“Let’s go,” Callie said to Frank and Beaumont. “I hope Doc’s got plenty of sticking plaster. You two just about pounded each other into raw meat.”
She was between the two men as they left the saloon. The streets of Brownwood were busy now since the hour was approaching midday. Quite a few people stared at Frank and Beaumont, both of whom bore numerous marks from their battle. Frank could already tell that by tomorrow he would be covered with bruises and would ache all over. Beaumont was in the same shape.
Doc Yantis’s office was upstairs over a drugstore and was reached by a set of steps that climbed the side of the building. The little owl-like medico stood on the landing at the top of the stairs, his coat off and his hands thrust in his pants pockets. He chuckled as Frank, Beaumont, and Callie started up toward him.
“When I heard there was a big ruckus in the Palace, I figured I’d be getting some business soon,” he said. “What did you boys do, light into each other with two-by-fours?”
“They did it with their fists,” Callie said.
“I’ll be surprised if they didn’t bust every bone in their hands,” Doc said with a shake of his head.
Frank had already thought of that. It generally wasn’t a good idea for a gunfighter to indulge in fistfights. He had already flexed his right hand enough to know that there were no broken bones in it, however. That was lucky. He wasn’t sure about the left. He thought he might have cracked a knuckle in that one.
Doc stepped back and ushered them into the office. In a stern voice he cautioned them, “Just in case you two are still holding a grudge against each other, you’d better forget about carrying on your battle up here. I’ll chloroform the both of you if I have to before I treat you.”
“And I’ll help you, Doc,” Callie said as she closed the door behind her.
Frank shook his head. “Don’t worry, the fight’s over. Isn’t that right, Tye? That’s your name, isn’t it?”
Before Beaumont could answer, Callie said, “Oh, stop it. There’s no point in pretending you two don’t know each other. What I want to know is where from.”
Doc raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise while Frank and Beaumont both stared at Callie. She crossed her arms over her ample bosom and looked at them intently. After a moment she snapped, “Well? Spit it out.”
In a surly voice Beaumont said, “What makes you think I know this gunslinger? I never saw him before today.”
“Now that’s just a bald-faced lie,” Callie insisted. “I saw the look that passed between you two when Morgan came into the Palace. And I saw the way you lit into him, Tye. That was a personal fight. Nobody goes after a stranger that way.” She paused and then said, “Actually, more than anything else, it reminded me of the way brothers sometimes fight when there’s something really hurtful between them.”
“We’re not brothers,” Frank said. He didn’t see any point in continuing to deny the relationship between him and Beaumont, not as convinced as Callie was. “But we do know each other. We used to ride together.”
Beaumont’s eyes flicked worriedly to Frank, and Frank knew what he was concerned about. Beaumont thought Frank might say too much and ruin his undercover activities.
He didn’t have to worry about that. Frank had no intention of revealing that Beaumont was really a Texas Ranger. He went on, “We haven’t seen each other for a long time, though.”
“What’s the grudge Tye’s holding against you?” Callie wanted to know.
Frank shrugged. “What do you think? It was all over a woman.”
Pain flashed through Beaumont’s eyes, and Frank knew there was a lot of truth in what he had just said. At least part of the reason Beaumont had jumped him like that was because of what had happened to Victoria. Callie no doubt interpreted Frank’s comment differently, but that was her problem, not his.
“It was a long time ago,” Beaumont said. “I thought I was over it.”
“Didn’t look like it to me,” Callie said.
“I’m willing to put it behind me, though,” Beaumont offered as he put out his hand and looked steadily at Frank.
Frank didn’t hesitate. He took Beaumont’s hand. Both of them winced a little as they squeezed.
“Be careful,” Doc exclaimed. “I haven’t checked those hands for broken bones yet. Now, one of you climb up on my examining table and the other one sit down over there in that chair and wait your turn.”
Frank motioned for Beaumont to go first. He sat down in a straight-backed chair against the wall while Beaumont climbed onto the examining table.
