Manhunt

by William W. Johnstone

  “Very well.” She stood and tugged at the belt of her robe. “I’ll go put on a skirt.”

  The giant grinned and licked his lips again. “I’ll help you get changed, pretty lady.”

  Mercy cringed and held her breath. There was no way to fight off such a man. He was just too big.

  Pony raised his hand and laughed. “Hang on there, you ol’ dog. Pa didn’t say anything about taking advantage of the lady.” He turned to Mercy and winked. “I’m the onliest thing keeping this galoot off of you, so you better treat me with some respect. Comprende?”

  Mercy nodded, letting out a ragged sigh.

  “I don’t see what he sees in you. You’re old and wrinkled as a raisin. Old enough to be his ma, I reckon.” Pony cocked his head to one side and stared at her as if in thought. “Oh what the hell,” he said at length. “Go on ahead, R.D. Pa never said not to take advantage of her.”

  “Now wait just a minute!” Purnell said from the doorway. It looked to Mercy like he’d been trying to slip out. “What are you boys thinking? If you do this there’ll be no turning back. The judge won’t listen to a word your father says, not if you harm his wife.”

  Pony smirked. “He ain’t gonna listen to my pa anyhow. You know that and I know that. We passed the turning back point a long time ago. The old man just ain’t owned up to it yet. Now you shut your face before I shut it for you.” Crowder turned back to Mercy and shrugged. He looked at his greasy companion. “R.D., do what you gotta do and let’s get on our way.”

  The giant took off his filthy hat and put it on Mercy’s chair behind her. He put a heavy arm around her shoulders and leaned down to smell her hair. “So, you only got a little while left. Might as well enjoy yourself while you still can.”

  Mercy closed her eyes and willed herself not to give these men the satisfaction of seeing her shed even one more tear.

  Purnell took a step into the middle of the room, committing himself.

  “Listen,” he said. “If your pa thinks you messed this up on account of going after the woman, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  Pony put a hand to his chin. R.D. kept his arm around Mercy but looked to the Crowder boy, waiting for a decision.

  “He’ll shoot someone,” Purnell reasoned. “You know he will. If his plan doesn’t work, you’ll still have the woman.”

  Mercy cringed as R.D. bent to sniff her ear. “You smell good,” he said under his stinking breath.

  Pony scratched his chest and sighed while he considered what Purnell had said. His head tipped to one side as if one ear weighed more than the other. Drool dripped from the corner of his sagging lips.

  Mercy closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think that her immediate future was in the hands of a person as utterly vile as Pony Crowder.

  33

  “I ain’t no coward,” the voice snapped from the darkness. It was a voice Morgan had heard before. It was tight and had an edge to it. The man was stalling for time, waiting for something else to happen. Some other part of a plan to fall in place.

  “A coward wouldn’t be able to get the drop on the famous Frank Morgan.”

  “Who says you got the drop on me?”

  “Really funny, mister. You keep them hands up high and I’ll show you how much of a coward I am.” The voice trailed off as if the speaker was trying to convince himself. “No funny business now. I’m coming out.”

  Morgan let both arms rest across the crown of his hat. It kept them relaxed and would allow him to move with lightning speed.

  There was more shuffling in the shadows and a dark figure stepped out into view. The long barrel of a shotgun caught the moonlight and appeared to glow.

  It was Tom Crowder.

  “Got ourselves a little furlough, did we?” Morgan kept his hands still. The boy’s face twitched. He kept cutting his eyes across the street in the direction Dog had run off to.

  “Sheriff himself let me out,” Tom said. “Told me it was all gonna be worked out after tonight.”

  Frank dipped his head. “That right? What’s happening tonight?”

  Crowder snickered. “You would be interested in that, wouldn’t you.”

  Morgan sighed. He knew Mercy was in danger and that was all he needed to know.

  “Listen, Tom,” he said. “I got an important engagement. If you want to fight me, then let’s get it over with so I can be on my way.” He stared hard at the other man in the moonlight—hard enough to make him take a step back. “If you don’t aim to fight me fair, then go ahead and take your shot now, ’cause I’m gettin’ mighty tired of hearing you yammer on.” Morgan’s voice grew cold as ice. “I’ll warn you, though; you’d best make that first one count.”

