Manhunt

by William W. Johnstone

  “No, no, no,” Crowder said, pounding his fist against the palm of his other hand. “He knows we can hurt him, but he doesn’t know how deep our resolve goes—how badly we want this, what we are willing to do. If there’s anything I’ve learned over these years, it’s how mighty a man can be if he has the courage to do whatever has to be done.”

  The old man’s eye had gone glassy and he swayed a little where he stood.

  “So you want us to go get his women?” Pete asked, his voice slow and halting. Purnell felt the way Pete sounded.

  “That’s exactly what I want you to do. We’ll drag his womenfolk out here and tell His Highness how far we are prepared to go to see this through. There’s nowhere he can hide, nowhere his family can hide to steer clear of us. I foresee him coming around to my way of thinkin’. It’s a destiny for this county he cannot stop. The pompous old fool must be shown.”

  A gust of breeze blew in and tugged at the edges of Crowder’s white whiskers. With his windswept beard and the wild commitment in his eye, he looked to Purnell like some sort of Old Testament prophet ranting about doom and destruction that would surely come to pass—only this time the destruction would come at his hand.

  Except for the rustle of wind through the tall cottonwoods and bushy cedars, the shadowed little glade fell silent. The men looked at one another, taking care to avoid the old man’s zealous gaze. Whitehead opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again before Crowder saw him.

  Ronald Purnell wondered how the hangman’s noose would feel around his neck. He’d gained weight over the years and he’d heard that heavy men sometimes lost their heads in their quick drop and sudden stop from the gallows. Bile rose in the back of his throat at the thought.

  The pallid lawyer felt as if he were being swept along by a force he couldn’t control. If he said anything against Crowder now, he’d be dead in less than a heartbeat. If he followed along with this ludicrous plan, he was sure to die at the end of a rope or from a lawman’s bullet; they all were. If they would just kill the judge and be done with it, there might still be a chance to get away, maybe start a new life somewhere away from all this madness.

  Purnell licked the beads of sweat off his upper lip and fought to keep his breakfast down in his stomach. Given the choice, he decided to put off his death for as long as he could. But he stopped fooling himself; there was no way out of this. He would never see the true heat of summer.

  Sheriff Whitehead interrupted the lawyer’s inner turmoil.

  “There’s still Morgan and that Ranger to worry about. They’re doggin’ around all over the county trying to see what they can find out.”

  “Thought you were going to arrest that son of a wily bastard.” Crowder frowned. “He could be a real fly in the ointment, that one.”

  Whitehead put his hat back on. “I ran into a young fella who has it in for Morgan pretty bad. I just gave him a little nudge to go ahead and do what he needs to do. If he kills Morgan, our problems are solved. If Morgan kills him, I’ll have a new charge to arrest him on.” The sheriff’s dark eyes narrowed. “And I can guarantee you. Mr. Morgan won’t survive the night in jail.”

  “Provided he don’t blow your head off when you go to bring him in,” Crowder said, a wry smile of challenge hanging on the corners of his whiskered lips.

  Whitehead scoffed. “He’s good, but he’s not that good.”

  The old man waved off the subject and turned his attention to his son Pete.

  “Mrs. Monfore should be easy enough to take. She always struck me as a flighty sort of little hummingbird when I saw her at church. I think if somebody would just go and bark at her just right, she’d pass out and you could throw her across a horse. Slam-bam, that’s all there is to it.” Crowder clapped his hands together. He studied Pete’s face.

  “On the other hand,” Crowder went on, “that girl—she could be a little bit of a problem. I only got so many sons, and the ones I got only got so many fingers. We can’t afford to have ’em get all broken and butchered by some whelp of a girl.”

  Whitehead chuckled. “Don’t you worry about her. She trusts my son, Reed. He’ll take her somewhere where she can pitch whatever-sized fit she wants to. It won’t make any difference at all.”

  25

  No matter what Bob Grant did, he just didn’t look like a lawman. If he bent over, squatted to put wood in the stove, or just reached up to scratch his ear, the long tail on his homespun shirt came untucked and covered half his pistol. His hat blew off constantly, even in the lightest wind, and his thinning hair stuck out in all directions.

