Imposter (21 page)

If Sadie and Bloody Mama had counted on the night hiding them, they were sadly mistaken. The moon was full and bright and the heavens were sparkling with stars. Frank sat amid the jumble of rocks and boulders and smiled as he waited for the outlaws to make a move.

Then Frank rethought that and said to hell with it: He'd take the fight to them. They wouldn't be expecting that . . . he hoped.

Frank left the rocks and began crawling on his belly, slowly and carefully, toward the large building, hoping he would not run into a rattlesnake along the way.

When he reached the building, he paused beneath a broken window and listened.

“I ain't goin' out there,” a man said. “Morgan's jist a-waitin' for one of us to make that stupid move.”

“Me neither,” another man replied. “We got food and water in here. I say we wait him out.”

“Cowards!” Sadie said. “Craven cowards, all of you.”

“Why don't you haul your ass out there then?” a third man suggested. “So far, all you've done is run that mouth of yours.”

“By God, Vinnie, you can't talk to me like that!”

“I just did, Sadie.”

Frank leaned his rifle against the building, pulled his Peacemaker and his spare Colt from leather, and cocked them. Then he rose to his feet and sprayed the inside with lead, cocking and firing as fast as he could. When he was empty, he grabbed his rifle and took off running, leaving the sounds of yelling and moaning behind him. He had sure hit somebody. By the sounds inside the building, more than one outlaw had soaked up lead.

Frank knelt by the side of a building and quickly reloaded. He watched as Bloody Mama came staggering out into the moon-bright night, a pistol in each hand.

“I'll kill you, Morgan,” she shouted, and began firing wildly in all directions. “Goddamn you, Drifter. You've shot me, you . . .” Bloody Mama filled the night with the most vulgar of profanities.

She fell to her knees, remained that way for a moment, then toppled over on her face and was still.

“Penelope?” Sadie called.

Penelope?
Frank thought. Her real name was Penelope?

“Are you all right, baby?” Sadie asked.

Bloody Mama lay motionless and silent on the ground. Sadie began cussing Frank, alternately cursing and screaming out her rage. She ran out of the building, a rifle in her hands. Frank could have easily shot her, but he held his fire.

“Damn you, Morgan!” Sadie screamed. “I'll see you in hell.” She stuck the muzzle of the rifle in her mouth and pulled the trigger. She fell to the rocky ground, dead next to her friend in crime.

“That's it, Morgan,” a man called from the building. “Me and Santos is all that's left in here. Neal and Jerry is hard hit, Willis is dead.”

“Step out where I can see you,” Frank called.

Two men stepped out of the building to stand in the moonlight, their hands raised. They carried no weapons that Frank could see.

“I'm Vinnie,” one of the men said. “This here is Santos.”

“You ride with Val Dooley?”

“I never met the man. Sadie and Mama rode with him. They told us all about the kidnappin' of them women and you comin' after them. I don't want no more trouble with you, Morgan. And that's the truth.”

“Saddle your horses and ride out of here,” Frank called. “Don't ever let me run into either of you again. If I do, I'll kill you. Understood?”

“Plain as day, Morgan,” Santos said.

“Do you get to keep our guns?” Vinnie asked.

“What do you think?”

“I think I'd better shut my mouth and get gone.”

“Wise decision. Get out of here.”

Santos and Vinnie quickly saddled up, under Frank's watchful eye, and rode out, with a full canteen of water, the clothes on their back, and nothing else. Frank suspected they would ride for a few miles, then make a cold camp and come back to the old fort in the morning, to hunt around for clothes, guns, and food. Frank would leave them whatever food and clothing remained, but they would not find any guns.

When Frank was reasonably certain they were gone, at least for the night, he checked on those outlaws remaining in the building. They were dead. Frank's wild spraying of lead had done the job. Frank dragged the bodies out and into a shed on the edge of the old fort's perimeter. He did the same with the bodies of Bloody Mama and Sadie. He gathered up all the guns and tossed them into the building, then went about picking up old boards until he had enough to keep a blaze burning for a long time. He put them both inside and outside the shed, then saturated everything with kerosene he found in the outlaws' quarters.

