Violent Sunday

by William W. Johnstone

  “What was it, dynamite?”

  Frank nodded. “Several sticks tied together, with a friction trigger rigged between them and the barbed wire. I’m not sure Duggan intended to kill anybody. If Gladwell hadn’t happened to be standing almost on top of the dynamite when he cut the wire, the blast might not have gotten him.”

  “But Duggan didn’t stop him when he saw what was about to happen, did he?”

  “No,” Frank allowed. “He sure didn’t.”

  “Some folks would call that murder.”

  “You’d never get a jury to say that,” Frank pointed out.

  “No, but a jury would send Chris Kane back to prison, based only on the word of a crazy gunman like Skeet Harlan!”

  “No argument there.”

  Beaumont put his palms flat on the table. “Rawlings wanted to distract Duggan and the other cattle barons from Kane’s case, as well as maybe convincing them to stop fighting. But it’s just going to make everything worse, isn’t it? If that’s even possible.”

  “It’s always possible for things to get worse,” Frank said. “Maybe it had to come to this all along. The feelings are just too high on both sides for anybody to be able to head off trouble.”

  Beaumont looked intently at him. “So now what does it come down to? Guns and more killing?”

  Frank drew in some smoke from the quirly and blew it out. “That’s usually what it comes down to,” he said quietly.

  “And what do we do? Which side are we on in this fight, Frank?”

  The Drifter shook his head. He had no answer for the young Ranger.

  * * *

  The next morning dawned clear, with a deep blue sky overhead and a cool breeze. It was a perfect autumn day for this part of Texas. The beautiful weather didn’t do much to cheer up Frank Morgan and Tyler Beaumont as they rode into Brownwood, though.

  Beaumont had his star-in-a-circle Ranger badge pinned to his shirt now. There was no point in keeping it hidden any longer. Over a mostly silent breakfast, they had decided to ride into town and see Sheriff Wilmott. The local lawman would know about Vern Gladwell’s death already, but he might not be aware of Beaumont’s true identity just yet.

  Frank saw right away that there was no surprise on the sheriff’s weathered face when he and Beaumont came into Wilmott’s office. Wilmott just looked up from his desk and grunted. “Heard tell you was a Ranger,” he said coldly. “Might have been nice if you’d let a fellow star-packer in on that, mister.”

  “My orders were to investigate the trouble here and do whatever I could to keep it from getting worse, Sheriff,” Beaumont said. “I thought I stood a better chance of accomplishing that by working undercover.”

  “Well, from the looks of what happened last night, you were wrong, weren’t you? I was over at the undertaking parlor a little while ago looking at what’s left of Vern Gladwell. Pitts has got his work cut out for him with that one.”

  Beaumont grimaced. “I’m sorry about Gladwell. I didn’t know what Duggan was planning to do.”

  Wilmott switched his angry gaze to Frank. “How about you, gunfighter? Were you in on it?”

  “No,” Frank replied. “In fact, Duggan fired me last night. He found out that Beaumont and I are old friends.”

  “And the two of you have been workin’ together all along?” Wilmott raised his bushy white eyebrows. “A gunslinger and a Ranger?”

  “Like I said, Beaumont and I have ridden together before.”

  The sheriff glared at Beaumont. “Well, Mr. Ranger, what do we do now?”

  Beaumont didn’t answer the question directly. Instead he asked, “How’s Chris Kane this morning?”

  “Still gettin’ better. He could probably stand trial in a few days.”

  “His lawyer should be here today,” Frank said. “I’m sure he’ll request an immediate change of venue.”

  “Lawyer? What lawyer?”

  “The one who’s coming down from Dallas to represent him.”

  Wilmott shook his head. “I ain’t heard nothin’ about that, and it’s none of my affair. I just keep the prisoner locked up until somebody tells me different.”

  “In the meantime, keep a good guard on Kane to make sure nothing happens to him.”

