'My father doesn't care what you do to me,' Conrad said. 'He never came to see me, not even when you killed my mother.'
'That was an accident, sort of. Now shut up and let me think.'
Cabot, Lyle, Slade, and Billy made their way slowly to the corrals. Rich came over to Ned with his rifle cocked, ready to fire.
'You reckon Morgan will let us ride out of here?' Rich asked.
'Damn right he will.'
'You sound mighty sure of it.'
'I've got his snot-nosed kid with a gun under his jawbone. Even Morgan won't take the chance of shootin' at us. He knows I'll kill his boy.'
'I ain't seen him no place, Ned. I've been looking real close.'
'Help the others saddle our mounts. Frank Morgan is out there somewhere.'
'Are you sure it's him? Billy saw a feller up on the rim of the canyon. Maybe it's the law.'
'It ain't the law. It's Morgan.'
'But you sent Charlie back to gun him down, an' then Sam and Buster and Tony rode our back trail. One man couldn't outgun Sam or Buster, and nobody's ever gotten to Charlie. Charlie's real careful.'
'Shut the hell up and help saddle our horses, Rich. You're wasting valuable time running your mouth over things we can't do nothing about. If Morgan got to Charlie and Sam and the rest of them, we'll have to ride out of here and head for Gypsum Gap to meet up with Vic.'
'One man can't be that tough,' Rich said, although he made for the corrals as he said it.
Ned was furious. He'd known Morgan was good, but that had been years ago.
Ned stood in front of the cabin with his Colt pistol under Conrad's chin, waiting for the horses. At the moment he needed a swallow of whiskey.
* * * *
Louis Pettigrew had begun to have serious doubts. He'd been listening to Victor Vanbergen and Ford Peters talk about Frank Morgan for more than an hour ... Louis had a page full of notes on Morgan.
But too many seasoned lawmen had told him that Morgan was as good as any man alive with a gun. Something about the stories he was hearing didn't add up.
'Morgan left his wife with a band of outlaws?' Louis asked with disbelief. 'And they killed her?'
'Sure did,' Vic said.
'That ain't the worst of it,' Ford added. 'She had this baby boy of Frank's. He left the kid with her too. That oughta tell you what kind of yellow bastard he is ... he was. The little boy's name was Conrad Browning.'
'Did Mr. Morgan ever come back to visit his son?' Louis asked.
'Not that anybody knows of. He was raised by somebody else. Morgan was rotten through an' through. Any man who'd abandon his own son ain't worth the gunpowder it'd take to kill him, if you ask me.'
Vic nodded. 'That's a fact. Morgan went west and left his boy to grow up alone. That's why we say he was yellow. No man with even a trace of gumption would leave his kid to be raised by somebody else.'
'Morgan was a no good son of a bitch,' Ford said, waving to the barkeep to bring them more drinks at the Boston writer's expense.
'I can't believe he'd do that,' Louis said, turning the page on his notepad.
'You didn't know him like we did,' Ford said. 'He was trash.'
'I don't understand how so many people could be wrong about him,' Louis said. 'I've heard him described as fearless, and one of the best gunmen in recent times.'
'Lies,' Vic said. 'All lies.'
'He was short on nerve,' Ford added as more shot glasses of whiskey came toward their table. 'I can tell you a helluva lot more about him, if you want to hear it.'
The drinks were placed around the table. Louis Pettigrew had a scowl on his face.
'I don't think I need to hear any more, gentlemen. It would appear I've come all this way for nothing ... to write a story about a gunfighter who had a reputation he clearly did not deserve.'
'You've got that part right,' Vic said.
Ford nodded his agreement.
Vern wanted to get in his two cents' worth. 'Frank Morgan is washed up as a gunfighter. You'd better write your story about somebody else.'
'Dear me,' Pettigrew said, closing his notepad, putting his pencil away. 'It would seem the last of the great gunfighters is no more.'
A blast of cold wind rattled the doors into the Wagon Wheel Saloon. Pettigrew glanced over his shoulder. 'I suppose I should seek lodging for the night and a stable for my horse. I think in the morning I'll ride toward Denver and catch the next train to Boston.'
'Sounds like a good idea to me,' Vic said. 'You won't be givin' your readers much if you write a story about Frank Morgan.'
