Manhunt

by William W. Johnstone

  “I don’t believe I do,” Frank said.

  “Suit yourself.” The dandy shrugged. “Just trying to earn a little extra gambling money.”

  Lofton’s men moved off to the left and picked up a long cord that was attached to the lids of both quail boxes so they’d both come off at the same time. “Mind the crowd and careful where you’re shootin’, boys,” the line judge barked. “Ready?”

  Each man focused his attention on the box in front of him. Each gave a slow, deliberate nod.

  On Lofton’s command, the two assistants tugged on the cord and the flat lids slid off the two boxes.

  Frank watched a half-dozen quail explode out of the box on his side with a drumming flurry of beating wings.

  His Peacemaker was out of the holster before the last bird cleared the box. He cut down two as they flew up and away from the cheering crowd. Another hapless bird tried to zip straight up in the air. Morgan sent him tumbling back into the box he came out of. One of the quail locked its wings and glided toward Lofton. Frank pulled up to keep from winging more than the bird. By the time he was able to get back on target the other two birds were safely out of range.

  Frank shrugged and returned his Colt to the holster. He’d been concentrating so intently on his own targets he had no idea how his competition had done.

  “I let three get away.” Morgan watched the remaining birds lock their wings and glide away until they were nothing more than dark specks on the prairie.

  “Three birds on the wing with a pistol.” Beaumont slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s some fancy shootin’”

  Morgan tapped the butt of his Colt in frustration. “I still let three slip away.”

  “So did he.” Beaumont hooked a thumb at the dandy. “And you put one back in the box.”

  Ferguson tipped his fancy hat. The boy’s cheeks were flushed from excitement. His narrow eyes had the gloat of youth. “You are a remarkable shootist, Mr. Morgan, but from the looks of things we may have to cut the prize in half. The great Drifter may have finally met his match. It seems I may be equally as good.”

  “You may be at that.” Morgan shrugged.

  Lofton sauntered up to the line in front of Frank. He had the quail boxes stacked in his hands, resting against the belly of his overalls over his gun belt. He didn’t look happy to give up his prize pistol, but he was clearly impressed with the shooting display. “I gotta say, I’m surprised. But it appears we got us a winner, folks,” he yelled at the crowd.

  “What do you mean a winner?” Ferguson jerked off his hat and balled up his fists like a spoiled kid. “We both got three birds. I’d call that flat even.”

  Lofton took a few steps over to the dandy. “That you did, son.” He reached into Ferguson’s box and scooped out three tattered bobwhites and tossed them at the young dandy’s feet. The huge forty-five caliber balls of lead had reduced the bodies to ragged bits of bloody skin and brown feathers. He moved back over to Frank and counted the birds out of his box in front of him.

  “You both got three birds.” Lofton grinned at the pressing crowd, shaking his head in disbelief. “But this feller left his edible.”

  Each of Frank’s quail lay at his feet intact, the heads neatly clipped from the bodies. Ferguson strode over, crushing his hat in his hands while he studied the quail.

  The dandy stood and replaced his hat, staring daggers at Morgan and the line judge. “This is an insult. You never said a word about this in the rules. It’s a draw, damn you.” His hand tapped the handle of his pistol.

  Frank raised an eyebrow and got ready. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this.

  Lofton shook his head and raised a thick hand. “Boy, you listen to me. It’s obvious who the better shooter is. And I told you from the get-go, all my decisions are final.” The fat man’s eyes grew dark. “Now, you listen here, youngster. You done good—better than almost every man here. Be happy about that. If you push this you’re liable to end up all shot up like those birds of yours. Got it?”

  Morgan shot a glance at the shotgun-wielding men in the tower. Each had his weapon trained at Ferguson. It didn’t seem to occur to them that at that range, the blasts would kill or maim half-a-dozen bystanders as well. Frank studied the sneering men more closely and decided they just didn’t care.

  Ferguson’s chest heaved with barely penned anger. Black eyes flitted back and forth while he worked out his options. At length he spit on the ground at Lofton’s feet.

  “This isn’t the end of it,” he hissed, catching Morgan’s eye as well. “Not by a long shot it’s not.” A moment later, he pushed his way into the crowd without a backward glance.