  Wilmott shot to his feet. “Don’t tell me how to run my jail, Morgan. I never lost a prisoner yet to a lynch mob, or to friends who tried to break him out, and I don’t intend to start now.” The sheriff leaned forward, resting his fists on the scarred desk. “I don’t expect anybody on either side is worried overmuch about Kane anymore, though. Not after what happened last night.”

  “You’re probably right about that,” Beaumont said. “What happened out at the Slash D probably pushes all that into the background.”

  Frank knew what the young Ranger meant. Rawlings and the others had nearly gone to war over what had happened to Chris Kane.

  How far would they go to settle the score for Vern Gladwell?

  * * *

  Ace McKelvey was waiting for Annie when she stepped into the building through the rear door. He reached out and took her arm. She gasped, and he knew he had taken hold of her harder than he meant to. He eased his grip and said, “You just got back from the jail?”

  “That’s right, Ace,” she said. “You told me it was all right for me to go over there and see Chris.”

  The rear door was still open. McKelvey glanced out at the morning sunshine and said, “I don’t care what you do at this time of day, as long as you work your shift at night.”

  “I will, Ace, I promise. You know I wouldn’t let you down.”

  “Yeah,” McKelvey said. “I know. How’s Kane?”

  Annie couldn’t help but smile a little. “He’s getting stronger every day. I think he’s going to be all right.”

  “Too bad he’s going to wind up back in prison.”

  Annie’s face fell at that thought, but then she brightened again. “Maybe he won’t go to prison. I heard over at the jail that he’s got a lawyer who’s going to get him a . . . a change of venture or something.”

  “Change of venue,” McKelvey muttered. “Where’d a range tramp like Kane get the money to hire a lawyer?”

  “I don’t know, but I was passing by the sheriff’s office, and I saw that gunslinger, Mr. Morgan, in there talking to the sheriff. He’s the one who said something about the lawyer. And I heard something else, Ace.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That fella called Tye . . . he’s really a Texas Ranger!”

  McKelvey grunted. He had already heard rumors that Tye was a lawman. Now Annie had confirmed it.

  “So Morgan and this Ranger were together, eh?”

  “That’s right. They were talking to the sheriff. Arguing, almost.”

  McKelvey rubbed his jaw. That wasn’t good news. The Rangers had a tendency to move in and take over, and they represented a bigger threat than an old sheriff and a few deputies. But so far there was only one Ranger in Brown County, and he wouldn’t be any match for Flint Coburn’s gang. Even with Morgan siding him, the odds would still be too high.

  But he and his associates had to move quickly now, McKelvey realized. Now that the Ranger was working out in the open, he might send for reinforcements. They had to strike before that could happen.

  Luckily, the death of Vern Gladwell might be just what they needed to tip the balance into open warfare at last. All of McKelvey’s behind-the-scenes maneuvering had not accomplished what he had set out to do, but it didn’t matter now.

  The dynamite blast that had claimed Gladwell’s life was nothing more than a firecracker compared to the explosion that was about to rock Brown County.

  33

  Skeet Harlan tensed when he stepped into McKelvey’s office late that night and found Flint Coburn already there. Though they were working together, there was an innate wariness and dislike between the two men, the same sort of animosity that was instinctive among men who made their living from the speed of their gun hand and the sureness of t
heir aim.

  “What are you doing here, Coburn?” Harlan asked quietly, his right hand hovering near the butt of his revolver.

  Coburn had a thin black cigarillo clenched between his teeth. “Ace sent for me,” he answered, “just like I imagine he sent for you, Harlan.”

  “That’s right,” McKelvey said from behind the desk. “I thought it was time we all got together and hashed out our plans. We don’t have much time anymore, not with the Rangers taking an interest in what’s going on around here.”

  “Only one Ranger so far,” Harlan pointed out, “and he’s no threat. I can handle him.”

  “So can I,” Coburn said with a sharp edge in his voice.

  McKelvey lifted both hands, palms out. “Take it easy, boys. It’s not a contest. Remember what we’re in this for. Brownwood is a plum ripe for the picking.”

  Harlan and Coburn both nodded in agreement, but they still eyed each other.

