Violent Sunday

by William W. Johnstone

  “Wh-what . . .”

  “What are you doing here?” Keever finished for him. “Jail is where drunks who pass out in alleys usually wind up, Morgan. I’ve got to tell you, though, I thought better of you. I never expected the famous Drifter to do such a thing.”

  “You found me. . . .”

  “That’s right. You were passed out in the alley behind the Palace while I was making my rounds. I brought you here and locked you up. You can sleep it off, and I’ll let you out in the morning. You’ll have to pay the usual fine for drunk and disorderly.”

  “Not . . . drunk . . .”

  Keever laughed. “That’s what they all say.” He turned to leave.

  Frank let him go. His brain was beginning to work again. He remembered being in McKelvey’s office, remembered the drink he had downed just before everything went black. McKelvey had drugged him, of course. Frank had no doubt about that. He was surprised that he was still alive. He would have expected McKelvey to take advantage of the opportunity to kill him.

  But Fate had intervened somehow, and now Frank had another chance. He didn’t know if Keever was in on the scheme with McKelvey or not. It seemed unlikely that he was, even though his deputy Skeet Harlan was involved up to his eyebrows. Keever was just a dupe, but he had inadvertently saved Frank’s life.

  Now it was a matter of staying alive, getting out of here, and finding out what McKelvey, Harlan, and Coburn were planning.

  That would have to wait a little while, though. Right now Frank was still too weak and groggy to try anything.

  He would just have to hope that all hell didn’t break loose first.

  35

  Keever left a short time later, locking up the marshal’s office behind him. Frank rested on the bunk and tried to regain his strength. He was the only prisoner in the small city jail. After a while he dozed off, and he didn’t wake up until sunlight was streaming in the small, barred window set high in the back wall of the cell.

  It was Sunday morning. From the looks of things, a bright, clear, autumn Sunday in Texas.

  Keys rattled in the lock of the office door. It swung open and Skeet Harlan stepped inside. Frank stood up, feeling a lot stronger and steadier than he had the night before. Harlan stopped short at the sight of him.

  “Morgan! How the hell did you get in there?”

  “Your boss locked me up for being drunk,” Frank explained. “Haven’t you talked to the marshal this morning, Harlan?”

  The deputy shook his head as he closed the door. “Keever spends every Saturday night at a whorehouse. His one vice, I reckon you could say. He sleeps until noon on Sunday.”

  Frank nodded. That must have been where Keever went after leaving the jail.

  The wheels of Frank’s brain were turning over rapidly. Did Harlan know that he was aware of the connection between Harlan, McKelvey, and Coburn? For the moment the wisest course might be to pretend ignorance. After all, he was at Harlan’s mercy, disarmed and locked up behind bars.

  Frank managed to chuckle. “I must’ve really gone on a bender last night. I don’t remember a damned thing.”

  Harlan’s face contorted in a snarl and he drew his gun as he came closer to the bars. “The hell you don’t,” he snapped. “You can’t fool me, Morgan. You know too much to live.”

  Seeing that he had to stall for time, had to keep Harlan talking, Frank changed his strategy and said quickly, “You mean I know about you and McKelvey and Coburn?”

  The way Harlan’s eyes widened in surprise told Frank that his wild shot had gone home. “Coburn?” Harlan muttered. “How did you know—” He stopped short and then spit out a curse. “You’re too smart for your own good, Morgan. You just sealed your death warrant.”

  “You’re going to shoot me right here in the jail?”

  “Damn right. If McKelvey had let me cut your throat in his office last night, I wouldn’t have this problem now. Damn right I’m gonna smoke you. Then I’ll drag you out, put a gun in your hand, and tell everybody that you tried to escape.”

  “Nobody’s going to believe that.”

  Harlan gave an ugly laugh. “Believe you me, Morgan, after today folks around here will have a lot more to worry about than whether or not you were really trying to escape when I blasted you.”

  Frank felt himself go cold inside at the tone of Harlan’s voice. Still stalling, he asked, “What do you mean by that?”

