Manhunt

by William W. Johnstone

  Paddy snickered. “Move your fat arse, lady. You knew I’d be comin’ by on my rounds today.”

  Frank shook his head slightly to keep Beaumont in his seat. This was something he wanted to handle personally. He bent to help Mrs. Neff gather up the mess of pie and broken dish on the floor.

  “Leave it and tend to me so I can be gone,” Paddy clucked like a rooster. “I got other visits I’ll be needin’ to make.”

  Frank wiped his hands on his pants and stood up straight, gently pushing Mrs. Neff behind him as he did.

  “Don’t, Frankie,” she murmured in a tremulous voice. “He’ll kill you.”

  Paddy leaned back against the counter on both elbows, cocksure in his defiance. He acted as if he had a whole gang there with him.

  “Why don’t you run along, youngster.” Frank glared. “It’s likely time for your noon feedin’.”

  The boy swayed up and took a deep breath. “I ain’t hungry. But if I was, I’d eat your liver.”

  “You know,” Morgan said, “I’ve heard nothing but guff comin’ from that mouth of yours since you walked in that door. I don’t know what you think you got goin’ here, but let me clear somthin’ up for you. This nice woman is a friend of mine. Unless you have a strong desire to feel my boot in your ass, you’ll be givin’ her an apology.” Frank mimicked Paddy’s Irish accent.

  “You’re awful frail to be tellin’ me ’bout my own fair business.”

  “Fair or not,” Morgan whispered, “there are ways of talkin’ to a lady and you don’t seem to know them. I suggest you move your own arse on out of here before I move it for you.”

  Paddy’s eyes fluttered. Everyone had a telltale, a twitch or tick that preceded their move. For the young Irishman, it was his eyes. Before he drew, his eyelids fluttered as if they might roll back in his head like a rank horse.

  Mrs. Neff screamed as Morgan’s Peacemaker roared and belched fire in the tiny café. Glass shattered in the counter behind the astonished Paddy as he dropped his pistol and slid to his knees. At the close range the bullet had pierced his chest and crashed into the display counter behind him.

  “Who . . . who are you?”

  “Frank Morgan.” Morgan holstered his gun.

  The boy licked blood off his bottom lip. “Morgan. . . ?” He shook his head, trying to clear it. “I heard of you. Thought . . . you were out west.”

  “Was,” Frank said. “Thought I might try to come home for some peace and quiet.”

  Paddy’s eyes fluttered again. He got one last look at his bloodstained shirt before they closed for the last time.

  Morgan turned to Mrs. Neff. He could hear her sobbing behind him and wanted to calm her down. “I’m sorry about this, ma’am. He left me no choice. I’ll be glad to cover the damage to your glass here.”

  Her eyes were locked onto the Irish gunman. She spoke in jerking spasms between desperate sobs. “He’s been coming in here getting money for his boss ever since my husband died.” There was a flint-hard edge to the woman’s voice. “Called it taxes. Extortion is what it was.”

  Morgan took her hand and stroked the back of it in an effort to calm her.

  Beaumont stooped to check on Paddy, holding an open hand over the boy’s gaping mouth. He looked up and shook his head. “He’s dead.”

  “Oh, Frankie, I’m sorry you got yourself in the middle of this.” Elizabeth Neff wrung her hands in her apron. Her eyes were wide with fear. “I know you were only trying to help me, but now you’ve . . .”

  Morgan gave a tired sigh. “I’m sorry for you, ma’am. I reckon we need to report this. Who’s the sheriff now?”

  Mrs. Neff stopped her crying and looked sadly at Frank. “The sheriff’s name is Rance Whitehead—and you just killed one of his deputies.”

  9

  Chas Ferguson watched from the safety of a thick stand of cedars at the edge of town as Frank Morgan and his Texas Ranger friend swung onto their horses and trotted away to the south.

  He’d had Morgan figured completely wrong, assuming the dried-up gunfighter was a tired old man, until he’d watched him shoot back in Amarillo. Now, the way he swung effortlessly up on the back of his broad Appaloosa said the man wasn’t anything close to being frail.

