Violent Sunday

by William W. Johnstone

  Without him even thinking about it, instinct made him kick his feet free from the stirrups and throw himself to the left out of the saddle just as a sharp crack sounded. As he was falling, a bullet whined through the space he had occupied only a second earlier. Frank landed with practiced ease, rolling over to break the force of his fall. He let his own momentum pull himself back up on his feet. Another bullet kicked up dust only inches from his feet as he dived into a little gully beside the trail.

  He bellied down as much as possible as more slugs chewed up the rim of the gully and showered him with dirt and pebbles. His Winchester was still in the saddle boot on Stormy, and the Appaloosa had taken off down the road when the shooting started. Frank could have called him back. The horse would come to his whistle. But that would just put Stormy back in the line of fire, and Frank didn’t want to do that if it could be avoided.

  In the meantime, however, he was armed only with his Colt, and while the Peacemaker was a fine gun, it didn’t have the range needed to reach that bluff where the bushwhacker was hidden in the brush.

  But as long as Frank stayed where he was, the bushwhacker couldn’t get a good shot at him, either. Letting himself stay pinned down like this sort of stuck in Frank’s craw, but for once, waiting out an enemy might be the best course of action, despite what he had said earlier to Beaumont.

  Damn, he wanted one shot at that bushwhacking son of a bitch, though, he thought.

  The gunfire gradually died away. The rifleman could be reloading, Frank told himself. He had recognized the sound of a Winchester and knew it probably held fifteen rounds. Load it on Sunday and shoot it all week, people used to say about a Winchester. But even a rifle like that ran out of bullets sooner or later when lead was being sprayed like it was from the top of that bluff.

  Frank waited and listened to the silence, knowing that the rifleman could be trying to draw him out. After a few minutes, he heard hoofbeats in the distance. Either the bushwhacker was leaving or someone else was coming along the trail. When the hoofbeats receded, Frank decided that it had been the bushwhacker taking off. The man must have realized that his bullets couldn’t reach Frank in the gully.

  Just as a precaution, he crawled a hundred yards or so along the shallow defile before standing up. Nobody took a shot at him. The top of the bluff seemed deserted.

  Frank walked back to the spot where he had flung himself out of the saddle. His hat had come off, and it was still lying there in the dust of the trail. He picked it up, slapped it against his leg a couple of times, and then settled it on his head. When he looked down the trail, he saw Stormy a couple of hundred yards away. The Appaloosa lifted his head and then galloped toward Frank in response to a whistle.

  “Good boy,” Frank murmured as he caught the reins and patted Stormy on the flank when the horse came up to him. “You got out of the line of fire just like you were supposed to.”

  That wasn’t going to be so easy for him and Beaumont, he told himself. As long as a range war loomed on the horizon in Brown County, both of them were going to find themselves smack-dab in the line of fire.

  25

  Ace McKelvey was in his office that night when a soft knock sounded on the door that led to the alley behind the Palace. He knew the sound of that knock, so he got up from behind the desk and shot the bolt on the door into the main room of the saloon before he answered the summons. He didn’t want to be interrupted while he was talking to his visitor.

  When he swung the alley door open, Skeet Harlan stepped inside quickly. The deputy had a Winchester under his arm. McKelvey closed the door behind him and said coolly, “Well? I expected to hear from you before now.”

  “That idiot Keever put me to work as soon as I got back to town,” Harlan explained. “I didn’t get a chance to get away until now.”

  “Morgan must not be dead, or else I would have heard about it by now.”

  “That bastard’s got a sixth sense or something,” Harlan complained. “He went diving out of the saddle just as I let fly at him. I emptied this damn Winchester but never hit him.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. I rode off a ways, then got up on top of a hill and took a look back through a pair of field glasses. I saw him ride off. Didn’t seem any the worse for wear.”

  McKelvey cursed. “Why didn’t you make another try for him?”

  “I could have,” Harlan allowed. “I got to thinking about it, though. I know you thought we ought to get Morgan out of the way, but I ain’t sure but what it’s better the way it turned out.”

