Renegades

Book 12: Last Gunfighter

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns; Humor & Satire; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Popular chronicler of the American West, William W. Johnstone returns with a stirring tale of legendary shootist Frank Morgan. With his Winchester blazing, Morgan races to rescue Cecil and Ben Tolliver from 20 thundering banditos. When his rifle runs dry, Morgan draws his trusty Colt and drops enough desperados to scatter the rest. Does Don Felipe Almanzar lead these marauding vaqueros, as rancher Tolliver believes? Or do they follow the terrifying Black Scorpion?

Release date: October 1, 2005

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Brown County, Texas, and all the violence that had taken place there were a long way behind Frank Morgan now. The man sometimes known as The Drifter had lived up to his name, riding southward toward the Rio Grande, taking his time, in no hurry to get where he was going . . . wherever that was. Someplace where his past might not catch up to him. A haven where he could go unrecognized.

But as idyllic as that sounded, Frank Morgan knew there wasn’t much chance that he would ever find such a sanctuary.

It was hard to blend in when you were the last of the really fast guns.

Some of the others were still alive—Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, and Smoke Jensen were three that Frank could think of. Somehow they had managed to settle down. John Wesley Hardin was still alive, too, but he was in prison. Bill Hickok, Ben Thompson, Doc Holliday, Luke Short . . . They were all dead, along with most of the other shootists and pistoleers who had made names for themselves at one time or another on the frontier.

It was a sad time, in a way. A dying time. But a man couldn’t stop the march of progress and so-called civilization. Nor was Frank Morgan the sort of hombre to brood about it and cling to the fading shadows of what once had been. He looked to the future, not the past.

Now the future meant finding a warm, hospitable place to spend the winter. It was November, and up north the snow and the frigid winds were already roaring down out of Canada to sweep across the mountains and the plains, all the way down to the Texas Panhandle. Hundreds of miles south of the Panhandle, however, here in the Rio Grande Valley of south Texas, the sky was blue, the sun was shining, and the temperature was quite pleasant. Frank even had the sleeves of his blue work shirt rolled up a couple of turns on his muscular forearms.

He was a lean, well-built man of middle years, with gray streaking the thick dark hair under his Stetson. His range clothes were of good quality, as was his saddle. A Colt .45 was holstered on his hip, and the stock of a Winchester stuck up from a saddle sheath under his right leg. He rode a fine-looking Appaloosa called Stormy and led a dun-colored packhorse. The big shaggy cur known as Dog padded alongside him as Frank rode down a trail that cut its way through the thick chaparral covering the mostly flat landscape.

Frank didn’t know exactly where he was, but he thought he must be getting close to the Rio Grande. Some sleepy little border village would be a good spot to pass the winter, he mused. Cool beer, some tortillas and beans and chili, maybe a pretty señorita or two to keep him company . . . It sounded fine to Frank. Maybe not heaven, but likely as close as a gunfighter like him would ever get.

Into every heavenly vision, though, a little hell had to intrude. The distant popping of gunfire suddenly came to Frank’s ears.

He reined in and frowned. The shots continued, coming fast and furious. They were still a ways off, but they were getting closer, without a doubt. He heard the rumble of hoofbeats, too. Some sort of running gun battle, Frank decided.

And it was running straight toward him.

He had never been one to dodge trouble. There just wasn’t any back-up in his nature. Instead he nudged his heels into Stormy’s sides and sent the Appaloosa trotting forward. Whatever was coming at him, Frank Morgan would go right out to meet it.

Now he could see dust clouds boiling in the air ahead of him, kicked up by all the horses he heard. A moment later, the trail he was following intersected a road at a sharp angle. The pursuit was on the road itself, which was wide enough for a couple of wagons and a half-dozen or so riders.

Only one wagon came toward Frank, a buckboard that swayed and bounced as it careened along the road. The dust from the hooves of the team pulling it obscured the occupants to a certain extent, but Frank thought he saw two men on the buckboard, one handling the reins while the other twisted around on the seat and fired a rifle back at the men giving chase.