Doc Yantis worked quickly and efficiently, cleaning the scrapes and cuts on Beaumont’s face, swabbing them with antiseptic and covering the worst of them with sticking plaster. He checked for broken bones in the hands and prodded Beaumont’s ribs to make sure none of them were cracked. When he was finished, Beaumont said, “I must look like a wild Indian, the way you painted that stuff all over my face, Doc.”
“Nobody’s going to mistake you for a Comanch’, young man,” Doc said. “Now hop down from the table. Your turn, Morgan.”
Frank underwent the same treatment, and when Doc was through, the sawbones said, “Both of you are very lucky. You might have been laid up for a week, the way you thrashed each other.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t worse than it was,” Frank said. Beaumont nodded in agreement. Frank went on. “Is there a place around here we can get a drink? I’d rather not go back to the Palace right now.”
“You mean you want to have a drink with me?” Beaumont said in surprise.
Frank shrugged. “Why not? We’ve called a truce, haven’t we?”
Callie frowned and said, “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, the two of you sitting down to have a drink together.”
“We’ll be fine,” Frank assured her. “We used to be partners, remember? There won’t be any trouble, will there, Tye?”
Beaumont shook his head. “Not a bit. You’ve got my word on that, Callie.”
“All right, then,” she said reluctantly. “Don’t forget, though, Morgan, your friends are waiting for you at the livery stable.”
“They can wait a few minutes longer. Or they can head back to the Slash D if they want to. I know how to get there.”
“Maybe I should go with you. . . .” Callie offered.
Beaumont shook his head. “We’re all right, really. You can head back to your brother’s ranch if you want.”
She thought it over for a moment and then nodded. “All right. But I don’t want to hear anything later about the two of you shooting each other.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Beaumont told her. “I’m just not about to draw on the famous Frank Morgan.”
There was a mocking, slightly bitter edge to the words. Beaumont hadn’t gotten completely over the emotions that had sent him tearing into Frank earlier. But at least he had taken a step in that direction, Frank thought.
“We’ll go over to Pomp Arnold’s place,” Beaumont went on. “It’s not as big as the Palace, and it won’t be very busy at this time of day.”
Frank nodded. “Sounds good to me.” He reached in his pocket. “How much do we owe you, Doc?”
“Let’s see, four bits apiece for the office visit, plus some plaster and antiseptic . . . Call it a dollar each.”
Frank took out a couple of coins and handed them over. “I’ve got it,” he told Beaumont.
The young Ranger frowned. “I don’t need you to pay my doctor bills.”
“You can get ’em next time,” Frank said with a grin.
“Not gonna be a next time,” Beaumont muttered as they left the office.
Callie went on her way when they reached the street, but not before she gave them a stern warning to behave themselves. The two men started walking toward Pomp Arnold’s saloon, which was right on the square downtown, and as they went, Beaumont said out of the corner of his mouth, “What the hell are you doing here, Frank?”
“Let’s wait until we get that drink,”
Frank suggested. “Then if it’s quiet enough in there, we’ve got a lot to talk about, you and I.”
24
There were a few drinkers in Arnold’s saloon, but Frank and Beaumont were able to get a table in a rear corner where no one was around. By keeping their voices pitched low, they could converse without being overheard. As they talked, they nursed the mugs of beer they had brought over from the bar.
“So, Frank, what are you doing here?” Beaumont began.
“Luke Perkins wrote to me and told me you’d been sent down here to do a job.” Frank didn’t mention the Texas Rangers by name, just in case anyone was trying to eavesdrop, even though he didn’t think that was the case. “I came to see if I could help.”
Beaumont frowned at him. “Let me get this straight. You rode all the way down here from wherever you were just to lend me a hand?”
“After Dixie died,” Frank said, “I might have given up if it hadn’t been for you, Tyler. You helped get me through those bad times. You know that as well as I do.” He took a sip of his beer. “I couldn’t get you through your bad times, not under the circumstances. But maybe I can do something for you now.”