  “How do you figure that?” McKelvey asked with a frown.

  “Morgan rides for the Slash D. Who’s he going to blame for trying to bushwhack him? Rawlings or some of that bunch, more than likely. If he rode on out to the ranch and told Duggan about it, that’s going to make Duggan more convinced than ever that the only way to deal with the little ranchers is by squashing them.”

  McKelvey rubbed his heavy jaw, which was beginning to show stubble. “Yeah, maybe,” he said slowly.

  “Look, I don’t like having a gunslinger like Morgan take a hand in the game, either. A man with speed like he’s got is too much of a wild card. But if it ever comes down to the nub, he’s only one man. He can’t stand up to Coburn’s whole bunch.”

  “That’s true. And Flint is pretty fast with a gun. . . .”

  Harlan glared at the saloon keeper. “Coburn’s no match for me, and neither is Frank Morgan. I’m faster than either of them. You’d do well to remember that, McKelvey.”

  “Are you threatening me, Skeet?”

  “Nope. Just reminding you that we’re partners. Equal partners. I’ve let you handle most of the planning because you’re in a better position to see everything. But you’re not running the whole show, McKelvey.”

  “No, of course not,” McKelvey said quickly. “And I know how fast with a gun you are. I’ve seen that speed demonstrated before, remember?”

  “Just don’t forget,” Harlan said. He waited a moment and then asked, “What do you reckon we ought to do now?”

  “Every pot has to simmer a little,” McKelvey said. “Tensions are high right now. Let’s leave them that way for a little while. There’s a good chance either Duggan or Rawlings will do something stupid and set off more trouble on their own. If they don’t, we’ll give them a prod. And there’s the matter of Chris Kane, too. Whether he lives or dies, he could set off a nice little explosion.”

  Harlan nodded. “He’s still alive this evening. I checked at the jail on the way over here. Doc Yantis was there, and he said Kane seems to be a mite stronger.”

  “Good. Let him recover, if that’s what fate has in store for him. As soon as he’s back on his feet, we’ll push for a trial. That can’t help but fan the flames.”

  “All right. Let me know if you come up with anything else you need me to do.”

  “Of course,” McKelvey said. Harlan gave him a curt nod and slipped out of the office, disappearing into the shadows of the alley.

  What a fool, McKelvey thought. Harlan liked to believe that he was an equal partner in this setup, but it was obvious he didn’t have the mental capacity for that. He was a fast gun and a reliable killer, that was all. Even after boasting about him and McKelvey being partners, he’d had to turn right around and ask for instructions about what to do next. McKelvey shook his head in disgust.

  He would keep using Skeet Harlan for now, but when this was all over . . . well, Deputy Harlan might just find himself the victim of a fatal accident.

  * * *

  By the time he had gotten back to the Slash D earlier in the day, Frank had decided not to tell Duggan about the attempt on his life. Frank didn’t know who had been pulling the trigger of that Winchester, but the most likely suspect was either Al Rawlings or one of the other ranchers allied with Rawlings. They knew that they couldn’t match gun speed with Frank, so one of them could have decided to try to get rid of him by ambushing him.

  Frank wasn’t comple
tely convinced that Rawlings was a bushwhacker at heart, though, and none of the other ranchers had struck him like that, either. Sure, they were mad about the fences. Rawlings had been angry enough to try to draw on Frank the night before. But that had been a face-to-face confrontation. Rawlings hadn’t been skulking around in the bushes when he took his shot.

  Not for the first time, the nagging feeling that something else was going on here rustled around in the back of Frank’s brain. So he decided for the time being to play his cards close to the vest and not say anything about the shooting.

  As he rode up, Dog came bounding out of one of the barns to greet him happily. Frank dismounted and petted the big cur for several minutes before starting toward the house. Earl Duggan was waiting for him on the porch, a frown on his weathered face.

  “Run into more trouble in town?” the cattleman asked.

  Frank shook his head and told the truth. “Nope.”

