The Last Gunfighter

“Good to know,” Frank said with a grin. “I’ve kind of gotten in the habit of eating.”

He got directions to the Eureka House, then left the stable and set off up the street carrying his saddlebags slung over his shoulder and his Winchester in his left hand. He saw a large number of wagons parked in front of various buildings, but not too many saddle horses tied up at the hitch racks. Nor did he pass many people dressed like he was. Most of the pedestrians were either townsmen or loggers. This wasn’t ranching country.

The looks that he got from the people in the lobby of the Eureka House reminded him of that as he walked toward the desk with his spurs jingling. The men wore expensive suits and had pomaded hair. The women wore gowns with bustles and had their hair piled high on their heads in elaborate arrangements of curls.

Frank didn’t care. He got the same sort of reaction every time he walked into a hotel in Denver or San Francisco, and those towns were a lot bigger than Eureka.

Still, if he told the truth, he’d have to admit that he got a little satisfaction out of the expression on the face of the clerk when he set the Winchester on the desk in front of him and said, “I’d like a room, please.”

The clerk swallowed. “Do you intend to keep that weapon in the hotel?”

“That’s right,” Frank said. “A room for me and my Winchester.”

The man turned to glance behind him. “I’m not sure if we have anything available…”

Frank saw several keys hanging on their pegs. “I’ll bet you do,” he said. He took a fifty-dollar gold piece out of his pocket and slapped it on the desk. “Why don’t you check and see?”

The man’s eyes widened at the sight of the coin. He pretended to turn and look again, then said, “Why, ah, I believe we do have a room available, sir.”

“I thought you might,” Frank said dryly.

The clerk turned the register around. Frank signed his name, and in the space for where he was from, he wrote San Francisco. That wasn’t exactly true—he wasn’t really from anywhere anymore, since he was always on the drift—but some of his lawyers had offices in San Francisco, so that was as good a place to put down as any.

“Will you be staying with us long, Mister…” The clerk checked the register. “Morgan?”

“That depends. Keep that fifty and let me know if it runs out.”

“Of course. Do you have a preference as far as rooms go? We have one overlooking the street…”

So now the hombre was asking his preferences. The sight of a gold coin usually made quite a difference.

“If you have anything on the back, I’d rather be there. Quieter, you know.”

“Yes, sir, certainly. Room Twelve should do you nicely.” The clerk took the key and handed it to Frank. “Do you need any help with your, ah, belongings?”

“No, thanks.” Frank picked up the Winchester. “I reckon I can manage.”

“All right then. Take the stairs to the balcony and go along it to a hallway. You’ll find Room Twelve down that corridor.”

“Much obliged.”

“We have an excellent dining room, if you haven’t eaten.”

Frank nodded. “I’ve heard about that. But I was thinking maybe I’d try the Chinaman’s hash house instead.”

He ought to be ashamed of himself, he thought as he turned toward the stairs, hoorawing the poor, pasty-faced gent like that.

He had just started up the stairs when the clerk stopped him by calling, “Mr. Morgan?”

Frank turned. “Yeah?”

“Frank Morgan?” From the sound of it, the man hadn’t really paid much attention to his name until now.

“That’s right.”

The man reached down to a shelf under the desk. Frank tensed. His right hand never strayed far from the butt of his Colt. Now he was ready to hook and draw if the clerk brought a gun out from under the desk.

Instead of a gun, the man waved a small, thin book with a gaudy yellow cover in the air. “This Frank Morgan?”

“Oh, Lord,” Frank muttered. “Are they still putting those things out?”

“Yes, sir. This is the new one. The Drifter and the Battle of Tonto Basin—”

“Those stories are all made up,” Frank broke in. “I’ve been to the Tonto Basin, but I don’t recall any battle while I was there.”

That wasn’t strictly true, but he was sure whoever had written that dime novel had done a heap of exaggerating and embellishing.

“But you are Frank Morgan, the famous gunfighter. I knew you were in the area. I heard some men talking about you earlier this evening.” The clerk could barely contain his excitement now. “You’ve come to hunt down and kill the Terror of the Redwoods!”

He had told Rutherford Chamberlain to spread the word, Frank thought wryly. Obviously, the timber magnate had done so. Maybe that would put a stop to a bunch of trigger-happy monster hunters blundering around the woods, shooting at each other and anything else that moved.

“I’m here on business,” he said to the clerk. “My business. Understand?”

“Yes, sir!”