“It makes no sense, Frank. Why kidnap the judge and his wife and daughter? Who would be fool enough to do something like that? There’s no money in it. You gotta leave someone behind to pay the ransom.”
Morgan kept Stormy pointed straight ahead into the dark night. “What we’re dealin’ with here is not about a ransom,” he whispered against a quiet breeze. “It’s got more to do with one party sayin’ to the other: ‘Here now, you look and take notice at how strong I am. I can whip your ass anytime I please.’ These are bad men, Tyler. Bad as they come, I guess.”
“You think they’re already dead?”
Morgan shrugged. “No tellin’. Mercy’s a friend of mine. We were very close at one time. I’d like to think I’d be able to sense it if she was gone.”
“And you don’t feel any such thing, right?”
Morgan was silent for a time. Only breathing horses and the groaning creak of saddle leather could be heard above the rustling brush. He wanted to think he’d feel something if Mercy had been killed. He wanted to have hope that she was still alive so he wouldn’t have to tell her daughter—maybe his own daughter—that he’d only been able to do his best and that just wasn’t good enough.
“No,” he said at length. “I feel like she’s probably still alive. I fear for her safety with men like these. And I fear for her honor, but I think she’s likely still alive.”
“You got a plan?”
Morgan turned to him in the mottled moonlight. He pulled a thick black vine, the size of his wrist, to one side so Stormy could squeeze through.
“These boys have already shown they have no regard for human life. They were willing to stand by while another of their lot abused an innocent young woman. They’ve taken a judge and his wife prisoner in such a way that they’re bound to have to kill them eventually. What else can you do with vermin like that but stomp ’em out before they stomp on you.”
“I believe you’re right in that respect,” Beaumont said, following through the same hole in the underbrush.
“All right then.” Morgan reined up and looked the Ranger square in the eye. “As long as we’re of one mind, let’s us agree on this plan. I say we burst in and shoot anyone who’s not Mercy or the judge.”
Beaumont tensed and sucked in air through his teeth. They showed white in the moonlight. “El Deguello,” he said, referring to the march General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna’s men played when he attacked the Texan holdouts in the Alamo.
Morgan pounded the edge of his fist on the top of his saddle horn. “Deguello.”
The old Spanish tune signified there would be no mercy. No quarter.
* * *
The bright half-moon blazed down through the purple night and made approaching the cabin without being seen almost impossible. Dried oak and cottonwood leaves covered the ground providing for an instant alarm if anyone tried to make an approach on foot.
Morgan and Beaumont hid below the lip of the deep creek bed, just out of sight of the back door and less than twenty yards away. They’d tied their horses in a small clearing a quarter mile away on the opposite side of the creek.
“You smell coffee?” Morgan whispered, wrinkling his nose on the brisk night air.
“I think so.”
“Sure makes me wish for a good cup before we start this little hurrah.” He shrugged. “After we’re done I’ll help myself to some of theirs. Outlaw coffee. Likely taste like horse leavin’s.”
He took his hat off and inched up even with the dirt ledge. He held onto an exposed cottonwood root to keep from sliding backward. Horses stomped in the dark trees nearby, but he couldn’t see them. As he suspected, there was a guard posted by the back door. The man stood back in the shadows, under the heavy eaves, and it was impossible to see him clearly.
Morgan let himself slip down a foot so he was next to Beaumont again. They were inches apart. “Unless I miss my guess, there’s a guard at the front door as well as the back. Can you give a whippoorwill cry?”
“Not hardly.” Beaumont smirked in the darkness. “They’d know right off it wasn’t a bird as soon as I tried. That’s for certain. I can do a passable redbird or a bobwhite.”
“We need some sort of night bird. Both of those are day birds.” Morgan hung his hat on the root and scratched his head. “Can you hoot?”
The Ranger shrugged. “I reckon I can hoot as well as the next man.”
“All right, a hoot it is then. It’s important we take both guards at the same time.” Morgan dipped his bare head toward the far side of the cabin. “I’ll work my way up here while you move around through that stand of cedars to the front door. When you feel like you’re in position, give me the best hoot owl you can. We’ll both make our moves then.”