Beaumont stared down into his beer for a long moment before he said, “For a while there I hated you.”
“I know,” Frank said quietly.
“Victoria . . .” Beaumont had to stop and take a deep breath as emotion threatened to overwhelm him. “Victoria tried to tell me it wasn’t your fault. She doesn’t hate you.”
Frank closed his eyes for a second in relief. What Beaumont had just told him meant a great deal to him.
“I figured I’d get over it in time,” the young Ranger went on. “But every time I looked at her and knew she’d be stuck in that chair for the rest of her life, just like she was locked up in prison, I hated you all over again for your part in what happened. I told myself that Ferguson was really to blame, him and that crazy kid with him, but then I’d think that if you hadn’t been there, none of it would have happened.”
“That’s a fair statement,” Frank allowed.
“Victoria told me that if a man was trying to climb a mountain and fell off and died, it wasn’t the mountain’s fault. That made sense. I could wrap my mind around that idea. But it didn’t make the feelings go away. It didn’t make things any easier.”
“That usually takes time.”
Beaumont nodded. “I know. And I’ve got to admit, when I first saw you walk into McKelvey’s, the first thing I thought other than being surprised was that I was glad to see you. Then I started remembering what happened to Victoria, and how mad I was at you, and it sort of all came back and just swelled up inside me until I thought I was going to bust.”
Frank touched one of the bruises on his jaw and smiled. “It busted out, all right.”
“Yeah. I went loco, no doubt about that. But I’m not sorry. I think I needed to get it all out like that.”
“You don’t need to apologize to me,” Frank said. “And I won’t insult you by saying we’re all square now. I know that a few punches can’t make up for what happened.”
“But it’s a start,” Beaumont said. “And now that I’ve calmed down . . . well, damn it, I’m glad to see you, Frank. I really am.”
Frank nodded. What Beaumont was saying filled him with hope that eventually everything would be all right between them again. In the meantime, he had no doubt that the truce would hold and enable them to work together to quell the war that was about to explode in Brown County.
“Maybe we better talk about what’s going on around here,” Frank suggested.
Beaumont leaned forward. “All hell’s about to break loose, that’s what’s going on,” he said. “And the bad part is, I’m not sure which side is in the right. Duggan and the other big ranchers have the law behind them, but what they’re doing with those fences . . . well, it just doesn’t seem fair.”
“The same thought occurred to me,” Frank said.
“But you’re working for Duggan.”
“That’s just how things happened to work out. I came to Brown County looking for you, remember? The way it seems to me, we’re in good shape because between us we’re in both camps. If we pool our knowledge, we’ll know what both sides are planning.”
“And maybe we can keep them from killing each other.”
“My thought exactly,” Frank agreed.
“Rawlings and some of the others think they should be cutting more fences.”
“And Duggan has threatened to kill anybody he catches doing that. I figure he’ll have his men start patrolling the fence lines even more than they already are. The next dark night there could be a lot of trouble.”
Beaumont sighed. “I’ll try to talk some sense into Rawlings and his bunch. I already suggested they might be able to work out some sort of deal with the big ranchers.”
Frank smiled faintly and said, “I don’t imagine that went over too well.”
“Not hardly. None of them have the money to make any kind of financial arrangement. And hotheads like Rawlings would rather fight than negotiate their way out of trouble, anyway.”
“Sometimes a fella has to fight,” Frank pointed out. “Sometimes if you just sit around and talk and talk, the trouble just gets worse and even more folks die than would have if you’d taken action. But some people just can’t seem to understand that.”
“I’m not saying I don’t agree with you, Frank, but my job is to stop trouble, not start it.”
Frank nodded. “I know. And I’ll help you any way I can.”
“Try to convince Duggan that shooting isn’t the answer. That’ll be hard to do with an old-timer like him, who’s always had to fight just to get by, but I’m hoping that if everybody will just calm down, the worst of the trouble will blow over.”
Frank had his doubts about that. Trouble hardly ever went away on its own.
