The hated face of Frank Morgan sprang into sharp relief, as if Morgan were only a few feet away. Quickly, Ferguson lowered the glasses. He didn’t want Morgan to see the sun reflecting off them. Morgan was the sort of man who would notice something like that. Luckily, though, he had been looking the other direction for the second or so that Ferguson had had the glasses on him.
“It’s him,” Ferguson said in a hushed voice. “It’s him, all right. He was almost too late, but he got here in time.”
“In time for the wedding, you mean?” Bob asked.
Ferguson shook his head. “In time to die.”
* * *
You couldn’t ask for a prettier Sunday afternoon, Frank Morgan thought as he guided Stormy down the trail from the ridge. It was a little hot, but not bad for Texas in the summer. Under the shade of those oak trees around the church, it would be very pleasant.
He drew in a deep breath, feeling a slight twinge in the newly formed scar on his left side. The bullet had ripped a furrow in the flesh without really penetrating. The wound had bled freely but hadn’t been life-threatening. It was an annoyance more than anything else, an annoyance and a delay. The doctor in Granbury had insisted that Frank rest and recuperate for a few days before riding on to Weatherford.
Frank had considered ignoring the doctor’s orders, but after Reuben had put him in a wagon and driven him all the way to town, Frank figured he owed it to the big blacksmith to cooperate with the sawbones. Reuben had been scared to death that Frank was mortally wounded. That seemed to worry him more than the destruction of his home and business.
“You’re the first hombre I’ve run into in quite a while who reads as much as I do,” Reuben had said. “I’d hate to see you die, Frank.”
“I wouldn’t much care for it, either,” Frank had agreed with a grin.
During the time Frank had spent in Granbury, he had sent wires to his bankers and lawyers, instructing them on what to do in regard to helping Reuben recover financially from the catastrophe that had befallen him. When Reuben found out about it, he had stubbornly insisted that he didn’t need Frank’s help, just as Frank had expected. It had taken pretty much a whole day to argue him around to seeing things Frank’s way. That had been another good reason for the delay.
So that Beaumont wouldn’t worry, Frank had sent word to Weatherford, explaining what had happened and promising that he would be there in time for the wedding. He almost hadn’t made it, though. He had cut things a little too close. As he rode down the ridge toward the church, he fished out his pocket watch and opened it. Two o’clock, he saw with a frown. He had expected the ceremony to take place in one of the churches in town. When he discovered that it was happening out here in the country, he had ridden on hurriedly without even taking the time to change into his suit.
Dog spooked a jackrabbit out of a clump of brush and went bounding down the hill after it, barking and carrying on. Frank smiled at his canine friend’s antics. He knew better than to think that all was right with the world—that was a sure-fire recipe for disaster—but things were looking up. If he could just get to the church before they said the vows . . .
A few minutes later, he drew rein and swung down from the saddle in front of the church. He looped the reins around a buggy wheel and told Dog to stay put. The door of the church was open a few inches. Piano music came through the gap. Frank hoped that was a sign that the actual marrying hadn’t gotten under way yet.
He slipped inside, taking off his hat as he did so. The little church was crowded. Folks were packed shoulder to shoulder in every pew, and quite a few were standing up at the rear of the sanctuary. Most of them were dressed in their Sunday best, and Frank felt a little awkward in his range clothes coated with trail dust. Still, he knew Tyler Beaumont wanted him to be here, dressed up or not.
Beaumont stood at the front of the church next to a vision in white silk and lace. Frank’s breath caught in his throat as he looked at Victoria. That was his daughter up there, he thought. Maybe not legally, but in his heart, he knew it, the same way he could look at his boy Conrad and recognize the bond between them. Of course, he didn’t get along all that well with Conrad—the boy didn’t really want to have anything to do with him—but blood was still blood, and Frank felt the same thing toward Victoria.
Luke Perkins stood at Beaumont’s right. Frank guessed that Luke was the young Ranger’s best man. That was good. Frank felt a little disappointed that it wasn’t him up there, but under the circumstances, Beaumont had done good by picking Luke for the job.
