Hell Town. William W. Johnstone

to lose any sleep over the likes of Conwell, but he wasn’t so hardened and calloused that he felt nothing at all. Frank had always been a reader, carrying a book or two in his saddlebags during all those long years of drifting, and he recalled a line written by the poet John Donne: “Any man’s death diminishes me.”

      Probably not the best thing for a gunfighter to be thinking about, Frank mused, but the idea was with him anyway.

      Deep in thought like that, he almost didn’t hear the hoofbeats of the approaching rider. But then he realized someone was coming and glanced up.

      The man approaching on a roan stallion was dressed mostly in black. A red bandanna tied around his neck was the only splash of color about him. Gray hair fell from under the flat-crowned black hat to hang around his shoulders. The deep tan and high cheekbones of his hawklike face told Frank that he might have some Indian blood, but he couldn’t be sure if the man was a ’breed.

      The stranger’s thonged-down holster told a story of its own, though, and it was one that Frank didn’t like.

      The man reined in about twenty feet away and swung down from the saddle. He said in a raspy voice, “You’d be Frank Morgan?”

      “I would,” Frank agreed.

      “My name is Harry Clevenger.”

      Frank nodded. “I thought I recognized you, but it’s been a long time.”

      Clevenger frowned as he asked, “We’ve met?”

      “No, but you were pointed out to me one night down in Taos, about fifteen years ago. You were in Don Robusto’s cantina.”

      Clevenger’s eyes narrowed. “You were that close to me and I didn’t know you were there?”

      “That’s right.”

      “If I’d known, we’d have had this showdown then.”

      Frank shook his head. “I didn’t have any call to want a showdown with you, mister. Still don’t, as far as I know.”

      “You don’t want to know who’s faster?”

      Frank sighed. “To tell you the God’s honest truth, I don’t give a damn. I stopped worrying about things like that a long time ago.”

      “But you’re still here,” Clevenger insisted. “You’re still alive. You’ve outdrawn everybody who ever went up against you. You must care about that.”

      “I care about staying alive. Whether or not that means I’m faster on the draw than some other fella…” Frank shook his head. “I haven’t lost a minute of sleep worrying about that for years now.”

      Clevenger stared at him for a long moment in silence, then finally grunted in surprise. “Huh. That ain’t what I expected out of you, Morgan, but it don’t change anything. I heard you’d taken to toting a badge, but that don’t mean anything either. I’m still here to kill you.”

      “Clevenger,” Frank said, “right back there behind me is a brand-new grave. The young fella lying in it thought he was a dangerous man, fast on the draw. He’ll be a long time dead because he felt that way. You and I have both lived longer than we had any right to expect, the sort of lives we’ve led. Why don’t you climb back on that horse and live a while longer?”

      Face set in stubborn lines, Clevenger shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “Not while the famous Frank Morgan is still drawing breath. One of us has got to go down, Morgan.”

      Frank sighed, knowing that Clevenger wouldn’t be talked out of this. The man had been a gunfighter almost as long as Frank had, with plenty of kills to his name. He fought fair, but he had a reputation as being a cold-blooded bastard too, who had been known to finish off a man once he was wounded and down. There was not an ounce of mercy in him.

      “All right,” Frank said. “It’s your play. You want to dance, you start the ball.”

      Clevenger sneered, and less than the blink of an eye later, his hand flashed with blinding speed toward the gun on his hip.

      It came as no surprise to Frank that Clevenger was fast. The gunman wouldn’t have lived this long if he hadn’t been. Their guns came out of leather at the same time, but the barrel of Frank’s Colt leveled out just a hair ahead of Clevenger’s. Smoke and flame geysered from the Peacemaker’s muzzle. Clevenger fired half a heartbeat later, but that was too late for him. His gun had already dropped toward the ground as he was driven backward by the slug from Frank’s gun that smashed into his chest.

      Clevenger landed on his back. He struggled to rise for a second, then sagged down into death. His hat had fallen off, and the breeze tugged at the long gray hair and moved it around in front of his face.

      Frank took a fresh cartridge from one of the loops on his shell belt and replaced the spent one in the Colt’s cylinder, then pouched the iron. Behind him, he heard Claude Langley call to the gravediggers, “Better get started on another one, boys.”

      Chapter 5

      Catamount Jack met Frank about halfway back to the marshal’s office. He had a shotgun in his hands.

      “I got to thinkin’ maybe I shouldn’t’a sent that feller out to the graveyard when he come by the office lookin’ for you,” Jack said. “Figured I’d go out there and make sure ever’thin’ was all right, but then I heard a couple o’ shots. Reckon he must’ve found you all right.”

      “He did,” Frank said.

      “Hombre plan on stayin’ around Buckskin for long?”

      “He didn’t plan on it, but I reckon now he won’t be leaving.”

      Jack let out a cackle of laughter; then as Frank frowned, the old-timer said, “Sorry, Marshal. I know killin’ a man is serious business. But Good Lord, didn’t he know who he was goin’ up against?”

      “He knew,” Frank said. “That’s why he came looking for me. His name was Harry Clevenger, and he had a reputation as a fast gun.”

      “Not fast enough.” Jack was still grinning. His attempt at being more solemn hadn’t been successful.

      “Do me a favor, would you, Jack?”

      “Sure.”

      “Find Mayor Woodford and ask him if he’d come over to the office, would you?”

      “All right, but Tip’s liable to already be up at his diggin’s. I’ll check the Lucky Lizard office and his house, though.”

      Frank went on to the marshal’s office while Jack went in search of the mayor. Earlier that morning, Frank had made some fresh coffee, and he was halfway through a cup of it when Tip Woodford came through the door of the office. He wore his usual overalls and slouch hat.

      “Jack said you wanted to see me, Frank?”

      “That’s right. Coffee?”

      “No, thanks. I got to get up to the mine in a little while. What can I do for you?”

      Frank sat down behind the table. “I guess you heard what happened out at the cemetery a while ago.”

      “Jack told me,” Tip said with a casual nod. “Are you all right? That hombre didn’t wing you?”

      Frank shook his head and said, “I’m fine. His bullet didn’t come anywhere near me. You don’t seem too bothered by this, Tip.”

      The mayor shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Why should I be bothered? It wasn’t me the fella wanted to kill. And you said yourself that you’re fine, so I don’t have to go huntin’ another marshal….”

      “It’s going to happen again,” Frank said.

      Tip frowned. “Somebody comin’ here to draw against you, you mean?”

      “That’s right. Harry Clevenger was only