

While his wife was taking care of the prisoner’s wounds and the other men went back to their homes, Horace took Frank into the combination kitchen and dining room and offered him a seat at the table.

“All I can offer you in the way of a drink is cider,” Horace said

“Cider will be just fine,’ Frank replied. “I’m not that much of a drinking man anyway.”

“Neither am I.” Horace smiled grimly. “But I have to admit there are times-and tonight is one of them-when a shot of whiskey wouldn’t be so bad.”

He took a jug and a couple of cups from a cabinet and poured cider for both of them. Then, he sat down across the table from Frank and went on. “We really do owe you a debt of thanks, Mr. Morgan. We might have been able to fight off Parmalee and his men without your help, but they would have done a lot more damage and perhaps injured more people before we could drive them off. They weren’t expecting to be hit from behind like that.”

“The element of surprise,” Frank said as he lifted his cup. “It always comes in handy. And call me Frank.” He felt an instinctive liking for this big, rawboned professor turned farmer.

The two men sipped their cider in silence for a moment; then Horace said, “I won’t insult you by offering again to hire you to help us, Frank. But I don’t mind telling you … fighting hired gunmen isn’t something that any of us here in Elysium are well equipped to do. We’re all peaceable men.”

“And that’s something that nobody’s ever accused me of being,” Frank said wryly.

Horace set down his cup and held up his hands. “I mean no offense—”

“None taken,” Frank assured him. “But there’s no point in denying the obvious. Dealing with men like Parmalee is a lot more in my line than it is in yours. Unfortunately, like I told you before, I’m just passing through. I have business elsewhere.” He thought about how it had felt to hold Vivian’s bullet-shattered body in his arms. “Pressing business.”

“I understand. Now that we have that man to testify against Parmalee and Carter, the law is bound to help us.”

A frown creased Frank’s forehead. Likely, Bonner would be stubborn about turning against his bosses. And even if Bonner testified, Frank wasn’t sure just how much the law would help Horace and the other farmers. According to what Horace had told him, Carter worked for the railroad, and that made him an important man. The railroads controlled a lot of money and wielded a lot of power, from one end of the country to the other. The authorities had been known to turn a blind eye to the transgressions of the rich and powerful.

Horace Duncan was smart enough to know that, but the man was desperate, eager to clutch at any hope. Frank sensed that it had been Horace’s idea to bring all the others out here and start this farming community. Horace probably felt like it was his duty to protect them.

But against hardened killers like Parmalee and a ruthless man like Carter who knew how to work the legal system to get what he wanted, what chance would Horace and the others really have? No matter what they did, sooner or later they would be crushed by the forces arrayed against them.

Unless something-or somebody-tipped the balance of power a little.

“Tell you what, Horace,” Frank said. “I might be able to stay around for a while and lend you a hand.”

Horace leaned forward eagerly. “Really?”

Frank thought again about Dutton. Vengeance had waited this long, he told himself. Maybe it could wait a little while longer.

He nodded, lifted his cup of cider, and said, “Really.”

Chapter 7

It was after midnight and a gentle rain had started to fall when Vince Parmalee rode down an alley in Salina, Kansas, the nearest town to the farming community of Elysium. The railroad passed through Salina too, and had an office building there. That building was the one Parmalee rode behind now. The window he sought glowed yellow with lamplight, despite the lateness of the hour.

To get what you wanted in this world, sometimes you had to burn the candle at both ends, Parmalee thought.

And sometimes you had to snuff out some other people’s candles too.

He hunched his shoulders inside his slicker and tipped his head forward so the rainwater that had collected on his hat would run off. He brought his horse to a stop beside the lighted window and reached up to rap sharply on the glass. Although the rain streaked the window and made it hard to see through, Parmalee made out the shape of a man getting up from behind a desk. The man inside the building lifted a hand in acknowledgment of Parma lee’s presence and walked out of sight. Parmalee turned his horse and rode a short distance back along the alley to a door.

The door opened as he reached it. The man who had been in the office stood there, out of the rain, and said, “Come in.”

Parmalee dismounted and left his horse standing in the alley with its reins dangling, knowing the animal wouldn’t wander off. He stepped into the building and shook himself like a dog, causing the well-dressed man who had opened the door to move back with a look of distaste on his carefully bar-bered face.

“Was that absolutely necessary?” he asked.

Parmalee grunted. “I’m the one who was out in the rain doing your errands, Carter. Seems to me like you ought to be a little grateful.”

“You don’t need gratitude,” Thaddeus Carter said. “You’ve been paid plenty of the railroad’s money, so that should suffice.”

“Yeah, I suppose it does.” Parmalee took off the slicker and hung it on the doorknob. “Let’s go in your office,” he said. His tone didn’t leave any room for argument.

Carter’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t say anything. An air of tension existed between the two men, as if they hadn’t quite worked out which one of them was really the top dog around here. Carter paid the bills, sure, but he was a paper-pusher and wouldn’t amount to anything without Parmalee’s guns to back him up. At least, that was the way Parmalee saw it.

They walked down the hallway and went into Carter’s well-appointed office. Carter sat down behind the desk again, while Parmalee settled himself in a red leather chair in front of the desk. He fished a thin’ black cheroot from a vest pocket and decided that it hadn’t gotten too damp to smoke. He lit up without asking Carter’s permission.

Carter seemed to be trying to wait Parmalee out, but after a few moments, his impatience got the better of him. “Well?” he said. “How did it go? Were you able to inflict enough damage on those troublemaking bastards to scare them off? Was anyone killed?” Carter sounded like he wasn’t sure what answer he wanted to hear in response to that last question.

Parmalee’s teeth clamped down hard on the cheroot. “Two of my men,” he said around the tightly rolled cylinder of to-bacco. “And three more wounded, plus Bonner’s disappeared. I don’t know where the hell he is.”

Carter’s eyes widened and his breath hissed between clenched teeth. “My God,” he said after a moment. “What happened?”

“Somebody horned in on our play. We stopped at Fulton Creek to let the horses drink, and Bonner thought he saw a light, like somebody was there. I figured he was just imagin-ing things-Bonner’s a mite high-strung-but I told him to stay there and take a look around, just in case. Best I can figure out, somebody jumped him, probably knocked him out or maybe killed him, and caught up to us and took his place. When we hit the sodbusters, whoever it was pretending to be Bonner hit us.”

“This is terrible, just terrible,” Carter said as he frowned down at his desk.

“I’m not too happy about the way it turned out myself,” Parmalee said.

For a few minutes, the two men sat there in silence. Parmalee continued to smoke. It would have been hard to find two men less alike. Parmalee was burly and broad-shouldered, with a beefy face made rugged by long exposure to wind and weather. He had a dark, narrow mustache and dark wavy hair under his thumbed-back Stetson. Carter was much smaller and slender, except for a little potbelly. His brown hair was slicked down and he sported a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard.

Finally, Carter asked, “You have no idea who this inter-loper was?”

“He was wearing what I guess was Bonner’s mask when he joined us. I never got a good look at his face. But whoever he is, he’s mighty good with a six-gun.”

“Did you inflict any damage on the farmers?”

“I think one man got creased, and we killed a couple of milk cows. That’s about it,” Parmalee concluded bitterly.

Carter toyed with a letter opener on his desk. “Is it possible Duncan and the others brought in a gunman of their own to combat you and your men?”

“I suppose it’s possible,” Parmalee replied with a shrug. “I haven’t heard anything about anybody like that heading this way, though.”

“You don’t know every gunman in the West surely.”

“No … but it’s a smaller crowd than it used to be.” As Parmalee spoke, his eyes grew distant, as if he were peering back into the past, when the frontier had been a much wilder place. But a better place, as far as Parmalee was concerned. Too much of the time now, little pissants like Carter wielded the real power, and men such as Parmalee, men accustomed to making their way through life with fist and gun and iron will, were rel-egated to being afterthoughts and last resorts. With a little shake of his head, Parmalee went on. “I know most of ‘em.”

“What really concerns me is this man Bonner you mentioned,” Carter said. “Do you think he was taken prisoner?”

“I don’t know. I went back to the spot where we left him, but he wasn’t anywhere around. I don’t know what happened to him.”

Carter picked up the letter opener and pressed the point of it against a fingertip. “If he has fallen into the hands of our enemies … will he talk?”

“Tell the law about you and me, you mean?” Parmalee leaned forward, a worried expression forming on his face. “I don’t know. I’ve worked with Bonner before-he’s a pretty good man-but you never know what somebody else will do to save their own hide. I thought you said we didn’t have to worry about the law.”

“Well … the railroad exerts considerable influence over the political process in this state, just as they do in other states. No elected official wants to get on the railroad’s bad side. But if there was direct evidence against us … if there was testimony asserting that we’re to blame for all the problems that have been plaguing those farmers, up to and including attempted murder … I don’t know what the authorities would do. They might try to move against us.”

Parmalee’s cheroot had gone out. He didn’t relight it. He just rolled it to the other side of his mouth and said, “Then it sounds to me like we need to find out what happened to Bonner. If he’s dead, we don’t have to worry about him talking.”

“But if Duncan and the others have him?” Carter said anxiously.

“Weren’t you listening?” Parmalee’s mouth curved in a hard grin. “I said, if he’s dead, we don’t have to worry about him.”

“Oh,” Carter said, his eyes widening. “Oh. Now I understand.” He smiled back at Parmalee. “And I agree.”

Frank put up his horses in Horace Duncan’s barn and spent the night in the hayloft, since Bonner was in Horace’s spare bedroom. Frank didn’t mind; he had bedded down in a lot of worse places. He didn’t turn in for the night, though, until he was satisfied that Horace understood the importance of keeping Bonner under guard at all times.

“Don’t worry,” Horace had assured him. “I know that man is probably the best weapon we have in the fight to hang onto our land.”

Frank slept well, and when he went into the kitchen of the Duncan farmhouse the next morning, he was ready for the coffee he smelled brewing and the bacon sizzling on the stove. The smell of fresh biscuits underlaid the other mouth-watering aromas.

“Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” Mildred Duncan said from the stove. “Have a seat. Did you sleep well?”

Frank took off his hat and set it on the table as he took one of the chairs. “Yes, ma’am. It rained some during the night. Nothing much more soothing than the sound of rain on a barn roof.”

Mildred smiled and said, “Yes, we get a good bit of rain around here. It helps the crops.” She brought over a cup of coffee. “Here, you can get started with this. I’m getting a plate ready for that wounded man, and then I’ll see about your breakfast.”

“Where’s your husband?”

“Oh, Horace has been up for hours. He’s already gone out to check on the fields.”

Frank nodded and took a sip of the strong black coffee. It was just the way he liked it, stout enough to stand up a spoon in it.

As he sat there, he tried not to watch Mildred Duncan going about her work, but it was difficult not to. She was a fine-looking woman. Not that Frank had any improper thoughts where she was concerned, her being a married woman and all. As he looked at her, though, he couldn’t help but think what things might have been like if it had worked out so that he could have married a nice-looking woman and lived like a normal man.

He had loved three women in his life and married two of them. Those two had both died violent deaths. The other had spent most of her life happily married to another man, raising a daughter who might-or might not-be Frank’s. Something had always interfered with his plans for happiness, and he knew what it was.

The blinding speed of his draw, the uncanny coordination of hand and eye, everything that went into making him one of the deadliest men ever to strap on a gun …. That skill, and the reputation it brought with it, had always loomed over Frank’s life ever since he was a young man.

Other gunfighters managed to escape it somehow. Smoke Jensen was a happily married rancher and had been for many years … but from what Frank heard, even Smoke ran into some gun trouble fairly often. Other men, such as Falcon McAllister and Matt Bodine and Frank himself, seemed destined to always wander and never settle down, living their lives on the thin edge of danger and breathing the sharp tang of powder smoke …. And the worst of it was the danger they brought to anyone who got close to them, like Vivian and Dixie ….

“My goodness, Mr. Morgan,” Mildred Duncan said, breaking into Frank’s reverie, “you look positively grim.”

He forced a smile onto his face. “Sorry, ma’am. I reckon I just haven’t had enough of this fine coffee yet. Not quite woke up good, I guess.”

“Well, I have Mr. Bonner’s tray ready. I’ll take it in to him.”

Frank got to his feet. “I’ll come with you.”

They walked down the hall to the spare bedroom. One man sat on a straight chair outside the door, a rifle across his knees. He stood up and nodded politely to Mildred as she approached. Inside the room were two more guards, both armed with shotguns. Frank was pleased and impressed by the seriousness with which the farmers were taking this matter.

Bonner was sitting with his back propped against some pillows. He scowled up at Frank and said, “You got no right to keep me locked up here. This ain’t a jail, and you people ain’t the law.”

“We could have left you out there to bleed to death on that creek bank,” Frank reminded him. “It could still be arranged if that’s what you want.”

“Oh, now,” Mildred said. “Nobody’s going to bleed to death.” She leaned over to place the tray containing a plate of food and a cup of coffee on Bonner’s lap. “Here, I’ve brought you some breakfast.”

Frank tensed as he saw the calculating look in Bonner’s eyes. The gunman was trying to figure out if he could grab Mildred and use her as a hostage to get out of there. Then Bonner’s gaze flicked to Frank, who stood there alertly with his hand on the butt of the Peacemaker at his hip. Frank gave a tiny shake of his head, warning Bonner that he would never get away with it.

Bonner sighed and said, “Much obliged, ma’am.”

Mildred straightened, unaware of the look that had passed between Frank and Bonner and the moment of danger that had prompted it. “You’re welcome,” she told him. “I suppose I shouldn’t be so gracious to one of Parmalee’s men, but I can’t help it. You’re in my home, after all.”

“Don’t know nobody named Parmalee,” Bonner said stubbornly.

Frank didn’t waste his breath telling Bonner not to deny it. There was no point in trying to shake Bonner’s story now. That would have to wait for the law.

Frank went back to the kitchen with Mildred to have his own breakfast, and as they got there, the back door of the house opened and Horace Duncan came in, wearing overalls, work boots, and a broad-brimmed straw hat.

“That rain last night did the crops a world of good,” he announced with a smile. He nodded to Frank. “How are you today, Mr. Morgan? Sleep all right out there in the barn?”

“Just fine. And I thought you were going to call me Frank.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Mildred put a plate of bacon, eggs, biscuits, and gravy on the table next to Frank’s cup of coffee. “Here you go, Mr. Morgan.”

Horace poured himself a cup of coffee as Frank began to eat. The food tasted as good as it smelled. Horace sat down across the table from Frank and said, “I thought I’d ride into Salina and talk to the sheriff.”

“That’s what you need to do, all right,” Frank responded with a nod.

“I was sort of hoping you’d come with me.”

Frank considered that. “I don’t know if you want me to do that or not,” he finally said. “Sometimes, when a lawman finds out who I am, he gets all stiff-necked and doesn’t want to listen to reason anymore. You saw the way some of your friends reacted last night when they heard my name.”

“Well, I think that’s just foolish,” Mildred said as she sat down at the table with a cup of her own. “Horace told me that you have a certain, ah, reputation, Mr. Morgan, but you seem like a perfectly nice man to me.”

Frank smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Duncan. I like to think I am a perfectly nice man. But there’s no getting around the fact that I’m known as a gunfighter, and for good reason.” He deliberately hardened his voice, since he didn’t believe in sugarcoating anything. “I’ve killed quite a few men.”

“If they were anything like the ones you shot last night, I’m sure they had it coming to them.”

Frank remembered the way she had offered to shoot Bonner, and he told himself not to underestimate Mildred Duncan. Like her husband, she had sand.

“I’d still like for you to come with me, Frank,” Horace said. “I’m not that used to talking to lawmen. I could use some help.”

Frank nodded. “All right.” He smiled. “But not until I finish this fine breakfast.”

That seemed to be settled, but things didn’t get a chance to play out as Frank and Horace had planned. A minute later, one of the other farmers came hurrying up to the open back door, a little out of breath, and said, “Horace, some riders are coming … and one of them is the sheriff!”

Chapter 8

Horace frowned and said, “What in the world? Why did the sheriff come out here? He doesn’t even know yet what happened last night!”

Regretfully, Frank pushed the rest of his food aside and drained the last of his coffee as he got to his feet along with Horace. He had a feeling he knew what was going on.

Thaddeus Carter hadn’t risen to a position of importance with the railroad by being dumb. Carter wasn’t going to sit back and let the farmers come after him using Bonner as a weapon. He was going to try to strike first.

But before Carter did that, he had to know for sure what had happened to Bonner.

Frank put his hat on and followed Horace out the front door of the house. As they stood there waiting and watching the three men who were riding toward the settlement, Frank’s brain worked swiftly. He said to Horace in a quiet voice,

“Don’t say anything about Bonner being here.”

Horace jerked his head toward Frank and frowned in confusion and surprise. “But I thought we were going to tell the sheriff all about what happened,” he said.

“Not just yet. Let’s see how it plays out.” Frank hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt. “I know you haven’t known me for very long, Horace, but I’m asking you to trust me on this.”

“Well … all right. I’ll follow your lead, Frank.”

Frank nodded. A moment later, the three riders arrived at the house, reining their mounts to a halt about ten feet from Frank and Horace. Some of the other farmers had gathered behind them. Mildred came out of the house and stood on the porch.

One of the men was stocky and middle-aged, with a belly that spoke of a lot of time spent behind a desk. He had a bushy black mustache and wore a flat-crowned black hat. A lawman’s star was pinned to his black leather vest.

The two men with the sheriff wore town suits and didn’t look all that comfortable on horseback. One was older, with a Vandyke beard, while the other wore thick spectacles and a bowler hat, and had the pasty-faced look of a clerk.

Frank had never seen any of the three men before, but he didn’t like the looks of them, not even the sheriff.

“Mornin’, Duncan,” the lawman said.

“Sheriff Haley,” Horace replied in a cool but polite tone. “What can I do for you?”

Haley nodded toward the man with the Vandyke beard. “You know Mr. Carter here, I reckon.”

“Of course.” Horace’s tone was noticeably cooler as he spoke this time.

“And this fella with him is Mr. Shipworth. He’s a lawyer, works for the railroad like Mr. Carter.”

Horace nodded to the young man, but didn’t say anything.

The sheriff was eyeing Frank. He said, “Looks like you’ve got some company.”

“I’m just an old friend of Horace’s,” Frank said before the farmer could make any reply. “Just passin’ through.”

The sheriff looked a little dubious, but he let that pass. He said to Horace, “The reason I’m out here is that a fella has disappeared. He was supposed to go to work for Mr. Carter, but he never showed up. Name of Bonner. You wouldn’t happen to have seen him, would you?”

“Why would I have seen him?” Horace asked. “People don’t come and check with me before they go to work for the railroad.”

“Well, no, that’s not what I meant. But this fella Bonner, he was reported to have been seen in this area yesterday. Thought he might have stopped here.”

Horace shook his head. “No. No one has been here other than the people who live here.” He spoke in a fairly loud voice so the others would hear him. Frank hoped they would realize they needed to keep quiet about Bonner’s presence.

“What about your friend here?” the sheriff asked with a nod toward Frank.

“Well, except for him,” Horace said.

Carter spoke up for the first time, saying briskly, “Sheriff, I think you should take a look around.”

Horace bristled. “Are you calling me a liar, Carter?” he demanded.

“I feel like this man Bonner is my responsibility,” Carter shot back, “and if something has happened to him, I want to know about it.”

Horace scowled at Carter, but he said to the lawman, “I told you, Sheriff, we haven’t seen the man and don’t know anything about him.”

Shipworth, the lawyer, said tentatively, “Sheriff, if you, ah, if you believe there’s the possibility of, ah, foul play, you have a legal right to conduct a search …. “

“Who said anything about foul play?” Horace thundered, clearly angry now.

“Nobody,” Sheriff Haley answered quickly. “But when a man disappears, I can’t rule it out.” He sighed. “Still, I don’t know that I’ve got a good enough reason to search around here.”

What about me?” Carter snapped. “As a private citizen I can do as I please, can’t I? Isn’t this still a free country?”

“You’re not welcome here, Carter, and you know it,” Horace said. “Try to step down from that horse and you’ll regret it.”

Carter sniffed and said haughtily, “You heard him, Sheriff. He threatened me.”

Haley looked mighty uncomfortable, and Frank could understand why-the hombre was stuck between trying to uphold the law and wanting to curry favor with an important, powerful man.

“I know you two have had your differences in the past—” Haley began.

Carter gestured to Shipworth, who lifted his hat and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief he drew out of the breast pocket of his coat. The day wasn’t all that hot yet. That was a signal if Frank had ever seen one.

Sure enough, a moment later he heard hoofbeats coming quickly toward the farmhouses. Carter had had men posted somewhere nearby, watching for Shipworth’s signal.

“Yes, we’ve had our differences,” Carter said, “but it’s a private dispute, Sheriff, and if you’re not going to do your duty, I’ll thank you not to interfere either.”

Haley’s face flushed. “I don’t have to stand for that sort of talk,” he snapped. “I’m goin’ back to town.”

With that, he wheeled his horse and rode away.

Frank knew exactly what Haley was doing. The sheriff suspected that something was about to happen here, and he didn’t want any part of it. He wanted to be able to deny that he knew anything about it.

In other words, he was leaving the farmers on their own.

Frank couldn’t say that he was surprised. He’d had a feeling as soon as he saw Haley that the sheriff was more interested in feathering his own nest than he was in enforcing the law. Now that hunch had been confirmed. If Horace Duncan and his fellow farmers wanted help from the law, they would have to go farther than the local sheriff. They needed a U.S. marshal.

Four riders cantered up. They were tough, gun-hung hombres. As they came to a halt beside Carter, Frank saw that he knew one of the men. He gave the man a curt nod and said, “Howdy, Chadbourne. Been a while.”

Carter’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You’re acquainted with this man?” he asked.

The man called Chadbourne nodded. “I sure am, Boss. That’s Frank Morgan.”

The name didn’t mean anything to Carter. “I don’t care who he is. I want the four of you to search these buildings and make sure Bonner isn’t here anywhere. If he is, they’re holding him against his will, and that gives us a legal right to find him and rescue him.”

As Frank smiled thinly, Chadbourne gave a slow shake of his head. “No, sir, I don’t think so,” he said.

Carter’s face reddened with anger. “What do you mean? I gave you an order, by God!”

Chadbourne made sure his hands remained in plain sight as he said, “Morgan’s the man they call The Drifter, Mr. Carter. He’s a gunfighter. I was there at Lady Arabella’s place in Tas-cosa the night he killed Shad Wilkerson and Shad’s two brothers, in less time than it just took me to tell you about it. I ain’t crossin’ him.” Chadbourne looked directly at Frank. “You hear me, Morgan? I’m foldin’ my hand.”

“I hear you,” Frank said. “Probably a wise thing to do.”

“You’re through, Chadbourne;’ Carter said coldly. “Come by the office later and I’ll pay you the wages you have coming.”

“No, thanks. It ain’t enough to worry about. I suddenly recollect that I got business elsewhere, like maybe Idaho or Montana.”

With that, Chadbourne turned his horse and rode quickly away from Elysium. He didn’t look back.

With a sneer, Carter said to the other three men, “Are you afraid of this fellow as well? Or are you going to do your job?”

The three gunnies looked warily at Frank, who stood there impassively with his thumbs still hooked in his gunbelt, seeming utterly unconcerned.

“He don’t look like such a much to me,” one of the men said. The others nodded as the lure of money overcame common sense. “If you want us to take a look around, Mr. Carter, I don’t reckon he’ll stop us.”

“Good,” Carter said. “Start with this house.”

“Frank … ” Horace said in a tone of quiet worry.

Frank straightened from his casual pose as the three gunmen swung down from their saddles and started toward the house. “Don’t worry, Horace,” he said.

He moved to get in the path of the three gunnies. They stopped and glared at him. “You boys see that lady on the porch?” he asked.

“What about her?”

“She’s the lady of this house, and if she doesn’t invite you, you’re not going in there.”

The nearest of the gunmen, an hombre with bright red hair under his battered Stetson, said, “No? How are you gonna stop us?”

Frank didn’t make any bold declarations. He Just hit the redheaded gunnie in the mouth as hard as he could with a fast, straight left. The punch landed so cleanly and with so much force that the man was lifted off his feet and thrown backward to come crashing down on his back.

Frank was confident that he could have killed all three men in a gunfight, but he didn’t want a bunch of stray lead flying around while there were so many folks standing by who could get hit by it. So even before the redhead landed, Frank was pivoting toward another of the gunmen. He sank his right fist in that man’s stomach, all the way up to the wrist. As the man grunted in pain and doubled over, Frank put a hand on the back of his head and shoved down hard. At the same time his knee came up. Knee met nose-and nose lost. The impact flattened it and blood spurted across the man’s face as he toppled onto his side, senseless.

That left only one of the gunmen upright, and he’d had time to get his hand on the butt of his Colt as he yelled in anger and alarm. But before he could draw the gun, Frank’s left hand closed around his wrist, locking it in place. Frank hit the man twice with his right hand, the blows striking so fast they were hard to follow. The first one caught the gunman in the solar plexus and drove the wind out of his lungs; the second landed flush on his jaw and slewed his head around to the right. When Frank let go, the man fell to his knees and swayed there for a second before he pitched forward onto his face. He lay there motionless, like his two companions who were sprawled nearby.

In a matter of heartbeats, Frank had put all three men on the ground, out cold. He was breathing a little hard, but that was the only sign that he wasn’t quite as young as he used to be.

Carter stared at the fallen gunmen, then turned to Shipworth and sputtered, “Do something!”

The pasty-faced young lawyer was even paler now. “What do you expect me to do?” he practically wailed. “I’m no bar-barian to go ‘brawling in the dirt!”

Carter pointed a finger at Horace. “You! You’ve brought in a … a gunman to fight your battles for you, you … you insur-rectionist rabble-rouser!”

“You couldn’t be more wrong about everything you just said, Carter,” Horace said. “Now, I’ll thank you to get off our land. You’re not wanted here.”

“You haven’t heard the last of this,” Carter warned.

“No, I expect I haven’t … and more’s the pity about that.”

Frank took the guns from the holsters of the men he had knocked down. He handed them to Shipworth, who took them, but looked like Frank had just dumped a load of rattlesnakes in his lap. Then several of the farmers picked up the unarmed gunmen, who were starting to come around a little, and lifted them into their saddles. The men were able to stay mounted, but they were still too groggy to be any threat.

“You’ll be sorry!” Carter called over his shoulder as the dispirited group rode away.

“Maybe,” Horace shouted back, “but not unless you come up with something more than lines from a bad melo-drama!”

As soon as Carter and the others were out of earshot, though, Horace turned to Frank with a worried frown on his face and went on. “He means it, doesn’t he?” -

“Sure he does,” Frank agreed. “And you saw the way that so-called sheriff acted. He’s not going to stand in Carter’s way, no matter what happens.”

Horace rubbed a hand over his weather-beaten face and said, “He’ll send Parmalee back here with a whole army of gunmen if that’s what it takes. This has gone beyond an argument over freight rates now. Carter’s taking it personal, and he’ll do whatever he has to in order to smash us.”

Frank nodded slowly. “That’s the way it looks to me too. That’s why we have to act fast to counter his moves. I’m riding to town to send some telegrams. I know some lawyers too, and I have a little influence with the railroad. I’m going to wire the U.S. marshal too, and try to get some law in here that’ll actually do what it’s supposed to.”

“You think we can hold out until the marshal arrives?”

“You’ll have to,” Frank said. “Once we get Bonner in the hands of some real law, the railroad won’t have any choice but to rein in Carter and Parmalee,”

Mildred came down from the porch and took her husband’s hand as she stood beside him. She said, “You sound like you’re making this your battle as much as it is ours, Mr. Morgan.”

“I did that last night when I traded lead with Parmalee’s bunch, ma’am,” Frank told her. “Once you take cards in a game like this, you’ve got to play out the hand, all the way to the big casino.”

Chapter 9

Frank rode into Salina later that morning. The town had grown a lot since the first time he had been there, more than twenty-five years earlier when he’d been a young cowboy, one of the drovers who’d brought a herd oflonghoms up from Texas. The railhead had long since moved on, leaving Salina to become a settled-down town, a supply center for the farms that surrounded it. That had been the fate of a lot of formerly wild and woolly cow towns in Kansas.

He saw the sheriff’s office, but didn’t bother stopping there. He had already seen enough of Sheriff Haley to know that would have been a waste of time. Instead, he rode directly to the railroad station, which was also where the local telegraph office was located. He dismounted, flipped the dun’s reins around a hitch rail in front of the depot, and went inside.

Frank spent the next halfhour filling out telegraph forms and handing them to the operator on the other side of the window. The fellow burned up the wires sending the messages. Frank could send Morse himself, although he wasn’t very good at it. He understood enough to know that the operator was sending the messages just as he had written them. He had wondered if the man would be a little leery of crossing Thaddeus Carter. Obviously, the operator took his duty seriously-although he did raise his eyebrows a little at some of the wires he sent for Frank.

When that was taken care of, Frank stepped out of the depot and looked up and down the town’s main street. His keen eyes searched for familiar faces. The fact that Chadbourne had been working for Carter and Parmalee meant there might be other men mixed up in this with whom Frank was acquainted.

If some of them wanted to up and leave when they found out he was involved too, then so much the better. Fewer of them he had to shoot that way.

Since he hadn’t had a chance to finish breakfast, he was a little hungry. Spotting a cafe down the street, he headed for it

Instinct made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he walked along. Somebody was watching him. He glanced around, but didn’t see anyone who seemed to be paying much attention to him. Frank knew better than to disregard what his gut told him, though. He didn’t relax until he stepped into the cafe and closed the door behind him.

That was when his back finally stopped feeling like it had a target painted on it.

“Son of a bitch,” Parmalee said as he let the little gap in the curtains fall closed over the window of the second-floor hotel room. “It’s him, all right.”

Even though he hadn’t really been talking to her, the naked woman lying on the bed behind him asked, “Who?”

“Frank Morgan.”

“The famous gunfighter?”

Parmalee’s teeth gritted together in irritation. Morgan was famous, all right, but Parmalee wasn’t convinced that Morgan was one damn bit better with a gun than him. Morgan had just been lucky, that was all.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’d heard he was around, but I was hoping that was wrong.”

The news about Morgan’s involvement had come from Carter. It was Chadbourne who had recognized Morgan in the first place.

Now Chadbourne was gone. He had lit a shuck out of these parts without even coming back to Salina to claim the wages Carter owed him. Parmalee couldn’t help but wonder how many more of the boys would take off for the tall and uncut if they knew there was a chance they’d be facing Frank Morgan’s guns.

“Are you comin’ back to bed?” the woman asked. “Or are you gonna just stand there at the window the rest of the day?”

Parmalee felt rage welling up inside him. He wanted to turn around, drag the woman from the bed, and toss her out in the hall on her bare ass. It would serve her right.

But it wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t mean that things were like they used to be in the old days, no, sir. In the old days, he never would have stooped to something like bullying a bunch of sodbusters, and he wouldn’t have worked for a slimy little bastard like Carter either. That was what was really bothering him, not anything some stupid whore said.

He turned and went to the chair where hehad left his clothes. He took one of his cheroots from the pocket of his shirt and lit it with a match he struck on his thumbnail. “Get out,” he growled at the woman.

She frowned. “What?”

“You heard me,” he said around the cheroot. “Get your clothes on and get out of here. You’ve been paid already.”

“You’ve got some more time comin’-“

“Don’t want it.”

“Well!” She was offended. She flounced out of bed, which probably would have been more effective if she hadn’t been naked. Some women needed to confine their flouncing to times when they had clothes on.

Parmalee turned back to the window and stood there smok-ing until the woman was gone. Then he got dressed and left the hotel.

Morgan had been coming out of the train station when Parmalee first spotted him. There was one good reason Morgan might have been in there. Parmalee went to the Western Union counter and asked the clerk on the other side of the window, “Did a fella send some messages a few minutes ago?”

“Lots of people send messages, mister,” the clerk replied. “That’s why those telegraph wires are strung alongside the railroad tracks.”

Parmalee picked up one of the pads of yellow message forms lying on the counter, scribbled on it with a stub of pencil that was sitting there, and then tore it off. He leaned in through the window and said, “Here, send this.”

The clerk got up from his key and stepped over to take the flimsy. Parmalee dropped it on the floor. When the clerk bent over to pick it up, Parmalee grabbed him by the collar and jerked him closer. He twisted the clerk’s shirt and tie so that they tightened around his neck and cut off the squawk he tried to make. From the depot lobby, Parmalee looked like he was just leaning through the window talking to the clerk.

“Listen to me, you little pissant,” Parmalee grated quietly, his voice like a couple of rocks rubbing together. “You use that mouth to sass me again, I’ll pull the tongue right out of it, you understand?”

The clerk was getting red in the face, but he managed to nod.

Parmalee went on. “The fella who sent those messages a few minutes ago, he was medium-sized but looked a little bigger, wearing jeans and a buckskin shirt, with a tan Stetson. Isn’t that right?”

Again, the red-faced clerk jerked his head in a nod. He was starting to flail a little, but was no match for Parmalee’s strength.

“Settle down or I’ll twist your head right off your neck. Let me see the wires he sent.”

Parmalee let off on the pressure a little so the clerk could talk. “I … can’t!” the man croaked hoarsely. “Against … regulations!”

“You want to get choked to death over some rules in a book? I wouldn’t.”

The clerk reached behind him, felt around on the desk where his telegraph key was located, and grabbed up a handful of message forms. He pressed them into Parmalee’s other hand. Parmalee let go of him, and the clerk slumped back in his chair, breathing hard. He wheezed a little as he drew in air.

Parmalee glanced at the messages Morgan had sent, and as he scanned the words, his anger grew. He tossed the flimsies back into the operator’s cubicle. “I wasn’t here,” he said, “and I never saw those telegrams.”

“Believe me,” the clerk said, “I’ve already forgotten I ever saw you, mister!”

Parmalee gave the man a curt nod and turned to stalk out of the depot.

A few minutes later, he was knocking on the door of Carter’s office. When the railroad executive opened it, he scowled at Parmalee.

“I told you the two of us don’t need to be seen together,” Carter snapped. “You’re not supposed to come here during the day.”

Parmalee walked in, forcing Carter to step back. As Carter shut the door, Parmalee said, “Just who the hell are you trying to fool? Everybody knows you’re the one who wants those farmers run off their land. Hell, you took the sheriff out there this morning to look for Bonner.”

“There’s no evidence that Bonner works for you, hence no evidence connecting me to you-“

Parmalee silenced him with a sharp slashing motion. “You paper-pushers are all alike. You worry about the little things so much, you don’t even see trouble stampeding right at you.”

“What are you talking about?” Carter demanded with a glare.

“Frank Morgan.”

“The gunman hired by those farmers?”

“Duncan and his bunch didn’t hire Morgan,” Parmalee said. “If he’s siding with them, it’s because he thinks they’re in the right and he wants to. He doesn’t just sell his gun to whoever’s got the money.”

“Unlike some,” Carter said with a sneer on his face.

Parmalee let that comment go—for now. “Morgan’s in town. He sent some wires over at the Western Union office. Some of them went to lawyers in Denver and San Francisco, asking them to look into what you’ve been doing here and bring pressure on your bosses to rein you in. One went to the Justice Department in Washington, and another to the U.S. marshal’s office in Wichita.”

Carter paled. “I thought this man was just a drifting gunslinger. How can he have such connections?”

“I’ve heard rumors that Morgan’s really a rich man, even though he doesn’t act like it. And it looks like he’s got friends in high places. If his lawyers find out that you’ve been jack-ing up the freight rates even more than you were supposed to and skimming off the top, you’ll be in a heap of trouble, Carter, with both your bosses and the law.”

Carter flushed angrily. “How did you—”

Parmalee interrupted him with a harsh laugh. “How did I know what you’ve really been up to around here? Hell, I’m not stupid. You’ve been acting way too desperate for all this to just be about business. There had to be some loot involved somewhere to make it worth your while to hire me and my boys. So I guessed … and it looks like I guessed right.”

“Don’t go prying into things that don’t concern you,” Carter warned icily. “You get your money, that’s all you should be worried about. That, and dealing with this problem.”

