Sudden Fury

Chapter 1

Gunshots, then screams.

Both sounds were enough to make Frank Morgan rein in sharply as they came to his ears through the forest. Towering, thick-trunked redwoods surrounded him. The trees muffled sounds somewhat, but Frank heard the shots, followed by terrified shrieking, clearly enough so that he knew they were close by. He reached for the butt of the Winchester that jutted up from a sheath strapped to Stormy’s saddle.

The rangy gray horse stood calmly as Frank pulled the rifle from the saddle boot. Stormy had been one of Frank Morgan’s trail partners for a long time now, along with the big, wolflike cur known only as Dog. The horse was used to the sound of gunfire.

He would have to be, considering that Frank Morgan was the notorious gunfighter known as The Drifter.

Frank had drifted here to the redwood country of northern California from Los Angeles. A dustup down in those parts had left him hankering for some peace and quiet, so he had meandered northward along the coastline. In the back of his mind was a vague plan—the only kind he made these days—to visit Oregon, maybe even mosey on up to Washington. But he wasn’t going to get in any hurry about it.

Judging by the violent sounds he heard, he was going to be delayed at least a little while. He wasn’t the sort of man who could turn his back on trouble and just ride away. Never had been, never would be.

More shots banged, from both rifles and pistols. The yelling and screaming continued, too. Frank dug the heels of his boots into Stormy’s flanks and sent the big horse trotting forward. Goldy, Frank’s other horse, followed along behind, while Dog loped ahead, nose to the ground and growls coming from his thickly furred throat.

Frank couldn’t ride too fast. He had to weave around the redwoods, most of which were at least fifteen feet wide at the base. Some of the giant trees were as much as twenty-five feet wide, or even larger in isolated cases. They were certainly the biggest trees Frank had ever seen in all his long years of wandering.

Two more shots blasted, followed by another scream, and then an eerie silence fell over the forest. That quiet was more ominous than the noises had been. All the birds and small animals had fled as soon as the racket started.

They were probably the smart ones, Frank reflected with a wry smile.

He slowed Stormy to a walk. If whoever caused that ruckus was still up there ahead of him, there was no point in allowing galloping hoofbeats to announce his arrival.

He smelled smoke, and then something else—coffee, he realized after a second. Crews of loggers worked in this forest, felling and trimming the massive trees so that they could be hauled off to mills where they would be sawed into millions of board feet of lumber. That lumber was destined for the homes and businesses of the civilization that had spread pretty much from one end of the continent to the other, leaving only pockets of wilderness untouched. Maybe he was coming up on a logging camp, Frank thought.

Dog had gotten so far ahead by now that the big cur had vanished. Frank wasn’t worried too much. Dog could take care of himself.

But whatever had prompted those men to scream like that had to be pretty bad. Maybe he was a little worried after all, Frank decided. He pushed Stormy to a faster pace.

A few minutes later, they broke out into a clearing. Huge stumps here and there told him where trees had been felled. Several large tents were set up around the clearing. Someone had dug a large fire pit in the center and ringed it with stones. Folks who lived in the woods had to be mighty careful with fire. A blaze that got out of hand in a forest like this could burn for days and consume hundreds of thousands of acres. There was already enough danger of fire from lightning strikes without adding to it with carelessness.

A small fire crackled in the pit. A coffeepot perched on a metal grate above the flames. To one side sat a large frying pan with some bacon and biscuits in it. The men who’d made this camp had been preparing a midday meal.

They’d never have to worry about that again. They were all dead, their bodies scattered around the clearing.

Frank’s jaw tightened as he reined Stormy to a halt. His mouth was a grim line. He looked around the gore-splattered clearing and tried to figure out how many men had died here. He put the number at six, although it was hard to be sure because they appeared to have been torn limb from limb.

Frank had seen plenty of violent death in his life, but he wasn’t sure he had ever come across anything like this before. He had heard stories about how grizzly bears could maul men until they barely looked human. As he gazed in horror around the clearing, his first thought was that a bear must have done this.

