“That’s right, mister,” the man who seemed to be the spokesman for the loggers replied. “You fellas are huntin’ the damned thing, aren’t you?”
“Damned right we are. We’re gonna collect that bounty.”
The word “bounty” made Frank’s jaw clench again. More than once, someone had placed a bounty on
“Who’s put out a bounty?” he asked.
All seven of the men looked at him as if the question surprised them. “Haven’t you heard about it, mister?” one of the loggers asked.
Frank shook his head. “I just rode into these parts today.”
“Well, the Terror’s been around here for months now, scarin’ folks. When it started killin’ people, though, Mr. Chamberlain put out the word that there’d be a big reward for whoever kills it.”
“Who’s Chamberlain?” The name was vaguely familiar to Frank, but he couldn’t place it.
That question made the men stare at him, too. Finally, one of the loggers said, “Rutherford Chamberlain, the timber baron. He owns the lease on these woods for miles around. It’s his men who have been killed, so he said that he’d pay ten thousand dollars for the Terror’s head.”
Frank knew now why he had recognized Chamberlain’s name. He had seen it on various documents his lawyers had shown him one time when he visited their offices in San Francisco. No one would think it to look at him, but Frank Morgan was one of the richest men in the country. He had inherited half of the far-flung business empire founded by his late wife, Vivian Browning. The Browning holdings included some logging interests. Frank had never cared about business, and money mattered to him only as long as he had enough to keep him in supplies, so he trusted his attorneys to take care of everything for him. It was possible that he owned stock in Chamberlain’s company. It was equally possible that he and Chamberlain were competitors. Frank didn’t know and didn’t care.
One of the gunmen who had ridden into the clearing had been staring at Frank with even more interest than the others, and now he said, “By jingo, I know who you are, fella! You’re Frank Morgan!”
The man’s habitual exclamation told Frank who he was, too. “And you’re Jingo Reed,” he said.
Reed’s lips peeled back from prominent teeth in a grin. “You’ve heard of me, have you?”
“Wait a minute,” one of the other hardcases said. “You mean that’s the hombre they call The Drifter?”
“He sure is,” Reed said. “I saw you gun down the McClatchey brothers in Flagstaff a few years ago, Morgan. You were mighty fast…but I reckon I’m faster.”
Frank sighed. He figured he knew what was coming, but he hoped he was wrong.
“Hey, Jingo,” one of Reed’s companions said. “We need to get on the trail of that monster. I want that ten- grand reward.”
“I do, too, but the varmint’ll wait.” Reed licked his lips. “I got somethin’ just as big right here.”
“Don’t do it, Jingo,” Frank warned. “I’m not looking for any trouble with you.”
Reed grinned. “That’s the way life is, Morgan…Trouble comes at you whether you’re lookin’ for it or not.”
And with that, he clawed at the gun on his hip, his hand moving with blinding speed.
Chapter 2
Unfortunately for Jingo Reed, simply being fast didn’t put him in the same league as Frank Morgan. Frank’s Colt flickered out so fast, it was like the gun appeared in his hand by magic. Flame spouted from the muzzle as the Colt roared. Even starting his draw first, Jingo had barely cleared leather before Frank’s bullet smacked into his chest and rocked him back in the saddle. Spooked by the shot, Reed’s horse bucked and threw him off. He crashed down on the ground and lay in a limp sprawl, not moving.
“Damn it!” one of Reed’s companions yelled. “He’s done kilt Jingo!”
The man swung the barrel of his rifle toward Frank.
With more time now, Frank didn’t have to shoot to kill again. He broke the man’s shoulder with a bullet instead. The man dropped his rifle, swayed in the saddle, clutched at his wounded shoulder, and bawled in pain.
Frank shifted his aim toward the third hardcase, who quickly held up both hands in plain sight. “Don’t shoot, Morgan,” he said. “I don’t want any part of this.”
“That’s a smart move,” Frank told him. “You boys should have gone after the Terror while you had the chance. Now you’ve got to tend to your friend and take Jingo to the undertaker.”
“All right to put my hands down?”
Frank nodded. “Just keep ’em away from your guns.”
As the man dismounted and began helping his wounded companion climb out of the saddle, one of the loggers let out a whistle and said to Frank, “I never saw a draw that slick in all my life. Is it true, mister? Are you really Frank Morgan?”
Frank nodded. “That’s my name.”
“No offense, Mr. Morgan, but I figured you were dead by now. I’ve been hearin’ stories about you since I was a kid. I’ve even read some of the dime novels about you.”
Frank smiled. “Stories get exaggerated, and you’ve got to remember, dime novels are written by fellas who don’t really know what they’re talking about even when they’re sober, which they usually aren’t.”
