The sheriff kept his position by the timbers, staring holes through Ferguson.
“You got something on your mind?” Ferguson said.
The sheriff nodded. “I’m Sheriff Whitehead. And you are?”
No harm in telling the man his name. “Chas Ferguson.”
“Like the rifle?”
Chas nodded. These Texans knew their firearms.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
Ferguson shook his head. The small movement sent a current of pain rushing behind his ear. “South Dakota.”
The sheriff smiled under his dark mustache. “Well, sir, Mr. Ferguson, you’re a long way from home. What brings you to our little Texas burg?” The smile still lingered, but the eyes went stone cold. “And I’m gonna warn you now to be completely truthful with me or this is the last conversation we’ll ever have.”
Considering the fact that the sheriff appeared to be on the payroll of another prisoner’s father, Ferguson could see no reason not to tell him the truth. He’d play it safe to be sure.
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?” Whitehead wasn’t about to let him off that easy.
“A no-account son-of-a-bitch gunfighter.”
“What is it you got against this gunfighter? He kill your kin or somethin’?”
Ferguson scoffed. He’d learned not to shake his head. “No. Nothing like that. I just can’t stand livin’ in the same world he does.” He’d never said it out loud before, but that’s what it boiled down to.
“Is he here in Parker County? This no-account gunfighter.”
“Sure is.”
“What’s his name?”
Might as well let the sheriff have it all. “Frank Morgan. Hope he’s not a friend of yours.”
“Not hardly,” Whitehead spit.
Tom rolled over in the other cell and faced them, still on his side. He whistled low, under his breath. “You bite ’em off big, that’s for shore, Mr. South Dakota Fancy Pants.”
Whitehead looked Ferguson up and down while he chewed on the end of his mustache. After a bit, he rubbed his chin and disappeared through the heavy oak door. Ferguson slumped on his filthy mattress until the sheriff came back in with a big ring of iron keys and unlocked the heavy cell door.
“Come with me,” the lawman said, turning his back.
In the front office, Whitehead motioned to a chair covered in a brown and white cowhide. He picked up a well-used coffeepot from the stove and held it up in front of him.
“Can I offer you a cup?”
Ferguson nodded. His head pounded worse now that he’d stood up, and he hoped the coffee might help.
“I’m at a disadvantage here. What do we do next?” He took the battered tin cup. It had a bit of dried egg on the rim, so he turned it around.
The sheriff sat at his cluttered desk and rested his feet up on an open drawer. “You said the magic words, son: Frank Morgan.”
Ferguson didn’t like where this was heading, but he had no choice but to listen. He sipped his coffee. It didn’t help his head, but it tasted good enough for jailhouse coffee.
“You see, Mr. Ferguson, I gotta be honest with you. This gunfighter of yours is Parker County’s own prodigal son. If I were to call him out, I’d make some people happy and others furious.” He leaned back and stared up at the ceiling, strumming his fingers on his chest. “I’m ashamed to admit it, but a sheriff is no more than a politician who totes a gun. I have to pay attention to my constituents or I’ll find myself out of a job—or worse.”
“I’m not sure what your politics have to do with me,” Ferguson said, even though he understood all too well.
“I’m just askin’ you to keep hoein’ the row you started. Finish what you came here for. That’s all.”
Ferguson studied his boots. “I see. And if I do your killing for you, I can be on my way?”
“It’s mighty direct.” The sheriff shrugged. “But I’d say you get the picture.”
“What about Mr. Lee’s friends? I understand he had a few who might not be so happy to have me walking around a free man.”
“I can’t help you there. But this is a civilized town for the most part. People are long on threats and short on action from what I’ve seen. I doubt anybody will throw you any trouble you can’t handle.”
“Can I take care of Morgan my way?”
“You’re thinking you want to face him in the street?” Whitehead raised an eyebrow. “From what I hear, he’s as fast as they come. Those are long odds—facing someone like Frank Morgan.”
“Eventually,” Ferguson mused into his cup. “I’m sure it will come to that. Who’s the toughest, meanest man around here?”
