3rd Jan 1857, Jefferson City, Missouri
“You red bastard!” yelled Frank Waterman as he staggered to his feet and spat a tooth onto the beer soaked earth of The Dirty Spur saloon. The tall half caste man placed a hand on the handle of his sidearm. Waterman scooped up his Bowie knife.
“You bring a pig sticker to a gun fight?” asked the man as he drew his gun with lightning speed and put a bullet through Waterman’s hand. He screamed and clutched the wound.
“I’ll kill you!” screamed Waterman as he doubled over in pain.
“You’ll try,” said the man as he walked across the saloon and smashed Waterman right in the jaw, knocking him backwards through a card table and into unconsciousness. He looked around at the stunned patrons of The Dirty Spur as he pulled out a yellowed piece of paper. “Frank Waterman is wanted in Fort Leavenworth.”
“This ain’t Fort Leavenworth!” growled a man through blackened teeth as he spat tobacco onto the floor.
“You talking to me?” the man as he levelled his Colt Paterson at him and pulled the hammer back. The man quickly shut up as his hands went up in fear. “Didn’t think so. I am hauling Frank Waterman’s ass back to Kansas. Any objections?”
The patrons remained silent.
“Kill…you,” Waterman garbled as he lolled about like an infant learning to walk. The man turned back to the man with black teeth and pointed his gun at him again.
“Get up!”
“I don’t want no trouble,” he whimpered as he got to his feet.
“Won’t be any trouble, if you shut up and do what I tell you. Pick him up.”
“Why don’t you?”
“I don’t touch horse $#!t! Now pick him UP!” The black toothed man gulped at the order and scurried over helping Waterman to his feet. “Now take him outside.”
They marched outside, followed by the curious crowd of patrons. The tall man lashed Frank’s hands together before tying to the saddle of his grey mare. He mounted up when the black toothed man tapped his leg.
“Who are you?”
The man tipped his hat. “Morgan Fogg. Yar!” The mare reared up and galloped out of town dragging the stumbling Frank Waterman behind.
9th Jan 1857, Fort Leavenworth, Kansas Territory
Frank Waterman collapsed in a heap on the steps of the jail. His hand wound had festered, his lips were bloody and chapped, and shoes were held together with little more than good luck and prayer.
“Seems the Red Fog has descended upon Kansas once again!”
Morgan Fogg looked at the portly man in black who could really do with a second set of suspenders shook his head. “Always a pleasure to see you too, Abraham.”
“Sherriff Wallace!” He corrected as he waited til he’d dismounted before lowering his voice “Can’t be seen in public being pleasant to the likes of you, now can I Morgan Fogg? Now, who pray tell is THIS sorry sack of bones?” And he tapped Frank with his foot.
He handed Sherriff Wallace the warrant. “Francis John Waterman. Seventy five dollars.”
“If he be in good condition for trial,” Wallace commented dryly before looking again at the gasping man on the porch. “Closer to poor than fair.”
Morgan took up a nearby bucket and dunked it into the horse trough, giving his horse a slight scare, before splashing it over Frank. “All he needs is a bath. Seventy five dollars.”
“That’ll be up to Judge Clemens. Eli! Eli! ELI!” Wallace called into the jailhouse door. Soon a scrawny kid with the same face as Abraham Wallace scurried out of. The Sherriff shook his head in disappointment and clipped him across the back of the head. “You deaf boy? Take our guest into the cells.”
“Yes Pa.” came the mumbled reply as he drag-carried the wet Frank Waterman inside. “Morgan.”
Morgan smiled and followed them inside. “Let me give you a hand Eli.”
**
“The Red Fog,” grumbled Judge Clemens as he adjusted his spectacles. “Thought you were dead?”
“Sorry to disappoint you judge,” replied Morgan as he stood opposite in the courtroom.
“You brought in Waterman by yourself?”
“Yes judge.”
Judge Clemens checked over the papers. “Pretty good for an Injun. Here’s your money.”
Morgan stepped forward and took the notes and began counting them. Clemens peered down his nose.
“You can count?”
“Us Injuns are full of surprises,” retorted Morgan. “You’re also short. Poster says seventy five and this is thirty seven.”
Clemens nodded “Since you are actually in violation of the Indian Removal Act, I can’t pay the Injun half of you.”
“What?” Morgan’s hand instinctively went to his hip but Sherriff Wallace tapped it away and gave him a stern look.
Wallace shrugged. “That’s the law son.”
“You owe me thirty eight more dollars!” Morgan scowled at Clemens. “Hand over my money or I’ll take him back to wher….”
“You dare tell me what to do in my courtroom, you red mongrel?!” roared Clemens over the top of Morgan.
“Now how’s about we all calm down.” Wallace suggested as he stepped between the two. Morgan’s hand hovered towards his firearm as his eyes locked with Clemens. After several tense moments Morgan simply turned and walked off.
**
10th Jan 1857, Fort Leavenworth, Kansas Territory
Eli Wallace opened the door to see Morgan Fogg standing there. “Mornin’ Morgan.”
“Eli,” Morgan nodded. “Where’s your Pa?”
“Still sleepin’” Eli replied.
“Waterman still here?”
“Yes sir.”
Morgan stepped in past the boy. “Good. Now I need you to run an errand for me.”
Eli nodded.
“Take this envelope and take it over to Judge Clemens house. Don’t stop for no one. Don’t talk to no one. Deliver to his hand and his hand alone. You understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good boy.” He patted him on the head and the Sherriff’s son took off like a shot. Morgan picked up the cell keys from the hook on the wall and headed over to Waterman’s cell. “Get up!”
“Wha-what?” yawned Frank as he came to.
“You and me are going for another little ride,” smiled Morgan as he dragged Waterman out of the cell.
**
17th Jan 1857, Jefferson City, Missouri
Frank Waterman flew through the swinging doors of The Dirty Spur and hit the ground more dead than alive. Morgan Fogg strode in behind, all eyes fixed on him. He eyeballed the room before tipping his hat.
“You all have a nice day.”
**
10th Jan 1857, Fort Leavenworth, Kansas Territory
Eli waited nearly two hours before Judge Clemens would see him. The old man took the envelope, opened it to see thirty seven dollars in it with a hand scrawled note.
-I’m keeping my promise. Unlike you.-
“FOGGGGGGGG!” roared Clemens as he made a beeline to the jail.
**
To be continued in #2
http://www.comicvine.com/forums/fan-fic-8/wild-western-the-red-fog-2-1656203/#10
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