The Forbidden by William W. Johnstone Page B

“But I don’t recall any trouble. You sure you got the right man?”
    â€œI’m sure.”
    There was no talk among the saloon’s many patrons. The men were all silent, listening and watching intently.
    â€œYou got the wrong man, mister,” Frank told him.
    â€œTime for you to pay for killin’ my brother, Morgan. I been lookin’ all over for you for years. Now you pay your debt.”
    Frank suddenly was weary of the talk. He had been wrongly blamed for a hundred deaths over the years . . . probably more than that. And it was certainly possible this man in black didn’t even have a brother. He was just looking for a name.
    â€œYou ready, Morgan?”
    â€œI guess so,” Frank replied. “But I’m not looking forward to killing a man for no good reason.”
    â€œYou killed my brother, damn you!”
    â€œI don’t think so. I think you’re just a damn fool looking to make a name for himself. And I’m not going to draw on you.”
    â€œStand real still, mister,” a voice said from the entrance to the bar. “You, all dressed in black. Don’t move a muscle or I’ll cut you in half with this shotgun.”
    Frank shifted his gaze for just a second. A man wearing a badge on his shirt was standing near the batwings, a sawed-off shotgun in his hand, the barrels pointed at the man in black.
    â€œI ain’t done nothing, Marshal,” the black-dressed man said.
    â€œYou were just about to get yourself killed, that’s what you were about to do. And if that’s what you want to do, go somewhere else to do it.”
    â€œThis bastard killed my brother, Marshal!”
    â€œDid you, Morgan?” the marshal asked.
    â€œNot to my knowledge.”
    â€œThat’s good enough for me. You take off that gunbelt, mister. Lay it on the table.”
    â€œThe hell I will,” the man said.
    â€œYou’ll be dead if you don’t,” the marshal said coldly, then eared back both hammers on the Greener.
    The man in black slowly unbuckled his gunbelt and laid it on the table. “What now, Marshal?”
    â€œBack up, away from the table. All the way to the back of the saloon. Then you sit down, both hands on the table.”
    The man backed up and carefully made his way to the rear of the saloon. He sat down and put both hands on the table.
    â€œNow you stay there.” The marshal cut his eyes to Frank. “How long are you going to be in town, Morgan?”
    â€œI plan on pulling out first thing in the morning, Marshal.”
    â€œGood. I’ll make sure that young punk Rob and this stranger here don’t follow you out.”
    â€œI appreciate that. Rob’s guns are over here on the bar.”
    â€œThey can stay there until they rust, far as I’m concerned.”
    â€œThat would be best, I’m thinking. All right, Marshal,” Frank said. “I’m going. Thanks for your help.”
    â€œDon’t mention it. Have a good trip.”
    Frank walked out of the saloon and headed for the general store. He picked up his supplies and carried them to the livery, telling the liveryman to keep an eye on them. The woman who ran the laundry said his clothes wouldn’t be ready for several more hours. Frank walked over to a cafe and had a good meal, lingering long over several cups of coffee. The news that Frank Morgan was in town had spread fast, and dozens of people walked past the cafe for a look-see at the famous gunfighter. Frank finally got tired of it and went back to the livery. The crowds of curious followed him over there. Frank finally said to hell with it, went back to the general store, and bought a couple of new outfits and rode out of town, avoiding the main street as he did. Early the next morning, he left Butte for good, just wandering.
    * * *
    A month later, Frank was on the Montana/Wyoming border, buying coffee and bacon at a general store in a tiny town. He wasn’t