William Johnstone: Dead Before Sundown

THE LAST GUNFIGHTER

Dead Before

Sundown

William W. Johnstone

with J. A. Johnstone

Chapter 1

The storm blew up unexpectedly. At least, Frank Morgan didn’t see it coming, but he was no sailor. He was at home on the back of a horse, not the pitching deck of a boat.

As the Jupiter made a run for shore, Frank stood at the railing, his hands clutching the smooth wood, and watched the dark clouds looming behind the ship. A hard wind blew, and the waves that jutted up from the water reminded Frank of gray fangs waiting to chew the life out of him.

Frank was a broad-shouldered man of medium height whose high-crowned, cream-colored Stetson was pulled down tight on his graying dark hair to keep the gusts from blowing it off his head. His faded blue shirt, jeans, and well-worn boots were the outfit of a cowboy, but except on rare occasions, he hadn’t punched cows since he was a young man in Texas.

That was a lot of years in the past, and a long way from here, as well.

The holstered Colt strapped around Frank’s hips told a different story. The revolver’s walnut grips were worn smooth with use. The holster was oiled and supple.

Habitually, Frank’s right hand never strayed far from the gun butt. Even when he was at ease, he was ready to hook and draw at a split-second’s notice.

Frank Morgan was a gunfighter. People called him the Drifter, and that summed up his life pretty well. Considering his age and the deadly speed and skill he still possessed, some said he was the last true gunfighter, the last survivor of the era that had included such notorious pistoleers as John Wesley Hardin, Smoke Jensen, Ben Thompson, Falcon MacCallister, and Matt Bodine.

Hardin and Thompson were dead now, treacherously gunned down by their enemies. Smoke Jensen was living the peaceful life of a rancher in Colorado, the last Frank had heard. That made him a rarity among men who had lived by the gun. Nearly all of them had died by it, too. Frank didn’t know what had happened to MacCallister and Bodine. He had lost track of them over the years.

As for Frank, he was still drifting, still winding up in one fracas after another despite his intention to avoid trouble, and lately his wanderings had carried him to the far north, to the gold-rich Yukon country along the border between Alaska and Canada. He had survived a harrowing adventure there and had returned briefly to the Alaskan port of Skagway to settle a score, only to find that fate had already taken care of that for him.

Now he was on the Jupiter, sailing south toward Seattle, Washington, but this squall had come up and forced the ship to turn toward the Canadian coast to avoid it.

A woman’s voice came from behind him on the whipping wind. “Frank? What are you doing out here?”

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Meg Goodwin standing there on the deck. Her hands were thrust into the pockets of her jeans to protect them from the cold. It was summer, but in this part of the world when the storm winds blew, they were chilly, no matter what the season.

Meg was a mighty attractive sight, what with the blond hair that escaped from under her flat-crowned brown hat whipping around her face. She was dressed like a man in jeans, a buckskin shirt, and a denim jacket, but there was no mistaking the fact that her trim, shapely figure belonged to a woman.

Frank was old enough to be Meg’s father, and because of that there was nothing romantic between them—although she had made it clear on more than one occasion that she wouldn’t mind that in the least—but he was objective enough to know she was a very pretty gal.

She could shoot as well as most men, too, a fact she had proven during Frank’s perilous sojourn to Alaska.

He didn’t answer the question she had asked him. Instead he said, “Where’s Salty?”

Their friend Salty Stevens, the third member of the unofficial trio that was traveling together, was an old-timer, even older than Frank. Salty had been knocking around the frontier for decades, working as a stagecoach driver, Army scout, and range detective, among other odd jobs he had held. He had run into some bad luck when he went north to the Yukon to prospect for gold, but then good luck had found him in the person of Frank Morgan.

“He’s down in his cabin, like you should be,” Meg said. “If that storm catches us and the ship starts pitching around, you’re liable to fall off!”

Frank smiled. “Don’t worry. If she starts bucking like a wild bronc, I’ll go below. I reckon there’s a good chance the captain’s going to get us ashore before that happens, though.”

He pointed to the dark line that was visible through the gloom on the horizon.

“Is that Canada?” Meg asked.

“I think so. I overheard one of the ship’s officers telling another that we’d duck behind some island and run into a little port called Powderkeg Bay until the storm passes.”

“I hope he was right. I’m not sure I have my sea legs well enough to ride out a storm.”

Despite the potential danger, Frank was sort of enjoying the elemental drama playing out on this gray afternoon. He had never spent much time on ships during his life, and it was a new challenge for him.

But Meg was obviously worried, and Frank was curious about how well Salty was riding out the weather, too, so he said, “Why don’t we both go below? We’ll stop at Salty’s cabin and see how he’s doing.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Meg said with a nod. She held her hat on, pushing it down on her blond hair, as they turned toward the stairs that led below decks.

When they reached Salty’s cabin, a feeble moan was the only answer to Frank’s rap on the door. Frank opened it and stuck his head into the dim cabin.

“Salty? Are you all right?”

“I’ve rid stagecoaches that bounced over some of the worst roads west of the Mississippi, but I ain’t never felt no bouncin’ around like this dang ship does!” The querulous voice came from the cabin’s bunk. “Ding-blasted thing needs better thoroughbraces!”

“And the storm hasn’t even caught us yet,” Frank said as he stepped into the cabin.

He scratched a match to life and held the flame to the wick of a lamp that hung on gimbals from a wall sconce. The lamp swayed with the motion of the ship, casting a shifting pattern of shadows over the small room.

Salty sat up on the bunk and raked fingers through his white beard. He swung his legs off and let his booted feet thump to the floor. His rumpled thatch of hair was as snowy as his beard. Keen, dark eyes were set in pits of gristle in his leathery face.

“We’re gonna sink, ain’t we?” he asked glumly.

“I don’t think so,” Frank said. “We’re in sight of land. It shouldn’t be much longer until we’re in a bay, and the water ought to be calmer there.”

“I hope this don’t put us too far behind schedule. I’d like to make it to Mexico afore winter sets in. After freezin’ my—” Salty glanced at Meg as he caught himself. He went on, “After freezin’ in Skagway and Whitehorse last winter, from now on I plan to spend the rest of my days somewheres warm. I don’t know what in blazes ever possessed me to go north to Alaska, anyway.”

“Gold,” Frank said. “The same thing that possesses just about everybody else who heads up there these days.”