The Last Gunfighter Hell Town

Johnny swallowed hard. The kid’s companions were older and more experienced. They had the lean, cold look of true gunmen about them, and Johnny knew he would be committing suicide to cross them.

He had already narrowly avoided one death sentence in his life. He took his hand away from the Greener.

“Conwell’s just blowing off steam,” the other gunman said. “He won’t really hurt that old gent.”

Johnny wasn’t convinced of that.

The kid—Conwell—glowered at the professor and said, “On your feet, Fancy Pants. You and me are gonna settle this with lead.”

He backed away, his hands hovering over his holstered guns, ready to hook and draw.

Burton shook his head. “I’m unarmed, and even if I wasn’t, I don’t make it a practice to engage in duels.”

“This ain’t gonna be no duel,” Conwell said. “It’ll be a killin’, plain and simple. But you’ll have a fair chance.” He drew his left-hand gun and placed it on the table in front of the professor. “There you go. I’ll let you reach for it. Hell, I’ll even let you pick it up before I draw. What do you say to that, you—”

He unleashed a stream of vile invective that made Burton turn pale with rage. The professor’s hands were lying on the table. Johnny held his breath as he saw the right one twitch a little, like Burton was struggling not to grab at the butt of that gun.

“Don’t touch it, Professor.”

The deep, powerful, commanding voice spoke from the saloon’s entrance as another newcomer pushed through the batwings. He was medium height, maybe a hair above, and powerfully built without being muscle-bound. His face was a little too rugged to be called handsome. His clothes were nothing special: well-worn boots, denim trousers, a buckskin shirt, and a broad-brimmed brown hat that sat on thick dark hair touched with gray. The high crown of the hat was pinched in a little on the sides.

Two things were impressive about the newcomer—the holstered Colt Peacemaker on his right hip, and the badge pinned to his shirt.

“Leave the gun alone, Professor,” the newcomer went on. “In fact, it might be a good idea if you got up and found another place to sit.”

Burton nodded and started to scrape his chair back, but Conwell snapped, “Keep your seat, you son of a bitch. I ain’t through with you yet.”

“Oh, you’re through all right, kid,” the lawman said. “You’re through in Buckskin. You’re leaving town tonight.”

Conwell faced him and sneered. “Who in blazes are you to be tellin’ me what to do?” he asked. “You think I’m gonna pay any attention to what some broke-down old geezer of a star-packer tells me to do?”

Conwell’s two companions were studying the newcomer more closely than Conwell was, and signs of recognition and surprise appeared on their faces. As their eyes widened, one of the men said, “Hold on, Conwell. You don’t know who that fella is.”

A harsh laugh came from the kid. “I don’t know and I don’t care! Nobody threatens to throw me out of town and gets away with it!” He stepped away from the table, giving Burton the opportunity to stand up and hurry out of the line of fire. In a gunfighter’s crouch, Conwell went on, “I’m gonna kill me a marshal!”

“You damn fool,” the other gunman said in a tight voice, “that’s Frank Morgan!”

It was Conwell’s turn to let his eyes go wide with shock. Even in his drunken, troublemaking state, he recognized the name. “Morgan?” he repeated. “The Drifter? What the hell’s Frank Morgan doin’ totin’ a badge?”

“I’m the marshal of Buckskin now,” Morgan said. Without taking his eyes off Conwell, he asked the kid’s two companions, “You boys want any part of this?”

“Not hardly,” one of them said without hesitation. “If the kid wants to push it, then it’s his fight, not ours.”

“Damn right,” the other man agreed.

Conwell glanced over at them. “Fine pair o’ partners you two are,” he said in disgust.

“Shoot, kid, we’ll back your play in most anything, you know that. But not this.”

A faint smile touched Morgan’s lips. “That puts it up to you,” he told Conwell. “You’re leaving one way or the other. But either way, you’ll leave quiet.”

His message was unmistakable.

For a long moment, the youngster stood there, nostrils flaring, breathing heavily. Then he muttered a curse and said, “All right. I don’t feel like dyin’ today.”

“Always a wise decision,” Morgan said.

The fancy spurs on his high-heeled boots clinking, Conwell stalked toward the door. Morgan moved aside to let him past. Conwell said over his shoulder, “You two bastards just steer clear o’ me from now on. We ain’t ridin’ together no more.” His ire was directed toward the two men at the bar.

One of them grunted and said, “That’s fine with us. We’re tired of pullin’ your chestnuts out of the fire, anyway.”

Sneering, Conwell slapped the batwings aside and went out into the night. Everyone in the saloon heard his boots stomping on the boardwalk outside as he walked off.

Frank Morgan came over to the bar and gave the kid’s former companions a curt nod. “Appreciate you not taking a hand,” he told them.

“We got no quarrel with you, Morgan. You the town marshal?”

Morgan nodded. “That’s right.”