  Harlan hesitated in answering but then shrugged and said, “What does it matter now? In a little while a bunch of cowmen from those little outfits are going to come stormin’ into town to bust Kane and their other two friends out of the county jail. Some of Coburn’s men will be with them. But while the sheriff’s got his hands full defending the jail, Coburn’s men will hit the banks and every other business in town. They’ve got dynamite to blow open the safes, and when they’re done they’ll leave some of the places on fire behind them. At the same time the rest of Rawlings’ bunch, plus the rest of Coburn’s gang, will raid the cattle pens over at Zephyr, stampede the herds that are gathered there, and wipe out Duggan and the other big ranchers. When it’s over, though, the double cross kicks in, and Rawlings and his friends wind up dead, too. By the time it’s all said and done, Brown County will be just about wiped out.”

  “Except for you and McKelvey and Coburn,” Frank guessed. “The three of you plan to grab up everything that’s left.”

  “You got it, Morgan.”

  “That’s why McKelvey’s been trying to push the two sides into fighting for weeks now. He wanted a big blowup like this so that everything would be blamed on the trouble over the fence-cutting. It’ll just be a range war that got out of hand, and nobody will ever think to point a finger at him.”

  Harlan sneered. “Pretty smart, ain’t it?” He lifted his gun. “That’s enough yammerin’. It’s time for you to die, Morgan. I just wish I’d had the chance to see how fast you really are.”

  “You still can,” Frank said, seizing any slim chance he might still have. “Let me out of this cell and give me my gun. We’ll have it out, just you and me, and may the best man win.”

  Harlan hesitated, but only for a second before he shook his head. “Don’t think it ain’t temptin’,” he said as he came closer to the cell so that he couldn’t miss. “But I’m smarter than that. So long, Morgan.”

  The front door of the marshal’s office slammed open. “Drop it, Harlan!” Callie Stratton called from the entrance as she leveled her Colt at the deputy. Startled, Harlan jerked around toward her.

  Frank knew that with the deputy’s speed with a gun, Harlan might get a shot off at Callie even if he was hit first. And if Callie hesitated even an instant, Harlan might cut her down. So Frank exploded into action at the same time, lunging against the bars of the cell door and reaching through them. His fingers caught hold of Harlan’s shirt collar, and the muscles in his arm and shoulders bunched as he jerked the deputy toward him.

  Harlan slammed into the bars. The impact jolted the gun out of his hand. As it thudded to the floor, Frank jerked Harlan against the bars again. This time the crooked deputy’s head smashed against the iron and he went limp in Frank’s grip. Frank bent and lowered Harlan’s senseless figure to the floor. Blood welled from a cut on Harlan’s forehead.

  Callie rushed into the jail. “Frank, are you all right?”

  He flashed a grin up at her. “I’m a lot better than I was thirty seconds ago,” he said. “See if you can find the keys to let me out of here.”

  “Why are you—”

  “It’s a long story,” he said, “but I’ve got to get out of here and put a stop to what’s about to happen.”

  “You know about what’s going to happen?” she asked as she rummaged in the marshal’s desk and then came up with a ring of keys.

  “I know,” Frank said. “I had already figured out some of it, and Harlan told me the rest. Your brother and some of his friends are going to attack the big ranchers at Zephyr, and the rest of them are going to try t
o break Kane out of jail.”

  Callie started trying keys on the cell door. “That’s right. That man Coburn promised them some help. He said he had friends who would pitch in. I heard them talking last night after we got back to the ranch. Al wasn’t sure at first, but Coburn talked him into it. I’ve been worried about it ever since. That’s why I came into town this morning. I thought I ought to warn the sheriff. I was just passing by here, though, when I looked through the window and saw Harlan about to shoot you.”

  “Coburn’s so-called friends are members of his gang. They’re all outlaws and gunmen. They’re going to loot the town, and they’re also supposed to double-cross the small ranchers and wipe them out, too.”

  Callie glanced up at him, her eyes wide with horror. “Then it’s really a trap!”

  “That’s right. Coburn, Harlan, and Ace McKelvey have been working together, trying to get everything to this point. And today it all blows up, unless we can stop it!”

