The Loner: Seven Days to Die

by J. A. Johnstone

  “He says his name’s Kid Morgan, boss,” Cragg said.

  Bledsoe nodded to The Kid. “I’m Matthew Harrison,” he said. “This is my place.” He gestured toward the glass in The Kid’s hand. “Your first drink?”

  “Tonight,” The Kid confirmed.

  “It’s on the house, then.” Bledsoe looked at the bartender and the man nodded in understanding. Turning back to The Kid, Bledsoe asked the same question Cragg had a moment or two earlier. “What brings you to Gehenna, Mr. Morgan?”

  “We were just talking about that, boss,” Cragg said before The Kid could answer. “Morgan’s looking for work.”

  Bledsoe’s eyebrows lifted a little. “Is that so? What occupation do you follow?”

  He was a well-spoken man, thought The Kid. It was easy enough to believe Bledsoe had once taught law at that university back east. How he had gotten to Gehenna, Arizona Territory, from William & Mary, was unknown, but that didn’t really matter.

  “I don’t have what you’d call an occupation,” The Kid replied. “I pick up work here and there.”

  Bledsoe nodded. “I see. And you’re looking to pick up work here in Gehenna?”

  “If there’s any to be had.”

  Bledsoe’s voice hardened. “Well, you see, that may be a slight problem. Men who do…your sort of work…are employed by me, or not at all.”

  “You’ve got a monopoly on trouble?”

  “You could say that,” Bledsoe answered. “No offense, Morgan, but how does a drifting gunman know about such things as monopolies?”

  “I read a newspaper every now and then,” The Kid said with a shrug. He had almost slipped, revealing a knowledge of business that a man whose main interests were whiskey, whores, and killing might not have.

  “That’s good. I believe people should be better-informed about this world we live in.” Bledsoe made a curt gesture, and a second later the bartender handed him a glass that he’d filled from a bottle he took from underneath the hardwood. Brandy, The Kid guessed. Bledsoe drank from the glass, licked his lips appreciatively, and said, “So, do you want to work for me?”

  “If you have something that needs doing, sure.”

  “That’s the problem. I already have Alonzo and Pete here working for me, along with several other equally talented men. They’ve done such a good job bringing the town in line with my wishes there’s really nothing left to do.”

  “In that case, I reckon I’ll ride on in a day or two.”

  Bledsoe smiled. “Maybe something will come up between now and then. You never know.”

  The Kid shrugged again and lifted his glass. “Thanks for the drink.”

  “You’re welcome.” Bledsoe nodded. “See you around.”

  He moved away from the bar, walking through the big room, stopping here and there to speak to someone. The men he talked to looked nervous, as if they wanted to curry favor with him but were afraid of him at the same time. That was probably the case, The Kid thought.

  Cragg said quietly, “If I was you, Morgan, I’d give some thought to riding on out of town tonight, instead of hanging around for a few days.”

  The Kid arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Because like Mr. Harrison said, he’s got plenty of help already. There’s no reason for a man like you to hang around.”

  The Kid tossed back the rest of the whiskey and placed the empty glass on the bar.

  “Having a little competition around worries you, does it, Cragg?”

  The man’s rawboned face flushed with anger. “Not hardly. Anyway, I wouldn’t call it competition. You took me by surprise.”

  “Because I didn’t fall for your little trick?”

  Cragg didn’t have an answer. He picked up the bottle from the bar and said, “Come on, Pete. I’m getting bored.”

  “Where are we goin’, Lonzo?” the Viking gunman asked.

  “I don’t know, blast it! Somewhere else.”

  Pete’s massive shoulders rose and fell. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

  Cragg and his companion went over to a table and sat down, leaving The Kid standing alone at the bar. The apron ambled up and nodded toward The Kid’s empty glass.

  “You want a refill on that, or another beer?”

  The Kid shook his head. “No thanks. I think I’m done for the evening.”

  The bartender leaned closer and lowered his voice as he said, “I heard what Cragg told you. Don’t worry about lookin’ like he’s got you buffaloed, mister. You’d be smart to get on outta town tonight, like he said. Men who don’t pay attention to Cragg…well, they wind up dead, most times. Sometimes they weren’t lookin’ at what killed ’em, if you get my drift.”

  “So he’s a backshooter?”

  “I sure didn’t say that. No, sir, I never did.”

  Despite the bartender’s denial, the real message came through loud and clear. The Kid nodded his thanks for the warning and said, “I’m obliged for the advice, but my horse is tired and needs to rest. I’ll be around.”

  “Suit yourself,” the bartender replied in a bleak tone. He moved off, wiping circles on the hardwood with a damp rag.

  The man had probably worked for the saloon’s previous owner, George Hopkins, The Kid mused. The owner who had mysteriously gone missing just as “Matthew Harrison” had arrived in Gehenna and promptly taken over. The Kid had no doubt the man was either buried somewhere in the desert…or else he had been dumped so the buzzards picked his flesh and coyotes scattered the bare bones. The bartender and the others who had worked for Hopkins probably had no love lost for their current employer, but they were too afraid of Bledsoe and his gunmen to rock the boat.