  Ferguson had seen the fight at Neff’s through the large plate-glass window in front. He’d watched the speed and dispassionate manner the gunfighter had used to dispatch his adversary—and then snuck off to hide under the shadowed cedar fronds before anyone saw him.

  The young dandy clutched his hat in one hand and used the other to steady himself on his saddle horn. An incredible dizziness had overwhelmed him when he witnessed the fight, and he’d had a difficult time staying on his feet. He knew Morgan was fast against another gunman, but up until that moment he’d just heard stories. Seeing the Drifter in action had had a much more sobering effect.

  Ferguson had been working up the courage to challenge Morgan since following him out of Amarillo. The young dandy knew he was faster than Morgan. There was no doubt in his mind about that. But there was so much more to a gunfight than mere speed. His uncle had taught him that. You had to get your mind right. Let things flow. That was the hard part. So many things could go wrong that you had to stop caring just a little.

  Ferguson’s head reeled. His face felt flush. He untied the canteen from his saddle strings and took a long swallow. His stomach rebelled at the cool water and he vomited it back up. It had been this way for days now—ever since Amarillo. Whenever he got within a hundred yards of Frank Morgan, his insides turned to mush. If the gunfighter’s voice drifted back on the wind, Ferguson would be seized with the sudden urge to turn tail and run away.

  He’d never in his life been afraid of another human being, and it galled him that Morgan drew out the weakness in him like an illness. Morgan was a sickness, that’s what he was. A putrefying illness that festered inside the aspiring gunman and gnawed at him until he was less than half a man. There was no cure for a sickness like that—it had to be located and cut out before it had a chance to take over.

  There was only one way for Chas Ferguson to be whole again. Frank Morgan had to die and he had to kill him.

  10

  “I don’t think I quite understand you, Purnell,” Judge Isaiah Monfore said over the steepled fingers on his broad hands. He was seated in an overstuffed leather chair behind an expansive oak desk that would have dwarfed a smaller man. Well-worn law books lined the built-in cases that flanked the walls behind him.

  “Oh, but I believe you will understand perfectly well if you would only think about it, Your Honor,” Purnell said, tugging at his collar. Judge Monfore kept the window behind him open, and the smell of blooming irises and horse manure drifted in on the cool breeze. The lawyer’s face was red as a beet even in the cool air, and beads of sweat dotted his steep forehead. “You have to listen to what I’m saying.”

  Monfore had never had much use for Purnell, considering him a mealymouthed attorney who could wind on for hours without ever getting to the point—which is exactly what he was doing at the moment.

  The judge dropped his hands flat on the desk with a loud slap and leaned across it. “I’ve been listening to every word you’ve said and I don’t understand one damn syllable. All you do is talk in circles. I can only assume all this has something to do with that Crowder boy.”

  Purnell gulped and nodded, staring at his lap. “It does, Judge Monfore.” He suddenly looked up. “I have to represent him as best as I can, but I don’t have much of a case. I have to tell you, his family gives me a few concerns, as well they should you—concern you, I mean.”

  The judge waved off the idea. “Hogwash, Purnell. Pure unadulterated hogwash. If I let every outlaw’s family give me the vapors, I’d be as useless as you are.”

  The lawyer flinched at the insult but plowed ahead. If he’d have fought back, Monfore might have respected him more. He wouldn’t have put up with such a thing, but he would have respected it.

  “Your Honor.”
Purnell cleared his throat to cover a stammer. “The boy’s father told me to warn you. He says if you allow his son to hang, you would surely see the same end.”

  “Excellent! That’s just what I needed,” Monfore said, pounding his huge fist on the table as if it were a gavel. The lawyer flinched at the noise. “I’ll get Sheriff Whitehead to swear out a warrant for the old man—threatening a judge—we can’t have that sort of thing, now can we?”

  “I suppose we can’t.” Purnell looked deflated. “But the Crowders are pro-stockyard and the Smoot girl’s parents are antis. It could look like they were using this as a platform to air their arguments with the Crowders’ proposal. Maybe she led him on.”

  Monfore poured himself a drink of whiskey from the lead glass decanter on his desk. “You really think that Ellie Smoot got herself molested by young Crowder so she could help her parents slander the family? More to the point, do you expect a jury would believe such nonsense?”

