Violent Sunday, page 26
Frank pushed his chair back and stood up. Now that he had made up his mind, he didn’t see any point in delaying. He had always been that way.
“No, you stay here,” he told Beaumont. “McKelvey knows you’re a Ranger. He won’t be about to let anything slip in front of you.”
“He’s bound to know that you and I have been working together, too,” Beaumont pointed out. “If he’s up to no good, he won’t trust you.”
A faint smile tugged at Frank’s wide mouth. “That’s true, but I’ve got that reputation as a gunman. I’ve never been able to live it down, so I might as well try to get some use out of it.”
Beaumont shrugged. “Whatever you say. Just be careful, Frank.”
“I intend to be. I don’t trust McKelvey any further than he probably trusts me. Funny thing, though . . . sometimes the crookedest hombre is the one who’s easiest to fool.”
He left Beaumont with that and went to saddle Stormy. He told Dog to stay there and rode off into the evening.
He was only about halfway to Brownwood when he heard the hoofbeats of another horse somewhere nearby. Reining in, Frank waited for the other rider to approach. He knew that a trail from the southwest merged with the main road right about here.
“Evenin’,” he called softly as a horse and rider came up on his left, announcing his presence so that the other man wouldn’t be spooked.
The stranger reined in and said, “Who’s that?” Frank knew right away the other rider wasn’t a man at all.
“It’s Frank Morgan, Mrs. Stratton,” he said. He had recognized Callie’s voice.
“Morgan!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing skulking around here, gunfighter?”
He ignored the scornful tone and said, “I’m not skulking, ma’am. I was just on my way into Brownwood and realized there was somebody else on the road.” He paused for a second and then commented, “Some folks might think it was more unusual for a lady to be riding around after dark by herself.”
“I’ve never claimed to be a lady,” she replied tartly, “and I’ve got a .45 on my hip and a Winchester in the saddle boot that would make anybody think twice about bothering me.”
“Yes, ma’am, I expect they would.”
“Don’t ma’am me.” She clucked her horse into motion again, and Frank fell in alongside her on Stormy. “My name’s Callie,” she went on.
“And I’m Frank.” If she wanted to be friends, he was willing. She might know what her brother was up to these days . . . and even if she didn’t, Frank had never minded having a conversation with a strikingly attractive redheaded woman.
Callie got right down to business as they rode along together. “Has Ranger Beaumont sent for reinforcements yet?”
“Not that I know of. Beaumont doesn’t let me in on everything he’s doing, though.”
“He might want to give it some thought. My brother has been talking to that Flint Coburn a lot the past few days. I don’t think that’s a good sign.”
Frank frowned. “I reckon not. Coburn’s been in plenty of range wars.”
“Isn’t that true of you, too, Frank?”
“I never sold my gun to one side or the other like Coburn does,” Frank declared. “If he’s trying to push your brother into something, you can bet Coburn will get more good out of it than anybody else.”
“That’s pretty much the way it struck me, too. I don’t trust the man.” Callie looked over at Frank. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be telling you this.”
“You want me to have a talk with your brother?”
Callie shook her head. “It wouldn’t do any good. Al’s too worked up about what happened to Vern Gladwell, and about Kane and those other two men still being in jail. We talked to that lawyer fella, by the way. He’s got a motion before the court for a change of venue, but the judge won’t rule on it until Monday. From what the lawyer said, you’re responsible for him being here, Frank.”
Frank grimaced. He had given instructions that his part in the whole deal be kept quiet. The lawyer hadn’t been as discreet as he should have been.
“Why would you want to help us like that?” Callie asked.
“I just want to see things settled without any more killing.”
“Do you really think that’s possible?”
Frank thought about everything that had happened and then shook his head. “No. I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Neither do I. That’s why I’m on my way into town tonight. Al rode in earlier, and he hasn’t come back yet. I want to make sure he’s not getting drunk enough to start a fight.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ll ride along with you, if you don’t mind.”
“It’s a free country,” she said casually.
