nothin’ by it.”
“I’ll bet Amos is wondering where you are.”
“I’ll go on along down there to the stable…in a few minutes.”
Frank knew what the hostler meant. He was going to stay right here to see what was going to happen. If anybody died this morning, Vern Robeson wasn’t going to miss it. And that was his right, Frank supposed. Vern wasn’t breaking any law by standing on the boardwalk.
Frank pushed the batwings aside and stepped into the saloon. Catamount Jack was right behind him. Every nerve in Frank’s body was alert, every muscle taut and ready for action. It was always possible in a situation like this that the men who were waiting for him might slap leather and start their guns blazing as soon as he walked into the room.
They didn’t, though. In fact, the two young men standing at the bar didn’t even realize he was there until they saw Willie Carter, the only bartender working at this time of the morning, looking intently at the door. Even then, they leisurely finished the drinks in front of them before they turned to face The Drifter.
Instantly, Frank saw the resemblance between them. They were brothers, probably no more than two or three years apart in age. Sleekly built, flashily dressed, handsome in a cheap way. Saloon gals probably fawned all over them. And when they grinned, the expressions reeked of arrogant confidence.
“Well, if it ain’t the marshal,” the older one said.
“See, Rand?” the younger one said. “I told you he wouldn’t be scared to face us…even though he oughta be.”
“You were right, Brock. I figured Frank Morgan was so old that he would’ve lost all his guts by now.”
“If he ever had any to start with. Maybe he backshot all those fellas he’s supposed to’ve killed. I mean, jus’ look at him. I wouldn’t put it past him, would you?”
Rand shook his head. “Nope. I reckon he never was any more’n a puffed-up bag o’ shit.”
Frank laughed, causing both brothers to look surprised. He couldn’t help it. They had probably rehearsed those lines before they ever rode into town.
His reaction had thrown them off stride. They were confused and angry now.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” the one called Rand snapped. “You gone soft in the head, Morgan?”
“Nope,” Frank said. “I’ve just heard that sort of garbage so many times, for so many years, that it just sounds foolish to me now. What do you reckon every would-be gunslick does when he decides to face me down? He tries to needle me into drawing, just like you two are doing. He tries to get under my skin, to make me mad, to make me careless.” Frank shook his head. “It’s never worked that way before, and it’s not going to work now.” He chuckled again. “But you boys go right ahead with whatever routine you’ve worked out. You might get me to laughing so hard that it might just give you a little bit of an advantage. I don’t think so, but you never know.”
“Why…why you crazy old fart!” Rand sputtered. “Don’t you know who we are?”
“He’s Rand Johnson, and I’m Brock Johnson,” the younger brother said. “We’re the Johnson brothers!”
Without looking around, Frank asked, “Those names mean anything to you, Jack?”
“Not a damned thing,” the deputy replied. “I never heard of ’em. But then, I can’t keep up with every loco kid who thinks he’s fast with a gun.”
“I killed Sammy Carlisle!” Rand said. “And Brock gunned Wichita McHenry and Pete Cragg! We’re gonna be more famous than Frank and Jesse James or the Daltons!”
“I think I sorta heard o’ that McHenry fella,” Jack said, “but I ain’t sure.”
“I saw Pete Cragg in Yankton a few years back,” Frank said. “He was a two-bit owlhoot and slow as mud on the draw. Carlisle’s a new one on me. He must not have been around for very long.”
Both of the Johnson brothers were red in the face with fury now.
“Quit your jabberin’, damn it!” Brock said. “You’ll know who we are when you got our lead in your carcass, blast you! Now fill your hand, Morgan!”
Frank shook his head. His joking demeanor was gone as he said, “I don’t want to kill you, son. But that’s what’s going to happen to you and your brother both if you don’t get on your horses and ride out of here right now. What you’re doing is foolishness, sheer foolishness, and I don’t want any part of it. Go find somebody else to kill you, if you’re that determined to die.”
For a moment, he thought they were going to listen to him. He thought this might be one of the rare occasions when his words actually got through those lying dreams of fame and glory that had led many a young man to the grave.
But then Rand and Brock Johnson both snarled and grabbed for their guns, clawing the weapons out of their holsters.
Frank had no way of knowing which one was faster. Brock claimed two kills while Rand had mentioned only one, so Frank took him down first, smashing a slug into Brock’s chest that caused the young man to stumble back against the bar.
Then, faster than the eye could follow, the muzzle of Frank’s Colt tracked to the right and spewed flaming death once again. Rand was moving and trying to bring his gun up as Frank fired, so the bullet hit him on the right side of the chest instead of dead center in his heart. It tore through his lung, though, and instantly filled that organ with blood. Rand gasped in shock and pain as he began drowning in it. He managed to stay on his feet and tried again to raise his gun.
Frank fired a third shot, and this time the bullet found Rand’s heart, putting an end to his suffering as he crumpled to the floor. The sawdust that normally soaked up spilled beer caught the crimson stream that flowed from the young man’s mouth instead.
Brock was still on his feet, leaning against the bar. He should have gone down by now, but somehow he had found the strength to stay upright. His gun slipped from nerveless fingers and thudded to the floor as he gasped, “You…you…nobody’s that…fast!”
“That was your mistake, son,” Frank told him. “Somebody, somewhere, is always that fast.”
Brock’s eyes rolled up in their sockets, and he pitched forward on his face, dead when he hit the floor.
“Son of a gun,” Catamount Jack breathed. “Neither of ’em even got a shot off! Not that I was expectin’ ’em to,” he added hastily.
Frank took fresh cartridges from the loops on his gunbelt and replaced the spent rounds in the Colt’s cylinder.
“I imagine somebody’s gone to fetch Claude Langley already,” he said, “but if they haven’t…”
“I’ll take care of it,” Jack said.
Frank holstered his gun and looked at Carter behind the bar.
“Sorry, Willie. I’d just as soon not kill people in here if I didn’t have to.”
“It’s all right, Marshal.