“You can’t afford to let Morgan run around stirring things up, that’s for sure. And you still need to make certain Bonner can’t talk too. He must be out there at that so-called Elysium, or else Morgan would have let you look around.” Parmalee thought for a moment and then nodded decisively. “All right, there’s no way around it. Morgan’s got to die, and we’ve got to either get Bonner away from those sodbusters or kill him. And we’ve got to take care of it now, before things have a chance to get worse.”

“But if Morgan has already contacted the U.S. marshal—”

“If Morgan and Bonner are both dead when the marshal gets here, then there won’t be much he can do about it, will there?”

“How are you going to manage that?” Carter asked anxiously. “Can you kill this man Morgan in a gunfight?”

“Probably. But as much as I’d like to prove that, we can’t run the risk. We’ll have to bushwhack Morgan. And as for Bonner, if he’s out there at Elysium, he’ll be dead before morning.”

“How can you be so sure of that?”

“Because I intend to burn the whole damn place to the ground,” Parmalee said.

Chapter 10

After eating lunch, Frank checked back at the telegraph office to see if there were any replies to the wires he’d sent earlier. A different operator was on duty now, a younger man than the one who’d been there before.

“What happened to the other fella?” Frank asked. “He gone to eat lunch?”

The operator shook his head. “No, he took sick and had to go home.” .

“Hope it’s nothing serious.”

“When I got here, he was pale and pretty shaky. Didn’t look too good to me.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Frank asked if there were any telegrams for him, and the clerk handed him a couple of flimsies. They were just replies from the offices of his lawyers, acknowledging his wires and saying that they would get right on his instructions. There was nothing from Washington or Wichita.

“You know where Elysium is?” Frank asked the operator.

“That community of farmers northwest of here?”

“That’s right.”

“Yeah, I know where it is.”

“That’s where I’ll be if any more replies come in for me,” Frank told the man. “I’ll pay to have somebody bring them out to me.”

The operator frowned. “No offense, mister, but you don’t look much like a sodbuster.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Frank said, and left it at that

He picked up the dun and rode out of Salina, heading back toward Elysium. It would take the marshal a couple of days to get there from Wichita, he figured, and that was if the lawman started out right away. That meant Horace and the other farmers had to keep Bonner safe for that long. Frank didn’t expect Carter and Parmalee to allow that to happen without them trying to free Bonner-or kill him, if it came to that

So he was naturally wary of trouble as he rode toward Elysium. Caution was a habit with him anyway. He didn’t react immediately when he saw a woman come running out of a clump of cottonwoods next to the trail ahead of him. He waited to see what was going to happen.

She spotted him and dashed straight toward him, screaming, “Help me! Oh, my God, help me, mister!”

Frank reined in and dismounted quickly, drawing his gun as soon as his boots were on the ground. The woman’s blond hair was tangled, and her dress was tom in several places. A bruise stood out startlingly against the pale skin -of her cheek. Blood leaked from the comer of her mouth. She had been roughly handled, that was for sure. She grabbed Frank, throwing her arms around him and clutching at him, trembling violently as she did so.

“What happened, ma’am?” he asked. “Who did this to you?”

“In … in there,” she said, half-turning and pointing toward the trees. “Two men…they grabbed me, made me drive my wagon under the trees…then they … they assaulted me!” She moaned. “Don’t let them get me again!”

Frank’s first thought had been that this was a trap. Parmalee and his men wanted to lure him into the cottonwoods so they could bushwhack him. But the woman’s injuries were obviously real, and she seemed to be genuinely terrified.

“Your wagon’s still in there?” he asked her.

She jerked her head in a nod. “Y-yes. I guess. They … they may have taken it.”

“How’d you get away from them?”

“I … I passed out … fainted, I reckon … and when I woke up, they were pawing through the supplies in the back of the wagon, not paying any attention to me.” She swallowed hard. “I crawled into the brush and then got up and ran. I … I wasn’t sure where I was going or if I was even going in the right direction, but then I came out on the road and saw you …. “

Her story had the ring of truth to it. Frank nodded curtly and said, “Stay here. If anybody but me comes out of those trees, get on my horse and get the hell out of here, as fast as you can.”

“What … what are you going to do?”

“See about settling the score with those two hombres,” he said grimly.

He started toward the trees, but the woman caught hold of his sleeve, stopping him. “Don’t,” she said. “They’ll kill you. Maybe you’d better just take me back to town.”

Frank shook his head. “If I do that, they’ll be long gone by the time anybody can get back out here. Don’t worry about me, ma’am. I can take care of myself.”

With that, he stalked toward the cottonwoods, gun in hand.

He had just reached the edge of the trees when he heard the metallic ratcheting of a Winchester’s lever behind him.

Frank spun around in time to see that the woman had pulled his rifle from the saddle boot and leveled it at him. Flame licked from the muzzle as she fired. At the same time, more shots blasted from the trees.

It was a trap, all right, he thought as he threw himself desperately to the side. His hat flew off. The slug from the rifle whistled past his ear. The woman must have been well paid to let herself be beaten up like that. But she had played her role to the hilt and taken him in, sure enough, and he mentally cursed himself for believing her story.

He hit the ground and rolled. Bullets kicked up dirt around him. He came to a stop on his back and saw two men charging toward him, six-guns blazing. Frank triggered twice and saw one of the men driven backward by the bullets. The other man lunged aside, still triggering wildly. One of the slugs hit the ground beside Frank’s head and knocked grit into his eyes. Blinded momentarily, he scrambled toward a fallen tree he had noticed a second earlier and threw himself behind it, grateful for the cover.

With his free hand, he knuckled the dirt out of his eyes while bullets thudded into the trunk of the tree. He blinked until his vision cleared. That happened just in time, because a rustling to his right told him that somebody was trying to flank him. Since one of the would-be killers was still firing in front of him, that meant the man he had wounded a minute earlier wasn’t hit badly enough to knock him out of the fight.

Frank twisted toward the flanker and spotted him through the brush. The two of them fired at the same time, the sound of the shots blending into one. The bushwhacker’s bullet chewed splinters off the log beside Frank’s head. Frank’s slug found its target, ripping into the man’s belly. He stumbled out of his concealment, doubled over, and clutched at his bleeding midsection. He collapsed on the ground and kicked feebly a couple of times before growing still.

The other man took advantage of the distraction to rush Frank’s position. He burst out of the brush, leaped onto the log, and fired down at The Drifter at almost point-blank range. The sound of the shots was deafening as Frank rolled again. One of the bullets came close enough that he felt the heat of its passage against his cheek.

But none of the hastily fired shots found him, and when his Colt roared and bucked against his palm again, he was firing at close range too. The bullet caught the second gunman in the chest and flipped him backward off the log. He crashed down onto his back with his arms and legs outflung, and never moved after he hit the ground

Frank pushed himself to his feet and carefully checked the two men, both of whom were dead He hadn’t forgotten about the woman, but she wasn’t shooting at him anymore and he figured she had fled after opening the ball. He turned to pick up his hat, which had flown off his head when the shooting started, and froze for a second as he saw the woman lying motionless beside the trail, the Winchester near her where she had dropped it.

Bleak lines etched themselves in Frank’s face as he slowly picked up his hat and settled it on his head. He hadn’t fired any shots toward the woman, so he knew that a stray bullet from one of the other bushwhackers must have struck her. She had lied to him and tried to shoot him in the back, but despite that, he was more bothered by what had happened to her than he was by the fate of the two male bushwhackers. She was a woman, after all, and the same chivalrous moral code that was ingrained in most Western men was deeply rooted in him too. He didn’t like to see any woman get hurt, no matter what the circumstances.

It was possible she was still alive, so he strode quickly toward her, thumbing fresh cartridges into his Peacemaker as he did so. For a second, the possibility that she might be shamming crossed his mind, but then he saw the spreading bloodstain on her dress and knew that she was really hit. He holstered his gun and dropped to one knee beside her. Reaching out, he grasped her shoulders and rolled her gently onto her back.

He barely had time to see the little pocket pistol in her hand as she jerked it up toward him. Her face was twisted in lines of agony and hatred, and she gasped, “Bastard!” as she pulled the trigger.

The world seemed to blow apart in Frank Morgan’s face.

He had no idea how much time had passed when he finally climbed up out of the red-streaked blackness that had claimed him. His head throbbed terribly, and when he forced his eyes open, he had a bad moment when he thought he was blind, because darkness was still all around him.

But then he saw some faint pinpricks of light and recognized them as stars. It was dark because night had fallen. He had been lying here unconscious beside the trail all afternoon.

Frank struggled to sit up. That made his head hurt even worse, and caused the world to spin crazily around him for a few seconds before it settled down again. The world hadn’t blown up after all.

He lifted a hand to his head and found the sticky gash on his right temple. The shot fired by the woman had grazed him there, knocking him out cold for hours. But while he was unconscious, why hadn’t she gone ahead and finished him off?

He saw the answer to that question as he looked around. The woman still lay beside him. He reached over and touched her cheek. It was cold and lifeless. The starlight was bright enough to reveal the large dark stain on her dress.

She really had been hit by a stray bullet and mortally wounded. The shot she had fired at him must have been her last act of defiance as life slipped away from her. Frank’s mouth tightened as he realized that he had been lying there next to her corpse for all this time. If not for luck, he would have been dead too. He picked up his hat, which was also lying on the ground, and saw the hole in the brim where the bullet that had grazed him had punched through the Stetson.

Frank pushed himself to his feet. He wasn’t too steady at first, and while he waited for his strength to return, he looked around. A faint red glow in the western sky told him that the sun hadn’t been down for more than an hour or so. He spotted the dun grazing contentedly about twenty yards away.

“If Stormy had been here, he would have nudged me and woke me up before now,” Frank told the horse.

The dun just ignored him. Contrary critter.

Despite the pain in his head, Frank’s brain was working swiftly. The attempt on his life had been well orchestrated. He had no doubt that Carter and Parmalee were behind it. The fact that he had been bushwhacked on his way back to Elysium told him that his enemies didn’t want him to reach the farming community. Carter and Parmalee probably had something planned for Horace and the others tonight, and they didn’t want Frank to interfere with it.

That thought made him realize that he needed to get back to Elysium as fast as he could.

He whistled for the dun, but the horse didn’t come. Frank had to go over to him and catch hold of the reins. At least, the dun didn’t shy away. Frank supposed he ought to be grateful for that. He picked up the rifle and slid it back into the saddle boot.

He didn’t like leaving the bodies of the woman and the two gunmen where they lay, but he didn’t have time to take them back to Salina. Instead, he pointed the dun’s nose toward Elysium and heeled the horse into a trot. Every step sent a fresh throb of pain through Frank’s head, but after a while he got used to it.

His visit to Salina hadn’t gone unnoticed, he told himself as he rode steadily through the night. It was even possible that Carter or Parmalee had gotten hold of those telegrams he’d sent. That might explain why the first telegraph operator had suddenly “taken sick” and gone home. He had been forced to betray his trust. The more Frank thought about it, the more he was convinced that was indeed what had happened.

So Carter and Parmalee knew what he was doing, and they were spooked. That didn’t surprise Frank. He had halfway expected that his visit to town would goad them into taking action. He hadn’t figured that their attempt to get rid of him would come quite so close to being successful, though.

A grim smile tugged at his mouth. He was still alive, and that was all that mattered right now. Whatever else Carter and Parmalee planned to do, he was still around to stop it.

But only if he got back to Elysium in time, and as he suddenly noticed another red glow in the sky that wasn’t left over from the setting sun, a chill went through him as he realized that he might already be too late.

Chapter 11

Parmalee wondered where Briggs and Whistler were. He had left them with Sadie to set up the ambush for Morgan, while Parmalee and the rest of the men went on to wait near Elysium until night had fallen. The two gunnies should have rejoined Parmalee and the others after taking care of Morgan, though.

Unless they hadn’t killed the son of a bitch after all. That possibility worried Parmalee more than he cared to admit.

The plan should have worked. Morgan was softhearted toward women; Parmalee had heard that often enough. And he had knocked Sadie around himself before riding off, just to make sure that she looked like a genuine damsel in distress. He hadn’t particularly enjoyed it, no matter what sneering comments the whore had made about him liking to beat on women. It was just business. Anyway, she had been quick enough to accept the payoff he’d offered her, and she had even volunteered to take a shot at Morgan herself.

When Briggs and Whistler hadn’t shown up by nightfall, Parmalee figured that something had gone wrong. But Morgan hadn’t put in an appearance either. Maybe the bushwhackers had gotten enough lead in Morgan to kill him, but he had lived long enough to down them too. Could be all three of them were lying there dead, about halfway between Elysium and Salina. Sadie already had her money. She would have headed back to Salina rather than coming out here to tell Parmalee what had happened. He knew she was still a little peeved at him for what he had said to her earlier in the day in his hotel room.

Brooding about it wasn’t going to do any good. He still had a job to do, Parmalee reminded himself. He was going to get rid of those sodbusters once and for all, and he was going to see to it that Bonner couldn’t ever testify against him. When the U.S. marshal arrived from Wichita, there would be no proof linking Parmalee to what happened at Elysium.

Once that was taken care of, Carter would owe him quite a debt of gratitude, Parmalee thought-and he intended to collect in cold, hard cash.

As night fell, he took the hood from under his duster and removed his hat to pull the mask over his head. “Get ready, boys,” he said to the other gunmen. “You got those torches and the kegs of coal oil?”

“Yeah, Boss,” one of the hired guns replied. “Those damn farmers are gonna think hellfire and brimstone’s rainin’ down on ‘em from heaven.”

Parmalee chuckled under his hood. “More like gushing up from hell. Let’s ride.”

They headed for Elysium, twenty strong. Parmalee had called in all his men and several others who hadn’t worked with him before but whom he knew by reputation. Some of them carried small kegs of coal oil, while others had torches made of cotton batting soaked in coal oil and wrapped around short lengths of wood. The plan was to ride in shooting and yelling to make the sodbusters cower in fear, then spread the coal oil around the community and set it on fire. Parmalee was confident that the blaze would spread quickly and consume all of Elysium. People would die in the flames, of course, but that was just too damned bad. He would rescue Bonner if he could, but in the end, he didn’t really care if the man made it out of the inferno or not. Bonner shouldn’t have been dumb enough to let himself get caught.

They came in sight of the scattered houses and barns. Parmalee reined in and growled, “Light the torches.”

Matches were scratched into life and held to the oil-soaked cotton. It caught readily. Flames leaped up.

“Give ‘em hell!” Parmalee called as he kicked his horse into a gallop, and he thought the command was particularly appropriate.

Frank heard the shooting before he could see anything except the glow from the fires. But a couple of minutes later, he came in sight of the community and his fears were confirmed. Several of the houses were on fire, and so were a couple of the barns.

But more than half of the structures still stood. To a certain extent, Horace Duncan and the other farmers had been able to fight off Parmalee’s attack. Frank saw riders galloping around waving torches over their heads as they attempted to spread the flames.

Nice of them to make themselves targets that way, he thought as he brought the dun to a halt and slid out of the saddle. He pulled the Winchester from the boot and laid the barrel across the saddle, using that to steady the weapon as he aimed. The dun didn’t seem to be the sort of horse that spooked easily. Frank hoped that proved to be the case.

He squeezed the trigger, and felt the rifle kick against his shoulder as it cracked. A couple of hundred yards distant, one of the torch-wielding night riders pitched out of his saddle. The torch slipped from his fingers and spun through the air to land in the dirt and gutter out.

Even before the echo of the shot had rolled away across the prairie, Frank had levered another round into the Winchester’s chamber and drawn a bead on another of the raiders. He fired again, and was rewarded by the sight of the man falling and dropping the torch he carried. In a matter of heartbeats, Frank had shot yet another man out of the saddle. Three of the raiders were down in less than a minute.

That got their attention. Several men started firing their rifles in his general direction. None of the shots came close, though. He rammed the rifle back in its sheath and sprang into the saddle again. Wheeling the dun, he rode off at an angle. He couldn’t go into the fight head-on, now that they knew he was out here.

Circling rapidly, Frank headed toward Elysium from a different direction. He didn’t draw his gun until he was nearly among the buildings. Then, with the Peacemaker in his hand, he charged toward a couple of the hooded riders. One of them carried a torch, the other a keg. Frank had already caught a whiff of the coal-oil reek, so he had a pretty good idea what was in that keg.

The men spotted him coming, and the one with the torch screeched, “It’s Morgan!” He had the torch in his left hand, a gun in his right. He tried to bring the revolver’s barrel around toward Frank, but the move came too late. The Colt in Frank’s hand barked and jumped, and the slug from it smashed into the raider and knocked him sideways. He fell against the other man.

Flames shot into the air, brightly hideous as they raced up the duster of the second man. Some of the coal oil from the keg he carried must have sloshed out onto his clothes. In no more than a second, he had become a human torch.

Frank put the man out of his screaming agony with a bullet through the head. Then, he wheeled the dun and looked for more targets.

He found them galloping toward him, guns spouting flame. The three men didn’t have torches or kegs of coal oil. They must have already done their dirty work. Frank hauled back on the dun’s reins so that the horse reared up and pawed at the air with its front hooves. He fired three times and saw all three saddles emptied. At moments such as this, in the heat of battle, Frank was a creature of almost pure instinct, letting eyes and muscles and nerves take over so that his actions were automatic. He was one of the deadliest natural shooters to ever strap on a gun, and he had just proven that.

But he had also been wounded and knocked unconscious earlier in the day, so his reactions weren’t quite as swift as they might have been otherwise. He brought the dun down and whirled the horse around as he heard hoofbeats behind him. More of the hooded raiders were practically on top of him. A gun went off so close, he felt the heat of its muzzle blast. The bullet from another Colt tugged at his shirt between his right arm and his side.

Frank had only one round left in the Peacemaker. He blasted a man out of the saddle with it, then holstered the gun as he took the attackers by surprise and spurred the dun into a leap that carried him right into the middle of them. Frank’s hand shot out, closed on the collar of the duster worn by one of the men, and jerked him right off his horse. The man fell under the hooves of another raider’s mount, and his scream of fear was cut short by a meaty thud as an iron-shod hoof stepped in the middle of his forehead and caved it in.

Frank knocked a six-gun aside as it blasted, and an instant later smashed his fist into the gunman’s face. He plucked the gun from the stunned man’s hand and used it to ventilate another of the raiders. He was a one-man army, and his efforts were allowing the citizens of Elysium to fight the fires that threatened to consume their community without having to worry as much about being shot down. Practically single-handedly, Frank was on the verge of breaking the back of the attack by Parmalee’s men.

Then suddenly, Frank heard someone scream, “Morgan!” and wheeled the dun to see another of the raiders charging toward him. Frank knew somehow it was Parmalee himself. Frank brought up the gun he had liberated from one of the raiders and squeezed off a shot, but another hooded rider accidentally darted between him and Parmalee and took the bullet. As the man toppled from his saddle, Parmalee seemed to realize the suicidal nature of his charge. He yanked his horse around and fled.

The rest of the surviving raiders were lighting a shuck out of there too, as Elysium’s defenders peppered them with lead from rifles and shotguns. The community had been heavily damaged, no doubt about that, but Parmalee had failed to wipe it off the face of the earth, which had probably been his intention.

Frank galloped toward Horace Duncan’s house. The place had been spared the flames, and as Frank brought the dun to a halt in front of the house, Mildred came out onto the porch, a rifle in her hands.

“Mr. Morgan!” she called to him. “Thank God you’re here! Have you seen Horace?”

Frank shook his head. “He wasn’t in the house with you?”

“No,” Mildred replied raggedly. “He ran outside with his shotgun when the trouble started. He said he was going to find Parmalee and dust his hide with buckshot!”

Frank bit back a curse and told the distraught woman, “I’ll find him!” He wheeled his horse and headed for the nearest burning building, where men had formed a bucket brigade and were dousing the flames with buckets of water drawn from one of the community’s wells.

Frank dismounted and ran over to the line of men. “Anybody seen Horace Duncan?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the crackling of the flames.

One of the farmers pointed. “He headed that way!” Frank ran toward another building that was on fire. The con-flagration lit the night brightly and cast a hellish glare over everything. Several of the raiders lay on the ground, unmoving.

Frank saw some of the community’s defenders lying there too, and knew that Elysium had paid a high price to drive off the hooded riders.

One of the men sprawled facedown on the ground looked familiar. Frank dropped to a knee beside him and rolled him over. The man groaned. Frank saw that he had a bullet wound in his shoulder. Horace’s rugged features were twisted with pain.

His eyes opened, and he said, “F-Frank: … you got here.”

“Sorry I wasn’t in time to stop Parmalee from attacking in the first place,” Frank said. “Come on, Horace. I’ll help you up and get you back to your house.”

“The … the fires … “

“Your friends are fighting them. You’re in no shape to help out right now.”

“Parmalee … ?”

“Gone, and his men with him,” Frank said. “The ones who were still alive, that is.”

Horace’s mouth stretched in a grim smile. “Got some of them … did we?”

“You sure did,” Frank told him.

He got an arm under Horace’s uninjured shoulder and lifted him, raising the farmer’s considerable weight without much visible effort. Once Horace was on his feet, Frank draped his left arm over his shoulders and put an arm around Horace’s waist. He was able to support the farmer as they walked unsteadily toward Horace’s house. Some of the women of the community were hurrying to tend to the other wounded men.

Mildred came running to meet Horace and Frank, but there was nothing she could do to help at the moment. She wrung her hands anxiously as Frank half-carried Horace into the house.

“Where do you want me to put him?” he asked.

“Just help him lie down on the divan,” Mildred said. “That’s the closest place.”

“I’ll get … blood all over it,” Horace objected.

“You think I care about something like that right now?” Mildred said. “You just hush up, Horace Duncan, and let me worry about things.”

‘Frank lowered Horace onto the divan, then straightened and asked, “Where’s Bonner?”

“Still in the spare bedroom. When the shooting started, Horace knew we’d need all our men to fight off Parmalee, so he tied up Bonner real good. That way no one would have to stand guard over him.”

Frank nodded. Horace was a smart man, and he had been using his head. Frank left Mildred there fussing over her husband, and walked down the hall to the spare bedroom. He found Bonner lying in the bed, with so much rope wrapped around him so tightly he looked like a pig all trussed up for market. Bonner had a gag in his mouth, and his eyes were wide with fear above it.

“Don’t worry, Bonner,” Frank told him. “Parmalee’s gone. The folks here in Elysium stopped him before he could get in here and shut your mouth permanently. That’s what he was after, you know. If he could have gotten to you, he would have put a bullet through your head just to make sure you couldn’t testify against him and Carter. And smell that smoke? Parmalee tried to burn down the whole settlement. You think he would have bothered trying to get you out if this place had gone up in flames?”

Bonner made urgent grunting noises behind his gag. Frank loosened the bandanna that had been used to tie the gag in place. Bonner spat out the wadded-up cloth and said hoarsely, “I’ll talk, Morgan. I’ll tell the law about the whole thing, about how Carter hired Parmalee to buffalo these sodbusters into not making trouble for him.” Bonner licked his lips and went on urgently. “And that ain’t all! Carter’s been stealin’ from the railroad, I reckon. That’s what Parmalee thinks, anyway, and I bet he’s right. I’ll testify to all of that.”

“What brought you around to the right way of thinking, Bonner?” Frank asked.

“I smelled that smoke,” Bonner replied hollowly. “I smelled it, and I knowed Parmalee wanted me dead. I could just imagine layin’ here, all tied up and helpless, while I started bumin’ …. ” A shudder went through him. “I knew then that Parmalee would kill me before he’d ever let me talk to the law. I can’t let him get away with that, Morgan. I didn’t kill nobody, I swear it. I’m not gonna hang, and I’m not gonna let Parmalee kill me.”

Frank nodded and said, “That’s smart thinking, Bonner. There’s a U.S. marshal on the way. You can tell your story to him when he gets here.”

“Good, because that sheriff in Salina ain’t gonna cross Carter. He’s too scared of the railroad.”

“I know. That’s why I sent for the marshal. Time he gets here, though, there may not be as many varmints left to arrest.”

“Why’s that, Morgan?”

“Because Parmalee and his men destroyed nearly half of Elysium tonight and killed some innocent men” Frank replied, his face etched with taut, angry lines. “And he set up an ambush for me that resulted in a woman dying. It’s time that he and I settled this thing, once and for all.”

Chapter 12

Parmalee told his men to scatter as they approached Salina. “Better drift to other parts,” he said. “With the U.S. marshal coming in and Bonner still alive to talk, this job is over.”

“What are you gonna do, Vince?” one of the men asked.

“Never you mind about me,” Parmalee snapped. “Just spread out and lie low for a while. I reckon you’ll probably be safe enough from the law. Things’ll die down sooner or later, and maybe we can all work together again one of these days.”

The men nodded in agreement, and lifted hands in farewell as they rode off in different directions. Parmalee waited until they were all gone, then headed on into Salina.

He would need money if he was going to be on the run for a while. And he suspected that Carter had quite a bit of loot stashed in his office.

Parmalee rode straight to the building leased by the railroad. He wasn’t surprised to see that there was a light in Carter’s window. Carter knew what Parmalee had planned for tonight, and he would be waiting for a report on the results of the raid on Elysium.

Carter wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear, but Parmalee was a long way past giving a damn about what Carter liked or didn’t like. This whole enterprise had been jinxed from the beginning, he thought.

He drew his gun and used the barrel to rap on the window of Carter’s office. By the time he got to the door, he heard the key rattling in the lock on the other side. Carter swung the door open and asked anxiously, “Well? What happened? Did you get Bonner out of there, or … “

Or did you kill him? That was what Carter was asking, Parmalee thought. He said, “Let me in, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Without waiting for Carter to step aside, Parmalee shouldered his way in. He stalked down the hall to the office. Carter followed, jabbering nervously.

Parmalee still had his gun in his hand. When he reached the office, he swung around and lifted the weapon so that it pointed at Carter. The railroad executive gasped and took a quick step back, his eyes widening in surprise.

“What are you doing?” Carter demanded.

“That money you skimmed off the railroad,” Parmalee grated. “I want it.”

“I … I don’t know what you’re talking about. What happened at Elysium?”

“Everything went wrong, that’s what happened! Morgan ruined it all. We burned some buildings and gunned down a few of those sodbusters, but I lost over half my men and Elysium’s still standing, damn it! And Bonner’s still alive to testify against us.”

Carter paled. “But … but Morgan sent for the U.S. marshal. When he gets here, if Bonner talks to him—”

“That’s right, we’re done for. That’s why I’m getting the hell out tonight, and I want that loot before I go.”

“I swear, I never stole from the railroad—”

Carter gulped and fell silent as Parmalee eared back the hammer of the gun and pointed it between his eyes. “Don’t bother lying to me, you weaselly little bastard. Just hand over the money and I won’t kill you.”

“I … I’ll testify against you,” Carter threatened.

Parmalee gave a humorless chuckle. “Now, was that a smart thing to say?”

Carter’s face turned the color of chalk.

“Don’t worry,” Parmalee went on. “Give me what I want and I’ll still let you live. You see, I’m not scared of you or anything you might say, Carter. With the loot you’re going to give me, I can make it to the border and live for a long time in Mexico, long enough for the law to forget all about me. So you see, I don’t have any real reason to kill you as long as you cooperate.”

Carter took a deep breath and let it out in a despairing sigh. “All right,” he said. He pointed. “The money is under a loose floorboard, there in the comer.”

“You get it,” Parmalee said, gesturing with the six-gun. “Just because I don’t plan on killing you unless I have to doesn’t mean that I trust you.”

Carter went to the comer, reached down, and pried up the floorboard he had pointed out. Underneath it, in a space between the floor and the sub-floor, were several canvas bags. He pulled them out and set them on the floor, all except the last one. That one he kept in his hands as he turned toward Parmalee. He opened the drawstring at the top and said, “I’ll show you, it’s all in cash—”

As Carter reached into the bag, Parmalee fired, the roar of the gun deafening in the close confines of the office. Flame spurted from the Colt’s barrel. It was close enough for the sparks to set Carter’s vest on fire as the bullet drove into the railroad man’s chest and flung him back against the wall. Carter managed to get his hand around the butt of the little pistol hidden inside the canvas bag, the pistol that had given the bag a different shape from the others and tipped off Parmalee. Carter was even able to fire a shot, but the gun was still pointed toward the floor and the bullet thudded harmlessly into the planks as Carter slid down the wall, leaving a bloody smear on the paint. He came to a seat with his back still propped against the wall, and as he looked up at Parmalee his mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came out.

“I would have let you live if you hadn’t tried that,” Parmalee said. “You stupid bastard.”

Death glazed over Carter’s eyes.

Parmalee holstered his gun and gathered up the other bags. Moving quickly, he opened them and dumped the bundles of banded-together bills onto the desk. He stuffed as many of them into his pockets as he could, and raked the rest back into one of the bags. He could carry that easier.

It was late enough, and Salina was civilized enough now that the pair of shots might draw some attention, so Parmalee didn’t linger. He cast one last glance at Carter, then left the office and went back into the alley to get his horse. He tied the canvas bag to the saddle and mounted up.

Just before he reached the mouth of the alley, he reined in sharply. He heard hoofbeats coming along the street, moving at a fairly fast clip.

Cursing, Parmalee swung down quickly and stepped to the comer of the building. He eased forward just enough to look along the street. His hand went to his gun as he saw the approaching rider pass through the light that came from the windows of a saloon. Parmalee recognized the hat, the broad-shouldered ftgure, and the dun horse.

Morgan!

Parmalee’s lips drew back from his teeth in a savage expression that was half grimace, half cruel grin. “Come on, Morgan,” he said softly as he pulled back the hammer of the Colt. “I’m ready for you, you interfering son of a bitch … ready for you to die!”

Horace had told Frank where Carter’s office was located, and Frank figured that if he was going to find Parmalee in Salina, that was where the gunman would be. Just as before, he didn’t bother stopping at Sheriff Haley’s office. This matter had gone far beyond the point where the ineffectual local lawman could do any good.

However, Haley must have spotted him riding past, because the sheriff emerged from his office and hurried along the boardwalk after Frank. He called, “Morgan! Morgan, you’d better not be looking for trouble! I heard what you did to Mr. Carter’s men—”

Frank reined in sharply and turned to tell the sheriff to go to hell. At that instant, a gun roared and from the comer of his eye, Frank saw Colt flame bloom in the darkness of an alley mouth up ahead. He heard the wind-rip of a bullet past his ear and knew he had narrowly avoided death.

Even as that thought was going through his head, he kicked his feet loose from the stirrups and rolled out of the saddle, falling so that the dun was between him and the alley. His gun was in his hand by the time his boots hit the street. The man in the alley fired again, and this time the slug spanked across the horse’s rump. The dun nickered in pain and lunged forward.

Frank snapped a couple of shots toward the alley mouth as he dashed for the front of a building on the same side of the street. The bushwhacker wouldn’t have as good an angle at him if’ he could reach it. Another bullet whistled past him, but then with a leap, he bounded onto the boardwalk and threw himself into a recessed doorway.

From where he had his back pressed to the building wall, Frank could see the sheriff scurrying into his office. That came as no surprise. Haley would probably lie low until the shooting was over, no matter what the outcome.

The bushwhacker had to be either Parmalee or Carter, Frank thought. He took advantage of the respite to thumb fresh cartridges into the Peacemaker, replacing the spent rounds. With a full cylinder again, he holstered the gun and turned to the door behind him. He wasn’t going to wait for the bushwhacker to make the next move. He gripped the knob and twisted it hard, throwing his shoulder against the door at the same time with all his weight behind it. Wood splintered as the jamb gave way and the door popped open.

Frank stepped into the darkened building. He couldn’t tell much about his surroundings. This was the building where the railroad had its local offices, he thought, which meant that Carter had his office here. As Frank’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, he spotted a line of light coming from under a closed door along a hallway.

He cat-footed toward it, drawing his gun again. The door was unlocked, he discovered as he carefully tried the knob. With the Colt leveled, he swung the door back and stepped through.

The first thing he saw was Carter sitting against the wall in a pool of blood, The railroad executive’s eyes were glassy and lifeless. Frank saw the moved floorboard, the empty space in the floor, and the empty canvas sacks on the desk, and he instantly knew what had happened here.

A floorboard creaked behind him.

He whirled and ducked at the same time. At the other end of the hall a gun blasted, its muzzle flash lighting up the corridor for an instant. Frank felt splinters sting his face as the bullet punched into the doorjamb only inches from his head. He triggered twice, and in the flare from the Peacemaker saw a tall, duster-clad man driven back by the impact of the bullets as they smashed into his body. The man fired again, but he was already falling and the bullet went high over Frank’s head.

Frank heard the clatter on the floor as the man dropped his gun. Frank straightened and stepped into the office just long enough to grab the still-burning lamp from the desk. Holding it in his left hand and the Colt in his right, he strode down the hall toward the fallen man. Frank kicked the dropped gun well out of reach, and kept his own weapon trained on the man as he lifted the lamp and let the light wash over the figure sprawled on the floor of the hallway.

“Parmalee?” Frank said. He realized that until this moment, he had never seen his enemy’s face. Parmalee had been wearing the hood all the other times their paths had crossed.

“You … bastard … Morgan,” Parmalee grated out. The front of his shirt was already darkly stained with blood, and crimson froth was on his lips, indicating that he was shot through the lungs.

“You should’ve gotten on your horse and ridden out while you had the chance,” Frank told him, “instead of coming in here after me.”

“Yeah…I know … but I didn’t want to … have you on my trail…from now on … didn’t want to spend the rest of my life…looking over my shoulder for you.”

He convulsed and pawed at his wounded chest, and a bundle of money spilled out of the duster. Blood had soaked into it.

Frank stiffened as he looked at Parmalee’s craggy face. He suddenly realized that he had seen the man before, but not recently. He said in amazement, “You’re Vie Parsons. You hired out your gun to Bob Horton up in Montana, when he was at war with Colbert’s Triangle C spread.”

“Yeah,” Parmalee gasped, “that’s the name … I was using then … and you rode for … Horton too, Morgan.”

“We fought on the same side,” Frank said in a voice thick with emotion. “You were a good man then. What the hell happened?”

“Same thing … happens to everybody … time … “

Parmalee’s head fell back, and his final breath escaped from his throat with a rattle.

Grim-faced, Frank holstered his Colt and stared down at a man who had once been … well, not his friend exactly. They had never been close. But as he’d said, they had fought on the same side, and that established a bond between men. At least. Frank had thought that it did.

A footstep at the front door made him look up warily. A tall man with a graying handlebar mustache stood there holding a rifle. A badge was pinned to his vest.

“Don’t move, mister,” he ordered. “Looks like I’ve got some sortin’ out to do here.”

“Who are you?” Frank asked.

“Name’s Cullen Short I’m the United States marshal outta Wichita.”

That surprised Frank. He said, “You’re here already? I only sent those wires earlier today. Well, yesterday, I reckon, since it must be after midnight by now.”

“I happened to be in Abilene wrappin’ up some business there,” Short replied. “One of my deputies got your message and wired me there to let me know to ride on over here. I just got in, and Sheriff Haley told me all hell was breakin’ loose. You are Frank Morgan?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’m not surprised about that all hell business. Sort of follows you around, don’t it, Morgan?”

Frank sighed. “It seems to.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s another dead man back yonder in that office.”

“Nope,” the marshal said, “not surprisin’ at all.”

Even though the shooting was over, the rest of the night was busy. But a lot of talking, the money that was packed inside Parmalee’s duster and tied to his saddle, and some records that Marshal Short found locked up in Carter’s safe told enough of the story so that the federal lawman accepted Frank’s version of the facts. The two of them rode out to Elysium, and Bonner kept his word and spilled everything he knew about the activities of Carter and Parmalee.

“Reckon you’re in the clear, Morgan,” Short said the next morning as they ate breakfast in the kitchen of the Duncan farmhouse.

Frank liked the marshal. Cullen Short had been a lawman for a long time, and was a no-nonsense type who believed more in what was right than he did in rules and regulations. He proved as much by telling Frank that he didn’t have to stay around for the inevitable hearings and inquests.

“I do have places to go,” Frank said, thinking about Charles Dutton.

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want,” Horace told him. The farmer’s shoulder was heavily bandaged and he was pale, but his robust constitution wouldn’t let the wound keep him down for long.

“We have a lot of rebuilding to do here in Elysium,” Mildred added. “You’d be a welcome addition to the community, Mr. Morgan.”

Frank smiled. “A fella told me not long ago that I didn’t look much like a farmer. I’m afraid he was right.”