There were more than a dozen of those, Frank saw. He estimated the number at twenty. They rode bunched up, the ones in the lead banging away at the fleeing buckboard with six-guns. The gap between hunter and hunted was about fifty yards, too far for accurate handgun fire, especially from the saddle of a racing horse. But the rifleman on the buckboard didn’t seem to be having much better luck. The group of riders surged on without slowing.

Frank had no idea who any of these men were and didn’t know which side he ought to take in this fight. But he’d always had a natural sympathy for the underdog, so he didn’t like the idea of two against twenty.

He liked it even less when one of the horses in the team suddenly went down, probably the result of stepping in a prairie-dog hole. The horse screamed in pain, a shrill sound that Frank heard even over the rattle of gunfire and the pounding of hoofbeats. Probably a broken leg, he thought in the instant before the fallen horse pulled down the other members of the team and caused the buckboard to overturn violently. The two men who had been in it flew through the air like rag dolls.

Frank sent Stormy surging forward at a gallop. He didn’t know if the men had survived the wreck or not, but it was a cinch they were out of the fight, at least for the moment, and wouldn’t survive the next few seconds unless somebody helped them. He drew the Winchester and guided Stormy with his knees as he brought the rifle to his shoulder and blazed away, firing as fast as he could work the repeater’s lever.

He put the first couple of bullets over the heads of the pursuers to see if they would give up the chase. When they didn’t, but kept attacking instead, sending a couple of bullets whizzing past him, Frank had no choice but to lower his aim. Stormy’s smooth gait and Frank’s years of experience meant that he was a good shot even from the hurricane deck. His bullets laced into the crowd of gunmen in the road.

Frank was close enough now to see that most of the pursuers wore high-crowned, broad-brimmed sombreros. Bandidos from below the border, he thought. A few men in American range garb were mixed in the group, but that came as no surprise. Gringo outlaws sometimes crossed the Rio and fell in with gangs of Mexican raiders. A man who was tough enough and ruthless enough—and good enough with a gun—could usually find a home for himself with others of his kind, no matter where he was.

Two of the bandits plunged off their horses as Frank’s shots ripped through them, and a couple of others sagged in their saddles and dropped out of the fight, obviously wounded. The other men reined their mounts to skidding, sliding halts that made even more dust billow up from the hard-packed caliche surface of the road. Clearly, they hadn’t expected to run into opposition like that which Frank was putting up now.

But the odds were still on their side, and after a moment of hesitation they attacked again, yelling curses and firing as they came toward the overturned wagon.

Both of the men who had been thrown from the wreck staggered to their feet as Frank came closer. He didn’t know how badly they were hurt, but at least they were conscious and able to move around. They stumbled toward the shelter of the buckboard as bullets flew around them.

While Stormy was still galloping, Frank swung down from the saddle, as good a running dismount as anyone could make. He had the Winchester in his left hand. With his right, he slapped the Appaloosa on the rump and ordered, “Stormy, get out of here! You, too, Dog!”

The horse veered off into the chaparral at the side of the road, finding an opening in the thorny stuff. The big cur was more reluctant, obviously hesitant to abandon his master in the middle of a fight. Frank didn’t want to have to worry about them while he was battling for his life, though, so he added, “Dog, go!”

With a growl, Dog disappeared into the brush.

Frank ran to the wagon and joined the two men who were already crouched behind it, firing revolvers at the charging bandidos. The man who had been using the rifle earlier had lost the weapon when the buckboard flipped over. Both of them had managed to hang on to their handguns, though.

The buckboard was on its side, turned crossways in the road. The horses had struggled back to their feet, except for the one with the broken leg, and they lunged and reared in their traces, maddened by the gunfire and the reeking clouds of powder smoke that drifted through the air. A couple of them had been wounded by flying lead.

Frank rested his Winchester on the buckboard and opened fire again, placing his shots carefully now that he had a chance to aim. One of the raiders flipped backward out of the saddle as if he had been swatted by a giant hand, and another fell forward over his mount’s neck before slipping off and landing under the horse’s slashing hooves.

