The Last Gunfighter

Chapter 8

Frank heard the bullet’s whine as it went past his ear. The slug smacked into the cabin wall behind him and chewed splinters from it, showering them in the air.

Frank could have retreated into the cabin, but then he would have been pinned down there. Instead, he threw himself to the left, into the jumble of fallen trees. He crouched behind one of the massive redwood trunks, safe for the moment from the hidden rifleman’s fire. Bullets wouldn’t ricochet among these trees, as they might have if he had taken shelter in a cluster of boulders.

Dog was right next to him, having followed his lead. Stormy and Goldy were still out in the open, though, and Frank worried that the bushwhacker might turn his gun on the horses next.

“Hyyaahh!” he shouted at them. “Get out of here, you jugheads!”

The horses turned and dashed away. They were accustomed to gunshots, but they knew how to get out of the line of fire, too.

Of course, that left Frank on foot for the moment, but that couldn’t be helped.

Staying low, he worked his way through the fallen trees, putting some distance between himself and the last place the bushwhacker had seen him, right in front of Ben Chamberlain’s cabin. The hidden gunman hadn’t fired since that first shot, but Frank’s instincts told him the man was still out there, just waiting for another crack at him.

He took his hat off so that its white crown wouldn’t give away his position, and slowly raised his head until he could peer through an open space among the tree trunks. Fifty yards was mighty long range for a handgun, but he thought that with luck and good aim, he could reach the trees on the other side of the clearing where the bushwhacker was hidden. He needed to get a little better idea of where the man was, though.

Still holding his hat in his left hand, Frank slowly raised it and moved it in a slightly jerky, up-and-down motion from right to left, as if it were on his head while he was creeping along behind the trees. It was an old trick, but the reason it had been around for so long was that it usually worked.

Another shot blasted from across the clearing. Frank flung the hat away from him like it had been hit, even though the bullet had missed. He had spotted the muzzle flash from the bushwhacker’s rifle. Of course, the man might not stay in the same place. But that was all Frank had to go by, so he lined up his shot, figuring windage and elevation and distance with the instinctive skill of a man who had been using his guns for decades and was still alive.

He squeezed the trigger.

The Colt roared and bucked in his hand. He couldn’t see where the shot landed, but the rifle across the clearing suddenly started barking rapidly, the bushwhacker triggering rounds as fast as he could work the weapon’s lever. Frank ducked lower as splinters rained around him. A grim smile tugged at his mouth. He had come close enough to shake the son of a buck up anyway.

After a couple of minutes, the rifle fell silent. Frank crawled about ten yards to his left and found another gap in the trees big enough for him to peer through. He saw a flicker of movement under the trees opposite him, and a moment later, he heard the swift rataplan of hoofbeats. The sound faded quickly into the distance.

A trick of some sort, or had the bushwhacker really lit a shuck out of there? Once Frank had forted up in the fallen trees, the man might have decided that killing him was going to be more trouble than it was worth, and riskier, too. Frank retrieved his hat and then waited where he was. Patience had kept him alive more than once during the long, rugged years.

The sun set during the next fifteen minutes. By then, the light was bad enough that Frank risked moving out from his cover behind the trees. He whistled, and Stormy and Goldy came trotting up a moment later. He grabbed Stormy’s reins and swung into the saddle.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said to his trail partners. “It’ll be dark by the time we make it to Eureka.”

Actually, it was dark well before that. Frank, Dog, and the two horses were still deep in the woods when the last of the light faded away, to be replaced by thick, shrouding shadows. Frank had been underground once in a cave where there was no light at all. It wasn’t quite that utterly dark under the trees, because a faint glow from the stars filtered down through the leafy canopy. But it was dark enough he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, and that was the truth.

He couldn’t hear anything except the hoofbeats of his horses either, as they picked their way along. He had to trust Stormy’s instincts and let the stallion find his own path, because he couldn’t see well enough to guide the horse. Luckily, the redwood branches didn’t start growing out from the trunks below a height of eighty or ninety feet, so he didn’t have to worry about an unseen branch knocking him out of the saddle.

After a while, Stormy started moving a little faster. The gray light from the stars increased, too, and when Frank tilted his head back and looked up, he could actually see some of the little glowing pinpricks in the heavens above him. The tree canopy had thinned. There was a good reason for that. Frank realized that they were on a road now, more than likely one of the logging trails that Chamberlain’s crews had cut into the forest. From what he could see of the stars, he thought he was headed northeast, which would take him toward Eureka.

Suddenly, he reined in sharply as a sound came from somewhere behind him in the towering trees where he had been until a short time earlier. It was like the howl of an animal, but he had never heard a wolf or anything else that sounded exactly like the guttural scream that floated through the forest. It went on for a long moment, finally trailing off into a series of fading, yelping cries. It wasn’t a howl of pain or anger or anything else that Frank could pin down.