“Well, if you ever ride back this way, you’ll always be welcome,” Horace said. “There might not still be a settlement here this morning if it wasn’t for you.”

Frank finished his breakfast, shook hands all around, and went out to find that the dun was saddled and several bags full of supplies had been loaded on the chestnut. “Wherever you’re going,” Mildred told him, “you won’t go hungry.”

“I’m obliged.” Frank took the reins from the man who was holding them, swung up into the saddle, and lifted a hand in farewell. He rode out with a good feeling warming him. Despite the dangers they had faced and the destruction that had been visited upon them, the citizens of Elysium were sturdy folks, the same sort of pioneer stock that had made the country what it was and what he hoped it always would be. They would be just fine.

But a sense of unease stole into his mind as he rode away. What had Parmalee meant there at the end, when Frank had asked him what had changed him? Time, Parmalee had said. Had he been . about to say time for something … or had he simply meant the passage of time itself, the steadily unfolding years with all their pains and disappointments and the realization that some things were never meant to be, no matter how much folks might wish it were otherwise?

Frank didn’t know, and right now he didn’t particularly want to think about it. He still had that business back East waiting for him.

Anyway, although a man might want to keep an eye on his back trail, he still had to watch where he was going.

The fellow came galloping up to Horace’s house a short time after Frank had ridden away. He dismounted hurriedly and approached the porch, where Marshal Short was still talking to Horace, Mildred, and some of the other citizens of Elysium.

“Is he still here?” the newcomer asked eagerly.

“Who?” Horace asked.

“Why, Frank Morgan, of course! The Drifter himself. One of the most famous gunfighters in the history of the West!” The young man took a pad of paper and a pencil stub from his coat. “I heard he was here. I write for the newspaper in Salina, and I want to ask him some questions.”

Marshal Short shook his head. “I’m afraid you missed out, son. Morgan’s already gone.”

The reporter’s eager expression disappeared. “Oh,” he said, obviously disappointed. But then, he brightened again with the resilience and optimism of youth and went on. “But I’ll bet some of you can tell me all about him and how he saved your lives and your homes. It’s still going to be a great story for the paper!”

Chapter 13

Frank smelled Chicago before he came in sight of it. It was an odd smell, mostly smoky, but with some unpleasant under-currents. He reminded himself that Chicago was where the huge slaughterhouses were, the meatpacking plants that were the ultimate destination of those thousands upon thousands of cattle who came up the trails from Texas and other places.

Maybe what he was really smelling was … death.

That, and a hellacious number of people and all the smells that went with them. Chicago was the second-biggest city in the country. Only New York City had more inhabitants. Frank had read about it in the newspapers, just as he had read about the Columbian Exposition that Chicago was putting on, a sort of world’s fair celebrating the four hundredth anniversary of Christopher Columbus’s discovery of America. If things had been different, Frank might not have minded paying a visit to the Exposition. He didn’t plan to stay in Chicago that long, however. He was just going to catch a train for Boston as soon ashe could.

Since leaving Elysium, he’d had time to ponder the situation during the long ride to Chicago. It seemed to him that since he had given Dutton’s spies and hired killers the slip down in Kansas, it would be safe for him to catch a train again. That wouldn’t put too many innocent people in danger, and it would sure cut down on the time it would take him to reach Boston and finally have that showdown with Dutton. As soon as he reached Chicago, he planned to head for the depot.

He could see the city’s skyline when he was still several miles out of town. “Good Lord, hoss,” he said to the dun. “Some of those buildings must be ten or twelve stories tall. Who’d want to live that high up in the air?”

The horse just tossed his head, as unable to answer that question as Frank was.

A short time later, they were moving down one of the city’s streets, the dun’s hooves thudding against the pavement. The smell was worse, and so was the noise. Trolley cars similar to the ones Frank had seen in San Francisco moved along the streets, their bells clanging. Vendors with pushcarts shouted sales pitches for their wares. The sidewalks were thronged with people, many of them shouting as well. Wagons rattled along, and the horses that pulled them contributed to the smell by leaving droppings whenever and wherever the notion struck them. Frank had never seen the inside of an insane asylum, but as he turned down a street called Michigan Avenue, not far from the lake, he thought that they probably looked a lot like downtown Chicago.

He gazed up at the tall buildings flanking him, and felt like he was riding through a narrow canyon. He had the urge to turn the horse around and gallop out of there.

But this was where he had to go if he wanted to carry out the mission he had started on, and he squared his shoulders and forced himself to keep moving, looking around at his chaotic surroundings as he did so and wondering again why folks in their right minds would choose to live like this.

A tall, florid-faced man with muttonchop whiskers was striding down the sidewalk not far from where Frank was riding. Frank called over to him, “Hey, mister, can you tell me how to get to the railroad station?”

The citizen, who wore a tweed suit and a bowler hat, looked over at Frank and raised his eyebrows. “Say:’ he replied, “are you one of Colonel Cody’s cowboys?”

Frank brought the dun closer to the man. “Cody, did you say?” he asked. “You mean Bill Cody?”

“Yes, of course, Buffalo Bill himself If you’re looking for him, you’ll have to go down to Jackson Park, where the world’s fair is.”

Frank frowned. “Bill Cody’s part of that world’s fair I heard about?”

“No, no, the Exposition’s planners wouldn’t allow him to take part. But he has his Wild West set up just north of there. You can’t miss it. I hear he’s cleaning up from the people who go to the fair. I’ve been a couple of times myself, took the wife and our little girls. They never saw the like of it. Neither did I, to tell the truth.”

That sounded like Bill Cody, Frank thought. Bill had always been one to enjoy putting on a good show. And he was a canny businessman, too. Frank was willing to bet that whoever had decided not to let Cody be an official part of the world’s fair was kicking themselves about now.

“What about the railroad station?” Frank asked again.

“Which one? There are six stations here downtown, and quite a few others scattered around the city.”

Frank pondered that, but didn’t have an answer. He didn’t know which station would be best. But he was willing to bet that Bill Cody would, and besides, he hadn’t seen Cody in several years and wouldn’t mind renewing acquaintances. The showman could tell him the quickest way to get to Boston.

“Never mind about that,” Frank told the bowler-hatted citizen. “How do I get to where Cody’s show is set up?”

The man pointed. “Just keep going along Michigan Avenue here. When you get to Sixty-third Street, turn east toward the lake You’ll see the Exposition on your right, and the Wild West is on the left across the street. Like I said, you can’t miss it.”

Frank nodded, and reached up to touch a finger to the brim of his hat in a polite gesture. “Much obliged, mister,” he said

“Wait a minute,” the Chicagoan said. “You are a cowboy, aren’t you?” .

“I’ve worked some at cowboying in my time,” Frank replied honestly.

“Have you ever killed a rustler or fought Indians or been in a gunfight?” The man’s face wore an expression of avid interest as he asked the questions.

For some reason, Frank felt just contrary enough to say, “No, my life’s been plumb peaceable. All that stuff you hear about the West, about gunfights and such, it’s just all made up. Things like that don’t ever happen.”

“Really?” The man was disappointed now. “I thought there were a lot of gunfighters and showdowns and such.”

“You mean where fellas stand out in the middle of the street and go for their guns to see which one’s the fastest?”

“Exactly.”

Frank shook his head. “Never happened. Not once.”

“My word.” The man moved on down the sidewalk, muttering to himself. Frank felt a little bad about joshing him like that, but anybody who would believe such a bald-faced lie as that, anybody dumb enough to think that -there had never been any gunfights in the West, shouldn’t ought to be out in the midday sun to begin with. Frank lifted the reins, clucked to the dun, and got moving again.

He followed the citizen’s directions, and after a few minutes left the tallest buildings behind, which came as a relief. The city opened up a little as he rode south. A vast area of railroad tracks and cattle pens appeared on his right. The great Chicago stockyards, Frank thought. He had heard of them for years, but this was his first sight of them. He could hear the racket caused by tens of thousands, maybe even millions, of cattle mooing plain-tively, as if they knew the fate that awaited them. And even though the wind was off the lake, carrying the smell away from him, the stench of the stockyards was so massively overpowering that he could still smell it.

Even so, being out here was better than being cooped up amidst all those towering buildings.

As he passed the stockyards, Frank saw a lot of buildings looming on his left. They weren’t as tall as the ones downtown, but they were plenty big. A myriad of colorful flags on tall poles flew from some of them. Frank figured they had to be the buildings of the world’s fair. Closer, just north of the gathering of buildings, was some sort of arena, also with flags flying from it. Frank had a hunch that was where Buffalo Bill’s Wild West was located. He came to Sixty-third Street and turned left toward the arena.

He heard a band playing before he got there. The strains of a stirring martial air came to his ears. The music died away as Frank reached the entrance to the compound around the arena, where dozens of tents were set up. An arched gate marked the entranceway. It was flanked by large signs on which were painted life-size figures. On the sign to the left was a picture of a man in very old-fashioned clothing, and a banner above it read: PILOT OF THE OCEAN, THE FIRST PIONEER. Frank figured that since the world’s fair was officially the Columbian Exposition, this fella was supposed to be Christopher Columbus.

He didn’t have to guess about the identity of the hombre whose picture adorned the sign to the right. That man was dressed in fancy buckskins, had a rifle tucked under his arm and a high-crowned white hat on his head, and sported long grey hair down to his shoulders and a white goatee on his jutting chin. The banner hung above this portrait proclaimed: PILOT OF THE PRAIRIE, THE LAST PIONEER.

Buffalo Bill hadn’t changed a bit. He was still larger than life, the consummate showman. Frank would have reckoned that the man was a fake and a charlatan, if he hadn’t known for a fact that Bill Cody was a crack shot and one of the bravest men he’d ever met. Cody’s stories about being a Pony Express rider and scouting for the army and fighting Indians were all true. Frank even happened to know about some colorful exploits of Cody’s that hadn’t become general knowledge or part of Bill ‘s stage shows and outdoor extravaganzas.

A sign over a ticket booth announced that this was BUFFALO BILL’S WILD WEST AND OONGRESS OF ROUGH RIDERS OF THE WORlD. As Frank sat there for a moment, lounging in the saddle and shaking his head with a smile at Cody’s ebullient grandiosity, the music inside the arena died away and was replaced by the sudden popping of gunfire, Frank straightened, and his smile was replaced by a look of grim determination. It sounded like trouble had broken out in there, and since Bill Cody was an old friend, Frank was going to take a hand and do what he could to stop it.

He heeled the dun into motion and started past the ticket booth, trailing the packhorse behind him. The man inside the booth popped out of it through a little door, yelling, “Hey, mister! You can’t go in without a ticket!”

Frank paused long enough to demand, “Don’t you hear that shooting? All hell’s breaking loose in there!”

The ticket-seller waved a hand casually. “No, it’s not. That’s just Annie.”

“Annie?” Frank asked. _

“Yeah. Annie Oakley. Little Sure Shot. Ain’t you heard of her, mister?”

“No, I don’t reckon I have.” Frank looked toward the arena, where the shooting had stopped momentarily to be replaced by a wave of cheers and applause. That didn’t sound like any corpse-and-cartridge session in which Frank had ever taken part.

“Well, buy a ticket and you can go in and see her for yourself … although you’re gonna have to leave those horses outside. Only animals allowed inside are the ones that are part of the show.” When Frank hesitated, the man went on with the enthusiasm of a natural-born spieler. “Better hurry and make up your mind, friend. You’ve already missed the Grand Review and most of Miss Oakley’s act, but you can still see the holdup of the Deadwood stage and the Battle of the Little BigHorn.”

Frank pointed to the arena. “In there, you mean?”

“That’s right. All the thrills and excitement you’d ever want”

Frank grunted. He had ridden on the Deadwood stage one time, but it hadn’t been held up. Hadn’t been too exciting either, just bumpy and dusty. And the Battle of the Little Big Horn sure as hell hadn’t been thrilling for many of those who had taken part in it, at least not according to what he had heard once from Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves, the two gun-stinging blood brothers who had watched the battle from a nearby ridge, unable to stave off the inevitable bloody clash between the two cultures of red and white. Sam’s father, Med-icine Horse, had died in that battle fighting for the Sioux, Frank recalled, even though he had known that the Indian way of life must inevitably go down to defeat.

And now, Buffalo Bill Cody had made that tragic occurrence part of his show, dramatizing it for the entertainment of city folks. Frank supposed that was inevitable too. Sooner or later, history either became entertainment or was forgotten.

“I don’t want to see the show,” Frank told the man from the ticket booth, “but I would like to talk to Bill Cody.”

“Colonel Cody’s gonna be busy until this afternoon’s show is over, and anyway, he doesn’t talk to just any saddle tramp who comes along to beg him for a job.”

“I’m not looking for a job,” Frank said, keeping a tight rein on his temper.

The ticket-seller started back into his booth. He seemed not to have heard what Frank said. “Listen, friend, come back after the show and you can talk to the head wrangler. Maybe he’d have something for you.”

“I don’t want a—” Frank began. Then he stopped and muttered, “The hell with this.” He hitched the dun into motion again. He was going to ride over to that arena and wait for Bill Cody to come out.

The ticket-seller ran a few steps after him, yelling, “Hey! Hey, I told you, you gotta buy a ticket!”

Frank ignored the man.

Behind him, the ticket-seller shouted, “Stop that guy! He’s crashin’ the gate!”

Frank would have ignored that too, but a moment later, with a clatter of hoofbeats, several riders galloped up behind him and then circled around to get in front of him. He had to rein in because they stopped to form a barrier. Dust billowed around the hooves of their horses. There were four of them, and they all wore range clothes. Frank scanned their rugged, unshaven faces, thinking that he might have crossed trails with one or more of them, but they were all strangers to him.

“Hold on there, buckaroo,” one of the men said sharply.

“You can’t just come waltzin’ in here. You’ve got to buy a ticket to the show.”

“I don’t want to see the show,” Frank said. “I just want to talk to Bill Cody.”

“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 settle-ments. 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 rein-forcements 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 oflemonade. 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 certainty 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 pre-cise. 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 Con-cord 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 oflong 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.

“Sure was:’ Cody replied.

“Good Lord, I figured he was dead ten years ago.”

Cody chuckled. “Not Salty. He’s been whittled down to bone and whang leather, but I figure he’ll still be around when you and I are in our graves, Frank.”

“Could be. He drove the actual Deadwood run back in ‘76 didn’t he?” ,

“That’s right, as well as other routes all over the West. I couldn’t have a better man handling that stagecoach.”

The compound was thronged with people, many of them members of Cody’s troupe of performers, but quite a few people who had attended the afternoon show were still on the grounds, wandering around and looking at the horses, the cowboys, and the Indians.

One of the red men greeted Frank with an upraised hand. How,” he said solemnly. He was quite elderly, with a very wrinkled face and iron-gray hair in braids. An eagle feather stuck up from the band that was tied around his head.

“How yourself, you old son of a bitch,” Frank replied with a grin. He grabbed the hand of the buckskin-clad Indian and pumped it, then slapped the man on the back. “It’s good to see you, Red Thunder. I didn’t know you were part of Bill’s show.”

“Well, I never was able to take his hair, so I thought I might as well take his money,” Red Thunder replied. His easy, educated manner of speaking showed that he’d had some of the white man’s schooling.

Cody said, “It wasn’t through lack of trying that you never got my hair. I recollect a time when we were both young and you and some of your braves chased me a good twenty miles before I gave you the slip.”

Red Thunder nodded. “Those Pony Express horses were fast. But we might not have killed you if we’d caught you. Would’ve stolen your horse, though.”

“Well, that goes without saying.”

Red Thunder laughed. “What are you doing here, Frank? Come to join up with the show? The colonel doesn’t pay all that well, but it’s good to remember the old times.”

Frank didn’t point out that although civilization had made some inroads, much of the West was still almost as wild as it ever was. But Red Thunder’s people were all on reservations these days, other than the ones who were touring with Buffalo Bill. For him and those like him, the old days were indeed gone and would never come again.

“No, I’m just paying a quick visit,” Frank said.

“You ought to think about joining up. Lots of old friends here.”

Cody said, “That’s actually not a bad idea, Frank. You’d be quite a draw. I can see it now.” He gestured as if there were a banner over Frank’s head. “Frank Morgan, the last of the old-time gunfighters! I’ve been thinking about just such a thing for a long time.”

“Let me guess,” Frank said dryly. “You already asked Smoke Jensen, and he turned you down.”

“Why, that thought never even occurred to me!”

Frank smiled. “Sorry, Bill. Like I told you, I have business elsewhere.”

“Well, keep it in mind for when that business is concluded satisfactorily, as I’m sure it will be.”

Frank said good-bye to Red Thunder and promised the Pawnee war chief he would stop back by for a visit if he got the chance before leaving Chicago. As he and Cody walked away, Frank asked, “Exactly when is the next train heading east due through here? Tomorrow or the next day, I hope.”

Cody laughed. “Frank, there are at least two eastbounds leaving Chicago each and every day. This isn’t some isolated little flag stop out in the middle of the frontier. Chicago is the greatest rail hub in the country, maybe even in the world. Whenever you’re ready to go, you shouldn’t have to wait very long for a train.”

Frank was ready to go now, but he had promised Cody that he would give him a hand with the problem facing him. He was going to do his best to take care of it quickly, though.

They walked on to another tent, where Cody paused outside the entrance flap and called, “Hannah, it’s the colonel. I have a friend of mine with me. Can we come in?”

There was no response. Cody frowned, then said to Frank, “That’s odd. I’m sure she was coming right back here after the performance.”

Before Frank could say anything, he heard a sudden scuf-fling sound from inside the tent, then a grunt, and finally a frightened scream that lasted only a second or two before it was abruptly cut off as if someone had clapped a hand over the mouth of the woman who had cried out.

He didn’t wait to see what Cody would do. He jerked the canvas entrance flap aside and lunged into the tent with his hand on the butt of his Peacemaker.

Instantly, his keen eyes caught the sight of two figures struggling next to a folding table. One of them was a young woman in tight buckskin trousers and a fancy white shirt. The other was a tall man in a Western-cut suit with a black Stetson crammed down on a shock of black hair.

The man had his back to Frank at first, but must have heard him come in, because he swung around sharply, bringing the young woman with him. Frank let go of his gun since he couldn’t fire as long as the woman was between him and the intruder. After hearing Cody’s story, he had no doubt that the woman was Hannah Sterling and the man with the arrogant snarl on his face was Edgar Wade.

At some time in the past, the man’s nose had been broken and had healed badly. He glared at Frank and said, “Get outta here, mister. Idon’t know who you are, but this is none of your business.”

Cody stepped into the tent and confirmed, “That’s him, Frank. That’s Wade.”

“You get out too, Cody,” Wade snapped. “You got no right interferin’ between a man and the woman he’s gonna marry.”

His hand was still clasped cruelly over Hannah’s lips, so she couldn’t deny his claim. But she managed to get her mouth open wide enough to bite down on Wade’s palm.

He howled in pain and surprise as her teeth sank into his hand. His grip on her loosened, and she twisted away from him. Wade reached for her with a hand that was now dripping blood where she had bitten him.

He didn’t get a chance to lay that bloody hand on her, because Frank stepped forward quickly and launched a punch that landed cleanly on that crooked, hawklike beak. Blood spurted and the impact knocked Wade back a step. Frank bored in, hooking a left into Wade’s midsection that knocked the breath out of the man and made him bend over. Wade was several inches taller than Frank, so that brought him into perfect position for the looping right-hand punch that came whistling around and exploded on his jaw like a rocket.

Wade was driven sideways onto the folding table. It collapsed under his weight and he fell to the ground amidst the wreckage, where he lay moving feebly and moaning a little as crimson leaked from his rapidly swelling nose.

Frank moved back and stood with his hand near the Colt, just in case Wade tried anything. From the looks of the man, though, all the fight had been knocked out of him.

“There, there, Hannah, it’s all right,” Cody said as he put an arm around the shaken young woman. “That ruffian isn’t going to hurt you again.”

Hannah swallowed hard and made a visible effort to pull herself together. She wasn’t crying, but her face was pale and drawn. She was a tall, athletic-looking young woman, almost as tall as Frank and Cody, and she had long, thick, dark red hair that was pulled into a ponytail behind her head.

Frank glanced over at the two of them, saw how pretty Hannah was, and saw as well how Cody was hovering protec-tively over her. He thought again that the showman’s feelings for the lovely young trick rider probably weren’t strictly avuncular. But he also reminded himself that that was none of his business.

Wade appeared to be getting his senses back, so Frank bent over, grabbed the lapels of his coat, and hauled the man to his feet. The muscles in Frank’s arms and shoulders and back bunched and rippled under his shirt as he lifted Wade with seemingly little effort.

“Listen to me, Wade,” Frank said as he put his face close to the intruder’s bleeding visage. “You’re not welcome here, and you’re not going to bother this young woman anymore. Set foot in this compound again and you’ll get worse than you got this time.”

“You got no right … to keep me out,” Wade panted. “This is … a public show. I got a right to … buy a ticket.”

“Not if! say you don’t,” Cody snapped. “This is my show, and I say who’s welcome and who’s not.”

Frank gave Wade a shove that sent him staggering toward the entrance. “Get the hell out of here, and don’t come back.”

Wade paused before leaving the tent to draw the back of his hand across his mouth and wipe away some of the blood that had run down there. “Who are you?” he grated at Frank. “One of Cody’s phony cowboys?”

“There’s nothing phony about this man, you damned fool,” Cody said. “This is Frank Morgan.”

Frank could tell from the look in Wade’s eyes that the man recognized his name. Wade didn’t show it in any other way, though. He just growled, “He’ll be a dead man if he ever tries to lay hands on me again,” then pushed out of the tent and stalked away unsteadily. Frank stepped to the entrance and watched him go, just to make sure he didn’t try to double back. People stepped aside from Wade and gave him plenty of room, probably because of that savage, blood-streaked countenance.

“Are you really Frank Morgan?” Hannah asked from behind him.

Frank let the tent flap drop and turned back to smile and nod at her. “Yes, I am,” he said, “and I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Sterling. I wish it had been under better circumstances.”

“So do I.” She smiled sadly. “I wish you hadn’t been forced to cross Edgar. He’s a bad man to have as an enemy.”

“I don’t reckon I’ll lose much sleep worrying about that, ma’am.”

“And I wish I hadn’t brought so much trouble to the show, Colonel,” Hannah said to Cody.

“Don’t you give it a second thought,” he told her. “Wade won’t dare bother you again, not after what happened just now.”

Her smile became even more rueful. “That’s where you’re wrong, Colonel. When Edgar wants something, he won’t stop until he gets it. He’ll be more determined than ever after this, and sooner or later I’ll have to go with him whether I want to or not.”

“Never! Why in the world would you say a thing like that, girl?”

“Because I promised that I’m going to marry him,” Hannah said.

Chapter 16

Cody stared at her, dumbfounded by the statement she had just made. Frank was more than a mite surprised himself, but his reaction wasn’t as obvious as Cody’s was.

“Marry him!” the colonel finally exploded. “Why in God’s name would you ever do a thing like that?”

“Because it’s what I promised to do,” Hannah said calmly. “I gave my word, and I have to keep it.”

“But … but … why?” Cody sputtered.

“Why does anyone agree to get married? I guess I … I love him.”

Frank was watching Hannah Sterling closely, and he didn’t believe for a second that she really loved Edgar Wade. She was sincere about intending to honor her promise to marry him, though.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Frank said quietly. “Colonel Cody and I will see to that.”

“I know. It’s just … I’m sorry. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I sure as blazes don’t,” Cody said.

“I appreciate what you did, Mr. Morgan,” Hannah went on as if she hadn’t heard the showman, “but it doesn’t change anything. I still have to marry Edgar.”

Something occurred to Cody that put a look of horror on his weathered face. “Hannah, you aren’t … you haven’t … you’re not in a … condition … “

Her eyebrows went up in shock. “Oh, no, Colonel!” she exclaimed. “I never … I wouldn’t … “

He patted her on the shoulder. “There, there, dear, of course not. I shouldn’t have even allowed such a thought to enter my head” Cody frowned. “But if it’s not that, you must have some other reason.”

“I told you.” Hannah’s voice grew firm. “I love him.”

Cody looked like he wanted to argue some more, but Frank reached over and put a hand on the fringed sleeve of the colonel’s buckskin suit. “You heard the lady, Bill,” he said, putting a deliberately lighter tone in his voice. “You know there’s no point in arguing with a woman once she’s made up her mind.”

Hannah smiled wanly. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I’m glad you understand.”

“I still don’t want Wade anywhere around here,” Cody blustered. “If you have to meet him, it had better be elsewhere.”

Hannah looked down at the ground and nodded. “All right, Colonel. I know the hotel where he’s staying. That’s where he was trying to get me to go just now. I … I guess I should have gone along with him, instead of causing so much trouble. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Cody said gruffly. “I may not understand, but I won’t interfere.”

The old varmint’s feelings were hurt, Frank told himself. That was a shame, but it couldn’t be helped, at least not right now.

“We’ll go on and leave you alone,” Cody continued. “I’m sure you’ll want to rest up a mite before tonight’s show. You’ll be able to perform?”

“Of course,” she replied without hesitation. “I won’t let my personal affairs interfere with the show.”

Cody nodded. “Good.” He jerked his head toward the tent flap. “Let’s go, Frank.”

Frank ticked a finger against the brim of his Stetson and said, “It was mighty nice to meet you, Miss Sterling.”

Her smile was still weak as she nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”

The two men left the tent. Cody muttered under his breath as they walked across the crowded, noisy compound. “I don’t understand it, I just don’t understand it,” he finally said.

“Not much to understand about it,” Frank drawled. “She lied to us.”

Cody stopped short and turned to stare at his old friend. “What do you mean?”

“That gal’s not in love with Wade. For some reason, though, she thinks she’s got no choice but to go along with what he wants and marry him. She just panicked when he tried to force her to leave just now. But that doesn’t change whatever hold it is that he had over her.”

Cody smacked a fist into the palm of his other hand. “I knew it! I knew she couldn’t possibly be in love with that son of a bitch. What are we going to do about this, Frank?”

“You’re going to keep on running your show the way you always do,” Frank said. “Leave the other to me. I’Il find out how Wade is forcing her to go along with him, and then I’ll take whatever steps are necessary to put a stop to it.”

Cody nodded grimly. “Thanks, Frank. That girl means a lot to me. Like I said at first, maybe you should just kill the bastard.”

“Might come to that,” Frank said.

Now that he had decided to remain in Chicago for a few days, Frank figured he might as well take in the Columbian Exposition after all. Cody went with him, and they spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the huge exhibit halls that had been built to showcase the products and cultures of countries the world over.

Frank was most impressed by the display of firepower put on by Fritz Krupp, the German munitions manufacturer. In a pavilion next to the lakeshore, Krupp had on display the largest artillery piece in the world, a cannon weighing a quarter of a million pounds and capable of firing a shell that weighed a full ton. Krupp’s Baby, Cody called it, and the old showman said, “Think what we could have done with one of those in some of the Indian fights we had, Frank.”

“How do you even haul something like that?” Frank wondered. “It’s as big as a railroad car by itself.”

“They brought it here by train, but I’m not quite sure how they managed it. It’s a big enough challenge just transporting my show from one place to the next.”

Frank looked out over the waters of Lake Michigan. The surface of the lake was dotted with white sails that shone bril-liantly in the afternoon sun. Steam-powered vessels also chugged back and forth, many of them excursion boats that picked up passengers from a long pier jutting a couple of hundred yards out into the lake. A gaudily painted building that ran almost the entire length of the pier housed rides and games to entertain the fairgoers.

Frank had seen the Pacific Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico, and to him Lake Michigan looked every bit as big as those bodies of water. It was hard for him to believe that it was actually a freshwater lake-and that there were four more like it stretched across the northern tier of the country.

After leaving the fair, Frank and Cody went to a fine restau-rant not far away where they ate supper. Cody insisted on paying.

“As far as I’m concerned, your money’s no good while you’re in Chicago, Frank. I’ve done very well financially since setting up my Wild West show, and I was successful before that with my stage productions.”

“Yeah, I remember Bill Hickok telling me about trying to be an actor in one of your plays. He didn’t care much for it, as I recall.” Frank shook his head. “Lord, it’s hard to believe Wild Bill’s been gone almost twenty years now.”

“Yes, he was a good man. Never should have gone to Deadwood, though. I was scouting for the army at the time and tried to talk him into coming along with me. But he was set on prospecting for gold and making a fortune. Funny thing is, I’ve heard that once he got there, he gave up on the idea of prospecting and spent most of his time drinking and gambling in the saloons.”

They shared a moment of silence in memory of their old friend Hickok, then resumed their reminiscing over a meal of what Cody proclaimed to be the finest steaks in Chicago.

When they had finished eating, the colonel said, “I’d better get back now so that I can start preparing for this evening’s performance. You’re coming to see the show, aren’t you, Frank?”

“I sure am. I’m curious to see just what sort of hoopla you put on, Bill.”

He had another reason for attending the performance too, but he didn’t say anything about that to Cody. Better to wait and see how the hand played out, he thought.

When they reached the arena, Cody said, “You’ll sit in my private box right down front. That is, if I can’t talk you into taking part, even if it’s just for one night.”

Frank shook his head. “How many people can you pack in this place, Bill?”

“Eighteen thousand,” Cody replied proudly.

“I reckon I’d take on a horde of howling Comanch’ before I’d feel comfortable performing in front of eighteen thousand people.”

“You’d be surprised how quickly you get used to it.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Frank said.

Cody escorted him to that private box, which was draped with red, white, and blue bunting. Then the colonel headed for the area underneath the grandstands where the performers gathered before the show. Half the sky was still lit up with the afterglow from the sunset, but above the arena, gaslights mounted on towering poles began to flicker on. There were so many of them that by the time they were all lit, it was as bright as day inside the arena,

The stands began to fill up quickly. Many of those attending were families with young children, but Frank also saw couples who were probably courting or newly married, and older people who might well remember when some of the things they were about to see were commonplace.

When the stands were full, a band composed of men in cowboy clothes walked out onto the large, circular floor, which was covered with smooth, freshly raked sand. As the musicians struck up the instantly recognizable opening notes of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” the crowd rose to its feet and became respectfully silent. They remained that way until the band had completed the stirring anthem. Then a huge cheer welled from the eighteen thousand throats.

The cheering continued as Buffalo Bill rode out into the center of the arena on a beautiful white horse rigged up with silver trappings on its harness. Cody rode around in a circle, waving his creamy Stetson over his head and saluting the crowd. After a few moments, he brought his mount to a halt and called out in a voice. that was surprisingly powerful for a man of his age, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Buffalo Bill’s Wild West and Congress of Rough Riders of the World! Now … the Grand Review!”

With a sweep of his hat, he ushered a column of riders into the arena. Riding four abreast, cavalrymen from numerous different nations paraded slowly before the grandstands full of cheering spectators. Each group carried a flag represent-ing its country. Frank recognized the ones from England, France, and Germany, and of course the American Stars and Stripes, since the U.S. cavalry was well represented, but the other flags were unknown to him. He told himself that he would ask Cody about them if he got the chance later.

The Grand Review lasted for quite a while, with the band playing martial airs the whole time. When it was finally over, Annie Oakley took her turn. Cody introduced her as Little Sure Shot, the Darling of the Plains.

And she was a mighty good shot, no doubt about that. Frank had to give her credit for her undeniable skill with pistol and rifle. She made some shots he doubted that he would have been able to accomplish, such as busting a whole row of tiny, colored glass balls that were thrown into the air, without a single wasted shot from her rifle. There was no trickery about it, no gimcrackery. Annie Oakley was the genuine article.

That was hardly the end of the show. The Deadwood stage appeared next with old Salty Stevens handling the reins. As Salty sent the coach rolling around the arena, expensively dressed folks riding inside it waved to the crowd. Frank figured they were local politicians or important businessmen or both.

After the coach had made a complete circuit of the arena, a group of riders suddenly came boiling out of one of the gates that led underneath the grandstands. They wore buckskins and feathered headdresses, and they howled and whooped savagely as they gave chase to the stagecoach. Salty whipped up the team to a gallop. The attacking Indians opened fire with the rifles they carried.

The chase lasted for a couple of turns around the arena before a group of cowboys led by Buffalo Bill appeared on the scene, racing after the Indians and shooting at them. The air was growing thick with floating veils of gray powder smoke. Some of the Indians went tumbling spectacularly off their mounts as if they were mortally wounded.

Frank knew that none of them were actually hurt, of course. It was all playacting. All those involved in this so-called Indian fight were firing blanks from their guns. But it still made for quite a spectacle, and the audience ate it up. The cheering and applause never stopped. Most of these people had never seen a real Indian attack and never would-and they could thank their lucky stars and men like Buffalo Bill Cody for that, but what they were witnessing here was a reasonably close approximation. It was a window into a history that was not completely gone yet, not by any means, but one that was beginning to fade.

Buffalo Bill and his cohorts chased off the rest of the Indians and the stagecoach followed, going out through the same gate by which it had entered. It took several minutes for the crowd reaction to die down.

Then Hannah Sterling appeared, riding a big bay horse. She wore the same outfit Frank had seen her in earlier, with the addition of a buckskin jacket and a white Stetson that must have been held on her head by a taut chin strap, though Frank couldn’t see it at this distance. The hat stayed on Hannah’s head, though, even when she began to perform a series of acrobatic horseback tricks.

When she launched into her first trick, Frank thought for a second that she had fallen off the running horse. But then she popped back up and he realized that she had slipped out of the saddle, let her booted feet hit the ground, and then vaulted back up, using her tight grip on the saddle for leverage as she swung her legs across the horse’s back and let them drop on the other side.

That was just the beginning. Before the act was over, Hannah had ridden backward, upside down, standing on the saddle, and every other which way. Frank had seen other performers who could carry out such horseback tricks, but he had to admit that Hannah was as good as any of them and better than most. The crowd seemed to like her too, although Frank didn’t envy anybody who had to follow something as exciting as the Indians “attacking” the Deadwood stage.

When Hannah had finished her act, Colonel Cody returned to the arena to do some sharpshooting of his own, which he combined with a demonstration of fancy horsemanship. Frank would have enjoyed watching his old friend perform, but he had other business to take care of. He slipped out of the private box and went down some steps to the area underneath the grandstands. He wanted to find Hannah so that he could keep an eye on her and see what she did next. He hoped to discover what sort of hold Edgar Wade had over the lovely young woman.

He spotted her making her way toward the area where the performers’ tents were located. As Frank followed her at a discreet distance, guns began to go off again inside the arena. The shots became a deafening fusillade, and Frank knew that the mock Battle of the Little Big Horn was under way. He wondered briefly how Red Thunder and the other Indians felt about staging such a spectacle and reducing what had ultimately been a tragic moment in their history to mere entertainment, but he put that thought aside as he trailed Hannah Sterling. Right now, her problems with Edgar Wade were his main concern.

Hannah went into her tent. Frank lingered nearby, waiting to see if she was going to come out again. She did so about ten minutes later. She had changed out of her costume into a simple but attractive dress, and her long red hair was put up on her head with a stylishly small hat perched on it. Frank drew back into the shadows so she wouldn’t see him as she walked by. He gave her a lead, then fell in behind her again, trailing her as she left the Wild West show compound.

Hannah walked briskly for several blocks, heading north toward downtown Chicago. Frank didn’t figure that was her destination, though, because it was too far to walk. Sure enough, she turned onto a cross street and went toward the lakefront. She entered a six-story building that faced the water. A sign that hung over the door read: AVALON HOTEL.

Frank gave Hannah a moment or two, not wanting to follow too closely behind her, then went into the hotel himself. He knew he might look out of place in his range clothes, and as he entered the lobby, he saw that that was sure enough the case. All the other men he saw wore suits, and some of them sported derbies or bowler hats or fedoras.

He caught sight of Hannah’s skirts ascending a staircase on the other side of the lobby. As he started after her, the slick-haired gent behind the registration desk held up a hand and said firmly, “May I help you, sir?”

Frank shook his head and walked on past the desk. The clerk said, “Just a moment, sir-“

Frank turned his head toward the young man, and the clerk shut up when he saw the expression on The Drifter’s rugged face. “It’s all right, son,” Frank said to the youngster. “If there’s a ruckus, I’ll tell everybody afterward that it wasn’t your fault, that you tried to stop me.”

The clerk swallowed hard. “Is … is there going to be trouble, sir?”

“I reckon that’ll depend on what I find when I get upstairs.”

