Imposter by William W. Johnstone

Frank with open, unbridled hate in his eyes.
    The bartender put Frank’s cup of coffee on the bar in front of him and then carefully backed away.
    The piano player began playing a slow, quiet song.
    A bar girl walked up to Frank, her face heavily rouged. “Buy a lady a drink, Deputy?” she asked, her voice whiskey soft.
    Frank motioned to the barkeep to pour the woman a drink.
    She sipped her drink and whispered, “I’m available for a poke, Deputy.”
    â€œI’m sure you are,” Frank said coldly. “Now back away and find someone else to proposition.”
    â€œNever hurts to ask,” she replied, winking at him before picking up her drink and walking away.
    â€œWhat do you want in here, Morgan?” Curly asked.
    â€œSome friendly conversation maybe,” Frank said with a smile.
    â€œYou won’t find that in here,” another voice added.
    Frank recognized the voice, and he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. He turned slowly to look toward the rear of the saloon. Johnny Vargas sat alone at a table, staring at him.
    â€œIt’s been a while, Johnny,” Frank said. “I figured you’d be long dead by now.”
    â€œA few have tried, Morgan. They didn’t make it.”
    â€œSame here, Johnny.”
    Johnny Vargas was perhaps the most dangerous gunslick in the entire West—incredibly fast. Frank would be the first to admit that Johnny was swifter in pulling iron than he was, but Johnny was not the most accurate shot, oftentimes missing that most important first shot. Frank, on the other hand, almost never missed.
    â€œWhat brings you to this peaceful town, Johnny?”
    â€œJust passin’ through. I been here a few days. I like it. Hell, I might just stick around.”
    â€œYou do that, Johnny. As long as you obey the law.”
    â€œAnd if I don’t?”
    â€œThen you’ll have me to deal with.”
    Johnny laughed at that. “You couldn’t beat me on your best day, Drifter.”
    â€œAre you that anxious to back up that statement, Johnny?”
    Johnny Vargas pushed back his chair and stood up.
    Frank stepped away from the bar.
    â€œOh, hell!” a cowboy said, as the piano player stopped playing and the saloon grew deathly silent.

SEVEN
    For several slow heartbeats the two men faced each other in silence. Then Johnny began to smile.
    â€œSomething funny, Johnny?” Frank asked.
    â€œYou might say that. Killin’ a lawdog is somethin’ I ain’t never done . . . least I ain’t never been convicted of doin’ so. I ain’t gonna start now and spend the rest of my life on the run. So just stand easy and finish your coffee. You ain’t gonna make me pull on you.” Johnny Vargas slowly held his hands out in front of him and then sat back down in his chair. “I’m done for this time, Morgan.”
    â€œSuits me, Johnny.” Frank turned back to the bar and picked up his coffee cup . . . with his left hand.
    The piano player resumed his playing and the cardplayers turned their attention back to the games.
    Frank walked back to Johnny’s table and sat down, placing the coffee cup on the table.
    â€œHave a seat, Morgan,” Johnny said, a smile playing on his lips.
    â€œThanks. Believe I will.”
    â€œSomething on your mind?”
    â€œYou.”
    Johnny cocked an eyebrow in a questioning gesture.
    â€œThis saloon is more than half filled with thieves and gunslicks, Johnny.”
    â€œI noticed. So?”
    â€œWhy?”
    Johnny shrugged his shoulders. “That I don’t know, Morgan. The word went up and down the line to gather here. That’s all I know about it.”
    â€œVal Dooley maybe.”
    â€œVal Dooley is a piker, Morgan. He’s crazy to boot. There ain’t nothin’ he’s doin’ that interests me.”
    â€œWhat do you know about him?”
    â€œWhy should I tell you, Morgan? Hell, I