The land gave way rapidly to the creek fifteen feet below. Monfore had no idea where he was, and had only a vague plan of what he would do when he got to the water. He hoped the creek would be deep enough that he could float downstream and put as much distance between him and his captors as possible before they noticed he was missing.
After a short rest, he began the painful job of towing his injured body over the thorny briar vines and deadfall. An Osage orange tree had littered the sloping ground with fist-sized green fruit from the previous year. The rotting bumps each formed a hurdle he had to pull himself over or through.
By the time he dragged, tumbled, and rolled his way to the creek, his belly and legs were soaked with mud and stained purple-green from crushed vegetation and rancid, year-old mustang grapes. His back was soaked with sweat.
He collapsed on a damp sandbar just feet from the cloudy stream and fainted.
* * *
Monfore shivered himself awake. His teeth chattered and his head pounded as if it were locked in a vise. He couldn’t tell how long he’d been unconscious, but the shadows had moved across the sandbar in front of him and he supposed it had been awhile.
His whole body felt stiff and bent as a mesquite branch. There wasn’t an inch of him that didn’t hurt. He thought of his poor wife. She wouldn’t be doing well alone. Mercy was one of the few people in the world who truly needed him. Of course, she might not be alone. Monfore knew his wife had sent for that old flame of hers—a desperate outlaw from what he’d heard. She said he’d be able to help, but a man had to wonder about such things. He closed his eyes and pushed such thoughts out of his mind. Years on the bench had made him cynical. If he trusted anyone it was Mercy—except for her handful of little secrets, she was truly a woman without guile. Tender Mercy, he often called her.
He wondered about Victoria. She’d be worried sick, but she would do fine on her own. Her blasted independence had always galled him and made him proud at the same time. She had very little in common with her mother besides her looks.
Monfore shivered again. He knew he had to move, to put as much distance between himself and the cabin as he could. He couldn’t go fast, but he could move, and that was better than lying down and giving up. When he tried to push himself up, he felt a strange tickle along his right side, along his arm. He didn’t have enough energy to flinch, but when he moved again to look, a rasping hiss hit his ears and made his blood run cold.
Slowly, he shifted his gaze, trying not to alarm the thing he already knew he would see.
On top of all his troubles, a fat water moccasin had slithered in to take advantage of the relative warmth of his body. As thick as his wrist, the deadly snake lay like a black sausage in a three-foot S curve from Monfore’s swollen knee to his chest. The beast opened its cotton-white mouth and hissed again at the movement of his breathing. Like every other moccasin he’d ever seen, this one was in a bad mood.
In his present condition the judge knew he’d never be quick enough to roll away before the viper could strike. One bite from a cottonmouth wasn’t always fatal—but two or more would spell disaster.
Monfore thought he might try to wait the snake out, hoping it would move away, but he was shivering badly and he feared the movement would soon aggravate the animal to the point where it would bite. His pitiful wet cotton clothing would offer no protection at all from the sharp fangs.
He pressed his face into the cool sand and racked his brain for a way out of this mess. He cursed Silas Crowder and Ronald Purnell—swore he would live to see them hang.
Without warning, a deafening boom rocked the narrow creek bed. Sand, mud, and bits of bloody snake flew through the air around Monfore’s head, peppering the water in front of him.
Brown water seeped into the muddy crater where the snake had been. Half the moccasin’s thick body lay three feet away bobbing in the edge of the creek.
“That was a big-un,” Monfore heard a voice say.
The judge didn’t have to look up to know it was Pony Crowder.
The drooling cowboy squatted down next to his face and prodded him with a rifle barrel. “Now what do you think you’re doin’ out here all by your lonesome? That big ol’ booger woulda kilt you for sure if we hadn’t come along to rescue you.” Pony sucked spit in from his hanging lower lip. His gaze hardened and he stood, looking down. “You might as well get over the idea of tryin’ to escape, Your High and Mightiness.”
A brutal kick to his unprotected ribs drove the air from Monfore’s lungs. Pain washed over his side and cascaded down his leg as he writhed and coughed in the mud.
