One of the loggers held his hands palms out toward Frank. “That’s enough, mister,” he said. The man looked at the bodies scattered along the counter in various stages of pain and semicon-sciousness. “By God, that’s enough.”
Frank’s chest rose and fell quickly from the exertion of the past few minutes, but his voice was steady as he said, “You boys called the tune. If you don’t want to dance to it, that’s your business.”
The other logger said, “Forget it, Morgan. I don’t want to tangle with you.”
Frank nodded and bent down to check Erickson’s pockets. He found a double eagle and flipped it to Peter Lee. “That ought to pay for the broken chair and anything else that got busted, as well as the food that was ruined. Fair enough, Peter?”
Lee bit the coin and satisfied himself that it was real. “Fair enough,” he told Frank. “Erickson may not feel that way when he gets his senses back, though.”
“Then he should have thought twice before he came in here to make trouble.” Frank turned back to the two loggers. “What did you do, go in the Bull o’ the Woods and get Erickson and his friends all stirred up?”
“Don’t blame us, Morgan,” one of the men said. “Erickson was already hot under the collar. A lot of men in Eureka feel the same way tonight. They don’t like you comin’ in here and takin’ over the hunt for the Terror like you done. Hell, you’re just one man. You can’t stop that monster.”
“You’d rather have a hundred trigger-happy fools blundering around in the woods shooting at anything that moves…including you?”
The loggers just frowned. They didn’t have any answer for that.
Frank shook his head in disgust. Sometimes, trying to help folks brought an hombre nothing but grief. Unfortunately, though, he wasn’t the sort of man who could turn his back on trouble.
He picked up his hat, which had gotten knocked off during the brief brawl, and waved it at the men on the floor. “Get them out of here. They’re cluttering up Mr. Lee’s place.”
Dawson was able to stand up and stumble out of the hash house under his own power. So was the man with the broken nose, which was still leaking crimson. The loggers helped the other two out, including a groggy Erickson, who kept shaking his head and muttering incoherently.
Frank called after them, “If any of you fellas have a problem with what happened, you can take it up with me. If I hear about anybody bothering Mr. Lee or his family, just because this little fracas happened in his place, I won’t take it kindly. And I’ll be looking for whoever’s responsible.”
The threat in his voice was clear. Every now and then, it came in handy to have most people think of him as a cold-blooded, gunslinging bastard.
Peter Lee and his pretty wife and their two little kids, a boy and a girl about five and six years old, came out from behind the counter to clean up the mess left by the fight. Frank pitched in to help, and so did some of the customers who hadn’t fled as soon as they had the chance.
“I’m sorry about this, Peter,” Frank said.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
Frank shook his head. “Maybe I could’ve tried a little harder to head it off before anybody started throwing punches. Seems the Good Lord didn’t put much backup in me when He made me, though.”
“I got that impression,” Lee said dryly. “You want some more stew and corn bread?”
Frank smiled. “I did sort of work up an appetite again.”
Lee laughed as if he couldn’t help it. “I’ll see what’s left out in the kitchen.”
While Frank waited for Lee to come back, he became aware that the proprietor’s two children were staring at him. He smiled at them, which caused them to scurry off behind their mother’s skirts and then peep out at him timidly. Mrs. Lee just gave Frank a tired smile and herded the youngsters back into the kitchen. The customers who were left returned to their meals.
A few minutes later, Lee brought Frank a fresh bowl of stew and another piece of corn bread, as well as refilling his coffee cup. Frank dug in, and was enjoying the food when he heard the hash house’s front door open again. Footsteps clumped toward him, and when he glanced over, he saw Marshal Gene Price approaching him. The lawman wore a scowl on his rugged face.
“I thought I told you not to start any trouble in my town, Morgan,” Price said.
Frank shook his head. “I didn’t start it.”
“That’s not how I heard it. I heard you were in here brawling with half a dozen men.”
“Well, that’s almost true. But there were actually only four of them who got into the fight. The other two decided they didn’t want any part of it.”
“And you didn’t start it?”
“One against six? Do I look like a fool to you, Marshal?”
Price just grunted and didn’t answer the question. “You’ve got enemies here,” he said. “It’d be better all the way around if you rode out and didn’t come back.”
Frank shook his head. “Not until I finish the job I said I’d do.”
“I could just throw you in jail, you know.” Price’s voice held a worried edge. He was digging himself a hole, and he seemed to know it. He might have to try to arrest the notorious gunfighter Frank Morgan, and chances are, that wouldn’t end well. But his pride wouldn’t allow him to back down.
“On what charge?” Frank asked.
“Assault. Disturbing the peace.”
Peter Lee surprised Frank a little by speaking up. “That’s not how it happened, Marshal,” he said. “Those men came in here looking for Mr. Morgan, intending to cause trouble. They attacked him. He was just defending himself.”
Price glared at the hash house proprietor. “You sure about that?”
Lee nodded toward the men at the tables. “Ask any of my customers. They were all here when it happened.”
The lawman turned to look at the men, several of whom nodded in agreement with what Lee had said. The gestures seemed rather reluctant, as if they didn’t want to get involved in this possible trouble, but their honest natures forced them not to lie.
“All right then,” Price finally said with ill-concealed disgust. “But I’ll be keeping my eye on you, Morgan. You break the law, and you’ll wind up behind bars before you know what happened.”
That was an empty threat, and probably everyone in the place knew it. But Frank just nodded and said, “I always try to be a law-abiding man, Marshal.”
Price snorted and turned to stalk out of the hash house. Frank watched him go, then said quietly to Lee, “You may have made yourself an enemy there, Peter.”
Lee shook his head. “Marshal Price is a windbag. I’m not worried about him. I don’t think Erickson and his cronies will bother us either. You made it pretty clear what would happen if they did.”
Remembering how he’d been bushwhacked at Ben Chamberlain’s old cabin that afternoon, Frank said, “I couldn’t do much about it if I was dead.”
Peter Lee smiled. “Don’t get yourself killed then.”
Frank laughed and reached for his coffee cup. “Words to live by,” he said.
The logger with the broken nose was named Roylston. He sat at a big table in the back of the Bull o’ the Woods Saloon holding a bloody rag to his nose and cursing in a low, monotonous voice.
The other men at the table ignored him. The one who’d been kicked in the groin sat gray-faced and hunched over. Every now and then he grimaced and took a nip from the bottle in front of him. His name was Treadwell, and at this moment, he wanted to kill Frank Morgan more than he had ever wanted anything else in his life.
Big, red-bearded Erickson wanted to kill Morgan, too, but even more than that, he wanted to collect the ten-thousand-dollar bounty on the head of the Terror. With Morgan around, the chances of doing that were slim.
But if Morgan was dead, Erickson thought…
Across the table, Dawson said, “It don’t matter. Let Morgan go after that damn monster. It’ll tear him into little bloody pieces, the same way it’s done with everybody else unlucky enough to run into it.”