“You planning to sublet this job?”
“Maybe. I want to see Morgan shoot again one more time.” Ferguson wondered if his emotions showed in his eyes. He wasn’t ready to face Morgan yet. He needed more time to get his head straight. More time to focus. “It doesn’t matter to you who does it, as long as the job gets done. Right?”
“I reckon not.”
Ferguson got to his feet and handed the sheriff back the empty cup. “Could I get my gun back then?”
“Comin’ right up.” Whitehead let his feet fall to the floor and took a folded gun belt out of the drawer he’d been resting them on. “Here you go.” His voice became low and piercing. “But don’t forget who to use ’em on. You go and kill any more of Parker County’s good citizens and I won’t be able to help you.”
“Understood,” Ferguson said, strapping on the belt and reloading the pistol. “Now, you were about to tell me the name of the meanest hombre you got in this part of Texas.”
Whitehead leaned back in his chair. “Son, that would be me, and don’t you forget it. Next to me, well, I have a name or two for you to choose from.”
21
Victoria heard Tyler Beaumont’s quiet, breathy laugh coming through the front door of Bailey’s general store minutes after she’d arrived. She’d yet to begin her shopping, and gave her order slip to Mrs. Peck at the register. She hurried outside before Beaumont could ride away, trying to look like she wasn’t hurrying at all.
As it turned out, the handsome Texas Ranger was only just arriving. Frank Morgan rode beside him on a beautiful spotted horse. They were sharing some joke, and she felt out of place standing in front of the store clutching her handbag. Up on the raised walk she could look both men and their horses in the eyes.
Morgan noticed her first and cleared his throat, taking off his hat. Tyler did likewise. He brought his horse to a stop and swung a leg over his saddle to dismount with a flair.
It was the first time anyone had showed off for Vitoria in a long while. To her surprise, it felt extremely satisfying.
The Ranger flipped the reins of his horse around the hitch rail and hopped up on the boardwalk beside her. The big rowels on his spurs jingled in time to his footfalls against the wood. “Would you care for an escort somewhere, ma’am?” He bowed.
“No, thank you. My mother’s not feeling well so I was just picking up a few things at the store here.”
Morgan smiled at both of them, then glanced up the street behind him. His smile faded.
Victoria couldn’t help but notice the sudden look of pure exhaustion that crossed his already tired face.
Beaumont followed Morgan’s gaze up the street and shook his head slowly. His broad shoulders slumped as if his plans had been dashed.
“What do you want to do, Frank?”
Morgan took a deep breath and crossed his arms over his saddle horn, slouching forward. “Not much I can do, but wait.”
Victoria looked back and forth at the two men. “What’s happening?” She could see a man on horseback ambling slowly down the street toward them. He wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary. “Who is that back there?”
“A very angry man,” Beaumont said under his breath. “He’s decided to take out some of his hate for the world on Frank. Miss Monfore, there’
s fixin’ to be some blood shed. I think it’s best you went on back inside the store.”
“How can you be sure there’ll be a fight?”
“This bandit’s been planning a little run-in with Frank since we were in Amarillo. Name’s Lefty Cummins—he’s got a bad right hand.”
“If he didn’t do anything to cause a fight then, what makes you so sure he’ll do anything now, here in Weatherford?”
“I just know,” Frank said. “It’s a feeling mostly. You get so you can recognize it over the years. He’ll make his play in the next few minutes. His eyes are locked on me and he’s sitting his horse like his mind’s made up.”
This was all foolish man talk, full of bravado and the sheer stubbornness that made men the sort of querulous creatures that they were. “What if he’s just made up his mind about what he plans to have for lunch?”
Morgan chuckled and sat up in the saddle, arching his back to stretch. “I wish you were right about that, Miss. Monfore—but unfortunately you are not.” He reached in his pocket and took out a gold piece. “Fortunately, it is lunchtime. Tyler, I’m willin’ to spring for a phosphate if you’d be so kind as to accompany the young lady off the street to safety.” He leaned forward and handed the money to Beaumont.