Crowder spit at his face. “Now we have to carry your damn carcass back up that hill. This time I aim for you to stay put. Comprende?”
The outlaw drew back his boot and planted it squarely in the side of Monfore’s face.
Brilliant colors exploded in the judge’s head. He cried out in spite of himself, and then found he could close his jaw. He heard Crowder grunt from the effort of his beating. The kicks fell on him like rain. After the first half dozen he was beyond feeling.
The judge felt certain he was a dead man. He couldn’t hold on much longer. The human body could only take so much. He drew his arms up around his head, tried to cover as best he could, and began to picture Mercy’s face, hear Victoria’s voice. He needed to say his good-byes.
Pony’s boot connected again, snapping Monfore’s head sideways with the well-placed kick.
Orange and purple lights flashed like fireworks behind his eyes, then slowly faded to black.
19
The Whippoorwill Saloon, a squatted pile of rotten lumber and rusty nails, was in a wide spot on the dusty wagon road toward Poolville. Chas Ferguson slouched at a rickety table looking at the dots of light where the sun came in through dozens of bullet holes and wide cracks in the wood.
It was early afternoon and the place was nearly deserted except for a couple of card games at the far end of the open room. A heavy pall of tobacco and lamp smoke curled in a thick layer below the ceiling rafters like a fog bank along a river bottom. The smell of spilled beer and stale coffee hung in another unseen layer closer to nose level.
Ferguson was mad enough to boil an egg in his fancy hat. His life had been fine before he met Frank Morgan. He’d been handy with a gun for as long as he could remember. There’d never been a single town where the sweet young ladies didn’t pull each others’ hair out to spend time with him. Before he had the misfortune to cross paths with the infamous Drifter, Ferguson had been brimming with confidence in his stellar abilities.
Then he had to run up against the damned gunfighter. Something about Morgan turned his guts into jelly. It was as if the man looked right through him, as if he saw every weakness, read his every thought. Worse than that, just talking to the renowned gunfighter made Ferguson want to turn on his heels and run. The thought of such a thing made him furious. He had never run from anything in his life, and he wasn’t about to start now.
He would have to face his fears sooner or later; he’d have to stand in the street with Frank Morgan and meet him head-on.
The dandy threw back a shot of whiskey, grimaced as the heat of it hit his belly, and refilled his glass. He’d need a few more drinks before the pain in his head would dull to a manageable level. He popped his neck from side to side.
He’d made this same decision a hundred times already. It was an easy thing to do when he was alone. Alone, he could lay his plans to step into a dusty street where he would face Frank Morgan and take his rightful place as the best gunman in the country. Alone, he could load his pistol, stand at twenty paces, and send six rounds through a hole the size of a silver dollar before most men could even get off three shots.
Then, he’d catch a glimpse of the cocksure Frank Morgan somewhere on the street—and all the bravado, all the sauce he’d built up in himself drained away. Then all he felt was a knot the size of his fist, low in his stomach as if he’d been gut-shot. During those times, he wasn’t certai
n if he’d be able to hit a plow horse in the ribs from five paces.
“Damn you to infernal Hell, Frank Morgan, you sorry sack of horse shit.” Ferguson saluted the air with his shot glass and killed another shot of whiskey. His voice had a catch in it and his eyes were glassy with tears of frustration. The men at the table closest to him looked up from their game and chuckled.
“Somethin’ on your mind?” Ferguson slammed the glass down hard on the table and glared, wiping his forearm across his eyes.
All four men turned quickly back to their cards, whispering and grunting among themselves.
Ferguson calmed down a notch and flicked his hand toward the girl standing next to the bartender. She rolled her eyes and swayed up from the bar to ease in his direction. He fumed inside at her attitude, as if it was a damned nuisance to serve him. She wasn’t much to look at herself with her heavy face paint and protruding squirrel teeth. It hadn’t been all that long ago that a girl like this would have counted herself lucky to wait on Chas Ferguson’s table.