But it would take a grizzly to wreak such destruction, and he didn’t think they lived in this part of the country. There were black bears in California, but he doubted if one of those smaller bears could have killed six men. A black bear might have mauled one or two men, but those gunshots Frank had heard would have brought it down.

“Dog, come away from there,” he called as the big cur nosed around the torn-up bodies. Still holding the Winchester, he swung down from the saddle and studied Stormy and Goldy. The horses were a mite skittish, but that was probably from the coppery smell of freshly spilled blood that filled the air. They would be spooked even more if they were picking up bear scent, Frank thought. And Dog would be growling. Dog was curious about what had happened here, but the thick ruff of fur around his neck wasn’t standing up as it would have been if he’d smelled a bear or some other immediate danger.

Because of that, Frank knew that whatever had done this was gone. He walked over to take a closer look at the bodies.

The men were still clad in blood-soaked clothing. Frank studied the boots that had metal calks on their soles, the thick canvas trousers, and the woolen shirts, and he knew he was looking at loggers. The saws and axes and other gear scattered around the camp testified to that fact as well. He saw several pistols and a couple of rifles lying on the ground where the men had dropped them. The guns hadn’t saved them.

Dog lifted his head and growled. Somebody was coming. Frank swung around in time to see four men burst out of the woods, each of them carrying a long-handled, double-bitted ax.

They stopped short and stared in shock at the horrible scene laid out before them. They were dressed the same as the dead men, with the addition of caps or narrow-brimmed hats. A couple wore holstered guns strapped high on their waists. After a moment, all four men slowly came forward into the clearing, gazing around at the corpses as if they couldn’t believe what they were seeing.

Finally, one of them lifted stunned eyes to Frank and demanded, “Mister, did you do this?”

Frank shook his head. “Do you really think one man could do this?” he asked. “I heard the shots and the screams and rode up to see what was going on. I imagine the same thing brought you fellas here. Did you know these men?”

“Yeah, we knew ’em,” replied a broad-shouldered man with a bushy mustache that drooped over his mouth. “We were all part of the same crew.”

“Then I’m sorry you lost your friends. Do you have any idea what might have happened?”

“The Terror,” another man said.

“Yeah,” a third man croaked. “The Terror of the Redwoods.”

A frown creased Frank’s forehead. “What’s that?” he asked. “Some kind of animal?”

“It’s not an animal, mister,” the first man said with a shake of his head. In an awed voice, he went on. “It’s a monster.”

Frank’s frown deepened. Stories about various monsters that were supposed to live in the West, like the Sasquatch and the Wendigo, were common, but he had never really believed in them.

He was about to say as much when he heard hoofbeats approaching the clearing. Those gunshots had drawn a lot of attention. As Frank turned toward the sound of horses, three men rode into the clearing.

These newcomers were dressed very differently from the loggers. They wore range clothes and broad-brimmed Stetsons. They had gun belts strapped around their hips and thonged to their thighs, and they carried Winchesters as well. Frank recognized the sort of men they were: gun-throwers, hardcases…hombres much like himself.

Frank Morgan was middle-aged, a powerfully built man of medium height. The crisp dark hair under his high-crowned hat was shot through with silver threads. His face was too rugged to be called handsome, but it was the sort of face a lot of women looked at twice. He wore a butternut shirt, faded denim trousers, and boots aged to a comfortable fit. A Colt .45 Peacemaker rode in a plain brown holster on his right hip. A bowie knife with a staghorn handle rested in a fringed sheath on his left hip. The fringe was the only thing about Frank Morgan that could be considered even remotely gaudy. He was a simple man with relatively simple needs.

The most overwhelming of which was to stay alive, because there were plenty of people west of the Mississippi who wanted the man called The Drifter dead.

Born and raised in Texas, Frank had returned to the Lone Star State after the Civil War as a young cowboy, figuring he would spend the rest of his life working on a ranch, only to discover that he possessed a natural talent for drawing a gun and firing it accurately faster than most men could blink. Even though he’d never intended to become a gunfighter, once his boots were set on that path, there was no getting off it. Lord knows he had tried from time to time.

