Manhunt Read online

  “I’m buyin’ him one more of whatever he’s havin’.” Morgan moved slowly toward the door, listening and waiting for the kid’s next move.

  Cummins turned and stared over his shoulder, but kept his gun hand wrapped around his glass, both elbows on the bar. He said nothing. This one still had a while to go yet before he was ripe enough to fall off the tree and get his self stomped.

  * * *

  “I wish I never would have shown you that damned handbill,” Beaumont said an hour later, pulling his jacket up around his neck against a biting north wind.

  Morgan gave him a taciturn smile. “That’s just the old nerves talking, son. I think you’re going to enjoy this.”

  “I’m not worried about the competition. That’s gonna be fine. It’s all the folks flittin’ around there so well heeled that’s got me thinkin’.” Beaumont eyed two skinny boys in their early teens as they rushed past in the gangly-knees-and-elbows way boys that age were prone to move. One carried a forked peashooter with India rubber flippers. The other had a rusty Colt Dragoon as long as his thigh bone strapped to his side in an old Confederate holster with the flap cut off.

  “Hell, Frank, even the kiddies are running around with horse pistols. Everybody and his brother wants to prove himself against Frank Morgan, and here we are aimin’ to saunter in amongst ’em while they’re hopped up on Prickly Ash Bitters and gunpowder fumes. I just now have you convinced to try and live. This may not have been the smartest notion that ever hit me in the head.”

  Morgan drew in a lungful of the sharp air and changed the subject. “Look how well these streets are laid out. Straight as a damned Comanche arrow.”

  “Yeah,” Beaumont grumbled, still chewing on his problem at hand. He turned up his nose as though he’d smelled a skunk. “The country’s so flat there was nothin’ to get in the way while they were building the place—except maybe a longhorn cow.”

  It was impossible to escape the salt-sour smell of cattle on the wind. The rangy beasts were everywhere mooing and crowding and standing on mountains of their own crap. Frank had heard someone observe that the population of Amarillo was somewhere around five hundred human souls, half that many dogs, and fifteen thousand head of cattle.

  The Potter County Spring Fair and Shooting Exposition was set up at the local grounds at the far edge of town adjacent to one of the many feedlots and holding pens.

  It reminded Morgan of a Wild West show he’d seen once in Missouri, complete with sad-faced Apache Indians wearing Cheyenne war bonnets and nimble young women doing cartwheels on horseback wearing puffy-legged bloomers.

  Cigar and gun smoke mixed with the odor of burnt sugar, cooking meat, and the nearby feedlots. Some of the older folks wore buckskins and other costumes from their past, dressing as they had when they were young and trying to remind themselves that although Amarillo was relatively tame, the wild and woolly West was still only a few steps away.

  * * *

  White canvas tents billowed and popped against the wind while people hawked barbeque, sweet cakes, and liquor. A somber-looking woman in a green Mexican peasant dress told fortunes for two bits a pop by looking at her patrons’ teeth.

  Beaumont was right; everyone there was packing iron, and a good many of them threw Frank a challenging eye as he brushed by them in the crowd.

  “I haven’t seen this many folks in one place since the last hanging I happened onto in New Mexico,” Frank said, tipping his hat to two passing girls about Beaumont’s age. “Nasty old bandit drew a hell of a crowd. Everyone for miles came to see him dance at the gallows.”

  Beaumont had stopped listening and stood with a small group of men in front of a flapping canvas windbreak. His eyes locked fast on something out of Morgan’s view, and his mouth hung open wide enough to show his back teeth.

  Morgan drew up next to him to find out what had captured the young Ranger’s attention so.

  “That just might be the most handsome pistol I’ve ever set my eyes on.” Beaumont snapped out of his stupor and nodded toward a nickel-plated Colt Bisley with black buffalo-horn grips and feathered engraving along the barrel and side plates.

  “You like it, Ranger?” The jowly man behind the display table hooked a thumb behind the strap of his overalls and gave a condescending nod toward the handgun. “Go ahead and try it on for size.”

  Beaumont picked up the Colt and measured its heft and balance. He cocked it, sighted down the barrel, and let the hammer down with a slow, almost reverent click.