  Morgan stood beside Stormy, a block down the street from the sheriff’s office, and watched the portly deputy leave to meet his wife at a small café across the street.

  Morgan kept his distance.

  A deputy he didn’t recognize had come to relieve Grant at the jail. Morgan hoped it was just for a supper break. He didn’t think any of the other deputies would be so accommodating as Grant and let him talk to the Crowder boy.

  “What say we go get a big pot of coffee and some pie till our man Grant gets back?” he said to Beaumont.

  “I could eat,” Beaumont said, rubbing his belly. “I eat more pie than any man I’ve ever laid eyes on, but apart from having to let my belt out a notch, I reckon it ain’t hurt me too bad. Charlene’s down the street yonder is supposed to make a fine roast chicken.”

  Charlene’s was a narrowly built “shotgun”-style building wedged in between a hardware store and boot shop; as if it was built after the fact on a whim of the landowner, who didn’t want to waste one square foot of property. Though over a hundred feet deep, the building was no more than fifteen feet wide. The tables zigzagged down the length of the place to make the most use of available space. While the establishment served alcohol, there was no room for a bar. Patrons got to sit at tables to do their eating or drinking. A haggard woman with long red hair piled up in a loose beehive held together with a wooden pencil took orders and served drinks. She wore a frilly costume of white and black lace that accentuated and exposed a good deal of her full figure—and advertised her other duties besides waitressing. The place might not have had a proper bar, but it had everything else a saloon had to offer, plus a stellar reputation for fried chicken.

  It was a little past supper time, and there were only a few other patrons scattered among the tables. Frank chose a chair about halfway back, facing the door. He sat a little sideways so Beaumont could also have a gunfighter’s view.

  Two older men in faded overalls sat two tables over playing checkers. They looked up at Frank and eyed him warily.

  “Well, if it ain’t the Parker County prodigal,” the one pushing red checkers grumbled. There was no love lost in his voice.

  Frank studied the men for a moment and realized he knew both of them. The Murphy brothers had been hired hands around the county for as long as Morgan could remember. They picked melons, herded cattle, and were not above busting someone’s head for you if you paid them enough. Both had been passable gunmen in their day, and likely had chalked up a handful of killings between them. They had at times been the terror of the county. One of them, Frank couldn’t remember which, had done some time in prison.

  Morgan wondered if he’d ever live to retire and play checkers in a pair of bib overalls. Somehow, he doubted he’d want to.

  “You know them?” Beaumont asked, wiping his face with a bandana he took from inside his hat.

  Frank rested both arms on the table and leaned forward. “I guess I know most of the town either by name or reputation.” He dipped his head toward the redheaded waitress. “Cordell Patterson was a good friend of mine. Hilda there was his kid sister. She used to run around in her underwear while we were picking peaches.”

  Beaumont studied her lacy outfit. “Well, she’s not changed her ways much in that regard.”

  The cowbell chime on the doorknob clanged and took Morgan’s attention away from his reminiscing. The day was bright enough to silhouette the new
arrival, but Frank recognized him instantly. His chair clattered on the wooden floor while he got to his feet.

  Beaumont looked puzzled and followed suit.

  A hulking man with a bushy brow and a salt-and-pepper beard strode over and gave Morgan’s hand a hearty, pump-handle shake.

  Morgan couldn’t keep from smiling. This was more than he’d hoped for: first running into Bose, and now this.

  “Ranger Beaumont, I’d like you to meet another friend of mine.”

  “Charles Goodnight,” the big man said, giving the ranger’s hand the same vigorous shake.

  Beaumont motioned to the table. “Please join us.”

  “I’d love to. This place has the best fried chicken east of the Panhandle.” Goodnight pulled up another chair and plopped himself down in it with a tired groan. “You here because of this Monfore business?”

  “News travels fast.” Morgan raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s a damned shame about the good judge. He’s a stubborn old coot, but I can’t help but like him.”

