Manhunt

by William W. Johnstone

  The smell of frying bacon and fresh biscuits drifted up the stairs along with the flirtatious flurry of giggles.

  Morgan smiled and listened to his stomach growl. He was suddenly hungrier than he had been in a long time. The Fossman girls were making breakfast for Luke’s young cowhands, Chance and Jasper, no doubt. The four had been an inseparable crew the last time he saw them back in Colorado . . . but he preferred not to dwell on that. It reminded him too much of Dixie.

  Morgan grabbed his hat off the four-poster bed and strapped on his Peacemaker before heading down to the spacious kitchen. He’d gained enough weight back over the last few days that he found he could dispense with the holes in the gun belt he’d had to awl out back in Amarillo.

  Both Fossman girls ducked their heads slightly when Morgan entered the warm kitchen. The sun was not yet up, and Morgan could just make out the cool mist hanging above the fields in the gray light of predawn. Chance and Jasper stood up from their spots at the long table. Jasper had a cloth napkin hanging from his top button. He motioned with an open hand to the empty chair next to him.

  “Good to see you, sir,” the young cowhand said. Despite his baby face, he had turned from boy to man in the short months since Frank had seen him last.

  “Good to be seen.” Morgan hung his hat on a peg along the wall by the back door and took the offered seat. Carolyn Perkins had her back to the stove, facing the table. She watched Morgan carefully, standing in that peculiar, hip-thrown-out way women who were heavy with child stood. She had a wooden spatula in one hand, tending to a pan of frying eggs. The heat from the woodstove had pinked her round face.

  “You’re looking poorer than I remember, if you don’t mind me saying so, Mr. Morgan,” Carolyn said before turning back to the huge pan of frying eggs.

  Frank smiled and poured himself a cup of coffee from a speckled blue pot on the table. “I have to admit I’m thin as an old worn-out boot sole. But I swear, Mrs. Perkins, just the smell of these biscuits of yours could fatten a man up. I don’t remember havin’ such an appetite. I’m afraid I’m drooling like a hungry coyote.”

  “Good.” She beamed a smile and brought over a steaming platter of fried eggs. “You dig right in and eat your fill then. We have plenty. Luke will be back in a minute. He had to go check on a first-calf heifer he’s got penned behind the barn.”

  Perkins came in the door while his wife was speaking. “I’m back already,” he said sniffing the air through his thick mustache. “I do love the smell of a good breakfast.” He gave his wife a peck on the cheek and a gentle pat on the shoulder.

  “Is that any way to say good morning to your wife?” Carolyn raised an eyebrow and put both hands on her hips. They’d obviously plowed this ground before.

  Luke stammered and shot a squirming look at Frank for help. Frank shook his head to let the tough old trail boss know he was on his own.

  “Well, darlin’, I just thought I’d need to be treatin’ you with a little lighter hand, what with you bein’ in such a tender condition and all.”

  Carolyn kissed her husband properly, then shooed him toward his spot at the head of the table. “You’re getting me mixed up with that first-calf heifer. I’m gonna have a baby. I’m not made out of glass.”

  “Mind passing me those biscuits, Frank?” Luke gave his friend a sheepish look. He lowered his voice while he took the plate. “Best not to argue with her when she gets a thought in her mind.”

  Carolyn served Luke three freshly cooked eggs she’d set aside on the stove especially for him.

  “And you best not forget it,” she said, planting another kiss on top of his bald head.

  Frank couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to settle down and have a family like Luke’s—surrounded by twittering kids, with a woman to kiss him on top of his head. He’d almost had the chance, back in Colorado....

  Outside, the dogs began to bark, and a knock at the front door interrupted Morgan’s thoughts and his breakfast.

  Luke and his wife exchanged worried glances. Both Jasper and Chance rose quickly and stepped away from the table. They both wore pistols.

  “We don’t get too many visitors out here early in the mornin’,” Luke said with a wink. “The last one came out while I was diggin’ a flowerbed out front for Carolyn. He went on and on spoutin’ his views on the stockyard plan and makin’ all sorts of veiled threats. He got his snout broke with the flat of my shovel.”

