The fire was too far advanced for anything to be done about it. But with any luck, Frank thought, he and Reuben could stop the flames from spreading to the house next door.
Where was Reuben? He should have heard the shots and come to see what was wrong.
Unless, for some reason, he couldn’t do that, and the only reasons Frank could think of were bad ones.
He turned away from the doorway, glad to be away from the furnacelike heat that rolled out of the blacksmith shop. As he hurried toward Reuben’s living quarters, he saw a spurt of reddish flame through a window. For a second he thought it was a muzzle flash, but then he realized he could still see it. The glare was growing brighter, too.
The house was on fire as well as the shop, Frank thought grimly.
He ran to the back door and kicked it open, then jerked to the side just in case anyone inside fired at him. No one did, so after a moment he called in a loud voice, “Reuben! Reuben, are you in there?”
His only answer was a groan. Frank darted through the doorway, looking around the flame-lit room.
The house was a small one, with a single room that served as kitchen, bedroom, and living area. Reuben’s bunk was against the far wall, and that was where the fire was the worst. As the flames leaped higher, Frank spotted a dark, bulky shape lying on the bunk. He knew it had to be Reuben.
With no time to spare, Frank lunged across the room, ignoring the heat of the blaze that pounded at him like a giant fiery fist. He wore socks but no boots, and he felt the searing touch of flame through them. When he reached the bunk, he tucked the revolver behind his belt and bent to grab Reuben.
Even over the crackling roar of the flames he heard the blast of a gun and the whine of a slug over his head. Still bending, Frank whirled and snatched out the Peacemaker. Through eyes watering from the smoke, he saw the figure of a gunman just as the man fired at him again. The bullet ripped through the fabric of Frank’s jeans on the outside of his left thigh, burning a brand on the flesh underneath. Frank staggered but kept his feet. He triggered twice. The lead smashed into the gunman, making him jerk back in a jittering dance before he collapsed.
Frank turned to Reuben again and grabbed hold of him, lifting him. The muscles in Frank’s neck stood out and he gave a deep groan of effort as he struggled to lift the massive blacksmith. Barely able to stay on his feet, Frank headed for the rear door.
He burst out into the clearer, cooler night air, and it seemed to give him the strength he needed to stagger away from the burning buildings. When he judged that he had gone far enough, he stopped, and his muscles chose that moment to give way. He fell, dropping Reuben’s limp form. The two men sprawled side by side on the grass.
Frank drew several deep breaths, trying to clear the smoke from his lungs. He coughed a few times and then was able to push himself up onto his hands and knees. He reached out and felt under Reuben’s beard for a pulse in the blacksmith’s neck. Relief went through him as he found one and realized that it was fairly strong and regular. Reuben had been either knocked out or overcome by the smoke—or both—but he ought to be all right.
Frank pushed himself to his feet as he heard shouting. Nemo was a very small community, not much more than the blacksmith shop, a church, and a few scattered houses. But the citizens were aware of the fire now, and Frank saw them running toward the burning buildings. Some of the men carried buckets, but it was too late for a bucket brigade. Neither the shop nor the house could be saved.
A pang of regret went through Frank as he thought about all of Reuben’s books burning up. But books could be replaced, at least most of them, and a human life definitely couldn’t be.
Neither could the lives of a horse and a mule. Frank hurried over to the shed and led Stormy and Reuben’s mule out into the open. Dog ran around barking. Frank tied the Appaloosa and the mule to a tree and went back into the shed to get his gear. By this time several men were throwing buckets of water from the nearby river onto the shed, trying to save it, at least. Frank wanted his saddle and the rest of his things, just in case they failed in the effort.
One of the men paused long enough to say to him, “Who the hell are you, mister? Where’s Reuben?”
“He’s over there, either knocked out or passed out,” Frank explained, pointing to where Reuben lay on the ground. “I think he’s going to be all right, though.”
“That don’t tell me who you are.”
“Frank Morgan. I’m a friend of Reuben’s.”
He figured that was true enough. Even though they had known each other only a few hours, Frank considered them friends.
