Manhunt

by William W. Johnstone

  Ferguson moved the rifle barrel a scant inch so the front bead was over Frank Morgan’s ear. The gunfighter stood, lean and relaxed, resting his elbow against a porch post in front of the saloon.

  He was completely unaware of the lead slug only yards away that could so easily end his life.

  It was the perfect opportunity for a killing shot.

  Ferguson’s finger tightened around the trigger. His hands trembled slightly, and he willed himself to calm his breathing and relax. The more he tried, the more wound up he became. He felt as if all the life was welling up against a dam inside him.

  He felt as if he were about to shoot himself.

  The familiar queasiness returned and he relaxed his finger for a moment. He’d spent the better part of his twenty-five years learning the way of the gun. When he’d read his first book about Frank Morgan at fourteen, he knew even then that one day they’d meet. At first he idolized the famous gunman. In some way it was likely he still did; but over time, idolization gave way to jealousy and the jealousy turned into resentment.

  As the years went by, Ferguson developed such a blood lust for Morgan that he found himself picturing the famous gunfighter whenever he shot. When he faced a man anywhere, it was Frank Morgan in his mind.

  He lowered the hammer on the Winchester and scooted away from the roofline. He could still make out the gunfighter through the small hole in the metal roof.

  One of them would be dead soon. That was a certainty. But he’d not spent these years of practice to shoot someone in the back. He pressed his face against the tar and gavel roof.

  If he did that, he might as well be dead himself.

  27

  Deputy Grant let Morgan and Beaumont in to see Tommy Crowder with no problem. The lawman had likely heard of the gunfight at Charlene’s, and didn’t appear to want any part of such an adventure on his watch. He didn’t even ask to take their guns when he ushered them back into the narrow cell block.

  Morgan stood with his back to the wall after Grant left them alone, and turned up his nose at the smell. Jail was the one place where Morgan felt truly uneasy. He felt closed in and unable to breath. If he needed anything, it was the freedom to move around at will. Of course, he’d spent time in jails before, but when he did, he felt like a wolf with his leg caught in a trap. He’d just as soon gnaw his own foot off as spend time trapped like that again.

  He took his surly mood out on Tom Crowder.

  “Maybe I ought to let you out of there so we can have a little talk about what your family’s been up to lately,” Morgan said. His arms folded across his chest.

  “You Frank Morgan?” The prisoner hung from the riveted flat-iron bars that covered the top of his cage. He swung back and forth while he talked.

  “I am, and this is Texas Ranger Beaumont.”

  Crowder cocked his head and gave a wild laugh. “You ain’t nothin’ like I thought you would be.” He shook his head. “I thought you’d be some sure-enough giant the way people go on and on about you.”

  Morgan shrugged. “I’m a free man and that’s more than I can say for you. We know your family kidnapped Judge Monfore. It’ll go a lot better for you if you tell us where they took him.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” Crowder pulled himself up and touched his toes to the top bars, grunting under the strain of his exercise and ignoring his visitors. When he finally dropped back to the floor, he walked up and leaned against the cell door. He spit at Frank’s feet.

  “You don’t scare me, Mr. Frank Gunfighter Morgan. What can you do to me anyhow? I’m already in jail just for tryin’ to get a little sweetness from that fool girl.”

  The last comment touched something in Beaumont, and he sprang toward the bars. “You sorry bastard. I got a friend who’s a Lipan Apache. He’s got a lot of interesting ways to help you remember the information we need.”

  “Well, bring him on then.” Crowder rolled his wild eyes. “I ain’t ever got to kill myself an Apache. Most of ’em was already killed or runned off by the time I was old enough.”

  “He doesn’t know anything.” Morgan changed his tactics. “His pa probably doesn’t trust him enough to let him in on the important plans.”

  “I know plenty you’d like to know.” Crowder smirked. “But my lawyer said to keep my yap shut, so that’s what I’m doin’.” The prisoner’s eyes narrowed and he pressed his face up against the bars so his cheeks stuck through. “You know what, Morgan, you skinny old goat? You better hope I don’t get out of here. ’Cause if I do, I think I’ll kick you ass.”

