'Yes.' Frank smiled. 'My side lost.'
'We all lost in that mess.'
'I reckon so. Thanks, mister.'
'Take care, Mr. Morgan.'
Frank rode out, heading toward the northwest, his growing reputation right behind him....
--------
*Three*
Frank rode on toward the north and tried to put old memories behind him. But there were too many memories, too many bloody shoot-outs, too many killings, too many easy women with powder and paint on their faces and shrill laughter that Frank could still hear in his dreams.
And of course, there was that one special woman.
Her name was Vivian. Frank had met her in the town of Denver early in '66, and had been taken by her charm and beauty. Frank was a very handsome young man, and Viv had been equally smitten by him. She was the daughter of a businessman and lay preacher.
Frank was working at the time on a ranch in the area, and doing his best to stay out of any gun trouble.
Theirs was a whirlwind courtship, and they were married just a few months after meeting. Viv's father did not like Frank, and he made no attempt to hide that dislike. But after the wedding, Frank felt there was little Viv's father could do except try to make the best of it.
Frank was wrong.
Six months after their marriage, Frank found himself facing a drifter hunting trouble.
'I heard about you, Morgan,' the drifter said. 'And I think it's all poppycock and balderdash.'
'Think what you want to think,' Frank told him. 'I have no quarrel with you.'
'You do now.'
There were no witnesses to the affair. The drifter had braced Frank on a lonesome stretch of range miles from town. Frank had been resting after a morning of brush-popping cattle out of a huge thicket. He was tired, and so was his horse.
'How'd you know I was working out here?' Frank asked.
'I heard in town. I asked about you.'
'No one in town knew.'
'You callin' me a liar?'
'This isn't adding up, friend.'
'I ain't your friend, Morgan. I come to kill you, and that's what I aim to do.'
'Who paid you to brace me?'
The drifter smiled. 'You better make your mind up to stand and deliver, Morgan. 'cause if you don't, I'm gonna gut-shoot you and leave you out here so's the crows and buzzards can eat your eyes.'
'That isn't going to happen, friend. Now back off and ride out of here.'
'I keep tellin' you, Morgan, I ain't your friend.'
'Tell me who paid you to do this madness.'
The drifter smiled. 'On the count of three, you better hook and draw, Morgan. One -- '
'Don't do this, friend.'
'Two -- '
'I don't want to kill you!'
'Three!'
The drifter never even cleared leather. As his hand dropped and curled around the butt of his pistol, Frank's Colt roared under the hot summer sun. The drifter's mouth dropped open in a grotesque grimace of pain and surprise as Frank's bullet ripped into his chest. He dropped his pistol and stared at Frank for a couple of seconds, then slumped to his knees.
Frank walked the few paces to stand over the dying man. 'Who paid you to do this?'
'Damn, but you're quick,' the drifter gasped. 'I heard you was mighty fast, but I just didn't believe it.'
'Who paid you?' Frank persisted, hoping the name would not be the one he suspected.
But it was.
'Henson,' the drifter said. 'Preacher Henson.' Then he fell over on his face in the dust.
Vivian's father.
Frank turned the man over. He was still breathing. 'How much did he pay you to brace me?'
'Five hundred dollars,' the drifter gasped. Then his eyes began losing their brightness.
