Violent Sunday

by William W. Johnstone

  That gave Frank time to shoot him again.

  This bullet struck the man squarely in the chest and knocked him backward over his horse’s rump. He tumbled to the ground, but his left foot caught in the stirrup on that side. As the horse continued to bolt along the road, the man’s body was dragged along with it.

  Frank leaped up and stepped out into the road to grab the reins as the horse went past. He was jerked around and almost pulled off his feet, but the horse slowed as Frank dragged down hard on the reins. After a few seconds, the animal came to a stop, its sides heaving with a mixture of fear and exertion. All the shooting had spooked it.

  “It’s all right now,” Frank said quietly. “Just take it easy, horse. The ruckus is all over.”

  It was all over for the man who had attacked Frank, that was for sure. He lay on his back, his shirtfront wet with blood. He stared sightlessly up at the sky from a face that had been battered against the ground a couple of times as the horse dragged him. His features were smeared with dirt and blood, but Frank could still tell that he had never seen the man before in his life.

  The man had known him, though. There was no doubt about that. He had shouted the name “Morgan” as he started firing.

  The shots had drawn the postmaster out of the little building that housed his office. He walked toward Frank carrying a shotgun. “What happened, Morgan?” he asked.

  Since the gunman was dead, Frank reloaded the spent shells in his Peacemaker and then pouched the revolver. “I’m not quite sure,” he admitted. “This fella was gunning for me, but I don’t know why or even who he is.”

  The postmaster scratched his jaw and frowned in thought. “Looks a mite familiar,” he said after a moment. “I can’t place him, though.”

  He wasn’t the only one who had heard the shots. Down at the blacksmith shop, a quarter of a mile away, Reuben had, too. He came riding up on his mule, also carrying a scattergun like the postmaster. “Frank!” he called as he caught sight of his friend. “Are you all right?”

  Frank nodded. “I wasn’t hit.” That reminded him of Stormy. He swung around quickly to check on the Appaloosa.

  The big horse appeared to be fine at first glance. Then Frank found a bloody streak on his flank where a bullet had burned him. That had been enough to provoke a reaction from Stormy without doing any real damage. Some ointment would fix up the bullet burn. Luck had been with both Frank and Stormy today.

  Reuben swung down from the mule and studied the face of the dead man. “He looks familiar,” he said, echoing the postmaster’s comment. “But I can’t quite . . . I know! He looks a lot like Tom Grady.”

  Frank remembered that name for some reason, but it took him a few seconds to pin it down. Then he recalled that Tom Grady had been the man who held the gun on Reuben while his friends beat up the blacksmith several months earlier. Later, the men had come back to take their revenge on both Frank and Reuben, but while they had succeeded in burning down the blacksmith shop and Reuben’s house, three of the four had died that night. Grady had been one of them.

  The postmaster went through the dead man’s pockets and found a letter addressed to Al Grady. “I reckon that’s him,” the man said, straightening. “Brother to Tom, from the looks of it. The address on this letter is Del Rio; it’s from the foreman of the spread where Grady worked last. Got the news of his death in it.”

  Frank nodded as he figured out what had happened. “It took this long for the letter to catch up to this man and let him know that his brother was dead and that I killed him. He rode all the way up here from Del Rio to settle the score.”

  The postmaster snorted. “Hell, from what I’ve heard, Tom Grady needed killin’.”

  “Maybe so,” Reuben said, “but a blood bond is mighty strong. It probably didn’t matter to Al Grady that his brother got what was coming to him. He just wanted to avenge his death.”

  “All that got him was a couple of slugs and a hole in the ground.” The postmaster shook his head. “Damned fool.”

  Something white caught Morgan’s eye as it blew along the ground not far away, and he remembered the letter he had dropped when the shooting started. He hurried after the paper and snatched it up. He didn’t want to lose even one of Luke’s letters, not when they contained news about Beaumont and Victoria. And in the brief glimpse he had gotten before all hell broke loose, Luke had mentioned Beaumont.

  Frank stood there now and read the letter. After the usual “Dear Frank, Hope this finds you well” opening, Luke got down to business in a hurry.