Without another word, Frank hurried along to the staircase and bounded up the steps. The Avalon was a reasonably nice place, the sort of accommodation where a fella might bring his family for a summer vacation near the lake. When Frank reached the second-floor landing, he glanced along the hall, and then pulled back sharply so that Hannah wouldn’t see him. She was standing in front of a door about halfway along the corridor, in a pose that told Frank she had just knocked on the panel and was waiting for a response.

He took off his hat and edged his head past the comer of the landing. Hannah was turned so that he could only see one side of her face, but that was enough to tell him that she wore a tense, expectant expression. She didn’t seem to have noticed him when he reached the top of the stairs, and all her attention was focused on the closed door now. She didn’t as much as glance in his direction.

Just when Frank was beginning to wonder if Hannah was going to get any answer to her knock, the door slowly swung open. A slender, stooped, gray-haired man stood there, his face haggard. But a smile appeared on it as he saw Hannah, and he held out his arms to her. The two of them embraced tightly, and then with an arm around her shoulder, the old man took Hannah into the room and closed the door behind them.

What the hell? Frank thought. Given everything that had happened, he had expected Hannah to be meeting Edgar Wade. Instead, she was visiting some elderly stranger.

He walked quietly along the hallway until he came to the door. The number on it was 214. Frank leaned closer, his broad-brimmed hat still in his hand, and pressed his ear to the panel. He could hear the low mutter of voices inside the room, but he couldn’t make out the words.

The door of another room opened, and a heavyset, gray-haired woman in late middle age stepped out wearing a fancy dress and a plumed hat. She had pince-nez spectacles attached to a beaded chain around her neck, and she lifted the glasses to her nose and glowered through them at the sight of Frank trying to eavesdrop.

He straightened, put his hat on, and gave the brim a polite tug as he nodded to the woman. “Ma’am,” he said.

“Young man, if you’re going to lurk around hotel corridors, I shall have no choice but to report you to the police,” the woman said with a sniff.

She wasn’t so much older than him that she ought to be calling him “young man,” Frank thought, but that didn’t really matter. He didn’t want the woman raising a ruckus. He moved a few steps closer to her, and she recoiled a little, clutching her handbag tighter.

“I’m not lurking, ma’am,” he said, “I’m looking for my, ah, sister. You happen to know who’s staying in Room 214?”

“I do not. Perhaps you should inquire at the desk down-stairs.”

“Yes, ma’am, I suppose that would be best.” Frank put on his most gallant tone as he continued. “If you’re going down to the lobby, I’d be glad to escort you.”

The woman’s icy manner thawed a little. “I suppose that would be all right.” As they fell in step toward the stairs, she added, “Are you a cowboy?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“From Texas?”

“As a matter of fact, I was born and raised there, ma’am. But I’ve drifted around to a heap of other places too.”

“You should go see Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. It’s positively thrilhng. I’m certain you’d enjoy it.”

“I’ll sure think about doing that,” Frank promised.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Frank hoped the woman would go on so that he wouldn’t have to continue this charade. Before he could do anything else, though, four men in range clothes came through the front doors of the hotel, and one of them said loudly, “There you are, Morgan. We’ve got a score to settle with you, mister!” Chapter 17

As the four men started across the lobby toward Frank, he recognized them from the fracas at the Wild West show compound earlier in the day. The one in the lead, the one who had spoken, was the wrangler called Holloway.

Frank had been willing to abandon his post on the second floor because he figured that when Hannah left the hotel, she would go out through the lobby. He’d planned to wait for her down here and then follow her and confront her after she left. She had the look of a woman in trouble, but he couldn’t help her if she wouldn’t confide in him.

Now it looked like he had been followed from the show, and Holloway and the other three wranglers wanted revenge for the whipping he had given them that afternoon.

If a brawl broke out here in the hotel lobby, the commotion might alert Hannah and the old man and whoever else might be in Room 214, possibly Edgar Wade. Frank didn’t want that, so he held up a hand, palm out, and said sharply, “Hold on, Holloway. I’m not looking for trouble with you boys.”

“Well, that’s just too damn bad, Morgan,” Holloway replied with a sneer, “because we’re lookin’ for trouble with you. And you can’t scare us off with that Colt either, gunslinger. This here’s Chicago. It’s a civilized town, and you’ll wind up in jail if you slap leather, especially against unarmed men.”

The older woman beside Frank gasped, “Gunslinger?”

He looked over at her and smiled faintly. “Don’t worry, ma’am. A Wild West show’s not about to break out right here in the lobby.” He turned his attention back to Holloway and went on tersely. “Outside.”

Holloway jerked his head in a nod. “That’s fine with us. But you go first, Morgan. We don’t want you tryin’ to duck out on us.”

The wranglers stepped aside. Frank stalked past them to the door. Behind him, the woman he had accompanied down-stairs called, “Should I summon the police, young man?”

He paused long enough to look back at her, shake his head, and say, “No, thanks, ma’am. I won’t need any help to handle the likes of these hombres.”

That comment just made Holloway and his friends angrier, but Frank didn’t much care. The more interference he encountered, the longer it was going to take him to clear up whatever this mess was with Hannah Sterling and Edgar Wade, and the longer it would be before he reached Boston and settled his score with Charles Dutton. Ifit had been anybody but Bill Cody who had asked for his help …

There was a small park across the street from the hotel, along the waterfront of the lake. Light from several gas street lamps reached the edges of the park, so Frank headed for it, thinking the open space would give him room to move around, When he reached the park and turned back toward the hotel, he saw that the older woman, the desk clerk, and sev-‘ eral other men who had been in the lobby had come outside to watch the fracas.

Holloway and the other three wranglers stalked toward him. Their fists were clenched and their faces were set in angry lines.

“You ready for a whippin’, Morgan?” Holloway taunted. “If you think you can do it, you’ve got it to do,” Frank replied coolly. “You’ve got the odds on your side, that’s for sure. Four to one might be enough to give you an advantage.”

Holloway sneered and jerked a thumb at the three men with him. “These boys just came along in case you tried anything underhanded. I’m gonna thrash you all by my lonesome, old man.”

Frank unbuckled his gunbelt and took it off. “Then maybe one of them wouldn’t mind holding this for me,” he said. He held it out toward them.

The men exchanged glances; then one of them shrugged and stepped forward. He took the gunbelt from Frank. “Looks like I’ll be stayin’ out of this, Morgan,” he said.

“Your word on that?”

“Sure.”

Frank nodded. “Good enough for me then.” These wranglers were tough and arrogant, but they were still Western men. Frank knew none of them would give their word lightly.

He turned toward Holloway and took his hat off, handing it to the man who was holding his gun. Holloway handed his hat to one of his other companions and started forward, his fists lifted in a rough boxing stance.

“I’ll try not to hurt you too bad, old man,” he said with a grin. “Just bad enough you ‘II be sorry you ever laid eyes on me.”

“Too late,” Frank said. “I already am.”

Holloway’s grin changed to a snarl as he lunged forward and drove a right-hand punch at Frank’s head. Frank expected it to be a feint, and it was. As he moved to his right to avoid the blow, Holloway’s left came hooking up with blinding speed.

Frank was just as fast, though. He blocked Holloway’s left with his right forearm and jabbed his own left into the wrangler’s belly, which was unprotected at the moment. The punch didn’t travel very far, but it had plenty of power behind it. Frank’s fist sunk in Holloway’s gut almost to the wrist.

Holloway doubled over, air gusting from his mouth as the punch knocked the wind out of him. Frank smelled the whiskey on the wrangler’s breath, and knew that Holloway had fortified himself with a few shots of Who-hit-John before setting out on this mission of vengeance.

Before Holloway could catch his breath or his balance, Frank smashed a right cross to his face. The punch sent Holloway staggering across the grass. He righted himself before he fell, and reached up to grasp his chin and work his jaw back and forth. Surprisingly, a chuckle came from his mouth.

“That’s a pretty good punch … for an old man,” he said.

“More where that came from,” Frank told him.

“Yeah, I’ll just bet there is.”

Holloway came toward him again, but this time the wrangler’s approach was slower and more careful. The two men sparred, feeling each other out now. At the same time, Frank was trying to keep an eye on the hotel entrance in case Hannah came out. He wasn’t sure what he would do if she emerged from the hotel while he was still busy with Holloway, but he would deal with that when and if it happened.

Unfortunately, the distraction proved to be just enough to let Holloway get too close. Holloway’s right fist suddenly snapped out and connected solidly with Frank’s jaw. The impact rocked Frank’s head back and made him take a step backward. As he did so, Holloway hooked a toe behind his heel and jerked. Frank’s leg went out from under him, and since he was already a little off balance, he wasn’t able to stop himself from falling.

Instantly, Holloway abandoned his boxing strategy and leaped after Frank, obviously intent on pinning him to the ground Frank saw him coming and rolled aside. Holloway hit the ground instead, and Frank drove an elbow into his ribs. Holloway gasped in pain, but reached out and grabbed hold of Frank.

They rolled across the grassy parkland, wrestling furiously. When they finally came to a stop, Frank was on top. He hit Holloway with a right and a left that jolted the wrangler’s head one way and then the other. Half-stunned, Holloway still managed to get a leg up and hook it across Frank’s throat. He levered Frank off him and rolled the other way.

Winded and groggy, Holloway croaked to his companions, “Get him! Get the old bastard!”

So much for fair play, Frank thought as he came to his knees and then struggled to his feet. He stood up just as the two wranglers closed in on him.

He was able to duck the punch that the first one threw at him, but the second man landed a fist in Frank’s side. Frank counter-punched and caught the man on the chin. That gave him an instant’s respite, but that wasn’t long enough to allow him to twist away from his attackers. A punch exploded on his jaw.

From where Holloway lay on the ground, he threw a little treachery into the mix by thrusting a leg between Frank’s feet. Frank tripped over it and fell. Before he could get up, the two men had closed in on him again and reached down to grab his arms. They jerked him onto his feet. Their fmgers dug cruelly into his flesh as they held him.

Holloway got up and came toward them, his face contorted in an expression of savagery. “Now you’re gonna pay, Morgan,” he grated.

Frank knew good and well what was about to happen. Holloway intended to give him a beating while the other two men held him. It was unfair, but Holloway was too angry to care about anything like that.

The man holding Frank’s gun and hat said, “I don’t know about this, Jed. It don’t seem right-“

“Shut up,” Holloway snapped. “You don’fhave to do anything. You can walk away if you don’t have the stomach to watch.”

“Well, if you’re gonna do this, you better make it quick,” the other wrangler said reluctantly. “I think some of those folks over at the hotel might’ve gone back inside to call the police.”

Frank’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want the police coming around here while he was still trying to find out what was going on with Hannah. He had been standing there in the grip of the two men with his head hanging down, as if he were stunned. In reality he had just been resting, taking advantage of the chance to catch his breath and get some of his strength back. Now, as Holloway approached him, he decided that he didn’t have any more time to waste waltzing around with these jaspers.

He lifted his head and threw his weight against the two men holding him. At the same time he lifted both feet off the ground and brought his knees up almost to his chest before he straightened his legs and kicked Holloway in the chest. The double kick literally lifted Holloway off the ground and sent him flying backward through the air.

The unexpected weight threw the men holding Frank off balance. The grip one of them had slipped loose. Frank pivoted toward the other one, bringing his free arm whipping around so that his fist landed in a sledging blow to the side of the man’s head. The wrangler dropped like a poleaxed steer.

Frank whirled around just as the remaining man leaped toward him. His fists came up, ready to strike, but before he could throw a punch, a shot blasted somewhere nearby. The man who was lunging at Frank was thrown backward as the meaty impact of a bullet striking flesh sounded.

A fraction of a heartbeat earlier, Frank had heard the sizzling whip-crack of the bullet passing beside his ear. He had no idea where the shot had come from, but he went to the ground in a rolling dive, making himself a harder target to hit. As he came back up on one knee, he saw the man who was holding his gunbelt standing nearby, a dumbfounded look of shock on his face. The wrangler who had been shot was on the ground, writhing in pain as blood pumped from a bullet-shattered shoulder.

“Throw me my gun!” Frank shouted at the man holding the Colt. The man gave a little shake of his head, breaking out of his stunned reverie, and tossed belt and all across to Frank.

He caught it and plucked the Peacemaker from its holster as another shot blasted and a slug plowed a furrow in the ground right beside him. This time, Frank had caught sight of the muzzle flash. It came from some trees deeper in the park. He lifted the gun and smoothly squeezed off two shots, aiming at the spot where orange flame had bloomed in the darkness.

Too late. The sound of running footsteps told Frank that the bushwhacker was already fleeing. The gunman had taken two potshots and missed with both of them.

Frank wasn’t willing to just let the man go. He snapped at the wrangler who was still on his feet, “Get something on your friend’s shoulder to stop the bleeding!” Then he darted into the trees in pursuit of whoever had taken those cowardly shots at him.

The sound of the running footsteps led him through the park at an angle. When he came back to the curving street, he spotted a man in a broad-brimmed hat running through the light cast by a gas lamp. Frank lifted the Colt to take a shot at him, intending to aim low and knock a leg out from under the fleeing bushwhacker, but at that moment one of the electric trolley cars came rattling past, blocking his view of the man. When the trolley was clear, the bushwhacker was gone.

Frank bit back a curse. He knew there were several alleys the man could have ducked into. Frank could have gone over there and started exploring them, but the idea of traipsing into stygian alleys after a man who had already tried once to kill him didn’t seem like a very smart thing to do. Shaking his head, he turned and walked back through the park.

When he came to the spot where he’d had the ruckus with Holloway and the other wranglers, he found it crowded with people. A man who must have been a doctor, judging by the open black bag at his side, was kneeling next to the cowboy who’d been shot. Quite a few other men, most of them probably from the hotel across the street, stood around watching. Holloway and the other two wranglers were there too. Holloway held his arms crossed tightly over his chest as if he were in pain. Frank knew that he might have broken one or two of Holloway’s ribs with that double kick.

The police were on hand too and as somebody said excit-edly, “There he is!” a couple of the blue-uniformedfigures turned toward Frank and lifted guns.

“Drop that pistol, mister!” one of them said. “You’re under arrest!”

Chapter 18

Frank didn’t drop the gun as he had been instructed, but he kept it down at his side as the policemen approached him. He didn’t know how trigger-happy they might be, and he didn’t want to give them any excuse to start blazing away at him.

“Take it easy, boys,” he said, keeping his voice steady and calm. “Why am I under arrest?”

“For shooting that man,” the other officer said, inclining his head toward the wounded wrangler.

A frown creased Frank’s forehead. “I didn’t shoot him. In fact, I reckon the bullet that hit him was intended for me. It didn’t miss my ear by more than an inch or two.”

The older woman from the hotel came bustling up. “Mr. Morgan is telling the truth,” she said. “There were at least a dozen witnesses when that poor man was shot, and Mr. Morgan didn’t even have a gun at the time.”

“Well, he’s sure armed now,” one of the policemen said, “and he’s got a reputation as a gunfighter and killer. We’re gonna have to take him in for questioning.”

Frank glanced toward the Avalon Hotel, wondering whether Hannah was still up in Room 214. It didn’t appear likely that he would be finding out any time soon.

His gunbelt was still lying on the ground. He picked it up, slipped the Colt into the holster, and coiled the belt around it. As he handed it over to one of the officers, he said, “You fellas are making a mistake. Somebody tried to bushwhack me and got that other hombre instead. That’s what happened, simple as that.” .

Holloway surprised him a little by speaking up. “Morgan’s right. He didn’t have anything to do with shooting Amos. I saw that with my own eyes.”

The policemen looked stubborn. They wanted to take in the famous Drifter. But it was obvious they didn’t have any real reason to arrest him.

“You’re not supposed to be wearing a gun,” the one holding the coiled shell belt said. Frank wondered if they were going to try to make that charge stick against him, but then the officer held out the gunbelt and continued reluctantly. “Here. Don’t let us catch you with it again.”

Frank nodded and said, “Sure.” He tucked the holstered gun under his arm-where it would still be within easy reach if he needed it.

The doctor had stopped the bleeding and put a crude bandage on the wounded man’s shoulder. He stood up and said to the policemen, “I need to get this man to the hospital. One of you summon an ambulance wagon.”

“Sure, Doc. Is he gonna be all right?”

“I think I can repair most of the damage,” the medico replied. “He may not ever be able to use that arm like he did before, though.” Holloway heard that and said bitterly, “Damn it. Amos can’t work as a wrangler with a bum arm.” “I’ll bet Bill Cody will fmd another job for him,” Frank said.

Holloway nodded. “Yeah, the colonel takes good care of the folks who work for him.” He glared at Frank. “You kicked the hell out of me, you know. Feels like every nb I’ve got is busted”

The doctor said, “Let me take a look.” He poked and prodded Holloway’s chest, prompting the wrangler to grimace and mutter a few curses under his breath. Then the doctor announced, “I think they’re just bruised, not broken. You’ll be pretty sore for a few days, though.”

“Yeah, there’s a surprise,” Holloway said sullenly. Then he took a deep breath and held out a hand to Frank. “Reckon I owe you an apology, Morgan. You were whippin’ us fair and square when Amos got shot … which is more than I can say about the way we acted. Just got a mite carried away, I reckon.”

Frank looked into Holloway’s eyes and decided that the apology was sincere. He clasped Holloway’s hand firmly and nodded. “It was a pretty good fight while it lasted. Sorry your pard got winged by that bushwhacker.”

“The fella was after you, you said?”

Frank nodded. “That’s the way it looked to me.”

“What happened to the gunman?” one of the officers asked.

Frank gestured toward the trees. “He ran through the park there, made it back to the street, and got away in some alleys. I almost had a clear shot at him for a second, but one of those dang trolleys got in the way.”

“Do you have any idea who he was? Who has a reason for wanting to kill you?”

The older woman said, “Why, this man is a famous Western gunslinger. There must be hundreds of men who want to kill him!”

Frank smiled at her. “I hate to say it, ma’am, but you’re probably right.” Then he shook his head and said to the officers, “Sorry, I don’t know who he was.”

“Well, if you think of anything that might help us find him, you’ll let us know?”

“Sure,” Frank lied.

The way he saw it, the most likely person to have taken those shots at him was Edgar Wade. After all, other than Holloway and the other three wranglers, Wade was the only one he’d had a run-in with since arriving in Chicago earlier in the day. It was possible that Wade had spotted him trailing Hannah and had waited for a good chance to get rid of him.

It was also just possible that the bushwhacker was one of Dutton’s hired killers, like the men who had been waiting at that train station way back in Kansas. Someone working for Dutton could have picked up his trail again, although Frank wasn’t exactly sure how that could have happened. He had been careful and avoided towns for the most part after leaving Elysium, until he’d made it here to Chicago.

Frank didn’t know which of those theories was the right one, but in either case, he considered the trouble personal and intended to handle it himself. Times might have changed, but not so much that The Drifter was going to go running to the law to stomp his snakes for him.

The crowd was breaking up now. The ambulance wagon arrived to take the wounded cowboy to the hospital. “We’ll go along with him,” Holloway told Frank. “You’ll let the colonel know where we are?”

Frank nodded, said, “Sure,” and meant it this time.

One of the policemen pointed a finger at him and said, “Remember what we told you about not wearing that gun.”

Frank nodded curtly. He would figure out a way to carry the Peacemaker without it being so obvious. But considering what had happened tonight, he sure as hell wasn’t going to go around Chicago without packing iron.

Since the lady from the hotel was still there, Frank said to her, “I’ll walk you back across the street, ma’am.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Morgan. The desk clerk was telling me all about you, but I must say, you don’t really look or act like a vicious killer.”

“Thanks,” Frank said wryly. “The way I see it, I never shot anybody who wasn’t trying to hurt me or somebody else.”

“I believe you. You seem like an educated man.”

“Self-educated, for the most part. I had some schoolin’ when I was a boy, but most of what I’ve learned was from the books I’ve carried around in my saddlebags for years.”

“Have you ever read anything by Mr. Henry James?”

“Well … I’ve tried. But I’ve always felt like he’s one fella who chews more than he bites off.”

The woman laughed. “How amusing … and how percep-tive. Tell me, Mr. Morgan, are you married?”

“I used to be. Twice, in fact, to two fine ladies. But I lost them both.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m a widow myself. I was married for thirty years before my husband passed away last winter.” She sighed as they reached the hotel entrance. “He was a businessman in Dearborn. We came to Chicago every summer for a holiday and stayed here at the Avalon. I … I thought I ought to continue the tradition. But I’m not so sure anymore that it was the right thing to do.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” Frank said as they crossed the lobby.

She stopped and turned to him, putting a hand on his arm. “Would you … care to come up to my room, Mr. Morgan? I could have a bottle of sherry sent up …. “

He slid his hand into hers and squeezed it for a moment as he smiled at her. “I’d surely admire to spend some more time in your company, ma’am,” he told her, “but I’m afraid I have urgent business to tend to.”

“Yes, of course.” She managed to look disappointed and relieved at the same time. “I imagine you want to look for that man who took those shots at you.”

“Something like that.”

“You … you will be careful, won’t you? I realize we just met, but you strike me as a good man. I’d hate for anything bad to happen to you.”

“I’ll be careful,” Frank promised.

She gave him a smile and went through the lobby into the hotel dining room. He supposed she was going to have a late supper, probably like the ones she had enjoyed here with her husband. Frank’s heart went out to her, but there was nothing he could do to ease her loss and pain. Only time would do that.

He went upstairs instead, determined to take action. Skulking around just didn’t come naturally to him. He went straight to the door of Room 214 and knocked sharply on it.

There was no answer. Frank waited a few moments, then knocked again, harder this time. Still no response, even when he pounded on the panel.

He took the Colt out of its holster, slung the gunbelt over his shoulder, and tried the doorknob with his left hand while he held the revolver ready in his right. The knob turned, and he swung the door open.

The room was empty except for the furnishings that went with it.

Frank stood there in the doorway for a moment, looking around; then he strode into the room and began to search for any sign of those who had occupied it earlier. They hadn’t left anything behind, though. There was no clue who the gray-haired man had been, or if there had been anyone else here in the room with him besides Hannah Sterling.

After several minutes, Frank was forced to conclude that he wasn’t going to find out anything worthwhile in the hotel room. He holstered the Colt, left the gunbelt slung over his shoulder, and went out of the room, closing the door behind him.

The clerk behind the desk in the lobby looked up at him and asked, “Can I help you, Mr. Morgan?”

“Tell me who rented Room 214 and where they’ve gone,” Frank said bluntly.

The young man looked uncomfortable. “I’m, uh, not supposed to reveal anything about our guests …. ” Without looking down at the desk, he turned the registration book around so that Frank could read the names scrawled on it. Frank’s eyes searched the column of names until he found one with the number “214” written next to it in a different hand, probably that of the clerk,

Junius Driscoll.

Frank had never heard of the man. The name meant noth-ingto him.

The clerk wanted to beat around the bush, but Frank didn’t have time for that. His fmger jabbed the page of the registration book as he said, “This fella Junius Driscoll, was he an older man, with gray hair? Not very big and sort of stooped over?”

The clerk hesitated, but only for a second. Then he nodded and said, “That’s right, Mr. Morgan.”

“Was he alone up there, or was somebody with him when he checked in?”

The clerk frowned in thought. “I believe there were two men with him. Yes, I’m sure of it.”

“What did they look like?”

“Well … to be honest, they didn’t seem to be the sort of person we encourage to stay here at the Avalon. They were rather rough-looking. Country types, you know.”

“Was one of them a big fella with dark hair and a hawk nose that looked like it was busted sometime in the past?”

The clerk nodded. “Yes, sir. That’s a very good description of one of the men.”

Edgar Wade, Frank thought. There was no doubt about it now. And this Junius Driscoll was probably someone close to Hannah in some way whom Wade was using to force her to go along with what he wanted.

But where had they all gone? Had Wade already started back to Arkansas and taken Hannah with him?

Frank decided he’d better get back to the Wild West show and let Cody know what he’d found out.

Before he could leave, though, the clerk said, “Ah, Mr. Morgan, would you do something for me?” Without waiting for Frank’s reply, he reached underneath the counter and brought up a folded newspaper. As he placed it on the desk, he went on. “Would you sign this newspaper story for me? It’s all about how you saved all those homesteaders out in Kansas when the night riders tried to burn down their town.”

Frank snatched up the newspaper. “Let me see that.”

“Uh … sure. Help yourself”

Frank’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the story. Although the newspaper had been published here in Chicago, a credit line accompanying the story stated that it had been written by a reporter named Buckman and originally published in a Salina, Kansas, newspaper before being picked up by the Associated Press syndicate. It recounted in breathless prose how Frank Morgan, the notorious gunfighter known as The Drifter, had battled against a horde of hooded killers and saved the people of Elysium.

Well, that explained how Dutton’s killers had gotten on his trail again, he thought as he dropped the newspaper on the desk. Some of the crooked lawyer’s agents must have seen this story and searched from Salina eastward until they found him.

That meant he would have an unknown number of bushwhackers and would-be assassins standing between him and Dutton, eager to collect the blood money on his head, all the way to Boston.

“Uh … Mr. Morgan?” the clerk said. “Your signature?”

Frank took the pen from its holder, dipped it in the inkwell, and scrawled his name across the newspaper story. “There you go, son,” he said. “Might be worth something when I’m dead.”

Chapter 19

By the time Frank got back to the Wild West show the evening performance was over and most of the crowd’ was gone, although a few people still lingered around the compound and others wandered along the brightly lit midway of the exposition across the street. The ticket booth was empty, so there was no one to challenge Frank as he walked past it and headed for Hannah Sterling’s tent.

Before he could get there, someone hailed him. He stopped and turned to see Bill Cody striding toward him. The showman’s leathery face was creased in a worried frown.

“What happened, Frank?” Cody asked. “I noticed that you left before the performance was over.”

“I wanted to keep an eye on Hannah,” Frank explained. Good thing I did too, because she left and went to a hotel a few blocks from here called the Avalon.” -

Cody’s frown darkened. “I’m familiar with it. Did she go there to meet Wade?”

“Looks like it. But Wade wasn’t waiting there for her by himself. Does the name Junius Driscoll mean anything to you, Bill?”

“Driscoll?” Cody repeated. “Driscoll … no, I can’t say that It … Walt a minute, something about that name does seem familiar, as ifI’ve heard it recently … or seen it-” His bushy white eyebrows rose suddenly. “That’s it! I saw the name written on an envelope in Hannah’s tent. But I don’t recall if she was writing a letter to this Driscoll fella, or had gotten one from him. My God, does she have another man on the string besides Wade?”

“No, Junius Driscoll is a lot older than Hannah. A little, gray-haired hombre who looked more like somebody’s grandfather. Hannah’s maybe.”

“And yet you said he was with Edgar Wade at the Avalon Hotel?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t like the sound of this, Frank,” Cody said. “I don’t like the fact that Hannah is mixed up with that man. No good’s going to come of it. He’s forcing her to marry him, probably by threatening her grandfather … if that’s who Driscoll really is.”

“That’s the theory I’m going on right now,” Frank agreed. “I was just on my way to Hannah’s tent to talk to her.”

“I’ll go with you,” Cody said without hesitation.

“Might be better to let me talk to her by myself,” Frank suggested.

“But you didn’t even meet her until today,”

“I know. Sometimes folks will open up to a stranger easier than they will to somebody they know better.”

Cody tugged on his goatee and frowned again. “Maybe. All right, go ahead. I just want to get to the bottom of this and get Hannah out of whatever mess she’s in.”

“There’s something else you need to know about,” Frank said .

Cody groaned. “Not more bad news, I hope.”

“Depends on how you look at it. While I was following Hannah, Jed Holloway and his friends were following me, looking to even the score for that ruckus this afternoon. I wound up tangling with Holloway and a couple more of them.”

“The scoundrels!” Cody exclaimed. “I’ll fire every dad-blasted one of them-“

“That’s not necessary,” Frank cut in with a shake of his head. “They saw the error of their ways … about the time one of them called Amos got a bullet in the shoulder. He’s in the hospital now, and Holloway and the others went with him in the ambulance wagon.”

Cody’s startled eyes went to the gunbelt draped over Frank’s shoulder. “You shot one of them?”

“Nope. Fact is, the bullet that hit Amos was meant for me.”

“Bushwhacker?” Cody asked cannily.

“Yeah. The business that’s taking me to Boston … well, somebody doesn’t want me to get there. And he’s willing to pay good money to have me stopped.”

“You think that’s why somebody took a shot at you?”

“I suppose it could have been Edgar Wade.” Frank explained quickly how he and the four wranglers had left the hotel and gone to the park. “Maybe Wade came out of the Avalon and spotted me and figured it was a good chance to get rid of me. Either explanation is possible, or it might be something I haven’t even thought of.”

“But the upshot is that you’re having to deal with my problems and the fact that somebody wants you dead” Cody shook his.head. “Forget about all this, Frank. Get out of Chicago while you can. You can go tonight. There’s probably a midnight train—”

“I haven’t made a habit of running out on friends while they’re in trouble,” Frank broke in, his voice hardening. “I don’t reckon I intend to start now.”

Cody stared at him for a moment, then abruptly chuckled. “No, I don’t guess you would. I forgot for a second who I was talking to … and just how mule-headed you can be. All right, what can I do to help?”

“Let me see what I can find out from Hannah. I’ll talk to you later,” Frank promised.

“You know where my tent is.”

The two men split up, Cody heading back to his tent while Frank continued on toward Hannah’s.

When he got there, he paused outside the entrance flap and called, “Miss Sterling? Are you in there?”

No answer came from inside, but after a moment Frank thought he heard something. He leaned closer to the flap and listened. The sound of a muffled sob came to his ears.

He took a deep breath and pushed the canvas flap aside. As he stepped into the tent, he said, “Begging your pardon, Miss Sterling. I’m not in the habit of busting in on a lady without being invited, and here I’ve done it twice today.”

She was sprawled out on the bunk, her face buried in a pillow. At the sound of Frank’s voice, she lifted her head and said, “Please leave, Mr. Morgan.”

“You sounded like you could use some help,” he replied gently.

“N-no, I’m fine. There’s nothing you can do. Nobody can help me—”

“What about Junius Driscoll?” Frank said. “Would it help if he wasn’t in Edgar Wade’s hands anymore?”

Hannah caught her breath and swung her legs off the bed, sitting up sharply. “Junius Driscoll! How do you know that name?”

“I was at the Avalon Hotel tonight. I saw you go into Room 214 and meet Driscoll.” Frank was putting his cards on the table, and he hoped the tactic didn’t backfire on him. “This is just a guess, but I’m thinking that maybe he’s your grandfather.”

Sniffling, Hannah nodded. “He … he is. He’s my mother’s father. Gramps, I’ve always called him.”

“And now Wade’s threatening to hurt him unless you go along with whatever he wants … like marrying him. I reckon Wade told you to come to the Avalon tonight so you could see for yourself that your grandfather is his prisoner.”

Hannah jerked her head in a ragged nod. “Yes. The whole thing … it … it’s awful!”

And she put her hands over her face and sobbed again her

shoulders shaking as the sobs wracked her. ‘

Frank wanted to sit down on the bunk beside her and put an arm around her shoulders to comfort her, but he hesitated, unsure of the propriety of doing that. She solved the problem for him by jumping up and throwing her arms around him like a scared little girl. Awkwardly, he embraced her, patting her on the back. It had been a while since he had held a girl this young and pretty, even to try to settle her down when she was upset and crying.

He maneuvered her back onto the cot and sat beside her. “Tell me about it,” he said. “Start at the beginning.”

“The beginning is that Edgar Wade is a no-good bastard,” she said vehemently and with surprising bluntness. “He’s had his eye on me since I was fourteen years old. He told me then that he was going to carry me off and marry me someday. I laughed in his ugly face. I probably shouldn’t have done that.”

“Probably not,” Frank agreed.

“Anyway, I didn’t think it would ever be a problem. Wade had a bad reputation even then, and it just got worse as time went by. He … he was an outlaw over in Indian Territory. Everybody knew it. Judge Parker’s deputies stayed after him, but they couldn’t ever find any proof or get anybody to testify agamst hun. Everybody was scared of him. The Chero-kee Lighthorse couldn’t do anything about him either since he’s white.” ,

Frank nodded, knowing that the Indian police force she had mentioned only had jurisdiction over its own people.

“But I figured as many scrapes as Edgar got into, somebody was bound to kill him sooner or later,” Hannah went on. “Only, that never happened. He’s still alive and meaner than ever, and he still wants me just as bad. I never expected him to follow me all the way up here to Chicago, though. I couldn’t believe it when he showed up.”

“Did he threaten your grandfather right away?”

She shook her head. “No, that came later, after I told him I didn’t want anything to do with him. He said I’d better think twice about that; otherwise Gramps would regret it. When I told him I didn’t believe him, he said for me to come to that hotel tonight and knock on the door of Room 214. He said the proof would be waiting for me inside.” Hannah gave a soft, despairing laugh. “It was. Gramps was there, just like Edgar said he would be.”

“And Wade and another man were there too.”

She nodded. “Yes. The other man’s name is Lawlor. He … he was part of Edgar’s gang down in Indian Territory.” Hannah sighed miserably. “What am I going to do, Mr. Morgan?”

“What do you want to do?”

“Well, I … I can’t let him hurt Gramps. I guess … I’ll have to marry him.”

Frank thought about the situation. There had been a time when he would have hunted up Wade and Lawlor and told them in no uncertain terms to leave Hannah alone and get the hell out of town. Then they would have drawn on him and he would have killed them both and it would be all over.

He still could have done that in many places west of the Mississippi, where people could still think clearly and recognize right from wrong, good from evil. In a so-called “civilized” town like Chicago, though, a gunfight like that would leave him sitting in jail facing murder charges, more than likely.

And then he might never get to Boston to settle his score with Charles Dutton. If he was going to run afoul of the law, he wanted it to be for putting that mangy coyote of a lawyer in his grave. Once Dutton was dead, Frank didn’t much care what happened to him as a result.

So this business with Wade had to be handled carefully. Frank asked Hannah, “How were things left between you and Wade? What are you supposed to do next?”

“He … he said for me to meet him back at the hotel tomorrow afternoon. He’s going to have a … a preacher there. For the wedding.”

Frank had been in Room 214 and knew that Wade wasn’t staying there. The room had been empty when he searched it earlier. But it had to be still rented to Wade so that he could use it to rendezvous with Hannah and force her to go through with a mockery of a marriage.

“You show up there tomorrow like he told you,” Frank said.

“But the wedding-“

“Is going to have an unexpected guest. I plan on being there, and when the preacher asks if anybody has any objection to the wedding taking place … “

He smiled, not needing to finish that statement.

He just hoped he wouldn’t have to voice his objection with hot lead.

Chapter 20

Hannah had calmed down somewhat by the time Frank left her tent and headed for Cody’s. She had dried her eyes and promised to put her fate in Frank’s hands. He hoped he wouldn’t let her down.

Cody was waiting impatiently for him in the opulent tent that was the showman’s temporary home. “What did you fmd out?” he asked when Frank came in.

“We guessed right. Driscoll is Hannah’s grandfather, on her mother’s side. And Wade is holding him hostage until Hannah agrees to marry him. He told her to meet him at that hotel again tomorrow afternoon.” Frank paused. “He’s going to have a preacher there to perform the ceremony.” .

“By God, we can’t let that happen!” Cody exclaimed, .

“We won’t,” Frank said, “but we can’t just go in there with guns blazing either.”

“I don’t see why not.” Cody grimaced. “Well, actually, I reckon I do. Things aren’t like they used to be, are they, Frank? Good men have to work a lot harder now to do the right thing because of all the obstacles our new, ‘progressive’ society has put in the way of justice.”

Frank nodded. “That’s about the size of it. What we have to do is get Driscoll away from Wade somehow. Once her grandfather is safe, Hannah won’t have to cooperate with Wade, and if he tries to force her, then we’ll be justified in doing whatever we have to in order to protect her.”

“Like blowing holes in Wade and all his hardcase cronies, eh?” A fighting grin stretched across Cody’s face. “I’m with you, Frank.”

“No, you’re not,” Frank said with a shake of his head. “You’re too well known, Bill. If you show up at the hotel, it’ll cause a commotion and maybe tip our hand to Wade.”

“You can’t mean that you want me to stay here?”

Frank nodded “That’s exactly what I want.”