Bullets pounded into the buckboard like a deadly hailstorm of lead. The thick boards stopped most of them, but a few of the rounds punched through, luckily missing Frank and his two companions. The shots from the men fighting alongside him were taking a toll on the attackers as well. Less than half of the bandidos were unscathed so far. The others had been either killed or wounded.

The Winchester ran dry. Frank dropped it and drew his Colt. The range was plenty close enough now for an expert pistol shot like Frank Morgan. He triggered twice and was rewarded by the sight of another rider plummeting from the saddle.

The gang of bandidos had had enough. They wheeled their horses, still snapping shots at the buckboard as they did so, and then lit a shuck out of there. Frank and the two men threw a few shots after them to hurry them on their way, but the riders were out of pistol range in a matter of moments.

Frank holstered the Colt and picked up the Winchester, then proceeded to reload the rifle with cartridges from his pocket in case the raiders turned around and tried again. From the looks of it, though, the bandits had no intention of returning. The dust cloud their horses kicked up dwindled in the distance.

“Keep riding, you bastards!” growled the older of the two men from the buckboard as he shook a fist after the bandidos. “Don’t stop until you get back across the border to hell, as far as I’m concerned!”

The man was stocky and grizzled, with a graying, close-cropped beard. Most of his head was bald. His hands and face had a weathered, leathery look, an indication that he had spent most of his life outdoors.

The second man was younger, taller, and clean-shaven, but he bore a resemblance to the older man that Frank recognized right away. He pegged them as father and son, or perhaps uncle and nephew. Both men were dressed in well-kept range clothes that would have looked better if they hadn’t been covered in trail dust. They had the appearance of successful cattlemen about them.

Frank spotted the other rifle lying on the ground about twenty feet away. He nodded toward it and said, “Better pick up that repeater, just in case they come back.”

The older man snorted contemptuously. “They won’t be back! Bunch of no-good, cowardly dogs! They travel in a pack and won’t attack unless the odds are ten to one in their favor.”

“And we cut those odds down in a hurry,” the younger man said. He hurried over to retrieve the rifle anyway, Frank noted.

The riders had disappeared in the distance now, without even any dust showing. Deciding that they were truly gone, Frank walked out from behind the buckboard and went to check on the men who had fallen from their horses during the fight. He counted seven of them. Six were already dead, and the seventh was unconscious and badly wounded. Blood bubbled from his mouth in a crimson froth with every ragged breath he took, and Frank heard the air whistling through bullet-punctured lungs. The man dragged in one last breath and then let it out in a shuddery sigh, dying without regaining consciousness.

Frank’s expression didn’t change as he watched the man pass over the divide. Any man’s death diminishes me, John Donne had written, and in a philosophical way Frank supposed there might be some truth to that. Donne, however, had never swapped lead with a bandido.

Five of the men were Mexicans, typical south-of-the-border hard cases. The other two were American cousins of the same sort. Frank checked their pockets, found nothing but spare shells for their guns and some coins.

A pistol shot made him look around. The younger man had just put the injured horse out of its misery.

Frank walked back to the buckboard. The younger man began unhitching the team and trying to calm the horses. The older man met Frank with a suspicious look. He asked, “Who are you, mister? Why’d you jump into that fracas on our side?”

“My name’s Morgan,” Frank said, “and I just thought it looked like you could use a hand. I never have liked an unfair fight.”

The man nodded and wiped the back of his hand across his nose, which was bleeding a little. That seemed to be the only injury either of them had suffered in the wreck of the buckboard. They had been mighty lucky.

“Well, the boy an’ me are much obliged. My name’s Cecil Tolliver. That’s my son Ben.”

Ben Tolliver paused in what he was doing to look over at Frank and nod. “Howdy.” He turned back to the horses, and then paused and looked at Frank again. “Wouldn’t be Frank Morgan, would it?”

Frank tried not to sigh. Just once, he thought, he would like to ride in somewhere and not have somebody recognize him almost right away.

And it would have been nice, too, if nobody shot at him.

