Manhunt

by William W. Johnstone

  “Tyler, please,” Victoria pleaded. Her chest heaved with rapid, shallow breaths. “You don’t know what Sheriff Whitehead is capable of. Some say he’s the fastest man alive today.”

  “Ranger Beaumont.” Morgan came up behind the young man and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I appreciate what you’re about to do, but this is a county matter.” He held up the silver badge the judge had left lying on the table. “I believe that duty falls to me. No need for the state to get involved.”

  “Frank,” Tyler protested. “You’re not even over your last fight. I saw how hard it was on you out at the cabin. I’d be an awful poor excuse for a friend if I don’t take care of this. Whitehead is bad medicine, but I can take him. I know I can. I got right on my side.”

  “Wrong men kill right men every day of the week.” Morgan gave a resigned sigh. “Anyhow, he doesn’t want you. He wants me. Listen to him out there. If I allow you to do this when it’s my duty, and something happened to you, I’d never be able to forgive myself.” He glanced up and caught Mercy’s eye, then smiled softly at Victoria. “And the Good Lord knows I got a wagon load of things to feel guilty about already.”

  “Don’t worry so much, Frank. I can do this.”

  “I don’t doubt your skill at arms, son. You know that.” He began to check his own pistol. “You ever seen two buffalo bulls when they fight?”

  Beaumont shrugged. “I don’t believe I have.”

  “Well let me tell you, there’s a lot of huffin’ and bellerin’ to begin with. But, after it’s all said and done, one of those bulls is torn up and injured so bad he can’t be helped.” Morgan paused and slipped the Peacemaker back into his holster. He looked Beaumont square in the eye. “And the other bull—well, that other bull is dead. Get out of my way, Tyler. You got plenty of days left to fight your fights.”

  Mercy suddenly tore away from her husband and threw her arms around Frank. The judge stood still, watching. If his wife’s behavior upset him, he didn’t show it.

  “Don’t do this, Frank,” she whispered. Her voice was breathy, almost too soft to hear. “I’m afraid he’ll kill you. I don’t think I could bear losing you all over again. I got you into all this with that foolish telegram. This isn’t even your fight.”

  Morgan gently pushed her away with both hands. He smiled and settled his hat squarely on his head. “I got a handful of fights left in me—but this one here is surely mine.”

  39

  The sun was high when Morgan breasted the door and stepped out on the street to face Sheriff Reed Whitehead. The buildings around the open courthouse square cast squat shadows in the dust. It was close enough to noon that neither man would have to contend with light in his eyes.

  “Well, looky here,” Whitehead said when Morgan stopped to face him. His voice was raw rough as a saw blade. “I figured you were busy slinkin’ out the back door—or hiding behind that slut girlfriend of yours. Oh, don’t think we didn’t know about the two of you. The whole town knows you had a thing goin’ before you ran away.”

  Morgan stood still, watching for the telltale movement that would signify Whitehead was about to draw. He let the harsh words about Mercy slide off his back without comment or second thought. Insults before a fight, particularly insults about an innocent woman, would not be tolerated. During a fight, Morgan kept his temper in check. A quick temper clouded the mind and wrecked the concentration. It was more than likely to get a man killed. There was no need to get upset when a reckoning was already so close at hand.

  “I owe you a good thrashing,” Whitehead growled. “For what you did to me and my family.”

  “Suit yourself,” Morgan said. “Throw down your gun and I’ll face you in a fistfight.”

  The sheriff shook his head. He winced slightly as if the action hurt him. His eyes were narrow bloodshot slits. “No, Frank Morgan needs to die in a gunfight.”

  “You got no way out of this, Whitehead. Even if you managed to take me, this town will never let you just ride away.”

  “I know that. I’m a dead man. But that’s what makes this so easy. Men who know they’re dead anyhow don’t have a lot to fret about.”

  The sheriff’s hand hung motionless above the butt of his pistol. If he had a telltale, he wasn’t showing it. There was something in his face, something in the way he stood, that Frank couldn’t quite make out.

  At first he chalked it up to swagger, or maybe just false confidence. When he hit on the answer, it stunned him as much as a slap. Whitehead had a complete lack of fear. There was a quiet calm about the gunman that said he’d plowed this ground many times before and he was ready to go at it again.

