Violent Sunday Read online

  Mercy took the handkerchief away from her red, moist eyes and asked, “When . . . when will you know for sure?”

  The doctor thought it over for a moment and then said, “If she makes it through the next couple of days, I’ll feel a lot better about her chances.”

  “A couple of days,” Beaumont repeated, and from the sound of his voice it might as well have been a lifetime.

  Frank Morgan stood just outside the open door of the church, smoking a cigarette and listening to the conversation. He didn’t want to intrude on Beaumont and the Monfores, even though a part of him wanted to rush in and go to Victoria.

  But there was nothing he could do for her, and he knew it. He took lives, he thought bitterly. He didn’t save them. It seemed to him that Death was his constant companion, every bit as much so as Dog or Stormy.

  Luke Perkins stood with him. With a doleful shake of his head, the mustachioed rancher said, “It wasn’t your fault, Frank. You tried to get Ferguson to hold off until everybody was clear, and then when he wouldn’t, you downed him before he could even get a shot off.” A note of awe entered Luke’s voice. “I thought I’d seen you hook and draw fast before now, but man alive! I don’t know that anybody ever made a faster draw than you did today, Frank. Not Wes Hardin, not Ben Thompson, not even Smoke Jensen.”

  “And it didn’t do a damned bit of good,” Frank said hollowly.

  “Don’t say that. Nobody can blame you because that young idiot went crazy and started blazin’ away like that.”

  Frank dropped the quirly and ground it out in the dirt with the toe of his boot. Then he looked at Luke and said, “He wouldn’t have even been here if it wasn’t for Ferguson, and Ferguson wouldn’t have been here if it wasn’t for me.”

  “That’s right,” Beaumont said from behind Frank. The young Ranger’s voice was cold as ice, hard as flint.

  Frank turned to look at him. Beaumont’s expression was still carefully controlled, but his eyes glittered with anger. “I’m sorry, Tyler—” Frank began.

  “Don’t,” Beaumont interrupted. “Don’t say any more, Frank. There’s nothing you can say that will change things. Nothing that will make Victoria get up and be whole and unhurt again.”

  “Listen here, son,” Luke said. “You saw what happened. Frank did his damnedest to stop the whole thing.”

  Beaumont nodded. “I know. That’s the only thing that keeps me from hating him right now.”

  “What about all the times you two fought side by side? Hell, you owe him your own life—”

  “I don’t have a life without Victoria,” Beaumont said, cutting in. “If I lose her . . .” He couldn’t go on. He broke off and drew a deep, shuddery breath. After a moment, he looked at Frank and continued. “I heard what you said about you being the only reason Ferguson was here. That’s the truth.”

  Frank nodded. “I know it.”

  “Death follows you around, Frank.”

  “I had the same thought.”

  “That’s why—” For a second, the carefully constructed façade that Beaumont had put up so that he wouldn’t go completely to pieces slipped, and the depth of his anger and suffering was visible on his face. With an effort, he regained control of himself and went on. “That’s why I don’t want to have anything more to do with you. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me in the past, but from here on out, you and me are done, Frank.”

  “Damn it, boy!” Luke burst out. “You can’t just—”

  “He can do whatever he feels like he has to do,” Frank said. “Are you sure that’s what you want, Tyler?”

  “I’m certain. The doctor says there’s a good chance Victoria will recover, but even if she does, I won’t let you put her life at risk ever again. Stay away from her, and stay away from me.” He started to go back inside, but he paused long enough to add, “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I,” Frank Morgan whispered. But Beaumont had already shut the door of the church.

  9

  No one else had been hurt in the shooting, not even so much as a nick. They had that to be thankful for, Frank Morgan thought as he sat in a saloon in Weatherford that night and drank coffee. Luke Perkins sat with him. The rancher had a bottle and a glass and would have shared, but Frank had refused the whiskey. He wanted to keep a clear head.

  “What’ll you do now?” Luke asked. “You goin’ to stay around here?”