Morgan drew the long knife from the scabbard on his belt. “This is touchy, son. No guns if you can help it. Once we bust in the door, we’ll make enough noise to bring down the devil. Until then, it’s quiet as a Papago—otherwise, those poor souls inside haven’t got a chance in hell.”
“Understood,” Beaumont said quietly, taking out his own knife. There was a look of grim determination on his boyish face, as if he wanted to be certain he didn’t let his mentor down. He hung his hat on the root beside Morgan’s. “Quiet as a church mouse.”
A moment later, the Ranger faded into the dark shadows at the edge of the creek bed. Morgan took a deep breath and heaved himself silently onto the level ground behind the cabin.
He figured it would take Beaumont less than ten minutes to move around and get in position, and he wanted to be ready when the signal came.
The guard at the back door had a habit of walking out a few steps every minute or so. He’d venture out into the open and peer at the shadowed tree line along the creek long enough to make him feel like he was doing something, then retreat back to the safety of the cabin wall where he’d wait to start the whole process over again.
Each time the guard moved out toward the creek, each time the sound of gurgling dark water below helped to cover any noise, Morgan inched across the ground. He held the knife in his teeth and used his hands to drag himself forward just a few scant feet at each opportunity. It was tediously slow going, knowing Mercy was inside, but he didn’t have far to go.
By the time ten minutes had passed, Frank was tucked safely in the shadows at the near end of the cabin. The guard was not fifteen feet away. Morgan was close enough to hear the little nonsense tune the man hummed to himself. Close enough to smell him.
He was an older man, maybe in his fifties, probably taking the little walks to keep his legs from getting stiff. He held a short-barreled Winchester carbine across his chest as he hummed and walked, completely oblivious to the gunfighter’s presence.
Beaumont’s timing was perfect even if the birdcall wasn’t. The clear “whoo, whowhoo” rattled the quiet darkness just as the back guard took a step out from under the cabin eaves.
The man stopped, straining his ears to make certain the mournful sound he’d heard was really an owl.
Morgan slipped up behind him in three noiseless strides. “Passable,” he said under his breath.
The guard spun at the sound of Morgan’s voice. “Wha . . . ?” he grunted, his eyes showing like two white saucers in the moonlight.
“I said, that was a passable hoot owl,” Morgan whispered as he plunged his blade into the astonished outlaw’s belly, drawing it upward to sever his diaphragm before the dying man could draw another breath to cry out. Morgan kept cutting.
The old outlaw slumped forward, still clutching the rifle. His lips muttered breathless words of surprise that carried no sound. Morgan caught him in his free arm and lowered him carefully to the ground.
The back door remained closed.
A moment later, Beaumont eased around the corner. He held his own blood-covered knife in an equally blood-soaked hand. There was a wild look about him and he blinked as though he had something caught in his eyes.
“You all right?” Morgan put away his knife.
“It wasn’t quite like I thought it would be.” Beaumont stared down at the dead outlaw at Morgan’s feet. “It took mine a bit longer to go down than I thought it would. Kind of frazzled me, that’s all.” The young Ranger shook his head to clear it.
“Not the kind of thing I hope you have to ever do again,” Frank whispered, resting a hand on the Ranger’s shoulder. “But you gotta put it out of your mind right now—you hear me?”
Beaumont nodded. “I’m fine, really.”
“Good, ’cause we got a ways to go before we’re out of the woods on this one.” He drew his pistol. “Now you see why I want you to let the grizzlies do all the work when I get old and senile. No killing ever ought to come easy, but some kinds come a little harder than others.”
Beaumont gave a resolute nod. His face was still pale, but Morgan had seen him in action before. He couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather have with him at this particular time. Beaumont’s mettle had been tested before against Ephraim Swan. He would come through this scrape all right. Frank was certain of that.
Morgan took up a position on the far side of the split-wood door while the Ranger stood at the other. Muffled voices spilled out on thin shafts of light from long cracks in the planking.