  One of the keys clicked over in the lock, and Callie jerked the cell door open.

  Frank stepped out, grabbed the still-senseless Harlan, and dragged him into the cell. He closed the door and gave it a shake to make sure it had locked.

  “Harlan can stay out of trouble in there while I tell Sheriff Wilmott what’s going on. Callie, I want you to ride out to Kane’s place and tell Beaumont everything I just told you. Tell him to get down to Zephyr and warn Duggan and the others.”

  She nodded. “We have to head this off, Frank. Otherwise a lot of innocent people are going to be killed.”

  He found his Peacemaker and gun belt in the marshal’s desk, where Keever had put it the night before. “Get going,” he said tersely as he buckled on the belt and strapped down the holster. Callie hurried out.

  Frank’s Stetson hung on a nail on the wall. He took it down and settled it on his head. He hadn’t said anything about it to Callie, but he was afraid it might already be too late to keep innocent folks from getting killed.

  But he was going to do his damnedest, and he was going to see to it that justice caught up to the plotters who had put all this violence into motion.

  He had just taken a step toward the front door of the office when it opened and Marshal Keever stood there, eyes going wide with shock at the sight of Frank Morgan out of the cell. “Good Lord!” the marshal exclaimed.

  What a day for Keever to pick to leave the whorehouse early, Frank thought as the marshal grabbed for the gun at his hip.

  Keever was no match for Frank’s speed. Frank had the Peacemaker drawn and leveled before the marshal’s iron was halfway out of the holster. Keever paled and gulped, surely expecting that he was going to die in the next instant, but Frank held off on the trigger and said, “Take it out slow and easy, Marshal, and put it on the floor.”

  Keever did so, saying, “How did you get out, Morgan?” He glanced past Frank and saw Harlan lying in the cell, out cold. “My God! Is that Skeet? Did you kill him?”

  “Your deputy is alive, Marshal, don’t worry about that. Slide the gun over here with your foot.”

  Keever slid the revolver over the floorboards.

  “Now,” Frank continued, “you’re going in the cell with Harlan, and I’m going to try to stop all the trouble he and McKelvey and Coburn have caused.”

  “What in blazes are you talking about?” Keever demanded, and unless the man was a better actor than Frank gave him credit for being, he was genuinely confused. Frank had suspected that the marshal wasn’t in on the scheme, and Keever’s reaction seemed to confirm it.

  “Ask Harlan when he wakes up.” Frank unlocked the cell door again and motioned Keever in with the barrel of his gun. Grudgingly, the lawman entered his own cell. Frank slammed the door. “I’d explain the whole thing, but there’s just not time.”

  Frank left them there and stepped out onto the street, which wasn’t very busy on a Sunday morning like this. He walked quickly toward the county jail several blocks away.

  He wasn’t sure how he was going to convince Sheriff Wilmott that he was telling the truth about the elaborate scheme McKelvey and his two partners had hatched. Wilmott was an honest man, but he was also simple and direct, not the sort to easily grasp the sort of labyrinthine plotting McKelvey, Harlan, and Coburn had done. Frank would just have to lay out the facts for the sheriff and hope Wilmott believed him.

  A deputy with a shotgun tucked under his arm was on duty at the front door of the jail. He straightened as Frank approached. “What do you want, Morgan?” he asked.

  “I’ve got to see Sheriff Wilmott.”

  “Well, you’re out of luck. He ain’t here.”

  “Is he home?”

  “Nope. At this time on a Sunday morning, he’ll be at church, of course. Where else would a respectable, God-fearin’ man be? I’d be there myself if it wasn’t my turn to work this mornin’.”

  “Which church?” Frank asked tersely.

  The deputy hesitated. “You ain’t gonna go down there and bother the sheriff in the middle of the worship service, are you?”

  “No, I’ll wait until it’s over,” Frank lied. “But I want to catch him when he comes out.”

  “All right,” the deputy said grudgingly. “It’s the First Baptist, right down the street.”

  Frank nodded. “Much obliged.” He started to turn away and then paused. “How many deputies are on duty this morning?”