  “Tyler Beaumont, Texas Rangers,” a husky voice called from the front porch. “I’m looking for Frank Morgan.”

  Frank nodded and settled back to one of Carolyn’s cathead biscuits and some dark sorghum cane syrup. “You can put your shovels away, boys. Ranger Beaumont’s a friend of mine.”

  The cowboys resumed their seats at the table beside Berta and Bea Fossman. Luke followed suit while his wife got the door.

  Beaumont had his hat in both hands when he followed her into the kitchen. His brow was furrowed and a grim look crossed his normally serene face.

  “Pull up a chair and have some breakfast, Ranger Beaumont.” Perkins dipped his bald head toward an empty seat.

  “I’d be much obliged, I would,” Beaumont said. “But I really ought to get movin’ and I need Frank to come with me.”

  Everyone at the table stopped at the tone of the lawman’s voice. Carolyn shut the door to the firebox on her stove and turned to face him.

  “What’s happened?” she asked.

  “The Monfores’ house was attacked last night.”

  Morgan pushed his unfinished plate away from him and got to his feet. His appetite fled with the news. “The girl?”

  The Ranger shook his head. “She’s fine. She gave the bandits a sure-enough whippin’. Mrs. Monfore was not at home—but the judge walked in smack in the middle of all of it. And now he’s gone missing.”

  “Judge Monfore, kidnapped?” Carolyn raised a hand to cover her mouth.

  “Looks that way, ma’am.”

  Morgan was already putting on his hat. Carolyn gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek.

  “Thank you for the hospitality, Mrs. Perkins.” He smiled. “You too, Luke. I’ll stop in again before I leave town so we can do some more catching up.”

  “Keep your powder dry, Frankie.” Luke said. “I’ll come if you need me to.”

  “With things shaping up as they are, you best stay here close to your wife.” Morgan shook his friend’s hand. “You might have to give someone else a snout full of shovel before all this is over.”

  * * *

  Morgan had Stormy saddled in a few minutes and they mounted up to head at the trot for the county seat. It was early yet, and the morning mist swirled and eddied around the horses’ hooves as they rode through the low draws and creek bottoms on the way into town.

  Beaumont munched on a biscuit with some bacon Carolyn Perkins had given him for the road. The northerly breeze gave a chill to the morning air as it rustled the live oak leaves along the wagon road. Dog settled in to the rhythm quickly, and only occasionally darted off to chase after a jackrabbit or quail. His belly was full of biscuits too, and luckily for the rabbits his heart wasn’t really in the hunt.

  The cool wind filled the horses with boundless energy. Beaumont’s little bay chewed nervously on the bits, and even Stormy pranced along with a kink in his tail. Morgan’s bones were still too sore to sit a jigging horse, and he scolded the Appaloosa with a stern cluck and a tap of the reins to the animal’s neck. The stout horse knew better and once reminded, calmed to a gentler gait.

  “We’ll stop in the sheriff’s office first and straighten out this nonsense about the shooting in Springtown.” Beaumont finished his biscuit and wiped his hand on the front of his shirt while he rode. “It’s lucky you had another lawman there as a witness.”

  “It is at that.” Morgan nodded. “If the sheriff will listen to reason. From what I hear about the man, that’s still up for some discussion.”

  “He’ll listen or go to jail his own se
lf.” Beaumont spoke with the surety of a much older man. There was no false bravado in his whispery voice—just a statement of pure fact. It was difficult not to like such a man.

  “Something’s goin’ on in Parker County,” the Ranger continued. “I wired my captain and he said to go ahead and look into it. I haven’t been able to talk to Sheriff Whitehead yet, but from what the captain says, he’s a hell of a gunman. Shoots first and sorts out the mess afterward.”

  “That’s what I hear,” Morgan said.

  He could see the tall clock tower on the limestone courthouse rising up from the center of town ahead as they came down the long hill from the north. It was still early and there were just a few wagons and horses out on the streets. Most people in the town were only now sitting down to their breakfast.

  “Stay with me, Dog,” Morgan said over his shoulder. “We may be in jail in a minute or two and you’ll need the Ranger to post your bail.”

