“You’re the talk of the town tonight. Some people are glad that a man with your reputation is going after the Terror, while others are upset that Mr. Chamberlain isn’t offering that ten-thousand-dollar bounty anymore. And some of the loggers think that it would be better to have a lot of people hunting the monster, instead of just one man.”
“What do you think, Mr. Lee?”
The man shrugged. “Until that so-called Terror comes in here and sits down at my counter, it’s not really any of my business, is it?”
“It can’t be good for your trade if it starts to cut into the logging that’s going on around here.”
“That hasn’t happened…yet.”
But it would eventually, Frank thought, if the men who worked in the woods kept dying. That was something to ponder.
He wasn’t in much of a mood for pondering at the moment, though. He’d been shot at several times today, as well as having that ruckus with Cobb at Chamberlain’s redwood mansion. All he wanted to do right now was sit here and eat some of Mrs. Lee’s excellent beef stew and corn bread.
Lee moved off along the counter to refill other coffee cups, leaving Frank alone with his meal. For the next few minutes, he ate with great enjoyment.
He should have known the peaceful respite wouldn’t last. It had been his experience that they never did. Because of that, he wasn’t really surprised when the door of the hash house opened and several men clumped into the long, narrow room. Frank glanced at them, saw that three of the newcomers were dressed in range clothes, while the other three were loggers.
“Morgan,” said one of the men in range garb, “I want to talk to you.”
This hombre didn’t have a badge like Marshal Price, so Frank didn’t see any good reason to talk to him. He spooned more stew into his mouth, took a bite of the corn bread.
The man who had spoken took a step closer. “Damn it, I’m talkin’ to you, Morgan. You deaf?”
Without looking at the man, Frank said, “I just want to enjoy my supper, friend, and having to kill you would put a serious crimp in those plans.”
“Why, you—”
Even though Frank seemed casual, didn’t even appear to be paying any attention to the man, the slightest move toward a gun would have sent him into a blur of deadly motion. Instead, one of the other men stepped forward and brushed the belligerent one back.
“Take it easy, Dawson. I’ll handle this.”
He was the biggest of the bunch, even bigger than the burly loggers. Long, dark red hair fell from under a high- crowned brown Stetson, and he sported a beard of the same hue.
“Listen, Morgan,” he said. “My name’s Erickson. Maybe you’ve heard of me.”
Frank took a sip of coffee. “Can’t say as I have.”
That nonchalant comment made Erickson’s jaw clench for a second, but he controlled his obvious anger.
“The talk’s all around town about how you’re gonna hunt down the Terror. Because of you, Rutherford Chamberlain took back that bounty he put on the monster. We don’t like that. My friends and I planned on finding that critter ourselves.”
“That’s too bad,” Frank said, not meaning it at all. “But you probably just would’ve gotten yourselves killed by other fellas who were out there hunting for the Terror.”
“That’s our lookout, not yours,” Erickson snapped. “Not only that, but you killed Jingo Reed and busted Matt Sewell’s shoulder so that he’ll never be the same again. Jingo and Matt were good men. Friends of mine.”
Frank didn’t really believe that. Hardcases like Erickson appeared to be didn’t have many real friends. Erickson was just using what had happened to them as an excuse to pick a fight with Frank.
“You ride out in the morning and keep going,” Erickson went on. “Leave this part of California. Leave the Terror to us. You do that, and we’ll let what happened to Jingo and Matt slide…this time.”
“And if I’m not interested in doing that?”
Erickson grinned. “You’ll be sorry.”
Peter Lee had come back to stand on the other side of the counter from Frank. He leaned forward and said in a low voice, “Please, Mr. Morgan. If there’s a gunfight in here, innocent people might be hurt. That wall between us and my family isn’t thick enough to stop a bullet.”
Frank glanced around. All the other customers in the place looked as nervous as its proprietor. Some of them probably would have made a break for the door by now if the six big men hadn’t been blocking it.
“There’s not going to be a gunfight,” Frank told Lee with a shake of his head.
Erickson heard what he said. “You’re gonna get out of town?”
“Nope. But you’re not going to make me draw on you either.” A faint smile touched Frank’s lips. “I promised the marshal I wouldn’t kill anybody in his town if I could help it.”
“You son of a bitch.” Erickson strode forward. “So you’re not going to draw on me, are you?”
“No. I’m not.”
Erickson reached over and picked up the coffee cup that Frank had set down on the counter. The cup was still about half full. Erickson tilted it as if he were about to pour the coffee on Frank’s head.
The Drifter’s hand shot up and clamped around Erickson’s wrist, the fingers closing like iron bands. Erickson’s eyes widened with surprise at the strength of Frank’s grip. A man as big as he was probably hadn’t run into too
