The Forbidden by William W. Johnstone Read Free Book Online Page B

it was because he had taken such an instant dislike to Colonel Trainor.
    â€œI’d like to run into that damn Morgan!” another voice shouted, rising above the crowd of men at the end of the bar.
    â€œOh, hell, Rob,” a man said. “What do you think you’d do if you did see him? You think you’d maybe crowd him into a fight?”
    â€œDamn right I would,” Rob said. “I’m tired of reading all them books and newspaper stories about him. I want to see firsthand if he’s got the backbone to face a really fast gun.”
    â€œLike you, Rob?” yet another citizen asked.
    â€œYes, sir, just like me. I’m the fastest gun in these parts and you all know it. Anybody here want to say I ain’t?”
    Frank was hemmed in by the crowd at the other end of the bar. If he tried to leave, this punk Rob might recognize him and call his hand. Frank decided to nurse his drink and try to blend in with the crowd around him.
    â€œAin’t nobody callin’ you nothin’, Rob,” a man said. “We’re just tryin’ to relax and have a drink, that’s all.”
    â€œFine,” Rob said, an edge of anger in his voice. “Gimmie another beer, Jake.”
    â€œComin’ right up, Rob,” the bartender called. “Keep your pants on.”
    â€œYeah, please do that!” a burly man dressed in dusty miner’s clothing said with a laugh.
    â€œWho said that?” Rob yelled amid all the sudden and raucous laughter from others in the saloon.
    Damn! Frank thought. The crowd is going to make this fellow mad, and that ’ s the wrong thing to do at this time.
    Frank took a tiny sip of his drink.
    The barkeep slid a foamy mug of beer down the bar toward Rob.
    â€œI wonder how much this Trainor guy is payin’,” Rob tossed out. “If the money’s right, I might take me a ride down there and sign on.”
    â€œThen you’re not goin’ to run into Frank Morgan, Rob,” a drinker said. “Not if this Trainor run him off.”
    â€œOh, hell,” Rob replied. “Frank Morgan’s probably in Texas by now, runnin’ like a scared rabbit.”
    â€œI wouldn’t count on that, boy,” a voice called from a table close to the door.
    â€œOh?” Rob turned to face the man. “How come you say that?”
    â€œMorgan ain’t never run from no one in his life, that’s how come. This Colonel Trainor is just blowin’ smoke, that’s all.”
    â€œYou know Frank Morgan?” Rob asked.
    â€œI seen him a time or two, yeah.”
    â€œWhat’s he look like?” Rob laughed. “Raggedy and gray-headed and probably a damn drunk too?”
    â€œI wouldn’t say that,” the man replied. “But was I you, I’d back off with the mouth some. Frank just might hear about your comments and come here and make you eat them.”
    â€œHuh?” Rob yelled. “If he ever come to Butte, I’d kick his ass from one end of town to the other.”
    â€œI’d give a hundred dollars to see you try that, Rob!” a patron said.
    â€œI wouldn’t try,” Rob said. “I’d do it.”
    The saloon customers all burst into laughter at that.
    â€œBy God, I would!”
    That brought even more laughter.
    Rob turned around and picked up his beer, all the while muttering vile obscenities. “I ever run into Morgan,” Rob whispered, “I’ll show all of you. I swear I will.”
    Frank waved to the bartender for another shot of whiskey. The barkeep walked down, filled his glass, and then locked eyes with Frank. His mouth dropped open as his eyes widened with sudden recognition. “Jesus Christ!” he muttered.
    â€œKeep it to yourself,” Frank told him in a low voice. “I’m not looking for any trouble.”
    But his words came too late. Jake stepped back and stared at the West’s most famous gunfighter for a