  Frank’s right hand shot out and connected with the tender end of Crowder’s nose, knocking him back into the cell and onto his rump. His hands covered his face and blood poured from between his fingers.

  “No need to wait until you’re out.” Frank pushed his own face up against the iron cage. “I’m right here if you want me.”

  Crowder didn’t move.

  Frank stepped back and shook his head. “That’s what I thought. Long on bark and short on bite.”

  * * *

  Morgan let Stormy have his head as they trotted along the rocky road toward the Flying C. The Crowder boy either hadn’t known much or was too smart to tell them anything of any use. Frank figured it was the former; none of the Crowders he’d met or heard about had too much going for them in the way of brains.

  If Tom Crowder wouldn’t talk to him, he’d speak with the whole family one by one. They’d either talk or get mad and fight. Either way, he’d find out what he needed to know.

  While some men might figure it was better to use a little more stealth in this sort of matter—taking more time to gather useful information without tipping too much of their hand—Morgan preferred to handle things in a more direct manner. If he suspected someone of a misdeed, he’d much rather confront them about their behavior than sneak around hoping they would repent.

  He sought information the same way he entered a battle; ride in shooting on pure gut instinct and sort out the particulars after the smoke cleared. Frank Morgan was about as sophisticated in that regard as a herd bull in a china shop.

  The shadows were getting long by the time Frank and Tyler rode up to the Crowder homestead. A half-a-dozen outbuildings sat squat and disused in the eerie evening light.

  “Did you know the Crowders when you were here before?” Beaumont asked as they neared the ranch house. A flock of half-a-dozen silver-black guinea hens came squawking out to meet them from behind a large pecan tree.

  “Nope.” Morgan watched for movement in the windows. With all the racket the guineas were making, someone sure had to know they were here. “They must have come in after I moved on. This place used to belong to an old German by the name of Johns. He used to let me and Luke come turkey hunting out here with my pa’s old muzzle-loading scattergun.”

  The ranch house was a simple two-story cedar lap with a wraparound porch and awning. Harsh sun from too many summers had faded the white paint to a dull gray. Two gabled windows looked out on a weedy front yard. The window to the left was open and a yellow curtain trailed out on a slight breeze. The other one was broken.

  An open window could be cause for some alarm, but when no shot came and no movement appeared at the window or the door, Morgan relaxed. Dog plodded alongside, itching to chase the screeching guineas, but staying in place on Frank’s command.

  “I don’t guess anyone’s home,” Beaumont said, as quiet as if he were in a church.

  A brown and white milk cow blinked at them from a log corral beside a sun-bleached timber barn. She lowed forlornly and stood chewing her cud.

  “Somebody’s got to come home and milk that cow.” Frank nodded toward the barn as he dismounted and tied Stormy to a cedar rail. He used a quick release “horse thief’s” knot just in case he needed to beat a hasty retreat. “We’ll just wait until they do.”

  The front door suddenly creaked open and both men turned at once, hands on their pistols.

  Standing at
the threshold, staring right through them as if they weren’t there, was a woman about Frank’s age. She had straight, straw-colored hair and a face that seemed locked in an expressionless gaze as if she were lost and trying to find some distant horizon.

  Morgan tipped his hat. “Frank Morgan, ma’am. This is Tyler Beaumont, Texas Ranger. Wonder if we could talk with you a little?”

  The woman continued her distant vigil without acknowledging the visitors. She had an almost indiscernible tick that made her look as if she was gently shaking her head in quiet disagreement with something. Her hands trailed down beside her blue skirt, unmoving.

  “Ma’am?” Beaumont stepped up on the porch and took off his hat. “Are you all right?”

  “She’s fine.” A young man who looked to be in his early twenties came around the corner of the house. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up and he carried an ax. He had blond hair like the woman, though his was more bleached from working in the sun.

  “Can I help you with something?” He wore no gun, but held the ax in front of him like he might use it if pressed. His voice was not particularly confrontational, just wary. He shared the same nose as Tom Crowder, but the rest of his features looked like the woman at the door.

