The Drifter Read Free

see you in a little while."
    Frank rode out an hour later. He had his month's wages—twelve dollars—and twenty dollars extra Mr. Phillips gave him. He still had twenty-five dollars he'd saved over his time at the ranch, too. Frank felt like he was sort of rich. He had a sack of food Mrs. Phillips had fixed for him. He was well-mounted, for the foreman had picked him out a fine horse and a good saddle and saddlebags.
    The other hands had gathered around to wish him farewell.
    â€œYou done the world a favor, Frankie,” one told him.
    â€œI never did like that sorry bastard,” another told him.
    â€œHere you go, Frankie,” another puncher said, holding out Luther's guns. “You throw away that old rust pot you been totin’ around and take these. You earned ‘em, and you'll probably damn shore need them."
    â€œWhat do you mean, Tom?” Frank asked.
    â€œFrankie ... Luther was a bad one. He's killed four or five men that we know of with a pistol. He's got himself a reputation as a gunman. There'll be some who'll come lookin’ to test you."
    â€œTest me?"
    â€œCall you out, boy,” the foreman said. “You're the man who killed Luther Biggs. They'll be some lookin’ to kill you. Stay ready."
    â€œI don't want no reputation like that,” Frank protested.
    â€œYour druthers don't cut no ice now, boy. You got the name of a gunman. Now, like it or not, you got to live with it."
    Â 

 

 
    Two
    Â 
    Â 
    Frank drifted for a couple of months, clear out of Texas and up into Oklahoma Territory. He hooked up with two more young men about his age, and they rode together. Their parents were dead, like Frank's, and they just plain hadn't wanted to stay with brothers or sisters ... as was the case with Frank.
    By then the story had spread about the shoot-out between young Morgan and Luther Biggs. Frank never talked about it; he just wanted to forget it. But he knew he probably would never be able to do that ... not completely.
    The War Between the States was only a few months away, the war talk getting hotter and hotter. One of the boys Frank was riding with believed in preserving the Union. Frank and the other boy were Southern born. If war did break out, they would fight for the South.
    The trio of boys separated in Arkansas when they received word about the beginning of hostilities between the North and the South. Frank joined up with a group of young men who were riding off to enlist in the Confederate Army. He never knew what happened to the other two boys.
    For the next four years Frank fought for the Southern cause and matured into a grown man. He became hardened to the horrors of war. At war's end, Frank Morgan was a captain in the Confederate Army, commanding a company of cavalry.
    Rather than turn in his weapons, Frank headed west. During that time he had been experimenting with faster ways to get a pistol out of the holster. He had a special holster made for him at a leather shop in southern Missouri: the holster was open, without a flap, and a leather thong slipped over the hammer prevented the pistol from falling out when he was riding or doing physical activities on foot. Frank practiced pulling the pistol out of leather; he worked at it for at least an hour each day, drawing and cocking and dry firing the weapon. The first time he tried the fast draw using live ammunition, he almost shot himself in the foot. He practiced with much more care after that, figuring that staying in the saddle with just one foot in the stirrup might be a tad difficult.
    By the time Frank reached Colorado, his draw was perfected. He could draw—and fire—with amazing accuracy, and with blinding speed.
    And that was where his lasting reputation was carved in stone. He met up with the Biggs brothers—all four of them.
    He was provisioning up in southeastern Colorado when he heard someone call out his name. He turned to look at one of the ugliest men he had ever