Manhunt

by William W. Johnstone

  “If I’m dead, she’s dead. You got that?”

  Morgan kept his Peacemaker pointed at the edge of Pony’s face. He could have easily shot the boy’s ear off, even put a bullet in the side of his cheek. But he’d seen too many bandits put up a hellacious fight after they’d been shot in what should have been a lethal spot. Morgan knew he couldn’t afford to just wound with the knife so close to Mercy’s throat. He had to do the trick in one shot, an instant kill, no mistakes. Morgan needed a better target. He had to draw Pony out.

  “Your move,” the outlaw said.

  The razor-sharp blade bit into the tender flesh at Mercy’s throat and a thin trickle of blood ran down her neck, pooling at the collar of her soiled white blouse. The sight of it pressed like a fist at Morgan’s gut.

  His voice grew quiet and cold.

  “I want you to listen to me, you ignorant son of a bitch. You got five seconds to drop that knife or I’ll start carving off little pieces of you until I get to something that does the trick.”

  Mercy clenched her eyes shut, pressing tears through the lashes.

  “I’ll kill her.” Pony’s voice rose half an octave in pitch. “I got nothin’ to lose here. Comprende?”

  “One . . .”

  “Morgan, listen to me.” The voice was brittle now, as if it would shatter at every word.

  “Two . . .”

  “I’ll do it. I’m dead serious.”

  “Three,” Morgan said. His voice was calm-smooth, his eyes hard enough to pierce steel. He shook his head slowly in disgust. “You idiot bastard, you’re dead and don’t even know it.”

  “No one calls me an idiot,” Pony railed, and leaned just a little too far to the left.

  Morgan’s shot took the outlaw in the eye and sprayed the room behind him with blood and gore.

  Pony listed sideways. His remaining eye stared in disbelief. The knife slid out of his hand, hit Mercy’s lap, and clattered harmlessly to the floor only a second before Pony’s lifeless body joined it.

  Mercy’s body pitched forward against her bonds and her chin lolled on her chest. Blood covered the front of her blouse, and for a moment Frank worried Pony had been able to make good on his promise. The soft rise and fall of her shoulders told him she’d merely fainted.

  Morgan took a step back so he stood shoulder to shoulder with Beaumont, and trained his pistol toward the boulder-sized giant behind Judge Monfore.

  “What now?” the hulking outlaw asked.

  “Get to your feet,” Morgan hissed.

  The big man kept his hands high. He stood taking a step away from the judge.

  “You the one they call R.D.?”

  He nodded, a little too defiantly for Frank’s taste. This one didn’t look like he’d truly given up.

  “That’s right. R.D. Horne. I work for Old Man Crowder. He sent me along to look after his boy.”

  Morgan motioned the outlaw away from the judge with the barrel of his pistol. “Well, I’d say you did a hell of a job of it. I’ll tell you what, Horne, you any good with that pistol?”

  “Good enough, I reckon.” R.D. sneered and let his hands lower a few inches.

  “Uh-uh, you try to touch the rafters or I’ll plant you here and now.”

  Horne lifted his hands higher, but not as high as they had been. “The great Frank Morgan, huh? I expected more from the stories I heard. They say you’re pretty damned hot with that Colt.” He eyed the gun in Frank’s steady hand.

  “Hot enough, I reckon,” Morgan mimicked.

  Horne’s eyes played around the room and landed back on Frank. “If I go back with you, they’re sure to hang me.”

  Morgan shrugged. “That’s up for a jury to decide.” He saw what was coming.

  “I don’t think I could bear the thought of hangin’. As big as I am, the drop would likely rip my head plumb off.” Horne was quiet, but matter-of-fact, as if he’d thought this through a few times before.

  “You are a heavy man,” Morgan agreed. “It might at that.”

  “How about we settle this between you and me right here?” Horne’s hand dropped to the gun at his hip. He hadn’t even touched it before Morgan and Beaumont each sent a volley of bullets crashing into the outlaw’s chest.

  A big man can soak up a lot of lead, and R.D. Horne was about as big as they come. It took five rounds between them to finally put him down. He teetered where he stood and blinked, wide-eyed, at Morgan and the Ranger.