  “Just me and another fella. And the jailer’s inside.”

  “You’d better tell the jailer to get on the telephone and call every deputy who’s hooked up to the line. You’re going to need help before the morning’s over.”

  The deputy’s eyes widened in surprise. “Trouble?”

  “Bad trouble,” Frank confirmed. Then he turned and walked quickly toward the First Baptist Church.

  Even with the doors closed, he heard the organ playing and the congregation singing hymns before he got there. He hated to disturb these people at their worship, but there was no time to waste. He opened one of the double doors and stepped inside, taking his hat off out of habit.

  A couple of deacons stood there in the vestibule. One of them smiled and motioned Frank toward an empty pew, but Frank just shook his head. He looked over the crowd, searching for Sheriff Wilmott.

  The deacon came over and said quietly, “Can I help you, brother?”

  “I’m looking for the sheriff.”

  “Is it important?”

  “Very,” Frank said.

  “I know where Brother Wilmott sits with his family. I’ll get him.”

  Frank waited impatiently while the deacon went along the aisle between the two sections of pews. He paused at one near the front and leaned over, speaking to someone Frank couldn’t see. Then Sheriff Wilmott stood up, cast a glare in Frank’s direction, and started toward the rear of the church.

  Frank was about to speak when Wilmott took his arm and led him outside. “Now what’s all this about?” the lawman demanded angrily when he had closed the door of the church. “I don’t take kindly to bein’ interrupted when I’m visitin’ with the Lord.”

  Frank heard a low rumble in the distance, almost like thunder, but the sky overhead was a clear, beautiful blue. He looked to the east and saw a thin haze of dust rising into the air. It would take a lot of horses to kick up that much dust, he thought.

  “Sorry to bother you when you’re contemplating Heaven, Sheriff,” he said. “But I thought I’d better tell you that Hell’s about to come to call.”

  36

  Beaumont heard Dog barking and stepped out of the cabin to see Callie Stratton riding hell-for-leather toward him. Her hat had come off and was hanging on her back by its chin strap. Her red hair streamed behind her from the wind of her swift passage. Beaumont knew right away that something had to be really wrong to cause such urgency on Callie’s part. He stepped back into the cabin and grabbed up his Winchester.

  By the time he was outside again, Callie was reining her mount to a sliding stop. “Tye,” she gaspe
d, still using the name she had first known him by, “there’s trouble!”

  “Get down and tell me about it,” Beaumont said.

  She shook her head. “No time.” Words began to tumble breathlessly out of her mouth. Beaumont listened intently as she poured out the message Frank Morgan had given her to pass along to him. Beaumont’s hands tightened on the rifle as he realized the implications of all she was saying.

  “Good Lord!” he exclaimed when she was finished. “I’ve got to get to Zephyr right away!”

  The little settlement where the cattle pens were located was about eight miles away. Beaumont knew the countryside and could reach it in a hurry. But he might still be too late, he thought grimly as he hurried to the barn to saddle his horse.

  “I’m going with you,” Callie declared as Beaumont rode out of the barn a few minutes later, followed by Dog.

  Beaumont didn’t want to take the time to argue with her. “Your horse is beat,” he said. “If you can’t keep up, I’ll leave you behind.”

  She jerked her head in a nod, agreeing to his terms. Side by side they galloped away from the cabin.

  Earlier, when Beaumont had been taking care of the morning chores around the place, he had thought it was a spectacularly beautiful day, with blue skies and crisp autumn air.

  Now, even though the weather hadn’t changed, a pall seemed to have been cast over the day. Beaumont almost felt as if a storm was about to break . . . which, in a way, it was, unless he and Callie could stop it.

  Callie kept up, getting everything she could from her gallant horse and surprising Beaumont. They saw the dust in the air and caught the unmistakable smell of a large herd before they came within sight of the pens. As they drew closer, they could even hear the lowing of thousands of cattle. They passed the corrals where the remudas were kept and rode up to the scattering of chuck wagons parked near the full pens that lined the railroad tracks. As they headed toward the Slash D chuck wagon, Ed MacDonald stepped out and raised a hand to stop them.