Violent Sunday

by William W. Johnstone

  “Frank Morgan,” Duggan said. He went on. “Frank, this is Ace McKelvey.”

  “Morgan,” McKelvey repeated as he stepped past Duggan. “I know the name. You were in here last night. Rusty told me about what happened.”

  McKelvey didn’t offer to shake hands, and neither did Frank.

  “Sorry about the hole in your back wall,” Frank said. “I thought fixing it might be a little easier than mopping up a lot of blood from the floor.”

  McKelvey chuckled, but there wasn’t much genuine humor in the sound. “And you were probably right, at that.” He lowered his voice more. “But you may regret not killing Al Rawlings. He’s been making quite a few threatening comments concerning you, Mr. Morgan.”

  Frank shrugged. “I never worry overmuch about what somebody says.”

  The implication was clear. Frank took actions a lot more seriously than he did words.

  “Just thought you should know,” McKelvey said as he shifted his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “Better keep an eye on your back.”

  “I always do,” Frank said.

  McKelvey moved on to the end of the bar and conversed in low tones with his bartender for a few minutes. Then he went through a door and closed it behind him. That left the two factions alone with only the bartender, and he looked more than a little nervous about being in the same room with them.

  Frank sipped his whiskey and tried to think of some way he could get a few minutes alone with Beaumont. He hoped that a quick conversation would clear up a lot of things. From what he had seen so far of the situation in Brown County, though, there wasn’t going to be any quick, easy solution to the problems here. The anger and resentment on both sides ran too deep for that to be possible.

  The door opened and half-a-dozen more men entered the room, boots clomping on the floor and spurs jingling. They glared toward the bar where Duggan, Frank, and MacDonald were standing and went straight to the table where Beaumont and the others sat. That was enough to tell Frank that the newcomers belonged to the same loose alliance of small ranchers and farmers.

  “We might ought to move on, Boss,” MacDonald said quietly to Duggan. “There’s a dozen of those boys now, and they don’t look happy.”

  “I never ran from sodbusters and pissants, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to start now,” Duggan declared. The apron had left the bottle. Duggan picked it up and splashed another drink into his glass. His voice had been pitched loudly enough so that the men at the table and those gathered around it must have heard him.

  A moment later one of the newcomers pulled away from his friends and stomped toward the bar. “Hey, Duggan!” he said. “Were you talkin’ about me, old man?”

  Frank turned, apparently casually and completely at his ease. The man who had spoken to Duggan was tall and powerfully built, with a cowhide vest stretched over his broad shoulders and a high-crowned hat perched on a thatch of blond hair.

  Duggan looked around disdainfully. “That depends, Anderson,” he said. “Are you a sodbuster?”

  “You know I ain’t!” the big man said.

  “Then you must be a pissant, because I sure as hell was talking about you and your friends.” Duggan turned back to the bar, contempt evident in every line of his body.

  Anderson started forward, his broad face contorting in anger. Before he could get there, Frank took a couple of steps, smoothly interposing himself between Duggan and the furious rancher.

  “That’s far enough, mister,” Frank said, lifting his left hand and holding it out toward Anderson. His right hung near the butt of his gun.

  “Who’s this, Duggan?” Anderson asked with a sneer. “Your new bodyguard?”

  Before Frank could say anything else, Beaumont got to his feet and said, “Better be careful, friend. That’s Frank Morgan.”

  “Morgan the gunfighter?” Anderson hesitated, but he was too angry and too proud to back down. “I don’t care. I aim to have a talk with Duggan. He can listen to me like a man, or I’ll beat some attention into him.”

  Duggan turned around again. “Anderson, you don’t have a thing to say that would interest me the least bit. Better go back over yonder with your friends if you know what’s good for you.”

  “That’s mighty big talk for a man hidin’ behind a hired gun,” Anderson said.

  Duggan’s face flushed. “Morgan, step aside. I’ll handle this.”

  Frank began, “Mr. Duggan, I’m not sure that’s—”

  “You’re ridin’ for me, damn it!” Duggan barked. “When I give you an order, I expect you to follow it!”