“What can I do you for?” the girl said. She held back a few feet as if he had the pox.
Ferguson grunted and filled his shot glass again. He held up an empty beer mug. “I’m thirsty. I will require another beer to go along with my main course of this rotgut you folks call whiskey around here.”
When she reached for the glass, he let it fall, then grabbed her wrist and drew her to him. “Besides the beer, I’ll require a little of your company.”
The girl squirmed and tried to pull away. She didn’t cry out or panic. It was obvious she was used to a certain amount of man-handling, and it appeared she was more annoyed than frightened. If she’d at least feared him, that would have been something. Her attitude infuriated him. There had been a time when a focused look from Chas Ferguson could make a grown man go pale. Now he couldn’t even intimidate a filthy saloon girl with an ugly overbite.
“Turn a-loose of me, you imbecile.” She smacked him across the arm with her free fist. She had a way of clicking her prominent teeth when she talked that made it sound like she was spitting.
“Whatever you say.” He let go of her arm suddenly and she tumbled over backward. When she scrambled to her feet, he kicked her in the rump with the toe of his boot. She fell headlong to the filthy barroom floor. “But scurry that little tail of yours back with my beer.”
A stub of a man with hairy arms and broad shoulders pushed back his chair at the card game next to the far wall.
This was exactly what Ferguson had been hoping for.
“You got no call to treat the lady that way,” the burly man said. He wore no hat and his wispy black hair was combed straight back over a round head. Even from across the smoky room, Ferguson could see the man’s lips trembled as he spoke.
“Her?” Ferguson hooked his thumb toward the buck-toothed barmaid and sneered. “She ain’t no lady. I guess I’ll treat someone who’s rude to me any way I please. Not that it’s any of your business, Grandpa.”
“Betty happens to be a friend of mine, so that makes it my business.” The man wore a pistol, but Ferguson doubted he ever took it out of the holster.
The line of spare cartridges on his belt showed green corrosion where they met the leather loops. He was obviously a stalwart citizen ready to look out for the weaker types—like Betty, the squirrel-faced barmaid. Full of good heart and lofty intentions, but his equipment showed he was no gunfighter. Most every man in town wore a gun, but few were truly gunmen.
“You should sit your ass back down and forget about this,” Ferguson said. He knew as he spoke that there was no chance of that happening. No chance at all.
“I think you need to move on out, mister.”
Ferguson ignored him and pounded his hands on the table. “How about that beer, Betty? A man could die of thirst around these parts before he got a little service.”
“She ain’t bringin’ you no beer, so clear out.”
“You got a name?” Ferguson pushed back his chair and stood. He turned to face his challenger. The other men at the table scattered, leaving the husky man alone.
“What’s my name got to do with anything?”
Ferguson smiled and took a wider stance. “I got this little quirk where I like to know the name of a man who’s bracin’ me—before he makes me kill him.”
“Name’s Vince Lee.” The man worked hard to keep from stammering. “Now, look here. You just had a little too much to drink, young fella. Clear out and nobody has to get hurt.”
“Well, Vince. I don’t aim to leave. I’ve made my decision. Now I guess it’s up to you to make yours.”
“For hell’s sake,” Betty said, bringing out another beer. “Here. Now both you foolish boys sit back down and stop all this he-man stuff and nonsense. I ain’t hurt, Vince; nobody needs to get killed over me.”
Ferguson swatted the beer out of Betty’s hand when she got close enough. The barmaid recoiled and hurried out of the way. She was at least smart enough to see what was about to happen.
“Now, Vince. This is your show.” Ferguson stood relaxed. This was all going better than he had hoped. “Where do you want to take it from here?”
Betty’s would-be hero stood blinking. His round face twitched. There were too many folks watching who knew him for him to quit. Ferguson saw it coming. Vince Lee couldn’t back down—not now. He looked smart enough to know he couldn’t win. But he had to try.