After they had ridden along in silence for a few minutes, she asked in a more serious tone, “Why do you want to head off trouble, Frank? From what I know of you, you’ve been around violence all your life. There have been books written about you. They say you’ve killed a thousand men.”
“Books say a heap of things that aren’t true,” he told her. “I’ve seen more than my share of bloodshed, though, and smelled powder smoke all across the West. There aren’t that many of us left.”
“The gunfighters, you mean?”
He nodded. “Our day is past. I can see that. Men like Coburn can’t. He’s hanging on to the notion that everything can be solved with a gun.”
“What would you have folks do, sit around and talk every problem to death?”
Frank laughed. “Lord, no! If it ever gets to the point where folks are afraid to take up the gun when it’s truly necessary, this country won’t be worth living in. But there’s a time and a place for it.”
Unfortunately, the time was now and the place was Brown County, he thought. The storm clouds that had loomed for so long were about to break. He felt it in his bones.
They had reached the outskirts of town. At Callie’s suggestion, the first place they headed for was the Palace Saloon. That was fine with Frank; he wanted to see Ace McKelvey, anyway. And as Callie said, it was likely they would find Rawlings there.
Sure enough, his horse was tied at the hitch rail in front of the saloon. “I knew he’d be here,” Callie said grimly. “Maybe I can talk him into coming home.”
They dismounted and tied their horses next to Rawlings’s mount. As they stepped inside, Frank saw that the saloon wasn’t very busy. That came as no surprise; most of the crews from the big spreads were involved in the fall roundup. They were gathering over at Zephyr, where the railroad ended and the big cattle pens were located. Only a handful of men were inside the Palace.
Unfortunately, one of them was Al Rawlings, and another was Deputy Marshal Skeet Harlan. And from the way they stood facing each other, slightly crouched, hands hovering over their guns, they were about to hook and draw.
34
“Al!” Callie said sharply. “What are you doing?”
“Stay out of this, sis,” Rawlings grated without looking around at her. “It’s between Harlan and me.”
“That’s right, Miz Stratton,” Harlan said with a leering smile. “Your brother’s been boozin’ it up and talkin’ up a storm tonight about how he’s tired of havin’ everybody ride roughshod over him. I told him he was comin’ down to the jail with me to sleep it off, but he don’t want to go.”
“Let me take him home,” Callie suggested, her voice tight with strain. “There’s no need to arrest him.”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere!” Rawlings declared. “Nobody bosses me around!”
Frank stood slightly to one side. He had already spotted Ace McKelvey standing at the end of the bar, looking worried.
“Better back off, ma’am,” Harlan said to Callie. “Wouldn’t want you gettin’ hit by a stray bullet.”
Frank saw the fingers of Harlan’s gun hand twitch a little in anticipation. He muttered, “The hell with this,” and stepped forward smoothly and swiftly. His Peacemaker came out of leather to rise and fall in a fast chopping motion that ended at the back of Rawlings’s head in a dull thud. Rawlings’s Stetson absorbed enough of the force of the blow so that it didn’t do any real damage, but it packed enough power so that Rawlings’ s knees unhinged. He went down, stunned, landing on his knees on the sawdust-littered floor.
Harlan’s gun was half out of its holster when he froze. Frank’s Colt was already leveled. “No need for that, Deputy,” Frank said. “Rawlings isn’t going to cause any more trouble. Let his sister take him home.”
Harlan glared at him. “You’re drawin’ on an officer of the law, Morgan,” he said. “That’s reason enough for me to arrest you.”
Frank glanced at the gun in his hand as if surprised to see that it was there. “Drawing on you, Deputy?” he said with mocking mildness in his tone. “No, I was just knocking Rawlings down so you wouldn’t kill him.” He lowered the Peacemaker but didn’t holster it. “I wouldn’t interfere with an officer of the law.”
“Then I’m arrestin’ Rawlings!”
McKelvey stepped forward. “It seems to me that there’s no need for that now, Deputy. Like Morgan said, Rawlings isn’t going to cause any more trouble. Let Callie take him home.”