  McKelvey maintained a solemn expression, but inside he was smiling. Once it was all over, he might not have to worry about disposing of his partners. Given the way they felt about each other, they might just take care of that for him.

  The death of Vern Gladwell in the trap that Duggan had set for the fence-cutters was the talk of the county, and everybody seemed to be taking sides on it. That was just what McKelvey wanted. The other two men who had been wounded in the fracas were still alive and had been brought into town by Duggan and his men. Duggan had insisted that they be locked up in jail like Chris Kane, so that was where Doc Yantis had treated their injuries and pronounced that they would live. The fact that they were behind bars was just one more goad for Rawlings and his bunch.

  They were ready to be pushed over the brink, McKelvey thought.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said as he placed his hands palms down on the desk. He glanced at the door between the office and the main room of the saloon. It was securely bolted, so nobody could blunder into this meeting. And the saloon was busy enough and noisy enough so that even if anybody stood on the other side of that door with his ear pressed to it, he wouldn’t be able to hear what was being said in here.

  McKelvey went on. “All the big spreads have started their roundups. They’ll be done in a few days and they’ll haze all the stock they’re selling over to the pens at Zephyr. They’ll start shipping out on Monday, but the pens will be full by Sunday. Rawlings and some of his men, backed by some of your gun-throwers, Flint, will hit those pens and stampede the herds. Wipe out as many of the cattle barons and their men as you can. Once that’s done, your men will have their orders to turn on Rawlings’ bunch and cut them down, too. Have them make sure especially that Rawlings doesn’t survive the fight.”

  Coburn nodded his understanding of the bloodthirsty orders.

  “At the same time, the rest of the small ranchers will ride into town to bust Kane and the other two out of jail and set fire to the town. While that’s going on, you and your gang will hit the banks and the other businesses that have plenty of cash on hand. It’s possible you may ride out of here with as much as half-a-million dollars.”

  Hearing it in words like that had an effect on Harlan and Coburn. Half-a-million dollars was so much money, it was difficult for them to comprehend it.

  “The law will be too busy defending the jail to put up a fight, and the townsfolk will be fighting the fire,” McKelvey continued. “The big ranchers will have their own problems over at Zephyr, so they won’t be able to ride to the rescue. We’ll loot the whole town before we’re through . . . including this saloon, of course.”

  “Otherwise folks will suspect you had something to do with it if you’re left alone,” Harlan said.

  McKelvey nodded. “That’s right. I’m not worried, since I’ll get back whatever I lose plus a lot more. I just hope your boys won’t shoot the place up too badly, Flint.”

  “I’ll tell them not to,” Coburn offered.

  Emphatically, McKelvey shook his head. “No. You and Skeet are the only ones who know that I’m part of this affair. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “So you can go on living here when it’s all over.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What do you get out of it, McKelvey?” Harlan asked. “The town will be left in a shambles if everything goes according to plan.”

  McKelvey smiled. “People will have to rebuild. I’ll have the money to help them. But when I call in the notes, the whole town will pretty much belong to me.”

  It was an audacious plan, and Harlan and Coburn didn’t even know all of it. He hoped to pick up some of the smaller ranches for a good price, too, including the Rawlings place. Coburn’s gunmen would see to it that many of the ranchers were killed in the fighting, which would leave their spreads up for grabs. By the time another year passed, McKelvey thought, not only would he control the town, but he would also be the biggest rancher in the county. And his wealth would grow even more when he sold the right-of-way the railroad needed to complete the line on to Brownwood from Zephyr. It would be a clean sweep, with Ace McKelvey growing rich from several different sources.

  After that . . . well, power went with money, and there would be nothing stopping him from climbing even higher on the ladder. Senator, maybe, or possibly even governor.

  Not bad for a man who had started out as a tinhorn gambler and rotgut whiskey peddler, now was it?

  But whether it was a reality or just a wild dream all came down to what was going to happen this coming Sunday, McKelvey thought. He was confident that the plan would work, but one worry still nagged at his brain.