  The Kid finished the beer he’d been drinking earlier, then left the saloon. As he walked out, he was conscious of eyes following him and knew they belonged to Alonzo Cragg.

  Cragg wouldn’t let things rest. The Kid had humiliated him in front of everybody in the saloon. Enough people had seen it so the story would be all over town by morning—how the stranger who had ridden into Gehenna had laid out Cragg with one punch, beating him to the draw with his fist.

  Despite Cragg’s pose of friendliness following that incident, the thing would eat at him, nibbling away at his soul and his pride. The only way to stop the torment would be for The Kid to die. Out in public where everybody could see would be best, but Cragg would probably be willing to settle for an ambush, just as long as The Kid wound up dead.

  The Kid turned toward Rosarita’s place, where he had left his horse. He walked slowly along the street, giving Cragg plenty of time to come after him if that’s what the gunman wanted.

  It was a dangerous game he was playing. Cragg was fast. The Kid had seen that with his own eyes. He had been only a hair faster than Cragg. The next time, it might be Cragg who shaved off that whisker of a heartbeat first.

  He sensed it was his chance to penetrate Bledsoe’s inner circle. What he would do when and if he got there, he didn’t know. But the more Bledsoe trusted him, the easier it would be to capture the man and take him back to face justice. It was a gamble worth taking.

  The Kid wished he had eyes in the back of his head so he could see if Cragg left the saloon and followed him. He glanced back from time to time, trying not to be too obvious about it.

  The third time he looked back, he saw a big figure lumbering after him. “Hey, Kid, wait up.”

  The Kid stopped and turned, frowning slightly. He hadn’t expected Dakota Pete to come after him alone. Maybe Cragg had sent the big man to deliver an invitation to a showdown.

  As The Kid came around, he saw that he had stopped in front of the pitch-dark mouth of a narrow alley between a hardware store and a saddle shop. For a split second he faced the alley mouth, and in that second a gun roared and flame lanced out of the gloom.

  Instinct twisted him aside so the bullet whispered past him, close enough to tug at his sleeve. He whipped up his gun in the same heartbeat, and before the man in the shadows could fire again, two shots bl
asted from The Kid’s revolver. The reports were so close together they almost sounded like a single shot.

  The gun in the alley went off again, but the flame from the muzzle spouted downward at the ground. The Kid backed away swiftly, continuing to turn so he could cover both the alley mouth and Dakota Pete.

  The Viking gunman had thrust his hands in the air and made no move toward the revolver on his hip. “Don’t shoot,” he said. “I ain’t slappin’ leather, Kid.”

  Alonzo Cragg stumbled out of the alley. The street was faintly lit but bright enough for The Kid to recognize the man’s clothing. His body had jerked so violently as both of The Kid’s slugs hammered into his chest, his hat had come off. He still had his gun in his hand and tried to lift it as he weaved forward a few stumbling steps. “You…son of a bitch,” he rasped. “You’ve…killed me!”

  “Drop the gun, Cragg,” The Kid warned.

  Cragg ignored him. The gunman summoned up the last of his strength to lift the Colt again.

  The Kid shot him in the center of the forehead and the bullet slammed him backward. His gun flew from his hand and he landed with his arms and legs outflung in death.

  Knowing that Cragg was no longer a threat, The Kid turned toward Dakota Pete again. The big man still had his hands up.

  “I ought to kill you, too,” The Kid said, “for helping him try to bushwhack me.”

  Pete shook his shaggy head. “I didn’t know what Lonzo was plannin’, Kid. You got to believe me. He just told me to wait a minute, then come after you and tell you he wanted to talk to you.”

  “And it was just a coincidence that you called out to me as I was passing this alley, so I’d turn around and he’d have a chance to shoot me from the front and make it look like he downed me in a gunfight.”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about that,” Pete insisted.

  The Kid didn’t believe him, but it wasn’t worth arguing about. He would be careful about turning his back on Dakota Pete in the future.

  The street was starting to fill with people as the citizens of Gehenna came out to see what all the shooting was about. Quickly, The Kid replaced the three rounds he had fired in case he needed a full wheel again.

  He spotted Bledsoe coming down the street toward him, followed closely by the other two gunhawks, Malone and Woods.

  Now they would see how the hand played out, The Kid thought as he slid his gun back into leather.

  Chapter 27

  Bledsoe stopped a few yards away, glanced at Pete, and said disgustedly, “Put your hands down, for God’s sake.”

  He turned his attention to Cragg, staring at the gunman’s body for a second before he shook his head and looked at The Kid.

  “It was a fair fight?” Bledsoe asked.

  “Cragg got off the first shot,” The Kid said, not mentioning how that shot had come from the concealment of a dark alley.

  “That’s true, boss,” Pete put in.

  “When I want to hear from you, I’ll ask you a question,” Bledsoe snapped. He went on to The Kid, “I was afraid of this when I heard about how you got the best of Cragg. He wasn’t the sort of man to forget about something like that. Of course, if he had been, I probably wouldn’t have wanted him to work for me.”