While the kerosene soaked into the old boards, Frank made a pot of coffee and then settled down for a cup of hot coffee and a smoke. The coffee perked him up, for he was tired.

After another cup of coffee and the last of the pan bread he had brought with him, Frank set the building blazing; a funeral pyre for the already damned.

He knew where he was going next, for he had found a map with a note among the women's personal belongings. The note was from a man called Curly. Frank knew him from years back, and Curly Lewis was a bad one, cruel and mean. Bloody Mama and Sadie were going to hook up with Curly and his bunch in a few weeks.

“Well, now, Curly,” Frank had said after reading the note and studying the map. “I've got a little surprise for you. Bloody Mama and Sadie will be unable to make it. But I'll come in their place. Count on it.”

* * *

Frank did not shave for a week, and his naturally heavy beard proved to be a very effective disguise. He was able to ride into a town, provision up, have a meal in a café, and take a hot bath without being recognized. Then he was once more on his way. He did not tell the county sheriffs or the town marshals about the deaths of Bloody Mama and Sadie. Frank was sure that Santos and Vinnie would spread the word.

In a café Frank overheard talk about the breakup of the Val Dooley gang and the shootout with Johnny Vargas.

“That Frank Morgan must be a ring-tailed-tooter,” one local remarked. “I guess all them things that's written and said about him are true.”

“I reckon so,” another said. “I'd like to see that fellow just one time.”

“What would you say to him?”

“I don't know. Howdy, I guess.”

Frank smiled and continued enjoying his meal.

“I hear he's a big man,” the first local said. “Six feet five or six. Two hundred and seventy-five pounds.”

Frank again smiled. It would take a damn big horse to tote that big a man around.

“And he's killed men with just one blow with his big fist.”

Frank laid down his knife and fork. The rumors were getting entirely out of hand.

“No, he's not none of them things,” another local spoke up. “I seen pictures of him. He's about six feet tall and built up pretty good in the shoulders and arms. But he ain't no giant.” The man glanced over at Frank and blinked a couple of times. “As a matter of fact, he sorta looks like that feller right there.”

All eyes in the café turned to Frank.

A man seated to Frank's right said, “Don't Morgan carry a Peacemaker?”

“Yeah, he does,” the local who was eyeing Frank said.

“So does this fellow. And it's tied down too.”

“My God in Heaven,” another man said in hushed tones. “That's the Drifter, Frank Morgan.”

Here we go,
Frank thought.

“Are you really Frank Morgan?” the waitress asked.

“Yes, ma'am, I am,” Frank replied. “Could I have some more coffee, please?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Morgan. You sure can. How about some apple pie to go with it?”

“That would be real nice,” Frank said with a smile. He watched as a local beat it out of the café, grabbed the first person he came to, and began talking and pointing.

Within minutes, the boardwalk in front of the café was lined with people. A large man with a star on his vest pushed his way through and entered the café. “Frank Morgan?” he called.

“Right here, Sheriff.”

“Coffee, Wilma,” the sheriff called to the waitress as he walked to Frank's table and sat down. “Telegraph wires been hummin' with messages for you for near'bouts a week, Morgan.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. From a Dr. Evans and a Marshal Tom Wright. You know them?”

“I sure do. What's up?”

“You want to read them or you want me to just tell you?”

“Tell me. You can give me the wires later.”

“You rescued some women that had been kidnapped, right.

“Yes, that's right.”

“One of 'em was in shock, couldn't speak?”

“Yes.”

“She committed suicide. Hanged herself.”

“Damn.”

“Sheriff Davis over in Deweyville has a sister 'bout half crazy?”

“Yes, that pretty well describes Alberta.”

“Yeah, that's her name. She's been placed in an asylum.”

“That's no surprise.”