  “It’s better this way,” he moaned as he dropped to his knees. “I really didn’t fancy my head bein’ torn off.” He pitched headlong onto the dirt floor with a giant whoosh of wind that flickered the lantern flames.

  Morgan kicked at the body before holstering his pistol. “It is better this way. He saved us some time and the county about twenty feet of good hemp rope.”

  “One of ’em slipped out the front door while we were takin’ care of the Mexicans.” Beaumont reloaded as he spoke.

  “That would be Ronald Purnell,” Mercy said. She was awake now and shivering like she’d just been dunked in a freezing lake. “He’s a local lawyer, but he’s in the middle of all this.” Her teeth chattered as she spoke.

  Morgan knelt beside her and used Pony’s knife to cut her hands and feet free.

  “You’re in a bad way. We need to get you to a doctor.” He took out his bandanna and touched it to her neck, dabbing at the blood.

  She brushed his hand away, holding it for just a moment. “I’m fine. Isaiah’s the one who’s hurt. They beat him something awful and made me watch.” A sob caught in her throat and she stared down at the fallen R.D. Horne. “He was about to . . .” She choked back the tears so she could speak. Morgan let her talk it out. It was better than bottling it all up inside.

  “They were . . . touching me before you came in.” Her eyes blazed with a fury only a woman could possess. “They touched me in front of my own husband—made him sit there and watch it—then got mad and beat him when he called them cowards.”

  She suddenly turned, her eyes glowing in terror. “The sheriff was here a little while ago. He’s a part of all this as well. Victoria went for a ride with his son tonight!”

  Morgan touched her shoulder in spite of himself. He never could bear to see her in pain. That’s why he’d never been able to say good-bye. “She’s fine, Mercy. Ranger Beaumont here rescued her and made a corned-beef hash out of the sheriff’s boy.”

  She turned her gaze to Beaumont. “Did they . . . ? I mean to say, is she all right?”

  The Ranger nodded. “They hurt her, but that’s all. I got there before anything else could happen.”

  Mercy buried her face in both hands and sobbed, this time with relief. “Thank you. Thank you both.”

  The judge stirred, lifting up his head. He slowly tried to look around. He moved his jaw from side to side, touched it, and realized his hands were free. He tried to rise, but Beaumont stopped him.

  “Cowards, the whole lot of you,” he railed, coughing up blood as he spoke.

  Mercy immediately forgot her own wounds and knelt beside her husband, stroking his cheek in an effort to calm him. It was such a tender, private moment, Frank felt uncomfortable and looked away.

  “It’s all right now, Isaiah,” he heard Mercy say. “These men are here to help us. Texas Rangers.”

  Frank noticed she didn’t mention his name. He wondered how much the judge knew about their past—about him.

  His wife’s gentle touch made the judge more lucid by the moment. Mercy used Frank’s bandanna and a bowl of fresh creek water to clean his wounds. The beating had rendered him unable to walk, but after a few moments he began barking orders, and it was obvious there was nothing wrong with his mind.

  “What day is it?” Monfore opened and shut his eyes trying to focus in the dim light of the cabin.

  “It’s Tuesday night, sir, about midnight,” Beaumont answered.

  “Tuesday, well, that’s good then,” the judge said. He winced as Mercy touched a particularly tend
er spot on his high forehead. “The stockyard vote is Thursday. I was afraid those scoundrels had caused me to miss it.” He looked up at Morgan through swollen eyes. “You there, what’s your name?”

  “Frank Morgan.”

  The judge nodded and took a deep breath. “I thought as much. You fit the description I had in my head—a bit thinner than I’d envisioned you, but you definitely fit the description.” He opened his mouth as if to say something else, then thought better of it and patted the back of Mercy’s hand. “Is Whitehead among these bodies?”

  “I’m afraid he left before we came in,” Morgan said. “Him and Purnell both. Three of the Crowder brothers are dead, as well as a good many of their hired gunmen. Whitehead’s boy is in bad shape, but he’ll likely live to see prison or a rope.”

  “Your Honor, I’m assuming you’ll issue a bench warrant for us to bring them in,” Beaumont said as he handed Mercy a clean bowl of water.