  “When you didn’t meet us at the stable, Al got worried and went to look for you.” Duggan’s deep-set eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Said he saw you goin’ into Pomp Arnold’s place with that young fella you got in a fight with.”

  “That’s right,” Frank admitted. “I didn’t think it would hurt anything to have a drink with Tye.”

  “Thinking about switching sides in this fight already, Morgan?” The scornful words lashed at Frank. “You really think those greasy-sack outfits can pay you better than I can, gunslinger?”

  Anger welled up inside Frank. He controlled it with an effort and said, “Once he got over being so mad, Tye seemed like a reasonable young fella. I thought maybe it wouldn’t hurt to feel him out about switching sides.”

  Duggan gave an emphatic shake of his head. “I don’t want the likes of him working for me. He’ll never ride for the Slash D.”

  “Maybe not, but I know from talking to him that he doesn’t want an outright war here in Brown County.” That much was true anyway, Frank thought, whether the rest of what he was saying was or not. “You’d like to know it if Rawlings and his bunch have anything big planned, wouldn’t you?”

  Duggan’s eyes narrowed even more. “Are you sayin’ you talked that youngster into spyin’ for us?”

  “Not yet. He’s too stiff-necked and bullheaded for that. But with some work he might come around to our way of thinking.”

  Duggan rasped a hand over the white bristles on his jaw. “Well, then, maybe it’s a good thing you talked to him,” he admitted after a moment. “We’d better be careful, though, if he acts like he’s tryin’ to help us. He might slip us some bad information that would lead us into a trap.”

  “I don’t think that’ll happen,” Frank said honestly. “Tye’s already seen the two men he worked for gunned down. He wants an end to the violence.”

  “It’ll end,” Duggan said with a grim nod. “One way or another, before too much longer, it’ll end.”

  * * *

  For the next week, an uneasy truce held over Brown County. No more fences were cut, no line riders for the big spreads were ambushed. The whole county seemed to be holding its breath.

  And in the Brown County jail, Chris Kane finally woke up.

  He didn’t know where he was or how much time had passed. All he remembered was falling in the street with the thunder of Skeet Harlan’s gun echoing in his ears. He was aware of only two things now: that he hurt like hell and that his mouth was as dry as cotton. He tried to ask for water, but all that came out was a husky croaking sound.

  Gradually, he realized that he was lying on his back and that something was wrapped tightly around his torso. Bandages, he thought. He could barely breathe, they were so tight around his chest. Again he tried to talk, and this time he was able to whisper, “H-hey . . .”

  No one responded. Kane tried to force his eyes open but was too weak. He listened instead. He heard muted voices somewhere in the distance but couldn’t understand what they were saying. Trembling with the effort, he tried to call out, but he couldn’t do it.

  He smelled wood smoke, probably from a stove somewhere in the building. The air was chilly but not too cold. His fingers moved convulsively. He felt rough wool against them. A blanket?

  So he was lying on a bunk somewhere. In the cabin on Blanket Creek? “W-Will . . . ?” he whispered.

  No. Will had been shot. Those memories came flooding back in on Kane’s brain. He shuddered and then whimpered as even that slight movement made pain shoot through his body. Will had been shot and was almost surely dead by now. Kane didn’t know how much time had passed, but he held out no hope that his partner had survived.

  “Tye?” This time the whisper was a little stronger, but there was still no answer.

  When Kane tried to open his eyes again, he was able to lift his eyelids enough to form tiny slits. Light struck his eyes and made him wince, and then he winced again as fresh waves of agony rolled through him. He squeezed his eyes closed, having accomplished nothing except to get a glimpse of a sandstone wall and a ceiling made of heavy beams.

  Footsteps echoed somewhere nearby and came closer. Kane forced himself to breathe regularly as if he were still unconscious. As surprised as he was to find himself still alive, he was starting to get a bad feeling about the place he was in now.

  That feeling was confirmed when the footsteps stopped and then metal clanged against metal. The door of a jail cell opening, he thought. He was locked up. Skeet Harlan had shot him, and then he had been locked up.