  Crowder shot a quick glance up and down the street. The same hound dog howled again, and the boy looked away for an instant. Morgan counted to three while the dog continued its mournful song.

  He knew what would happen next.

  When the woman yelled at the animal to quiet it, Tom looked away again, and Morgan shot him in the chest.

  The shotgun slid harmlessly from the boy’s hands and he dropped to his knees in the moonlight.

  All hell broke loose up and down the street. Windows lit up as people peeked out from behind their curtains. Front doors yawned open and dogs began to bark and howl in earnest.

  “What’s goin’ on out there?” a fat woman with a lantern said from her front porch two houses down. The moon was bright enough that she’d have been able to see if she hadn’t had the lantern to blind her.

  “Texas Rangers,” Frank lied. He couldn’t afford to be caught up in any more feuds until he looked in on Mercy. “Had a little jailbreak, but everything’s fine now. Please go back inside, ma’am.”

  Apparently satisfied, the woman threw a rock at her neighbor’s dog, took her lantern, and waddled back inside, slamming the door behind her.

  Morgan knelt beside the dying boy. “Tell me what’s happening tonight, Tom. Who was supposed to meet you here?”

  “Furg . . . Fur . . .” the boy gurgled. A thin line of blood trickled from the corner of his twisted mouth.

  “Slow down, son, and try to get a little breath.” Morgan gently lifted the dying boy’s head. “Were you on your way to the Monfore place?”

  Tom shook his head. “Pony and R.D.,” he groaned. “There now . . .” Tom’s eyes suddenly cleared. He looked up, shook his head slowly, and chuckled.

  “Damn, Morgan. I think you killed me.” His body went suddenly rigid, then slack. Morgan lowered him to the street.

  “Mr. Morgan?” Another voice called from across the street.

  Frank rolled into the shadows.

  “Mr. Frank Morgan,” the voice called again. “It’s me, Jasper. I . . . I work for Mr. Perkins.”

  Frank relaxed a notch. “Jasper, what are you doin’ out pokin’ around in the night like this?”

  “Mr. Perkins sent us to check in on you. I’m comin’ out, don’t shoot me.”

  Luke’s baby-faced cowhand stepped timidly into the moonlight. He was wearing a gun on his hip, but his hands were up. “Mr. Perkins said he woulda come his own self but the missus is in the middle of havin’ her baby.”

  “Where’s Chance? I’ve never seen one of you without the other.” Morgan hadn’t lived so long by trusting things at face value.

  “There was another bugger hiding in the dark over yonder in that alley. Chance gave him a conk on the back of the head when we came up. Looked like he was waiting to ambush you. Tough bird, though. When we heard the shot, we looked this way, when we turned back around, he was gone.”

  Satisfied, Morgan motioned with the barrel of his gun. “Go ahead and put your hands down, son. What did this other fellow look like?”

  “He’s a young feller, about my age.” Jasper shrugged. “Had long curly hair like a girl a-peekin’ out from under a fancy hat. Chance took out after him, but I thought I better come check on you after I heard the shot.”

  Morgan nodded and drew the razor-sharp s
kinning knife from his belt. “I think I know who it was. I’ve noticed him ghostin’ around behind me ever since I left Amarillo. Been wondering when he was going to get up the nerve to make a play. Some nerve, ambushing me in the dark.”

  Frank cut the rope that was strung across the street and climbed back aboard Stormy, who waited patiently a few yards away.

  “You best go back and check on Chance. That man he’s after is a hell of a shot and if he’s cornered, it’ll take a lot more than a clunk on the head to put him down. Can you shoot?”

  Jasper nodded, touching his pistol. “Yessir, passable at it if I do say so myself.”

  “Good. This man’s name is Chas Ferguson. And he’s every bit as fast as me. He’s just a little short when it comes to courage. If you catch up to him, don’t wait for him to draw. Shoot him where he stands, because he’d do the same to you and that’s certain. He showed us his true colors tonight.”

  “Will do.” Jasper nodded and turned immediately to go. It was easy to see why Luke would send someone like him on this kind of errand.