  “If he’s alive, we’ll get him back,” Morgan said.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Goodnight,” Beaumont said. “I heard you spent some time in the Ranger companies.”

  The man grinned and shot a glance at Morgan. “I’ve done a bit of Rangering in my day. Back before the war, though, when we were still shootin’ cap-and-ball. None of this new fancy stuff like you youngsters have today. We had to supply our own horses and cartridges.”

  “Not much better now,” Beaumont agreed. “Sometimes I think I’m a volunteer rather than an employee of the state. . . .”

  The cowbell jingled again, and all three men looked up in time to watch a thin, pockmarked man in a black hat stride through the door. He walked with a purpose and surveyed the clientele over his hooked nose as if he was looking for someone in particular. He wore no badge, but he moved with the swagger of a lawman.

  “You know him?” Beaumont whispered under his breath.

  Morgan shook his head and pulled the makings for a cigarette out of his vest pocket. “Never seen him before.”

  He offered the tobacco to Goodnight.

  “No, thanks.” The cattleman pounded a fist on his chest. “Spring cold. I’m afraid the smoke would aggravate it. You go right ahead, though.” He looked over at the newcomer. “I don’t recognize him either.”

  As the man moved away from the backlight of the door, Morgan could see he wore a single pistol on his left side. The holster was tied down to his thigh. He walked past Morgan and glared with a toss of his ruddy head.

  He took a seat a few tables toward the back and tipped his chair against the wall. “You don’t know me do you, Morgan?”

  Frank threw down his cigarette and crushed it out with the sole of his boot. This one looked like he knew one end of his pistol from the other; it was best to keep both hands free.

  “Sorry, partner, can’t say as I do. Have we met?”

  “It cuts me to the bone that you don’t remember me, Frankie. A body would think you’d remember Jim Powers.”

  “Big Jim Powers was the biggest, meanest, ugliest kid in the county. You got one of those qualities, but it would take three of you to make up one of Big Jim.”

  The thin man snorted. “Spent some time in Elmira Prison during the war.”

  That explained the pockmarks on the man’s weathered face. Morgan had heard of the nasty, overcrowded conditions at the Union Prison camp in Elmira. Horribly overcrowded, with filthy excuses for quarters, it was the Union version of Andersonville.

  “Found me the Lord there,” Powers continued.

  “Looks like you found someone to eat your food for you,” Morgan said. “The Jim Powers I knew weighed as much as a small horse.”

  “Prison and disease has a way of takin’ the weight off a man.”

  “Finding the Lord make you any less ornery?” Frank asked. He already saw the answer in Powers’s sunken eyes and the hollows in his pock-scarred cheeks. The last time they’d met, the big man had sworn to kill him.

  “I say a little prayer over the bodies of the men I kill now.”

  Morgan pushed away from the table and motioned Beaumont and Goodnight to back away. Both men complied, but the Ranger scowled like he felt cheated out of a fight.

  “Listen, Powers.” Frank moved his head back and forth slowly to pop his neck. “I’m prepared to let bygones be bygones. I buried any grudge against you a long time ago.”

  “The only thing gonna be buried around here is you, Morgan. You know, I nearly couldn’t bring myself to fight for the South on account-a I knew I’d be fightin’ on the same side as you.”

  Morgan sighed. “That’s a gutful of hate.”

  “You always were a cocky sort of braggart, Frankie.” Powers let his chair tip forward and got to his feet. He never took his eyes off Morgan. “You know what stuck in my craw the most about you?”

  “I can’t wait to hear it.” Frank rose to face his adversary. The two men playing checkers cleared well out of the way, and Hilda, the bloomer-wearing redhead, hugged the far wall by the kitchen door.

  “You were every bit as mean as I was, but they all overlooked it in you. If you hurt somebody, it was all well and good—just Frankie Morgan lookin’ out for the underdog, just good ol’ Frank takin’ care of the weak. You make me sick.”

  “You said it yourself, Powers.” Frank narrowed his gaze. “I’m every bit as mean as you. Just simmer down and you can ride away from this.”

