The Drifter Read Online Free PDF Page A

the memories away and close that old door."
    But that was not an easy thing to do. Even though it had been some twenty years since he had pulled out of Denver, twenty years since he had last seen Vivian, the memories were still very strong, and the image of her face was forever burned into his brain.
    Frank had heard little bits of gossip about Henson: the man had become a millionaire through land deals in and around Denver, and a powerful voice in his church. He had sent his daughter, Vivian, back east to live with family. She had gotten married there (somehow her father had had her marriage to Frank annulled). She had a child by her second husband.
    She and her husband had returned to Denver to take over her father's business when Henson's health began to fail. By that time, Frank had learned, the boy was in college somewhere back east.
    Occasionally Frank ran across a weeks- or months-old Denver newspaper and read it. Sometimes there was something in there about Vivian Browning, and Frank would wonder what she looked like now, and for a time he would be lost in “what ifs?"
    â€œCrap!” Frank muttered as he made camp for the evening in the timber of the Sangre de Cristos, east and a little north of Santa Fe. “Put it out of your mind, Morgan. Put her out of your mind. She hasn't thought about you in years."
    But as many times as Frank thought that, he always wondered if it was true.
    He certainly had never forgotten her.
    Frank filled the coffeepot with water and set it on the fire to boil. He settled back with a book. Frank always made camp with an least an hour of daylight left him, so he could read. He was a well-read and self-educated man. There were always a couple of books in his saddlebags—history, government, sometimes poetry.
    On this day he dug out a book by John Milton. He had bought the book weeks back from a traveling salesman. And while he would be the first to admit that sometimes he didn't know what the hell Milton was talking about; he nevertheless enjoyed his writings. Frank read for a time from something titled Paradise Lost . But he was not so engrossed that he did not know what was happening around him: the birds that had been singing so gaily had stopped, and the squirrels that had been chattering were silent. Frank put his hand on the stock of his rifle and pulled it close to him. Whenever he made camp for the night, he levered a round into the chamber of his rifle. All he had to do was ear back the hammer and let ‘er bang.
    â€œEasy, friend.” The voice came out of the timber. “I don't mean no harm."
    â€œThen why are you trying to slip up on me?"
    â€œ'cause I know who you are, and how quick you are on the shoot—that's why."
    Frank smiled. “Fair enough. Come on into the camp."
    â€œLet me get my horses—all right?"
    â€œBring them in."
    The man looked to be in his sixties. He carried a rifle and wore a pistol at his side. He carefully propped his rifle against a tree and then saw to his animals. He joined Frank by the small campfire.
    â€œIf you ain't got no coffee, I got some in my gear."
    â€œI have coffee. Waiting for the water to boil. What's on your mind?"
    â€œCompany for the evenin', that's all. If you don't mind."
    â€œNot at all. I'm Frank Morgan."
    â€œJess McCready. I know who you are."
    The water was boiling and Frank dumped in the coffee. “Be ready in a minute, Jess. What are you doing out here in the big lonesome?"
    â€œGettin’ away from people, mostly.” The older man sniffed at the heady aroma of coffee brewing and smiled. “I do like my coffee, Mr. Morgan."
    â€œFrank. Just Frank."
    â€œThankee. Frank it is."
    â€œGetting a little bit crowded for you, Jess?"
    â€œA little bit?” The older man snorted derisively. “The territory is fillin’ up. Towns sproutin’ up ever'where you look. It's disgustin'."
    Frank smiled and dumped in some cold water to settle the grounds.