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The Last Gunfighter: The Drifter
by William W. Johnstone
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Copyright (c)2000 by William W. Johnstone
_To Debbie and Dent Sigh_
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*One*
"Boy," the older man said, "I strongly advise you not to pull on me."
It seemed to those in the barroom there was not only a great weariness to the man's voice, but also a great sadness. Some of the spectators wondered about that. A few thought they knew why the sadness was there.
Outside, the early spring winds still had a bite to them on the late-afternoon day.
"You're nothin' but a damned old washed-up piece of coyote crap," the young man replied.
_Old is right_, the man thought. _Both in body and soul_.
"And you're a coward, too!" the young man added.
The older man smiled, but his eyes turned chilly. "Boy, you should really learn to watch your mouth."
The young man laughed. "You gonna make me do that, you old has-been?"
"I would rather not have to do that, boy. Besides, that's something your mother and father should have taught you."
"I never paid no mind to what they said."
"Obviously."
"Huh? Old man, you talk funny -- you know that? You tryin' to insult me or something?"
"Not at all, boy. Just agreeing with you."
"I don't like you, old man. I mean, I don't like you at all. I think you're all talk and no do. And I don't believe all them stories told 'bout you, neither. I don't think you've kilt no twenty or thirty men."
"I haven't."
"I knowed it!"
"Closer to forty."
"You're a damn liar!"
"Boy, go home. Leave me alone."
"Naw. I'm gonna make you pull on me, Morgan. Then I'm gonna shoot you in the belly so's I can stand right here and watch you beg and cry and holler like a whipped pup 'til you die. That's what I'm gonna do."
"Is that really Frank Morgan?" a man in the crowd whispered to a friend.
"That's him."
"I thought he was a lot older."
"'Nuff talk, old man!" the young man yelled. "Grab iron, you old buffalo fart!"
Frank Morgan did not move. He stood and watched the much younger man. "If you want a shooting, boy, you're going to have to start it."
"Then I will, by God!"
Frank waited.
"You think I won't?"
"I hope you don't, kid."
"I ain't no kid!"
"Pardon me?"
"I'm known around here as Snake."
"There is a certain resemblance."
Someone in the crowd laughed at that.
"What?" the young man yelled.
"I was just agreeing with you," Morgan said.
"Yore gonna die, Morgan!"
"We all die, kid. Some long before their time. And I'm afraid you're about to prove me right."
The kid cussed and grabbed iron.
Morgan shot him before the kid could even clear leather -- shot him two times, the shots so close together they sounded as one. The kid's feet flew out from under him and he hit the floor, two holes in the center of his chest.
"Good God Almighty!" a man in the crowd said.
"He's as fast as he ever was," another man stage-whispered.
"You know Morgan?"
"I seen him once back in seventy-four, I think it was. He shot them two Burris brothers."
It was now April, 1888.
Frank slowly holstered his .45, then walked the few yards that had separated the two men. He stood for a moment looking down at the dying young man.
"I thought ... all that talk 'bout you was ... bull-crap," the young man gasped. Blood was leaking from his mouth.
"I wish it was," Frank said, then turned away from the bloody scene and stepped up to the bar. "A whiskey, please," he told the barkeep.
"I thought you only drank coffee, Mr. Morgan."
"Occasionally I will take a drink of hard liquor."
"Yes, sir. Mr. Morgan?"
Frank looked at the man.
"The sheriff and his deputies will be here shortly. Gunplay is not looked on with favor in this town."
"In other words, get out of town?"
"It was just a friendly suggestion. No offense meant."
"I know. None taken. Thank you." _Same old story_, Frank thought. _Different piano player, same song_.
Frank took a sip of whiskey.
"The kid's dead," someone said. "Reckon I ought to get the undertaker?"
"Not yet," a man said from the batwings.
Frank cut his eyes. Three men had stepped quietly into the saloon -- the sheriff and two of his deputies. The two deputies were carrying Greeners -- sawed-off, double-barreled shotguns.
No one with any sense wanted to take a chance when facing Frank Morgan.
Frank was standing alone at the bar, slowly taking tiny sips from his glass of whiskey.
"Frank Morgan," the sheriff said.
"Do I know you, Sheriff?" Frank asked. "I don't recall ever meeting you."
"I know you from dime novels, Morgan."
"I see."
"Them writers want to make you a hero. But I know you for what you really are."
"What am I, Sheriff?"
"A damn, kill-crazy outlaw."
"I've never stolen a thing in my life, Sheriff."
"You say."
Frank set the glass down on the bar and turned to face the sheriff. "That's right, Sheriff. I say."
The deputies raised the shotguns.
Frank smiled. "Relax, boys," he told them. "You'll get no trouble from me."
"You just can't keep that pistol in leather, can you, Morgan?" the sheriff said.
"I was pushed into this fight, Sheriff. Ask anyone here."
"I 'spect that's so, Morgan. The kid was a troublemaker, for a fact."
"And now?"
"You finish your drink and get out of town."
"I've got a very tired horse, Sheriff, with a loose shoe. He's at the livery now. You don't like me -- that's all right. But my horse has done nothing to you."
The sheriff hesitated. "All right, Morgan. You can stay in the stable with your horse. Get that shoe fixed first thing come the morning and then get the hell gone from here."
"Thank you. How about something to eat?"
"Get you some crackers and a pickle from the store 'cross the street. That'll have to do you."
"Crackers and a pickle," Frank muttered. "Well, I've eaten worse."
"Understood, Morgan?" the sheriff pressed.
"Perfectly, Sheriff."
"Some of you men get the kid over to the undertaker," the sheriff ordered. "Tell him he can have whatever's in the kid's pockets for his fee."
"Them guns of hisn, too?" a man asked.
"Yes. The guns, too."
Frank turned back to the bar and slowly sipped his drink. The sheriff walked over and leaned against the bar, staring at him.
"Something on your mind, Sheriff?" Frank asked.
"What's your tally now, Morgan? A hundred? A hundred and fifty dead by your gun?"
Frank smiled. "No, Sheriff. Not nearly that many. The kid there was the first man to brace me in several years."