“Yes, I’m Frank Morgan,” he admitted.

Cecil Tolliver frowned. “I don’t mean to sound ignorant, mister, but I don’t reckon I’ve heard of you.”

Ben came over and held out his hand to Frank. “That’s because you never read any dime novels,” he explained to his father. “Mr. Morgan here is a famous gunfighter.”

Tolliver grunted. “I never had time for such foolishness, boy. I was too busy tryin’ to build the Rockin’T into a decent spread. You was the one who always had your nose in the Police Gazette.”

Frank shook hands with both of them and said to Ben, “Most of what’s been written about me in those dime novels and the illustrated weeklies was a pack of lies made up by gents who don’t know much about the real West.”

“You can’t deny, though, that you’ve had your share of gunfights,” Ben said.

Frank inclined his head in acknowledgment of that point. “More than my share,” he allowed.

“Well, we’re much obliged for the help, whether you’re famous or not,” Tolliver said. “If you hadn’t come along when you did, I reckon Almanzar’s boys would’ve done for me and Ben.”

“Almanzar,” Frank repeated. “I’m not familiar with the name. Is he the leader of that gang of bandidos?”

“You could call him that. He runs the rancho where those gunnies work.”

Now it was Frank’s turn to frown. He waved his left hand toward the sprawled bodies of the raiders and said, “Those don’t look like vaqueros or cowhands to me.”

“That’s because Almanzar’s a low-down skunk who hires killers rather than decent hombres.”

“Sounds like you don’t care for the man.”

“I got no use for him,” Tolliver said stiffly. “Him and me been feudin’ ever since I came to this part of the country, nigh on to thirty years ago. Almanzar specializes in wet cattle, if you know what I mean.”

Frank understood the term, all right. It referred to stock rustled from one side of the river and driven to the other. Down here in this border country, a lot of cattle had gotten their bellies wet over the past few decades, going both directions across the Rio Grande.

Young Ben spoke up. “You don’t know that Don Felipe has been rustling our cows, Pa.”

“I know all I need to know,” Tolliver replied with a disgusted snort. “Almanzar’s a thief and a bloody-handed reiver, and this ain’t the first time he’s tried to have me killed!”

Obviously, there was trouble going on around here, Frank thought. Just as obviously, it was none of his business. But by taking a hand in this gun battle, he had probably dealt himself into the game, whether he wanted that or not. If Cecil Tolliver was correct about Don Felipe Almanzar sending those gunmen after him and his son, then Almanzar would be likely to want vengeance on Frank for killing several of his men.

“Another thing,” Tolliver went on angrily to Ben, “I don’t want to hear you callin’ that bastard by his Christian name again. He ain’t our friend and never has been.”

“What about when you first settled here, before I was born?” Ben asked. “I’ve heard you say more than once, Pa, that without Señor Almanzar’s help, the Comanches would have lifted your hair back in those days.”

“That was a long time ago,” Tolliver growled. “Things change.”

Frank wasn’t really interested in the history of the feud between Tolliver and Don Felipe Almanzar. He said, “Where were you men headed?”

“Back to the Rockin’T,” Tolliver replied. “We’d been to San Rosa for supplies.” He shook his head in disgust. “All the boxes done bounced out back along the road, when that bunch jumped us and we had to take off so fast. We’re lucky the damn buckboard didn’t rattle itself to pieces.”

“San Rosa’s the nearest town?”

“Yep, right on the river about five miles upstream from here. The name’s fouled up—it ought to be Santa Rosa—but the fella who stuck the name on it didn’t savvy Mex talk. Still a pretty nice place.”

“I’ll pay it a visit,” Frank said. “I was looking for a place to get something to eat and somewhere to stay.”

“You don’t have to go to San Rosa for that.” Tolliver jerked a thumb at the buckboard. “Help us set that wagon up, and then you can ride on to the Rockin’T with us. You’ll be our guest for as long as you want to stay, Mr. Morgan.”

