Violent Sunday Page 3

  Ferguson drew and fired without getting up. He didn’t have to make a fast draw, but he did anyway, palming the Colt from leather with seemingly just a flick of his hand. The gun roared, and the bartender stopped short, his mouth opening in a soundless O of pain. He looked down at his belly and saw the spreading circle of red that stained his once-white apron. The fabric had a black-rimmed hole in it, and so did his belly.

  The bartender dropped the open bottle and pressed both hands to the wound. “You’ve killed me!” he gasped.

  “More than likely,” Ferguson agreed with a nod as he came easily to his feet. With his free hand he grasped the edge of the table and flipped it over, scattering cards, glass, and full bottle of whiskey. The cork came out when the bottle hit the floor, and the whiskey began to gurgle out onto the planks, filling the room with its sharp smell.

  The wounded bartender tried to sit down at another table but missed the chair and crashed into the floor. He sat there leaning against the table leg and clutched his belly. His shoulders hunched over and he began to cry.

  “Probably take you an hour or so to die,” Ferguson said over his shoulder as he walked toward the door. “While you’re doin’ that, you can think about how you never should have come at me with that bottle.”

  “They . . . they’ll hang you. . . .” the bartender croaked.

  “I don’t think so. It was self-defense, pure and simple.”

  With that, Ferguson pushed through the batwings and stepped out into the dusty street. His horse stood tied at a hitch rail nearby. He sauntered toward the animal.

  He had just untied the reins when the bartender yelled, “You bastard!”

  Ferguson turned smoothly toward the saloon and saw that somehow the mortally wounded man had found the strength to pull himself to his feet and reach the bar. Now the bartender had a sawed-off shotgun in his blood-smeared hands, and he was trying to bring it to bear on Ferguson.

  The gunfighter drew again, with a little more urgency this time. He knew that at this range Greener was capable of blowing a mighty big hole in him.

  The bartender never had a chance to line up his shot. Ferguson put four more slugs into him in a couple of seconds. Two of the bullets smacked into the bartender’s chest, the third one tore out his throat, and the fourth and final one hit him just above the right eye, bored on through his brain, and burst out the back of his head in a grisly shower of blood, gray matter, and bone fragments. He sat down hard in the dirt in front of the saloon door and then slewed over onto his side.

  “Well, I was wrong,” Ferguson said as he opened his Colt and dropped the empties into his palm. He began thumbing fresh cartridges into the cylinder as he went on. “It didn’t take him an hour to die after all.”

  When the gun was reloaded, he holstered it, caught up his horse’s reins again, and swung up into the saddle. He was aware that people were watching him from the blacksmith shop and from some of the houses, maybe even from the churches. But nobody stepped out to try to stop him.

  He wasn’t sure if he was in Parker, Jack, or Palo Pinto County. If the sheriff of whatever county it was came looking for him, his claim of self-defense would be stronger than ever. After all, the bartender had come rushing out after him, waving a scattergun. What else could he have done, Ferguson asked himself, except hook and draw?

  He started to ride slowly out of town, heading down the road toward Weatherford, and as he did, he spotted a rider coming toward him. The other horsebacker was moving along at a pretty good clip, and as he came closer, Ferguson recognized him as Cherokee Bob.

  Ferguson reined in and waited for Bob to come to him. The young man, who was probably no more than sixteen and fancied himself a budding shootist, galloped up and brought his horse to a skidding stop that kicked up a cloud of dust in the road. Ferguson waved a hand in front of his face and glared at the youngster.

  “Damn it, Bob, you’re getting dust all over everything,” Ferguson complained.

  Bob snatched off his floppy-brimmed hat and looked apologetic. “Sorry, Mr. Ferguson,” he said, “but I got some news I thought you’d want to hear as soon as possible, so I rode right out here lookin’ for you.”

  “You found me. What’s this news? Something about Ranger Beaumont?”

  “Yes, sir, and about Miss Monfore, too.”

  Ferguson knew that Beaumont had been courting Victoria Monfore. The whole blasted county probably knew that.