  The judge rubbed a bruised hand across his jowly face and nodded. “Yes, yes of course. Consider warrants outstanding for anyone involved in this treachery.” He looked at his wife. “Is Victoria safe?”

  She filled him in on Beaumont’s rescue.

  “That’s a blessing in any case. Purnell is weak—not much of a threat by himself,” Monfore mused. “He’s like a common garden slug. The biggest danger is that you might get some of his slime on you. There’ll be hell to pay with Silas Crowder over his sons, but he’s nothing more than a sad old man when you cut to the core of things.” The judge sat up straighter and looked Morgan in the eye. “But Rance Whitehead, he’s a different story altogether. I’ve never seen a man so fast and deadly accurate with a gun. It’s not just his accuracy that makes him dangerous. I believe he enjoys the killing—swaggers around with his chest puffed up for days after he shoots someone. He fairly revels in it. The man is as mean as a cottonmouth and every bit as quick. Facing him won’t be any picnic.”

  Morgan looked at Mercy and the angry gash along her fragile neck. He smiled at the judge. “Maybe so, sir, but it’s something I’m looking forward to just the same.”

  36

  Rance Whitehead heard gunfire as soon as he cleared the trees across Cottonwood Creek. Fearing a company of Texas Rangers, he kept to the shadows and watched. He watched Purnell slip out the front and dash to his horse with his tail between his legs. More shots came from inside the cabin.

  Whitehead’s horse, a tall gruella with a lot of white in his eye, pranced in place, tugging against the bits. He listened intently, straining against the darkness for any sign of a voice or clue as to what was happening across the creek.

  For a time it was quiet, and he knew another man had died. Deep in his gut, Whitehead knew Frank Morgan was behind all this. He clenched his teeth and wheeled the big gruella horse. Without knowing how many men Morgan had with him, it would be foolish to face him tonight. But his day would come, Whitehead promised himself that. With the judge alive, there was no longer any reason to pretend. No fancy writ or paper was going to save Frank Morgan now.

  * * *

  It was nearly two by the time Whitehead made it back into Weatherford. The streets were completely deserted. A few boisterous voices carried out the swinging doors of the Peachtree Saloon on the still night air, but no one ventured outside.

  On the ride home, Whitehead had taken some time to reflect on his situation. He knew now he needed to get out of town for a little while. He’d socked away a sizable amount of money over the years, and kept it hidden away in his safe over at the jail. Even his wife didn’t know about that.

  Gretchen was a steady enough woman, but he couldn’t trust her with anything involving his business ventures. She was too much of a churchgoer for that. Oh, she was more than happy to spend his money—much more money than he could have possibly ever made as a lowly county sheriff. She never thought to ask where he got it, and he never thought to tell her. Up until that damned Frank Morgan showed up, it had been a pretty good arrangement.

  There was a light on in the jail window. Whitehead looked over his shoulder and shivered in spite of himself. Morgan and the others were a good hour behind him. He felt sure of that, but there was no time to lose.

  He couldn’t remember who was working Tuesday nights, but hoped it was that fool Grant. Whitehead felt the desperate need to shoot someone, and it might as well be the idiot who’d let Morgan live the moment he came into town. He’d just flipped the horse’s reins around the hitch rail when he caught a flicker of movement to his right. He froze.

  “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” A coarse whisper pierced the night and sent a shiver up the sheriff’s spine.

  “Who’s there?” The night was too still to speak in anything but a whisper.

  Slowly, like a ghostly apparition with a gun in his hand, Chas Ferguson stepped out of the shadows. “It’s me, come to save your life.”

  “Why the pistol then?” Whitehead stood completely still behind his horse.

  Ferguson holstered the weapon. “I didn’t know what you’d do when I came up on you like this. You got a reputation for sorting things out after the smoke clears.” The dandy shot a worried look over his shoulder at the door to the jail. “We need to vamanos. It’s not safe here—for either of us.”

  Whitehead shrugged him off and started for the jail. He had to get his money.

  “There’s three armed Texas Rangers forted up just behind that door. The doctor’s in there with ’em,” Ferguson hissed. “I’m sure they’d love it if you just waltzed in there to them. Keep them from havin’ to hunt you down, that’s for sure.”