“Call me Frank. And I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“Impose, hell!” Tolliver had picked up his hat, and now he slapped it against his leg to get some of the dust off. As he settled it on his head, he went on. “After what you done to help us, I’ll consider it a personal insult if you don’t let us feed you and put you up for a spell.”

Frank smiled. “In that case, I accept.”

He whistled and Stormy came out of the chaparral, followed by Dog. Tolliver and Ben looked with admiration at the big Appaloosa, but were more wary where Dog was concerned. “That critter looks a mite like a cross between a wolf and a grizzly bear,” Tolliver commented.

“He’s all dog,” Frank said with a grin. “Just be sure you’ve been introduced properly before you go to pet him. Unless you’re a little kid,” he added. “He’ll let kids wool him around like he’s still a pup.”

Frank took his rope from the saddle and tied one end to the buckboard. Ben saw what he was doing and brought over the surviving three members of the team. The rope was tied to their harness, and the horses did the work as the buckboard was soon pulled upright again. Frank hitched Stormy into the empty spot in the team. The Appaloosa didn’t care much for that, but he was willing to tolerate it if that was what Frank wanted him to do. Stormy turned a baleful eye on his master for a moment, though.

“I’d watch out for that horse if I was you, Mr. Morgan,” Ben said. “He looks like he might sneak up on you some time and take a nip out of your hide.”

“I fully expect that he will,” Frank agreed with a chuckle. He grew more sober as he gestured toward the bodies again. “What about them?”

“I’ll be damned if I’m gonna get their blood all over my buckboard,” Cecil Tolliver said. “When we get to the ranch, I’ll send a rider to San Rosa to notify the law. In the meantime, a couple o’ my hands can come back out with a work wagon to load up the carcasses. The undertaker can come to the ranch to get ’em for plantin’.”

“There’s law in San Rosa?”

“Yeah, a town marshal. And there’s a company of Rangers that’s been usin’ the town as their headquarters for a spell, while they try to track down some bandits who’ve been raisin’ hell around here.”

Frank’s interest perked up at the mention of Texas Rangers. Over the past year or so he had shared several adventures with a young Ranger named Tyler Beaumont. Beaumont was back home with his wife in Weatherford now, recuperating from injuries he had received in that fence-cutting dustup in Brown County. Frank respected the Rangers a great deal as a force for law and order, even though his reputation as a gunfighter sometimes made the Rangers look on him with suspicion.

He wasn’t looking for trouble down here along the border, though, so it was unlikely he would clash with the lawmen.

Tolliver and Ben climbed onto the seat of the buckboard. Frank tied his packhorse on at the back of the vehicle, then sat down with his legs dangling off the rear. When he snapped his fingers, Dog jumped onto the buckboard and settled down beside him. Tolliver got the team moving and drove on toward his ranch, the Rocking T.

Frank saw cattle in the chaparral as the buckboard rolled along. They were longhorns, the sort of tough, hardy breed that was required in this brushy country. Longhorns seemed to survive, even to thrive, in it where other breeds had fallen by the wayside. The ugly, dangerous brutes had been the beginning of the cattle industry in Texas, back in the days immediately following the Civil War. Animals that had been valuable only for their hide and tallow had suddenly become beef on the hoof, the source of a small fortune for the men daring enough and tough enough to round them up and make the long drive over the trails to the railhead in Kansas.

As a young cowboy, Frank had ridden along on more than one of those drives, pushing the balky cattle through dust and rain, heat and cold, and danger from Indians and outlaws. Since the railroads had reached Texas, the days of such cattle drives were over. Now a man seldom had to move his herds more than a hundred miles or so before reaching a shipping point. As much as he lamented some things about the settling of the West, Frank didn’t miss those cattle drives. They had been long, arduous, perilous work.

With an arm looped around Dog’s shaggy neck, he turned his head and asked the Tollivers, “How much stock have you been losing lately?”

“Not that much,” Ben said.

His father snorted. “Not that much at one time, you mean. Half a dozen here, a dozen there. But it sure as hell adds up.”

Frank knew what Tolliver meant. Rustlers could make a big raid on a ranch, or they could bleed it dry over time. Either method could prove devastating to a cattleman.