“Ready?” Morgan put his hand on the wooden lever that acted as a latch.
“Deguello,” Beaumont hissed. His back was to the wall, his pistol in hand. The color had come back to the young Ranger’s face and he was all business.
It was time.
* * *
R.D. Horne stuck his filthy hat on a rusty nail behind the woodstove and brushed a lock of oily hair out of his equally greasy face. Purnell shuddered when the giant approached Mercy and knelt beside her, leering. He pushed her skirts up slowly and put a hand on the pale flesh of her exposed knee.
Isaiah Monfore, who was bound with stiff leather cords to the stout wooden chair next to her, growled in anger when the grubby outlaw touched his wife. “Keep your damned hands off her!”
Horne growled right back at him and gave him a stiff backhanded slap for good measure.
“You shut your gob hole, old man,” the outlaw said, gazing lustfully back at Mercy. “Don’t you try and bully me around when it comes to pretty women.” He turned his attention back to Judge Monfore and poked roughly at his chest with a sausage-sized finger. “I’m the king of bullies round here. This ain’t your almighty courtroom. You hear me?”
Horne drew back to strike the judge in the face again, but Whitehead stopped him.
“For hell’s sake, R.D., you got a woman right there in front of you and you spend all your time slappin’ on her husband. What’s wrong with you? You caused the pompous fool more hurt every time you touched her damned knee than you could ever do whippin’ his sorry hide.”
R.D. paused, blinking slowly as he let the words sink in.
Purnell stood with his back to the wall, next to the front door. He wanted to sink into it, to disappear and leave all this craziness behind. He felt his stomach churn at the horrible truth the sheriff had just taught the greasy hulk of a man. He’d never met anyone as cruel and soulless as Rance Whitehead.
“Why?” Mercy sobbed. “Why are you doing this?” She sat still and gray as stone in the chair beside her husband. Her hands were pulled back behind her and tied with the same leather cord. Tears streaked her face and dripped off the end of her nose. Her red eyes were almost swollen shut.
“See there.” Whitehead nodded toward the weeping woman. “You got ’em both goin’ now.” He winked at Horne, who now grinned from ear to cauliflower ear. “Stolen kisses are all the sweeter if you’re stealin’ ’em right under a husband’s nose. Ain’t that right?”
Past the point of despair, Mercy tugged at her bonds and railed. Her face glowed and spit flew with the ragged scream of her words. “Will someone please quit talking about me and start talking to me?”
Pony Crowder sat on the edge of a bunk across the room playing a not-so-friendly game of poker with two brooding hired hands named Carlos and Miguel Fernandez. Between the two of them the brothers shared almost a full head of jet black hair and a doubly large dose of sour disposition. Carlos was the eldest and sported a full beard to make up for his thinning scalp. He took his poker playing seriously and glared at Mercy for her outburst. His younger brother tapped the handle of the fancy nickel pistol at his belt and raised an eyebrow at Pony. He spit something in Spanish.
Pony nodded and looked up from his cards and winced like his ears were hurt. His eyes locked on Horne.
“R.D., I wish to hell you’d go ahead and do what you gotta do. Jeeze o’ Pete, I feel like I’m with a bunch of yippin’ pups or something. Maybe if you’d get down to business, it’d shut the coyote bitch up for a minute so we could get some peace around here. I’m gonna get up and cut her loose in a minute if you don’t. That way you gotta deal with her one way or another. Comprende?”
Horne put his hand back on Mercy’s knee and licked his lips. The woman’s head lolled to one side and she looked sadly at her husband.
Whitehead suddenly stood and grabbed his hat from the back of his chair. He walked over to stand directly in front of Mercy and the judge. “As much as I’d like to sit around and chat with you nice folks, I got a county to look after.”
That brought a round of chuckles and laughs from the others in the room—all except Purnell, who had to fight to keep his supper down. The sheriff continued.
“Don’t know if I’ll be seeing either of you again, but Judge, I want you to know I’ll take care of things when you’re gone. Parker County and that pretty little daughter of yours will be in good hands, so don’t you worry.”