He changed the subject somewhat by asking, “What do you know about McKelvey?”
Beaumont frowned in puzzlement. “Ace McKelvey? I know he owns the Palace Saloon, but that’s about all.”
“He’s not on either side in the fight?”
“Hell, no. He goes out of his way to stay neutral. It doesn’t seem to be working, though. You heard Duggan. That’s one thing he and Rawlings can agree on, that McKelvey’s going to have to choose sides. That’ll be true of everybody in Brownwood if this goes on.”
“And both sides say folks are either with them or against them,” Frank murmured.
“Yeah. Why do you ask about McKelvey?”
“Because when that ruckus broke out in his place, for a second he looked pleased about it, even though some of his furniture was about to get busted up.”
Beaumont shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would McKelvey want the two sides to fight when he’s been trying so hard to stay out of it?”
“Has he really?” Frank asked. “Both sides drink in the Palace on a regular basis, from what I’m told. Who would be in a better position to sort of stir the pot every now and then than McKelvey? All it would take is an innocent-seeming prod here and there, and all the while he’s pretending to want peace.”
“That just doesn’t make sense,” Beaumont insisted. “You’re basing your whole idea on one quick glance, Frank, and that doesn’t have to mean anything. There’s no reason for McKelvey to want to stir up trouble.”
“You’re right,” Frank said with a nod. “It doesn’t make sense. Guess I was just grasping at straws.”
But despite what he told the young Ranger, he wasn’t going to forget about Ace McKelvey. He was still convinced the saloon keeper warranted keeping an eye on. . . .
“What about Chris Kane?” Frank went on. “You worked with him. Is he just a hothead, like Rawlings?”
“Pretty much. He’s really not a bad sort, though, when he doesn’t lose his temper. He didn’t come to town to make trouble and swap lead with Skeet Harlan. He just wanted to fetch the doc to help Will Bramlett. Of course, it was
too late for that, but still, Chris had to try.”
Frank’s eyes narrowed. “Harlan’s a snake,” he declared flatly.
“Damn right,” Beaumont agreed without hesitation. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s wanted somewhere under another name. I never saw anybody with eyes like that.”
“I have,” Frank said. “John Wesley Hardin. Always ready to kill, and he doesn’t need much of an excuse.”
“If Kane dies, Rawlings and his crowd are liable to go on the rampage, trying to settle the score for him.”
Frank drank the last of his beer. “And if he lives, Duggan will press to have him put on trial. You ever heard the old saying about being between a rock and a hard place?”
“Sure.”
“I’d say that’s where Chris Kane is right now.” Frank paused and then added, “In fact, I’d say that’s pretty much where we all are.”
* * *
They parted company after agreeing on a spot where they could rendezvous from time to time, an old cave on Blanket Creek where an Indian camp had once been located. It was on land belonging to a rancher named Binnion, who had so far stayed out of the dispute over barbed-wire fences. They would meet there every third night if possible to swap information about what the two sides were planning to do next.
Frank walked down to the livery stable to pick up Stormy. Duggan and MacDonald were already gone, and the old-timer who ran the place told Frank that they had returned to the Slash D.
“Earl was a mite unhappy with you, too, young feller,” the liveryman added. “He don’t like to be kept waitin’.”
Frank wasn’t sure how long it had been since anybody had referred to him as “young feller.” He didn’t feel very young, that was for sure. He thanked the old-timer, swung up into the saddle, and rode out of Brownwood.
He wasn’t worried about whether or not Duggan was mad at him. If Duggan fired him, it wouldn’t be a catastrophe. On the other hand, Frank wanted to continue riding for the Slash D until he and Beaumont had come up with a plan to put an end to the violence in the county.
He followed the road southwest out of town toward Zephyr and Goldthwaite and then veered off on the trail that led to the Slash D. Most of the countryside was low rolling hills, but some shallow rocky bluffs reared up here and there. Frank was passing one of them when he saw a sudden glint of light from a patch of brush on top of the bluff.
Violent Sunday Page 18