  Morgan wheeled the stout Appaloosa, then turned back to the young cowboy. “I’m much obliged to the both of you. I’ve got to go check on Mrs. Monfore. You go look after your friend so I can thank him as well. You mind what I told you now. Shoot Mr. Ferguson where he stands.”

  * * *

  Frank tied Stormy to a sycamore tree three houses down from the Monfore place. The big horse, used to such treatment, let out a long sigh and cocked up a hind foot to rest it.

  “When Dog gets back,” Morgan whispered to his horse, “tell him I won’t be long.”

  He crouched, drew his Peacemaker, and moved up the street.

  All the curtains were drawn, but when he got closer, Morgan could hear voices inside. It was just as he’d feared, they’d beaten him here. He checked around back and counted four horses tied to the rail beside the coach house. If they planned to kidnap Mercy, that left three inside. Frank holstered his gun and took out the knife. He moved quietly in case they’d posted a guard.

  They had.

  In the shadows by the back door, Morgan caught a whiff of cigarette smoke on the evening breeze. He froze and watched a tiny orange ash glow as the guard inhaled.

  Morgan sank into the shadows by the corner of the coach house and cursed the bright moon. He needed to get in the house quickly, but couldn’t chance spooking the guard and alerting the others. Men on guard were usually jumpy, unable to work off any of their jitters like the ones actually pulling off the job. Morgan decided to play on the jumpiness.

  He took up a handful of stones and pitched one at the group of horses. He hit a big brown in the rump, but the horse seemed unbothered by it. He threw another and the horse drew up a hind leg, kicking at the small annoyance. Another stone brought a nicker and some shuffling of hooves. He had the whole string spooked now. Frank continued to throw rocks at each of the horses until they milled back and forth and tugged at their tie ropes, stomping their feet in the gravel.

  The guard finally came to investigate. Morgan couldn’t make out his face, but he sounded gruff, like he’d been kicked in the throat.

  “What’s got into you critters?” The guard walked to the horses and looked up and down the deserted alley. When he seemed convinced there was no one around, he petted the big brown on the neck. It was likely his horse. “You animules simmer down now. They’ll be out in a minute, I’m a-thinkin’.”

  Frank moved up next to the house while the guard was busy with the horses. He met the surprised man head on as he stepped back into shadows.

  “What in hell . . . ?” the guard was able to rasp before Frank’s sharp blade slid in and took the wind out of his pipes. Frank caught him as he slumped forward into the knife and lowered him silently to the ground.

  Wiping his blade clean on the front of his pants, Morgan twisted the kitchen doorknob and found it turned easily. He eased it open and stepped inside. Two gaslights burned along the wall making the gleaming kitchen with its polished oak table look as bright as noonday. Frank took a moment to get his eyes used to the light.

  Voices trailed in from the front room. He could hear men arguing. He wondered what they’d done with Mercy, and felt a fire growing deep in his belly.

  “Look at this silver,” a low voice said. “And all these fancy books.”

  “Forget the fancy stuff,” another voice said, this one with a higher pitch—like the wind across a fence wire. “He’s a damned filthy-rich judge. There’s bound to be a load of money around here somewhere. That’s what I’m after.”

  Frank stood still, listening intently. He strained to hear Mercy’s voice. It sounded like he’d arrived in the middle of a burglary. He didn’t have time to wait around.

  “What the . . . ?” the man with the squeaky voice squealed when Morgan kicked open the door that led into the living room.

  “Hello, boys,” he said, pointing his Peacemaker back and forth at the two startled burglars. “I noticed all your horses were wearing the Flying C brand.”

  “Where’s Abe?” a skinny cowboy with a moth-eaten wool vest asked, looking at the window toward the horses.

  “Was that his name?” Morgan threw them both a look that was as cruel as he felt. “He’s not doing so good since I sent him to Hell.”

  “Are you Frank Morgan?” Squeaky asked. There was a look of dread across his face.

  “I am,” Frank said. “And I need one of you to tell me where Mrs. Monfore is.” He thumbed back the hammer on his Colt. “And I should warn you. My patience ran out about an hour ago.”

  Both outlaws had their hands up. Squeaky pointed at his own chest with a hooked thumb. His voice had gone up even an octave higher. “Mr. Morgan, I ain’t no good at all with a gun.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Morgan said. “Just makes my job easier.