  “Name’s Morgan,” Frank said. “We’re looking for Mr. Crowder.”

  “He’s not here.”

  Beaumont nodded at the young man. “Mind if we wait? I’m a Texas Ranger. We’re lookin’ into Judge Monfore’s kidnapping.”

  The man shrugged. “Don’t know when he’ll be back, but you can suit yourself.” He lowered the ax. “Sorry about my mother. She hasn’t been right since the accident. I’m Jared Crowder.”

  The nose was definitely the only thing Tom and Jared had in common. Where the prisoner was snotty and indifferent, his blond-haired older brother was polite and direct. If he had anything to hide, he was doing a good job of it.

  “You’re welcome to come in and wait in the parlor,” he said. “I need to get Mama inside and get her fed before Pa gets home. She doesn’t eat as good for him.” Jared gently shooed his mother away from the door and back into the house.

  “Your brothers here or are you two alone?” Morgan stepped warily up on the porch.

  Jared turned around to look at him over his shoulder and shook his head. “No, sir, just me and her. I was splitting wood out back when you came up. Those fool guineas are always keening on about something. Heck, a big green grasshopper can get them all riled up, so we usually pay ’em no mind.

  “Go ahead and have a seat,” he said, pointing to a worn leather couch and matching chair once they were inside. A single oil lamp lit the room.

  “I need to finish takin’ care of my ma’s supper,” the boy said. “She’ll just sit in her chair there while I get it. She don’t really like to eat in the kitchen; it upsets her. I promise she won’t bother you.”

  Morgan put up a hand. He couldn’t help but notice the drawn look of sadness in the young man’s eyes. “We’ll be fine, son. You do what you need to do.”

  Frank took a seat in one of the leather chairs across from the window and Mrs. Crowder. Her gaze drilled through him and the wall behind him as surely as a bullet. She hummed a quiet tune in soft time to the tick of her head.

  Neither Morgan or Beaumont spoke. It felt rude around the woman. Frank wondered how long she’d been like this. He noticed a dirty spoon hiding among the dust under the edge of the sofa. It had likely been there quite a while.

  Jared came in with a wooden tray. There was a plate of scrambled eggs, a tall glass of buttermilk, and two cups of coffee.

  “Figured you’d rather have coffee instead of milk,” he said. “There was only enough milk for Mama anyhow.” He set down the tray and passed out the coffee.

  “You figured right on that account, Mr. Crowder.” Morgan gratefully accepted the cup. “I could use a good cup of coffee.”

  Beaumont nodded as he took his cup. “Many thanks,” he said.

  “She likes eggs the best,” Jared said, taking a seat beside his mother. “She can’t tell us so, but she doesn’t spit ’em back out like she does the mush Pa tries to feed her.”

  He spooned a bit of egg into the gaunt woman’s mouth. She chewed methodically and swallowed. Her mouth hung open as if she wanted more. He gave her another small bite and looked up at the two men. “I put butter in it, the same way she used to fix mine. Sometimes I think I can even see her smile.”

  “You said she had an accident?” Morgan leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He was not normally one to feel pity, but the way this young man treated his mother moved him deeply.

  Jared nodded. “Rattlesnake spooked a team and it got away from my pa a little over two years ago. He couldn’t stop ’em. The wagon flipped and threw ’em. Pa got his eye knocked out and the wagon rolled over Mama’s head. She wandered around for two days before I tracked her down about five miles from here.” He gave her another bite of eggs and wiped the corners of her mouth with a cloth he’d kept tucked in his belt.

  “Pa says she’ll come around any time now, but I don’t think so.”

  Morgan scooted to the front of his seat. “You never know about these things. I was mighty near death myself a while back.” He shot a glance at Beaumont, then looked back at Jared. “Your pa mention Judge Monfore lately?”

  “Not too much. I know they don’t see eye to eye if that’s what you mean.” He finished feeding his mother and set the tray on a squat wooden table at the end of the couch. He handed the poor woman the glass of buttermilk and helped her press it to her lips, careful not to give it to her too fast.