But there were simply too many men, young and old, who wanted to match their speed and prowess with a gun against his. He had been forced to defend himself, and with each would-be conqueror who fell before his gun, the legend of The Drifter grew. Folks spoke his name in the same breath as Smoke Jensen, John Wesley Hardin, Ben Thompson, Falcon MacCallister, Matt Bodine, and all the other famous shootists. He couldn’t shake the reputation that clung to him, and so he was forced to kill again and again.

The years had rolled by, turned into decades. He had married, tried to settle down. It hadn’t worked. Violence had always reared its ugly head, often with tragic results. Now, thirty years after that young cowboy had returned to Texas from the war, he was alone, and he had vowed to himself that he would stay that way. Never again would he put anyone else’s life at risk by becoming close to them. He had lost Vivian and Dixie, he had lost his friends in the town of Buckskin…From here on out, The Drifter would just…drift.

He faced the riders who had just entered the clearing. One of them gestured toward the bloody corpses and said, “By jingo! The Terror did this, didn’t it?”

“That’s right, mister,” the man who seemed to be the spokesman for the loggers replied. “You fellas are huntin’ the damned thing, aren’t you?”

“Damned right we are. We’re gonna collect that bounty.”

The word “bounty” made Frank’s jaw clench again. More than once, someone had placed a bounty on his head, most recently an old enemy from back East. He didn’t like the idea of blood money, even when the fugitive in question deserved to face justice.

“Who’s put out a bounty?” he asked.

All seven of the men looked at him as if the question surprised them. “Haven’t you heard about it, mister?” one of the loggers asked.

Frank shook his head. “I just rode into these parts today.”

“Well, the Terror’s been around here for months now, scarin’ folks. When it started killin’ people, though, Mr. Chamberlain put out the word that there’d be a big reward for whoever kills it.”

“Who’s Chamberlain?” The name was vaguely familiar to Frank, but he couldn’t place it.

That question made the men stare at him, too. Finally, one of the loggers said, “Rutherford Chamberlain, the timber baron. He owns the lease on these woods for miles around. It’s his men who have been killed, so he said that he’d pay ten thousand dollars for the Terror’s head.”

Frank knew now why he had recognized Chamberlain’s name. He had seen it on various documents his lawyers had shown him one time when he visited their offices in San Francisco. No one would think it to look at him, but Frank Morgan was one of the richest men in the country. He had inherited half of the far-flung business empire founded by his late wife, Vivian Browning. The Browning holdings included some logging interests. Frank had never cared about business, and money mattered to him only as long as he had enough to keep him in supplies, so he trusted his attorneys to take care of everything for him. It was possible that he owned stock in Chamberlain’s company. It was equally possible that he and Chamberlain were competitors. Frank didn’t know and didn’t care.

One of the gunmen who had ridden into the clearing had been staring at Frank with even more interest than the others, and now he said, “By jingo, I know who you are, fella! You’re Frank Morgan!”

The man’s habitual exclamation told Frank who he was, too. “And you’re Jingo Reed,” he said.

Reed’s lips peeled back from prominent teeth in a grin. “You’ve heard of me, have you?”

“Wait a minute,” one of the other hardcases said. “You mean that’s the hombre they call The Drifter?”

“He sure is,” Reed said. “I saw you gun down the McClatchey brothers in Flagstaff a few years ago, Morgan. You were mighty fast…but I reckon I’m faster.”

Frank sighed. He figured he knew what was coming, but he hoped he was wrong.

“Hey, Jingo,” one of Reed’s companions said. “We need to get on the trail of that monster. I want that ten-grand reward.”

“I do, too, but the varmint’ll wait.” Reed licked his lips. “I got somethin’ just as big right here.”

“Don’t do it, Jingo,” Frank warned. “I’m not looking for any trouble with you.”

Reed grinned. “That’s the way life is, Morgan…Trouble comes at you whether you’re lookin’ for it or not.”

And with that, he clawed at the gun on his hip, his hand moving with blinding speed.