  “What to you think, Frank? It would take me two months on Ranger pay just to afford the grips.”

  “It is a fine-looking piece, that’s for certain. Have to wonder how it shoots, though. I seem to remember the Good Book talkin’ about painted and prettied-up graves still having dead men’s bones inside ’em.”

  The man in the overalls snorted. “Shoots like a dream, if the man behind it has the grit and know-how to use it.”

  “How many chests of gold doubloons would a gun like this here cost?” Beaumont looked starry-eyed and love-struck as he gazed into the bright finish on the revolver.

  “Don’t cost a penny on account of it ain’t for sale,” the man said, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the poster behind him. “You gotta win it. It’s the grand prize in the pistol match this afternoon.”

  * * *

  “I’m a pretty fair marksman,” Beaumont said later as they watched a rifle competition where the contestants took turns shooting at playing cards at a hundred paces. The object of the game was to have the best poker hand after five shots.

  The Ranger fidgeted and danced like he had a rock in his boot. The thought of the new pistol had obviously been eating a hole in his head. “Maybe I ought to throw my name in and have a go at it. The two-dollar entry fee would be money well spent if I happened to win.”

  “What kind of contest is this supposed to be?” Frank asked. Though he appreciated a fine firearm, it took a little more than a shiny finish and fancy grips to pique Morgan’s interest. It would be a hard thing indeed to beat his trusty Peacemaker when it came to function. To date, no one had.

  “I’m not certain.” Beaumont shrugged. “That surly old cob was awful tight-lipped about the whole thing—just said it would be a ‘true test of your shootin’ proficiency.’ I reckon we’ll know soon enough. It starts in about an hour, right after this long-gun stuff.”

  Morgan looked up and down the crowded rows of vendors and sniffed the air. “I say let’s get a cup of coffee then, before the real shootin’ starts. I’d like to find me a chair and rest my bones for a minute or two before I watch you win yourself a fancy new pistol.”

  Twenty minutes and two cups of coffee later, Morgan felt invigorated and rested. He leaned back in the little folding wooden chair, felt the sun against his face, and pulled the makings for a cigarette out of his vest pocket.

  He’d about got the tobacco poured when a hefty boy who looked like a dipper gourd with freckles came running up with a tan envelope wadded in his dimpled fist. Morgan drew the cigarette paper close to him to keep from spilling everything, pulled the pouch shut with his teeth, and slipped it back into his pocket.

  “Mr. Morgan,” the boy said, inflating his round cheeks as if he might explode if he didn’t deliver his message soon. His neck looked too long and skinny to connect such a round head to a round body.

  “Tommy Paris,” Beaumont said. “How are things down at the telegraph office?” The boy was all of ten years old.

  “Busy,” Tommy said, blowing out excess air so it fluttered the curly bangs on his forehead. He wore no hat. Frank supposed that he would have a hard time keeping one on the way he bounced around. It was a wonder he was so chubby considering the nervous energy that sizzled in the air around him.

  Morgan lit his cigarette and took a look at the jittery boy. “What can we do for you, Tommy? Ranger Beaumont here says everyone in these parts wants to challenge me to a gunfight.” He winked. “You haven’t come to call me out now, hav
e you?”

  “Oh, no, sir, I . . . well, no, I never . . .” the boy stammered.

  “I’m joshing with you, Tommy.” Frank motioned at the empty chair beside him. “Have a seat and I’ll buy you a sweet cake.”

  Tommy gave an audible sigh of relief and shook his head. “No, thank you, Mr. Morgan. I gotta be getting on back.” He stood transfixed, staring at the famous gunfighter.

  “Well, suit yourself then,” Morgan said. “I can see you’re a busy man.”

  Tommy grinned and turned to go until Beaumont touched him on the arm. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  The boy looked at him blank-faced for a moment, then chuckled, holding out the envelope. “I’m awful sorry. My ma says I’m a knot-head most of the time, and I reckon she’s right on that account.”

  “You’re no knot-head, son,” Frank said fishing two bits out of his pocket and handing it over to the boy. “Now you go on and buy yourself a piece of sweet cake or some other such candy treat and enjoy it out of the sight of us needlin’ adults.”