  “I didn’t figure him for a fool,” Lofton said as he watched the dandy go. “They always gotta say something tough like that, don’t they?”

  Frank shrugged. “I reckon they generally do. But I think this one means it.”

  * * *

  Later, Tyler Beaumont looked on while Morgan packed the fancy new pistol in a scrap of oilcloth and stuffed it in his saddlebags. “That Ferguson boy was giving you some mighty strong stink-eye before he disappeared. I’d watch him if I were you.” The Ranger scratched his forehead. “How’d you do that, Frank?”

  “I aimed for the eyes. It’s the same as flock-shootin’ for ducks. If you aim at all of them, you’re more than likely to hit nothing but air. When you go to face a man, put that front sight on a button or a pocket watch—not the whole caboodle. You won’t miss by much. I aimed at the eye and got lucky and hit the head. Ferguson just aimed at the bird.”

  “You are feelin’ better.”

  Frank smiled. “As a matter of fact, I feel right and fit as a fiddle. But I’m smart enough to know I’ve only got so many years left in me. A bandit can only cheat the gallows so many times, and so it goes with a gunman and a bullet.”

  “Morgan, I do believe you’re gettin’ poetic in your old age.”

  “I reckon dyin’ twice will do that to a man.” He slapped Beaumont on the back and handed him the folded telegram. “Take a look at this.”

  The Ranger took off his hat and held the paper out so he could read it in the failing light.

  TO: FRANK MORGAN, AMARILLO, TEXAS

  FROM: MERCY MONFORE, WEATHERFORD, TEXAS

  DEAR FRANKIE STOP NEED YOUR HELP STOP KNOW YOU’VE BEEN SICK BUT PLEASE COME HOME AS SOON AS YOU ARE ABLE STOP FEAR MY FAMILY IS IN JEAPORDY STOP WATCH YOURSELF STOP THINGS ALL MIXED UP HERE STOP WANT YOU TO MEET MY DAUGHTER STOP SHE HAS YOUR TEMPER END

  “Whew!” Beaumont handed him back the telegram. “Who is this Mercy Monfore?”

  “A girl.” Frank paused, remembering. “A woman I knew years ago.”

  “What do you aim to do?”

  Morgan stared off at the low sun and took a deep breath. The wind was dying down a little with the evening and he found he could think a little clearer without it whirring against his ears. He was just deciding for sure himself. “I’m going to Parker County and check this out,” he finally said. “If you’re comin’, you best get a saddle on that mean little beast you call a horse.”

  6

  Two days after they crossed the Red River, Beaumont noticed a loose shoe on his bay’s hind foot. It was late afternoon, and a gentle breeze rustled the dark leaves on the thick stands of post oak along the old wagon road. The air had warmed considerably after they left the open country around Amarillo, and tiny bugs floated in thick swarms along the road. Tiny brown tweet-birds flitted and chattered in the thick tangles of briars and new spring underbrush.

  Morgan stood in the stirrups and stretched, scanning the rolling hills around him. The miles had been hard on his old bones, but he could feel the life coming back to his muscles. A half a mile ahead, a cloud of several hundred red-winged black birds rose in unison like a dark wave from the green canopy of trees only to settle back a few seconds later. Their chirps and fluttering wings carried on the light wind.

  Morgan studied the spot. Someone else was on the road ahead of them. He could
n’t tell if they were coming or going, but something, or more likely someone, had disturbed the flock of birds. He glanced around for Dog, but the cur was nowhere to be found. Probably hot on the trail of some rabbit or green-tailed lizard. That was the trouble with Dog. He was fiercely loyal when he happened to be around, but he led his own life and went where his old nose took him. Morgan couldn’t fault him for that; it was a quality they both shared.

  “I’m still thinkin’ a nice bed at a good hotel would be the way to go,” Beaumont mumbled, stooping under his horse with a mouth full of horseshoe nails. “I never did cotton much to sleeping on the ground.”

  “Know what you mean,” Morgan said. He popped his neck to one side and then the other, still keeping a watchful eye on the road ahead. “But I’d prefer to steer clear of towns for a few days while I get my legs back under me. I’d like to ease into things.”