  Tyler Beaumont had left Weatherford. And he hadn’t taken Victoria with him.

  That came as something of a shock to Frank. He never would have pegged Beaumont as the type to leave a woman once he had married her. Beaumont was an honorable man; the words “for better or worse” would hold great meaning for him. But as he read on, Frank saw that it wasn’t a case of Beaumont abandoning Victoria.

  The Rangers had sent him away on a job, instead.

  “There’s some sorta trouble down in Brown County,” Luke wrote. “Judge Monfore told me about it, but he didn’t know what it was exactly. Said it probably has something to do with a squabble they’re having down there over barbed wire. But the Rangers wanted a man who wasn’t knowed in those parts to look into it, and Tyler got picked. Miss Victoria is staying with her folks whilst he’s gone. Don’t worry about her, Frank, the judge and Miz Mercy will see to it that she’s took care of.”

  Frank knew that. Mercy and the judge were devoted to Victoria; anything she needed, they would see to it that she had it. They had been helping Beaumont look after her ever since the tragic accident on the day of the wedding. Frank knew from previous letters that Victoria had insisted she and Beaumont have their own place, just like any other married couple, so they had rented a house not far from the Monfore place. That way Mercy and the judge could help out when Beaumont’s Rangering took him away from home.

  From the sound of this letter, though, Beaumont was going to be away for quite some time, or else Victoria wouldn’t have moved back in with her parents. And if there was trouble brewing in Brown County over barbed wire, then Beaumont was definitely riding into danger.

  Barbed wire had been around for more than a dozen years, having been developed in the Midwest by a man named Glidden. Its use had been spreading slowly westward ever since, and its introduction had caused trouble in nearly every area where it showed up. Cattlemen hated the stuff for two reasons: The cruel metal barbs sometimes injured the cows who rubbed against it, and the very notion of fencing off land rubbed men who had always lived with the concept of open range the wrong way. A man didn’t have to own land when there were millions and millions of acres free for the grazing. He didn’t have to worry about water when he could drive his cattle to any number of creeks or rivers and let them drink their fill. It was a simple system—a man had the right to use whatever he could hold—and the ranchers didn’t want to change it, saw no need to change it. It was the farmers, the damn sodbusters and homesteaders, who wanted to come in and ruin everything, the cattlemen thought.

  There had been shooting wars over barbed wire in Montana, Wyoming, and other places, and now it looked like there might be one in Texas, too. Beaumont was going to be right in the middle of it, from the sound of things.

  And while Beaumont was a good Ranger, Frank thought, he didn’t know if the young man was good enough to tame a whole county.

  Frank had already begun to feel the urge to move on. Now he had a reason to do so, and a destination.

  The Drifter would be drifting to Brown County....

  * * *

  Reuben didn’t try to convince Frank not to go. “I’ve enjoyed your company, and I really appreciate everything you’ve done to help me get back on my feet, Frank,” the blacksmith told him that night over supper. “But I know you’re ready to ride and you want to help out your friend Tyler.” Reuben paused and then said, “The question is, will he want your help?”

  As th
ey had become better friends, Frank had shared the story of what had happened at the wedding. He was, by nature, a reticent man most of the time, but after working side by side with Reuben for weeks, he had come to trust the blacksmith. Now Frank just shrugged and shook his head.

  “I don’t know. He was pretty angry the last time he spoke to me, but some time has gone by since then. Maybe he doesn’t blame me quite as much now for what happened to Victoria.”

  “He shouldn’t have blamed you at all,” Reuben rumbled. “It wasn’t your fault Ferguson and his friend were kill-crazy young lunatics.”

  “I’m the one Ferguson was gunning for, though.”

  Reuben put down his fork and looked steadily across the table at Frank. “If a man dies trying to climb a mountain, is it the mountain’s fault? The man is the one who decided to try it.”

  “It’s not quite the same thing.”

  Reuben grunted. “Seems like exactly the same thing to me.”