He hadn’t forgotten about the men who had started these fires. He dropped his saddle on the ground near the tree where he had tied up Stormy and the mule, then went over to the fellow he had knocked out. Putting a toe under his shoulder, Frank rolled him over. In the light from the fire, he recognized one of the men who had been giving Reuben so much trouble that afternoon.
That came as no surprise to Frank. He had expected the men might come back for revenge. One man was knocked out here at his feet, one was inside the burning house, and another lay motionless against the rear wall of the blacksmith shop.
That made three. There had been four bullies....
The bucket brigade had wet down the shed and then drawn back to see what was going to happen. Frank’s gaze fell on one of the men standing there, and anger coursed through him as he recognized Grady, the one who had held the gun on Reuben while the other three attacked him.
Frank strode toward him, grasped his shoulder, jerked him around. Grady gave an indignant yell. “Hey! What do you think you’re doin’?”
Pointing at the burning buildings with his left hand, Frank said, “You reckon burning down a man’s home and business evens things up?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Back off, Morgan.”
“The hell you don’t know,” Frank said. With an effort, he controlled his rage, rather than letting it control him. “One of your partners is lying over there knocked out, another one is shot there by the shop, and I’ll wager the third one is inside the house with my lead in him!”
Grady sneered. “Are you confessin’ to murder, Morgan? Because that’s sure what it sounds like to me.”
“The only ones who had murder on their minds tonight were you and your friends,” Frank shot back. “Two of you set the blacksmith shop on fire while the other two snuck into Reuben’s house, knocked him out, and started a fire there, too.”
“You’re crazy!” Grady insisted. He looked around at the circle of people that had gathered to listen intently to Frank’s accusations. “I never tried to hurt nobody. Hell, I came up and helped try to save that shed, didn’t I?”
“Yeah,” one of the men said, suspicion in his voice. “You came up, just like you said, Grady. Both fires were already burning pretty strong before you got here.”
“Like maybe you were hiding somewhere in the shadows,” Frank suggested, “just waiting for a good moment so you could help out and pretend to be innocent.”
Grady sneered again. “You can’t prove that. It’s just a story.”
“No, it’s not,” a deep, rumbling voice said. Frank glanced around to see that Reuben had regained consciousness and pushed himself into a sitting position. The blacksmith shook his shaggy head from side to side, evidently trying to clear out some of the cobwebs from his brain. “It’s not just a story,” Reuben went on. “I can prove Frank’s telling the truth. I woke up just in time to see Grady standing over my bunk with a gun in his hand.” Reuben gingerly fingered a lump on his head. “I reckon he pistol-whipped me then and knocked me out before he set fire to everything I have.”
“You bastard,” Grady said thickly. “You ignorant, numbskulled bastard.”
“I reckon he’s a heap smarter than you ever will be,” Frank pointed out. “At least Reuben’s not going to be headed for prison to do a stretch for attempted murder.”
“Neither am I!” Grady yell
ed. His hand flashed toward the gun on his hip.
Frank let him get his fingers wrapped around the butt of the revolver and draw the gun halfway from the holster before he fired. The bullet smashed into Grady’s chest and knocked him back a step. Grady struggled to finish his draw, but he lacked the strength now. It had all ebbed out of him, along with the blood that stained the front of his shirt. He dropped the gun and coughed once, blood spilling from his mouth over his chin as he did so. In the light from the fire, it looked black instead of crimson.
Then Grady’s knees folded up and he fell. He sprawled on the ground, his face pressed against the dirt.
Only one of the quartet of bullies was still alive, and he had been caught red-handed at his dirty work. He would confess and probably go to jail. Reuben wouldn’t have to worry about any more attempts on his life.
He would have enough worries, though, trying to replace his business and his home.
Frank could help with that. His first wife had been a wealthy woman, and she had made sure before she died that when she was gone, Frank Morgan would be a wealthy man. He had sizable accounts in several banks in both Denver and San Francisco, and for someone who often looked like a down-at-heels cowboy riding the grub line, he was a rich, rich man. Reuben might not want to accept the help—Frank knew he was proud—but Frank would see to it anyway that both the shop and the house were rebuilt.