All he knew was that it was one of the loneliest sounds he had ever heard.

And that he was damned glad he wasn’t back there in the woods with whatever had made it.

“Come on, horse,” he said as he heeled Stormy into motion. “Let’s get on to town.”

Eureka was a large enough settlement so that Frank saw the lights of the place well before he reached it. Located on Humboldt Bay, Eureka was the center of the logging industry in this part of northern California. Frank could tell it was a prosperous town by the number of two- and three-story brick buildings he saw as he rode down the main street. The street was paved with cobblestones. It had to be. Otherwise in this rainy climate, it would be a morass of mud most of the time.

Frank saw an impressive sign that read CHAMBERLAIN LOGGING COMPANY on an even more impressive brick building. Given the house where Rutherford Chamberlain lived, Frank was a little surprised the company headquarters wasn’t built out of redwood, too.

He could also tell that Eureka was where the loggers came when they wanted to blow off some of the steam that built up because of their grueling, perilous profession. He passed the Bull o’ the Woods Saloon, the Redwood Saloon, and the High Climber’s Saloon. A place that discreetly called itself the Woodsman’s Retreat had a red light burning in the window, so it was pretty obvious why the woodsmen retreated there. Like any boomtown, no matter whether the cause for the boom was gold, oil, or timber, Eureka was a mixture of high finance and low vice.

Frank was hungry, but he wanted to find a place for his horses and a hotel room for himself before he went looking for a café. He stopped at the first stable he came to, Patterson’s Livery and Wagon Yard. The proprietor, a stocky man with a short, reddish-brown beard, came out of the barn wiping his hands on a rag and greeted Frank with a friendly nod.

“Those are some mighty fine-lookin’ horses, mister,” he said. “You lookin’ for a place to keep ’em for the night?”

“That’s right. You have room?”

“Sure do. You’ll be gettin’ the last two empty stalls, though.”

Frank dismounted. “My dog’s used to staying with the horses. Is that all right?”

The liveryman’s eyes narrowed a little. “Is that a dog or a wolf?”

“He’s a dog,” Frank said with a chuckle. “In fact, his name is Dog.”

“Reckon I’ll take your word for it. As long as he’s tame and don’t bother the other horses, he can stay here.”

Frank nodded. “He won’t cause any trouble.”

The man reached for Stormy’s reins. “I can unsaddle for you.”

“Better let me,” Frank said with a shake of his head. “This old hellion’s been known to take a bite out of a man’s hide when he wasn’t looking. He sometimes takes a notion to kick, too.”

“One-man horse, eh? Well, you go right ahead. Plenty of grain in the bin. We didn’t talk about the price.”

“No need. I’m sure it’ll be fine. You don’t strike me as a man who’s in the habit of overcharging anybody.”

Frank led the horses along the barn’s center aisle to the two empty stalls. He unsaddled and rubbed down Stormy, then made sure that both horses had plenty of water and grain. The liveryman watched Frank tending to the animals and commented, “You take good care of those critters, mister. Treat ’em like friends.”

“They are my friends,” Frank said. “I tend to travel around a lot. Spend more time with them than anybody else.”

“I live out back. Got a soup bone in the kitchen that dog of yours can have, if that’s all right.”

Frank nodded. “We’d be obliged. And if you can point me to the best place in town to stay, and to get a good meal, I’d be obliged for that, too.”

“Sure. The Eureka House is the nicest hotel, or so I’ve heard. They’re supposed to have a good dining room, too, or you can go across the street to Harrigan’s Restaurant. Or if you don’t care about fancy and just want some good food, there’s a hash house down by the Bull o’ the Woods Saloon that’s run by a Chinaman who’s a mighty good cook. You won’t go hungry in Eureka, that’s for sure.”

“Good to know,” Frank said with a grin. “I’ve kind of gotten in the habit of eating.”

He got directions to the Eureka House, then left the stable and set off up the street carrying his saddlebags slung over his shoulder and his Winchester in his left hand. He saw a large number of wagons parked in front of various buildings, but not too many saddle horses tied up at the hitch racks. Nor did he pass many people dressed like he was. Most of the pedestrians were either townsmen or loggers. This wasn’t ranching country.

The looks that he got from the people in the lobby of the Eureka House reminded him of that as he walked toward the desk with his spurs jingling. The men wore expensive suits and had pomaded hair. The women wore gowns with bustles and had their hair piled high on their heads in elaborate arrangements of curls.

Frank didn’t care. He got the same sort of reaction every time he walked into a hotel in Denver or San Francisco, and those towns were a lot bigger than Eureka.