Ferguson fired three times. Lee’s gun clattered to the floor amid a cloud of smoke and the roar of gunfire. The dandy’s first shot hit the other man in the head, above his right eye. The next two struck square in the chest. The last shots were just for show.
The dandy breathed in the smell of burning gunpowder and smiled. It felt good to be in control again.
* * *
Focused as he was on his therapeutic battle with poor Vince Lee, Ferguson failed to notice the burly sheriff stalking up behind him.
Whitehead had his pistol out, ready to shoot the rowdy upstart. Between the Crowder business and that meddling gunman Frank Morgan riding into town, he hardly had time to keep the peace. It was only by sheer happenstance that he had walked into the Whippoorwill Saloon looking for one of his deputies and seen the gunfight.
Vince Lee had been an outspoken adversary of the stockyard proposition, and people like that tended to make Whitehead’s job all that much harder. Lee had even talked about running against him in the fall elections. The sheriff wasn’t the least bit sorry to see him meet his maker, so he’d waited for Ferguson to get the job done.
Good riddance to a man like that.
Still, the sheriff couldn’t very well have a mad gunman on the rampage, running roughshod over Parker County, no matter how many favors the man unintentionally did for him.
Whitehead cocked his pistol and pointed it at the young gunman’s back, ready to shoot when he turned around.
“You’re next, Mr. High-and-Mighty Frank Morgan,” the dandy whispered, spitting into the spilled beer at his feet.
The sheriff froze, paused for a moment before quietly letting the hammer down on his pistol. He took a step closer and in one quick motion, brought the heavy barrel of the weapon down squarely on the back of the dandy’s curly blond head.
20
Ferguson moaned and touched the tender knot behind his right ear. It burned as if it was on fire and was swollen to the point that he wasn’t certain he’d be able to get his hat on over it. He was lying on his side with his legs drawn up to his belly. It was the only position where he didn’t feel like he was about to throw up.
It took a moment for his mind to clear, and a little longer to settle his churning stomach. A high-pitched, maniacal laugh bounced off the thick, timber wall and landed at his feet. For a moment he thought he might be in Hell. He blinked to clear his vision.
He sure felt like hell anyway.
The filthy ducking tick was matted and torn. When Ferguson swung his feet to the floor and sat up, he could see the grimy outline wher
e countless prisoners had rested their greasy bodies on the same mattress. The air inside was close and damp. It smelled of urine, sweat, and stale cigarettes.
“You’re in as much trouble as I am now, Mr. Fancy Pants.” A sallow-faced demon in a tan wool shirt and faded blue trousers clung to the riveted flat-iron bars in the cell next to him. He swung back and forth against the bars like a monkey Ferguson had once seen in a traveling circus.
The other prisoner cocked his head sideways, studying him, his big monkey eyes darting up and down the cell. “That man you killed, he had a lot of friends around these parts. Yessir, they gonna hang you for sure. I’m sorry for you, but I was beginnin’ to get lonely in here by myself.”
Ferguson looked around to try and get his bearings. “I’m in jail,” he whispered to himself.
“No shit,” the pale prisoner hanging on the bars cackled. He had big ears like a monkey too. “We’re both in jail till we hang.” He raised his voice as if he was talking to someone on the other side of the heavy oak door. “That is unless somebody would do their job and get me outta here like they’re gettin’ paid to do.”
The outer door swung open and a tall man with a thick charcoal mustache and dark, brooding eyes strode into the cell block. He leaned against the heavy timbers on the wall and crossed his arms below his silver star in front of a chest that looked just as thick as an East Texas pine.
He nodded toward the barred window high above them in the back of the cell. “That’s real good, Tom. Why don’t you go on and announce to everybody in the county that I’m on your old man’s payroll. I’ll be able to do you a hell of a lot good then. Why don’t you hoot out all the details of our arrangement; then the mob can come on in and lynch us both?”
Tom dropped from his perch on the bars and bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Sheriff.” He shuffled off to lie on his bunk and sulk facing the wall. Ferguson couldn’t be sure, but he thought the kid might actually be sucking his thumb.
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