  It was a look Morgan had seen thousands of times—every time he looked in a mirror at his own reflection.

  Rance Whitehead was not going to be an easy adversary.

  Both men stood completely still, looking at each other, searching for a weakness in their opponent. Finding none, they kept looking. They were less than ten yards apart.

  “When I’m done with you,” Whitehead said, “I’ll have time to take care of the judge and your girlfriend before I’m finished.”

  “You gonna get down to business, or you just gonna stand there and talk trash all day?”

  “Maybe I’ll have time to finish what my boy started with that little whore.”

  Whitehead’s breathing had been relaxed and slow. When he stopped and held his breath for an instant, Morgan knew he was a hairbreadth away from drawing.

  * * *

  Tyler Beaumont would later say he never saw either man draw.

  Their guns appeared in their hands simultaneously. Smoke and fire flashed from both barrels at the same moment. When the smoke cleared, both men stood, still facing each other. Onlookers held their breath, waiting to see what would happen next. Then, Whitehead’s gun spun on his finger and fell to the dust. The tall man swayed, blinking unbelieving eyes before he pitched forward into the deserted street.

  Beaumont was first out the door. He kicked Whitehead’s pistol out of reach and rolled him over. He looked up at Frank. “You shot him in the mouth.” The Ranger took off his hat and scratched his head. “Straight through the damned mouth. Who shoots anybody through the mouth?”

  “That’s what I was aimin’ for. I got sick of listenin’ to his trash.” Morgan reloaded his Colt and slid it back in the holster. “Don’t think I could have put up with another word of it.”

  Beaumont stood when Frank came up next to the body. He noticed a long rip in the gunman’s shirt, just under his right armpit.

  “You hurt?”

  Morgan followed Beaumont’s eyes to the spot and reached up to touch it with his left hand. “I don’t believe I am.”

  He fingered the torn cloth. “Looks like he grazed my shirt,” he mused. “Luke’s wife, Carolyn, is mighty handing with a needle and thread; maybe she’ll sew it up for me.”

  “You were half an inch from taking another bullet. Inches away from dyin’ and it don’t seem to bother you.”

  Morgan shrugged. “I reckon none of us are that far off from dyin’ one way or another.”

  “Whatever you say, Frank,” Beaumont scoffed, and gave his friend a good-natured slap on the back. “Some of us are closer than others.”

  40

  “Are you certain you won’t reconsider?” Judge Monfore leaned against his cane with a beefy hand and gave Morgan a sidelong look.

  “Nope,” Morgan said. “I don’t believe I will.” He had a long list of reasons why he shouldn’t take the job as sheriff of Parker County, but excuses appeared flimsy as corn silk when said out loud. It was best to just decline.

  “Your Honor, this county is chock full of capable men. I know; I grew up with some of ’em.” Morgan gave Judge Monfore back the silver badge and shook his hand. “You’ll find someone who’ll fill the bill much better than I would.”

  Mercy was misty-eyed, but her face showed relief that he was not going to stay around and complicate her life. “Where will you g
o from here?” she asked.

  “Well, I got a few things I need to catch up on. First, I intend to stop by and see Luke and Carolyn Perkins. They got ’em a new baby son.” Morgan took off his hat and smoothed back his hair. “They’re namin’ the poor little cuss Frank of all things. It’s a damn poor thing to do to a child if you ask me.”

  He reached out to shake Victoria’s hand. She took it, but smirked and tugged him to her. “You’d think I was a little girl and you were about to pat me on the head. Give me a proper good-bye, Mr. Morgan.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed, hugging him hard, and gave him a surprising kiss on the cheek.

  “I’d leave too, if I thought you’d say good-bye like that,” Beaumont joked.

  “Well, now,” Morgan said, a little dazed from the sudden outpouring of emotion. “Since you’re not a little girl, I reckon you should dispense with the Mr. Morgan business and go on and call me Frank.”

  “I’ll do that, Frank,” Victoria said. There was a tear in her eye, but her lips smiled brightly. “Come by and see us more often.”