  Frank shook his head. “You heard what Beaumont said. He doesn’t want me anywhere near him or his wife.”

  Who is probably my daughter, Frank thought for maybe the thousandth time. Beaumont’s anger—which was totally justified in Frank’s opinion—had cut Frank off not only from his friendship with the Ranger, but also from any sort of relationship with the young woman who was quite likely his own flesh and blood.

  Some men might bitch and moan about that not being fair. Complaining wasn’t Frank Morgan’s way. He might not like the decision Beaumont had made, but he wasn’t going to argue with Beaumont’s right to make it.

  “So you’re just gonna ride on?” Luke said.

  Frank took another sip of coffee. “I don’t know what else I can do.”

  “You could take a singletree and wallop that fool youngster on the head a few times,” Luke suggested. “Might knock some sense into that thick skull o’ his.”

  “You can’t blame a man for being worried about his wife.”

  “Hell, I reckon pert near everybody in Parker County is worried about Miss Victoria tonight. Most of ’em are probably prayin’ for her, too.”

  “I hope so. She could use a hand from El Señor Dios.”

  “How about you?”

  A grim smile touched Frank’s lips. “I’m not sure the Lord and I are on good speaking terms anymore. He might’ve given up on me a few dozen dead men ago.”

  “You just hush up that sort o’ talk!” Luke admonished him. “You act like you’re the sinner in all this, instead o’ the sinned against.”

  Frank looked down at his right hand. “Maybe that’s right,” he said softly. “Maybe there’s some inherent evil in a fast gun hand, no matter how it’s used.”

  Luke snorted and said, “What a load o’ horse apples that is! You ain’t got an evil bone in your body, Frank Morgan! Oh, I ain’t sayin’ you’re perfect—nobody is—but I’ve seen evil, and you ain’t it.”

  “I appreciate that, and I’d like to think you’re right, Luke. Maybe someday Beaumont will feel differently about everything. Until then, I guess I’ll be riding on. He doesn’t want me around here, and I don’t feel much like being here, either.”

  Luke sighed. “Well, I reckon I’ve known you too long to think there’s any use arguin’ with you once your mind’s made up. Just remember, you’ve always got friends here, and you’re always welcome on my ranch. Anything I can do for you, just let me know.”

  “Actually, there is one thing,” Frank said. “I’ll write to you once I get where I’m going and let you know how to get hold of me. That way, if there’s anything that comes up you think I ought to know, you can write to me.”

  “Like how Beaumont and Miss Victoria are doin’, you mean?”

  “Anything,” Frank said again, but he was glad that his old friend had sensed what he really meant.

  “I’ll do that,” Luke promised. He frowned. “But ain’t you even goin’ to stick around for a few days, just to make sure the gal’s goin’ to be all right?”

  Frank drained the last of the coffee from his cup and stood up. “She’ll be all right,” he said firmly. “She’s strong, and she has good blood flowing in her veins.”

  “Yeah,” Luke agreed, his tone meaningful. “That’s the truth.”

  Then he sat there, his face solemn, and watched his friend walk out of the saloon and vanish into the night.

  * * *

  Frank picked up Stormy and Dog at the livery stable, saddled the Appaloosa, and rode southeast out of Weatherford. He camped just a few miles out of town that night and then the next day contin
ued riding toward Granbury. He could see the huge, flat-topped bluff known as Comanche Peak ahead of him. It was the most distinctive landmark in this part of the country; the town of Granbury lay just this side of it.

  Frank reached the settlement that evening and stopped at a hotel on the downtown square, across from the ornate Hood County courthouse. The county was named for Confederate General John Bell Hood, and the towns of Granbury and nearby Cleburne were named for generals who had served under Hood’s command, Hiram Granbury and Patrick Cleburne. Both men had been killed in battle while serving under Hood, in fact.

