“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 his exertions, he said, “You…recognized me.”
“That’s right. Cobb’s damned lucky he just tried to thrash you. If he’d thrown down on you, you probably would’ve killed him. Better a beating than a bullet in the heart.”
One of the other guards said, “Rockwell, who the hell is this jasper? You act like you know him.”
The man called Rockwell shook his head. “No, we never met, but he was pointed out to me one night in a saloon in Fort Worth. His name’s Frank Morgan.”
“Morgan!” Several men muttered in surprise. The one who had exclaimed said, “You mean the gunfighter?”
“One and the same,” Rockwell said.
Another man let out a whistle. “You’re right. Cobb’s lucky to be alive.”
Frank went over to Stormy and got his hat from the saddle. He put it on and then buckled the gun belt around his hips. He paused to rub Dog’s ears. The big cur had stayed right where Frank had told him to stay, even during the fight. He had probably growled a few times, though, frustrated that he couldn’t tear into Cobb.
A couple of the guards had dismounted. They reached down, took hold of Cobb’s arms, and lifted him to his feet. He sagged in their grip, and would have fallen if they hadn’t been supporting him, but he was starting to come around now. He gave a groggy shake of his head and moaned.
“Come on,” Rockwell said to Frank. “I’ll take you up to the house. I think you knocked all the fight out of Cobb, but it’ll be simpler if you’re already inside when he wakes up good.”
Frank nodded. He picked up the horses’ reins and motioned for Dog to follow him.