  What Reuben said made sense, Frank thought. But he still didn’t know whether or not Tyler Beaumont would see it that way.

  The only way to find out would be to ride to Brown County and offer his help to the young Ranger. And if Beaumont turned it down . . . well, there was no law against hanging around a place and being close by just in case a friend needed some assistance.

  Once he made up his mind to do something, Frank Morgan didn’t waste any time. He was up early the next morning, packing a few supplies that Reuben could spare. He would provision up in Tolar, the next settlement on the trail that led southwest toward Brown County. Brownwood, the county seat, was about a three-day ride, Frank estimated.

  Reuben tried to talk him into taking even more than he did. When Frank refused the food, the blacksmith tried to press more books on him as they stood in front of the shop.

  “I’ve got plenty to read,” Frank said with a smile and a shake of his head. “One of the books I put in the saddlebags is Moby-Dick. I’ve been trying to get through it, off and on, for years.”

  “Ah, Ishmael,” Reuben said. “The wanderer. An apt book for you, Frank.” He put out a hand. “Good luck to you.”

  Frank shook with him. “And to you, Reuben. If you ever need help, get in touch with my lawyers. They’ll know where to find me.”

  “And if you need help, here I am. Don’t forget that.”

  Frank swung up into the saddle. Stormy frisked a little back and forth, knowing they were leaving and eager to be on the trail again. Dog was the same way, running around and around the horse and letting out an occasional excited yip.

  Frank heeled the Appaloosa into a trot and turned in the saddle to lift his hand in a wave. Then he turned his attention to the trail in front of him.

  The countryside was rolling hills, heavily wooded in places and open and lushly grassed in others. Fall was far enough along so that many of the leaves on the trees had changed color, painting a tapestry of red and gold and orange across the slopes. The air was cool but not cold, crisp and clear and invigorating as Frank drew in deep breaths. As much as he had enjoyed the time he’d spent with Reuben, it felt mighty good to have a purpose again.

  The miles fell behind him. He spent the nights under the stars, snug in his bedroll against the autumn chill, and during the days crossed small rivers such as the Paluxy, the Bosque, and the Leon. He stopped briefly in Stephenville and Dublin, the latter so called because the rolling green countryside around the settlement had reminded one of its founders of his native Ireland. Beyond Dublin the terrain grew a little more flat, and the soil was sandier. This was cotton, peanut, and sorghum country.

  Around noon on the third day after leaving Reuben’s place, Frank rode into the town of Comanche, with its famous hanging tree on the square next to the courthouse. One of the first settlers in the area had used that big oak for cover as he fought off an attack by a band of warriors from the tribe that had given the town its name. The settler, Uncle Mart Fleming, had objected so strenuously when the townspeople wanted to cut down the oak that they had left it there to appease the old pioneer. Since then, more than one badman had danced at the end of a rope thrown over one of the wide-spreading branches.

  One famous badman who hadn’t been strung up on that oak was John Wesley Hardin. Some years earlier, Wes Hardin had shot and killed Brown County Deputy Sheriff Charley Webb in a saloon right here in Comanche. Webb was out of his bailiwick—Comanche was the seat of Comanche County—and not only that, he had treacherously drawn and fired first at Hardin after convincing the gunslinger that he was his friend. Hardin had repaid that betrayal with a fatal bullet, and even though he might have made a case for self-defense, he ran instead, taking off for the tall and uncut. Later a mob, incensed over Hardin’s escape, had lynched a couple of his relatives from that very tree on the corner of the courthouse square.

  Frank thought about those things as he rode past the oak and reined Stormy to a halt in front of one of the saloons facing the courthouse. Texas had a long and bloody history, all right, and he was afraid it was due to get bloodier before it got better.

  He went into the saloon, and when the bartender came over, Frank asked him for a pot of coffee. “Sure thing, mister,” the man replied. “You don’t want a beer or some whiskey, though?”

  “Nope, just the coffee,” Frank said.

  When the bartender brought the cup of the strong black brew, Frank sipped it appreciatively and then, as if he were just making idle conversation, he said, “I hear there’s been some sort of ruckus going on next door in Brown County.”