“Couple more things. You familiar with somebody named Little Ed Simpson?”

“Yes. What about him?”

“His mother killed him. Shot him stone dead when the boy pulled a gun on his father. The father caught the boy trying to steal some horses.” The sheriff shook his head. “That must have been a very strange family.”

“Was and is, Sheriff.”

“A woman named Lara Whitter. You familiar with her?”

“Yes.”

“Her and her son, a boy named Johnny, were kidnapped by some remaining members of the Val Dooley gang. Word is they're heading for, or are already in, Southern California. Maybe right here in this area.”

“Any word on who kidnapped them?”

“Goody Nolan is the leader of the gang.”

“I know him. Was there any good news?”

“I'm afraid not. Marshal Wright says you're a deputy sheriff. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Sorta out of your jurisdiction, aren't you?”

“You might say that.”

“You gonna start trouble in this county?”

“I don't plan to.”

The sheriff studied Frank as he sipped his coffee. “I don't know just how a gunfighter got to be a lawman, but ride on, Morgan. Get out of my county.”

“You object if I finish my pie?”

The sheriff shook his head. “No. You can provision up, get a bath and a haircut and shave if you like. Then move on. 'Cause I think when you find the men who kidnapped the woman and her boy, they's gonna be a bloodbath. I'd rather not have that in my county.”

“You think Goody is in your county?”

“No. I think he's southwest of here, in the desert. Maybe in the Sierra Madres.”

“You trying to tell me something, Sheriff?”

“Could be.” He pushed back his chair, then leaned over the table and whispered, “Good hunting, Morgan.”

* * *

Frank found Art Butler two days later, at a combination general store/roadhouse. There were only four people in the place: Frank, Butler, the bartender/owner, and a sales clerk. Frank walked up to Butler and knocked him to the floor with one punch, then jerked the man's pistol from leather and tossed in on the bar. While Art was crawling around on the floor, trying to clear his head, Frank turned to the bartender.

“You and your clerk go outside and get some fresh air. I have some business to discuss with this man.”

“You're Frank Morgan, ain't you?” the bartender asked.

“Yes.”

“Take all the time you need, Mr. Morgan.” The bartender left the saloon part of the building, closing the front door behind him.

“I know what you're gonna do, Morgan,” Butler said. “Just make it quick, that's all I ask.”

Frank slowly took a long-bladed knife from a sheath on his belt. “That all depends on you, Butler.”

“What do you mean?” Butler asked, his eyes never leaving the big blade, fashioned after a bowie knife. He could tell it was very sharp.

“You were one of the men who went back to town and kidnapped Lara Whitter and her son. Where are they?”

“You gonna let me live if I tell you?”

“I'll give you a chance to live.”

“They was alive when I left them, Morgan. I can tell you that much.”

“Did you rape Lara?”

“Yeah, I did. We all did. And Freckles Burton, well, he took a shine to the boy . . . if you know what I mean.”

“
God
damn
you!” Frank raged at the man.

“I didn't do nothin' to the boy, Morgan. I ain't like that. But Freckles, he's, well, sorta strange that way . . .”

“But you let it happen, you son of a bitch!”

“I couldn't hep it!” Butler screamed. “You know Freckles is crazy and snake-quick with a Colt.”

“Where are they, and don't lie to me, Butler, or I'll make this last a long time.”

“Not far, Morgan. 'Bout an easy two-day ride to the south. We was goin' into the mountains, but Freckles was havin' himself a time with the boy and . . .”

“Shut up about your perversions with Johnny!”

“I didn't touch him, Morgan! I swear to God I didn't.”

“Why did you leave the gang?”

“I . . . got tired of hearin' the boy whimper and the woman holler when the men . . .”

Frank blocked the rest of it out, as best he could. Butler suddenly jerked out a knife and lunged at Frank. Frank sidestepped and buried the big blade of his bowie into the man's stomach and twisted. Frank let the outlaw/rapist fall to the floor and die.