  Beaumont shook his head and sighed. “I told you I got it worked out, Frank. If the high sheriff of Parker County won’t listen to reason, I got an ace up my sleeve he can’t turn down.”

  16

  The sheriff’s office was located on the main street heading east out of town toward Ft. Worth, not far from a little fork in the Trinity River. It was a plain, stacked-lumber building with riveted flat-iron bars inside the shuttered windows. The heavy timber door was reinforced by the same riveted metal. It looked like a small fortress, because that’s what it was.

  Inside, his back to the door, a dumpy deputy sheriff stooped in front of a potbellied stove, poking at a smoking excuse for a fire. Half his freckled rear end rose above the sagging seat of his britches, which looked like they carried a load of freight. He banged his head against the door with a start when he heard Beaumont and Morgan come in behind him.

  “Help you?” He rubbed the goose egg that was rapidly forming on the pink skin below his thinning hairline. The deputy wore a wide, brainless smile, though the bump on his forehead was already beginning to turn a deep shade of purple and looked like it gave him a powerful headache. His ponderous belly hung over his belt enough to hide the buckle, and he’d likely not seen his boots in years.

  “Looking for Sheriff Whitehead,” Morgan said.

  The deputy glanced back and forth at the two men. He paid particular attention to Beaumont’s cinco-peso Ranger star. “He ain’t here just now. He’s over at the Monfore place. I’m his town deputy, Bob Grant. Can I help you gents with somethin’?” He squirmed, but the painted-on smile remained.

  Morgan grinned when he heard the man’s name. Bobby Grant had been as awkward a boy as he was a man, but he was always a kind sort. Frank had always figured him more for a melon salesman, and was surprised to find he’d turned out to be a lawman.

  “You don’t remember me, do you, Bob?” Morgan held his hand out.

  The deputy’s smile tensed but didn’t disappear. He took the offered hand. “I reckon I do too, Frank Morgan. I was just prayin’ it wasn’t you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Deputy Grant turned toward the stove. “You fellers want some coffee? I got some right in this here pot.”

  “That’s mighty kind of you, Bob,” Frank said. The man was jumpy about something and wouldn’t look him in the eye. “I’d not refuse a cup if it was offered.”

  Grant poured two black metal cups and handed them to the men. His hands shook a little, and the ever-present smile began to look more like a pained grimace. “Hope you like it black. I ain’t had no time to go across the street to Carter’s and get any sugar with the prisoner and all.”

  “Mind if I ask what’s eatin’ you, Deputy?” Beaumont spoke across the top of his cup. “Why would you be prayin’ he wasn’t Frank Morgan?”

  The man gulped. “The sheriff warned me you’d likely be stoppin’ by. He give me strict orders to arrest you when you came through the door.”

  Morgan took a drink of his coffee. It was passable, but not by much. “So what do you plan to do?”

  The deputy gave a tight chuckle. “You remember my wife? She was Martha Alberry when you knew her.”

  “Sure I remember Martha, nice girl,” Morgan said, though he really remembered her to have been an overbearing tyrant since before she was ten. It figured a man like Bob Grant would end up with a woman that could do most of his thinking for him.

  “Well, sir. She brought me my breakfast this morning and I talked it all over with her.” Grant looked up to make sure the other men were listening. “Martha would rather I talk most everything over with her. Anyhow, she said she remembers you well, Frank. From what she’s read about you lately, she told me she’s gonna go ahead and get out the suit she plans to bury me in if I try and do such a fool thing.”

  * * *

  “That man doesn’t need to be carryin’ a gun,” Beaumont said as he climbed aboard his little gelding.

  “I don’t know.” Morgan grinned. “He had enough sense not to follow orders when it could get him killed.”

  “You wouldn’t have shot poor old Bob the Boob, would you?”

  “Nope,” Morgan said. “But he don’t need to know that.”

  “Makes a man not mind being single,” Beaumont mused as they rode.

  The wind died down by the time they reined up in front of the Monfore place. Frank whistled under his breath at the size of the gray mansion. A large covered porch wrapped around three sides of the two-story home. Lace curtains hung in each of four gables above the porch. The judge had been doing a good job of taking care of Mercy—at least when it came to a home. Even with all his money, Morgan had never sat still long enough to give a woman a place like this.