  “Now, what about Frank Morgan?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry about Morgan,” Coburn answered without hesitation. “I’ve seen how fast he is. That’s why I had those two men brace him. It would have been nice if they could have killed him, but since they didn’t, I’ll deal with him.”

  “You can beat him if you have to?”

  Coburn smiled and flexed the fingers of his right hand. “I’ll beat him whether I have to or not. Just because I can.”

  Skeet Harlan sneered. “You really think you’re faster than the Drifter, Coburn?”

  “I know I am.” Coburn glared at the little deputy. “What’s the matter? You want a shot at him, too?”

  “That’s all right.” Harlan added maliciously, “I’ll take care of him after he’s killed you.”

  Coburn had been leaning indolently against a corner of the desk. Now he straightened, and his hand hooked into a claw just above the butt of his gun. Harlan tensed as well, ready to draw.

  “Both of you stop it,” McKelvey said sharply. “We can’t afford to fight with each other. We’re going to clean up here, as long as we don’t ruin it.”

  With a visible effort, Coburn forced himself to relax. He pointed his smoldering cigarillo at Harlan and said, “One of these days, mister.”

  “Yeah,” Harlan agreed. “One of these days.”

  “But not before Sunday,” McKelvey said. “Remember that.”

  It wasn’t likely any of them would forget. If everything went as planned, the coming Sunday in Brown County would be a red Sabbath indeed.

  * * *

  Frank Morgan and Tyler Beaumont spent the next few days riding around the county, visiting the big ranches where the fence-cutters had struck. There had been a few skirmishes on that damp, moonless night, but no one had been seriously wounded. Not every fence had been damaged, either. In some cases the cattle barons’ patrols had run off the fence-cutters before the wire could be snipped.

  In the places where fences had been cut, hasty repairs were being done by small crews. The roundup was under way, and the cattle market wouldn’t wait. If the herds were late being shipped out from the pens at Zephyr, the delay would cost the cattlemen on the prices they received for their stock.

  Few of the big ranchers had kind words for Beaumont, even though everyone now knew he was a Texas Ranger. They couldn’t forget that he had ridden with Rawlings and the o
ther greasy-sack cowmen. The fact that Beaumont had been working undercover didn’t change things all that much in the minds of the cattle barons. They resented, too, the fact that the Ranger hadn’t done anything yet to put a stop to the troubles.

  Frank saw all that and knew that as far as Beaumont was concerned, it was a case of damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. The youngster had been put in an almost impossible position.

  They were still staying at the little ranch on Blanket Creek. There was some lingering tension over what had happened to Victoria on the day she and Beaumont had gotten married, but for the most part Beaumont’s resentment had dissipated. He and Frank were able to talk about Victoria without being uncomfortable with each other. It sounded like the two young people were as happy in their marriage as could be expected under the circumstances, and Frank was glad of that.

  “I never expected things to stay quiet for this long,” Beaumont said on Saturday evening as he and Frank sat in the cabin drinking coffee after supper. “I thought Rawlings would make a move before now.”

  “He’s probably planning something,” Frank said. “He’s too hotheaded to let things rest for too long.”

  Beaumont nodded glumly. “Maybe it’s time for me to wire Austin and ask for some help up here. This is too big a job for me, Frank.”

  Frank didn’t like to hear his young friend talking like that. Beaumont wasn’t usually so pessimistic. Everything that had happened in the past few months had taken a toll on his spirits.

  “Maybe we just need to dig a little deeper,” Frank suggested. “I’ve thought all along that somebody was working behind the scenes to keep all the trouble stirred up around here.”

  Beaumont looked interested. “Got any idea who it might be?”

  “Ace McKelvey,” Frank said bluntly.

  “The saloon keeper? How would it benefit him to cause trouble between the big ranchers and the smaller ones?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet,” Frank admitted. “Maybe I should pay him a visit and see what I can find out.”

  Beaumont nodded slowly. “Might be worth a little time and effort. Want me to come with you?”