“The Rangers haven’t been able to get a line on the wide-loopers?”

“They’re too busy lookin’ for the Black Scorpion.”

“The Black Scorpion?” Frank repeated. “What’s that?”

“You mean who’s that. You recollect what I said about the Rangers huntin’ for a gang of owlhoots? Well, the Black Scorpion is the boss outlaw, the son of a bitch who heads up that gang.”

Ben laughed. “Now you’re talking like the one who’s been reading dime novels, Pa.”

“The Black Scorpion’s real, damn it,” Tolliver said with a scowl. “Folks have seen him, dressed all in black and wearin’ a mask, leadin’ that bloodthirsty bunch o’ desperadoes.”

That sounded pretty far-fetched to Frank, too, like the creation of one of those ink-stained wretches who made up stories about him. There might be some truth to it, though. The West had seen mysterious masked bandits before, such as Black Bart out in California. Frank was going to have to see this so-called Black Scorpion for himself, though, before he would really believe in such an individual.

Ben was equally skeptical, saying, “I’ll believe it when I see it. It seems to me that Captain Wedge and the Rangers are wasting their time looking for phantoms when they ought to be hunting down rustlers.”

“Well, I ain’t gonna argue about that,” his father said. “I wish they’d do something about the damn rustlers, too.”

Frank sat in the back of the buckboard and mulled over what he had heard. He had come down here to the border country looking for someplace warm and peaceful. It was warm, all right, but evidently far from peaceful, what with the feud between Cecil Tolliver and Don Felipe Almanzar, the rustlers plaguing the Rocking T, and another gang of bandits led by a mysterious masked figure. With all that going on, it seemed like trouble could crop up from any direction with little or no warning—or from several directions at once.

“Is it possible the Black Scorpion could be responsible for the rustling?” Frank asked.

“Folks have thought about that,” Tolliver replied, “but me and some o’ the other ranchers around here have lost stock on the same nights that the Black Scorpion’s gang was reported to be maraudin’ on the other side of the border. The varmint can’t be in two places at the same time.”

“No, I reckon not,” Frank said, but he wasn’t completely convinced. His instincts told him that there was even more going on around here than was readily apparent.

His instincts also told him that the smart thing to do would be to unhitch Stormy from the team, mount up, and light a shuck out of here. The troubles had nothing to do with him, and if he stayed around and was drawn deeper into them, his hopes for a quiet, relaxing winter might well be shattered.

On the other hand, he had never turned his back on trouble just to make it easier on himself, and he was a mite too old to start now. A leopard couldn’t change its spots, nor a tiger its stripes.

The sun was low in the sky by the time the buckboard reached the headquarters of the Rocking T. Frank saw a large, whitewashed house sitting in the shade of several cottonwood trees. Behind it were a couple of barns, several corrals, a bunkhouse, a cookshack, a blacksmith shop, a chicken coop, and some storage buildings. There was a vegetable garden off to one side of the house, and beyond it a small orchard filled with fruit trees. It was a mighty nice layout, Frank thought, the sort of spread that required years of hard work and dedication to build. He admired a man like Cecil Tolliver who could put down roots and create something lasting and worthwhile like this. For all of his accomplishments, Frank had never been able to achieve that. True, he had quite a few business interests scattered across the West, business interests that had made him a wealthy man, at least on paper, but he had inherited those things, not worked for them and built them himself. Most of the time, he felt as if all he truly owned were his guns and not much else. Stormy and Dog were friends, not possessions. And most of the time, that was all right. Frank didn’t miss the rest of it except at moments such as this, when he looked at the Rocking T and wondered what his life would have been like if things had been different, if he hadn’t been blessed—or cursed—with such blinding speed and uncanny accuracy with a gun.

Tolliver hauled back on the reins and brought the buckboard to a halt. “This is it,” he said. “Welcome to the Rocking T, Mr. Morgan.”

Their arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed. A small black, brown, and tan dog came racing around the house, barking sharply at the buckboard. The dog stopped abruptly, however, when it spotte. . .