  Purnell shrugged. “I’ve seen worse.”

  “The boy stole a horse to get away from her irate father.” Monfore took a drink and slammed the glass down so hard, half its contents spilled on the morning newspaper. “Purnell, when a man hurts a girl so badly she very nearly bleeds to death, I doubt she was doing any leading. If a jury finds him guilty, the boy will hang. Tell his mother I’m truly sorry for her if it comes to that.” He leaned across the desk and narrowed his eyes, staring right through the squirming attorney. “And you understand me on this. I know what Crowder’s position is on this stockyard issue, and I don’t give a hoot in hell about it. What’s more, I know that Whitehead happens to agree with him. But this has nothing to do with the yards or the railroad. This is about justice.”

  * * *

  Monfore cleaned up the spilled liquor after Purnell slinked out of his chambers. The newspaper was ruined, but it didn’t matter. There was never anything in it anymore but babble about the stockyard debate. Monfore already had a gutful of that.

  The judge leaned back in his chair and swiveled it around to look out his second-floor window at the wagons on the square below. Across Main Street, Sheriff Whitehead’s office door stood open, but the slimy lawman was nowhere in sight. Monfore had no doubt about how Silas Crowder felt about him, no doubt about the danger the wealthy patriarch posed if his family or fortune were threatened. As county sheriff, it was Whitehead’s job to protect the judge from that kind of danger.

  But Whitehead was Crowder’s man. It was only a matter of time before he would be forced to show his true colors. That time was more than likely to come just when the judge needed him the most.

  Monfore sighed and closed his eyes. This whole damned county was about to be torn apart and there was very little he could do except watch it happen.

  11

  Dog trotted out on point ahead of the two riders, nosing the air for signs of trouble, food, or fun. Any cottontail or red squirrel that happened to cross the scruffy cur’s path didn’t stand a chance.

  Thick stands of scrub oak and mesquite lined the dusty road, and a pink carpet of primroses covered the ground on either side. Their petals were pinched closed until the sun set in the evening, which was still another hour away. Here and there a prickly-pear cactus sprang up from the rocky ground in a jumbled pile of flat green ovals.

  “So, what do you aim to do?” Beaumont said a little south of Springtown. “Just ride up and say, ‘Hello there miss. I do believe I might be your pa.’”

  Frank turned and looked at the Ranger across his saddle. “I don’t know that I plan to tell her anything at all. I expect I just need to see her—talk to her mama a bit. Mercy did say she needed my help.”

  Morgan gestured off to the east with the tail of his leather reins. “The Double Diamond spread is just over those limestone hills there. Before I do anything else, I plan to ride over and find out from Luke what’s really going on around here. Sniff things out before I ride into the middle of something I don’t understand. You’re welcome to come if you like. Luke always was a man for havin’ company under foot.”

  Beaumont gazed off to the south. “No, thanks. I believe I’d better go on in and do a little sniffin’ of my own. There’s a Ranger stationed over in Palo Pinto County. I’ll send him a wire and see what he knows.”

  “Watch your bones then.” Morgan smiled. “And don’t get lost.”

  “I’ll hook up with you tomorrow,” Beaumont said. “When I get to town, I’ll stop by and tell the sheriff you’re on your way in to talk to him about the business with one of his deputies. I can say I witnessed the whole thing. That should help smooth matters out some. I’ll leave word of where I’m staying with him in case you need to get in touch with me tonight.” Beaumont put the spurs to his bay and the little horse leaped into a smooth rocking-horse lope.

  * * *

  Morgan trotted Stormy onto Double Diamond land just before sunset. The sun was behind him and he cast a long shadow across the dusty wagon road. Before the Perkins’ ranch house was even visible, Dog perked up his ears and whined up at his master.

  “Yeah, Luke’s got dogs of his own, I reckon,” Morgan said. “See if you can behave yourself around here. I haven’t got too many friends left in this world.”

  The Double Diamond covered most of four sections of prime grazing land, with the house and ranch headquarters set well back from the perimeter.

  The crickets were singing and it was well into dusk by the time Morgan trotted up in front of the main house. Two black and white cattle dogs scampered off the front porch and trotted out to sniff Dog. There was some low growling and a fair amount of polite whining before the whole mess of them ran off to get acquainted.

