“He’s here to see Mr. Chamberlain,” Rockwell said. “His name is Frank Morgan.”
If the name meant anything to the butler, for once Frank couldn’t see it in the man’s eyes. The butler turned to him and asked, “What’s the nature of your business? I’ll have to explain to Mr. Chamberlain why you wish to see him.”
“It’s about the bounty,” Frank said. “The bounty on that thing the loggers call the Terror.”
The butler’s eyes widened slightly, but only for a second before he controlled the reaction. He said, “Have you come to collect? Do you have the creature’s head with you?”
“No, and no,” Frank said. “I don’t much believe in bounties, and I sure don’t believe in hacking off somebody’s head just to collect one.”
“I don’t understand. Why do you wish to see Mr. Chamberlain if you don’t intend to collect the reward?”
“That’s between him and me.”
The butler looked at Rockwell. “I fail to see why you brought this man to the house. I don’t think he has any need to see Mr. Chamberlain—”
“I do,” Rockwell said. “Like I told you, he’s Frank Morgan.”
The butler shook his head. “Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”
“He’s The Drifter, for God’s sake! He’s a gunfighter. Some say the last real gunfighter, since Smoke Jensen and Matt Bodine hung up their guns and Wes Hardin’s dead. If he’s got something to say, I reckon the boss would be well-advised to listen.”
“Very well,” the butler said with a sigh. “Please, come in, Mr. Morgan. I’ll see if Mr. Chamberlain is willing to speak with you.”
Frank took off his hat as he stepped into the house. “Much obliged, Mister…?”
“Dennis, sir. Just Dennis. No mister required.”
“See you later, Morgan,” Rockwell said as he stepped back from the door. He lifted a hand in farewell, a gesture that Frank returned. He didn’t particularly like Rockwell, but the man didn’t seem like a bad sort.
“You can wait in the library,” Dennis said. The redwood floor in the foyer had been polished to a high sheen. The hallway down which the butler led Frank was the same way. Portraits of stern-looking men and impassive women hung on the walls.
Dennis ushered Frank through a pair of double doors into a large, rather dark room. Bookshelves lined all four walls from floor to ceiling. The furnishings consisted of a writing desk and several comfortable-looking armchairs. Thick drapes hung over the room’s single window. They were pulled back part of the way to let in some light.
“I’ll advise Mr. Chamberlain that you’re here, sir,” Dennis said.
“No hurry,” Frank told him, and meant it. The sight of all these books intrigued him. Like a lot of men who spent most of their time alone, he was an avid reader and nearly always had a book or two, sometimes more, stuffed in his saddlebags. He wouldn’t mind taking a look at the volumes Rutherford Chamberlain had collected.
Dennis left the room, closing the doors behind him. Frank set his Stetson on one of the chairs and walked over to the nearest bookshelf. Most of the books were bound in expensive leather. He always read cheap editions, because they took quite a beating from being toted around in his saddlebags. He spotted a novel he had read before and enjoyed, Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. This was a different edition, though, so he was about to take it down and flip through it when he heard the library doors open behind him. He turned, expecting to see either Rutherford Chamberlain or the butler Dennis, explaining that Chamberlain had refused to see him.
Instead, a blond, very attractive young woman had stopped just inside the library, and she seemed to be as surprised to see Frank as he was to see her.
Chapter 5
“I’m sorry, I was looking for my father,” she said. “Were you waiting to speak to him?”
So she was Chamberlain’s daughter, Frank thought. She was probably used to seeing men with pomaded hair, wearing expensive suits, waiting in here for her father—not hombres in dusty old range clothes.
And not hombres who were packing iron either, he thought as he saw her startled gaze go to the Colt on his hip.
“That’s right, Miss Chamberlain,” he said. “My name is Frank Morgan.”
She didn’t seem to recognize the name any more than Dennis had. “Father knows you’re here?”
“I suppose he does. That fella Dennis went to tell him.”
“I see. Do you mind if I ask what your business is with my father?”
She came closer as she asked the question. Frank saw intelligence in her brown eyes. He saw something else, too. Worry at the very least. Maybe even fear.
He was too polite to refuse to answer. Anyway, he was curious about her interest. He said, “I want to speak to Mr. Chamberlain about the bounty he’s placed on that thing they call the Terror.”
The young woman wore a dark blue dress with long sleeves and a high neckline. Despite its demure cut, the dress was snug enough to reveal an excellent figure. Her breasts lifted as she inhaled sharply, and the look in her eyes definitely became one of fear.
“Are you here to collect?” she said. That was the same question Dennis had asked, Frank noted, but there was a lot more urgency in this young woman’s voice. “Have…have you killed…it?”
Frank shook his head. “No, ma’am, I haven’t. I haven’t even seen it.”
She sighed in relief.
“But I’ve seen its handiwork,” Frank went on. “It killed eight men this afternoon.”
The blonde shrank back a step as if he had lifted a fist and threatened to hit her. “No!” she said, the exclamation coming from her in a strained half whisper. “That can’t be true!”
He knew she wasn’t actually calling him a liar. She just didn’t want to believe what he had told her. Nodding solemnly, he said, “I’m afraid it is. I saw the bodies myself. They’ve been taken into Eureka.”
“Do you…do you know who they were?”
“Six of them were loggers from a crew working about five miles south of here,” Frank said. “The other two men were hunters who were after the bounty on the Terror. It got them instead of the other way around.”
“How…how terrible.”
He had a feeling that she had to force herself to say it, as though she was glad it hadn’t been the other way around.
“Are you going after the Terror, Mr. Morgan?” she continued.
“I’m not a bounty hunter, of men or monsters,” he said. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going after the Terror—he hadn’t decided about that yet—but if she got that impression from his words, fine. He went on. “What do you know about it? Have you ever seen it?”
She didn’t answer him. Instead she looked around, then said, “I have to go.” Before Frank could say anything else, she turned and disappeared through the double doors. He heard the quick patter of her feet on the hardwood floor of the corridor.
A second later, more footsteps approached the library. These were heavier, a hard, determined stride that had to belong to Rutherford Chamberlain. The young woman must have heard them coming. Frank thought that must be why she had rushed out of the library. For some reason, she didn’t want her father to know that she had been in here talking to the visitor.
The woman had left the doors open. A moment later, a man in a brown tweed suit appeared in them. He was about the same height as Frank, and his broad shoulders indicated that he had been a powerful man at one time. Age had drained him of some of his vitality, though. Age and perhaps grief, Frank thought as he recalled Rockwell’s comment about how Chamberlain’s wife had died several years earlier. Chamberlain’s hair and mustache were iron gray. Deep-set eyes looked out from a face that tended toward gauntness. The collar of his shirt was a little too big for his turkey neck.