A murmur of agreement came from the few patrons in the saloon, all of them townies.
Harlan didn’t look happy about it, but he jerked his head in a nod as he eased his gun back down into its holster. “All right, get him out of here,” he said to Callie.
She bent and grasped Rawlings’s arm. He was groggy but not out cold, so he was able to stand up and stagger toward the door with Callie helping him.
“What about you?” Harlan snapped at Frank. “Aren’t you going, too?”
“No, I came to town for a drink,” Frank replied easily. He walked toward the bar. Rusty had a bottle and a glass out by the time he got there.
Harlan started to follow Callie and Rawlings out. Frank said, “I’d be obliged if you’d have a drink with me, Deputy. Just to show there are no hard feelings.”
There were plenty of hard feelings and Frank knew it, but he caught the slight nod that McKelvey gave Harlan. They were in it together, Frank thought, and like a light going on inside his head, he realized that Flint Coburn must be, too. Coburn hadn’t shown up out of the blue just because he wanted to help the small ranchers. McKelvey had sent him in to keep tabs on Rawlings’s plans and prod them in the way McKelvey wanted them to go. Harlan was Coburn’s opposite number. The two of them, under McKelvey’s direction, had pushed the two sides closer and closer to open warfare.
It was true that Frank had absolutely no proof of this theory, but it all fit together and his gut told him it was right. He wasn’t sure what McKelvey’s motive was for causing so much trouble, but when it came to a head, as it had to soon, that would be revealed.
Harlan moved to the bar beside Frank and picked up the drink that Rusty poured for him. He tossed back the whiskey and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “There,” he said with ill grace. “I’ve had that drink with you.” He turned and stalked out of the saloon. Frank was satisfied. He had given Callie and Rawlings enough time to get away from the Palace.
McKelvey came up beside Frank. “Thanks, Morgan,” he said quietly. “I was afraid for a minute there was going to be gunplay in here.”
He hadn’t been afraid of that at all, Frank thought, but instead of saying that, Frank nodded and said, “I was glad I was able to stop it. There’s been enough trouble in Brownwood.”
“Indeed. How would you like to step into my office? I’d like to talk privately with you.”
For appearance’s sake, Frank considered for a second and then nodded. “Sure.” He didn’t know what McKelvey could have to say to him, but there was only one way to find out.
“Rusty, give me that bottle,” McKelvey said. He took the whiskey from the bartender and led the way to the office. Once inside he waved at a leather chair in front of the desk and got some glasses from a drawer.
As he settled down behind the desk and poured drinks, McKelvey asked, “How’s your young Ranger friend?”
“Upset because he hasn’t been able to defuse the situation here.”
“Has he considered sending for a troop of Rangers?” McKelvey leaned forward to hand Frank his drink.
Thinking swiftly, Frank said, “He’s already done that.”
McKelvey looked genuinely surprised. “He has?”
“That’s right. They should be here in a few days.” Maybe if McKelvey really was behind the trouble, that lie would force him into moving before he was ready. Frank took a sip of the whiskey and put the glass on the desk.
“Well, that’s good to know,” McKelvey said, but he didn’t really sound all that happy about it. He lifted his glass. “Let’s drink to the Rangers.”
Frank shrugged and picked up his glass again. He said, “To the Rangers,” and swallowed the rest of the liquor.
He knew almost right away that it had been a mistake. A terrible wave of dizziness struck him. He came up out of his chair, reaching for his gun as he did so, but the reflexes that had never let him down were dulled now so that they didn’t respond in time. McKelvey grabbed the bottle by the neck and swung it as he lunged forward over the desk. The bottle crashed into Frank’s head and shattered. Stars exploded behind his eyes.
He felt it when he hit the floor, but only vaguely. He knew his face was wet but wasn’t sure if it was from whiskey or blood or both. He was certain now that he had been right about McKelvey, but that was scant comfort.
The last thing he was aware of was hearing a door open and Skeet Harlan’s surprised voice exclaiming, “What the hell!”