“But Wade and his men will outnumber you—” Cody stopped abruptly, then went on. “Look who I’m talking to. You’ve beaten odds like that plenty of times in the past, haven’t you?”

Frank shrugged and said, “I just think it would be better if you let me handle things by myself. That way, ifit doesn’t work out, you won’t be in trouble with the law.”

Cody pulled at his goatee. “It doesn’t sit well with me letting somebody else run all the risks to pull my fat out of the fire … but if you think that would be best, I’ll trust your judgment.”

“I won’t let you down, Bill.”

“Now that’s a thought that never entered my mind,” Cody said.

At Cody’s insistence, Frank spent the night at the Wild West show compound, in a spare tent. The next morning he sought out the wrangler, Jed Holloway, and not surprisingly found him at one of the corrals where the show’s horses were kept. Frank’s two horses were in that corral too.

“How’s your friend who got winged?” Frank asked Holloway, who was leaning on the temporary fence that had been erected to hold the animals.

“Doing as well as can be expected,” Holloway replied “The doctors still don’t know if he’ll ever make a full recovery.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s not your fault, Morgan. If we hadn’t been there looking to settle a score with you, Amos wouldn’t have got shot. And since you whipped us fair and square both times, we didn’t have any gripe coming to start with.” Holloway rubbed his chest. “You know, I still feel like I been kicked by a Mis-souri mule. I had it coming, though.”

“If your friend needs anything, let me know. And tell him not to worry about his hospital bill. I’ll see that it’s taken care of.”

“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 ann. “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 gunbeit 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 m 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 evenmg 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 Edger Wade standing and talking to the preacher, while Junius Driscoll and the other man sat in armchairs near the wmdow. 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 what 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 hghtly the idea of fire in Chicago.”

“We’re not actually going to bum 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, gomg 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 becausea 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 spry-ness 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. At 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 esc,ape, 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 leaped 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?”

“It’s a long, ugly story,” Frank said. “And I’m sorry if this causes problems for the hotel.”

Dunnegan sighed and shrugged. “Well, you’re one of the owners now, so as you said earlier, it’s on your head.”

Frank tucked the Colt behind his belt again. “Come on. Let’s go talk to the police.”

The officers had plenty of questions. They were outraged that three men had been killed, and didn’t seem to care very much that the dead hombres had been doing their damnedest to kill Frank. When had it become so common in civilized society, Frank wondered, to care more about what happened to skunks like that than about the fact that they were trying to hurt innocent folks? That attitude was just so wrong, Frank couldn’t even come close to understanding it.

Luckily, Hannah and her grandfather were right there to explain how Driscoll had been held against his will by Wade and the others and how Frank had rescued him from that captivity.

“But who are those other fellows?” one of the policemen wanted to know. “The dead ones in the derby hats?”

“They were after me,” Frank explained. “They didn’t have anything to do with Miss Sterling’s grandfather being held prisoner.”

“Wait a minute,” another officer said. “There was a shooting near here last night. Does this have anything to do with that?”

Frank hesitated. He didn’t want the law interfering with his business. His involvement with the shooting the previous night was a matter of record, though. He said, “Yeah, I reckon they’re connected. Somebody tried to kill me last night and wounded another fella instead, and it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if the bushwhacker from last night was one of the gents I had to shoot today.”

“You’re either mighty popular or mighty unpopular, depending on how you want to look at it. You want to tell us why so many folks seem to want you dead?” -

Frank looked them in the eye and said, “It’s a mystery to me.”

Dutton could have agents anywhere, including in the Chicago Police Department. Anyway, Frank thought it was unlikely the police would believe him if he told them that Dutton had put a bounty on his head. But they would want to investigate, and that would just complicate matters.

Frank didn’t want any more complications. He had come to the conclusion that the best thing for him to do would be to get to Boston just as fast as possible. Dutton’s hired killers already knew where he was, so there was no longer any point in trying to be discreet. From here on out, he was going to close in on his goal as hard and fast as he could, and if any more hired guns got in his path, he would blast them out of the way too.

“Frank Morgan,” one of the officers mused. “You’re that Western gunslinger, aren’t you?”

“Some have called me that,” Frank admitted.

“Those fellas must have recognized you and decided to kill you to increase their own reputations.”

“Could be,” Frank agreed, happy to let the policemen believe that alternative explanation.

“How long are you planning to stay in Chicago?”

“Not long at all. I reckon I’ll catch a train out tonight or in the morning.” .

“Good. No offense, but we don’t need you around here being a magnet for trouble.”

“Trust me, boys, when I tell you I’ll be as glad to see the last of Chicago as Chicago will be to see the last of me.”

By the time Frank, Hannah, and Driscoll got back to the Wild West show compound, the afternoon performance was already well under way. Hannah was worried that Cody would be upset with her for missing it, but at the same time she was almost giddy with relief at being freed from the threat that Wade had posed to her and her grandfather.

“I’d be willing to bet that Colonel Cody will understand,” Frank assured her. “He’s been mighty worried about you, Hannah.”

“Yes, he’s a very nice man. Do you think he’d let Gramps stay here with the show, so there won’t be any chance that Wade will grab him again?”

“I expect that can be worked out.”

Driscoll said, “I’ll work for my keep. I was a blacksmith in my time, and I can still fire up a forge and swing a hammer if I need to.”

The short, slender Driscoll didn’t look much like a blacksmith, but evidently there was a lot of wiry strength in his body.

“Do you think there’s any chance Edgar will come back and try to bother us again?” Hannah asked.

“You know him better than I do,” Frank pointed out, “but the law is after him and his friends now for kidnapping your grandfather. Likely, they’ll head back to Indian Territory as fast as they can, since they’ll probably be safer there.”

Frank hoped that would be the case, but he would still warn Cody to be careful. When the plans of a man like Wade were ruined, sometimes there was no telling what he would do to strike back in anger.

They were waiting outside the arena for Cody to come out when the performance was over. The showman’s face lit up in a gnn when he saw Hannah and the old man standing beside her. He looked at Frank and said, “Wade?”

“Got away,” Frank replied, “but there’s a good chance he won’t bother anybody anymore, at least in Chicago.”

Cody grasped his hand and pumped it eagerly. “I can’t thank you enough for your help, Frank. If there’s anything I can do for you, just name it.”

“Well, you said something yesterday about helping me get to Boston as soon as I can.” -

Hannah said in surprise, “You’re leaving, Mr. Morgan?”

He nodded. “I’ve got important business elsewhere Miss Sterling.” ,

“Oh, goodness, after everything you’ve done for us, you’ve got to call me Hannah.” She turned to Cody. “Colonel, this is my grandfather, Junius Driscoll.”

Cody shook hands with the old man. “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Driscoll. Everyone connected with the troupe is quite fond of your lovely granddaughter.”

Frank left Cody talking with the two of them and walked over to the corrals. He found Holloway there and said, “You’re the head wrangler around here, aren’t you?”

The cowboy nodded. “That’s right.”

“Reckon you could find some use for that dun and chestnut of mine?”

“You want to sell your horses to the colonel?”

Frank would have given the mounts to Cody, but he knew the showman would insist on paying for them. “That’s right. I’m leaving Chicago on the train, and where I’m going I won’t have any use for them.”

“Well … ” Holloway rubbed his jaw. “The chestnut strikes me as a decent saddle mount, but that dun’s got a mean look about him. The boys have to watch him when they get too close, for fear he’ll reach over and take a bite out of their hide.”

“He just might at that,”Frank said with a chuckle. “But once he gets used to you, he’s a fine horse. Got a lot of sand.”

“Yeah, I can tell that by looking at him too.” Holloway nodded and went on. “Sure, if you want to get rid of them, we’ll find something to do with them. One thing about a show like this, it always needs plenty of horses. Anytime one of them pulls up lame and needs to rest for a few days, we’ve got to have another one ready to go in the Grand Review and all the other acts.”

“It’s a deal then.” Frank put out his hand.

Holloway shook it. “For a man with the reputation you’ve got, you’re not a bad fella, Morgan.” There was a little twin-kle in his eye as he grinned. “Can’t say as I’ll be sorry to see you go, though.”

“Neither will I,” Frank said. Chapter 22

A train bound for Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, New York, and other points east, including Boston, was scheduled to leave Chicago at eleven thirty that night. Since the evening performance would be over well before that, Cody prevailed on Frank to attend the show one more time.

“You haven’t even seen all of it yet,” Cody pointed out.

Frank agreed. That would also give him the chance to share one more meal with his old friend.

They ate in the same steakhouse, and as they walked back to the compound, Cody said, “I appreciate everything you’ve done to help Hannah, Frank. I’m … very fond of that girl.”

“No offense, Bill, but you’re also old enough to be her pa. And I seem to remember hearing something about you being married.”

“Yes, indeed. My dear Louisa-Lulu, I call her-is back home in North Platte. She prefers not to travel with the show.” Cody chuckled and shook his head ruefully. “Don’t worry, Frank. I know there’s no fool like an old fool, but I haven’t lost all reason. While I admire Hannah and find her undeniably beautiful, I don’t have any designs on her. I reckon you could say that I really do look on her almost as a daughter.”

“Well, then, I’m glad I was able to help. I just didn’t think the girl needed any more trouble.”

“Definitely not.” They had arrived at the arena. “Here we are. You’ll watch the show from my private box again, and when it’s over, I’ll escort you to the train station myself.”

Crowds were already streaming into the arena to watch the evening performance. Frank kept his eyes open, watching for any indication that somebody was about to bushwhack him again. As far as he could tell, though, everybody in the crowd had come to be entertained, not to try to kill him.

Junius Driscoll was sitting in Cody’s box when Frank got there. “The colonel said I could watch the show from here,” the old man explained. “That is, if you don’t mind the company, Mr. Morgan.”

“Not at all,” Frank said with a smile as he settled down in the seat next to Driscoll. “That granddaughter of yours is quite a rider. I saw her part of the show last night.”

“I taught her how to ride,” Driscoll said with pride in his voice. “She was on the back of a horse almost before she could walk. I owned a smithy and livery stable in Fort Smith, right down the street from Judge Parker’s courthouse.” The smile disappeared from Driscoll’s face. “I reckon that was where Wade saw her for the first time and got it stuck in his head that he wanted her. One of his pards from over in Injun Territory had been caught and tried and convicted 0’ rustlin’, and he was bein’ hanged along with some other no-goods who’d found themselves in front 0’ Judge Parker. I guess Wade came to say so long and see him off. After that, he started stoppin’ by the stable every time he came to Fort Smith, but I knowed he was there just to leer at poor Hannah.”

“Seems mighty daring of him to come right into Fort Smith when Parker’s deputies were after him,” Frank commented.

“Oh, they didn’t have anything on him, even though they all knowed he was an owlhoot. I reckon that was his way 0’ sorta throwin’ it in their faces. But it won’t be like that anymore. There’s a kidnappin’ charge against Wade and his boys now, so they’ll be on the run from now on. I reckon once ol’ Isaac Parker hears about it, he’ll be rubbin’ his hands together in anticipation, just a-hankerin’ to see Wade at the end of a hang-rope.”

The cowboy band came out to play “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and a few minutes later the Grand Review got under way. Frank sat back to enjoy the show.

He did too, at least for a while. But then it came time for Hannah’s trick riding act, and she didn’t come galloping out from under the grandstand on her pony. There was a lull in the performance for a few minutes, as if Hannah’s absence hadn’t been planned, but was a surprise to the rest of the troupe too. The crowd began to grow restless. They didn’t settle down until Salty Stevens drove the Deadwood stage out into the arena and the mock Indian attack got started. As the guns began to roar, the spectators clapped and cheered again.

Not Frank, though. He leaned forward in his seat and said worriedly, “Something’s wrong.”

“What is it?” Driscoll asked. He hadn’t seen the show before, so he didn’t know that Hannah hadn’t put in her scheduled appearance.

“Hannah was supposed to be doing her act now,” Frank explained.

The old man frowned anxiously. “You reckon somethin’s wrong with her? Maybe she’s sick or somethin ‘?”

Frank stood up. “I intend to find out.”

Driscoll scrambled to his feet and said, “I’m comin’ with you.”

Frank didn’t argue with him. Hannah was Driscoll’s granddaughter, after all. The old man had a right to accompany him.

They hurried down a ramp and went out through the area underneath the grandstands. Out in the arena, the battle between Buffalo Bill’s cowboys and the Indians who had been “attacking” the Deadwood stage was in full force. The roar of gunfire filled the air.

But it didn’t keep Frank from hearing other shots that came from somewhere else.

He reached for the gun under his coat as the reports sounded from the large tent where the show’s receipts were counted each night. Cody had pointed it out to him earlier. Frank’s agile mind leaped to the only reasonable conclusion-somebody was holding up the Wild West show. The show sold enough tickets and took in enough money for each performance to make such a robbery worthwhile. And for all Frank knew, some of the receipts from previous performances might still be kept in the tent too.

He broke into a run toward the tent with Driscoll struggling to keep up behind him. It came as no surprise to Frank when several men came boiling out of the tent with guns in their hands and bandannas pulled up over their faces to form crude masks. He recognized Edgar Wade and Lawlor despite those disguises. The men with them were undoubtedly members of Wade’s gang from Indian Territory.

And the worst thing of all was that Wade had Hannah with him, dragging her along as she struggled futilely to free herself. She was dressed in the costume she wore in her act. Wade had to have grabbed her just as she was about to go on, Frank thought.

He couldn’t start blazing away at Wade and the other robbers as long as they held Hannah hostage. They were headed toward some saddled horses that stood nearby, their reins being held by another masked member of the gang. Frank moved to try to cut them off.

Suddenly, hoofbeats rumbled and Driscoll yelled from behind him, “Look out, Mr. Morgan!”

Frank jerked his head to the left and saw several unsaddled horses stampeding toward him, being driven by another of the masked owlhoots. They were some of the show’s horses, busted out of a corral to use as a distraction.

It worked, because Frank had to leap backward to avoid being trampled. One of the horses clipped him with a shoulder as it bolted past and sent him spinning off his feet. He landed hard, but managed to hang onto his gun. By the time he started to climb back to his feet, Driscoll had reached his side. The old man panted, “Hannah! They got Hannah, damn it!”

“Did you see where they went?” Frank asked.

“They jumped on their horses and rode off yonderways!” Driscoll pointed.

Jed Holloway and several other wranglers ran up at that moment. Holloway said, “Morgan! Did you see what happened?”

“A bunch of no-good skunks stole the ticket money, grabbed Hannah Sterling, and rode off,” Frank replied. “I’m going to grab one of these horses and go after them.”

“We’ll go with you,” Holloway offered grimly. “Those bastards can’t mess with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West and get away with it!”

“They’ve got guns,” Frank pointed out.

Holloway reached to the small of his back and produced a revolver that had been tucked behind his belt. “Oh, hell, that’s not a problem. Nobody around here goes too long without packin’iron!”

Frank had to grin at that. If he had to put together a makeshift posse, he could do a lot worse than Holloway and the rest of the show’s wranglers.

But they weren’t going to be the only ones volunteering to join in the chase, he saw a moment later as Cody galloped up on the fancy white stallion he rode in the show. “What the hell’s going on, Frank?” he demanded. “I got away from the arena as soon as I could.”

“Wade stole the night’s receipts and took Hannah with him,” Frank explained as he managed to grab one of the horses that were milling around. He swung up bareback. Holloway and the other wranglers followed suit. Frank held a hand down to Driscoll and grasped the old man’s wrist, pulling him up so that Driscoll could ride behind him. “You can show us which way they went.”

With the horse carrying Frank and Driscoll taking the lead, the posse charged out of the compound and headed north toward downtown Chicago. Frank wondered If Wade intended to catch a train out of town before word could spread of the robbery at the Wild West show grounds.

Cody brought his mount up alongside Frank’s. The white stallion was decked out in gaudy trappings, but that didn’t mean the horse couldn’t run. Cody was in his showman’s out-fit too, and he was probably the deadliest shot and most dangerous man in Chicago tonight-other than Frank Morgan.

People on the streets turned to stare as the group of a dozen or so riders thundered past them like this was Abilene or Dodge City or some other frontier cow town instead of the teeming metropolis of Chicago. This was no Wild West show, though. This was the real thing, a posse of grim-faced men hot on the trail of a bunch of owlhoots.

After a few minutes of hard riding, Frank caught a glimpse of their quarry up ahead in the glow of the gaslights along the street. They were back on Michigan Avenue now. “There they are!” he shouted, and he urged the horse he was riding to a burst of greater speed. Behind him, Junius Driscoll hung on for dear life.

Gradually, the posse began to overhaul the fleeing outlaws. Wade and his men dodged and darted around trolley cars, but couldn’t manage to shake Frank and the other pursuers. Frank saw several of the bandits twist around in their saddles, so he wasn’t surprised by what happened next. Orange gun-flame spouted from the revolvers in their hands. “Keep your heads down!” Frank shouted to his companions as he leaned forward over the neck of the horse he was riding.

It was going to be pure luck if any of the shots fired by the outlaws actually hit their targets, but stranger things had been known to happen. Frank hoped that none of the flying lead struck any innocent bystanders. The outlaws weren’t being any too careful with their shots. Frank and the riders with him, on the other hand, couldn’t just blaze away indis-criminately at the men they were chasing. There were too many people on the street for that, and besides, Hannah was still Wade’s prisoner and in harm’s way.

Holloway and the other wranglers were all excellent riders and had no trouble keeping pace with Frank and Cody. In fact, Holloway caught up and began to pull ahead. He was only about fifty feet behind the stragglers among the outlaw gang. Leaning far forward over his mount’s neck, Holloway urged the horse on until it was moving at blinding speed. Since he was the closest, the outlaws began to concentrate their rife on him, and Frank expected to see either Holloway or his horse hit at any moment.

With his fingers tangled in the horse’s mane, Holloway veered his mount back and forth, though, throwing off the outlaws’ aim. He drew alongside the nearest man and lashed out with a fist, knocking the owlhoot’s arm up just as he was about to pull the trigger and fire at point-blank range. The shot went wild, and Holloway rammed his horse’s shoulder into the outlaw’s mount.

With a frightened scream, the outlaw’s horse stumbled and almost went down. Even though the animal regained its foot-ing, the jolt had been enough to make its rider tumble out of the saddle. The outlaw shrieked in horror as he fell, but the cry was cut short a second later as he slammed at full speed into the pavement of Michigan Avenue. As Frank flashed past, he saw that the impact had cracked the man’s skull wide open, probably killing him instantly. Junius Driscoll must have seen the same thing, because Frank felt a horrified shudder go through the older man’s body.

The next outlaw in the group tried a different tack. He reined in, bringing his horse to a sliding, skidding, twisting stop. As he turned back toward the onrushing Holloway, he lifted his gun for a killing shot.

Holloway left the back of his mount in a diving leap that seemed to send him flying through the air. The outlaw’s gun blasted, flame geysering from the muzzle, but Frank couldn’t tell if the bullet struck Holloway or not. The wrangler crashed into tile gunman, driving him out of the saddle. Both men pitched to the ground. Holloway landed agilely on top, and the way he crashed his fists into the face of the man he had tackled told Frank that he wasn’t hit bad, if at all.

But Holloway was out of the chase now, at least for the moment. Frank urged his mount on, gaining steadily on the fleeing bandits. Bill Cody allowed only the best horses in his show, and that policy was paying off now as the impromptu posse closed in on its quarry.

Frank decided he was close enough now to risk a shot. As one of the outlaws turned to throw lead at him, Frank lifted the Colt and squeezed the trigger. He was rewarded by the sight of the man’s gun arm jerking as the bullet tore through it. The outlaw dropped his revolver and his arm hung limply at his side as he swayed in the saddle. He managed to hang on instead of taking a tumble that would be potentially fatal at this speed, but he had to use his other hand to gradually bring his mount to a halt. One of the wranglers rode up to the outlaw and covered him with a six-gun. The bandit lifted his good arm in surrender.

Several more outlaws reined in and threw their guns down, preferring to give up rather than engage in a pitched battle with the posse. The wranglers surrounded them.

That left Frank, Cody, and Driscoll to go after the rest of the gang, which now consisted of Wade, Lawlor, and two more men. As the frontiersmen closed in on the outlaws, Cody drew his pistol. “I put live rounds in here before we left the show!” Cody called to Frank. He triggered twice and one of the outlaws sailed out of the saddle, ventilated through the body by both shots. “Feels good not to be firing blanks for a change!”

Lawlor twisted around and blasted a shot at Frank, who heard the bullet rip past his head. Frank fired back. Lawlor swayed in the saddle and then crumpled onto his horse’s neck The animal began to slow down as the reins slipped from Lawlor’s fingers and dragged on the ground. Lawlor stayed mounted, but he was hit hard, maybe dying.

That left Wade and one other man. Frank was only about ten feet behind them. The other outlaw suddenly veered his mount to the side, threw his gun away, and thrust his hands in the air as high as they would go. He’d had enough.

But Wade wasn’t giving up yet. And he was desperate enough to attempt a terrible distraction.

Hannah was riding in front of him on the horse’s back and as Driscoll gasped in horror at the sight he glimpsed ‘over Frank’s shoulder, Wade slung Hannah off the horse.

Frank had seen what had happened to the man who had fallen off his mount while the animal was galloping at top speed. Such a fall could easily prove fatal and even if it didn’t, Hannah would be likely to wind up with numerous broken bones.

But as she fell, she brought her booted feet together, and when they struck the pavement her knees bent for an instant and then straightened as she used the impact to launch herself upward again. She grabbed the back of Wade’s saddle and hung on tightly as she swung her legs over the horse’s back in a move very similar to one that she performed in her trick-riding act. She landed astride the horse, only behind Wade now instead of in front of him.

And she used that opportunity to grab him around the neck and jerk his head back.

As the horse felt the weight of its riders shift, it stopped and reared up on its hind legs. Hannah slipped off, but re-tained her stranglehold on Wade’s neck. Her body swung crazily through the air like a pendulum, but she didn’t let go.

Wade couldn’t stay on the horse. He fell, crashing to the pavement. Hannah landed beside him and rolled away. Wade came up cursing savagely, his gun still in his hand. “You bitch!” he screamed at Hannah as he swung the weapon toward her.

He didn’t get a chance to pull the trigger. Frank and Cody fired first, their shots roaring out in the Chicago night. Wade was jolted backward in a jittering dance of death as slugs from the guns of The Drifter and Buffalo Bill smashed into him. Bloody flowers bloomed on his shirt. His gun slipped from nerveless fingers. As the hammers on Frank’s and Cody’s guns clicked on empty chambers, Wade sat down hard. Covered with blood, he managed to stay upright for a moment, but then he toppled to the side and didn’t move again. He had enough lead in him to sink a warship.

Driscoll slipped off the horse and ran to Hannah, catching her in his arms and hugging her tightly. “Are you all right, gal?” he asked in a trembling voice.

“I … I’m fine, Gramps,” she answered breathlessly. “But what about Wade?”

Frank was already thumbing fresh cartridges into his gun in a casual fashion. He looked at Wade’s crumpled body and drawled, “He should’ve taken his chances with the Hanging Judge. But still, I reckon justice has been done.”

Chapter 23

Surprisingly, after everythirig that had happened, Frank made his eleven-thirty train. A lot of that was due to the considerable influence of the famous Colonel William F. Cody. He handled all the authorities who were naturally upset about a running gunfight taking place in the middle of Michigan Avenue. He had rousted out of bed the lawyers who took care of his show’s business, and they were kept busy explaining everything to the police while Frank, Cody, Hannah, Driscoll, and Holloway went to the train station. Holloway had a bullet burn on his cheek where the slug fired by the outlaw he had tackled had grazed him, but that was the extent of his injuries.

The men all shook hands with Frank, and Holloway promised to see to it that the two horses he was leaving behind had a good home with the Wild West show. Then Hannah hugged Frank and said, “I know we haven’t known each other for very long, Mr. Morgan, but I’ll never forget you. And I can never repay you for everything you’ve done for me.”

“You don’t have to,” Frank told her with a smile. “I was glad to help.”

“But you could have gotten killed!”

“That’s the risk folks take every morning when they get out of bed, even the ones who aren’t gunfighters,” Frank said. “It shouldn’t stop them from living life the best they can.”

Carrying his war bag, he climbed up onto the platform at the rear of one of the passenger cars and paused there, turning back to lift a hand in farewell. Steam billowed along the platform as the conductor shouted, “Booooarrrrdddd!” A moment later, with only a slight lurch, the train began to move.

Frank stood there waving until the depot dropped out of sight behind him. Then he turned and went into the car.

It would take a couple of days on the train to reach Boston, and Frank didn’t plan to let his guard down during that time. The first night, he had to sit up since he hadn’t been able to book a sleeping compartment. The next morning, though, he made arrangements with the conductor for a berth for that night and the next, and the day after that the train would arrive in Boston.

Frank had ridden on plenty of trains in his life, but always in the West, where the scenery varied some. As these cars rolled across the farmland and low hills ofIndiana and Ohio, he found himself growing bored as he looked out the window beside him. He knew, logically, that there were vast stretches of the frontier that were just as monotonous, but somehow it didn’t seem that way to him.

Suddenly, a pleasant scent filled his senses, and he looked around to see that an attractive, well-dressed woman had paused in the aisle next to the seat where he was sitting. “Do you mind ifI join you?” she asked with a smile.

Out of habit, Frank took off his hat and nodded politely to her. “Go right ahead, ma’am,” he said.

As she settled down on the seat, she said in a quiet voice, “I hope you don’t think I’m being terribly forward, sir. But there are only a few seats available, and I know from experience that Western gentlemen such as yourself are more pleasant traveling companions than, well, men like him.” She tipped her head to indicate a man sitting by himself on the other side of the aisle, three or four seats toward the front of the car. His derby and loud, flashy suit marked him as a drummer of some sort. Frank knew that traveling salesmen were necessary for some businesses to succeed, but he didn’t particularly like spending time with them any more than the lady sitting beside him did.

“I’m Helen Jeffries,” she introduced herself, offering him a gloved hand.

Frank took it and said, “Frank Morgan.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Morgan.”

She was around thirty years old, Frank decided, with honey-colored hair under her stylish hat and a small mole on her right cheek that just made her smooth, creamy complexion seem even more attractive. Full red lips and blue eyes and a body with curves in all the right places under her expensive dress completed the picture. Frank glanced at her left hand. No wedding ring.

He asked the question anyway. “You’re not traveling with your husband?”

“I’m a widow.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s been several years since my husband passed away, so my sorrow has eased considerably. It was helped to do so by the money I inherited from him as well.”

Frank grunted in surprise.

The smile didn’t leave Helen Jeffries’s face as she went on. “Yes, I know, I’m too plainspoken for my own good. But I never believed in beating around the bush. I’m fairly well-to- do, Mr. Morgan, and I’ve gotten that way by cultivating the company of well-to-do men.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have picked a poor cowboy this time,” he told her. “I can be a mite plainspoken myself sometimes.”

Helen laughed, and Frank couldn’t help but like the sound of it. “I was telling the truth when I said I was looking for a pleasant traveling companion. And that’s all I’m looking for on this trip. So don’t worry, Mr. Morgan. I’m not going to spin any sort of sinister web to entrap you or anything like that. Just some enjoyable conversation will be fine.”

“Well, I reckon we understand each other then.”

“What’s your destination?” she asked.

“Boston.”

“Are you traveling for business or pleasure?”

“Purely business,” Frank said. He had long since given up on the idea of getting any pleasure out of settling the score with Charles Dutton. Killing Dutton wouldn’t bring Vivian”. back, and it wouldn’t do anything to ease the sense of loss Frank felt whenever he thought about her. But it would make him feel that justice had been done, and besides, since Dutton was out to have him killed, forcing a showdown with the man was also a matter of self-defense.

“Where are you from? Or should I not ask that of a Westerner?”

“I don’t mind saying that I come from Texas originally, but I’ve been all over.”

“Fiddle-footed, eh?”

He glanced at her in surprise. “You’ve known some cowboys before,” he commented. “Oherwise, you wouldn’t know what it means to be fiddle-footed.”

“I’ve visited with several cattlemen in Kansas City,” she said demurely.

She had made it pretty plain that she was a high-class prostitute, but he believed her when she said that she wasn’t looking to hook him. Even a soiled dove couldn’t be on duty, so to speak, all the time. And under other circumstances, if she’d had a dalliance in mind, he might not have objected. But he didn’t want anything to distract him from the mission he was on, and he hoped that Helen Jeffries wouldn’t try to

There was another possibility too that he couldn’t ignore.

She might be working for Dutton.

Bearing that in mind, Frank intended to be mighty careful just how close he got to Helen Jeffries.

By the time the train crossed from Ohio into Pennsylvania, Frank had spent several hours talking to Helen and enjoyed the conversation. She had traveled quite a bit herself, and told him several stories about her visits to Denver and San Francisco. He enjoyed her company even though he still didn’t quite trust her.

They were talking when a man passing by in the aisle stopped suddenly and stared at Frank. “Something I can do for you, partner?” he asked the man coolly.

“Beg your pardon, mister,” the stranger said. “It’s just that I knew I’d seen you somewhere before, and I just remembered where it was. Cheyenne, five years ago. You were coming out of a hotel when ‘the Rock Springs Kid braced you. Man alive, I never saw such a fast draw! That crazy kid never had a chance, Mr. Morgan. You are Frank Morgan, aren’t you?”

Since he’d already told Helen his name, Frank didn’t figure he could lie about it now. He nodded and said, “That’s right.”

“I’ve read some of the dime novels about you,” the man went on. “I’ve got to say, after having seen you in action with my own eyes, even those stories don’t do you justice. Why, you can kill a man in less than the blink of an eye! I saw you do it.”

“That’s enough, friend,” Frank growled. “We don’t want to upset the lady.”

“Oh. Sorry, Mr. Morgan. I didn’t mean any offense—”

“None taken,” Frank cut in. “Now, if you’ll excuse us … “

“Sure. Sure thing.” The stranger tipped his hat to Helen. “Ma’am.”

She smiled and nodded at him, and when the man had moved on down the aisle, she turned to Frank and said, “Was he telling the truth? Are you really a famous gunfighter?”

“I’ve been in my share of shooting scrapes,” Frank admitted. “Some would say more than my share.”

“Frank Morgan,” she mused. “You know, I thought that name was familiar for some reason, but I couldn’t place it. And you said you’re on your way to Boston on business … ” Her eyes widened suddenly. “You’re going to kill a man!”

Frank didn’t bother denying it. He just shrugged.

“I’d hate to be the man that you’re after,” Helen went on. “He must have done you a terrible wrong, for you to be traveling all the way to Boston to deal with him.”

“It was bad enough,” Frank said. He didn’t want to get into the details.

“I don’t mean to pry,” Helen said quickly. “We’ll just leave it at that, shall we?”

Frank nodded. “Sounds fine.”

But even though they tried to go back to the conversation they’d been having, there was something between them now, a barrier formed of Helen’s awareness that he was a killer. When it got to be suppertime, Frank thought they might go to the dining car and eat together, but she made an excuse about being tired and turning in early. He nodded and accepted the story with as much grace as he could muster.

That sort of ruined his appetite, so instead of going to the dining car he headed for the club car instead, intending to have one of his infrequent drinks. When he entered the car, he spotted the man who had recognized him earlier in the day. Obviously, ever since then, the fella had been in here drinking and telling stories about how the notorious gunfighter known as The Drifter was on this train.

Frank thought about turning around and leaving, but he was damned if he was going to let himself be stampeded by a bunch of curious rubes. Instead, he went to the bar and nodded to the drink juggler behind it. “Whiskey,” Frank said.

The bartender poured the drink and put it in front of him. Frank tossed back the liquor and felt the warmth it kindled in his belly. He hadn’t been drunk since that bad time after Dixie died, and he didn’t intend to get drunk now. But at moments like this, it was tempting.

The reason he couldn’t afford to do that announced itself by way of a voice saying, “Hey, Morgan.”

Frank recognized the tone, and didn’t want to turn around to acknowledge the man who had spoken, but he knew that if he didn’t, the situation would just get worse. He swung around deliberately and put his back against the club car bar. Standing a few feet away, swaying slightly due to the motion of the train, was a young man duded up in Western clothes, but not the sort that any real cowboy would ever wear. The brim of his Stetson was curled tightly, and he had long hair down on his shoulders and a drooping mustache. The hombre had been reading too many dime novels about Wild Bill Hickok, Frank thought.

“Something I can do for you?” he asked mildly.

“I hear you’re a fast gun.” There was a challenging note in the young man’s voice. Frank felt weary because he had heard that same note so often in his life. “You reckon you’re faster than me?”

“I wouldn’t know, and I don’t have any interest in finding out,” Frank said bluntly.

“People say I’m pretty fast. I’ve had gunfights in Cedar Rapids and Des Moines, and I’m still here.”

It took an effort, but Frank managed not to laugh. Winning gunfights in Iowa wasn’t any great chore. It wasn’t like that was where the real shootists spent their time.

“You’re headed the wrong direction,” Frank told the youngster.

The fancy-dressed kid frowned and said, “What the hell do you mean by that, old man?”

“You’re going east. Farther you go that way, the more civilized folks get. They don’t take kindly to gunfights. Got laws against them and everything.” “I don’t care about that. What I want to know is who’s faster, you or me?”

“Why don’t we just say that you are and let it go at that?”

The mouth under the drooping mustache twisted in a sneer. “You’d do that? You’d back down rather than draw against me?”

The other men in the club car started edging to the sides, trying to get out of the way as much as they could.

Frank’s patience was wearing thin. He said, “I don’t want to kill you, son, and I sure as hell don’t want you killing me. If we draw against each other, one of those things is bound to happen:’

“It won’t be me dyin’ ,” the youngster boasted. “It’ll be you, you washed-up old fart.”

Frank sighed. Years of experience told him that he wouldn’t be able to avoid this fight. The youngster had gone into what he thought was a gunfighter’s crouch with his hand hovering over the butt of the revolver on his hip, ready to hook and draw.

“Come on, old man!” he shouted, and now the rest of the men in the club car were scrambling as they hunted for some cover. “You’re gonna either draw or dance, you decide!”

“You called the tune, kid,” Frank said. “It’s up to you to start the ball.”

As soon as the words were out of Frank’s mouth, the youngster’s hand flashed toward his gun.

Chapter 24

Back on the platform of the train station in Chicago, Frank had strapped on his gunbelt again. Now, without appearing to hurry, his hand dipped toward the Peacemaker and palmed it smoothly from the holster.

The kid wasn’t slow, but it would have been stretching the truth a mite to call him fast. Frank’s gun came level and roared before the youngster’s Colt was more than half clear of the fancy hand-tooled holster. The kid was driven backward by the bullet smashing into his chest. He went up in the air and landed on his back on a table inside a booth on the far side of the club car. The men who had been sitting in the booth a few minutes earlier had already abandoned it, but their drinks were still there. The young man smashed the glasses when he landed on them. Whiskey puddled around him, the sharp smell of it mingling with the acrid tang of gun smoke.

The youngster’s gun had fallen to the floor. He struggled to get up but couldn’t make it, slumping back onto the table instead. His face was twisted in lines of pain and surprise as Frank came over to him, still covering him with the Peacemaker.

“Sorry you made me do that, Iowa,” Frank told the dying youngman.

“How how can you … be so fast?” the kid gasped. “You’re so old!”

Before Frank could answer, the youngster’s head fell back and his eyes glazed over. He was gone.

Frank shook his head as he replaced the spent cartridge in the Colt. Then, he holstered the gun and turned back to the bar. The bartender stared wide-eyed at him.

The man who had recognized Frank earlier came up to him and said, “You haven’t slowed down any, Mr. Morgan. That was really something!”

“Yeah, it was something, all right,” Frank said. “A damned waste.”

The man didn’t seem to know what to say to that.

Frank didn’t want any more whiskey. He ordered a phosphate instead. While he was drinking it, the red-faced conductor rushed in, evidently drawn to the club car by reports of a gunshot. He stared at the body of the dead young man, then demanded loudly, “What the hell happened here?”

“Frank Morgan killed that kid.” The answer came from the man who had spoken to Frank. “The kid tried to draw on him. Morgan didn’t have any choice.”

The conductor glared at Frank. “I don’t like people getting killed on my train,” he snapped.

“I don’t much like killing them, here or anywhere else,” Frank replied coolly.

