“Wrap your gums around that, you worthless, bowlegged waddies,” Wing said, sounding more like a native Texan than a Chinaman. “When you get done, there’s biscuits and honey.”
Frank enjoyed the meal. It had been a while since he had experienced the camaraderie of being part of a ranch crew. When he was growing up, that was the only world he had known, but life had taken him on much different trails than what he might have expected as a youth.
Wing went around the table, seeing that the men had all they wanted to eat. He paused by Frank’s chair and said, “That dog of yours is out by the cookshack, Mr. Morgan. I gave him a ham bone.”
“I’m much obliged for that,” Frank said. “And I’m sure Dog is, too.”
“That’s his name—Dog?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you call your horse Horse?”
Frank grinned. “Sometimes. One I’m riding now, though, is named Stormy.”
Wing returned the grin and started to turn away, but Frank stopped him with a question.
“How are the two boys who got shot last night doing this morning?”
Wing’s expression grew more serious. “Dave is sleeping soundly. He was awake a while ago. He’s in some pain, of course, but seems to be doing about as well as can be expected. Pitch is asleep, too, but I’m sure he’ll wake up soon, and then he’ll insist he’s all right and can do a regular day’s work. I told Mr. Duggan he might have to hog-tie Pitch to keep him off that wounded leg.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Frank said. He regarded the Chinese majordomo intently. “You’ve been up all night, haven’t you?”
“There’ll be time for sleep later,” Wing replied.
Frank nodded in understanding. A true Westerner did what had to be done, and he suspected that Wing fit that definition, no matter what the color of his skin.
Earl Duggan came into the dining room and sat down to eat with his men. A short time later, hoofbeats rattled outside the house, making everyone look up from the table. Duggan tossed his napkin down and got to his feet, adjusting the gun belt around his waist as he did so. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting any early morning visitors.
As Frank glanced around at the tough, gun-hung crew of punchers, he thought that if the rider was looking for trouble, he was liable to get more than he bargained for with this bunch. The ambush the night before had everybody on edge and ready to fight.
Duggan started toward the door, but without seeming to hurry, Frank was on his feet and there before the rancher. Frank put out a hand and said quietly, “Better wait a minute, Boss, and let me take a look first.” In times of trouble, more than one man had gone to his front door and gotten a bullet for his trouble.
Duggan jerked his head from side to side and rasped, “I don’t hide behind nobody, not even a fast gun like you, Morgan.” With that, he jerked the door open and stepped out onto the porch.
Frank was right behind him, just in case.
The man who was swinging down from his saddle in front of the house didn’t look like he was hunting trouble, though. He was tall and lean and wore a sober black suit. The light that came through the open door of the house glittered on the badge pinned to his coat lapel. He looked up at Duggan and gave the rancher a friendly nod.
“Mornin’, Earl,” he said.
“You’re out early, Sheriff,” Duggan said.
“I’ve got some news I thought you might like to know about.”
“You could have called me on the phone. We’ve got a line strung out here now, you know.”
The lawman shook his head. Like Duggan, he had white hair and a weathered face. If not for the fact that he was a little taller and much slimmer, they could have been two peas in a pod.
“I don’t use that newfangled thingamabob unless I have to. I like to look at a man when I’m talkin’ to him, especially if I’ve got something important to say.”
“Then I reckon this must be important.”
“It is. I’ve got Chris Kane locked up in my jail this mornin’.”
Duggan’s nostrils flared with anger. “That damn fence-cutter—”
The sheriff raised a hand to stop him just in case Duggan was about to launch into a rant. “I didn’t lock him up on account of that, although I reckon I could have.”
“Then he’s behind bars because it was some of his friends who bushwhacked four of my riders last night?”
“No, I don’t know who was responsible for that.”
Duggan grunted. “Kane won’t talk, eh?”
“Kane can’t talk. He hasn’t regained consciousness since Skeet Harlan shot him three times last night.”