  When Frank returned his hat to his head and tipped it like he was ready to go, Mercy suddenly broke away from her husband. Victoria stepped over so the judge could lean against her.

  “May I walk alongside you to your horse?” Mercy’s voice was soft and sweet as honey.

  Morgan glanced up at the judge. Monfore gave him a smiling nod. There was no animosity in it. Frank wondered if he’d be such a generous man if the situation was reversed.

  “Give us a minute, Tyler, and then meet me over by the livery,” Frank said as Mercy took his arm. “I need to talk to you before I go.”

  “You got it,” Beaumont said.

  * * *

  “I’d given up hope of ever seeing you again,” Mercy said when they were out of earshot of the group.

  “I figured a man like me was pretty easy to get over.”

  “Hardly.” Mercy turned to face him when they got to the horses. “Frank . . .”

  Morgan held his breath, almost afraid she’d confirm what he already felt was true. He had a dozen questions he wanted to ask, but he intended to keep his promise.

  “Frank,” she continued. “It really doesn’t matter who’s daughter she is, does it?”

  He shook his head. “I suppose not.”

  “All right then. Don’t let it keep you away.” She tiptoed up to kiss him softly. Her lips trembled. “Now, I’m a happily married woman. That’s the last time that will ever happen,” she said as she smoothed the front of her dress with both hands. “But I hope this isn’t the last time we see you. You can be a drifter if you want to, Frank Morgan, but don’t let that make you a stranger.”

  “You beat all I ever saw, Mercy Monfore,” Frank whispered. “You sure do.”

  * * *

  Beaumont walked along with Morgan as he led Stormy and the new palomino packhorse north out of town toward the Double Diamond Ranch. The shadows were long and orange. There was only about an hour of daylight left, but Frank felt the need to be on the move—at least as far as Luke’s.

  “This is a fine-looking mare you got yourself here.” The Ranger ran a hand down the packhorse’s broad rump. “I have to say, though, I never figured you for a man to ride a yellow horse.”

  “I don’t intend to ride her. She’s a packhorse.” Frank grinned and waved over his shoulder at Mercy and the others. He tipped his head and took on a conspiratorial tone. “To tell you the truth, I’ve had my hands full of dark-headed women for the last little bit. I believe I’ll go with a blonde for a while.”

  “Speakin’ of dark-headed women,” Beaumont said. He took off his hat. “I wonder if I could get your permission to court Victoria more seriously.”

  Morgan stopped in his tracks. He shrugged. “It’s not up to me. I reckon you should be going to the judge with that petition. Doesn’t matter what happened in the past. He’s her father.”

  “I know that, and I already checked it out with him. He said he wouldn’t stand in our way.”

  “Well, there you go then,” Morgan said, ready to dismiss any further talk on the matter. He reached to turn a stirrup toward him and speared it with his boot.

  “You know what Miss Vicky said? She said I still had to ask your permission.”

  Morgan took his foot out of the stirrup and turned around. “She did, did she?”

  The Ranger nodded. “She did.”

  Morgan was taken aback a little. He climbed into the saddle with a groan and reached down to shake the lawman’s hand. “You have my blessing then, Tyler Beaumont. Just do me a favor and treat her better than I did her mama. Settle down and base your Rangering out of here.”

  “Where shall we wire if she decides to take me up on a proposal—down the road a little?” Beaumont bounced in his boots and seemed about ready to bust with boyish enthusiasm.

  Morgan gathered up Stormy’s reins and thought for a minute. The horse’s ears perked and he pawed the ground with a forefoot. “I’ll wire you in a week or two. Maybe you’ll know which way is up by then.” Morgan prodded Beaumont with his toe. “You’re so bum-fuzzled right now, you’d likely give me the wrong date and time. If there is to be a wedding, you can feel free to tell Miss Vicky I’ll be pleased to come back for it. That’s certain.”

  Morgan paused and looked down at the tough little Texas Ranger who’d become like a son to him over the past few months. “You remember that sad little excuse for a window in my room back in Amarillo?”

  Beaumont shrugged. “I guess so. Wasn’t much of a window.”