“Mister, when we get to Pittsburgh—”

“You’ll have that young fool’s body taken off and tended to,” Frank cut in. “There are plenty of witnesses here who’ll tell you that I shot him in self-defense, so don’t start making noises about having me kicked off the train. My ticket’s good all the way to Boston, and that’s where I intend to go.”

The conductor’s face paled, then grew even more flushed than normaL “Damn it, you can’t talk to me like that! The railroad may own this train, but I run it!”

Frank didn’t want to trade on the fact that he was a major stockholder in this railroad. He said instead, “I’ll do my best to see to it that there’s no more trouble while I’m on board. But I can’t promise anything other than that.”

“How about if I tell you that you’ve got to give me your gun until you get where you’re going?”

Frank shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

The conductor muttered profanely under his breath, but he didn’t push the issue. He called a couple of porters into the club car, and instead of baggage they toted the corpse out. But the baggage car was probably where the body would wind up until the train reached Pittsburgh, Frank reflected.

He wondered if word of this killing was going to get back to Helen Jeffries. If it did, he told himself, she sure as hell wouldn’t want to have anything else to do with him.

He didn’t see her again that night or the next day. But in the evening, as he ate supper by himself in the dining car, she appeared at his table and asked, “Do you mind if I join you, Mr. Morgan?”

Frank got to his feet and gestured politely at the empty chair on the other side of the table. “Help yourself,” he said. He added, “It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Jeffries.”

Helen sat down. Frank settled back down in his chair. A waiter came over, and Helen gave him her order. Then she looked levelly at Frank and said, “I hear there was some trouble yesterday evening.”

“I’m sorry to say that’s true.” The young man’s body had been taken off the train in Pittsburgh. Frank assumed it would be shipped back to wherever he had come from for burial.

“It’s not often that there’s a gunfight in the middle of a club car.”

Frank squinted in thought. “First time I remember being involved in one.”

Helen laughed softly and said, “You’ve been involved in so many gunfights, you have to stop and think about where each of them took place? Or are there just too many to remember?”

“Some things a man doesn’t forget,” Frank said. He left it at that and let her draw her own conclusions.

“Well, from everything I’ve heard, this one wasn’t your fault. You had no choice but to defend yourself.”

He nodded. “That’s right.”

“So no one can hold that against you.” Her voice hardened a little as she went on. “No one knows better than I do that sometimes you have to do things you don’t particularly want to in order to survive.”

The waiter brought her food then, and for a few minutes she and Frank ate in companionable silence. Frank took his time with his meal so that they finished about the same time.

When they were done, he asked her, “Would you like to go get a glass of wine in the club car?”

“You don’t mind going there … after what happened, I mean?”

He shrugged. “It’s just a railroad car. I don’t much believe in ghosts.”

“Actually, what I’d really like is some fresh air. These cars get so stuffy.” . .

Fresh air was usually in short supply on a train. The windows in the cars could be opened, but often that just let in more of the smoke from the locomotive. But sometimes, the air on the rear platform of the passenger car furthest away from the engine wasn’t too smoky.

Frank stood up and offered Helen his arm. She smiled and took it, and they strolled together out of the dining car. Frank was well aware that some folks were watching them, and probably whispering behind their hands that he was the infamous gunfighter who had killed a man in the club car the night before. He didn’t care, and Helen didn’t seem to either.

They made their way through the various cars until they reached the last of the passenger cars. As they stepped out onto the rear platform, Frank looked at the Pennsylvania landscape rolling past. The train would be reaching Philadelphia in another hour or so. Unlike the vast reaches of the West where night usually brought utter darkness, there were a lot of lights in these parts, from frequent farmhouses and little towns. That was just another reminder of how many people lived in the East as opposed to the West.

“You can smoke if you wish,” Helen said as she put her hands on the iron railing around the platform.

“I smoke a pipe every now and then, but it’s in my war bag,” Frank replied. “Anyway, we came back here to get away from the smoke, didn’t we?”

She looked over at him and smiled. “Is that the only reason we came back here, Mr. Morgan? Or should I call you Frank?”

He knew she wanted him to kiss her. He was about to do just that when the door into the car opened and a man stepped out onto the platform with them, followed closely by another man. The second man pulled the door shut behind them.

Frank looked at them, saw how their faces were set in hard, determined lines, and said, “Well, hell.” “I’m sorry, Frank,” Helen said as she took a gun out of her bag and pressed the barrel against his back. “Please don’t make this any harder than it has to be.” Frank’s mind was racing. He had suspected right from the frrst that she might be one of Dutton’s agents, but she had been so forthcoming, so genuine, that his suspicions had been lulled And then her reaction to finding out that he was a famous gunman had made it seem more than ever like she was telling the truth. She had fooled him, that was for damned sure.

“You’re no whore,” he said. “You’re an actress.”

“Whore, actress, it’s all the same thing. Women use all the tools at their disposal to get what they want, and I’m no different, Frank.”

“What you want is Dutton’s money.”

“I’m accustomed to a certain style of living. I’ll do whatever it takes to maintain that.”

“Stop yammering,” the first man said. He took a knife from under his coat. “Let’s kill him and get it over with.”

He drove the blade at Frank’s chest.

Frank had already figured out that they wouldn’t want any gunshots if they could help it. He was counting on that fact to make Helen hesitate just enough on the trigger as he twisted away from the knife. The heavy blade ripped at the side of his shirt rather than plunging into his body. At the same time, he struck behind him with an elbow, knocking Helen’s gun aside. The pistol went off with a wicked little crack, but the bullet sailed off harmlessly into the night.

Frank caught hold of the knife-wielder’s arm and grasped it tightly as he brought his knee up. The man howled in pain as Frank snapped a bone in his arm. The knife clattered to the floor of the platform.

The second man was armed with a knife too. He slashed at Frank’s head with it. Frank ducked under the blade. While he was down there, he hooked an arm behind Helen’s knees and jerked her legs out from under her. She sat down hard on the platform, the impact probably cushioned a little by the petticoats she wore. Moving fast before the second man could regain his balance, Frank lunged forward and drove a shoulder into his belly. That sent the man crashing back against the rear wall of the railroad car.

The man with the broken arm had fallen to his knees, and was cradling the injured limb against his body as he cursed bitterly. Frank snatched up the little pistol Helen had dropped and drew his own gun as he straightened. He put his back against the railing and used both guns to cover the three would-be assassins. “Reckon we’ll have to do some talking to the law when we get to Philadelphia,” he said.

Suddenly, with a squealing and screeching of brakes, the train gave a mighty lurch. Someone inside, maybe a confed-erate of these killers, must have pulled the emergency cord. Frank had time for that thought to flash through his head before the second man’s knife slashed across the back of his hand and made him drop the Peacemaker. At the same time, Helen reached up and grabbed hold of the pocket pistol and pulled it down. Frank found himself wrestling with both of them as he tried to keep the man from stabbing him. He locked the fingers of his bleeding hand around the wrist of the man’s knife hand. The train was still coming to a shudder-ing halt. The group of struggling figures swayed back and forth on the platform.

The pistol abruptly went off again with a sound like a popping balloon. Frank hadn’t pulled the trigger, so he knew that Helen must have as she tried to wrest the weapon from him. She hadn’t meant to, though, because she gasped and fell back, letting go of the gun and pressing both hands to her chest. Dark blood welled between her fingers.

Frank didn’t have time to worry about her. For one thing, she had been intent on murdering him, and for another, he still had his hands full defending himself against the man with the knife. Not only that, but the one with the broken arm got back into the fight by lunging against Frank’s legs and throwing him offbalance. Frank suddenly found himself with nothing underneath him but empty air. In a desperate grab, he caught hold of the railing around the platform and swung out away from the car, with only the strong grip of his fingers saving him from a possibly deadly fall to the roadbed.

“Get him!” the man with the broken arm urged his partner. “Chop the bastard’s fingers offl”

Frank had no choice but to let go as the knife flashed toward his hand where it gripped the railing. He hit the ground hard, the rocks of the roadbed digging painfully into his flesh through his clothes. The train wasn’t going very fast by now, though, and he was able to break his momentum by rolling over and over. He came to a stop on his belly as the train finally shuddered to a halt a few yards away. The little pistol he had taken away from Helen was still in his left fist.

Colt flame lit up the night as the man on the platform picked up Frank’s Peacemaker and fired it at him. The slug kicked up gravel only inches from Frank’s head. Shooting left-handed, with an unfamiliar gun, he sent two shots at the platform, aiming for the muzzle flash. The man cried out and slumped back against the door. He doubled over his belly where the small-caliber bullets had dug into him, then collapsed on the platform.

That left only Helen and the man with the broken arm, who lifted his good arm as Frank stood up and trotted toward the platform. “Don’t shoot, Morgan!” he cried. “I give up, damn it!”

Frank swung up on the platform, ignoring the pain from the battering his body had taken when he fell from the train. “Have you got a partner inside this car?” he demanded “Who pulled that emergency cord?”

The answer came in the blast of a gun as the door was jerked open. Frank heard the wind-rip of the bullet as it went past his ear. He fired at the man who had just tried to kill him, and saw the hombre spin off his feet. As the man slumped to the floor of the car, half in and half out of the door, Frank was surprised to see that he was the man who had recognized him a couple of days earlier, the one who claimed to have seen him gun down the Rock Springs Kid in Cheyenne.

Maybe that had been true, and maybe it hadn’t. Frank realized now that the man had been working with Helen and these other two. It was even possible that the man had goaded that kid from Iowa into picking a gunfight with him, just on the slender chance that the kid might have won. That would have been an easy way for the man to get rid of Frank without risking his own life.

But when that hadn’t worked, the four of them had gone back to their original plan, which had been for Helen to lure Frank to a spot where they could kill him quietly. He could see it all clearly now.

His Colt lay on the platform where it had been dropped by the man who had picked it up and tried to shoot him with it. Frank scooped it up now and checked on the two men he had gunned down. They were both dead.

Helen was still alive, though. She sat with her back pressed against the rear wall of the railroad car. The front of her gown was dark and sodden with blood. “Frank,” she said in a weak, ragged voice. .

He knelt in front of her, at the same time keeping an eye on the man with the broken arm. All the fight seemed to have gone out of that gent, but Frank knew better than to risk his life on that assumption.

“What is it, Helen?” he asked.

“Am … am I going to die?”

“I’d say there’s a good chance of it,” he answered honestly. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“I … I’m sorry, Frank. For what it’s … w-worth … most of what I told you … was true. And I enjoyed … talking to you.”

“But yet you were willing to kill me.”

She smiled faintly. Her face was unmarked and as beautiful as ever despite the lines of strain on it.

“A girl does … what she has to … to get by.”

Frank didn’t think that was a very good explanation, but there was no point in arguing about it now, not with the rest of Helen’s life being numbered in minutes or even seconds. Instead, he said gently, “I’m sorry we couldn’t have met under different circumstances.”

“So am I.” She lifted a bloodstained hand toward him. “Frank be careful … Dutton will … stop at nothing. I know him … know how evil he can … “

Her breath came out of her in a long sigh, and Frank knew she was gone, even as she was trying to warn him. But she wasn’t telling him anything that he wasn’t already aware of.

He knew perfectly well how evil Charles Dutton was. What had happened on this train tonight was proof aplenty of that.

Chapter 25

Not surprisingly, the conductor was even more upset this time. There were three corpses instead of one, plus a fella with a broken arm.

“I’m just damned glad that my part of this run ends in Philadelphia,” he said as he glared at Frank. “Somebody else can deal with all the death and gunplay the rest of the way to Boston.”

Frank thumbed his hat to the back of his head. He had found it lying along the tracks where it had fallen when he took his tumble from the train. The old IB. was-getting pretty battered.

“I hope there won’t be any more trouble,” Frank said.

The conductor snorted. “You can hope all you want, Morgan, but from what I know about you, trouble seems to follow you around.”

That sentiment wasn’t anything Frank hadn’t heard before, and as much as he hated to admit it, he knew the conductor was right. Even under the best of circumstances, all too often Frank ran into hombres who wanted to kill him, just because of who he was. Throw in the agents working for Dutton and the bounty that the crooked lawyer had placed on his head, and the frequent attempts on his life were no surprise.

“I’m sorry,” he told the conductor, “but I’ve got to get to Boston as fast as I can. If there was another way to get there, I’d take it.”

“You’ll have to talk to the law when we pull into Philadelphia, you know.”

Frank nodded. “I’ll be glad to. Mrs. Jeffries died by accident, and the two men I shot in self-defense.”

“That’s not the story that gent with the broken arm is telling.”

Frank’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “What?”

“He’s back in the caboose now, getting his arm tended to by a doctor who happened to be on the train, and the story he’s telling to anybody who’ll listen is that he and his friends were on that platform with Mrs. Jeffries when you came barg-ing out of the car, picked a fight with them for no reason, and started shooting.”

“That’s a damned lie!”

The conductor shrugged. “I happen to believe you are right … but what the law will believe, I couldn’t say.”

“I’m going back there to have a talk with that son of a-“

The conductor put a hand on Frank’s arm to stop him. “Sorry, Morgan, you’re not going anywhere. The caboose is off-limits to you, and by God, I will enforce that. The engineer, the fireman, the brakemen, and all the porters will back me up too. So unless you want to try to shoot your way through all of us … “

Frank shook his head and scowled. “I’ll wait and let the law handle things. But that bastard is lying.”

The conductor just smiled. “Once we get to Philadelphia, it won’t be my problem anymore.”

Angrily, Frank went back to his compartment and waited. He knew when the train reached Philadelphia and stopped, but he stayed where he was. If the lawdogs wanted him, they could come to him.

That was exactly what happened. About half an hour after the train stopped, one of the porters came to Frank’s compartment, leading a man in a suit and bowler hat. The stranger was short and stocky and had a face like a bulldog with a mustache, and Frank wasn’t the least bit surprised when he introduced himself as a member of the Philadelphia Police Department.

“Detective Sergeant Harvey Bastrop,” the man said. “And you’d be Mr. Frank Morgan?”

“That’s right.”

Detective Bastrop didn’t offer to shake hands, and neither did Frank. The detective said, “I understand you were involved in a shooting on this train earlier tonight, as well as one yesterday.”

“None of those fracases were my idea,” Frank said.

“But you’re still alive and four other people are dead. You’re either a very lucky man … or a very dangerous man, Mr. Morgan.”

“I think you know who I am,” Frank said tightly. “There’s no point in beating around the bush.”

“No, there’s not,” Bastrop agreed. “You’re a gunfighter. A hired killer.”

Frank shook his head. “I don’t hire out my gun. If I draw it, it’s to protect my life or the life of somebody else, or else to fight for a cause I believe in.”

“You think that’s the way to fight for a cause? With a gun?”

Frank felt an instinctive dislike for this man. “Too many times, that’s the only way that does any good.”

“Well, that’s not the way we do things here in civilization,” Bastrop said with a sneer. “This ain’t the Wild West, cowboy.”

“No … and a lot of ways, that’s a damned shame.”

Bastrop flushed angrily and said, “I’ve heard one side of the story. Tell me yours.”

“First of all,” Frank said, “I know a little bit about the law. Those shootings didn’t happen in Philadelphia. I’m not sure you have any jurisdiction in this matter, Detective Sergeant.”

“You’re in Philadelphia now, mister,” Bastrop snapped. “So you just let me worry about things like jurisdiction. I can have you locked up until everything gets sorted out, if that’s what you want.”

Frank didn’t want anything else delaying him on his way to the showdown with Dutton in Boston, so he said, “I plan to cooperate. The fella I shot yesterday was a blasted young fool who thought he was faster than me and was determined to prove it. He died for his trouble.”

“There are witnesses who say that he drew first,” Bastrop admitted grudgingly.

Frank nodded. “That’s right, he did.”

“Well, why didn’t you just shoot him in the arm or the leg? Couldn’t you have wounded him without killing him?”

Frank suppressed a sigh of irritation. “Were you in the war, Sergeant?”

“The Civil War, you mean?” Bastrop asked with a frown.

“The War of Northern Aggression, some call it,” Frank said softly, aware that he was needling the man but unable to resist the temptation.

“I wasn’t old enough to fight in the war. But I remember it.”

“Ever had somebody shoot at you since you’ve been a policeman?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Bastrop asked. The blustery tone in his voice told Frank that the answer was no.

“When somebody’s drawing a gun with the obvious intention of killing you, you don’t have time to think about things like wounding them,” Frank said. “That kid wasn’t very fast, but when I say that, I mean in comparison with me.”

Bastrop sneered again. “A little full of yourself, ain’t you?”

“I’m just stating the facts. He was slow compared to me … but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t get his gun out and fire it in a hurry. A second, or a second and a half maybe.” Frank shook his head. “That’s not enough time to get fancy. I drew and shot in self-defense. That’s all there is to it.”

Bastrop must have seen that he wasn’t going to be able to shake Frank’s story on that incident. “What about earlier tonight?” he demanded. “The gent with the broken arm, a Mr. Childress, says that you attacked him and his friends without provocation.”

“No provocation other than the fact that they were trying to murder me.”

“Can you prove that? Did anyone else see what happened?”

“No, there weren’t any witnesses back there on that platform,” Frank admitted. “But this fella Childress can’t prove what he says either, can he? I’d say it’s his word against mine.”

“Why would they want to murder you?”

Frank still didn’t want the police involved in his mission, but he didn’t see any way around answering Bastrop’s question. He said, “They were working for a man in Boston named Charles Dutton.”

“Who’s that?”

“A man who wants me dead.”

“Why would he want that?”

“Because he was responsible for the death of a woman I loved,” Frank said, “and he knows that I’m coming to kill him.” It was a damn fool thing to say, and Frank knew it. Bastrop puffed up like a horned toad and said that Frank was going to have to come to police headquarters with him to answer some more questions. When Frank objected that the train would pull out without him, Bastrop said, “You’ll just have to catch a later one … that is, if you see the outside of a jail cell any time soon.”

Bastrop grabbed his arm to haul him off the train. Frank pulled away, and for a second the air between the two men was thick with potential violence. In the end, though, Frank knew that he couldn’t gun down a policeman for doing his job, no matter how wrong-headed the man was.

“I want your gun,” Bastrop said, holding out his hand.

“I’m not used to giving up my iron,” Frank replied.

“You’ll do it or there’ll be another charge against you.” Reluctantly, Frank drew the Peacemaker from its holster and handed it over to Bastrop. The detective held it in his right hand as he jerked his bowler-hatted head and said, “Come on.”

They walked to the end of the car and stepped down onto the platform of the train station in the middle of Philadelphia. Even though it was the middle of the night, the place was bustling with activity. That was another thing about these Easterners, Frank thought-they didn’t know when it was time to go to bed.

Bastrop grasped Frank’s right arm with his left hand and ordered, “Let’s go.”

They had walked only a few feet when three men stepped out of the crowd, and Frank knew suddenly that something was wrong. The men were hard-faced and wore long overcoats that were too heavy for the warm, muggy night. He said, “Detective, watch out-“

That was as far as he got before the trio of assassins brought sawed-off shotguns out from under their coats and opened fire.

As the scatterguns boomed, Frank gave Bastrop a hard shove that sent the detective sprawling to the platform. At the same time, Frank went the other way in a desperate dive. Most of the buckshot ripped through the air between the two men, since the charges hadn’t had time to spread much. A few of the pellets stung Frank’s back and legs, though, and judging by the way Bastrop howled in pain, he had been nicked too.

“Get him!” one of the killers shouted as they rushed forward. People on the platform who had been boarding or disembarking from trains screamed and yelled and scurried to get out of the line offire. “Get Morgan!”

If Bastrop hadn’t taken his gun away, Frank could have shot it out with the men and taken his chances. But he was unarmed and he figured that each of the men had fired only one barrel. That meant there were three more loads of buckshot in those guns, just waiting to rip him to shreds.

He rolled aside as one of the men fired the second barrel. The charge slammed into the platform where Frank had been a heartbeat earlier. As Frank came to a stop on his belly, he heard Bastrop yell, “Morgan!” and looked up to see his Peacemaker spinning across the platform toward him. Bastrop had slid the gun to him.

Frank put out his hand and felt the butt of the Colt slap into his palm. From there, pure instinct took over. He rolled onto his side and brought the revolver up. The man who had fired both barrels of his shotgun was trying to reload it, so he wouldn’t be a threat for another second or two. That gave Frank enough time to concentrate on the other two men. The twin barrels of their weapons were swinging toward him and. were about to come in line.

He couldn’t risk hitting them in the body. They might still have time to pull the triggers before they died. Head shots were his only chance. The Colt in his hand roared twice.

The heads of both men jerked back as Frank’s bullets slammed into them. One he got in the center of the forehead, the other through the left eye. But in both cases the slugs bored through their brains and blasted out the backs of their skulls. The men hit the platform like the lifeless sacks of meat they had become in less than the blink of an eye.

Frank swung the Colt toward the third man, who had just snapped his shotgun closed after thumbing fresh shells into both barrels. Those barrels were still pointed down, though, and in the man’s eyes Frank could see the horrible realization that if he tried to lift the weapon he was going to die, suddenly and violently.

“Don’t … don’t shoot!” the man called in a choked voice. He bent at the knees and placed the shotgun on the platform. As he straightened, he lifted his hands over his head. “Don’t kill me, Morgan!” he babbled. “Please don’t shoot me!”

Frank kept the Peacemaker trained on the man as he pushed himself to his feet. He could tell that the buckshot wounds he had suffered were minor, little more than scratches, although they stung and he could feel the warm trickle of blood from some of them. Bastrop stopped cursing bitterly long enough to yell,

“Somebody give me a hand here!” Several bystanders came over and helped him to his feet. There was still a lot of confusion on the platform, and Bastrop told one of the men who had helped him, “Go find some cops! Tell ‘em Detective Sergeant Bastrop needs some help.”

Then he stumbled over to Frank, who smiled faintly and asked, “You want my gun back, Sergeant?”

“No, that’s all right, you keep this son of a bitch covered.” Bastrop shook his head. “Damn it, Morgan, I didn’t like you one damned bit, and then you had to go and save my life.”

“Like I said, sometimes you just don’t have a chance to think about what you’re doing.”

Bastrop looked as though he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to cuss or laugh. He settled for turning to the prisoner and saying roughly, “Why did you and your partners try to kill us?”

“We weren’t after you,” the man replied quickly, as if that was going to help matters for him. “We just wanted to–” He stopped short.

“Just wanted to kill Morgan, that’s what you were gonna say, ain’t it?” Bastrop demanded. “You bastards must work for Charles Dutton.”

The look of recognition and surprise that the shotgunner couldn’t conceal told Frank that the charge Bastrop had just made was correct. More importantly, Bastrop saw the man’s reaction too, and was smart enough to know what it meant.

He grunted and said, “Looks like you were telling me the truth about what happened earlier, Morgan. I still don’t like you trigger-happy cowboys …. “

“But you’ve got to admit, there are times when we come in handy.”

“Yeah. There are definitely times when it’s good to have one of you around.”

Then he went back to cursing and complaining, which seemed to be his natural state.

Chapter 26

With proof that Frank’s story about how Dutton’s agents wanted him dead was true, Bastrop was no longer so inclined to cause trouble for him. The fact that Frank had probably saved his life certainly didn’t hurt anything either. Bastrop had seen with his own eyes how the men had opened fire on the crowded platform without any hesitation. If not for Frank’s quick action in shoving him aside, the burly detective sergeant probably would have been cut down by the shotgun blasts too.

Almost miraculously, none of the bystanders on the platform had been hit by the flying buckshot.

Given the circumstances, Bastrop forgot about the idea of taking Frank in for more questioning. “I can’t exactly wish you good luck and Godspeed,” Bastrop said, “not after you told me about what you plan to do when you get to Boston … but I don’t have any reason to hold you here either, Morgan. I’ve got all the information I’ll need to fill out my reports.”

“I appreciate that,” Frank said. “And I’m obliged to you for persuading the railroad to hold that train for me.”

“Yeah, well … ” Bastrop coughed, and Frank knew the detective was a little embarrassed that Frank had saved his life. Gruffly, he went on. “Better get on board and get out of here while you can. Once my superiors hear about this, they may not be quite so understanding.”

Frank held out his hand. “So long, Sergeant.”

Bastrop shook with him, and then Frank climbed up into the car where his compartment was located. The new conductor stood there with arms crossed, eyes narrowed, and a glare already on his face.

“I don’t like being behind schedule before we ever leave Philadelphia,” he said by way of introduction. Obviously, he knew who Frank was.

“Not crazy about it myself,” Frank said “Next time somebody tries to kill me, I’ll tell them not to take so long about it.”

That didn’t make the conductor any happier, but Frank was used to having folks in positions of authority angry with him. It happened a lot, especially with marshals and sheriffs and the like.

The train was already pulling out of the station when he went into his compartment, which had been made up for sleeping. With a sigh, he dropped his Stetson on the bunk and sat down to take his boots off.

He stretched out on the narrow bunk without undressing and stared up at the compartment’s ceiling. As he tried to figure out how many people had already died trying to stop him from getting to Dutton, he realized that he had lost count. Was he going to have to wade through a sea of blood just to reach his destination?

With that grim thought in his head, he dozed off, rocked to sleep by the constant swaying of the train on the rails.

Frank hadn’t seen anything of Philadelphia except the bloodstained platform at the train station. In a way he regret-ted that, because he knew from his reading that the City of Brotherly Love had played an important part in the history of the country. The Declaration of Independence had been signed there, after all. He wouldn’t have minded doing some sightseeing if he’d had the chance. But history wasn’t as important as his mission.

Likewise, if things had been different, he would have enjoyed seeing something of New York City, even though he knew it was the biggest city in the entire country and being stuck in the middle of that many people would probably make him more nervous than riding through Indian country on a slow horse.

It occurred to him that most of the dime novels he had seen that featured him as the hero–or villain-originated in New York, and the thought of walking into the publishers’ offices and confronting them with the genuine article brought a chuckle to his lips. But there was no time for that. By now, Dutton had surely gotten word that the latest ambush had failed and that Frank was closing in on him. Dutton was probably busy right now setting up another trap of some sort, Frank thought as he ate breakfast in the train’s dining car the next morning. The train had already made an early morning stop in New York and now was rolling northeastward toward Massachusetts.

His sleep hadn’t been disturbed the night before, nor had anyone tried to kill him this morning-yet. He wouldn’t rule out the possibility before he got to Boston, though.

When he was finished eating, he went back to his compartment to collect his war bag. The train would arrive at the end of the line-for him anyway-in less than an hour.

He was waiting on the rear platform of the car when the train rolled into Boston’s South Station. On the way into town, Frank had gotten a look at the city sprawled on several hills around Boston Harbor and the Charles River. He wondered idly which ofthose heights was Bunker Hill, famous as the site of an early battle in the Revolutionary War.

He figured nobody would ever write poems or sing songs about the battle he intended to fight in Boston.

It was the middle of the morning when he disembarked in the busy, crowded station. The crowds meant that he had to keep a close eye on everyone around him, just in case one of Dutton’s hired killers tried to sneak up on him and slip a knife between his ribs. No one bothered him, though, as he went over to a counter with a sign above it that read INFORMATION.

A skinny young man in a suit, with slicked-down hair and pince-nez spectacles, stood behind the counter. His eyes widened at the sight of Frank’s range clothes, Stetson, and Colt Peacemaker.

“You can’t wear that here,” he volunteered as he pointed at Frank’s gun. “We have laws.”

“I’m sure you do,” Frank said, “but I feel a mite undressed without it.”

“I’m going to call a policeman.”

Frank tried not to sigh in irritation. Did every hombre east of the Mississippi have his head buried firmly in his rear end?

“Listen, mister, I’m not looking for trouble, just some information, like the sign says. How do I go about finding somebody in this town?”

“Who are you looking for?” the clerk asked suspiciously.

“A lawyer named Dutton.” ” You’ll need a lawyer, you go parading around town wearing a gun.”

“Well, the sooner I get out of this train station, the sooner that won’t be your problem anymore, right?” Frank said.

The clerk scowled, but reached below the counter to bring up a thick book. As he set it in front of Frank, he said, “This is the city directory. You ought to be able to look up the address you need.”

“Much obliged,” Frank said as he began paging through the directory.

“Couldn’t you maybe put that gun in your … your duffel bag?”

“It’s a war bag,” Frank said without looking up from the book. “I don’t rightly know what a duffel is.”

“Are you going to war?”

That made Frank glance up. He nodded slightly and told the clerk, “You could say that.”

Because he had just found Charles Dutton’s name and the address of the lawyer’s office.

The clerk at the information counter told him how to find Beacon Street and which trolley to catch just outside the station. Well aware that he was the object of plenty of curious stares, Frank left the station and rode one of the electric trolley cars to his destination. It was a solid-looking office building on a street that led up a hill to where some of Boston’s finest homes overlooked the city.

After all the time he had spent getting here and all the trouble he’d had along the way, when Frank stood in front of the building, he had to pause for a moment before going in. It seemed hard to believe that he could just walk into that office and ask to see the man he had come to kill.

And what was he going to do, he asked himself, gun down Dutton in cold blood? He had never done anything like that in his life. All the men who had fallen to his bullets had been trying to kill him or somebody else. Suddenly, Frank felt a hollowness inside him. He was no murderer. If Dutton didn’t put up a fight, then all Frank could do was take him to the police and force him to admit his part in getting Vivian killed. That was going to be a mighty empty revenge, Frank realized.

But it might be all he could get.

He took a deep breath, blew it out, settled his hat a little firmer on his head, and marched into the place.

A young, pretty woman behind a desk looked up at him with a smile that never wavered despite her obvious surprise at seeing a cowboy walk in. “Can I help you, sir?” she asked.

“I’m looking for Charles Dutton.” The words sounded forced and strange as they came out of Frank’s throat.

“Oh, Mr. Dutton isn’t in the office this week. He’s at his summer home out in Magnolia.”

Gone? Dutton was gone?

“Magnolia? Where’s that?”

“On the North Shore. What they call Boston’s Gold Coast.” She said the name of the city as Bahhston. The sound of it grated on Frank’s ears.

“How do I get there?”

“One of the trolley lines runs to all the North Shore communities. Just look for a car that says ‘Magnolia Station.’ When you get there, anybody can tell you how to find Mr. Dutton’s home.”

Frank reached up and tugged on the brim of his Stetson. “Much obliged for your help, ma’am.”

The young woman giggled. “Are you a real cowboy, or are you in a show?”

Frank thought mournfully that the time was coming when you wouldn’t be able to tell the two apart. But for now, he said, “The genuine article, ma’am,” and left the office. It took him a few minutes of looking, but then he found one of those trolley cars the girl had been talking about. A sign on the front of it read MAGNOLIA STATION. As it stopped, he climbed on and found a seat.

The trolley belonged to the Boston & Northern and Old Colony Street Railway Company, according to a plaque above the door. Frank sat there as it clanged along, leaving the city behind and following the coastline northeastward. A few seats in front of him, a little boy turned around and stared at him. When the youngster’s mother said something to him, the boy shook his head. He didn’t want to turn around and sit down right. He wanted to look at the cowboy.

Frank smiled. The kid grinned back at him.

The trolley ride took a little more than an hour, but the car finally pulled into Magnolia Station. Frank had already seen that this oceanfront community was small, but it was surrounded by vast green estates dotted with mansions. It came as no surprise to him that Dutton lived in a place like this. The lawyer had made a lot of money bilking and betraying his clients.

Frank climbed down from the trolley and asked a man working at the ticket counter in the station, “Where can I find Charles Dutton’s house?”

Evidently eager to be helpful, the man came out from behind the counter and pointed. “See that road over there? Just follow it for about half a mile down to the shore. You can’t miss the place.”

Frank nodded his thanks and then said, “You reckon I could leave this bag here for a while?”

“Sure, I’ll put it behind the counter and keep an eye on it for you, Tex.”

Frank was about to tell the man that he hadn’t been in Texas for a while, but then decided it didn’t matter. He handed over the war bag and left the station.

Like any man who had been raised in cow country, Frank didn’t cotton much to walking. The rule of the range said any job that couldn’t be done from the back of a horse just wasn’t worth doing. But this close to his quarry, he was damned if a little walk was going to stop him now.

As he followed the road toward the water, he thought about everything that had happened, about all the trails that had brought him to this spot. He wondered if Dutton had a family and if so, would they be here at this summer home with him? That was likely, Frank decided. And again, he was assailed by uncharacteristic doubts. All his life he had moved straight ahead, always reasonably sure of his best course of action. Now, in these surroundings that were so strange to him, he wasn’t certain what he was going to do.

There was the Atlantic Ocean, with a brisk breeze blowing off it that carried the tang of salt. Frank ran his tongue over his lips and tasted the salt there as well. The landscape rolled gently down to the water. On a knoll to his left stood a huge white house with columns in front of it supporting a balcony over the veranda. A cobblestone drive that was at least a hundred yards long led to the house. As Frank began walking along the drive, he felt eyes watching him. He was in plain sight, an easy target for anybody who might be drawing a bead on him from the house. On the lawn to his right, between the house and the water, were flower beds and shrubs, but nothing that offered any good cover. Frank kept walking. He had come too far to turn back now.

The place looked deserted, but he knew it wasn’t. His instincts told him that. Somebody was here, and that somebody was watching him. He followed the curving drive, and as he reached the front of the house, he saw the huge, elaborately carved door swing open.

The man who stepped out of the house had a tweed suit, a fancy vest, a tie with a glittering stickpin in it, a big belly, a derby hat, a red handlebar mustache, and a Winchester that he held like he knew how to use it. He nodded to Frank and said, “You’d be Morgan.”

“That’s right,” Frank said. “But you’re not Charles Dutton.” He had seen Dutton a few times in the past, before he had been aware of the depth of the man’s villainy. Dutton was a medium-sized man with thinning brown hair and a little mustache, not at all impressive-looking.

“Mr. Dutton asked me to meet you here,” Handlebar said.

“He gave me a message for you.”

“What’s that?” Frank asked.

“He said to tell you that you can either go back where you came from … “

“Or?”

“Or you can go to hell. I’ll be glad to send you there.”

Frank smiled a little. “By yourself, amigo?”

Handlebar shook his head and returned the smile. “Nope. Me and my friends, cowboy.”

And from the corners of his eyes, Frank saw the men who stepped around both ends of the big house, three on each side, six in all, and all of them carrying rifles.

With a savage grin, Handlebar asked, “What’ll it be, Morgan? I’m hopin’ you’ll choose hell.”

“Say hello to the Devil for me,” Frank said, “because you’ll be there first.”

Chapter 27

Handlebar’s grin disappeared as he snapped the rifle up to fire. He was too late, though, because the Peacemaker was already in Frank’s hand. The revolver gouted flame as it roared. The bullet smashed into Handlebar’s chest and drove him backward through the open door of the mansion.

Frank was moving before the man hit the ground. He spun toward the men on his right, threw a shot at them that came close enough to make them duck, and continued whirling around to fire at the men on the left. One of them staggered and fell to his knees, hit hard by the slug.

Then as the rifles began to crack and bullets sang around his head, Frank turned and plunged across the lawn, heading for the water.

Everything had been too easy once he got to Boston. He had reached that conclusion during the walk out here from Magnolia Station. The girl at Dutton’s office, the clerk at the trolley station … they had been told that when a cowboy showed up looking for Dutton, they were to cooperate and tell the Westerner exactly where to find him. Once he realized that fact, he had known he was heading for a trap-and he had walked right into it anyway.

He didn’t know where Dutton really was, but he would have been willing to bet that the crooked lawyer wasn’t inside the mansion. Dutton was probably somewhere far away, waiting for his hired killers to report to him that Frank Morgan was finally dead.

But that wasn’t going to happen as long as Frank had anything to say about it: And as long as he had bullets for his Colt, he had plenty to say.

As a slug plucked at his sleeve, he left his feet in a long dive that carried him behind some shrubs. He knew the plants wouldn’t stop a bullet, so as he hit the ground, he rolled over a couple of times and then crawled quickly to his right. Dutton’s hired killers continued firing at the spot where he had disappeared, but they weren’t content to do only that. They sprayed their lead in other directions too.

Frank stayed as low to the ground as he could as he crawled over the close-clipped grass, but some of the bullets still came too close for comfort. When he had gone about fifty yards, he stopped and lay there, motionless and silent, waiting to see what was going to happen next.

Gradually, the shooting died away. Frank knew what the men were wondering. They thought that maybe they had hit him, that he might already be lying out here dead.

