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THE LAST GUNFIGHTER
SUDDEN FURY
William W. Johnstone
with J. A. Johnstone
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
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