Frank had been lounging with his shoulder against the door jamb. He straightened at the mention of the deputy’s name. Remembering the viciousness he had seen lurking in Harlan’s watery eyes, he wasn’t surprised to hear that the man had shot somebody.
“Kane went for his gun first,” the sheriff went on. “At least, that’s the way Harlan tells it, and I don’t have any reason not to believe him. If he did, it was a damned fool stunt, because he never had a chance against Harlan.”
“I’m surprised Kane’s not dead,” Duggan said.
“He may be yet. Doc Yantis didn’t know whether he’d make it or not. He didn’t want him moved, though, so we left Kane in jail. If he recovers, he’ll go on trial for trying to kill Harlan. I can charge him with attempting to cut your fence, too, even though from what I hear, he never quite got around to it.”
“Damn right I want him charged,” Duggan snapped. “What about that ambush?”
The sheriff shook his head. “We’ll have to wait and see if I can find out more about that. I just thought you might want to know about Kane . . . seein’ as how he once rode for you and all.”
Duggan waved that off with a curt gesture. “I don’t care about that now. Kane up and quit me. Whatever happens to him is his own lookout.”
“Fair enough.” The lawman started to turn back to his horse.
“Wait a minute, J.C.,” Duggan said. “You’ve ridden all the way out here. Why don’t you come inside and have some breakfast? There’s plenty of food, and Wing can put on another pot of coffee if he needs to.”
The sheriff smiled and looped the reins around the hitching post. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said.
“And afterwards, I’ll ride back into town with you. I want to have a look at Kane and maybe talk to him if he’s come to. He’ll tell me who was responsible for that ambush. I had two men wounded.”
“I know,” the sheriff said as he stepped up onto the porch. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea letting you question my prisoners, though, Earl. I’m still the sheriff of Brown County, not you.”
There was enough crisp irritation in the lawman’s voice so that Duggan nodded and said, “Didn’t mean to poke in where I’m not wanted. I just want to get to the bottom of this.”
“So do I,” the sheriff assured him. As they started inside, the lawman glanced at Frank and asked, “New man?”
Duggan nodded. “Yeah. Meet Frank Morgan. Frank, this is Sheriff J.C. Wilmott.”
“Morgan!” Wilmott exclaimed as he came to a sudden stop. “The one they call the Drifter?”
“That’s right,” Frank said as he put out his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Sheriff.”
Wilmott shook hands, but he looked suspicious. “You ain’t aimin’ to cause trouble around here, are you, Morgan?”
“I never aim to cause trouble, Sheriff.”
“But you damned sure don’t run away from it, neither.”
“When the Good Lord made me, He didn’t put a lot of backup in me.”
“But from what I hear He sure stubbed His toe when he was puttin’ in the gun speed and the sharp eye. You’re ridin’ for the Slash D now, Morgan?”
“That’s right.”
“Just what this county needed,” the sheriff muttered as he headed for the table. “One more stick o’ dynamite, with the fuse just a-sputterin’.”
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20
Simon Clark, who was a lay minister, said the necessary words over Will Bramlett’s grave, and then Beaumont and Gladwell took turns shoveling the dirt back in. Beaumont had knocked together a crude coffin from some lumber in the barn before starting on the grave. The thudding of dirt clods on the coffin’s wooden top was one of the most mournful sounds in the world, Beaumont thought.
With that grim chore attended to, he saddled his horse and joined the others for the ride into Brownwood.
Al Rawlings was impatient to get there and had chafed at the delay as they finished the job of burying Bramlett. Clark and Gladwell had insisted, though. Beaumont couldn’t tell how Callie Stratton felt, other than being upset. She was still acting more restrained than usual.
The sun was well up in the morning sky by the time they rode through Early, a little settlement a few miles east of Brownwood. A couple of men were lounging in front of the town’s only store. They raised their hands in a signal for the riders to halt.
“You look like you’re fixin’ to cloud up and rain all over somebody, Al,” one of the men said to Rawlings. “Where are you headed?”