He would see to it that that bookcase was filled up again, too.
“Frank,” Reuben called. “Frank, are you all right?”
Suddenly dizzy, Frank turned to face Reuben, who was climbing hurriedly to his feet. To his surprise, Frank realized that his left side was wet. He put his hand on his shirt, felt the warm stickiness there.
“Well, I’ll swan,” he said. “Must’ve got nicked and didn’t even know it.”
Then he slid into a hot, smoky blackness tinged with the red of flames....
7
Tyler Beaumont swallowed hard and fought the urge to rip the tie from around his neck and yank his collar open. He had never liked having anything tight around his neck.
He told himself it wasn’t really that bad. He was just nervous, and what man wouldn’t be on his wedding day?
He decided that if he thought about Victoria, that would calm him down. But that was a mistake, because whenever he thought about Victoria, his mind inevitably wandered to how sweet and hot her mouth was when he kissed her and the soft warmth of her body when he held her in his arms and how tonight they would be man and wife at last and finally able to come together in the way that a married couple should....
Beaumont jumped a little and gasped as a hand came down on his shoulder. “Boy, you pert near jumped outta your skin,” Luke Perkins said in a booming voice. “Calm down, son. You’re just gettin’ married. It ain’t like you got to go fight a horde o’ screamin’ Comanch’.”
Beaumont turned to face the bald-headed rancher. Perkins had a drooping soup-strainer of a mustache and wore his only town suit for this occasion, a sober black outfit that had been brushed clean of dust.
“Were you that relaxed on your wedding day?” Beaumont asked as he ran a finger around the inside of his collar.
Luke laughed. “Well, not really, I reckon. Gettin’ hitched was a mighty big step for an old bachelor like me.”
“It’s a big step for a young bachelor like me, too. What if . . .” Beaumont hardly dared to put the thought into words. “What if I’m doing the wrong thing?”
“Do you love Victoria?” Luke asked bluntly.
“Of course I do.”
“Then you ain’t doin’ the wrong thing. Best decision I ever made was to pull in double harness with Carolyn. You’ll see; it’ll all work out.”
Beaumont sighed. “I hope so. I sure hope so.”
He looked around at the crowd gathered outside the Clear Fork Baptist Church. It was a small country church, not in the town of Weatherford itself but a few miles northeast, not far from the Clear Fork of the Trinity River. The church was surrounded by tall oak trees, and a heavily wooded ridge overlooked the scene. It was a beautiful place to get married, Beaumont had to admit. A big crowd had turned out, probably because the Judge and Mrs. Monfore were so well-known and well-liked. The whitewashed frame church building would be packed.
Off to the side, under the trees, ladies were putting tablecloths on long tables that had been set up. Dozens of buggies were parked nearby, and in each buggy were pies and cakes and covered dishes of food that would be set out on the tables for the celebration that was scheduled to follow the ceremony. Nobody knew how to put on a shindig quite like Texans, Beaumont thought. Weddings, funerals, baptisms, what have you . . . any kind of ceremony made a perfect excuse to bring out enough food for a small army. Not to mention jugs of tea and lemonade and pots of coffee. One fella was even setting up an ice cream freezer with its wooden handle, which would have to be cranked for several hours in order to make ice cream. It would be worth the time and trouble, though, once the sweet, cold, creamy stuff was ready.
Yes, everything was just about perfect, Tyler Beaumont thought....
Except Frank Morgan wasn’t here.
Beaumont had written to Ranger posts all around the state, and he knew that his message had caught up to Morgan in Waco. He had heard from Company F that his note had been delivered to Morgan, and that Frank had started for Weatherford a little over two weeks earlier. That had given him plenty of time to get here.
And yet he hadn’t shown up, and Beaumont had no idea where he was.