  “No, it wasn’t. The fact is, you taught me a lesson then, when I was lookin’ out at the tumbleweeds and all poutylike. Likely as not, you thought it was the shootin’ contest that got through to me—or the telegram from Mrs. Monfore here.” The Gunfighter dipped his head toward Mercy. “Truth is, it was you and your little lecture about the window.”

  “No foolin’? I don’t remember sayin’ anything profound.”

  “The fact is, kid, I never was meant to be inside lookin’ out any window. The Good Lord made me to be outside rollin’ along with the tumbleweeds and cottonwood fluff.” Morgan kept his eyes on Mercy as he spoke. She stood with clenched hands beside her husband. He leaned on her—probably more than either of them realized.

  “I can ride by someone else’s window every once in a blue moon and see ’em all warm and snug by their fire. For a minute, I think I’d like to be in there where it’s cozy and all, lookin’ out the other way—but that ain’t the life I’m cut out for.”

  Morgan twisted and dug through his saddlebags behind him. “I almost forgot.” When he turned around again he held the nickel-plated revolver he’d won in Amarillo. He grabbed it by the barrel and offered it butt-first down to Beaumont.

  “I didn’t win this, you did,” Beaumont stammered. He licked his lips when he saw the beautiful handgun again.

  “Just take the damned thing.” Morgan took the reins in his hands and grinned. “Consider it an early wedding present.”

  “You think really she’ll take me up on my offer when I ask her?”

  Morgan wheeled Stormy around in a complete circle and tipped his hat to Mercy and the judge. He nodded at Victoria and took the packhorse lead from Beaumont.

  “Well,” he said as he put the spurs to Stormy, “if she doesn’t she’s no kin of mine.”

  Epilogue

  The good people of Parker County, Texas, decided it would be best if the railroad took their stockyard and put it somewhere else—namely Ft. Worth, which was already gaining a reputation as being a rowdy cow town with all the attendant vice and violence.

  Morgan spent two days with Luke Perkins and his large extended family. He looked in on his namesake, and spent some time teaching Jasper and Chance to shoot down by an old clay bank where the noise wouldn’t scare the baby or the milk cows.

  Both boys had talent, but they had a tendency to rush their shots. Frank suspected they were each showing off for their resp
ective Fossman twin. Each of the girls stood a few feet behind them with hands over her ears.

  High on a limestone mesa, unbeknownst to Morgan and the others, or even to the scruffy cur dog that lazed in the sun, oblivious to the noise, a lone figure knelt in the cedar brush and watched through a brass spyglass. He was careful not to let it catch the sunlight and give away his position.

  Watching Morgan shoot made Chas Ferguson feel light-headed. He collapsed the spyglass and returned it to its leather case before rolling over on his back to look up into the cloudless sky. A cool wind brushed the thin blond beard on his boyish face.

  Ferguson had watched from the hotel across the street while Morgan shot Rance Whitehead in the mouth. He’d jumped like a surprised dog when he heard the shot. Later, he looked at the body and saw the way the teeth had all been broken or torn away. As he looked, a deadly calm overcame his body. It was at that moment he realized that it didn’t matter if the same fate lay in store for him. He had to play the cards that were dealt. One way or another he had to face Morgan. There was no getting around it.

  Ferguson backed away from the edge of the mesa before he stood and brushed off the front of his fancy striped britches and returned the Stetson to his curly head.

  Maybe Frank Morgan would shoot out all his teeth—maybe he would kill Frank Morgan. None of that really mattered anymore. Some things were worse than dying. As long as the Gunfighter went on living, Ferguson knew he would never truly be alive himself.

  The dandy climbed into his saddle and listened to the pop and crack of the shots over the ledge behind him. They didn’t make him flinch anymore. He wheeled his horse and smiled to himself.

  “Frank Morgan,” he whispered into the wind. “I do believe I’m ready.”

  AFTERWORD:

  NOTES FROM THE OLD WEST

  In the small town where I grew up, there were two movie theaters. The Pavilion was one of those old-timey movie show palaces, built in the heyday of the Mary Pickford and Charlie Chaplin silent era of the 1920s. By the 1950s, when I was a kid, the Pavilion was a little worn around the edges, but it was still the premier theater in town. They played all those big Technicolor biblical Cecil B. DeMille epics and corny MGM musicals. In Cinemascope, of course.