  “You got yourself a missive,” Beaumont said as Morgan thumbed open the envelope and pulled out the telegraph flimsy.

  “That I do,” Morgan said under his breath as he read. He read it over again, then closed his eyes and sighed. “That I do.” He folded the telegram and stuffed it in his vest pocket. He felt a knot low in his gut as the true meaning of the words sank in.

  Beaumont caught his sudden change in mood and cocked back his hat. “Are you going to tell me who it’s from?”

  Frank shrugged. “You wouldn’t know ’em.” He threw what was left of his cigarette in the dirt and stood, suddenly desperate for more air.

  3

  Mercy Monfore tied her buggy to the iron ring on one of the upright wooden posts in front of Witherspoon’s Hardware and Mercantile. She was a creature of habit and Tuesday had been laundry day for as long as she could remember. She had a strong notion that her mother, and likely her grandmother before her, had done laundry on Tuesday mornings as well.

  The judge was particular about his shirts and insisted that they be sparkling white. When Mercy found she was out of Mrs. Stewart’s Bluing, she decided to put off the chore until later that afternoon. Farnsworth’s Notion Store was only four blocks from her home, but they didn’t carry Mrs. Stewart’s and the judge would surely notice if she used an imitation brand. He was funny that way.

  Her plan was to pick up the bluing before meeting her husband for lunch. Witherspoon’s store was situated on the wide town square directly across from Parker County’s beautiful limestone courthouse. She would be able to run her quick errand, and then leave her buggy parked where it was while she took the covered basket of fried chicken and biscuits across to her husband’s chambers.

  Isaiah had a healthy appetite and loved it when she brought him a home-cooked meal for lunch. He often said no one could cook chicken as good as she did. She loved to make him happy.

  Mercy liked the spring, when there was plenty of open space around the square. In the late summer, when melons and peaches were in full harvest, it would be difficult to find a place to tie up a pony, much less a four-wheeled buggy.

  As a child, she had loved climbing in and out of all the wagons on trade day, sliding with her little friends over slick, ripe melons, and dodging the teams with her friends as if they were invincible. Now, the pressing crowds of people and animals made her nervous. When summer was at its peak and the square was packed wheel to wheel with row after row of wagons, Mercy consigned herself to her house away from all the hubbub. Then and only then, she let the judge fend for himself for lunch and eat other people’s fried chicken.

  Mercy pulled the slipknot snug on the tie rope and gave her Cleveland bay mare a pat on the forehead. The day was turning out to be warm for early spring, and the little brown mare swished her tail back and forth to chase off a green-backed fly. Mercy smoothed the front of her yellow dress and turned to fetch her shopping bag from the buggy. She wasn’t very tall, and had to stand on tiptoe to reach the bag on the far seat.

  A familiar voice cut the air behind her. She gave a little start and spun around, unwilling to be caught in such an unladylike position.

  Nelson Ross, a prominent lawyer in town and a good friend of her husband, came out of the hardware store wearing a brown bowler hat and a grim look.

  “You’d best get on out of the way, Mercy.” The lawyer wore a gun belt. The tail of his pinstriped suit coat was pulled back to expose his side arm. He had a pale sandy complexion that looked out of place in the outdoors—as if the bright sun might do him harm.

  “Mr. Ross,” she said in a syrup-sweet Southern drawl that she never heard but everyone else accused her of. “Is there something the matter?” Mercy pulled the canvas shopping bag up in front of her chest and retreated a step back toward her buggy. “What’s happening here?” Even as she asked, she knew the answer. With county elections coming up, tempers ran high. Petty disagreements and feuds that had merely simmered for years suddenly boiled over on a daily basis. The whole town seemed turned upside down.

  Ross gave her an odd, almost pleading look. His eyes flitted back and forth between her and the hardware store. Before he could answer, the door creaked open again and Sheriff Rance Whitehead stepped out into the bright daylight.