“We’re going to the Brown County jail,” Rawlings replied. “Chris Kane was shot last night, and now they’ve got him locked up. We intend to make sure he’s bein’ treated right.”
“Yeah, we heard something about that,” the other man said. “You want some company?”
Rawlings jerked his head in a curt nod. “Sure, come along. The bigger group we have, the better. That way anybody’ll think twice about trying anything funny.”
By this time Beaumont had recognized the two men as Clay Harrell and Ben Mullins. They owned small spreads down toward Zephyr and were part of the informal group opposed to the big ranchers. Harrell mounted up while Mullins said, “If there’s gonna be a showdown, somebody needs to ride around the county and spread the word. I can do that.”
“Good idea,” Rawlings agreed. “Tell everybody on our side to meet at the Palace as soon as they can get into town. We’ll go there after we’ve been to the jail to check on Kane.”
Mullins nodded and bounded into his saddle. He wheeled his horse and raced off while the others proceeded at a more deliberate pace toward Brownwood.
Beaumont didn’t like what he had just heard. If all the small ranchers and farmers came into town and got together, they might decide to take Chris Kane out of the jail, even though he was wounded and probably in no shape to be moved. In their anger and resentment, they might not think about that. Beaumont couldn’t allow a raid on the jail. A rescue attempt would be just as illegal as a lynching.
Maybe it wouldn’t come to that, the young Ranger thought. Surely even a hothead like Rawlings had more sense.
The tall clock tower—which didn’t have a clock in it—of the Brown County Courthouse came into view. A few minutes later the riders came to the wooden bridge over Pecan Bayou. The hooves of their horses clopped loudly on the planks as they crossed. The road curved up ahead and led to the downtown area. Folks at houses and businesses along the way began to notice the riders as they passed. Beaumont heard excited shouts behind them. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw people on horseback and in wagons following them. Quite a procession was forming, in fact.
If there was going to be trouble, the townspeople wanted to be on hand to witness it. It was a human quality dating all the way back to the old Roman days and probably before that, Beaumont thought. Nobody wanted to miss the excitement, even if blood and death might be involved.
Especially if blood and death might be involved, he amended with a slight bitter quirk of his mouth.
Someone must have seen them coming and dashed ahead to the jail, because several of Sheriff Wilmott’s deputies were out in front of the sandstone building by the time the group of riders reached it. A couple of the lawmen had shotguns tucked under their arms.
Beaumont didn’t see the sheriff himself, and he wondered where Wilmott was. There was no sign of Marshal Keever or Skeet Harlan, either, but that came as no real surprise. Chris Kane had been turned over to the sheriff, so Wilmott had authority over him now, not the two town lawmen.
One of the deputies stepped forward as the riders reined in. His attitude seemed easy enough on the surface, but there was a definite undercurrent of tension in the air. The deputy nodded and said, “Morning, boys.” He tugged the brim of his hat as he looked at Callie Stratton. “Ma’am. What can we do for y’all?”
“We want to see Chris Kane,” Rawlings said. His voice was harsh with dislike.
“Kane’s locked up,” the deputy said.
“We know that, damn it.”
“And he’s been shot,” the deputy went on. “He doesn’t need to be disturbed. You better let him rest. You folks can come back later.”
“We’d like to see him now,” Clark said.
“We want to be sure he’s all right,” Gladwell added.
“That’s right,” Rawlings snapped. “There’s no telling what kind of treatment he’s been gettin’ here.”
That made the deputy bristle. “Nobody’s been mistreating him, if that’s what you’re getting at, Rawlings. Doc Yantis patched him up last night, and the doc’s been back by to check on him this morning. Nobody could do any more than that for him.”
“There was no reason for Skeet Harlan to shoot him three times!”
“You’ll have to take that up with Skeet,” the deputy said coolly. “From what I heard, Kane went for his gun first, so he doesn’t have much room to complain about what happened.”