The Ranger bit his lip and cocked his head slightly, looking back up the street. “I don’t like to leave you now, Frank,” Beaumont said through clenched teeth. “Feels wrong.”
“Go on with the pretty young lady. I’ll be fine.”
“You got to play this close, you know.” Beaumont stepped back beside Victoria. “Whitehead is just lookin’ for a reason to arrest you. A gunfight is as good a reason as any to throw you in jail and take time to sort things out—or worse.”
Morgan climbed down and tied Stormy beside the Ranger’s little bay. He’d stopped paying attention to anyone but the man approaching on the street. “I’ll be fine. Order me a phosphate too; I’ll be there to join you in a bit.”
Beaumont slumped, looked at Victoria, and held out his arm. “Morgan the immovable has spoken. I guess we should get on down to the drugstore and order his phosphate.”
She took the offered arm. “Doesn’t anyone care what I think? I might not even like phosphates for all you tough-talking men know.”
The Ranger stopped in his tracks. “We can go somewhere else.”
“This is so exasperating. Phosphates are fine. That’s not what I meant. I’m just not accustomed to being ordered around like this. Who does Frank Morgan think he is anyway?”
Beaumont held back a laugh. “Darlin’, if you only knew the half of it.” He glanced back up the street, then shooed her quickly to the drugstore three buildings down the street.
* * *
The door to Stidom’s Drugstore was propped open to catch some of the cool noon breeze. Mrs. Stidom had quite the green thumb and a row of whiskey kegs lined the walk in front of the shop. Bluebonnets, sweet peas, paintbrushes, and Indian blankets filled each half barrel. Some type of vine Victoria couldn’t identify overflowed the sides. The smell of all the flowers drifted through the door with the breeze, and helped cover the smell of camphor and other salts inside the apothecary.
Beaumont stood, his hat tilted back, and studied the slate board behind the counter. “Looks like they got strawberry and chocolate. Seein’ as how no one’s been asking your opinion in the last few minutes, I’ll let you order for the both of us. I should warn you, though, Frank is partial to strawberry.”
Victoria stood, glued to the large picture window at the front of the store, staring down the street at Morgan.
“I don’t particularly care what kind of . . .” She stopped and softened her words. She didn’t want to start a fight with Beaumont. “I’m not fussy about the flavor. I’ll just have what you do.”
It was impossible for her to think about what kind of phosphate to order when someone was about to die in the street. Weatherford was a quiet little town, full of respectable, churchgoing folks. This kind of thing just didn’t happen here every day.
Through the window, she watched Morgan bend down and begin to pick up each of his big Appaloosa’s feet in turn. He used a hoof pick he got from a little pouch on his saddle to clean them. He had hung his hat on the saddle horn while he worked, and his dark hair shone brilliantly in the harsh noon sunlight. Victoria couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like he’d put on a little weight in the short time he’d been in town. In any case, he seemed to swell into a force of nature as the other gunman approached and tied his own horse to a hitch rail across the street.
Victoria used the flat of her hand to shield her eyes from the glare, and tried to make out the man across the street. His right hand was drawn up in a pitiful claw and he carried it high and close to his chest, like a bird with an injured wing. He was close enough now that she could hear him through the open door.
“Morgan, it’s time for you and me to have a little talk,” Cummins yelled from beside his horse.
Frank kept on with his hoof business, apparently ignoring his challenger.
“You hear me, Drifter?”
“I hear you,” Frank said, grunting a little under the strain of being bent over. “My horse picked up a stone a little ways back. It’s wedged down deep by the frog here and I’m tryin’ to dig it out before he goes lame on me.” He waved the hoof pick in the air. “Hold on and I’ll be with you in just a minute.”
Cummins stopped in his tracks and scoffed, throwing his head like a horse fighting the bits. “I said I need to have a word with you. I don’t give a damn about that spotted bag of bones you call a horse.”
The man was yelling now, and a small crowd of passersby began to line the boards waiting to see what was about to happen.
“Cummins has made his play, hasn’t he?” Victoria heard Beaumont’s husky voice in her ear.
