The Forbidden by William W. Johnstone Page A

the wall. Then Frank slapped him open-handed, twice across the face.
    â€œWhat? ...” Rob gasped. “Why are you doin’ this to me? I ain’t never done you no hurt.”
    Frank reached down and tore the gunbelt from Rob’s waist, jerking so hard he broke the buckle. He tossed the rig onto the bar.
    â€œYou put gunfighting out of your mind, boy,” Frank told him. “You’re not a gunhand and never will be. And that’s a good thing. You’ll live a lot longer.”
    â€œYou . . .” Rob sputtered.
    â€œShut up and listen to me,” Frank said sharply. “You go be a cowboy or a farmer or run a store or sell ladies’ corsets or men’s hats. But you put gun-handling out of your mind. You hear me?”
    â€œYes, sir,” Rob said meekly.
    â€œYou come back in here tomorrow, sometime after I’m gone, and pick up your guns and sell them or store them away in a trunk. But don’t wear them. Somebody will kill you if you do. Understand?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œFine. Now get out of here.”
    Rob hit the boards without looking back.
    Frank walked back down the bar and picked up his drink.
    â€œGood advice you give that young feller, Mr. Morgan,” Jake said. “His smart mouth was sure gonna get him hurt.”
    â€œHe’ll be all right,” Frank replied. “As long as he leaves those guns alone. I wish somebody had done that to me when I was his age . . . or younger.”
    â€œYou gonna be in town long?”
    â€œI’ll be pulling out come the morning.”
    â€œTown could sure use a lawman like you.”
    â€œNot interested. Thanks just the same.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you just kill the loudmouth, Morgan?” The question was thrown out from a group of men sitting at a table.
    Frank turned from the bar. “Because it wasn’t necessary.”
    â€œToo bad,” the unidentified man said. “I really wanted to see just how fast you are.”
    Frank chose to ignore the questioner and turned back to the bar, picking up his drink and taking a sip. But he picked up the shot glass with his left hand, leaving his right hand free. There was something in the man’s voice that was troubling. Frank had a hunch the man just might be looking for trouble.
    Behind him, Frank heard the sounds of chairs being pushed back. He finished his drink and set the empty glass on the bar.
    â€œTurn around, Morgan,” the man said.
    â€œI can hear you,” Frank said.
    â€œI said turn around, you bastard!”
    Frank turned around. The man was standing up, facing him, maybe thirty feet away. He was dressed all in black. The men who had been seated at tables close by had moved away. “If you have a problem with me, mister, state it,” Frank said. “But don’t call me names”
    â€œYeah, I got a problem, Morgan. And I’ll call you anything I damn well please.”
    â€œMister, you’re about to buy into a high-stakes game here. And I don’t know why. You want to tell me?”
    â€œYou know.”
    Frank sighed. He hated those kinds of answers. If he knew what the problem was, he wouldn’t be asking. “No, I don’t know, mister. If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked.”
    â€œYou and me, we got a debt between us.”
    â€œI owe you money? I don’t think so.”
    â€œYou owe me a life.”
    â€œHow do you figure that?”
    â€œMy older brother.”
    â€œYou’re not giving me much to go on. What’s his name?”
    â€œHis name was Guy. Guy Perkins.”
    â€œI don’t recall ever meeting anyone by that name.”
    The man in black laughed bitterly. “I guess you don’t, since you shot him down in cold blood.”
    â€œYou want to explain that?”
    â€œIt was in Arizona. Down along the border. At a tradin’ post near Fort Huachuca.”
    â€œI was there, years ago.” Frank shook his head.