* * *
“You damned fool!” McKelvey snapped at Harlan as the deputy stepped into the room through the alley door. “Why did you pick a fight with Rawlings? You could have ruined everything!”
“You want him dead, don’t you? What does it matter whether he dies tonight or tomorrow?”
“Because he’s the ringleader of the small ranchers. Without him, they’re less likely to go through with the raid on the cattle pens at Zephyr.”
Harlan shrugged. “Well, he’s not dead. He’s on his way back to his ranch by now, and he can go to Zephyr tomorrow with a hangover. What I want to know is what the hell is Morgan doing here?”
“I saw a chance to get him out of the way. Not only that, but he told me that Beaumont has already sent for more Rangers! They’ll be here in a few days.”
“They’ll be here too late, then, won’t they? It’s a good thing we planned to wrap this up on Sunday.”
McKelvey nodded. “Yes, it’ll all be over before the Rangers get here.” He prodded Morgan in the ribs with a toe. “Now we need to get rid of this gunslinger.”
Harlan slipped a knife from a sheath on his belt and started toward Morgan. “I’ll take care of that. One quick slash across the throat—”
“Not here, damn it! Take him out and kill him somewhere else. Dispose of the body where it won’t be found.”
Harlan sheathed the knife and regarded Morgan warily. “He’s not going to wake up any time soon, is he?”
“I slipped enough dope in his drink to keep him out for an hour or so. Just don’t waste any time.”
Harlan nodded. He stooped and grasped Morgan under the arms. “Open the door,” he said to McKelvey.
Grunting with the effort, the deputy dragged the Drifter’s unconscious form out of the office into the alley. McKelvey closed and bolted the door. Harlan strained to pull the bigger man along the alley. He muttered curses under his breath. He hadn’t thought this through, he told himself. The first thing he should have done was to go get a horse. He could throw Morgan over the saddle and tie him in place, then lead the horse out of town until he found a suitable spot to kill Morgan.
Huffing and blowing, Harlan gave up on dragging Morgan and left him lying there in the shadows. He hurried along the alley to the street and turned toward the livery stable. He kept his own mount there. At this time of night, the old man who ran the place would be asleep. Harlan could get his own horse and borrow one of the others that were stabled there. Nobody would know the difference.
He moved as quickly as possible, since he was worried about Morgan waking up. No one could have done a faster, more efficient job of getting a couple of horses saddled up, he told himself as he led the animals along the street toward the alley a few minutes later. He tied the reins to one of the posts that held up the awning over the boardwalk and catfooted along the alley to the spot where he had left Morgan.
But the gunfighter wasn’t there. Harlan fumbled out a match and struck it. His panicky eyes darted around the alley. Morgan was gone! McKelvey was going to be furious with him for letting the gunfighter get away.
But what could Morgan really do to hurt them now? Harlan asked himself. Events were already in motion. In less than twenty-four hours it would all be over, and he would be a rich man. Let McKelvey stay behind. Harlan was going to take his share of the loot and shake the dust of Brownwood from his boots. The deputy forced himself to calm down. It was worrisome having Morgan on the loose somewhere, but it wasn’t going to change things.
The thing was, Morgan shouldn’t have woken up yet from the drug that McKelvey had slipped him. What in blazes had happened to him?
* * *
The pounding in Frank’s head was like charges of blasting powder going off deep inside a mine shaft. He knew that before he knew anything else. Only gradually did he realize that he was lying on his back on a narrow, uncomfortable surface. A bunk of some sort, he told himself, but not a good one.
When he tried to open his eyes, light struck them like a physical blow. He jerked his head in response, and that made the pounding even worse, although that didn’t seem possible. He couldn’t stop the groan that welled up his throat.
A moment later, footsteps sounded somewhere nearby. When the footsteps stopped, a voice said, “Awake, are you, Morgan?”
Frank finally pried his eyes all the way open and saw that he was in a tiny jail cell. Standing on the other side of the barred door was a man in a black frock coat. After a moment Frank recognized him as Marshal Sean Keever.