As if feeling Frank’s gaze on him, Luke glanced toward the rear of the church. His eyes widened as he saw the tall, slim figure of the Drifter standing there, hat in hand. Luke made a move like he was going to nudge Beaumont in the ribs, but Frank shook his head. He didn’t want to interrupt the ceremony, and Beaumont didn’t need to be distracted right now.
The minister, a big white-haired fella, had his Bible open in his hands and was just getting some steam up as he talked about what a sacred and holy institution matrimony was. Frank listened with a smile, but his eyes and his attention wandered. He picked out Mercy and Judge Monfore sitting in the front row. Mercy dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, and even the stern old judge looked a mite misty-eyed. The rest of the audience watched the ceremony raptly.
Frank had attended quite a few weddings, including two of his own. Some of them went by quickly and some didn’t. This one didn’t. The minister had a lot to say in his stentorian voice. Finally, he got to the part about how if anybody had any objections to this union, let him speak now or forever hold his peace. Folks glanced around sort of nervously, including the would-be bride and groom. Nobody ever objected, at least not that Frank had ever heard of, but the possibility was still there, and it was just enough to make people a mite skittish.
In this case, when Beaumont glanced over his shoulder, he saw Frank Morgan standing there at the rear of the church by the door. A huge smile appeared on his face. That was enough to make Victoria look in the same direction, and she smiled, too, when she saw Frank. That made a warm feeling spread through the gunfighter’s chest. He nodded solemnly to the young couple, indicating not only his blessing, but a desire that they get on with the ceremony.
“Well, then, if nobody has any objections,” the preacher started up again, “we’ll get to it. Do you, Victoria, take this man, to have and to hold? . . .”
The vows went smoothly, and this part of the ceremony was over almost before Frank knew it. Then the preacher said to Beaumont, “You can kiss your bride, son,” and Beaumont did, a long, healthy buss that prompted one of the men in the audience to say a loud “Amen!” Everybody laughed.
Beaumont and Victoria turned and came down the aisle arm in arm toward Frank. There were hugs for Victoria and slaps on the back for Beaumont along the way. The piano player pounded the ivories. An air of pure jubilation filled the church.
Frank had never seen Victoria looking lovelier. He stepped up to kiss her on the cheek and then shook Beaumont’s hand. “I didn’t think you were going to get here, Frank,” the young Ranger said.
“Sorry I was a mite late,” Frank said. “Didn’t you get my message?”
Beaumont frowned and shook his head. “No, we never heard a word from you.”
Frank muttered a curse under his breath. Something had happened to the note he had sent from Granbury. Obviously, it had gone astray somehow. But that didn’t matter now. He was here, and he had arrived in time to see these two fine young people get hitched. That was all that was important.
Beaumont felt the same way, because his frown disappeared and was replaced with a grin. “Come on,” he said. “Wait’ll you see all the food. There’s even going to be ice cream!”
Victoria laughed and held on to his arm. “I think you’re more excited about that than about marrying me,” she teased him.
“Not hardly!” Beaumont said without hesitation. Then he added, “But I do like ice cream, especially when i
t’s made with fresh peaches.”
Frank stepped aside to let the happy couple step out of the church first. People streamed after them and spread out around the heavily laden tables. Now that the church part of the afternoon was over, men took off ties and opened collars. The festivities didn’t take long to get under way.
Mercy and Judge Monfore came up to Frank. Mercy caught hold of both of his hands and came up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Frank, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “I know Victoria is, too.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” he assured her. “I got delayed a little, or I would have been here a few days ago.”
“You got here for the important part, Morgan,” Judge Monfore said. He thrust out his hand, and Frank took it. The men shook, a look of understanding passing between them as they did so. They would never be good friends, but they respected each other, and Frank felt a debt of gratitude toward Monfore for the way the judge had given Mercy such a good home and a good life. She deserved all the happiness in the world.
They all did, Frank thought. The West was settling down a little at last, so that life out here wasn’t the constant struggle for survival that it had once been. Sure, there were still dangers, as all of them knew all too well, but there were moments like this, too, moments of peace and joy and a promise for the future....