  It would have been better if he had gone ahead and died.

  A man’s voice spoke, sounding loud and aggressive. “I don’t know if this is a good idea, you comin’ here like this every day, Miss Annie.”

  “Somebody has to look after him,” a woman replied. Her voice was softer, but it still sounded unnaturally loud to Kane’s ears.

  “Well, I’ll be right down the hall. You holler if you need anything.”

  The heavy footsteps went away. Lighter ones approached Kane. He heard a scraping sound. A stool being drawn up closer to the bunk where he lay, maybe? Then he smelled a sweet fragrance, like a field full of wildflowers in the spring.

  Something cool and soft touched his forehead, bringing blessed relief to the pounding that filled his skull. “Poor baby,” the woman murmured, as much to herself as to him. “Poor, poor baby.”

  Kane opened his eyes and looked up at her.

  Her mouth opened in shock, and it was only with a visible effort that she stifled the scream that tried to escape from her mouth.

  “Miss Annie?” the deputy called from down the hall in the cell block. “You say something?”

  “N-no,” she managed to reply. “I’m fine.”

  Kane stared up at her, recognizing the curly blond hair and the sweet face that was only beginning to show the signs of dissipation. Too many men, too much whiskey, the occasional bit of opium . . . but those things hadn’t completely destroyed the innocence within her. Annie, he recalled, Annie from the Palace. And according to the deputy, she had been coming to see him every day.

  “H-how . . . how long . . .” he rasped out.

  She leaned closer, an anxious look on her thin face. “You mean how long have you been here?” she whispered.

  He was too weak to nod, but she saw the look in his eyes.

  “A week. It’s been a week since Skeet shot you.”

  “How . . . bad?”

  “You’ve got three bullet holes in you. Nobody thought you were going to live. Even when Doc Yantis said you might, nobody really believed him.”

  Her mention of Doc Yantis brought back memories of what he had been doing in Brownwood on the night he was shot. “M-my partner . . . Will Bramlett . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Chris,” she said. “He’s dead.”

  Kane closed his eyes. Even though he had expected that answer, it still hurt to know that his friend was gone. They had made a lot of big plans, he and Will. But not a damned one of them had come to pass.

  He opened his eyes again. It was a
struggle, but he managed to turn his head enough to see the cell door. It stood open. He could get up and waltz right out of here, he thought.

  Sure. And right now he was just about as likely to flap his arms and fly to the damned moon.

  Annie bent even closer and pressed her lips to his forehead. “I’m so glad you’re awake,” she murmured. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to talk to you again. You just rest now, Chris, and get better. I’ll come every day and take care of you—”

  “Well, now, what’s this?” a new voice asked sharply. Annie gasped in surprise and jerked upright, and she was so close to Kane that the movement jostled him. He couldn’t keep from groaning in pain.

  “Hey, your prisoner’s awake down here,” the voice went on. Annie moved, and Kane could see Skeet Harlan standing in the open door of the cell. He had come up without either of them noticing him, moving as quiet as a snake.

  Kane had figured out that he was in the county jail, not the little town lockup behind Marshal Sean Keever’s office. That was a little better. He didn’t trust Sheriff J.C. Wilmott—as far as Kane was concerned, all the law in Brown County was in the hip pockets of the big ranchers—but at least Wilmott was a relatively honest man. He couldn’t say the same for Keever and especially Harlan, the town lawmen.

  One of the sheriff’s deputies came down the hall and looked into the cell. “Son of a gun,” he said. “You’re right, Skeet. I’ll go tell the sheriff. He’ll probably want Doc Yantis to come over and take a look at Kane.” The man started to turn away but then paused. “You’d better come of there, Miss Annie. Now that Kane’s awake, I got to lock this door again.”

  “Why?” Annie asked. “Can’t you see he’s in no condition to go anywhere? You can’t be worried that he’s going to escape!”

  “Rules is rules,” the deputy said stubbornly. “Step on outta there, now.”