He had planned to ask Frank to be his best man, but since Morgan wasn’t there and hadn’t let Beaumont know one way or the other if he was coming, the young Ranger had asked Luke Perkins instead. Luke and Morgan were old friends and had grown up together. The rancher had also been a good friend to Beaumont while he was in Weatherford. But while Beaumont certainly didn’t mind having Luke as his best man, it wasn’t quite the same thing. Beaumont and Frank Morgan had fought side by side on numerous occasions, protecting each other’s back, and that created a bond that could not be broken, in Beaumont’s opinion.
He tugged at his tie—he couldn’t help himself—and said, “Any word from Frank?”
“Don’t you reckon I would have told you if I’d heard anything?” Luke replied. “I’m sorry, Tyler. I reckon he got delayed somewhere.”
Or he was dead, Beaumont thought. No matter how fast a man was with his gun, his luck had to run out sooner or later. No man was invincible, not even Frank Morgan. And Beaumont knew all too well how often Frank was braced by men wanting to make a reputation for themselves. Not only that, but Frank seemed to have a positive genius for walking into trouble. That was probably because of the habit he had of sticking up for the underdog and trying to see to it that justice was done....
Yet if he had been any other way, he wouldn’t have been Frank Morgan. Might as well rage at the wind for blowing or the sun for shining.
People began filing into the church now, summoned by the ushers. The minister came over to Beaumont and Luke. Pastor Ford Fargo was a tall, burly, white-haired man who had been a cattleman and an Indian fighter in his time, as well as a preacher of the Gospel. He clapped a hand on Beaumont’s shoulder and said in his booming voice, “Well, come on, son. Time to get you hitched proper.”
“Yes, sir,” Beaumont said. He swallowed hard again. “I reckon I’m ready.”
But that was a lie. He cast one last desperate look around, thinking that he might spot Frank Morgan riding up. If Frank were here, Beaumont knew he could find the courage to go through with this.
Frank wasn’t here, though. Beaumont had to go it alone. Well, alone except for Luke Perkins. The rancher put a hand on Beaumont’s other shoulder, and the young Ranger knew that if they had to, Luke and Pastor Fargo would manhandle him right into the church and up to the altar.
“I’m all right,” he said as a strange calmness came over him. At that moment, his doubts vanished, and he knew he was doing the right
thing. “I’m all right. Let’s go.”
* * *
On the ridge overlooking the church, Chas Ferguson lowered a pair of field glasses from his eyes and bit back a curse. Beside him, Cherokee Bob said anxiously, “Morgan ain’t there yet?”
“No sign of him,” Ferguson said. “And it looks like the wedding’s about to start. Everybody’s going inside the church.”
“I thought you said Morgan was bound to show up.”
Ferguson turned sharply toward Bob, and the look on his face made the youngster draw back in alarm. But then Ferguson controlled his anger and grated, “I thought he’d be here. I would have sworn that he would be. But it looks like he ain’t.”
“Maybe he’s dead,” Bob suggested.
Ferguson frowned. “What the hell do you mean?”
“You told me how folks are always challengin’ Morgan, wantin’ to prove they’re faster than he is. What if he came up against somebody who really is faster and got himself kilt?”
Ferguson thought about it for a second and then shook his head emphatically. “The only man in these parts who’s faster than Morgan is me. If there was anybody else around who’s that good, I would have heard about him.”
“Well, maybe something else happened. An accident, maybe. He might’ve got run over by a wagon. Or maybe a beer barrel fell on his head.”
Ferguson stared at the youngster. “Are you addlepated?” he demanded. “How could a beer barrel fall on Morgan’s head?”
Bob shrugged. “I dunno. But if it did, it might’ve kilt him.”
Ferguson took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. Shooting the dim-witted youngster wouldn’t accomplish anything. Well, it might make him feel a little better for a few minutes, Ferguson allowed, but other than that . . .
“Rider over yonder,” Bob said suddenly, pointing to the south.
Ferguson stiffened and swung around to look where Cherokee Bob was pointing. Even at this distance, several hundred yards away, Ferguson could see that the horse had a dappled pattern to its hide. He jerked the field glasses to his eyes.
Violent Sunday Page 5