  They tied their horses to the rail along the gravel coach drive that ran beside the house next to a small buggy barn. Morgan gave Dog a narrow look, and the cur flopped down next to the horses with a resigned sigh.

  The front door was ajar. Morgan could just make out a raven-haired young woman sitting on a green velvet couch. She had high cheekbones, and even from across the room he could see her piercing blue eyes. They were red from crying, and he felt a knot in his gut from the thought of such a thing.

  His boots clomped across the wooden porch and he walked in uninvited. Beaumont was right behind him.

  Mercy sat in a high-backed chair across from her daughter. She was just like Frank remembered her: delicate as a new spring peach blossom. She had her hair pulled back in a single long braid. It was a fiercely shimmering blue-black, just as it was when he’d last seen her; though a startling shock of gunmetal gray swept back over her right temple.

  A tall man with a coarse black mustache and matching eyebrows sat on a red velvet piano stool next to her. A grim look crossed his chiseled face.

  Mercy’s eyes were red as well, but she seemed to have gained control of herself—until she saw Frank. When she looked up, the floodgates opened again and she jumped to her feet. Much to the dismay of her daughter and everyone else in the room, including Morgan, she ran to him and buried her face against his chest.

  “Oh, Frankie, I just knew you’d come. I fear that now you may have arrived too late.” Her small body was racked with sobs. Luke had been right. She still had her honey-sweet drawl.

  Morgan tried to console her, patting her softly on the back. She smelled different than he’d remembered, less like peppermint and more like lilac perfume. They’d both been so young back then.

  “I’d have come sooner but I’ve been a bit under the weather.”

  “It doesn’t matter now. You’re here,” she sobbed. Her voice was muffled against him.

  Sheriff Whitehead got to his feet with a cold stare. “You’re Frank Morgan?”

  Mercy looked up when she heard the voice behind her. Her body stiffened in Morgan’s arms. “Be careful, Frank,” she whispered in his ear. She stepped out of his way and moved next to her daughter, wringing tense hands in front of her.

  “You ought to be in jail.” Whitehead took a step forward. His hand wrapped ar
ound the grip of his pistol.

  “That’s what I hear,” Morgan nodded. “Lucky for him and me, your deputy chose the better part of valor.”

  “If these poor women hadn’t just lost a husband and father,” the sheriff fumed, “I’d plant you here and now.”

  “You got a family, Sheriff?” Morgan squared off, keeping a close eye on the lawman.

  “I do,” Whitehead said. “Not that it’s any business of yours.”

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed. His voice became deadly serious. “Well, sir, you can go ahead and try to plant me here—if you’re hell-bent on the notion. I gotta tell you, though, your own family will only end up without a husband and father.”

  “You son of a . . .”

  “Here now, Sheriff.” Beaumont put up his hands. “Tyler Beaumont, Company F, Texas Rangers. I was there in Springtown. Your man brought it on himself, bullyin’ the lady like he did. He drew first and Frank had no choice.”

  Whitehead didn’t move. His hand stayed at the butt of his pistol. “You can be a witness at the trial if he lives that long. You’re under arrest, Morgan. It’s up to you if you go to jail or to the undertaker.”

  Beaumont stepped in between the two men, his hands still in the air. “All right, he’s your prisoner. Right, Frank?”

  Morgan shot a surprised look at his friend. He hadn’t counted on this.

  “Get his gun then, if you’re going to cooperate,” Whitehead said. “Get his gun and tell him to stand down if you want to save his worthless life.”

  A tense silence followed while Morgan decided what to do. The ticking of the mantel clock and the hushed whisper of Mercy’s breathing were the only sounds in the room. At length, he raised his hands and let the Ranger pluck the Peacemaker from his holster. Something he’d never given another living soul the leave to do. Instead of handing the pistol over to the sheriff, Beaumont tucked it in his own belt.

  “He’s all yours.” The Ranger stepped away.

  Mercy buried her face in her hands and began to sob again. “I’m so sorry, Frank. This is all my fault.”