  “If all you want to tell me is that those two have been sparkin’—”

  “No, sir,” Bob said, daring to interrupt his mentor because he was so excited. “It’s more than that. They’re gettin’ hitched!”

  Ferguson frowned again. “Married, you mean?”

  “That’s right. I heard about it while I was hangin’ around, down at the courthouse. The wedding is two weeks from this comin’ Sunday.”

  Ferguson took out the makin’s and began to build a quirly. “Well, what do you know,” he mused as he rolled the cigarette. Voices drifted to him, but he didn’t look around as he finished licking the edges of the paper and twirled the ends. Only when he had the cigarette in his mouth did he glance back and see that a couple of hundred yards away, several people were standing around the bloody, huddled shape of the dead bartender. They looked at Ferguson and then looked hurriedly away.

  He didn’t have to worry about them working up enough courage to come after him and try to stop him. It would take a long time for that to happen, and by then he would be gone.

  “Did I do the right thing, Chas?” Cherokee Bob asked, daring to call his idol by his first name.

  “You sure did,” Ferguson said. “That is mighty interestin’ news.” He heeled his horse into a walk. “You know what it means, don’t you?”

  Bob’s mount fell in alongside. The youngster said, “It means Frank Morgan is liable to show up in town again, don’t it?”

  Ferguson snapped a lucifer into life with his thumbnail and held the flame to the end of the cigarette in his mouth. He puffed until the tobacco was burning good, then shook out the match and dropped it on the ground.

  “That’s right,” he said around the quirly. “I don’t reckon anything would stop Morgan from attending the wedding of his best friend, do you?”

  “No, sir. The Drifter will be there. And then you can kill him.”

  Ferguson smiled. “That’s right. I might wait until after the ceremony’s over, though. Let the sight of Beaumont getting married be the last thing Frank Morgan ever sees . . . before I send him straight to Hell.”

  4

  The shooting in Morrison’s Old Corner Drug Store hadn’t brought any serious repercussions for Frank Morgan. A blue-uniformed policeman had shown up a few minutes later to find out what had happened, but Doc Alderton’s unhesitating confirmation of Frank’s story made the lawman decide against arresting Frank. He had ordered Frank to make himself available for the inquest into the killing, though.

  The coroner’s jury hadn’t taken long to return with a verdict of self-defense once they had heard testimony from Frank and Alderton. Frank being cleared officially of wrongdoing hadn’t stopped both the Waco chief of police and the McClennan County sheriff from paying him a visit at his hotel. Both officials warned him that they didn’t want any trouble in their bailiwick. Frank assured them that neither did he.

  He hadn’t planned to stay all that long in Waco, but a certain contrary streak made him delay longer than he had intended. He spent a couple of weeks in town, drinking and playing cards and sitting on the verandah of the hotel overlooking the Brazos River. Several times a day he strolled down to the livery stable to check on Stormy and Dog.

  It was a peaceful interlude. Nobody tried to kill him.

  He knew it couldn’t last, of course.

  One evening when he was sitting on the verandah, his attention was drawn to a man riding down the street toward the hotel. Instantly Frank sat up straighter in the cane-bottomed chair where he had been lounging. One booted foot was propped on
the railing around the verandah. He brought it down. His hand moved closer to the butt of the gun at his hip.

  The man on horseback sat tall and straight in the saddle as he approached. An indefinable air about him said that he was both alert and dangerous. He wore a high-crowned black hat and a cowhide vest. His shirt had leather cuffs. As he came closer, Frank saw that his bearded face was craggy and weather-beaten. It was almost like gazing in a mirror, because he knew that other than being clean-shaven, his own features had the same well-worn look. The stranger brought his horse to a stop in front of the hotel and gave Frank a nod.

  Frank returned it and glanced along the verandah. Several men in suits were gathered about ten yards away, talking among themselves. Traveling salesmen, more than likely. Beyond them, several ladies sat enjoying the cooling air after the heat of the day. Frank would have preferred it if there hadn’t been so many people around. He didn’t care much for dusk, either; it was bad light for shooting.

