style="font-size:15px;"> For that same reason, he kept his hands in plain sight, well away from his guns. These men were Rutherford Chamberlain’s bodyguards, he told himself, and they were just doing their job. With all the mysterious and deadly things going on in the forest these days, you couldn’t blame them for being suspicious of strangers.
It went against the grain, though, for him to have guns pointed at him and not do something about it. That was just part of who he was.
“Take it easy, gents,” Frank said in a loud, clear voice as the men on horseback surrounded him. “I’m plumb peaceable.”
“Who are you?” one of the men demanded. “What are you doing here?”
Frank answered the second question. “I’m looking for Mr. Chamberlain. I just want to talk to him.”
The spokesman, who had an ugly, rawboned face and straw-colored hair under a black Stetson, sneered and said, “Well, he don’t want to talk to you.”
“Maybe you should ask him about that,” Frank suggested.
The sneer didn’t go away. It just got uglier. “Yeah, maybe you should just go to hell.”
“I still haven’t told you who I am.”
“I’ve decided it don’t matter. I can tell by lookin’ at you that you’re just some old saddle tramp, and Mr. Chamberlain ain’t got time for trash like you.” The man jerked a thumb toward the road. “Vamoose.”
Frank knew that he ought to just tell this man who he was. Most likely, the name Frank Morgan would open the door of the mansion.
But he was just stubborn enough not to do that. This hombre’s arrogance had gotten under his skin, and he knew it would be like a burr under a saddle if he didn’t do something about it.
He pressed his heels against Stormy’s flanks. The horse moved forward.
The leader of the guards jumped his mount ahead to block Frank’s path. “Are you loco, mister?” he yelled. “You get outta here right now or you’re gonna be sorry.”
“I’m going to talk to Chamberlain, and you’re not going to stop me,” Frank said.
“There are eight of us—” the man began.
“No,” Frank cut in, “I said you’re not going to stop me.”
The man’s face flushed a dark, angry red. “Why, you son of a bitch!” he burst out. “You think I’m scared of you?”
One of the other men spoke up, saying, “Cobb, maybe you better be careful. I don’t like the looks of this hombre.”
“I don’t either,” Cobb snapped. “That’s why I intend to change ’em a mite.” He glared at Frank. “Get down off your horse, mister.”
“Before I do, I want your word that this is between you and me,” Frank said. “And I don’t want any of your men bothering my dog or my horses either. If they try, they’ll be sorry.”
Cobb waved a hand impatiently. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, mister.”
“I have your word?”
“Hell, yeah!” Cobb looked around at the other guards. “You fellas stay out of it, hear?”
“I’ll be glad to,” said the man who had spoken earlier. He was looking intently at Frank, as if he recognized him. Frank thought that was possible. These guards all had the look of tough, hard-bitten hombres, the sort of men who traveled in the same circles he did.
Cobb swung down from his saddle, unbuckled his gun belt, and hung it on the saddle horn. He put his hat on top of it. He was a couple of inches taller than Frank, but probably packed about the same amount of weight on his rangy frame. He wore a white shirt, a black vest, and black leather wrist cuffs.
Frank dismounted as well and removed his gun and hat. Cobb gestured at the bowie knife on Frank’s left hip and said, “Get rid of that pigsticker, too.”
Frank slid the fringed sheath off his belt and tucked it and the knife in his saddlebags. “Just so we’re clear,” he said, “once I’ve gotten past you, your friends won’t stop me from going on up to the house, right?”
“You won’t get past me,” Cobb said with a grin.
“But if I do—”
“Yeah, yeah. Let him talk to the boss, boys, if the boss is willin’ to see him.” Cobb looked at Frank. “I can’t promise any more than that.”
“Fair enough,” Frank said.
He hadn’t gotten the words completely out of his mouth before Cobb let out a yell and charged him. The man was fast, but Frank was able to twist out of his way. As Cobb stumbled past, Frank hit him on the ear. It was only a glancing blow, but it must have stung. Cobb bellowed and swung around with a look of rage on his face. He threw a looping punch at Frank’s head.
Frank blocked it, stepped in, and landed a hard right on Cobb’s sternum. The blow rocked Cobb back a step and set him up for the left hook that Frank exploded on his jaw. Cobb went to one knee, a look of stunned surprise on his ugly face. Clearly, he hadn’t expected Frank to land the first three punches.
With another angry roar, Cobb came up from the ground and launched himself into a diving tackle with his arms spread wide. Frank couldn’t avoid the lunge. Cobb wrapped an arm around his thighs and drove him backward off his feet.
When Frank hit the ground, the impact knocked the air out of his lungs. He gasped for breath and rolled to the side to avoid Cobb’s knee as Cobb tried to plant it in his groin. Frank brought his elbow back and clipped his opponent on the jaw with it.
Some of the other men yelled encouragement to Cobb, but most of them just sat silently on their horses, watching the fight. They made no move to interfere, though, and that was all Frank cared about where they were concerned. He twisted around, got his left hand on Cobb’s throat, and bounced the man’s head off the ground.
Cobb brought his left up and for the first time landed a punch cleanly. The knobby fist crashed into the side of Frank’s head and sent him sprawling. That brought more shouts from Cobb’s friends. Cobb dove after Frank, who rolled onto his back and managed to get his right leg up in time to drive the heel of his boot into Cobb’s belly. Cobb’s weight and momentum made the boot heel sink deeply into his midsection. He went “Oooff!” and doubled over.
Frank reached up, grabbed Cobb’s vest, and hauled hard on it at the same time as he levered the man into the air on his leg. Cobb sailed through the air over Frank’s head and crashed onto the ground. It was his turn to gasp for breath now. Frank had recovered his. He flipped over, landed on Cobb, and slugged him on the jaw again. Pinning his opponent to the ground with a knee in his belly, Frank hit Cobb twice more, a left and then a piledriver right. Cobb’s head lolled loosely on his neck as he lay there on his back with his arms and legs spraddled out.
“If you’re thinking about hitting him again, Morgan, I wouldn’t. He’s out.”
Frank looked up at the man who had tried to warn Cobb. Chest heaving a little from