“Morgan! Morgan, it’s time, you bastard! Turn and face me!”
8
Frank had lived through blizzards in Wyoming and Montana, but never in his life had he been any colder inside than he was at that moment. The loud, angry voice came from behind him. He recognized it, knew who it belonged to. Frank had hoped never to see him again.
“Damn it, Morgan, I’m talkin’ to you!”
Slowly, Frank turned. He saw Chas Ferguson standing there twenty feet away, blond hair curling out from under his creamy Stetson, looking as dandified as ever. And as dangerous as ever, too. His right hand hovered over the butt of the Colt on his hip, ready to hook and draw.
A moment earlier, people had been talking and laughing, but now a hush hung over the gathering. Ferguson’s loud, profane challenge had shocked everyone into silence. They stared at him, sensing the violence that was about to erupt.
But not if Frank Morgan could help it. He managed to put a friendly smile on his face as he said, “Hello, Chas. It’s been a long time.”
“Bet you wish it had been longer,” Ferguson said. “Bet you wish you never had to face me.”
Frank shook his head. “I don’t want to have to kill you, but other than that, I’m glad to see you.” That was stretching the truth. In a way, Ferguson was right: Frank could have lived the rest of his life without running into the younger gunfighter again, and it would have been just fine with him.
From a few feet away, Tyler Beaumont said quietly, “Frank, I’m not armed. Not today.”
“That’s fine,” Frank assured him. “This isn’t any of your business.”
“Well, it’s some o’ mine,” Luke Perkins put in, “and I am armed.” He swept back his coat to reveal the butt of a revolver and confirm his statement.
Judge Monfore stepped forward and glowered at Ferguson. “See here, young man,” he said. “You’re disrupting my daughter’s wedding, and you’re not welcome here. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll turn around and leave right now.”
“The wedding’s over, ain’t it?” Ferguson asked without taking his eyes off Frank.
“Well, yes, but—”
“Then it shouldn’t bother any of you folks when I gun down Morgan.”
Beaumont said, “Blast it, Ferguson, I’m a Texas Ranger, and I’m about to put you under arrest if you don’t get out of here.”
“Can’t arrest a man for havin’ a fair fight with another man.”
“Yes, he can,” Judge Monfore said. “I’ll issue a warrant right here and now, on a charge of disturbing the peace.”
“Nobody’s arresting me,” Ferguson snapped. “Bob!”
Another voice called, “I hear you, Chas! And I got ’em all covered!”
Frank glanced toward the sound and saw an eager-faced young man standing behind one of the buggies, covering the crowd with a rifle. A few women cried out in fear, and a couple of men cursed and started forward, stopping short when the rifle barrel swung toward them.
“Bob!” Judge Monfore said. “Bob Milton, is that you?”
“It’s Cherokee Bob,” the youngster called back. “Cherokee Bob the outlaw! I’m gonna be famous!”
“What you’re going to be is in jail unless you put down that gun and stop acting like an idiot,” the judge warned him.
“No, sir. Chas and me are partners now, and it’s my job to see that nobody interferes while he has his finish fight with Morgan there. It’s time somebody taught that old-timer he ain’t the fastest man with a gun no more!”
Still looking intently at Ferguson, Frank said, “This all goes back to that shooting contest up in the Panhandle, doesn’t it? You just can’t stand the idea that somebody might be better with a gun than you.”
“You’re not better!” Ferguson said in a strained voice. “You were just lucky that day. I’m faster, and I’m a better shot, and I’m goin’ to kill you. You just wait and see!”
Frank sighed. “You go to shooting with all these folks around, somebody’s liable to get hurt.”
“Only one who’ll get hurt is you, Morgan. And you’ll get dead.”
Luke Perkins said, “Frank, all my hands are here. If we rush him, he can’t get all of us. . . .”
“No,” Frank said emphatically. “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.” To Ferguson, he asked, “Will you give everyone time to get back in the church, so they’ll be safe?”
Ferguson sneered. “Hell, no! I want everybody to be watching when I kill you.”
In a way that simplified things, Frank thought.