  “My pa is capable of about anything, and to tell you the honest truth, I don’t think too much of him. I wouldn’t even stay around here if it wasn’t for my mother.” He set the rest of the buttermilk on the tray and wiped her face again.

  “Well, the judge has a daughter and wife who are worried sick about him right now,” the Ranger piped up.

  “Worried!” Mrs. Crowder screeched as loud as the guinea hens out front. Both Morgan and Beaumont jumped at the sudden outburst. Jared, apparently used to such things, held his mother’s hand and stroked her arm to try and soothe her.

  He looked a little sheepish. “Sometimes she mimics what folks are saying. Sorry if it startled you.”

  Morgan smiled and shook his head. “It’s all right. We best be going now anyhow. Our work’s cut out for us finding the judge. We owe it to his wife and daughter to find out what’s happened.”

  “Worried! Judge’s women!” Mrs. Crowder continued to stare into space and her face remained passive, but the words escaped her lips in intense squawks. “Women, worried. Watch women . . .”

  She suddenly fell silent. Her head ticks were a little more pronounced, but everything else about her was unchanged.

  “She’s not mimicking anyone now,” Beaumont whispered.

  Jared nodded. “She must have heard Pa talking to Pete and Pony earlier. Sometimes he talks to her, not even givin’ a thought that she might understand his words.” The boy moved his chin back and forth slowly while he studied his mother’s passive face. His eyes welled up like he was about to cry.

  Morgan moved his chair closer so he could look the blank-faced woman in the eye. He gently brushed a lock of her hair out of her face and smiled. If she noticed he was there in front of her, she gave no sign of it.

  “Do you want to tell us something, Mrs. Crowder?” He asked.

  She sat mutely, blinking and staring into space.

  Jared rose to his feet. His forehead creased in worry. “She’s never done this before.” He stood by his mother and caressed the top of her head. “I don’t know what she’s heard, but if I was you, I’d go check on those womenfolk.”

  Frank rose and shook the young man’s hand.

  “I wish you all the best with all you have to do here. You’re a fine son to your mother. Sad to say, but that’s a rare quality these days.”

  “You be careful, Mr. M
organ, Ranger Beaumont,” Jared said. “I told you, my pa’s capable of just about anything—and my brothers are ten times worse than he is.”

  28

  Morgan and Beaumont sent the flock of guinea hens squawking in all directions when they left the Crowders’ Flying C ranch at a gallop.

  Morgan nudged Stormy over so he was stirrup to stirrup with Beaumont’s bay. He kept his horse at a steady, ground-eating lope while he leaned over to speak.

  “Tyler, I want you to do me a favor,” he yelled into the wind.

  The Ranger nodded, but stared straight ahead as they rode. “I know what you’re gonna say. If you ever get like that pitiful woman, you want me to shoot you.”

  “You didn’t miss by much,” Morgan said, bending his head so his hat blocked out more of the breeze brought on by the speed of Stormy’s gait. “I’d hate for you to have to live with having shot me. I was thinking you could stuff my vest pockets with bacon and send me out into the Rocky Mountains so I could make my peace with the grizzlies and panthers. They could do all the dirty work for you.”

  Beaumont turned in the saddle and slowed his horse a bit. “Grizzly bears?”

  “Be a damned sight better than livin’ like her.” Morgan kept up his speed so Beaumont would follow.

  “I’ll do it on one condition,” Beaumont said, looking forward again.

  “What’s that?”

  “If the situation is reversed, I’d just as soon you shot me. I’m not too partial to bein’ ate up by grizzly bears.”

  Morgan mused the thought over for a minute before spurring his horse faster. “Glad to, kid. We got us a deal,” he said over his shoulder. Stormy broke into a gallop again and they headed for Weatherford.

  It was nearing sunset by the time they had the clock tower of the courthouse in view. Frank’s gut was knotted with worry. He wanted to get to Mercy and Victoria before it got too dark. There were too many folks in town for a kidnapping to be successful during the daylight hours—but once the sun went down, it would be an easy matter, particularly if the sheriff could be counted on to look the other way.