  “Better do as he says, Morgan,” MacDonald advised. “The boss can handle himself. You and me better keep an eye on those others, though, to make sure they don’t mix in where they ain’t wanted.”

  For a moment Frank didn’t move. Then he stepped aside. Duggan was considerably older than Anderson, but he was still spry enough to fight his own fights, as long as the odds were even. Frank intended to make sure they stayed that way.

  “Nelse, don’t be an idiot,” Callie Stratton said, but Anderson ignored her. He stepped closer to Duggan, balling his hands into fists as he did so.

  “You need to take down your fences, old man,” Anderson rasped. “You agree to do that, and maybe I won’t beat the hell out of you.”

  “The fences stay up,” Duggan shot back at him. “And I’ll shoot the first man I see cutting one of them!”

  “Like you did Will Bramlett?”

  Duggan shook his head. “My men didn’t have anything to do with Bramlett gettin’ shot. You and your bunch are just too damned stupid to realize that, though.”

  “A good man is dead because of you, Duggan, and another may die. It’s time somebody taught you a lesson, and I’m just the man to hand you your needin’s!”

  Duggan smiled grimly. “You plan to talk me to death, Anderson?”

  That taunt was enough to push Anderson over the edge. With a curse, he swung a big fist at Duggan’s head.

  The punch was wild and looping, and Duggan flung up his left and blocked it easily. At the same time, Duggan shot out his own right fist and slammed it into Anderson’s face. Anderson was bigger and heavier, but the force of the blow rocked him back anyway. Duggan went after him, trying to follow up on his momentary advantage.

  Anderson caught himself, though, and threw both arms around Duggan in a bear hug. Duggan cried out involuntarily as those arms tightened around him in a bone-crushing grip.

  MacDonald took a step toward the two combatants, but Frank put out an arm to stop him. “Let them fight it out,” he said. “This is what the boss wanted.”

  By now everyone else in the saloon was standing up, anxious expressions on their faces as they watched the struggle between the two proud, stubborn men. Frank glanced at Beaumont and saw the worry on the young Ranger’s face. It must go against the grain for Beaumont to just stand by and watch like this, Frank thought. Beaumont’s lawman instincts were probably telling him to step in and break up the fight before someone got seriously hurt. In the role he was playing, though, as a member of the forces arrayed against the big cattlemen in the county, he couldn’t afford to do that, no matter how much he might want to.

  Duggan’s face was bright red. He couldn’t breathe with Anderson’s apelike arms around him. In desperation he brought his knee up hard into Anderson’s groin. Anderson grunted in pain but hung on. Duggan kneed him again and this time Anderson’s bear hug slipped. Duggan managed to jerk his arms free. He smashed his open hands against Anderson’s ears, drawing a howl of agony from the bigger man. Anderson let go of him entirely then.

  Stepping back, Duggan drew several deep breaths into his air-starved lungs. He set his feet and peppered a couple of punches into Anderson’s face. Frank could tell that Anderson was confused now, reeling in pain from his smashed privates and the blows to his ears. The jabs that Duggan landed just staggered him that much more. Duggan threw a haymaker that should have ended the fight.

  Sh
eer luck sent Anderson weaving out of the way of the punch, however, and Duggan’s momentum made him lose his balance and stumble forward. Anderson recovered his wits enough to bend slightly. One hand shot out and grabbed Duggan’s thigh. The other clamped onto Duggan’s arm. With an inarticulate shout of effort and rage, Anderson lifted Duggan into the air and slammed him down on one of the nearby tables. The legs of the table snapped and splintered, and man and table collapsed into a heap on the floor. It had happened too quickly for anyone to stop it, even Frank Morgan.

  From the corner of his eye Frank saw that McKelvey had emerged from his office again, drawn by the commotion of the fight. The saloon owner looked worried by the destruction that was going on, but at the same time he didn’t seem all that upset about the ruckus. For a moment while no one in the Palace was watching him except Frank, what might have been a smile of satisfaction flashed across his ruddy face. Then it was gone and might as well have never been there.