But there was only one way to find out for sure.

“Where’s Chuck?” one of the men called.

“Chuck’s dead,” another answered. “I saw him go down when Morgan shot him.”

“Maybe he’s just wounded.”

“Morgan’s not the sort of man who shoots to wound. When he pulls the trigger, somebody dies most of the time.”

Frank’s mouth curved in a grim smile at that comment.

“Spread out. We’ll look for him.”

“I don’t know about that, Larry,” a new voice said, this one with a British accent. “He could be lying doggo.”

“As much lead as we threw out there, we’re bound to have hit him. If he’s not dead, he’s wounded at least.”

You just keep on believing that, Larry. Frank thought

He heard quiet footsteps as the men spread out and began to search the parklike estate. They were trying to be stealthy about it. but to the ears of a Westerner they sounded about as clumsy and noisy as a herd of elephants. Frank had no trouble knowing when one of the men approached him. He waited patiently until the man stepped through a gap in the shrub-bery. Then. as the fella gasped and tried to bring his rifle to bear, Frank shot him.

The bullet knocked the man off his feet. Frank surged up, knowing the shot would draw the others. He grabbed the Winchester out of the man’s hands and holstered his Colt. Then he took off for an outbuilding he spotted at the water’s edge.

“There he goes! Don’t let him get to the boathouse!”

So that’s what it was. All Frank knew was that it would give him better cover than any of the shrubs on the lawn. As the men ran after him, he paused and spun around long enough to crank off three rounds from the rifle. One of the killers did a backward flip like he had run into an invisible wall. The others dived for cover.

That gave Frank the time he needed to reach the boathouse. He jerked the door open and ran inside.

The place was actually built out over the water on thick wooden piers. It was almost as big as some barns Frank had seen. Big doors at the far end could be opened to let the yacht that was berthed here steam out and then raise its sails. The boat was just one more sign of Charles Dutton’s ill-gotten wealth.

Frank walked along one side of the vessel, wondering if he ought to go on board. He didn’t know anything about sailing, though, so the boat really couldn’t do him any good. The walls of the boathouse appeared to be thick enough to stop a bullet. If the killers who were left wanted him, they would have to come in here to get him.

Either that or force him out, he thought as he sniffed the air and smelled smoke. He looked toward the door where he had come in and saw gray tendrils seeping in around it.

The bastards had set rife to the boathouse!

Well, it made sense, Frank told himself. Dutton could afford to buy another yacht and have another boathouse built, but all the money in the world wouldn’t do him any good if he was dead. He must have given those hired gunmen strict orders that Frank had to die, no matter what it took. Only with the death of his implacable enemy could Dutton ever hope to rest easy again.

The Winchester fired .45-caliber cartridges just like the Colt on Frank’s hip. He took fresh rounds from the loops on his gunbelt and thumbed them into the rifle until it was fully loaded. Then he replaced the spent rounds in the Peacemaker. That left him with only a few extra bullets—but if he couldn’t end this with the ammunition already in his guns, it probably wasn’t going to matter if he could reload or not.

The smoke was getting thicker inside the boathouse, and he could hear the crackling of the flames now. The air was hotter, too. Suddenly, a voice called from outside, “Morgan! Morgan, can you hear me? Come on outta there, and we won’t shoot!”

Frank recognized the voice. “Wasn’t born yesterday, Larry,” he said, even though the man who now seemed to be in charge of the party of killers couldn’t hear him.

Frank looked down at the water lapping gently at the hull of the yacht He wasn’t sure how deep it was or how much space was under the boathouse, but it would have to be enough. He looked around quickly, found a coiled rope in a storage cabinet, and slipped it over his shoulder. Then he sat down on the edge of the plank flooring, held the Winchester in his left hand and the Colt in his right, and slid off into the water.

He held the weapons as high as he could, hoping to keep them from being submerged, and sure enough, his boots hit the bottom when he was only neck deep. He looked around underneath the boathouse. There was a couple of feet of leeway between the water and the floor. Frank was glad he wouldn’t have to go underwater and swim out of here.

He thought about his enemies, and decided there were at least four unwounded men out there. The ones he had winged earlier were probably hurt badly enough to be out of the fight, but he couldn’t know that for sure. Larry would have them covering the front and sides of the boathouse in case the fire drove Frank out in one of those directions.

But from shore, they couldn’t cover the seaward end of the boathouse. Frank began making his way toward it, still holding the rifle and pistol up out of the water.

He had to duck his head a little for the crown of his hat to clear as he reached the end of the boathouse. Salt water sloshed into his mouth and nose. He spit and sputtered for a second or two, then looked up at the building looming over him. He had thought that he remembered seeing a weather vane on top of the boathouse as he was running toward it, and sure enough, there it was, turning a little in the breeze that blew from offshore.

The big doors had a little lip along the bottom of them. Carefully, Frank placed the Winchester and the Colt on that lip. Then he took the rope off his shoulder.

His fingers were cold from the water, and the rope was the sort used on a boat, not a supple lasso like the ones Frank had used in his cowboying days. But some things, once learned, could never be unlearned, and after a minute or two, he was able to fashion a loop in one end of the rope.

He swung the loop around his head for a couple of turns, then cast it at the top of the boathouse. Throwing a loop almost straight up that way was very difficult, and he wasn’t surprised when the toss fell short. He gathered in the loop and got ready to try again.

The fire was burning fiercely now at the other end of the building. Frank knew he didn’t have a lot of time to waste. He cast the loop again, and although he thought at first that it was going to sail up far enough to drop over the weather vane, it fell short again. With a sense of urgency growing in him, Frank gathered in the loop.

Whirling the rope so fast it blurred, Frank let it build up speed and then threw it again. The loop rose up and up until it reached the end of its flight, then dropped …

And landed so that it was around the weather vane.

Frank jerked the loop closed, and hoped that the weather vane was secured tightly enough to the roof to support his weight. It would have to be, since it represented his best and maybe only chance to come out of this corpse-and-cartridge session alive. He pulled down hard on the rope. It seemed strong enough.

Holding firmly to the rope, he hauled himself up out of the water far enough so that he could get a foot on the lip at the bottom of the door. He let go of the rope with one hand and reached down to pick up his Colt and holster it. Then he retrieved the Winchester and passed the rope through the cock-ing lever. He shifted his grip on the rope to a spot underneath the rifle so that he could work it up with him as he climbed.

Then he started walking up the seaward end of the boathouse.

The strain made his arms feel like they were about to be ripped from their sockets. He gritted his teeth and kept moving anyway. When he got high enough, he could see the column of black smoke rising from the front end of the boathouse and leaning toward the mansion, bent that way by the breeze.

When he was three quarters of the way up the wall, the weather vane gave a little, abruptly dropping him an inch or two. But then it held again, and Frank continued to climb, hurrying even more now, ignoring the pain in his arms and shoulders. When he had just a few more feet to go, the weather vane shifted again with a faint screeching of nails pulling free. Frank let go of the rope with one hand and lunged upward, reaching for the edge of the roof. He caught it and took enough of his weight off the rope to keep the weather vane from pulling loose entirely.

His muscles trembled with relief for a few seconds after he had hauled himself over the edge and sprawled out on the roof of the boathouse. But he knew there was no time to waste because the fire had eaten away at the front of the building. He didn’t want the roof to collapse underneath him and dump him into that inferno below.

As he rolled onto his belly, the blaze suddenly got worse with a giant whoosh! Frank knew the flames must have reached some paint or something else flammable stored in the lockers below. He had to make his move now if he was going to. He freed the Winchester from the rope, clutched it tightly in both hands, bent forward in a crouch, and ran toward the front of the boathouse.

He left his feet just before he reached the part of the roof that was on fire, putting all the strength he could into the leap. As he sailed blindly through the thick smoke, he held his breath, but he had to keep his eyes open despite the way the smoke stung them. As he came out of the smoke he saw the ground rushing up at him. His hat flew off his head. He had jumped as far out in front of the boathouse as he could, and the slope of the ground meant that he didn’t fall the entire height of the building. But he fell far enough so that the impact when his booted feet hit the ground jolted all the way through him. He rolled forward, letting his momentum break some of the force of the fall.

To the tensely waiting gunmen, he must have seemed like an avenging angel plummeting down out of the sky. Even as he hit the ground hard and rolled over and over, Frank was looking around for the men who wanted to kill him. Spotting a pair of them to his left, he came up on one knee and opened up with the Winchester, firing as fast as he could work the lever. Lead sizzled through the air and ripped into the gunmen, driving them off their feet.

Frank dived forward onto his belly as a bullet burned across his upper right arm. Another slug kicked dirt into the air beside him. He twisted and fired from his prone position, sending a couple of rounds into the belly of one of the remaining gunmen. The fourth and final man turned to run, but Frank clipped him on the thigh with a slug that knocked him off his feet.

Battered and hurting and not a little surprised that he was still alive while all of his enemies seemed to be down, Frank stood up slowly and walked toward the man he had just wounded. A glance told him that the other three were all unmoving. They might not be dead, but they were out of the fight for the moment.

Keeping the fourth man covered with the Winchester, Frank loomed over him and said, “I can only think of one reason I shouldn’t just blow your brains out, you son of a bitch. Where’s Dutton?”

The man stared up at him, wide-eyed with fear. “I … I don’t know. Honest, Morgan, I don’t have any idea. He he made arrangements with Larry and Chuck for them to set up this ambush for you. They hired the rest of us. That’s all I know, I swear.”

“Is Dutton in the house?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I got the feeling from the way Larry and Chuck talked that he left town. Left us here to deal with you.”

That was pretty much the way Frank had it figured too. He stepped back, keeping the rifle trained on the man.

“You’re gonna kill me, aren’t you?” the man asked, his voice rising to a ragged edge of hysteria. “You’re gonna shoot me again!”

“Don’t reckon I have to,” Frank said. “From the looks of the way that blood’s pumping out of your leg, I must’ve nicked an artery with that shot. I expect you’ll bleed to death in another few minutes.”

The man looked down at his wounded leg and the pool of dark red blood that was forming underneath it, and he screamed. He reached into his coat and jerked out a pistol.

Frank shot him in the head, driving him back down onto the ground. “Or not.”

Then he went to check on the other gunmen. They were all dead, just as he expected to find them. He knew that luck had been with him today, but it had been aided greatly by daring, audacity, and a steady hand and eye.

As he picked up his hat and walked toward the mansion, smoke continued to billow up from the burning boathouse. Magnolia probably had some sort of fire department, and they would be heading out here in response to the smoke. Somebody had probably heard all the shooting too, even though these estates were pretty scattered out. Frank knew he ought to get out of here as soon as possible to avoid being stuck answering a lot of damned fool questions from the authorities.

But as he approached the mansion, he saw the front door move. Somebody had just slammed it shut. Chuck’s body no longer lay there blocking the door. Frank walked faster.

When he reached the door, he lifted his foot and slammed the heel of his boot against it beside the knob. The door held up under the impact, but the jamb splintered. The door sprang open. Frank went through it fast, the Winchester ready in his hands.

He almost tripped over Chuck’s body. Seeing movement on the other side of a shadowy foyer, he snapped the rifle to his shoulder and called out, “Hold it!”

“D-don’t shoot!” a pitifully frightened voice quavered. “Please, sir, don’t kill me.”

Frank’s eyes were adjusting to the dimness inside the house by now. He saw a skinny man in a dark suit cowering on the other side of the foyer. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“M-my name is Willoughby, sir. I am Mr. Dutton’s secretary.”

“Is that so?” Frank asked with quickening interest. “Then I reckon you might have an idea where he is right now, eh?”

“Please, sir.” Willoughby held out trembling hands. “I can’t betray Mr. Dutton.”

“Why not?” Frank growled. “He’s betrayed just about everybody who ever crossed his trail. He’s a crooked, murdering skunk.”

“If you know that about him, sir, then you know why I don’t dare—”

Willoughby gulped and fell silent as Frank lined the barrel of the Winchester right between his eyes.

“If you know who I am, you know I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me what I want to know,” Frank said, his voice and eyes as hard as flint. “Do you know who I am, Mr. Willoughby?”

The man swallowed hard. “You … you’re the gunfighter. Frank Morgan. The man who wants to kill Mr. Dutton.”

“Do you know why I want to kill him?”

“He … ” Willoughby moaned, but forced himself to go on. “Mr. Dutton was partially responsible … for the death of your wife.”

“That’s right,” Frank said. “Now, about that question I asked you … “

“Nevada!” Willoughby cried out abruptly. “He’s gone to Nevada!”

That came as a surprise to Frank. He lowered the rifle barrel slightly and said, “What the hell is he doing in Nevada?”

“I … I don’t know for sure. Something about finding enough gunmen to … to take care of you if you survived the trap he set for you here.”

“So that’s it,” Frank mused. “He’s gone West to fort up. To make a last stand.”

Willoughby nodded. “That’s the impression I had, yes, sir.”

“What’s the name of this place in Nevada?”

“I shouldn’t … ” When Willoughby hesitated, Frank lifted the Winchester again, and the man went on hurriedly. “Buckskin! It … it’s an old ghost town, Mr. Dutton called it, known as Buckskin!”

“Then that’s where I’ll be going,” Frank said calmly, knowing. that Willoughby was too scared to be lying to him. “I reckon Dutton will be expecting me.”

“Yes, he will … and he’ll have an army of killers with him.”

“That’s all right,” Frank said with a humorless smile. “I’ve already waded through blood to get this far. I reckon some more of it won’t hurt me.”

Chapter 28

The Sierra Nevada Mountains loomed rugged and snow-capped to the west as the train rolled into Virginia City, Nevada, several days after the battle at Charles Dutton’s summer home in Magnolia, Massachusetts. Frank thought the majestic mountain range was one of the prettiest sights he had ever seen as he stepped down from the railroad car onto the station platform. The air was clear and held a hint of refresh-ing coolness despite the fact that it was still summer. Ever since he had crossed the Mississippi, Frank had felt a sense of contentment returning to him. It didn’t mean that his mission was any less urgent … but damn, it felt good to be back in the West. Back home.

He walked along the platform to one of the baggage cars. Railroad workers slid the big door open, and a huge, wolflike cur leaped down to the platform and came to Frank, nuzzling his hand Frank scratched Dog’s ears as he watched the workers put a ramp in place and lead Stormy down it. The big Appaloosa stallion tossed his head eagerly, ready to hit the trail after being cooped up in that baggage car all the way from Denver.

Being reunited with his old friends, breathing crisp mountain air again … it all helped Frank shake off the lingering miasma of his trip back East. He got his saddle and Winchester from the baggage car, put the saddle on Stormy, slid the rifle into the fringed sheath attached to it. Then he took hold of the reins and walked away from the station, leading the Appaloosa. Dog followed, tongue lolling from his mouth.

Virginia City had been a pretty grandiose name when this settlement was just a rough little mining camp in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas. By the seventies, the first time Frank had been here, it was a bustling community. Now, twenty years on down the road, it was a real city with brick-paved streets and gaslights and large brick buildings. Frank asked a pedestrian where he could find the assay office, figuring that would be the best place to find out what he needed to know. The man gave him directions, looking warily at Dog as he did so.

“Is that a wolf?” the man finally asked.

“Nope, although I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that his granddaddy or great-granddaddy might have been one.” Frank shook hands with the man. “I’m obliged for the information.”

A few minutes later, he’d found the assay office and tied Stormy’s reins to the hitch rack outside. Leaving Dog on the sidewalk, he went inside and made his inquiries of the clerk working there.

“Buckskin?” the man repeated with a frown. “Never heard of it.” He got up from his desk and went to a long cabinet containing a multitude of narrow drawers. “But it might be on one of our maps. Let’s take a look.”

“Probably have to be an old map,” Frank said. “I think the place is a ghost town.”

It took some searching, but after half an hour or so, the clerk located the right spot on a map that was yellow and curled slightly with age. He held a magnifying glass so that Frank could look through it.

“Right there, you see? It’s in the mountains southeast of here.”

“Any roads up there?” Frank asked.

The clerk shrugged. “Trails, I suppose. I’ve never been there, so I don’t know for sure. I can check the records and see how long it’s been since the mines were worked.”

Taking a big book from another cabinet, he flipped through it until he located the entry he wanted. Resting a finger on it, he said, “There were three mines registered in the vicinity of Buckskin: the Alhambra, the Crown Royal, and … ” He smiled. “The Lucky Lizard.”

Frank chuckled. “Any of ‘em still producing?”

“Oh, Lord, no. The silver veins around there petered out a long time ago. I’m sure all the diggings are abandoned, as the town itself surely is.”

Then that would make a good hiding place for Charles Dutton, Frank thought. Out of curiosity, he asked, “Do you have a record of who owned those mines?”

“Of course. Let’s see … the Alhambra was owned by Milton Jernigan, the Crown Royal by a company called the Browning Mining Syndicate, and the Lucky Lizard by someone named Thomas Woodford.”

Frank barely heard the last part of the clerk’s sentence. He was still stuck on the name of the company that had owned the Crown Royal mine. “Did you say the Browning Mining Syndicate?” he asked hoarsely.

“That’s right.”

“How long ago was the mine producing?”

“The last record I have is … let me see … from 1885. It must have closed down shortly after that.”

Less than ten years ago. Dutton had already been working for Vivian at that time. That was how he had known about Buckskin, known that the town would be deserted and a good place to hide out.

“Are the claims that were registered back then still in effect?”

“Well, yes, but they’re not worth anything. Like I told you, the silver is all gone.”

Frank nodded. He wasn’t interested in the mine itself, but the fact that it had been part of Vivian’s holdings meant that he now owned part of the claim. If he had known that, he might have been able to look up the information about Buckskin in his lawyers’ offices back in Denver. Paperwork relating to the claim was probably buried somewhere in their voluminous files.

But it didn’t matter. He was here now and he knew where he was going and he knew what he planned to do when he got there.

The showdown with Dutton had been delayed for too long. It was time to end things, once and for all.

Frank got a room at the International Hotel, the finest lodg-ings available in Virginia City. The hotel was a five-story brick building complete with gaslights, running water, and an elevator-although Frank took the stairs, since the idea of being stuck in a little room that moved up and down between floors had never appealed all that much to him.

As he ate a fine supper in the hotel’s dining room that evening, a barrel-chested man in a black hat and brown tweed suit came into the room, looked around, and then started toward him. Frank didn’t need to see the star pinned to the hombre’s vest to know that he was a lawman. The man just had that look about him. Nor was Frank surprised when the star-packer stopped at his table.

“You’d be Frank Morgan,” the lawman said.

“That’s right,” Frank agreed pleasantly enough. “I would. Have a seat, Sheriff.”

“You know who I am?”

“I can read. Star says sheriff, so I assume it’s right.”

The man scraped back one of the empty chairs and sat down. “I’m Sheriff Abner Lowell. One of my deputies saw you get off the train this afternoon and recognized you.”

“And you looked me up just to say hello. Kind of you, Sheriff.”

Lowell leaned forward and glared at Frank. “Listen, Morgan. You know damned good and well this isn’t a social call. I’m here to tell you that I don’t want you killing anybody in Virginia City, or anywhere else in the county, for that matter.”

Frank thought back to the map he had looked at in the assay office as he memorized the trail to Buckskin, and he said honestly, “I’m not planning on killing anybody in your jurisdiction, Sheriff.”

“Then why are you here? Notorious gunman like you,” Lowell blustered, “you’ve got to be looking for trouble.”

Frank’s jaw tightened a little, but he managed to rein in his temper. “Now there’s where you’re wrong, Sheriff. I’m not looking for trouble at all.”

And that was the truth.

Frank was looking for justice.

He didn’t bother explaining that, however. He just sat there calmly as the florid-faced lawman sputtered out several more warnings. This wasn’t the first time some badge-toter had jumped to all the wrong conclusions about him, and if he survived the showdown at Buckskin, it probably wouldn’t be the last.

“You just remember what I told you, Morgan,” Lowell said as he got to his feet.

Frank nodded. “Every word of it, Sheriff.”

The lawman stomped out of the dining room. Some of the hotel’s guests at the other tables were staring at Frank now, wondering what the confrontation with the sheriff had been all about. He smiled and nodded to them, and they looked away.

Frank wasn’t going to let this encounter spoil his dinner. He ordered deep-dish apple pie for dessert and thoroughly enjoyed it. He washed down the pie with another cup of coffee, and then went upstairs to his room.

After turning in, he found himself staring up at the ceiling of his hotel room, replaying in his head everything that had happened during the past week or so since the shoot-out at Dutton’s estate.

He had left Willoughby there, alone with the bodies of the seven dead gunmen. The secretary had promised not to tell the authorities what had happened. He would claim that he had heard a lot of shooting outside the house, but was too afraid to venture out and see what was going on. Frank hadn’t known whether to believe him or not, but short of killing the man in cold blood, there was nothing else he could do-and he wasn’t a murderer and never had been. He’d left the estate, circling around to avoid the fire wagon that was on its way with bells clanging. Smoke from the burning boathouse had continued to climb into the sky.

When Frank got back to Magnolia Station, he retrieved his war bag and caught one of the trolleys into Boston, knowing that when he got there the police might be waiting to arrest him. That hadn’t happened, though, and after spending the night in a small, rundown hotel in a bad part of town, he bought a newspaper and read the story on the front page about a gun battle in Magnolia, at the summer home of attorney Charles Dutton, who was said to be out of town on business. Dutton’s secretary, Claude Willoughby, had been at the house, but claimed to know nothing about what had happened. Since all the dead men found on the place were crim-inals known to the Boston police, speculation was that they had killed each other in some sort of falling-out among thieves. Why they had chosen the Dutton estate for their bloody fracas remained a mystery.

Another mystery was the identity of a man dressed like a cowboy, who had inquired at Magnolia Station as to the whereabouts of the Dutton place not long before all hell broke loose out there. That unknown range rider seemed to have vanished, and whether or not he had any connection with the killings was unknown as well.

Frank had smiled as he left the newspaper in the lobby of the hotel. Surprisingly, Willoughby had kept his word and not told the police about him. As Dutton’s secretary, Willoughby had to have some knowledge of the crooked lawyer’s crimes. Maybe meeting Frank had stiffened his backbone a little. Maybe he was actually trying to do the right thing.

All Frank knew for sure was that he was able to get out of Boston before the police came looking for him. As the train pulled out, he bade the city good-bye and good riddance. He had seen enough of the East. He was ready to go home.

And luckily, that was the direction in which the trail he was following led.

Although he had kept an eye out for bushwhackers or any other traps laid by Dutton’s agents, no one bothered him as he headed west by rail, and he didn’t run into anything else to divert him from his goal. He didn’t begrudge the time he had spent helping the folks in Elysium or giving Buffalo Bill Cody a hand, but he hoped that nothing else would crop up to sidetrack him.

It didn’t. He reached Denver without incident, paid a visit to his lawyers there, reclaimed Stormy and Dog from the people who had been taking care of them, and loaded them all on the train bound for Virginia City. From there, he would have to head for Buckskin on horseback.

Buckskin … He hoped that would be the last stop on this long, twisting vengeance trail. With that thought in his mind, he finally dozed off.

The next morning he hunted up a livery stable and bought a packhorse. The next stop was a general store, where he stocked up on supplies. He figured it would take him at least two days of riding to reach Buckskin.

Once the supplies were loaded, he mounted up and rode out with Dog trailing behind him. He had no farewells to make before he left. The only person he’d really met in Virginia City was Sheriff Abner Lowell, and he knew the lawman wouldn’t be sorry to see him go. Lowell probably had at least one deputy keeping an eye on him. The sheriff would be relieved when he got the report that the notorious Frank Morgan had left town.

The peaks of the Sierra Nevadas rose to his right as he rode southeast. The terrain through which he traveled flattened out some and grew more arid. but he could see an offshoot of the mountains rising green and gray in front of him. That was his destination, and even though in this clear air the mountains seemed close enough that he could reach out and touch them, he knew that in reality they were a lot of miles away.

He made camp that night in a rugged badlands area. Even though the Paiutes and other hostile tribes who had once roamed this area had long since been pacified, out of habit he kept his fire small and put out the flames before full darkness fell. Summer or not, at these high altitudes the nights were chilly, so he rolled in his blankets and went to sleep with Dog curled up beside him and Stormy cropping at the sparse grass nearby. The animals were the best sentries any man could ask for. They would let him know immediately if anybody or anything came skulking around.

Frank was on the trail again before sunrise the next morning, as soon as there was enough gray light in the sky for him to see where he was going. By midday, he had crossed the Walker River and was climbing into timbered foothills again. His skin tingled and every nerve in his body was vital and alive. Stormy and Dog seemed to feel the same way. It felt so good to be out in the open again that Frank almost wished they could just keep drifting for a while.

Almost … but not quite.

He couldn’t forget what had brought them here in the the first place.

Dutton was still out there somewhere, and as long as he was alive and free to draw breath, Frank couldn’t abandon his quest.

Off to the west was the border between Nevada and California, and ahead were the mountains of the Wassuck Range. The old ghost town of Buckskin would be nestled in the folds of those mountains, in a narrow valley bisected by a creek. Frank had memorized the route and all the landmarks on the old topograph-ical map in the assay office, so he had no trouble following the trail. By late afternoon, he knew he was close.

Willoughby had spoken about an army of gunmen. Frank proceeded carefully, knowing full well that Dutton might have guards posted outside the ghost town to watch for him.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to do when he got there. He supposed that would depend on what he found. He couldn’t just ride in and start shooting. If Dutton had as many hired guns around him as Frank suspected he did, an open, frontal assault would probably just get him killed. Some stealth would probably be required to cut down the odds against him before he made his final attack.

Frank thought about stories he’d heard concerning the famous gunfighter Smoke Jensen. Smoke had taken on whole towns full of outlaws and killers on numerous occasions, but he had a lot of friends, starting with the rugged old mountain man Preacher and the gambler/gunman Louis Longmont The ranch hands who worked for Smoke on his Sugarloaf spread were a salty bunch too. Smoke had usually had a dozen or more fast guns siding with him when he went against those long odds.

Frank, on the other hand, was a loner and always had been. Oh, sure, he had befriended Ranger Tyler Beaumont down in Texas, and he had even mended some fences with his son Conrad and fought at his side on occasion. But by and large, Frank went into battle alone except for Stormy and Dog. This ruckus probably wouldn’t be any different.

The three of them would just have to be enough, he told himself with a grim smile. But after all these long years of playing a lone hand, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have friends, to settle down in one place and stay there for a while instead of always being on the move ….

The pleasant speculation conjured up by those thoughts lingered in his mind for a few moments, but then it was cast aside roughly by a sudden flurry of sounds that made Frank lift his head and sit up straighter in the saddle. The rapid slamming of gunshots drifted through the clear mountain air, coming from somewhere up ahead of him. Even though the shots weren’t being directed at him, he could tell by the urgent sound of them that they were serious.

Somebody was in trouble up there-a whole heap of trouble.

Chapter 29

There was a rise in front of him. Frank urged Stormy up the slope at a fast pace; and didn’t rein in until the Appaloosa had reached the top. From there, he could look down into a narrow valley, and the ramshackle buildings that lined a main street and a couple of cross streets told him that he had been closer to Buckskin than he thought he was. That was the old ghost town right down there, no more than half a mile away -,

And about midway between the abandoned settlement and the ridge where Frank sat his horse, a lone rider plunged and careened along the trail, trying desperately to escape from half-a-dozen pursuers who were also on horseback. The guns in their hands spouted flame as they fired at the fugitive.

Frank had no idea who those people were or what the right and wrong of this situation might be, but he instinctively re-belled at the notion of such long odds. Not only that, but chances were the six gunmen were some of Dutton’s hired killers, and there was that old saying about the enemy of an enemy being a friend ….

He was reaching for his Winchester, intending to spray some lead among those hardcases and maybe give the lone rider a chance to escape, when the fugitive’s mount suddenly lurched, stumbled, and fell. The horse had probably been hit by one of those bullets that were flying around.

The rider was thrown out of the saddle and sailed through the air, only to hit hard on the trail ahead of the fallen horse and roll over a couple of times. Frank left his rifle where it was. He couldn’t help that poor hombre now. The gunmen were too close.

Frank caught his breath and stiffened in surprise as he saw that the fugitive’s hat had come off, releasing waves of long blond hair that tumbled around the person’s head. Some Western men, such as Wild Bill Hickok and Commodore Perry Owens and the ill-fated George Armstrong Custer, sported long hair, but Frank didn’t think that was what he was looking at here. That hunch was confirmed when the men who had been giving chase dismounted and yanked the fugitive upright. The plaid shirt worn by the person who had been trying to get away was tight enough to leave no doubt that the fugitive was a woman, and a shapely one at that.

Frank edged Stormy farther back into the shadows of the trees as he continued watching the scene play out below him. The woman, who appeared to be shaken up a little by her fall but not badly hurt, was marched to the horses and forced to mount and ride double with one of the gunmen. The whole group headed back into Buckskin.

Frank took a pair of field glasses from his saddlebags and studied the town itself. Most of the buildings seemed to be in a state of disrepair, but only a few had begun to collapse. The rest were still standing, and could have been fixed up if anybody wanted to go to the trouble of doing so. Half a dozen of the cabins looked lived in. Buckskin wasn’t completely a ghost town, he thought. That wasn’t uncommon. Even though the mines had closed down, a few diehards had remained because they liked it here.

And those poor folks had probably been taken by surprise when Dutton rode in with a score or more of gunmen at his back and took over the place.

Frank shifted his gaze to the group of riders, who had now reached the settlement with their prisoner. They drew rein in front of the largest business building in town. The batwinged doors hanging in the entrance told Frank it was a saloon, or at least had been one when Buckskin was a thriving community. The batwings were pushed aside as the men dismounted, and the sight of the man who stepped out onto the boardwalk made Frank’s teeth grind together in rage.

Charles Dutton hadn’t changed a whole lot, Frank thought as he studied the man through the field glasses. Dutton looked a little older and more haggard, probably from worrying—rightly so—that Frank intended to kill him. He was well dressed and wore a brown felt hat. He hooked his thumbs in his vest and watched with a satisfied expression on his face as a couple of the men grabbed hold of the woman’s arms and pushed her onto the boardwalk in front of him.

Frank couldn’t hear anything that was being said, of course, and he couldn’t see the woman’s face. But he could tell by the stiffness of her spine and the way she struggled against the cruel grip of her captors that she still had plenty of fight in her. Dutton looked angry, and Frank wondered if the woman was giving him a tongue-lashing.

Dutton turned and motioned to someone inside the saloon. A moment later, an older man was shoved out onto the boardwalk from inside the building. He wore the ragged flannel shirt and patched overalls and battered old hat of a down-on- his-luck prospector. He was a thick-bodied man with a florid face that at the moment wore an expression of fear. Not so much for himself, Frank decided, but for the woman. Given their ages, Frank wondered if she was the man’s daughter or granddaughter.

Dutton spoke rapidly to the older man and gestured toward the woman. The older man shook his head. Dutton made a sharp motion to the men holding the woman. They pushed her toward the older man, who took her in his arms and hugged her, obviously relieved. He turned and led her into the saloon with an arm around her shoulders.

Dutton seemed to be satisfied. He nodded to the men who had captured the woman, and they walked off leading their horses. When Frank saw them go into a barn, he knew they were going to unsaddle and put the horses up. Sure enough, a few minutes later, the six men emerged from the barn and walked back toward the saloon. Frank’s gaze lingered on each of their faces in turn as he committed them to memory.

Two of those faces he recognized. They belonged to Carl Dekker and Roy Hansen. They were hired guns and occa-sional outlaws who would do just about anything as long as they were being well paid. Just the sort of men that Dutton would hire to do his dirty work. They were scum—but dangerous scum. Frank had no doubt the other men were the same sort of no-account hombres.

He finally lowered the field glasses, confident that he hadn’t been spotted. As he tucked them away in the saddlebags, he thought about how he could have taken out his Winchester and tried a long-range shot at Dutton. It would have been too risky, though, especially with the young woman and the old prospector standing right there. At that distance, being off even a fraction of an inch in his aim could mean that the bullet would be several feet off its mark. Too dangerous when there were innocents possibly in the line of fire.

He had to find out as much as he could about the situation in Buckskin before he took action. He needed to know how many men Dutton had and where they were located. Likewise, he needed to know how many innocent people were left in the ghost town and where they were. From the looks of what he had seen so far, Dutton and his men had taken the citizens prisoner when they rode in. The blonde had gotten her hands on a horse somehow and tried to get away, but her escape attempt had failed. Frank knew that Dutton wouldn’t hesitate to use all the captives as hostages, or even as human shields if need be.

He glanced at the sky. The sun was lowering rapidly toward the peaks. It would be dark before much longer.

And once night had fallen, Frank decided, it would be time for him to slip into Buckskin and see what he could find out.

He had brought some jerky with him in the supplies he’d purchased in Virginia City, and as the sun dipped below the mountains and its red glow began to disappear from the sky, he found a good place to leave Stormy and sat down on a fallen tree to gnaw on a strip of the tough dried meat. He washed it down with water from his canteen and watched the thick shadows of evening form.

When he thought it was dark enough, Frank took off his boots and pulled on a pair of soft, high-topped moccasins that would let him get around without making as much noise. He took a sheathed bowie knife from his saddlebags and attached it to his belt on the left side. Patting Stormy on the shoulder, he murmured, “Stay here, big fella. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Then, with the big cur trailing him and the Winchester in his hand, he set off toward Buckskin, taking his time and covering the half mile or so in about twenty minutes. Once along the way, a low growl from Dog alerted him, and they both froze where they were while a man on horseback rode past some fifty yards away from them. He had no idea they were there. The moon wasn’t up yet, but enough stars had appeared in the sable sky above for Frank to be able to make out the rifle the man carried. One of the guards Dutton had posted, sure as shootin’.

Once the sentry had moved on, Frank and Dog resumed their approach to the ghost town. As they drew closer, Frank heard music drifting through the night. From the rinky-tink sound of it, the player piano inside the saloon still worked despite its age.

The windows of the saloon were brightly lit, as if every lamp in the place were burning. Only a few of the other buildings showed any lights, though, and the cabins Frank had noticed earlier that had looked like they were occupied were among the darkened ones. Frank wondered if Dutton’s gunmen had rounded up everybody who still lived in Buckskin and brought them to the saloon, where it would be easier to keep track of all of them. That seemed possible, even likely. And some of the hired killers were scattered around the settlement so that if Frank showed up, they would have a variety of angles from which to try to kill him. Dutton was approaching this like a military mission, and he had turned Buckskin into a fortress.

All to protect him from one man.

Frank smiled at that thought. He hoped he was dangerous enough to warrant all the precautions Dutton was taking.

When he reached the settlement, he began slipping into the darkened buildings, on the off chance that he might find some allies or something else that could help him. The places were empty, though, and in most of them the air was thick with the dust of years of abandonment. A few of the cabins, the ones he had noted earlier, had been fixed up and people had obviously been living in them recently, but no one was there tonight. That strengthened Frank’s hunch that the citizens of Buckskin were now prisoners inside the saloon.

Moving as silently as a cat, he slipped up to one of the buildings where a light showed. It was a squarish, squatty structure next to the barn, and Frank pegged it has having once been a blacksmith shop. Now, though, it was empty except for a rickety table, four chairs, and a bunk with a straw-tick mattress in one corner. A lantern sat on the table, illuminating the cards being used in the poker game going on. Four men were hunched in the chairs, studying their cards.

Frank took in those details as he peered in through a window with most of its glass broken out. He had taken off his hat so that he could edge one eye past the window frame and get a look at what was going on inside. The men weren’t paying much attention to anything except their cards. Their conversation consisted of grunts and curses and clipped, profane comments. Frank hoped they would say something useful, but that didn’t seem likely.

After a while, as one of the hands ended and the losers all threw in their cards disgustedly while the winner chuckled and raked in the pot, one of the men got to his feet and stretched. “Reckon I’ll step outside for a minute,” he announced.

“Aw, hell, Floyd, just piss in that bucket over there,” another man said. “That’s what it’s there for.”

“Who said I needed to piss?” Floyd asked in an aggrieved tone. “Maybe I just want to stretch my legs and get some fresh air.”

“Floyd’s bashful,” another of the hardcases gibed. “He don’t like to haul it out around anybody.”

“Bet he’d haul it out for that Woodford gal,” the fourth gunman said, then snickered.