Rawlings edged his horse forward, crowding the deputy. “Are you gonna let us see Kane or not?” he demanded.
The lawman started to swing the barrels of the shotgun up toward Rawlings. “I told you, you can’t go in there—”
The other deputies were bringing their Greeners to bear, too, and Rawlings, Clark, Gladwell, and Harrell were sliding their hands toward their guns. Callie had a gun belt strapped around her hips, too, and she closed her fingers around the butt of the Colt sticking up from the holster. If there was a gunfight, she planned to be part of it.
Beaumont saw all that and knew what was about to happen. He couldn’t just stand by and let blood be spilled in the streets of Brownwood. He would have to speak up and tell everyone involved that he was a Texas Ranger....
“Hold it!”
The shouted command came from behind the riders. They looked around to see another group of men on horseback trotting quickly toward them. The order had come from a white-haired man in a black suit who rode in the front of the bunch. A sheriff’s badge glittered on his lapel.
Beaumont felt relief wash through him. He recognized Sheriff Wilmott and knew the grizzled old lawman would put a stop to the trouble that was brewing, at least for the time being. Beaumont wouldn’t have to reveal his identity as a Ranger after all.
That was when Beaumont’s gaze strayed to the men riding with Wilmott, and he got the shock of his life. Earl Duggan was just behind the sheriff, and riding beside Duggan was one of the last men Beaumont would have ever expected to see here.
Frank Morgan.
* * *
Following breakfast at the Slash D, Duggan had repeated his intention of riding back to Brownwood with the sheriff. Frank had saddled Stormy, and Ed MacDonald had gotten one of the horses from his string ready to ride, as well as saddling Duggan’s mount. Then the four men had started along the road that led to town.
There hadn’t been much conversation along the way. Wilmott evidently wasn’t a talkative man by nature, and the other three tended toward the taciturn as well. The relative silence didn’t bother Frank. He was nearly always comfortable with his own thoughts.
When they rode into Brownwood and approached the county jail, Frank’s keen eyes were the first to spot a crowd gathering in front of the building. “Looks like some sort of trouble going on up there,” he said.
“Damned if you’re not right, Morgan.” The sheriff spurred his hors
e into a trot. “Come on!”
As they hurried along the street toward the jail, Frank saw that several riders appeared to be confronting a handful of deputies in front of the lockup. One of them had long red hair under a brown Stetson. Callie Stratton, Frank decided. There might be another woman in Brown County who dressed like a man and had hair that color, but somehow Frank doubted it.
As they drew nearer, he recognized Callie’s brother, Al Rawlings, too. The men with them were probably small ranchers or farmers. He wondered if they were there because of Chris Kane. That seemed to be the most likely explanation.
Seeing that gunplay was about to break out, Sheriff Wilmott yelled, “Hold it!” Everyone in front of the jail turned to look at the newcomers. . . .
Frank felt the shock of recognition almost like a physical blow. One of the men confronting the deputies was Tyler Beaumont.
The young Ranger hadn’t changed in the months since Frank had seen him. Well, he might look a little older, Frank decided. Beaumont had been through a lot. It wasn’t surprising that some of the strain showed on his face.
Beaumont looked even more startled to see Frank. That was understandable. Frank had known Beaumont was somewhere in the area. Finding him was why he had come to Brown County in the first place. Beaumont, on the other hand, had had no idea Frank was within a hundred miles of Brownwood.
Frank kept his face expressionless as he reined in and sat there with Wilmott, Duggan, and Ed MacDonald. The sheriff demanded in a loud voice, “What in blazes is going on here?”
“We want to see Chris Kane,” Rawlings said. He glared past Wilmott at Frank. “Nobody—not even Duggan’s hired gun—is going to stop us.”
“The law’s going to stop you,” Wilmott snapped. “I’ll be damned if anybody tells me how to run my jail, and I say you and your friends ain’t goin’ in, Rawlings.”
Violent Sunday Page 15