Monfore groaned, low in his belly. The sound built slowly until it became a full growl. “Whitehead, you worthless . . . I’ll see you hang for this.” The judge yanked against the leather bonds and let his full wrath pour out into the confines of the small cabin. His broad face reddened from exertion and his chair bounced impotently with his struggles.
Across the bunk from Pony Crowder, a circumspect Carlos spread out a straight flush and glanced up to chuckle softly at the judge’s attempted tirade. Miguel folded, but joined his brother in the laugh.
Pony threw his own cards down on the blanket and glared at everyone in the room as if it was their fault he was a poor poker player.
Whitehead put on his hat. He ran a slow forefinger across his broad mustache. “Monfore, I’d shut my fool mouth if I were you. The only thing you’re gonna see is R.D. here slobberin’ all over your wife. I reckon it’s gonna hurt you a hell of a lot more than it does her.”
Whitehead turned to go. “I’ll be back tomorrow, boys. Don’t kill anyone while I’m gone if you can help it.”
“Go ahead and git if you aim to go,” Pony sneered from his card game. “You’re as loud as the damned woman.”
The sheriff gave a soft chuckle and tipped his hat to Purnell as he went out the door. “Watch these rowdies,” he whispered. “They’re animals.”
Purnell jumped when the door slammed shut. He cringed despite himself and swallowed hard. He didn’t like being this close to a man like the sheriff. The Crowder boys were bad, but Whitehead was a rabid dog. It was hard to believe anyone could have that much of a mean streak.
“I’ll do my best,” Purnell said weakly. He wanted to run, but couldn’t bring himself to move. Instead, he stayed next to the door.
“Holy hell,” Pony spit, suddenly rising from the bunk and drawing his knife. Horne jumped at the suddenness of it and jerked back his hand. “You’re gonna take all night just to get started and I won’t get any peace.”
The Fernandez brothers laughed out loud.
Pony strode over to Mercy and walked behind her, brandishing the knife. “Feelin’ a little bloody right now.” He bent low, his drooling jaw next to Mercy’s ear. He held the blade in front of her, only inches from her nose. It caught a glint of yellow lantern light and threw it around the room while he worked the knife i
n his hand. “I think I’ll cut both their damned throats right here and now—just for the grins of it.”
35
The sound of Mercy’s scream nearly tore the wooden door off its hinges. Morgan helped it along with a stout shove from his shoulder.
Inside, two Mexican men by a cot stood and reached for their pistols at the sound of intruders. Morgan and Beaumont each took one and they collapsed in a flurry of smoke, blood, and playing cards. A hulk of a man with thin greasy hair huddled behind the judge for protection, both hands straight up in the air in a sign of surrender.
Two quick shots came from over Morgan’s shoulder, and he knew Beaumont was taking care of business behind him.
A door slammed as someone ran out the front.
“You best drop that gun, mister.” Pony Crowder stooped behind Mercy. A long-bladed knife glinted under her chin. His face drew back in a hissing snarl, like a cornered wolf. His teeth gleamed yellow in the lantern light. “I could cut through her soft little throat like a hot knife through butter, so you best mind your p’s and q’s. Comprende?”
“I’m right behind you, Morgan,” Beaumont’s voice came from Frank’s right.
Morgan let his pistol swing back and forth from Pony to the big outlaw. Mercy’s eyes were wide and her shoulders shook. The judge moaned softly, his head collapsed against his chest. Dark, thick blood ran from his nose and left ear.
“You watch the big ugly one,” Morgan said over his shoulder. “I’ll take care of the little ugly one. I’m thinking this is Pony.”
“Damned right I’m Pony,” Crowder spit. “And I’ll tell you what else. Me and R.D. are gonna slide right outta here or else the little lady’s blood covers the floor. Comprende?” His words rattled with penned-up energy.
“I got it,” Morgan whispered. The outlaw only left a few inches of his face exposed as he peeked around Mercy’s face. “Pony, you need to calm down a little and think this through. You can give it up and get out of this alive, or you can keep on this trail you’re on and be dead in the next half minute.”
Manhunt Page 20