  Pure hatred glowed in the puckered scars on the thin man’s face. The nostrils on his hooked nose flared and his left hand hovered over the butt of his gun. Bony fingers flexed and stretched.

  Powers was quick, but Morgan’s Colt boomed first and rocked the narrow room. The thin man’s shot blasted a hole in the floor and his pistol spun on his hand, the trigger guard dangling from the knuckle before it fell harmlessly to the ground. He tottered, caught himself with the flat of his hand on the table, and breathed a ragged breath at Morgan.

  “This don’t make me like you any more,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Yeah, well . . .” Morgan nodded, keeping his gun trained on the dying man. “I didn’t think it would do much good that way.”

  “Truth is . . .” A thin trickle of blood came from the corner of Powers’s mouth. “People like me and you . . .” He coughed. “We been dead for years. Just takes us a while to find it out.” He collapsed to his knees with a hollow crash, then pitched headlong on his face, dead before he hit the ground.

  Frank shook his head and holstered the Peacemaker.

  “Pitiful,” one of the checker players said under his breath as he resumed his seat. “That’s a piss-poor way to leave the earth after makin’ it through a stint in that damned Union prison.” He spit on the floor at Morgan’s feet. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

  Morgan shrugged off the man’s attitude. Everybody always thought they could have done it better.

  A tall Chinese man wearing a white smock and with a long braid down his back came out of the kitchen carrying a pan of fried chicken and looked down at the body. He shook his head and looked at Morgan, as if he knew instinctively who was responsible for the killing. He muttered something in Chinese under his breath, and set the fried chicken down on a nearby table so he could drag the dead man out into the street.

  “You know, I brought Loving back from New Mexico after he got the blood poisoning and died. Buried him over at Greenwood Cemetery,” Goodnight said as he came up alongside Morgan. “I suppose I can carry you over and plant you right beside him when your time comes. The way things are goin’, I don’t believe it will be a long trip.”

  “I reckon I’ll be just as happy to be planted wherever I drop,” Frank said. “And to tell you the honest truth, I hope it’s a long way from here.”

  “Parker County changed that much since you been gone, Frank?” Beaumont asked.

  “Nope,” Morgan said. “I have.”

  26
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br />   Chas Ferguson recognized the first man out of Charlene’s as Charles Goodnight, the famous trail driver. He let the cattleman walk past and kept the bead on the front sight of his Winchester trained on the door.

  A few seconds earlier a tall Chinaman had dumped Powers’s body unceremoniously on the street in front of the wooden boardwalk before stomping off toward the center of town, presumably to get the sheriff.

  Beaumont came out a few seconds after Goodnight, and the two men talked in the street beside the body.

  Ferguson took his finger off the trigger and stretched it. The roof of the little hardware store made a perfect hiding spot for an ambush. It had a built-in ladder off the back wall and a big wooden water tank on top to cover his retreat. A two-foot parapet ran the length of the flat roof in front with six-inch drainage holes every three feet. One of the holes lined up perfectly with the front door of the saloon.

  If he did the job with one shot, there would be so much echo off the buildings up and down the street, no one would even know where the noise came from.

  Ferguson had never really believed Powers would be able to take a man like Morgan. The skinny gunman was too consumed by hate to think clearly—too torn up by the past. Powers was fast all right. Ferguson had watched him shoot against a half-breed Apache that very morning over toward Lipan. But somehow, he knew there would never be any contest against the Drifter.

  Ferguson had his hat off, on the roof beside him, so he wasn’t spotted from below. The day was on the cool side, but he could feel a line of sweat down his back. When the wind hit it, a chill ran up his spine and made him shudder.

  It would be an easy shot—no more than thirty yards—and the sun was at his back.

  Morgan finally breasted the door, cocksure and arrogant, like someone who’d just taken another man’s life. He looked up and down the street, then to Ferguson’s horror looked directly across the street at the hardware store, studying the roofline.

  The young dandy froze, not even blinking an eye for fear of causing visible movement through the tiny drain hole. He didn’t relax until Morgan turned away and said something to the Ranger.