He just had to kill Ferguson before the younger man could get off even a single shot.
“You’ve got it to do, then,” he said. “Get it over with.”
Ferguson’s face contorted in a fierce grimace of hate and exultation, and his hand stabbed toward the butt of his gun. He really was fast. In truth, he was one of the fastest Frank Morgan had ever seen.
But his iron was only halfway out of its holster when Frank’s Peacemaker roared and sent a slug driving into Ferguson’s chest.
Ferguson took a step back and looked down at his shirtfront in disbelief. A spot of crimson appeared against the black as blood welled from the bullet hole. He swallowed hard and the muscles in his neck stood out with effort as he struggled to pull his gun. To him, though, the weapon must have suddenly seemed to weigh a ton. It slipped from his fingers and slid back down into the holster.
“No,” Ferguson said quietly. “No, it can’t . . .”
Then his eyes rolled up in his head and his knees buckled. He went down onto his face, the immaculate Stetson coming off his head and rolling in the dirt.
“No!” the young man called Cherokee Bob screamed. “You killed him!” He jerked the trigger of the Winchester in his hands, slamming a bullet toward Frank Morgan.
Frank was already pivoting toward the new threat. He triggered twice, but Cherokee Bob ducked behind the buggy he was using for cover and Frank’s bullets just knocked splinters from the seat. The horse hitched to the buggy was spooked by the gunfire and tried to rear. Unable to, it suddenly bolted forward, exposing the young man. Bob dashed toward a nearby tree, levering and firing the rifle from the hip as he ran. People screamed and yelled and tried to dive out of the way of the wildly flying lead.
Bob made it only a few steps before he ran into a hailstorm of bullets from the guns of Luke Perkins and his tough crew of cowboys. The young man was jolted back and forth by the impact of the slugs so that it seemed like he was performing a grisly dance. He dropped the rifle and staggered another step before his bullet-riddled body dropped lifeless to the ground. He had been almost literally shot to pieces.
<
br /> Frank had fired only three shots. Instinct and habit made him dump the empties and thumb fresh cartridges into those chambers of the Peacemaker’s cylinder. The uproar from the crowd washed around him as women cried and men cursed and shouted questions. Frank swung around to see if anyone had been hit by Cherokee Bob’s wild shots. He intended as well to apologize to Beaumont and Victoria for the trouble that his presence had inadvertently brought to what should have been the happiest day of their young lives.
That was when he froze, petrified by horror, the gun in his hand forgotten. Beaumont, Mercy, and the judge were all kneeling around a figure lying motionless on the ground. A figure dressed in a gown that had been beautifully, purely white only moments earlier, a gown that was now blotched with ugly red stains, stains of blood . . .
Victoria.
* * *
“I don’t know,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “I think she’ll pull through, Judge, but I can’t promise that.”
Judge Monfore’s face was ashen as he stood next to his wife, his arm around Mercy’s shoulders. She held a crumpled handkerchief to her face and sobbed quietly into it. Next to them stood Tyler Beaumont, and his features might have been carved out of stone for all the emotion they displayed. But his hands, which hung loosely at his sides, trembled slightly, giving evidence of the struggle that was going on inside him.
They were in the vestibule of the church. One of the tables had been cleared off hurriedly and carried inside. Victoria had been lifted carefully and placed on the table, and the doctor, who was one of the guests at the wedding, had gone to work on her, cutting away the bloodstained gown and examining her to find out the extent of her injury.
“The bullet passed through her body at an angle,” the medico went on with his report to Victoria’s worried husband and parents. “I can’t be sure, but I don’t think it hit any vital organs. That’s almost miraculous.” He gave a humorless laugh. “Hell, it is miraculous.”
“Then she should live,” Beaumont said tightly.
“She lost a lot of blood, and I can’t be absolutely certain about any internal damage the bullet might have done,” the doctor cautioned. “That’s why I said I think she’ll pull through. I’ve cleaned the wound and stopped the bleeding as best I can out here. We’ll need to get her back to town and into the hospital as soon as possible, though.”
Violent Sunday Page 6