She nodded, realizing her jaw was clenched. She was gritting her teeth the same way she had when the men had broken into her house and taken her father. “Mr. Morgan is stooped over there by his horse. He hasn’t looked my way as of yet.” She could just make out her reflection and that of the Ranger beside her in the window glass. She liked what she saw.
“I wonder what Frank’s up to,” Beaumont mused, rubbing his chin. “He’s sly as a fox and twice as quick.”
She pulled her eyes away from the scene on the street to look over at him. He was empty-handed. “You decided against the phosphates?”
He shrugged. “Knew you wouldn’t drink it till after this is over. Truth is, I couldn’t either. I didn’t want them to go flat on us. Besides, Frank told me to look after you.”
“I didn’t hear him say that.” Victoria peered at him through narrow eyes.
Beaumont gave a sheepish grin. “Okay, I told myself to look after you—but I know Frank would have wanted me to.” His eyes danced when he looked at her.
Out on the street, Cummins was boiling over. “Morgan, you stand up and face me, you spineless bastard. I seen the way you looked at my bad hand back in Amarillo. You and that little Ranger friend of yours was laughin’ at me all the way out of town. I’m thinkin’ you owe me an apology.”
“I’m sorry then,” Morgan said, still working at Stormy’s hoof with the pick. “I don’t remember doing anything unneighborly to you, but if I did, I do apologize for it, you can count on that.”
“You gonna stoop there and show me your ass and call that a proper apology? Mister, I’m gonna shoot you where you stand and take my apology out of your hide if you don’t stand up and face me.”
Just then, Anthony Pierce, one of Sheriff Whitehead’s rawboned deputies, came out of the barbershop into the middle of the commotion. There were enough citizens along the street watching that he couldn’t very well walk away.
“What’s going on here?” the deputy shouted, his hand clutching the handle of his side arm.
Frank acted as if the lawman was interested in his horse. “My fool horse stepped on a little stone up the trail a ways and it’s wedg
ed in between the sole and the frog.” He grunted at the effort of stooping to work on the hoof.
Beaumont chuckled and gave Victoria a wry wink. “I see what he’s up to. That fool deputy is in a pickle now, sure enough. I’m pretty certain Whitehead’s given him strict orders to arrest Frank for any misdemeanor. Now he’s forced to arrest the other fellow ’cause Frank ain’t doin’ a damn thing.” He glanced over at Victoria. “Sorry about the cussin’.”
She waved him off with a smile.
“This is none of your affair, lawdog.” Cummins’s chin quivered in anger. His eyes glowed yellow like a cornered animal. He wasn’t about to give up and everyone on the street knew it, including the deputy. “My beef is with Morgan. He owes me a word to my face.”
“Mr. Morgan is only trying to do little doctoring on his horse’s foot and this yahoo comes and starts in callin’ him out,” Harry Roberts piped up from in front of the tobacco shop beside his butterball of a wife. “I thought Morgan woulda blasted him by now, but he hasn’t. What are you gonna do, Pierce? Handle this yourself or go and get the sheriff?” Roberts was a county commissioner who didn’t care much for the present sheriff. There was a snide air of accusation on his voice.
“Shut up, Harry,” Deputy Pierce muttered. “Of course I’m gonna handle it myself. That’s what you pay me for, ain’t it?”
Beaumont giggled. “Yes, ma’am, he’s got his self in a sure enough pickle all right,” he said under his breath.
“Mister,” Pierce said to Cummins. “You keep your hand away from that pistol and come with me. We’ll get this all sorted out and you can be movin’ on out of this county.”
Finally, Frank stood up. He dusted off the front of his britches before turning around. Victoria saw him throw a glance up the street at her and Beaumont. He wore a sly, cat-that-ate-the-canary grin.
Cummins let out a deep breath and played his eyes back and forth from Morgan to the deputy. He swallowed hard and let his good hand swing away from his gun before raising it above his head.
“This ain’t over, Morgan,” he spat as Deputy Pierce walked toward him.
“I know,” Morgan sighed. “It never will be.”
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