  The man in the ragged vest took a chance and made his play while his high-voiced friend was talking. It was a deadly mistake.

  Morgan’s Colt barked twice as the skinny outlaw tried to draw. The mortally wounded man fell back against the writing table, knocking off an inkwell before he crashed to the ground. He coughed, the rattling cough of a man who was dead but didn’t know it yet.

  Squeaky bent low, trying to make himself as small a target as possible. He’d kept his hands raised throughout the shooting. He was a coward, but at least he was alive and Morgan needed him alive.

  “It’s up to you now, mister.” Morgan brought the pistol to bear on the trembling cowboy. “Where is Mrs. Monfore?”

  “He’ll kill me,” the man shrilled.

  Morgan let out an exasperated sigh. “You oughta look at your options here.”

  Squeaky clenched his eyes, pressing out tears. “I can’t, Mr. Morgan. I ain’t kiddin’ you. Mr. Crowder’s mean as the devil his own self. He’d kill me if I told you anything at all.”

  Frank didn’t have time for this. He thumbed back his pistol and pressed the barrel against the trembling outlaw’s pursed lips. The room began to smell like fresh urine.

  “That woman is very dear to me and I aim to find out where she is, even if I have to kill you to do it. Now listen up. I’m gonna count to one; then I’m gonna blow your fool head off.”

  The outlaw’s eyes shot open. “One?” he peeped.

  “I don’t have time to go any higher.”

  He thumbed the hammer back with a resounding click.

  “Cottonwood Creek. Mr. Crowder has a line cabin there he uses to check on his stock. It’s about five miles out near the salt hills.” The outlaw let the words pour out of him as if Morgan had knocked open a spigot. “They took her there. I swear she was alive when she left here.”

  “Cottonwood Creek?” Morgan prodded with the gun muzzle to be certain.

  Squeaky moved his head up and down quickly. His eyes were shut tight. A squinting grimace crossed his face as if he still expected to be shot.

  Morgan thought about it. He was sure this man would have been just as cruel to Merc
y as the rest if given the chance.

  He brought the Colt down sharply on top of Squeaky’s head, sending him to the floor in a rumpled pile. Morgan had hit him hard enough that the wound could have been fatal, but he couldn’t let the outlaw go. If Squeaky died, that was his problem.

  Hoofbeats sounded outside in the darkness. Morgan slid two fresh rounds in his Colt and snapped the loading gate shut.

  Coach wheels crunched in the gravel. Frank relaxed a notch when he heard Tyler Beaumont’s familiar voice.

  “Morgan?”

  “In here,” Frank shouted. “She’s gone.”

  The Ranger came through the door with Victoria in his arms. Her face was bleeding and purple with bruises. A bare arm trailed from underneath Beaumont’s jacket.

  Morgan’s breath quickened when he saw her.

  “She’ll be okay,” Beaumont said as he set her gently on the couch. She was fast asleep and snoring softly.

  “The Whitehead boy do this?” Morgan shut his eyes in an effort to calm himself.

  “He did,” Beaumont whispered. “But if you want a piece of him, you’ll have to go over to the jail. Take a shovel if you go because I poured what’s left of him all over the floor in one of the cells. He may yet live to hang. I cheated the hangman on two others.”

  “Many thanks, Tyler.” Morgan looked at the young woman who could very well be his own flesh and blood. He was flooded with relief that she was all right. “Many thanks,” he whispered again.

  Jasper and Chance came clomping up on the front steps a few minutes later. Jasper agreed to take charge of the unconscious outlaw while Chance stood guard on Victoria while she slept.

  Morgan and Beaumont had serious business to attend to at Cottonwood Creek.

  34

  “What are we gonna tell the poor girl if we find both her parents murdered?” Beaumont asked a mile away from the Cottonwood Creek cabin. They moved slowly, picking their way through dense stands of poplar, briar, and trailing grapevine along the creek bed.

  “We’ll tell her we did our best.” Morgan’s voice was stretched tight. He always ran through the possible outcomes in his head before a confrontation if there was time. Things rarely turned out anything near what he’d envisioned. “That’s all we can tell her.”