Still, if he told the truth, he’d have to admit that he got a little satisfaction out of the expression on the face of the clerk when he set the Winchester on the desk in front of him and said, “I’d like a room, please.”

The clerk swallowed. “Do you intend to keep that weapon in the hotel?”

“That’s right,” Frank said. “A room for me and my Winchester.”

The man turned to glance behind him. “I’m not sure if we have anything available…”

Frank saw several keys hanging on their pegs. “I’ll bet you do,” he said. He took a fifty-dollar gold piece out of his pocket and slapped it on the desk. “Why don’t you check and see?”

The man’s eyes widened at the sight of the coin. He pretended to turn and look again, then said, “Why, ah, I believe we do have a room available, sir.”

“I thought you might,” Frank said dryly.

The clerk turned the register around. Frank signed his name, and in the space for where he was from, he wrote San Francisco. That wasn’t exactly true—he wasn’t really from anywhere anymore, since he was always on the drift—but some of his lawyers had offices in San Francisco, so that was as good a place to put down as any.

“Will you be staying with us long, Mister…” The clerk checked the register. “Morgan?”

“That depends. Keep that fifty and let me know if it runs out.”

“Of course. Do you have a preference as far as rooms go? We have one overlooking the street…”

So now the hombre was asking his preferences. The sight of a gold coin usually made quite a difference.

“If you have anything on the back, I’d rather be there. Quieter, you know.”

“Yes, sir, certainly. Room Twelve should do you nicely.” The clerk took the key and handed it to Frank. “Do you need any help with your, ah, belongings?”

“No, thanks.” Frank picked up the Winchester. “I reckon I can manage.”

“All right then. Take the stairs to the balcony and go along it to a hallway. You’ll find Room Twelve down that corridor.”

“Much obliged.”

“We have an excellent dining room, if you haven’t eaten.”

Frank nodded. “I’ve heard about that. But I was thinking maybe I’d try the Chinaman’s hash house instead.”

He ought to be ashamed of himself, he thought as he turned toward the stairs, hoorawing the poor, pasty-faced gent like that.

He had just started up the stairs when the clerk stopped him by calling, “Mr. Morgan?”

Frank turned. “Yeah?”

“Frank Morgan?” From the sound of it, the man hadn’t really paid much attention to his name until now.

“That’s right.”

The man reached down to a shelf under the desk. Frank tensed. His right hand never strayed far from the butt of his Colt. Now he was ready to hook and draw if the clerk brought a gun out from under the desk.

Instead of a gun, the man waved a small, thin book with a gaudy yellow cover in the air. “This Frank Morgan?”

“Oh, Lord,” Frank muttered. “Are they still putting those things out?”

“Yes, sir. This is the new one. The Drifter and the Battle of Tonto Basin—”

“Those stories are all made up,” Frank broke in. “I’ve been to the Tonto Basin, but I don’t recall any battle while I was there.”

That wasn’t strictly true, but he was sure whoever had written that dime novel had done a heap of exaggerating and embellishing.

“But you are Frank Morgan, the famous gunfighter. I knew you were in the area. I heard some men talking about you earlier this evening.” The clerk could barely contain his excitement now. “You’ve come to hunt down and kill the Terror of the Redwoods!”

He had told Rutherford Chamberlain to spread the word, Frank thought wryly. Obviously, the timber magnate had done so. Maybe that would put a stop to a bunch of trigger-happy monster hunters blundering around the woods, shooting at each other and anything else that moved.

“I’m here on business,” he said to the clerk. “My business. Understand?”

“Yes, sir!”

Frank just shook his head and went on up the stairs. He had been dealing with fame—or rather, notoriety—for a long time now, and he didn’t like it any better than he had when he first started getting a reputation as a fast gun.

He found his room, which appeared to be very comfortably furnished with a four-poster bed, dressing table, mahogany wardrobe, and a couple of armchairs. After washing up with the water in the basin on the dressing table, he left his saddlebags and rifle in the wardrobe and started back downstairs. He didn’t think he would need the Winchester just to eat at the Chinaman’s place.

When he reached the lobby, the clerk he had talked to only a few minutes earlier wasn’t there anymore. He’d been replaced by an older man with thinning black hair and a mustache. Frank didn’t ask where the other clerk had gone. The fella was probably out telling anybody who would listen to him how the infamous Frank Morgan was staying at the hotel.

Frank stepped out onto the porch and turned toward the Bull o’ the Woods Saloon, the location of which he had noted earlier as he rode in. The proprietor over at the livery stable had said that the hash house was next to the saloon. Frank hadn’t gone very far, though, when a man who’d been crossing the street stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

“Hold it right there, Morgan,” the man snapped as his hand hovered over the butt of his gun. “You and me got some business to take care of.”