  Beaumont cleaned the hoof, replaced the loose shoe, and tapped the nails in one by one, ringing the sharp ends off as he went with the claw of his hammer.

  “You’re pretty good at that.” Morgan nodded his approval at the shoeing job. “Ever think of taking up the profession? It’s not near as dangerous as this lawman stuff.”

  Beaumont set the clinches on all eight nails and set the foot back down, rolling his shoulders to relax them from the recent effort. “You think horseshoeing is safe?” He pulled back his shirt collar to show a jagged white scar shaped like a six-inch smile, just below his neck. “My granddaddy told me horseshoeing was good business for a short man like me.” Beaumont walked around the bay and picked up each foot in turn, checking the shoes while he had his tools out. “So, I took him at his word. I was shoeing a big sorrel mare that belonged to an old widow woman outside of Kerrville. The widow woman wasn’t the nicest person I ever come across, and the mare took all her personality from the old bag. Damned horse picked me up with her teeth and threw me across the barn. Nearly took my head off. I told that widow woman right there I would have to shoot the horse between the eyes to get her shod.” He smiled and patted his bay on the rump. “But then, I told her, I could guarantee the shoes would stay on for eight weeks.”

  Morgan chuckled. “I see your point.”

  Beaumont stuffed the hammer and clinch block back in his saddlebag. “No, sir, Frank, I don’t mind tellin’ you, I’d as soon be in a runnin’ gun battle with a dozen Mexican bandits as shoe someone else’s horse anymore. It just ain’t worth . . .”

  Frank raised an open hand. “Just an observation. Didn’t know I’d stirred up a hornet’s nest on the subject.” He dismounted and dug around in his saddlebags for a small pot. They’d forgone the use of a packhorse, wanting to make better time, so he didn’t have room for a proper coffeepot. Instead he’d settled for a small pan that held no more than three cups of water.

  “What do you say we have us a cup or two?” Morgan held up the little pot. “I find that a good cup of coffee will generally chase most unpleasantness out of my head—even thoughts about horseshoeing.”

  Both men loosened the girths on their mounts to give the animals a little breather.

  Beaumont gathered some small oak branches for a fire while Morgan got the water ready to boil. The fire was just beginning to burn well when four horsemen came ambling up the road toward them at a slow walk. Morgan cut his eyes to Beaumont and both men stood to watch as the newcomers approached.

  “If it ain’t the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” the Ranger said under his breath as the men drew closer.

  Morgan spit on the ground beside him and nodded slowly at the comment. “Apocalypse maybe, but I’ll show ’em Hell if they interrupt my coffee with anything shady.”

  The four men approached tentatively, scanning the road ahead of them, turning often to check their back trail. All carried their hands loosely at their sides, but each had a pistol at his hip and a rifle or shotgun in the scabbard at his side. The leader had a short-barreled coach gun in a wallet holster across the pommel of his saddle. It was canted at such an angle that if it happened to go off at the wrong moment, it might hit his own mount in the neck.

  The men were obviously saddle tramps. Their ragged clothes were cobbled together from whatever they could beg or steal. The leader, or at least the man who rode point, straddled a flea-bitten gray bag of bones that looked as though it hadn’t seen an oat or speck of corn in months. Ribs stuck out like slats on a feed bunk, and the poor animal’s hip bones jutted out to show oozing sores. A swarm of flies buzzed around the horse’s rheumy eyes and bent, Roman nose.

  The lead rider wore a gray homespun jacket with a huge tear along the left side where a pocket used to be. A wilted hat with a matching rip in the brim covered a nest of matted brown locks. In fact, every inch of clothing the man wore was torn or damaged in some fashion or another. Even the sole of his right boot had separated from the boot itself and flapped absurdly at the stirrup as he rode. Morgan decided to call this one Rip, no matter what his name was. The way he and the others were eyeing Stormy and the bay, there was bound to be some trouble.

  “Evening, gents.” Rip tipped his torn hat and crossed his hands across the saddle horn. The leather wrap around the horn had come loose, and hung like a lazy snake in a loose coil between the shotgun wallet and the scuffed pommel. “You fixin’ to make some coffee?”