  “Damn it, you’ve killed him!” MacDonald roared as Duggan lay there motionless amidst the wreckage of the table. The Slash D foreman started toward Anderson, and this time he didn’t give Frank a chance to stop him. He launched into a flying tackle that caught Anderson around the hips.

  Anderson was still a little disoriented from the damage Duggan had heaped on him, and he didn’t even try to defend himself. MacDonald’s charge bore him over backward. Both men crashed to the ground. MacDonald landed on top and started smashing blows to Anderson’s head.

  Wounded arm and all, Al Rawlings lunged forward with a curse and tackled MacDonald. They tumbled over and over, slugging at each other. When two more of the small ranchers started to jump into the fracas, Frank knew that things had gone too far. This was going to turn into an all-out brawl, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  But he couldn’t stand by and let MacDonald take a beating, either, so he sprang forward to block the path of the other two men who wanted to get in on the fight. He knew he couldn’t last long against two-to-one odds, but there was nothing else he could do.

  Then suddenly, with a roar, Tyler Beaumont came barreling between the two men who were about to throw punches at Frank. He shouldered them aside, his compact, muscular form knocking them out of his way like a bowling ball flattening a couple of pins.

  Frank lowered his guard for a second, thinking that the odds had just gotten a little better. With Beaumont helping him out he might even be able to hold his own against the angry ranchers.

  That was when Beaumont yelled, “Let me have him!” then cocked an arm back and hit him square in the face, knocking him against the bar behind him.

  23

  The punch took Frank completely by surprise. He hadn’t even tried to block it. The edge of the bar dug into his back, making him grimace in pain.

  He became aware that Beaumont was boring in on him, fists poised. “You’ve got it coming, mister,” the young Ranger grated. He sent a left whistling toward Frank’s jaw.

  Instinct brought Frank’s right arm up to block the blow. He wasn’t sure what the hell was going on here. The only explanation that made sense was that Beaumont was attacking him in order to solidify his position with the smaller ranchers. It was part of the act, the role he was playing.

  Either that or he was remembering what had happened to Victoria back there on their wedding day, and all the grief and rage that he had bottled up inside were finally boiling over, a small voice in the back of Frank’s head warned him.

  Either way, Frank wasn’t going to just stand there and let Beaumont whale on him. As soon as he had blocked Beaumont’s second punch, he snapped a stinging left jab into Beaumont’s face that bloodied the Ranger’s nose.

  Beaumont roared in pain and anger and let fly with another punch. Frank ducked to the side and let the blow graze his ear. Even the glancing blow packed enough power to stagger him a little. He hooked a right to Beaumont’s belly. At first glance the young man might appear a little soft, even fat, but Frank found that it was like punching a washboard. The blow seemed to have no effect on Beaumont.

  Standing toe to toe, they began to slug it out, trading punches, absorbing all the punishment the other had to give and dishing out tremendous punishment of their own. Frank wasn’t aware of anything else going on around him. All he saw was Beaumont’s twisted, blood-streaked face. All he heard were their grunts of effort and the soggy thuds of fists striking flesh and bone. Beaumont’s punches slammed into his midsection. They crashed into his jaw and rocked his head from side to side. Pain washed over him, filling his senses.

  But he gave as good as he got, and as his arms tired until they felt like lead and he could barely lift them, he sensed that Beaumont was just as exhausted and worn down. Gasping for breath, Frank struck again and again until he just couldn’t do it anymore. As overwhelming weariness engulfed him and his arms dropped, he became aware that Beaumont was sobbing and choking out, “You bastard . . . you bastard . . .” over and over. Looking as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, Beaumont managed to lift his right arm one final time. Clenching his swollen, bloody hand into a fist, he threw a last punch.

  At the same time Frank summoned up the last of his strength and struck out a final time as well, aiming a shaky punch at Beaumont’s battered face.

  Both men missed by a mile.

  Off balance, they sagged against each other and would have fallen except for the fact that they were inadvertently holding each other up. Frank found himself looking into Beaumont’s face from a distance of only a few inches, and as their eyes met, Frank saw that the hatred that had been there moments earlier was gone now, faded away. It might come back in the future, but for now, at least, it had disappeared.