  “Howdy,” the stranger said in a gravelly voice.

  “Evening,” Frank responded pleasantly enough. Just because you might be shooting at a fella a few minutes later was no reason to be impolite before the ball even started.

  “I reckon you’d be Frank Morgan.”

  “That’s right,” Frank said, bracing himself for the inevitable challenge.

  Only it might not be inevitable after all. Instead of insulting him or trying to goad him into a fight, the other man continued on in friendly tones. “I got a message for you from a friend of yours.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “Tyler Beaumont.”

  The answer took Frank by surprise. He hadn’t heard from Beaumont since leaving Weatherford. Of course, he hadn’t gotten around to sending Beaumont that wire he had promised, either. He hoped the young Ranger wasn’t in any trouble.

  Frank came smoothly to his feet. “What’s the message?”

  “Got it written down here.” The man grinned as he reached slowly and carefully under his vest and took a paper from his shirt pocket. “Didn’t want to spook you.”

  The gesture moved the man’s vest aside enough so that Frank suddenly saw the badge pinned to the shirt underneath it. It was the five-peso star-in-a-circle, the unmistakable emblem of the Texas Rangers.

  “You’re a Ranger?” Frank asked quietly.

  “That’s right. Name’s Cobb. I was passin’ through, stopped at the Ranger post over at Fort Fisher.”

  Frank knew the post Cobb mentioned was also on the banks of the Brazos, a couple of miles farther east.

  “Seems that Beaumont sent out messages to all the Ranger posts in this neck of the woods, looking to get word to you,” Cobb went on. “It just got here today. The boys in Company F knew you were in town and staying here, so they asked me to stop by and give you the message, since I was riding this way anyway.”

  He held out the folded paper, leaning down from the saddle to give it to Frank. Frank took it, unfolded it, and held it so that the light coming through the windows from the hotel lobby fell on it. His eyes scanned the words printed there, and as their meaning soaked in, a grin spread across his face.

  “Good news?” Cobb asked.

  Frank looked up at the rugged Ranger. “Mighty good news. You know Beaumont?”

  Cobb shook his head. “Nope. I used to work out of the post at Veal Station, not far from Weatherford, but that was a while back. I never crossed trails with the young’un.”

  “He’s getting married.”

  Cobb raised bushy eyebrows and said, “I thought you said it was good news.”

  Frank bristled a little. “He’s marrying a mighty fine young woman.” Who just might be my daughter, he added to himself.

  “I don’t doubt it. But Rangerin’ ain’t what you’d call a safe, steady profession. You’re old enough to recall what Russell, Majors, and Waddell advertised for when they were lookin’ for fellas to join the Pony Express.”

  “Orphans preferred,” Frank said quietly, remembering the advertisements quite well because he had given some thought himself to joining the Pony Express.

  “That’s right,” Cobb said. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea for the Rangers to do likewise. Orphans and single men preferred.” He pulled his horse’s head around. “They don’t listen to me, though.” Ticking a finger against the brim of his hat, he added, “Be seein’ you, Morgan.”

  Frank nodded and said, “So long, Cobb. Thanks for bringing the message.”

  The Ranger waved without looking around as he rode off slowly along the Brazos.

  Frank watched him go for a moment and then looked down again at the paper in his hand. He read the message a second time, taking particular note of the date. The wedding was going to be on a Sunday. This was Saturday, Frank thought. Two weeks from tomorrow, Tyler Beaumont and Victoria Monfore would be man and wife.

  That meant there was a chance Beaumont would be his son-in-law, although Frank knew good and well neither Victoria nor her mother would ever confirm or deny that. They had made it clear he was just going to have to remain in the dark on that subject.

  It didn’t matter, Frank told himself. Either way, Beaumont was his best friend, and Frank wanted to be there when the young man got hitched.

  No way in hell was he going to miss this wedding.