  The bartender snorted. “Ruckus is puttin’ it mildly, mister. There’s been several shootin’ scrapes, and if it keeps up, somebody’s goin’ to wind up dead. It’s a wonder nobody’s been killed already over there.”

  “Fighting over barbed wire or something, aren’t they? I heard a little about it.”

  “Yeah. I tell you, that stuff is the Devil’s invention, sure enough. Every time it comes into the country, there’s blood spilled. Seems like that, anyway.”

  Frank drank some more coffee and nodded. “Yeah, from what I’ve heard, the big ranchers really don’t like it.”

  “Well . . .” The bartender scratched his jaw. “That ain’t quite the way it is down here. This fight is a mite different.”

  “How’s that?” Frank asked with a frown, still sounding just curious.

  “It’s the big ranchers who brought in the wire. The way they see it, there are too many small spreads startin’ up, as well as too many farmers movin’ in. So a year or two back, they just bought up all the land they could get their hands on and started fencin’ it in. Trouble is, a lot of the little fellas are free-rangers, and they don’t want to be fenced out. So they started cuttin’ the fences.”

  “That’s different, all right,” Frank agreed. In the other range wars that had been fought over barbed wire, the conflict had come about because the smaller ranchers and farmers used the wire to protect their smaller holdings from the cattle barons. Frank was glad he had run into this talkative bartender, who obviously kept up to date on what was going on in the neighboring county. What Frank had learned here in this saloon could turn out to be important information.

  Luke’s letter had said that Tyler Beaumont had been sent to Brown County because he wasn’t known in this part of the state. That could mean only one thing: Beaumont was working undercover. Frank wondered which side he had allied himself with.

  There was only one way to find out. He finished his coffee, dropped a coin on the bar to pay for it, and went back outside. Dog sat on the boardwalk in front of the saloon, keeping an eye on things. He bounded up and wagged his tail when Frank came out of the building. The big cur was ready to be on the move again.

  So was Frank. He pulled the reins loose from the hitch rail and swung up into the saddle. He turned Stormy toward the southwest, figuring that he could make Brownwood by nightfall.

  But he had ridden only a short distance down the street before a harsh voice called sternly, “M
organ! Hold it right there, mister!”

  11

  Frank brought Stormy to a halt and looked over to see that he was in front of a large, two-story building made of tan sandstone blocks. The iron bars in the windows on the second floor told him the building was Comanche’s jail. A man had just stepped out the front door of the place and was now striding toward Frank, a grim expression on his face. He wore a dusty black suit, a black Stetson, a white shirt, and a string tie. His face was lined and weathered, and a gray mustache drooped over his mouth.

  The tin star pinned to the lapel of his coat made it clear that he was a lawman, mostly likely the sheriff of Comanche County.

  “Don’t try anything, Morgan,” he said as he walked up.

  “I wasn’t planning to,” Frank responded calmly. “I was just riding by, Sheriff. I assume you are the sheriff?”

  “Damn right I am. I was at my desk inside when I saw you through the window and recognized you. What are you doing in Comanche County?”

  “Passing through,” Frank said with a shrug. “I stopped for a cup of coffee. No law against that, is there?”

  “There’s a law against gunfighters coming in and shooting up the town,” the lawman snapped.

  Frank’s eyes narrowed. He controlled the anger he felt welling up inside him and kept his voice steady and quiet as he said, “Look at my gun, Sheriff.”

  The man’s eyes dropped to the walnut grips of the Colt. “Yeah? What about it?”

  “It’s in the holster. That’s where it’s been ever since I rode into town, and that’s where I intend for it to stay . . . unless somebody forces me to do otherwise.”

  It was the sheriff’s turn to squint angrily. “Is that a threat, mister?”

  Frank shook his head. “Nope. Just a simple statement of the facts.”

  The two men traded intent looks for a moment, and then the sheriff said, “What’s your business in Comanche?”

  “I told you, I don’t have any.” Frank kept a tight rein on the impatience he felt. “I’m just riding through on my way somewhere else.”