Free Reprisal by William W. Johnstone

said.
    â€œI still feel faint,” the older woman complained. “I need to lie down and collect myself.”
    â€œPick a spot on the floor, lady,” the stationmaster said. “This ain’t no hotel.”
    â€œI shall certainly post a letter of grievance to the owners of this stage line,” she told him. “The treatment I’m receiving is deplorable.”
    â€œMr. Morgan,” the young woman said to Frank. “I have aspirations of becoming a writer. I would like to talk with you at some future point . . . with your permission, of course.”
    Crap ! Frank thought. But he nodded his head in agreement.
    Then he remembered the writer Louis Pettigrew, the little Boston author of all those ridiculous dime novels about him, and Frank suppressed a shudder. Louis had promised to follow him no matter where he went and write his life’s story. God, what if Frank had two writers following him around!
    He looked at the very attractive young woman. Naw! No way could this pretty little thing manage to follow him around during his wanderings.
    Oh, hell! Frank thought, as the young lady got to her feet. Nom she’s going to come over here and sit down beside me.
    â€œNow just where do you think you’re going, Colleen?” the older woman asked.
    â€œTo sit beside Mr. Morgan.”
    â€œOh, no, you most certainly will do no such thing! Why ... the man is a craven killer!”
    â€œStuff and nonsense, Martha. The man protected himself, that’s all.”
    â€œYou come back here!”
    Colleen walked over and sat down beside Frank. “Do you mind, Mr. Morgan?”
    â€œNot at all, miss.” Damn!
    Colleen sat down and said, “I’ve read all the books about you and Mr. MacCallister and the mysterious gunfighter called Smoke Jensen. Do you know any of those men, Mr. Morgan?”
    â€œJenson or Falcon MacCallister?”
    â€œEither one.”
    â€œKnow both of them. Knew Falcon. He’s dead now. Killed by ambush and buried ’side his wife overlooking MacCallister’s Valley.”
    â€œBut Jenson is still alive, isn’t he?”
    â€œLast I heard he was.”
    â€œWho is that handsome young man with you, sir?”
    Aha! She’s got eyes for Jeff, Frank thought. Good. Get those two hooked up and I’ll be shut of both of them. “That’s Jeff Barton. He’s from New York City.”
    â€œAre you all right over there, Colleen?” the older, rather ample woman hollered.
    â€œOf course I’m all right, Martha. You’re looking right at me.”
    â€œWho is that woman?” Frank asked. “Kin of yours?”
    â€œOh, no. That’s Mrs. Martha Overhouser. She is a recent widow. Her husband died suddenly.”
    â€œI’m sure he’s resting much better now.”
    That comment blew right past Colleen. “She has a brother out in California. That’s where she’s going.”
    â€œThis way? Last time I checked, California was west of Denver, not south.”
    Colleen giggled. “Oh, you silly! No. She has a friend in Durango. She’s going to visit her for a time. They haven’t seen each other in years.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œThey were friends in finishing school. Back in Massachusetts. She’s looking forward to seeing Mrs. Tremaine.”
    Frank had just taken a sip of coffee, and almost choked on it. “Mrs. Tremaine?”
    â€œYes. Paulette Tremaine.”
    Frank coughed a couple of times and cleared his throat. “Does your friend know what Mrs. Tremaine does for a living?”
    â€œI really don’t know. She told me that Paulette’s husband died about fifteen years ago and about five years ago she moved to Durango and is operating a very successful business there.”
    Paulette Tremaine got run out of Denver about five years ago, Frank recalled, hiding his smile. Mrs. Martha Overhouser was in for one hell of a surprise, for