  “We were at that,” Morgan said. These men were looking for something to take offense at; Morgan couldn’t see any reason to waste time giving something. “My pot’s a little on the small side, I’m afraid, so, you boys’ll have to wet your whistles elsewhere. We only got enough for two.”

  Rip’s face darkened. He sat up straighter in the saddle. “Well, that’s might un-neighborly of you, mister.”

  “Just statin’ a fact,” Morgan said, nodding at the small pot. “I’ve never been much of one to tiptoe around the point. I’d be much obliged if you would just state your business straight out. That way me and my friend here don’t have to go guessin’ at it.” Morgan’s hand hovered above his Colt. He didn’t have to look to know Beaumont had adopted the same posture.

  Rip grinned, showing a mouth half full of yellowed teeth, and threw a glance over his shoulder at his compatriots. “This beats it all, don’t it, boys. We ain’t gonna be able to pull one over on these two, that’s for shore.” The three others nodded and laughed behind him. One, who was just as filthy and tattered, but looked as though he wasn’t a day over fourteen, rolled one eye and giggled like a maniac until Rip gave him a withering stare. “Shut the hell up, Boudreaux.”

  Rip turned back to Morgan and shrugged. “You guessed right, partner. We want your clothes and your horses. As you can see, ours are plumb worn out.” The three outlaws behind him suddenly fanned out to make themselves more difficult targets. “Now, both of you, take it easy with those shooters of yours. Get them hands up high. There’s six of us and two of you. That ain’t very good odds.”

  “Six?” Beaumont said, raising his hands even with his ears. “My eyes must be goin’.”

  Rip’s lips pulled back in a victorious smirk and he shook his head back and forth. “Of course you don’t see six, you stupid bastard. That’s ’cause two of my men are hiding in the bushes yonder with rifles pointed at your brain buckets right this very minute.”

  “That a fact?” Morgan said.

  “Damn right it’s a fact. Now both of you step out of them clothes. I fancy that nice blue shirt you got on there, boy.” Rip nodded at the cinco-peso Ranger badge. “That little trinket might come in handy down the road. Them short-legged britches of yourn will likely fit Boudreaux. Hurry up and shuck ’em off.”

  “Yeah.” Boudreaux began to giggle again like a crazed bird. “Hurry up and shuck off them britches.”

  “I told you to shut your mouth, Boudy,” Rip snapped. “Can’t you see I’m workin’ here?”

  Neither Morgan or Beaumont moved a muscle.

  “You boys got mud in your ears or sumthin’?” Rip swelled up like a filthy toad. “I said shuck off
them clothes.”

  “Don’t believe I will,” Morgan said. His voice was soft but piercing. “I want to give you fair warning, mister. Any of you make a move for your guns and I’ll cut you down where you sit.”

  “Now see here,” Rip stammered. “I told you, I got men in the trees there keepin’ an eye on you. If you want to live, you best do what I say.”

  Dog came bounding out of the bushes with a long black snake in his jaws. He trotted over to Morgan and dropped the dead prize at his feet, growling low in his throat at the mounted men.

  A smile spread across Morgan’s face, and he let his hands fall slowly toward his side. “Keep your hands where I can see ’em, boys.”

  “You think Dog woulda noticed if there were men hiding in the bushes, don’t you, Morgan?” Beaumont slowly lowered his hands has well.

  “Not much gets by Dog.” Morgan shrugged. He stared hard at Rip. “It was a decent plan; you just picked the wrong men to try it on.”

  Rip chewed on his lip and glared. The men behind him, including Boudy, squirmed in their saddles. “So? So what if it was just us? They’s four of us against only two of you.”

  “What do you think, Frank? I’m not of a mind to give up my clothes.”

  “Me either,” Morgan said.

  “You smart-mouthed bastards. I ain’t leavin’ here without them clothes,” Rip hissed. His dropped for his gun and the others behind him followed suit.

  Morgan’s first shot sent Rip tumbling back out of the saddle into Boudy, who accidentally shot him again in the thigh. Beaumont silenced the maniacal kid and one of the others while Morgan fished off the last one, easily beating the outlaw to the draw.

  Rip lay bleeding on the ground, blinking up against the low sun. “What did you have to go and do that for?” He swallowed and struggled to get air.

  “You called the shots, mister, not me,” Morgan said.