“Lord, yes,” Floyd said. “You reckon Dutton’ll let us have a little fun with her once this business with Morgan is all over?”

“He’ll probably be so grateful to anybody who kills Morgan that he’ll let the fella do just about anything he wants. The way I hear it, Morgan gunned down ten men back in Boston, and they were tough hombres too.”

There had only been seven of the hired killers at Dutton’s estate, not ten, Frank thought—not that it really mattered.

“Aw, they was Eastern dudes,” Floyd scoffed. “One of us is just as tough as ten of them any day.” He hitched his trousers up. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“That’s all right, Floyd, you go water the flowers. We’ll just count all the dinero we’ve won from you tonight.”

As he crouched in the darkness outside the window, Frank thought about what he had just overheard, He hadn’t learned much, but the gunmen had mentioned the name Woodford. Frank recalled that Woodford had been the name of the man who owned the Lucky Lizard mine. Woodford must have stayed in Buckskin when the silver petered out, perhaps in hopes of finding another rich vein.

Floyd’s boots clumped on the hard ground as he circled the shack and headed for some trees. Frank left the window and moved along soundlessly behind the gunman, drawing his bowie from its sheath as he did so. When Floyd reached the edge of the trees, he stopped and unbuttoned his fly. Frank waited until the hired gun was in the act of relieving himself before he stepped closer, looped his left arm around the man’s neck, and pressed the tip of the blade against his back, push-ing hard enough so that it went through Floyd’s shirt and poked painfully into his flesh.

“Don’t fight and don’t yell,” Frank warned him in a low, menacing tone as Floyd gasped and stiffened in surprise, “because if you do, I’ll slice that black heart of yours clean in two, you son of a bitch.”

Chapter 30

Inside the Silver Baron Saloon, Charles Dutton sat at a table in a rear comer and mopped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief he pulled from the breast pocket of his coat. The handkerchief was a fancy one, monogrammed and everything. There was a time when Dutton had taken pride in such elegance. Now he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything except wishing that Frank Morgan was dead.

Dutton looked up and motioned to one of the men standing at the bar, drinking. The man’s name was Ed Ringgold, and he was the top man among the gun crew that Dutton had hired. Ringgold walked over to the table, the spurs strapped to his boots clinking musically with every step he took.

“Sit down,” Dutton snapped. He pushed the half-full bottle of whiskey across the table. Ringgold had brought his empty glass with him. He picked up the bottle, splashed liquor into it.

“Thanks, Boss,” he said quietly.

“Do you think he’ll come tonight?” Dutton asked. “Do you think Morgan will be here?”

“You’ve been asking that question every night for the last three nights,” Ringgold pointed out. “I don’t know, Mr. Dutton. But I do know you don’t have to worry about him. You’ve got twenty-five men you’ve paid-and paid well-to make sure that Morgan can’t hurt you.”

“He’s killed that many men before. More than that, a lot more. He may be the most dangerous man on the face of the earth.”

Ringgold shook his head. “Morgan is just one man, and he’s as human as anybody else. No matter how good you are, there’s always somebody better. We can handle him.”

Dutton picked up his own glass and tossed back the whiskey that was still in it. “I hope so,” he muttered. “I damn sure hope so.”

He looked around the saloon’s big main room. In addition to Ringgold, there were half-a-dozen other gunmen here and more upstairs, guarding the prisoners and keeping watch from the windows. The first thing Dutton’s men had done when they rode into Buckskin was to bring everyone in the ghost town to the saloon. Dutton hadn’t known how many inhabitants to expect, but he had been surprised to find that fifteen people currently lived here. He had thought there would be two or three maybe, old prospectors who believed that there was still silver to be found in the area.

That was true of Thomas Woodford, who owned one of the played-out mines, the Lucky Lizard. Dutton-had known about him. But he hadn’t known that Woodford’s daughter Diana would be here too. A beautiful young woman was an unnecessary distraction, and Dutton almost wished that Diana Woodford had gotten away when she tried to make her ill-advised escape. But of course that couldn’t be allowed. If the woman had gotten away, she might have gone to the authorities and brought back a posse of meddlesome lawmen. Dutton didn’t want any interference with his plans.

Once Morgan was dead, everyone who lived in Buckskin would die as well, and Dutton intended to see to it that the ghost town was burned to the ground. Flames would consume any evidence that could ever be used against him.

Then he could put this whole ugly incident behind him.

In addition to Woodford and his daughter, the other inhabitants of Buckskin included the handful of stubborn prospectors Dutton had expected, plus several people who had had businesses here when the town was a thriving community, a lunger who had come west for the dry, clean air of the high country, and some sort of college professor. There . were three women besides Diana Woodford, the madam who had run one of the settlement’s whorehouses plus two of the girls who had worked for her. Of course, they weren’t really girls anymore; all three females were approaching middle age. But they were still attractive enough to be unwanted distractions too. Dutton knew that his men wanted to molest them, along with the Woodford girl, but he had given strict orders that the women were to be left alone until after Frank Morgan was dead.

Then, of course, Dutton wouldn’t care what happened to the women. The gunmen could do whatever they wanted, as long as all the witnesses wound up dead and the ghost town was in flames.

In addition to the men inside the saloon, a dozen more were scattered around the town and several outriders were pa-trolling the slopes of the valley. Dutton knew that Morgan might manage to slip into the settlement despite those precautions, but if he did, he would find quite a warm reception waiting for him, a hot-lead reception, in fact. Ringgold was right, Dutton told himself. Not even Frank Morgan could stand up to the odds that were arrayed against him now.

Dutton poured himself another drink and said confidently, “I hope Morgan does show up tonight. He’s plagued me for long enough, damn him to hell. I’m ready for him to die.”

“What’ll you do once he’s dead?” Ringgold asked.

“Why, I’ll go back to Boston and resume my life, of course. I’m an important man. I have many responsibilities.”

“Got more folks to fleece out of their money, eh?”

Dutton felt his face grow warm with anger. The nerve of Ringgold, to speak to him that way! Why, if he didn’t need the man, and those other hardcases, to protect him from Morgan, he wouldn’t even associate with riffraff like them.

“You’re being well paid,” he snapped. “Just concentrate on your job … killing Frank Morgan.”

“D-don’t kill me, mister!” Floyd stammered. “Please don’t kill me!”

Frank kept the pressure on the bowie knife so the gunman wouldn’t forget that it was there. “Take it easy,” he said. “Cooperate with me and you don’t have to die.”

“I’ll do anything you want, mister.” Floyd swallowed hard. “You’re him, ain’t you? You’re Morgan.”

“I’m Morgan,” Frank confirmed. “So you know I don’t have a lot to lose. I want Dutton, and I don’t care who or how many I have to kill to get to him.” That wasn’t strictly true; Frank did care, of course-but Floyd didn’t have to know that. “Where is he?”

“In … in the saloon, I reckon. He hardly ever leaves there.”

“How many men are with him?”

“Oh, hell, I don’t know for sure. Eight or ten, maybe more.”

“The people who live here,” Frank said. “Are they in there too?” .

Floyd jerked his head in a nod that bumped his chin against the arm Frank held around his neck. “Y-yeah. Dutton’s got ‘em locked in the rooms upstairs that the whores used to use.”

“How many of them are there?”

“Fourteen, fifteen, something like that.”

Frank was surprised to hear that Buckskin had so many citizens these days. He could find out the reason for that later though, if he lived through this night.

“What about the rest of you?” he asked. “How many gunmen are there, and where are all of them?”

“There’s a couple dozen, I guess. About that anyway. I never counted everybody to make sure.”

“I know Dekker and Hansen. Who else is here?”

Floyd licked his lips nervously. “Ed Ringgold is the ramrod. You know him?”

“Heard of him,” Frank said curtly. Nothing he had ever heard about the man was any good. “Go on.”

“Let’s see … there’s Morg Holmes and Richter and Fox-brick … Shoemaker … Spurlock … the Tacoma Kid … Walls and Barrett … ” Floyd kept naming names, some of which Frank recognized and some he didn’t. But the ones he knew were all bad men, just the sort he would have expected a snake like Dutton to hire. Finally, Floyd said, “That may not be all of’ em, but it’s all I can remember. They’re scattered around the town, two here, three or four there. I don’t know where everybody is.”

“You’re doing fine,” Frank said.

“You swear you ain’t gonna kill me?”

“Not unless I have to.”

Suddenly, the door of the old blacksmith shop opened and one of the other gunmen stepped out. Frank pulled Floyd deeper into the shadows under the trees.

“Hey, Floyd, you about done?” the man called. “We want to get the game going again.”

“Tell him to wait,” Frank grated in Floyd’s ear. He put a little more pressure on the knife for emphasis.

“Just hold your damn horses!” Floyd yelled. “I’ll be there when I can.”

The other gunman made a crude joke about Floyd’s bowels, then went back inside.

“Anything else you can tell me?” Frank asked.

“Just that if you let me get my horse, Morgan, I’ll ride outta here and never look back! I don’t want no part of this. I got nothin’ against you.”

“Then you shouldn’t have taken Dutton’s money,” Frank said coldly.

Floyd began to tremble and cry, certain that Frank was about to plunge the long, heavy blade of the bowie into his vitals. Instead, with one swift movement, Frank pulled the knife away, lifted it, and slammed the knob of bone on the end of the handle against Floyd’s skull, just behind the gunman’s right ear. Floyd went limp and sagged against the arm pressed around his neck. The blow had knocked him cold.

Frank lowered the unconscious man to the ground. He took Floyd’s belt off and used it to tie his hands tightly behind his back. Floyd’s bandanna served as a gag. Frank left him there, confident that Floyd wouldn’t be able to interfere with the rest of the night’s activities.

He moved back into the trees and waited. Another five minutes went by, and then once again, the door of the old blacksmith shop opened and one of the gunmen stepped out. “Hey, Floyd!” he called, and Frank recognized the voice as belonging to the man who had come out before. “Are you all right?”

But Floyd couldn’t answer, and after a moment the other gunnie stalked toward the trees, muttering angrily.

He stopped just before he got there and drew his gun, evidently realizing that something might actually be wrong. They were here in Buckskin to wait for trouble, after all. “Floyd?” he said softly. “Damn it, you’d better answer me if you’re able.”

When no answer came, the man swung around quickly toward the blacksmith shop. Frank knew he was about to call to the other two men for help. Before that could happen, Frank drew back his arm and let fly with the knife, throwing it as hard as he could.

The blade struck the hired killer in the back, burying itself deep. The man staggered forward under the impact. Frank caught up with him an instant later, reaching around him to clamp one hand over his mouth and grab the man’s gun with the other. His fingers closed over the weapon’s cylinder so that it couldn’t turn and fire. Frank used his body to drive the knife even deeper into the gunman’s body. The hombre spasmed a couple of times and then went limp. Frank eased him to the ground and felt for a pulse. There was none.

That made two down, Frank thought grimly, one dead and one tied up so that he couldn’t cause any trouble.

Just twenty or so ruthless killers to go.

Frank dragged the body into the woods. He wondered, if he waited, whether the other two in the blacksmith shop would come out to check on their missing companions. Maybe he could get them too.

But after a few minutes, one of the men stepped outside and called, “Rankin? Floyd? What the hell’s goin’ on here?” When there was no answer, he turned and conferred with the man who was still inside the building. Then he hurried toward the saloon, obviously intent on warning Dutton and Ringgold that something was going on.

Frank picked up his Winchester. Since the cat was about to be let out of the bag anyway, he didn’t see any point in worrying about stealth anymore. He lifted the rifle to draw a bead on the man hurrying toward the saloon.

But before he could press the trigger, a hand came out of the darkness and pushed the barrel of the rifle toward the ground. “Don’t shoot,” a harsh voice whispered. “There’s a better way.”

Chapter 31

Frank was astounded that anybody could sneak up on him like that without him hearing, but he didn’t have time to think about that. He whirled toward the stranger, his hand dropping toward the butt of the Colt on his hip.

The metallic ratcheting of a gun’s hammer being cocked stopped him.

“Hold on there, Morgan!” the gravelly voice said. “I’m a friend, damn it.”

With his gun still in the holster, Frank asked, “How do you know who I am?”

“I been skulkin’ around here for the past three or four days, tryin’to figure out what’s goin’ on,” the stranger replied. “I been close enough to listen to them gunslicks talk, and they say they’re waitin’ for a man named Morgan to show up so’s they can kill him for that fancy-pants fella. I reckon you must be him.”

“That’s right.” Frank admitted. “My name’s Frank Morgan.”

“The gunfighter?” Without waiting for an answer, the stranger went on. “I done heard of you. Folks say you’re as fast as Smoke Jensen or Matt Bodine, maybe even a mite faster.” He chuckled. “Hard to outdraw a gun that’s already drawn, though, ain’t it?”

“If you’re really a friend, you can stop pointing that hogleg at me.” Frank’s eyes were keen enough to make out the rangy shape of the man, even in the shadows. He saw the big revolver in the stranger’s hand too.

The man hesitated, but only for a second. Then, he carefully lowered the hammer and holstered the gun. “This here’s an old Walker Colt. A cap-and-ball job I didn’t ever have con-verted to percussion. I been carryin’ it nigh on to fifty years and it ain’t never let me down yet.”

“Who in blazes are you?” Frank demanded.

“They call me Catamount Jack.” The stranger gestured toward the saloon. “And judgin’ by the commotion that’s brewin’, we’d best fade outta here for a spell.”

The man carrying the warning had reached the saloon, and now several more gunmen spilled out of the building, bristling with rifles, shotguns, and handguns. Frank and Catamount Jack withdrew deeper into the trees, well out of sight.

“You told me your name, but I still don’t know who you are,” Frank pointed out.

“I’m a old friend o’ Tip Woodford’s.”

“Thomas Woodford, the owner of the Lucky Lizard?”

“That’s right, but everybody calls him Tip. I done some prospectin’ with him a long time ago, but I give it up ‘fore he ever struck it rich. Course them riches didn’t last. The silver vein he found played out. But he lived high on the hog for a while first. Me, I do a little trappin’ and huntin’ and fishin’. Bein’ rich never appealed to me all that much.”

“What are you doing here?” Frank asked the old frontiersman.

“Came to visit Tip and his gal. I try to stop by once or twice a year and say howdy. But when me an’ Eldorado got here-that’s my mule, Eldorado–I seen right away that somethin’ was mighty wrong. Didn’t see any o’ the folks who live in Buckskin, but I saw them gunnies struttin’ around, sure enough. Took me a while, but I finally figured out what was goin’ on. Been waitin’ for you to get here ever since.”

“Waiting for me? Why?”

Catamount Jack rubbed his jaw, and Frank heard the faint rasp of callused fingertips on beard stubble. “Well, I’m a pretty tough ol’ bird, but even so, I didn’t figure I could kill all them bastards by myself. Thought I’d wait until you got here so as to even up the odds a mite. Now that I know you’re Frank Morgan, I reckon they’re even, all right.”

“There are at least twenty of those hired killers, you know.”

“Ten for you, ten for me,” Catamount Jack said with a shrug. “Don’t seem like no big deal.”

Frank couldn’t help but laugh softly. Most of the time he felt like he was an old-timer, but this man really fit that description. And as somebody who had spent more than half a century on the frontier, Catamount Jack was obviously-as tough as whang leather. Frank had been thinking earlier about how he didn’t have any allies in this fight. Now it appeared that Fate had brought him a good one.

“We still have to worry about the prisoners inside the saloon,” Frank pointed out. “That’s where all the people who live here have gone. Dutton and his men rounded them up when they first got here.”

“Yeah, I reckoned that was what happened. I got me an idea about that, though. What we got to do is draw them gunnies outta there, then we’ll take over the saloon and fort up in it.”

Frank thought that over for a second and then nodded. “Sounds like a good idea, but how do we get in there?”

“You don’t know Buckskin like I do, son. There’s a old tunnel, an offshoot o’ the Lucky Lizard, that goes right under the place. Got a trapdoor that leads up to the back room. We’ll go in that way.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,” Frank observed.

“I’ve had plenty o’ time to think these past few days. Just needed a hand to carry out the plan, like I told you.”

“All right.” Frank heard shouts from the hired killers who were searching for him. Those shouts got louder when some of the gunmen stumbled over Floyd and Rankin, the man Frank had killed. Now they knew something was wrong. As soon as Floyd was untied and spit that gag out of his mouth, he would tell them that he had been jumped by Frank Morgan. “We’d better get busy.”

“Come on,” Jack said. “I left Eldorado back yonder, and we’ll need somethin’ I’ve got in my packs.”

Jack led the way through the night with practiced ease. As they came up to a mule that had been tethered to a tree, the animal shied away nervously, and was about to bray when Jack clamped a knobby hand over his muzzle. The old-timer looked around for the cause of the mule’s nervousness and exclaimed, “What the hell’s that, a wolf?”

Frank saw Dog glide out of the trees. “No, that’s a friend of mine,” he explained.

“Mighty spooky-lookin’ friend,” Jack said, “but I’ll take your word for it.” He dug in one of the packs strapped to the mule. “Here we go.”

He brought out a small bundle of tightly wrapped cylinders. “Is that dynamite?” Frank asked.

“Damn sure is. I got six sticks of it. Reckon we can put ‘em to good use?”

“I reckon we can,” Frank said. “If we set off a few blasts around town, Dutton will panic and send most of his men out to see what’s going on. Then we can get into the saloon through that tunnel.”

Jack nodded. “That’s the way I figured it too.”

The next few minutes were busy ones. The two men had to avoid the searchers as they circled around Buckskin. Along the way, Catamount Jack told Frank how to find the entrance to the tunnel. A trapdoor leading into it was located in the office of the old Lucky Lizard Mining Company. Jack pointed out the building to Frank; then the two men split up, each of them taking three sticks of dynamite. Jack had cut fuses of varying lengths and attached them to the cylinders of explosive.

The old-timer had also pointed out other buildings where members of Dutton’s gun crew were hiding. Frank slipped up behind one of them and laid one of the sticks of dynamite against the rear wall, choosing the one with the shortest fuse. Leaving the fuse unlit, he moved on to the next building that concealed some of the hired killers. He placed the stick with the medium-length fuse against the back wall of that shack. Then, using shadows to mask his movements, he closed in on a third and final shack and planted the last stick of dynamite there. It had the longest fuse. Snapping a match into life with his thumbnail, he held the flame to the fuse, and when it began to sputter and spark, he turned and ran back to the second building. When that fuse was lit, Frank hurried to the first stick of dynamite and set fire to that fuse.

Then he took off for the offices of the Lucky Lizard Mining Company, where he was supposed to rendezvous with Catamount Jack. The old frontiersman had been planting his sticks of dynamite on the other side of town. Cutting fuses wasn’t an exact science, but the hope was that most of the dynamite would go off at about the same time.

Frank drew his Colt as he reached the Lucky Lizard building. Jack’s voice came out of the darkness in a rough whisper. “Morgan? That you?”

“It’s me, Jack,” Frank replied. “Did you get your dynamite plant—”

A huge blast of noise and fire that ripped the night apart answered that question. The earth shook under Frank’s feet. The tremendous explosion was followed almost instantly by several more thumping blasts.

Frank grabbed Jack’s arm. “That first one wasn’t one stick of dynamite!”

Jack cackled with glee. “No, I found a shack where some old blasting powder from mining days was bein’ stored. When the first stick o’ dynamite went up, it took all that powder with it! Mighty big bang, weren’t it?”

“Sounded almost like the end of the world,” Frank agreed. “Come on. Let’s find that tunnel.”

The back door of the mining company office was locked, but the wood around the door was rotten, and gave easily as Frank threw his shoulder against it. Frank told Dog to stay put, then the two men rushed inside. As Jack struck a match, Frank heard shouting in the street outside. Dutton’s men-the ones who had survived the explosions anyway-were trying to find out what the hell was going on. He and Jack had no time to waste.

“There’s the trapdoor,” Jack grunted.

Frank bent and caught hold of the leather strap attached to the door. He heaved and the door came up, releasing cool, musty air that had been trapped underground for who knows who many years. He saw the rungs of a ladder just as the flickering light from the match went out.

Sitting down with his feet dangling into the opening, Frank felt for the rungs and grasped the top one. He got one foot on the ladder, then his other foot, and he started climbing down. He hoped none of the rungs were rotten enough to break and dump him down the shaft. He had no idea how deep it was.

He heard Jack climbing down above him. When he reached the bottom, it came as something of a surprise. The tunnel was only about twelve feet under the ground. A moment later, Jack reached the bottom beside him.

“Why was this tunnel here?” Frank asked.

“Tip’s sort of an odd fella,” Jack said. “He owned the Silver Baron back then-that’s the saloon-as well as the Lucky Lizard, and he lived above the saloon. He liked to be able to go back and forth without folks knowin’ what he was doin’. But then Diana come out from the East to live with him after her ma died, and she didn’t cotton much to her pa ownin’ a saloon. So Tip sold the place … but the tunnel was still here.”

The old-timer told the story as he and Frank made their way through the tunnel, feeling their way along. Cobwebs brushed against Frank’s face, making hisskin crawl. It took only a few minutes for them to reach the far end of the passage. Jack felt around for a moment, and then said, “Here’s the ladder.”

“I’ll go first,” Frank said. Jack didn’t argue.

Frank climbed the ladder until the crown of his hat bumped against the underside of the trapdoor. He bent his head and reached up. When he pushed against the door, it didn’t budge.

“It won’t open,” he hissed down to Jack. The horrible thought struck Frank that maybe the trapdoor on this end of the tunnel had been nailed shut.

“Might be somethin’ settin’ on top of it,” Jack suggested. “Give it a heave.”

Frank bent over even more so that he could get his shoulder against the door. Then he straightened his back and pushed with his legs, and the door lifted a little. It wasn’t fas-tened down anyway, and he was grateful for that.

“It moved some,” he told Jack. “Let me try again.”

Groaning with the effort, Frank threw all his strength into lifting the trapdoor. It gave a little more. Frank rocked up and down. Suddenly the door flew up and back, and a heavy crash sounded in the room above. Some piece of furniture had been sitting on the door, and Frank had succeeded in toppling it. He scrambled through into a dark room. A line of light showed under a door. Jack came out of the tunnel right behind him.

Frank drew his Colt and went to the door. It seemed impos-sible that the crash of something falling over in here hadn’t drawn any attention, but that seemed to be the case. Of course, with those explosions causing all hell to break loose outside, Dutton and his men were probably pretty distracted. Frank turned the knob and eased the door open a few inches. He found himself peering out into the main room of the saloon. The place was almost empty. All the gunmen had rushed out to see what was going on, just as Frank and Jack had planned. Frank looked through the front window of the saloon and saw Charles Dutton standing on the boardwalk, looking around wildly. Only two of the gunmen were in the saloon, and they were guarding a group of about a dozen people who stood huddled to one side. The citizens of Buckskin, Frank thought. Dutton’s hostages and human shields. He must have ordered them brought down from the upstairs rooms in case he needed to make use of them.

It was time they were freed.

Frank swung the door all the way open and stepped into the barroom. “Hey!” he said. The two gunnies spun toward him, looks of shock on their faces. They jerked their guns up and fired, but it was too late. Frank’s Peacemaker was already spouting death. He shot both men, knocking them off their feet. Their guns went spinning away.

The townspeople stared at him in fear and confusion, but

Jack came out of the storeroom quickly and called, “Don’t worry, folks! This fella’s a friend!”

“Jack!” Tip Woodford cried. “Thank God!”

On the boardwalk outside the big window, Dutton screamed, “Morgan! He’s in here! He’s in the saloon!”

Frank triggered a shot at him, shattering the window, but Dutton had already leaped back out of the line offire. As Frank headed for the busted window, he called to the former hostages, “Everybody down! Hunt some cover!”

He took one side of the window and Catamount Jack took the other. They opened fire on the hired killers who were charging the saloon, Frank with the Peacemaker and Jack with the old cap-and-ball Walker Colt. A couple of the gunnies were knocked off their feet by the barrage. The others scattered, but kept shooting.

Tip Woodford and his daughter Diana, who was just as pretty close up as Frank had figured she would be, snatched up the guns dropped by the men Frank had shot and joined in the fight They crawled up to the window on hands and knees and fired over the sill.

“Are there any more of those gunnies upstairs?” Frank asked them. .

Woodford shook his head. “No, they all went runnin’ out when those blasts went off. I reckon those explosions were the work of you and this old pelican, Mr. Morgan?”

“Who you callin’ an old pelican?” Jack demanded tartly.

“The only old pelican I see in here is you,” Woodford said as he squeezed off another shot. Beside him, Diana fired as one of the hired guns tried to run from one bit of cover to another, and the man flipped off his feet as he ran into the slug. “Good shootin’, gal,” Woodford said in approval.

Frank saw that several buildings in town were on fire from the explosions, but the flames didn’t appear to be spreading. He wondered how many of Dutton’s gunnies had died in the blasts, taken by surprise as the shacks where they were hiding were blown apart. He figured he and the others had made a big dent in the enemy forces.

But they were still outnumbered, and Dutton’s men were experienced, ruthless killers. If they charged the saloon, they would take some losses, but they could probably fight their way in and slaughter everybody in here. ‘

Or maybe not, because at that moment one of the townspeople called, “Hey, all the guns they took away from us are here behind the bar.”

With an eager rush, the citizens of Buckskin armed themselves. The odds had just gotten a lot more even. Frank grinned as he thumbed fresh cartridges into his Colt. Let those gun-wolves come a-callin’. They would get a hotter welcome than they expected.

Suddenly, he heard a man screaming outside, and when he ventured a look he saw that Dog had taken a hand in the fight. The big cur had pulled down one of the gunmen and was savaging him. Another man raised up to look and yelled, “Damn, it’s a wolf Shoot it!”

Those were the last words he ever spoke, because the next second Frank put a .45 slug through his brain. The man flopped into the street and kicked a couple of times before lying still.

Frank couldn’t see Dutton, but he heard the man screaming orders. “Get in there!” Dutton screeched. “Get in there and kill them all!”

The gunmen hung back, not wanting to risk the deadly ac-curacy of the saloon’s defenders. Dutton bellowed in frustra-tion, “Twenty thousand dollars to the man who kills Morgan!”

That temptation was more than the remaining gunnies could resist. They knew that some of them would die, but maybe one would be lucky enough to survive and collect that twenty-thousand-dollar bounty. Each thought that he would be that one lucky man ….

With guns geysering flame, they charged the Silver Baron Saloon.

Chapter 32

Frank, Catamount Jack, and the citizens of Buckskin returned the savage fire. Lead flew through the air like a swarm of deadly bees. Frank felt bullets tug at his shirt and his Stetson flew off his head, a fresh hole in its crown. A fiery kiss on his cheek staggered him, and then he felt blood dripping down his face from where he’d been grazed. But even in the face of such a fierce assault, he remained cool-nerved and steady, taking his time as he picked his targets and fired, and each time the Peacemaker bucked in his hand, another hired killer went down.

The charge reached all the way to the boardwalk before its back was finally broken by the fierce resistance. The handful of remaining gunmen, all of them wounded, threw down their guns and shoved their hands in the air. “Don’t shoot!” one of them cried raggedly. “For God’s sake, don’t shoot anymore!”

Frank’s Colt was empty, but Woodford and several other townspeople still had ammunition in their guns. They covered the gunmen who had surrendered while Frank reloaded and took a look around, The defense of the saloon had been successful but it had not come without a price. Two men who had been among the defenders were down, lying motionless on the floor with bloodstains spreading on their shirts. Several more men and one of the women were wounded, but the injuries didn’t look too bad Frank wondered who all these people were and what they had been doing in Buckskin before Dutton and his killers rode in and treed the town. Such a thing wouldn’t have happened in the old days, Frank knew, because then the citizens would have outnumbered the gunnies and would have been armed and willing to use their guns.

As it was, Buckskin’s populace had given a good account of itself in the end, and none of them had anything to be ashamed of Frank was proud to have fought at their side.

He shouldered the shot-up batwings aside and stepped out onto the boardwalk. “Where’s Dutton?” he asked the men who had surrendered.

“Hidin’ somewhere, the cowardly little weasel,” one of the men replied bitterly. “When he hired us, he said all we had to do was kill one man. He didn’t say anything about gettin’ blowed up and havin’ to fight a whole damned town.”

“Your choice to take a hand in this game,” Frank said. He turned to Catamount Jack, who had come out onto the boardwalk behind him. “Find a place to lock these bastards up.”

“What’re you fixin’ to do, Morgan?”

Frank holstered his Colt. “Find Dutton.”

“Want some help?”

“No, I reckon I can handle this chore.”

Frank started walking in the direction from which he had last heard Dutton’s voice shouting orders. His eyes roved constantly to both sides of the street, searching the shadows for any sign of the man he sought.

As he walked along, he called, “You hear me, Dutton? This is Frank Morgan, and I’m coming for you. It’s time you paid for what you did to Vivian, and to everybody else you ever betrayed, Dutton. You’re not getting away this time.”

The window of a building to Frank’s left suddenly shattered as someone inside fired a gun through it. The bullet kicked up dust in the street about ten feet in front of Frank. Without drawing his gun, Frank turned and paced steadily toward the building.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Dutton,” he called.

Dutton burst from the door, sobbing in fear and triggering wildly as he ran along the boardwalk. Frank came after him inexorably.

“Justice, Dutton,” he said as the gun in the crooked lawyer’s hand clicked on an empty chamber. None of the shots had come close to Frank. “That’s what you’ve got coming to you, and that’s what you’re going to get.”

Dutton cried out raggedly and threw the empty six-shooter at Frank. It sailed harmlessly over his head. Panting and gasp-ing, Dutton stumbled on down the boardwalk. He ran into the front door of a building and fell through it when it sprang open. Scrambling up, he ran on into the darkened interior.

Just as Frank reached the doorway, he heard Dutton scream again. That shriek was cut offby a loud thump. Frank paused and looked at the faded lettering on the building’S window. LUCKY LIZARD MINING COMPANY.

The finality with which Dutton’s scream had ended gave Frank a pretty good idea of what had happened. He stepped inside and struck a match. The connecting door between two rooms stood open. In that back room, a square hole yawned in the floor where the trapdoor had been flung back when Frank and Catamount Jack went through there earlier. Frank stepped over to the opening and held the match up so that the light from it fell down into the hole. Charles Dutton lay unmoving at the bottom of the shaft that provided an entrance to the tunnel. The fall wasn’t a long one, but it had been long enough. Dutton’s head was twisted at an odd angle on his neck, and his eyes were already glassed over in death.

The room got brighter, and Frank glanced over his shoulder to see Catamount Jack coming in with a lantern in his hand. Behind the old-timer carrie Tip Woodford, his daughter Diana, and several other citizens of Buckskin.

Jack looked down into the tunnel and said, “That’s him, all right. Dutton. Wound up with a broke neck just like he’d dropped through the trapdoor of a gallows with a hang-rope around his neck. Sort of fittin’, if you ask me.”

Frank nodded. “Yeah. Like I told him, justice was done.”

Jack looked over shrewdly at The Drifter. “But it don’t change one damn thing that happened in the past, does it?”

Frank shook his head slowly. “No. No, it doesn’t.”

He dropped the burned-out match into the hole. Then he turned away from the trapdoor and didn’t look back.

By the time a week had passed, Buckskin was back to normal. The debris of the burned buildings had been cleared away. The dead had been buried in a small cemetery up on the hillside, left over from the settlement’s boomtown days. The wounded had been patched up, and several of the townspeople had volunteered to take the prisoners into Virginia City so they could be turned over to the law.

Frank stayed there in Buckskin, enjoying the chance to rest for a few days, to sit in the shade and sip coffee and talk with Catamount Jack and Tip Woodford, both of whom he liked a great deal.

He liked Diana Woodford too, other than the fact that he was a good fifteen or twenty years too old for her. That didn’t seem to bother her much, though, judging by the way she sort of hung around and talked and smiled a lot. Frank told himself he was going to have to do some serious thinking about how he wanted to proceed where Diana was concerned. Might be best for all concerned if he rode on out of here before things got too complicated, he decided.

And yet he didn’t leave. It felt good here. He liked the people, and now that the stink of gun smoke had been blown away by the mountain breezes, the air was fresh and clean.

Still, he never stayed in one place for long. He was The Drifter, after all … wasn’t he?

He was eating breakfast in the cafe run by Lauren Stillman, Ginnie Carlson, and Becky Humphries, the three former prostitutes, when Tip Woodford came in and walked across the room to his table. “Mind if I join you?” Tip asked.

“Sure, have a seat,” Frank said. He liked the burly old prospector.

“All the fellas are back from Virginia City,” Tip said. “They didn’t have no trouble gettin’ those prisoners there. Don’t know if they’ll hang or not, but if they don’t, they’ll be behind bars for a long time, where they belong.”

Frank nodded in satisfaction. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“I been talkin’ to some folks,” Tip went on. “Professor Burton and ol’ Catamount Jack and Leo Benjamin and some others.”

“What about?” Frank asked.

“Well, we’ve been thinkin’ that Buckskin might turn into a real town again someday soon, and if it does, the place will need a mayor. The others sort of insisted that I take that job.”

Frank nodded. “Sounds like a good idea. You’ve kept the place going all these years since the silver played out.”

“Yeah … Do you know how come I happened to name my mine the Lucky Lizard, Frank?” -

“Can’t say as I do. I don’t think I ever heard the story.”

“Well, I hadn’t had any luck prospectin’ around here, and one day when I was about to give up and go back East, I sat down on a rock and happened to see a lizard a-scurryin’ along. Now, it ain’t like I’m overfond of lizards or anything like that, but this little fella caught my interest somehow, and I watched him run around until he went up the side of the hill and disappeared in a crack. When I was lookin’ at the place where he ran into the hill, something about it sort of made me look again. I took my pick and started chippin’ away at the rock … “

“And that was where you found your vein of silver,” Frank guessed.

Tip nodded solemnly. “That lizard brought me luck, so I figured the least I could do was name the mine after him. It paid off pretty handsome for a while too. But then I lost the vein and couldn’t ever find it again.”

Frank shrugged and said, “Silver is like luck, I guess. It runs out sometime.”

“Yeah. And sometimes it comes back, like a lizard pokin’ his head out of a hole in the rock.” Tip reached into the pockets of his overalls and brought out something from each one, keeping his hands closed so that Frank couldn’t see what he had. “Got two things here I want to show you, Frank.” He opened his left hand and set a lump of dark gray rock on the table. “You know what that is?”

Frank felt his pulse quicken. “It looks like silver ore,” he said.

Tip nodded. “That’s what it is.” His voice shook a little with excitement. “I’ve found the vein again, Frank. And it’s bigger and better than the one before. Buckskin’s gonna be more than just a real town again. It’s gonna be a boomtown!”

“Congratulations, Mayor,” Frank said with a smile. “I’m happy for you and all the rest of the good people here.”

“You ain’t seen this other thing yet,” Tip cautioned. “If Buckskin starts boomin’ again, it’ll need more than a mayor.” He opened his right hand to reveal a tin star lying on his palm. “It’ll need a marshal too. Interested in the job, Frank?”

All Frank could do for a moment was stare at the badge in Tip’s hand. The offer had taken him completely by surprise. He had had plenty of run-ins with the law over the years-but nobody had ever asked him to pin on a badge until he’d gotten mixed up in that range war down in Arizona a few months earlier. Now it had happened again.

Maybe somebody was trying to tell him something.

“What do you say, Frank?” Tip prodded. “I know you’ve always been a mite fiddle-footed, but I’ve talked Jack into bein’ your deputy, and if that old pelican can settle down, I reckon anybody can.”

Frank looked past Tip out the window of the cafe, along the main street of Buckskin. If Tip really had found a silver bo-nanza, this sleepy little ghost town would be transformed nearly overnight into a hell-roaring boomtown. And that transformation would likely bring with it all sorts of problems, trouble that the good citizens of Buckskin couldn’t handle on their own.

He thought about Elysium too, and the way those folks had stood together for what they believed in. About Buffalo Bill and the bittersweet way the old showman’s Wild West extravaganza represented the end of an era, the passing of a time that would never come again. And about the weariness that came to a man when he had drifted for too damned long, always leaving behind friends and family and striking out for someplace new, even though he had never found true contentment in places, but only in the people who lived there.

Frank Morgan drew in a deep breath, reached across the table to take the badge out of Tip’s hand, and said, “You’ve got yourself a marshal.”

Table of Contents

Chapter I

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Table of Contents

Chapter I

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32