  Frank had lived through that war, and didn’t see much cause to commemorate it, but he couldn’t blame people for wanting to honor the dead. And the gallantry exhibited by the outmatched Southerners who had tried to defend their homeland from the aggression of the North was certainly enough to stir the blood. But Hood, to put it bluntly, had been a terrible strategist and had led his troops into disaster on more than one occasion. Frank didn’t think much of generals, and thought even less of those who wasted the lives of their men needlessly.

  He mused on that during the supper he ate in the hotel dining room. Then he walked across the square to a saloon and had a drink, but only one. When he returned to the hotel and turned in, he had succeeded in pushing all the unpleasant thoughts out of his brain. It wouldn’t last, he knew, but it was a welcome respite.

  The next day he followed the Brazos River south toward Nemo, and he came to the tiny community late that afternoon. He heard hammering before he got there, and as he came in sight of the place where Reuben Craddock’s house and blacksmith shop had stood, he saw that the rubble of the burned-down buildings had been cleared away. The framework for a new blacksmith shop was going up. Reuben hammered nails into the heavy boards as the frame took shape.

  Frank reined in and rested both hands on the saddle horn as he watched Reuben work for a moment. Then he called, “You need a good carpenter’s assistant?”

  Reuben turned around in surprise. He had been so engrossed in the work that he hadn’t heard Frank ride up. “Frank!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. How are you?”

  Frank swung down from the saddle and gripped the hand that Reuben thrust out. “I’m fine,” he said.

  “You must not have stayed in Weatherford for very long after your friend got married.” Reuben frowned at the shadow that passed over Frank’s face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later,” Frank said. “You got another hammer?”

  “Yeah, but are you sure you’re up to doing that sort of work? It’s only been a little over a week since you got shot, remember?”

  “I’m fine,” Frank assured him. “Nothing helps a man heal up like some good hard work in the fresh air. Anyway, that was just a scratch.”

  “If you say so.”

  For another couple of hours, until the light began to fade, the two men worked side by side, putting up wall studs. “I’m glad you’re here,” Reuben said at one point. “I’ll be ready to start putting up the rafters in a day or so, and that’s a two-man job, at least.”

  “I’m glad to help,” Frank said.

  “You’ve already done so much . . . the money and all . . . There’s no way I could have afforded to do this without your help. I’ll pay it all back, you know, every cent.”

  “There’s no hurry,” Frank assured him. “I figure I’ll be around here for a while. . . .”

  Reuben was staying with the pastor of the local church. The man didn’t have another spare room, but there was plenty of space in his barn. In pleasant weather like this, Frank didn’t mind staying in the barn. If it was good enough for Stormy, it was good enough for him.

  Late summer turned into early fall and then into Indian summer. The blacksmith shop was finished, and Reuben began working as a smith again, rebuilding the house between jobs of horseshoeing and repairing wagon wheels.

  Every week a letter arrived for Frank from Luke Perkins. Frank had written to the rancher early on, letting him know where he was staying. Luke’s letters were a mixture of good news and bad. Victoria pulled through, just as the doctor had expected. It had been touch and go for a while, but her strength and her will to live, not to mention her love for Tyler Beaumont, had prevailed in the end. Her recovery had been long and hard, but she was out of danger now.

  The bad news was that she couldn’t walk.

  The way the doctor explained it, as Luke passed it on to Frank, the bullet that had struck Victoria had nicked her backbone on its way through her body. That had damaged something the sawbones called the spinal cord, and as a result Victoria could no longer use or even feel her legs.

  When Frank read that, his fingers clenched the paper involuntarily until it crumpled in his grip. He had to take several deep breaths before he calmed down enough to smooth out the letter and read the rest of what Luke had written there in a laborious scrawl. The doctor didn’t know if the damage to Victoria’s backbone was permanent or not. It might heal by itself, but that was the only hope. There was nothing medicine could do for her.