  The Perkins house was a sprawling, two-story affair, large enough to take in plenty of the hard-luck strays Luke liked to adopt and fancy enough to reflect the size and worth of the ranch. It had whitewashed wood-lap siding and a cedar-shake roof. Fresh green paint trimmed the windows and covered the posts that supported a long wraparound porch.

  The solid front door yawned open a crack, and light spilled out as Frank dismounted and tied Stormy to a little stone jockey holding an iron ring.

  Luke Perkins stepped out the door in his stockinged feet. His bald head reflected the golden lamplight that surrounded him.

  “I swan. It’s Frank Morgan,” the cowboy said, resting a big hand on top of his head in surprise. “You didn’t die after all.”

  “Well, no, I didn’t, Luke. What are you doing without your boots at this time of day? It’s not like you to go to bed just because the sun does.” Morgan stepped up onto the wooden porch and shook his friend’s hand.

  Perkins ducked his head and looked up with sheepish eyes. “Carolyn likes us to take our boots off when we come in the house. Says all the horse poop is hard on the new rugs.”

  “She’s civilized you, eh? Do I have to leave my gun outside too?”

  “No, and the way things are going around here, I’d advised you to keep it handy all the time.” Luke scanned the dim line of trees behind Frank and motioned him through the door. “Come on inside and I’ll fill you in. But you have to leave your boots there on that jockey or Carolyn will raise holy hell.” He opened the door wider. “It sure is good to see you, partner.”

  * * *

  “I seem to remember you were quite the coffee drinker,” Carolyn Perkins said, putting a heavy mug on the table in front of Morgan next to a plate piled high with oatmeal cookies.

  She was the picture of health, glowing with happiness in her new home and a baby in her belly that wasn’t far from making an appearance—a far cry from the last time he’d seen her.

  Carolyn rested her hand on Luke’s shoulder and sidled up next to him. “I was awfully sorry to hear about Dixie. She was such a good woman. Saw us through some awful times, she did.” Her face was drawn as she spoke, but she didn’t cry. Frank supposed the poor woman had shed enough tears for a dozen lifetimes.

  He’d been fearing the moment he’d have to talk to someone
about his dead wife. The scars from losing her seemed more hurtful than the wounds on his own body. He swallowed hard, started to say something, but found there was nothing to say that didn’t make the event sound small. Instead, he changed the subject.

  “I swear, Luke.” Morgan looked down at his feet. “I haven’t had to take my boots off in front of civilized folks for some time now. My old socks have seen better days, that’s for certain.” His big toe stuck out the end of a hole in his right sock. He wiggled it to break the awkward situation.

  Carolyn laughed. “I’ll fetch you a pair of Luke’s to wear while I wash and darn those. Shuck them off and give ’em to me. If you’ve got any other mending that needs doing, let me have it tonight. I’ll have it done by tomorrow.”

  Morgan peeled off his socks. “We ought to just burn them,” he said. “A few weeks on the trail can ruin a garment.”

  Carolyn snatched them away from him and started for the stairs. “Nonsense. No use throwing away what a little thread and time can fix.” She turned. “It is good to see you, Mr. Morgan. I hope you know you’re welcome here as long as you want to stay.”

  Perkins watched his wife disappear up the stairs. There was a light in the cowboy’s eyes when she was near him. Even his drooping mustache seemed to perk up at her presence.

  “Seems like she’s treating you well,” Morgan said, airing out his toes.

  “Better than well.” Luke’s gaze lingered on the stairs for a moment after his wife disappeared before he turned his attention back to his friend. “She’s due to drop that young’un in less than a month, but she won’t hear of having someone come in and help with the chores. Next week I aim to hire a girl no matter what she says. Berta and Bea Fossman help out a bunch, but they’re busy with their schoolin’ and all.” Luke reached out and picked up an oatmeal cookie, thinking.

  Morgan took a long drink of Carolyn’s coffee and saluted with the cup. “It’s good to set foot on home soil, I’ll say that much.”

  “You’re likely wondering about Mercy.” Luke kept both eyes locked on his old partner.