  * * *

  Frank rode out of Waco early the next morning, taking the river trail that followed the Brazos northwestward. After being cooped up in a stable for much of the past few weeks, Stormy enjoyed being on the move again. The big Appaloosa kicked up his heels in a frisky fashion and stretched out into a ground-eating lope. Dog ranged alongside, keeping up easily—when he wasn’t too busy chasing rabbits and birds.

  Frank felt good about the trip, too. Sitting around and doing nothing had been a nice change from his usual eventful life, but only for a while. He had been getting stale in Waco, and he knew it.

  He was going to miss that drink the young druggist, Doc Alderton, had come up with, though. The last time Frank had been in the drugstore, Alderton’s boss had been talking about naming the stuff after a friend of his, a sawbones named Pepper.

  The terrain gradually grew more rugged as Frank rode northwest. The river narrowed, and the banks rose higher above its surface, turning into limestone bluffs covered with cedar and oak trees. Frank had plenty of supplies, so he didn’t bother stopping at any of the small settlements he came to. He slept under the stars at night and felt just fine about it. The memories of Dixie, while still with him, were less painful now.

  A week passed as he rode toward Parker County. He could have made better time, but he didn’t see any need to push Stormy. As it was, he was going to reach Weatherford several days before the wedding.

  He was a two days’ ride away from his destination when the Appaloosa threw a shoe. Frank could have fixed the problem himself, but as it happened, he was passing through a little settlement called Nemo, and there was a blacksmith shop just a few yards farther on. Frank turned in there and called, “Anybody home?” The forge seemed to be cool, and he didn’t hear the ringing sound of hammer on anvil.

  No one answered his hail. Frank was about to get down and tend to the lost horseshoe himself, when he heard a couple of soggy thuds from out back of the blacksmith shop. He frowned as he recognized the sound of fists hitting flesh.

  Somebody was taking a licking back there.

  It was no business of his, of course, but even though he reminded himself of that fact, he found himself swinging down from the saddle and moseying through the shadowy, empty shop toward the back door. “Stay,” he told Dog. The big cur could keep an eye on things up here.

  The back door was a few inches ajar. Frank pushed it open the rest of the way and stepped through it as he heard more blows being struck. A man grunted in pain.

  None of the five men in the little yard behind the blacksmith shop noticed him at first. That gave him the chance to study the situation. It was pretty simple, really.

  Four men had ga
nged up on another man and were beating the hell out of him.

  The victim wore a thick canvas apron that identified him as the blacksmith. So did the heavy muscles in his bare arms and shoulders. Under normal circumstances he probably could have thrashed the men attacking him. But one of the men was standing back a little, holding a revolver that he pointed at the blacksmith’s head. If the smith had put up a fight, he might have gotten his brains blown out.

  So he stood there unresisting with two of the men holding his brawny arms while the fourth and final attacker slammed brutal punches into his face and midsection, alternating back and forth. Blood dripped from the blacksmith’s broken nose into his tangled black beard. A fist crashed into his jaw, jerking his head to the side. As the man who had thrown the punch stepped back to admire his handiwork, the blacksmith’s head sagged. He was only half-conscious.

  But he refused to give in, and after a moment he forced his head back up and shook it emphatically from side to side, slinging drops of crimson blood on the man who had been beating him. The man cursed and reached down to pick up a piece of wood from a stack near his feet. He brandished the makeshift club and said, “I’ll kill you for that!”

  “I don’t think so,” Frank said.

  That stopped the club-wielder short. He and his companions looked around and saw Frank standing there, slim but muscular, calm and cool-eyed, obviously ready for trouble if it came.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  The angry question came from the man pointing the gun at the blacksmith. He didn’t try to turn around and switch his aim to Frank.

  “Somebody who doesn’t like what he’s seeing,” Frank said. “It’s four against one. Doesn’t hardly seem fair.”

  “It’s also none of your damn business,” the gunman said. “Get out of here while you still can.”

  Frank shook his head and nodded toward the blacksmith. “Not without my friend here.”

  “Friend?” the gunman echoed. “You’re a stranger hereabouts, mister. You don’t even know this man.”