  He struggled to lift his hands and got them against Beaumont’s shoulders. With a shove, he pushed the man away and stumbled backward. Frank caught himself against the bar. Beaumont leaned on a table, his chest heaving. As the pounding of the pulse in Frank’s skull slowed somewhat, his head cleared enough for him to be able to look around. He became aware that silence had fallen over the saloon.

  That was because everyone was looking at him and Beaumont, even Earl Duggan, who had recovered from the stunning impact of being thrown down on the table and was now sitting up amidst the debris. MacDonald and Rawlings had drawn apart but were still glaring at each other. Anderson was being helped to his feet by some of his friends. Callie Stratton looked on, white-faced with concern, probably for her brother and their friends. But Frank thought he saw some sympathy on her face when she glanced at him, too.

  “Well,” Marshal Keever said from the doorway, where he had just entered holding a shotgun, “who’s going to pay for the damages?” Deputy Skeet Harlan stood beside him, licking his lips as his hand hovered over the butt of his Colt, ready to hook and draw. More than that, Harlan was ready to kill. Frank could read that in his eyes.

  And at this moment, as beaten up as Frank was, he wasn’t sure he could beat Harlan to the draw if the deputy decided to start the ball.

  “I’ll pay for whatever’s busted up,” Duggan said from the floor. “And well worth it to get in a few good licks like that. Somebody help me up, damn it.”

  McKelvey motioned for the bartender to help Duggan. The apron hurried out from behind the bar and gave the cattleman a hand. Duggan was a little unsteady on his feet once he was up, but he shook off the bartender’s attempts to help him further.

  Pulling a wallet from his hip pocket, he fumbled out some bills and slapped them on the bar. “There!” he said to McKelvey. “Does that cover it?”

  The saloon keeper picked up the money and riffled through it. “Sure, Earl,” he said. “In fact, it’s a little too generous.”

  “Keep the extra,” Duggan growled. “It’s the last dinero you’ll get from me. You’ve straddled the fence long enough.”

  “Yeah,” Rawlings added as he wiped blood from his mouth. “Better make up your mind which side you’re on, McKelvey . . . because it’s damn sure a
war now.” He picked up his hat, jammed it on his head, and said to his friends, “Let’s get out of here.”

  “You go ahead, Al,” his sister said. “Tye needs to have the doctor look him over before he leaves.”

  “I’m fine—” Beaumont started to insist, but Callie stopped him with a curt gesture.

  “Don’t argue with me,” she told him. “I’m taking you over to Doc Yantis’s office, and that’s that.” She looked at Frank. “You’re coming, too, Morgan.”

  Frank gave a little shake of his head, not so much arguing as he was just uncertain that he had heard her right. “I don’t need a doctor,” he said. “I’ve been in fights before.”

  “You’re coming,” Callie declared, “or you and Beaumont will both have to fight me. And the shape you’re both in, I think I can whip you.”

  “Go ahead, Frank,” MacDonald said. “We’ll wait here for you.”

  Frank could see that it wasn’t going to do any good to argue with Callie Stratton. Once her mind was made up, changing it would be nigh on to impossible. “All right,” he said. “As long as Tye here doesn’t want to fight anymore.”

  Beaumont shook his head. “I’m all tussled out, Morgan. I’ll call a truce if you will.”

  Frank nodded. “Sure.”

  “Come on, then,” Callie said. “Al, I’ll see you later at the ranch.”

  Rawlings frowned. “You’re sure about this, Callie?”

  “Have you ever known me not to be sure? There’s nothing else we can do here in town. Chris Kane is in the hands of Doc Yantis, and the Lord. We’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”

  Grudgingly, Rawlings and the other ranchers left the saloon. Duggan said, “We’ll wait for you at the livery instead of here, Morgan.” He cast a surly glance toward McKelvey. “I don’t want to stay here anymore.”

  The saloon keeper just shook his head regretfully, as if he wished it had never come to this.

  Frank wasn’t convinced, though. He remembered that fleeting look of satisfaction on the man’s face just as the brawl broke out.