  So what it came down to, Frank thought grimly, was that while Chas Ferguson’s desire to prove that he was a faster gun hadn’t resulted in Victoria’s death, it had condemned her to likely spending the rest of her life in bed or in a wheelchair. That vital, energetic young woman, who had once fought off several hard cases who had been doing their best to kidnap her, was now pretty much helpless. The thought brought up a bitter, sour taste under Frank’s tongue.

  He had gotten over blaming himself for what had happened. Not the sort to wallow in self-pity, he saw clearly that everyone bore responsibility for his or her own actions. He hadn’t forced Ferguson to hate and envy him. It had been Ferguson’s decision and Ferguson’s own hand that had reached for that gun. Likewise, the young man who called himself Cherokee Bob had let his own desire for notoriety cause him to throw in with Ferguson. An impulse given in to, a moment’s dangerous recklessness, and lives had been ended or altered almost beyond recognition. It was a terrible thing, and Frank still didn’t blame Beaumont for not wanting to have anything more to do with him, but he wasn’t going to torture himself with thoughts of what he might have done to change things, either.

  A stagecoach came through Nemo a couple of times a week. One day in October, the coach stopped in front of the blacksmith shop and the new house and the driver unloaded a couple of crates. Reuben looked at them, curious as to what they might hold. Frank grinned and said, “Why don’t you get a hammer and open them up and have a look?”

  “All right.” Reuben frowned over at his friend. “What have you done now, Frank?”

  “Just open the crates,” Frank said with a chuckle.

  Reuben got a hammer and pried the top off one of the crates. Inside, wrapped in brown paper, were books . . . dozens and dozens of books. Novels, biographies, histories, a fair selection of the classics, including the complete works of Shakespeare. Reuben took them out one by one, unwrapping them, running his fingers over the bindings, opening them to flip almost reverently through the pages. He even lifted some of them to his nose and smelled them.

  “Lord, there’s nothing like a book,” he breathed. “Frank, I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything,” Frank told him. “You’ve done a lot for me, Reuben—”

  “No more than you’ve done for me,” the big blacksmith said.

  Frank shrugged. “You’re my friend, and I know what losing all those books meant to you. This is a start on replacing them.”

  “Thank you.” Reuben laughed. “I’ll have to get started building some shelves now!”

  By the end of October, the shelves were up and the books were arranged on them. Only part of the shelves were filled; Reuben had plenty of room to add to his collection. Frank had kept a couple of the books for himself, to slip in his saddlebags when he rode on.

  And he knew that the day was coming soon wh
en he would be doing just that. The weeks he had spent with Reuben had been good ones and had erased some of the bleakness that had come over him following the tragedy at that country church outside Weatherford. But his restless nature was beginning to assert itself again. He hadn’t been born fiddlefooted; circumstances had forced him into a life of wandering. But by now drifting was a habit, too ingrained to be ignored.

  He rode over to Nemo’s tiny post office to check the mail and found a letter waiting there for him from Luke Perkins. As Frank came out of the little frame building, he paused by the hitch rail where Stormy was tied and broke the seal on the letter. He unfolded the paper and began to read.

  He had read only a few words when the sound of hoofbeats made him glance toward the road. He saw a rider coming toward him at a walk. To Frank’s surprise, the man suddenly reached under his coat and pulled a gun. As he kicked his horse into a gallop, he shouted, “I’ve got you now, Morgan!”

  He opened fire, spraying bullets toward Frank.

  10

  Instinct took over, sending Frank in a dive toward a water trough that stood to one side of the post office door. At the same time, he dropped the letter from Luke Perkins and drew his gun. As he landed, he heard a sharp whinny of pain from Stormy and knew the Appaloosa had been hit by one of the bullets flying around.

  White-hot rage coursed through Frank at the thought of his horse being hurt. He lunged up from behind the trough as slugs thudded into it and triggered twice at the onrushing gunman. The first shot missed, but the second clipped the man on the left shoulder and slewed him halfway around in the saddle. He had to grab the horn to keep from falling off. His other hand, the one with the gun in it, went straight up in the air as he struggled to balance himself.