Hel Morgan

Five

Georgia was a long way from he'd started, every mile covered in dust, sweat, and blood. Perhaps he'd gotten a little ahead of himself, thinking that a trip to Elisabeth's family home would be easy. Turned out to be anything but.

He'd left Texas two jumps ahead of an Indian raiding party set on taking his scalp, been shot somewhere in Lousiana, the thieves taking his horse and rifle. Had they known it was just a graze, no doubt they would have put another bullet between his eyes for good measure. As it was, they'd made camp not two miles from where they'd left him, drinking and laughing. Hel's fury had descended upon them like a flash flood and he'd left the camp with both men over their saddles.

Getting into New Orleans, he'd found both men wanted for murder, dead or alive. Collecting the bounty had put spending money in his pocket, allowing him to restock on much-needed supplies. Of course, news of what happened spread and by the time Hel left town, rumours followed him. As did one of the dead men's kin.

It turned ugly at the Mississippi River. Paying for crossing, Hel had been set upon by the angry kinfolk and half a dozen hired fists. Three had died that night, one the next day, and because of the witnesses of the fight, the other three were scheduled for a trial and then prison. Hel figured if he'd still been wearing a badge, they'd have been hung, but it didn't really matter. Feeling mean and touchy, he'd have just as soon shot them all.

The little scuffle, however, earned him notoriety, for among the dead were two infamous and widely sought-after outlaws. Once the newspapers got a hold of the story, they dogged Hel's journey all the way to Georgia, where he finally told them if they didn't get off his track and leave him alone, he'd bury the story, and them, for good. They left, grumbling, but the picture they painted of him in their papers wasn't flattering. If he'd not had a questionable reputation before, Hel Morgan had one after that.

By the time he climbed the spacious, still grand steps to his father-in-law's home, most people had begun crossing the street to avoid him and not making eye contact. The door opened before he could knock, a man in dignified black and white regarding him with faint curiosity and disdain.

"May I help you?"

"Mister Grayson to home?"

"He cannot be disturbed, so unless you have an appoint-"

"Buster, I didn't ride all the way from West Texas for the fun of it. You tell him Hel Morgan's here."

"If you think-!"

"It's alright, Benson," the man's rich tone rolled in from the other room. "Show him in."

"This way," Benson did little to hide his distaste but Hel ignored him. Inside the old house was just as beautiful and grand as he remembered, the brass polished and shining, the marble floor gleaming, high windows clean and sparkling. It reeked of wealth. His boots echoed faintly on the floor, spurs softly jingling until he reached Grayson's office where the thick rug padded the sounds. Sitting behind his desk, a huge cigar between his teeth, the old man waited for him, without smile or welcome.

"Leave us, Benson. Morgan, have a seat."

"Obliged," taking off his hat, Hel dropped into the chair indicated and the two sized each other up. "You know why I've come."

"If it's to tell me my daughter's dead, don't waste your breath. I got your letter two years ago," pulling open a drawer, he took out the folded paper, holding it up with a scowl. "Three lines, Morgan. A telegram would have meant more."

"I had something to do first."

"Ah yes," sitting back Mandel Grayson plucked the cigar from his lips, studying the tip. "Manhunter. Since you're here, I assume you were successful?"