Sudden Fury

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Gunshots, then screams.

Both sounds were enough to make Frank Morgan rein in sharply as they came to his ears through the forest. Towering, thick-trunked redwoods surrounded him. The trees muffled sounds somewhat, but Frank heard the shots, followed by terrified shrieking, clearly enough so that he knew they were close by. He reached for the butt of the Winchester that jutted up from a sheath strapped to Stormy’s saddle.

The rangy gray horse stood calmly as Frank pulled the rifle from the saddle boot. Stormy had been one of Frank Morgan’s trail partners for a long time now, along with the big, wolflike cur known only as Dog. The horse was used to the sound of gunfire.

He would have to be, considering that Frank Morgan was the notorious gunfighter known as The Drifter.

Frank had drifted here to the redwood country of northern California from Los Angeles. A dustup down in those parts had left him hankering for some peace and quiet, so he had meandered northward along the coastline. In the back of his mind was a vague plan—the only kind he made these days—to visit Oregon, maybe even mosey on up to Washington. But he wasn’t going to get in any hurry about it.

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