  Whitehead stopped in his tracks. “What’s the doctor got to do with anything?”

  The dandy’s face fell. “You best come with me before someone hears us or you decide to do something foolish. We both need to make tracks while we still can. I got a room at a widow woman’s house north of town. We should be safe there for a few hours.”

  Ferguson disappeared again into the shadows. Whitehead could hear leather creak as the dandy mounted his horse in the nearby alley that ran alongside the jail. He looked again at the lighted window and thought of all the money he had in the safe. With three armed Rangers inside, it would have to wait. He had no choice but to follow.

  * * *

  The sheriff caught up with Ferguson at the north edge of town before they cut west on the Poolville road. He reined up his tired gelding and fell in next to the young gunman’s sorrel.

  “Now, tell me what business the doctor had doin’ inside my jail. Did they hurt the Crowder boy?” Whitehead kept to Ferguson’s left so he would have a straight shot, but the dandy would have to shoot across himself, if they got in a scrape with each other. He was still a long way from trusting the pompous kid.

  Ferguson stared straight ahead into the moonlight night. “I’ll tell you, but you won’t like it.”

  Whitehead fumed. “Listen, if you know what’s . . .”

  “It’s your boy.” Ferguson stopped his horse and turned so he was facing the sheriff on the road. “That sawed-off little Ranger beat him pretty good. I doubt you’d even recognize him.”

  “Did he kill the Monfore girl?”

  Ferguson shook his head. “He likely would have from what I hear. Didn’t have much of a chance, though. Seems the daring Ranger Beaumont swept in and shot Pete Crowder right between his peepers. Killed every mother’s son there except for your son. Thrashed him to within an inch of his life.”

  Angry bile welled up in the back of Whitehead’s throat, and he had to choke it back down to keep from vomiting. “Will he live?”

  Ferguson urged his sorrel forward again with a cluck of his tongue. “Everyone at the saloon is sayin’ he’ll live long enough to hang.” He looked across at Whitehead. “Sorry to be the one to have to break all this to you, Sheriff.”

  Night birds called in the distance. Dark shadows of oak and cedar lined the edges of the glowing ribbon of road in front of them.

  “I’m not the runnin�
� type,” Whitehead said as they rode along in the blue-shadowed moonlight. He suddenly felt trapped and he didn’t like the feeling. He couldn’t trust anyone, least of all this dandy puke who was riding next to him. He’d watched the man’s total disregard for life. For all Whitehead knew, the cocky bastard was leading him into an ambush right then and there. He pulled his horse to a stop.

  Ferguson stopped a few feet ahead and turned around. “What is it?” he asked.

  The sheriff shook his head. “Oh, nothing really. I’m just a man who likes to weigh all my options. I don’t see you in any of ’em. This is as far as I go with you.”

  The dandy took off his hat and ran a hand through his blonde curls. “Fine by me. I was just thinking you and me could go after Morgan—tend to a little unfinished business, so to speak.”

  “The only reason it’s unfinished is because you didn’t finish it,” Whitehead spit, poking his finger at the cocksure upstart.

  “That’s all the thanks I get for savin’ you from those Rangers back there?”

  “Yeah, well, thanks for nothin’. I ought to blow you off that bag of bones for all the good you ever did me.”

  A serene smile fell across the young gunman’s face. He returned the fancy hat to his head and drew a deep breath. “That wouldn’t do either of us any good at all.” His eyes narrowed. Saddle leather creaked as he leaned forward in the stirrups. “You can draw on me if you feel like you have to, but the best thing you can hope for is that we shoot each other.”

  Whitehead could see the dandy was right. There wasn’t any money in a fight right now. He needed to save himself for Morgan. His head spun. He needed time to get his mind together. He wondered if his wife, Gretchen, knew about their son, knew about him and what he’d been up to with Old Man Crowder. When she found out, it wouldn’t matter how much of a churchgoer she was. She would never forgive him.

  Ferguson sat steady as a rock in the saddle, staring at him in the moonlight. “What’s it gonna be, Sheriff? I won’t be an easy man to kill.”