  “Please step back, Mrs. Monfore. The judge would have my hide if you got hurt in this matter.” The tall lawman sounded sincere, but Mercy knew he made a living sounding like something he was not. The mere fact that he’d acted like he cared what the judge thought was a joke. Her husband never mentioned the sheriff’s name without a spit and stream of vehement swearing. She was certain the lawman harbored the same feelings for her husband.

  Whitehead was tall, with black hair slicked back under a dark felt hat. Everything about him, including his toothy white smile as his lips pulled back behind a thick mustache, seemed oily and fake. If he wasn’t the sheriff, he would likely have sold snake oil. The judge often said the man’s present job suited him better because it allowed him to lie and murder with relative impunity.

  The sheriff was square-jawed and handsome. Had it not been for the overall air of guile that surrounded the man, he would have not been unpleasant to look at. As it was, Mercy felt herself shudder at having to occupy the same section of street.

  The two men walked onto the deserted courthouse square and faced each other. They circled slowly, not ten yards apart. Their warnings to her given, they concentrated on each other and ignored Mercy altogether.

  She could do nothing but stand by helplessly and watch.

  “Since when did you start packin’ a side arm, Ross?” Sheriff Whitehead sneered behind his curling mustache. “You know those damned things will only get you into trouble and grief. You got something on your mind that requires you to sport a pistol?”

  Ross shook his head and let out an uneasy breath. His hand hovered uneasily above the butt of his gun. “You know the answer to that. A man’s got a right to protect himself.” The sallow lawyer was no gunfighter, but he did have a temper and a stubborn streak that wouldn’t let him back away from a rabid dog.

  “You seem all-fired ready to get yourself killed today.” The sheriff advanced, pressing the other man. He talked like he wanted to avert the fight, but Mercy could see the hint of a smile in his eyes. He wanted Ross to draw. “Why don’t we just go over to my office and talk about this.” Even as he spoke of a truce, his sure fingers tapped the grip on his own pistol. He looked bored.

  Ross’s face twisted into a pink knot. He gave an irate shake of his head. “The things you’re doing, Whitehead . . . everyone in the county knows what you and your boys are up to . . . we can all . . .” The lawyer rubbed sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand, then held it out in front of him, warning the other man back. “You stay where you are, Sheriff. Any fool can see what’s happening here.”

  Whitehead cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow. “Is that a fact?”

&n
bsp; “Damn right it’s a fact.” Ross blinked his eyes and appeared to have a hard time seeing. “There are those of us who refuse to allow this to happen. . . .”

  “Allow? Allow what to happen?” Whitehead’s fingers continued to toy with the grip of his gun the same way he toyed with the sweating lawyer. “You’ve had your melon out in the sun too long. You’re talking out of your head, Ross.” Sheriff Whitehead’s powerful neck bowed like an angry stud horse spoiling for a fight. He stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and his trembling opponent. He pressed, but his voice remained calm. “Easy there with that gun hand, mister.”

  Ross raised his left hand as if to ward off the advancing lawman. “All right, all right. Now you see here, Whitehead. . . .”

  Mercy’s breath caught in her throat as the fingers of Ross’s right hand brushed across the wooden grips of his revolver.

  The sheriff’s pistol appeared to leap from his holster and spit fire and smoke. The wide-eyed lawyer now stood less than five feet away. He staggered forward, clutching at Whitehead’s shoulder, clawing pitifully for a handhold to keep himself on his feet. The lawman shrugged him off.

  Ross shuddered once, the color draining from his already pale face as a red stain bloomed across his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His gun had never cleared leather.

  Mercy wasn’t certain he’d ever even intended to draw. She clutched the canvas bag in front of her until her fingers turned white.

  Whitehead turned slowly to her and shook his head. His face creased in the kind of false sympathy you might show a child when a pet grasshopper died. He reholstered and tipped his hat.

  “I’m sorry you had to be a witness to such a tragedy, Mrs. Monfore, but you saw it. The fool left me no choice.”

  Mercy stood motionless, hardly daring to breath. The lump in her throat bound her voice and she could not speak. With a man like Whitehead, it was probably just as well. Right or wrong, he was a dangerous foe.

  The speed with which he’d gunned down poor Nelson Ross was nothing short of phenomenal. Had the man really wanted to fight, it wouldn’t have mattered.