  “Probably not,” The Kid agreed.

  “The interesting thing is that with Cragg gone, I need to hire somebody else. Are you interested in the job, Morgan?”

  “Like I told you before, I’m always looking to pick up a little work.”

  Bledsoe motioned with his head. “Come on back to the saloon. We’ll talk about it.”

  The Kid pointed down the street with his left hand. “I was on my way to get my horse.”

  “Go ahead. You can take it to the livery stable in the next block. There won’t be any charge for taking care of the animal. The owner and I have an…arrangement.”

  The Kid nodded. “Sure.”

  “Then come to the saloon. There’s an empty room upstairs you can use.” Bledsoe glanced meaningfully at Cragg’s body, which lay stark and bloody in the light from a lantern one of the townsmen had brought up.

  Bledsoe went on, “Dakota, why don’t you go with Mr. Morgan and make sure he finds the livery all right?”

  “Sure, boss,” Pete said with a nod.

  The Kid didn’t particularly want the company, but as long as the big Viking was with him, there was less chance of being ambushed by Bledsoe’s other gunmen—if the offer of a job had been less sincere than it sounded.

  “All right, everyone,” Bledsoe said, raising his voice to address the crowd as if he were a lawman, “break it up and move on. The trouble’s over.”

  In a way it was true that Bledsoe was the law there, just as Warden Jonas Fletcher had been the law at Hell Gate Prison. Gehenna was like everywhere else. The rule of law meant something only when it was backed up by force, or the threat of it.

  The Kid started toward Rosarita’s again, accompanied by Dakota Pete. As they walked along the street, Pete said, “I was tellin’ the truth before, Kid. I didn’t know Lonzo was gonna bushwhack you.”

  “He never pulled a stunt like that before?”

  “Not with me helpin’ him, he didn’t,” Pete insisted. “I don’t know about anything Clyde or J.P. might’ve done. Them and Lonzo were pretty close. They rode together before, on other jobs.”

  “But not you?”

  “Nope. Never met any of ’em before we all come to Gehenna.”

  The Kid indulged his curiosity. “How did all of you wind up here? What made you come?”

  “Heard that a fella was puttin’ together a bunch to come down here and take over,” Pete answered bluntly. “I was up in Prescott, workin’ on a deal there involvin’ the railroad. It didn’t turn out like it was supposed to, so I had to light a shuck outta there in a hurry. Things got a mite hot for me, if you know what I mean. When I made it to Tucson, I heard about Mr. Harrison’s job and went to see him. He already had Lonzo and several others workin’ for him. We hit it off, so I threw in with ’em.”

  Pete sounded like he was telling the truth, and The Kid was more inclined to believe him about not knowing exactly what Cragg had in mind, although he must have suspected something was up.

  As they came to Rosarita’s, Pete looked at the whorehouse and sighed. “I reckon we ain’t wanted in there no more.”

  “The place is closed down right now, anyway,” The Kid said. “What happened in there earlier?”

  Pete waved a big hand. “Oh, it was just stupid. Those fellas were from one of those mule trains that come through here loaded down with ore. They’d picked out some girls, but Lonzo and J.P. decided they wanted the same girls and didn’t want to wait for ’em. So Lonzo said they was goin’ first, and those other fellas took exception to that, and before you know it, there was guns goin’ off. Nothin’ all that unusual.”

  The Kid nodded. The story was about what he’d expected.

  “The China gal who runs the place’ll be mad at us for gettin’ blood on the rugs, I reckon,” Pete went on. “The boss says we got to go along with what she says.” He paused. “Don’t tell him I said so, but I think the boss has got a sweet spot for that China gal. She pays him part of her profits like ’most everybody else in town, but I think he’d rather spark her than collect from her.”

  That was an interesting bit of information, The Kid thought as he filed it away in his brain. He didn’t know if it would prove to be useful, but the more he knew about his enemies, the better.

  He untied his horse and led it back up the street. Pete pointed out the livery stable Bledsoe had mentioned. The proprietor, who emerged from his office and living quarters attached to the barn fuzzy-headed and bleary-eyed from sleep, woke up fast when he saw Dakota Pete. He also agreed to take good care of The Kid’s horse without hesitation.

  “He means it, too,” Pete said as he and The Kid left the place and headed back toward the saloon. “My horse is in there, and the fella does a fine job of takin’ care of it. The
other boys’ horses are there, too.”

  The Kid wasn’t surprised that the liveryman went out of his way to care for the mounts belonging to Bledsoe’s gunmen. To do otherwise would be to risk his life, or at least his livelihood.

  Cragg’s body was gone when they went past the spot where the gunman had died. The undertaker was having a busy night.

  The Kid thought busy nights were probably pretty common in Gehenna since Bloody Ben Bledsoe had come to town.

  Activity in the saloon had returned to normal. The player piano twanged away on some plaintive melody. The ball clicked around and around the roulette wheel, and men slapped cards down on the green felt of the poker tables. Men laughed and cursed, and saloon girls giggled.

  Bledsoe was sitting at a large round table in the rear with Malone and Woods. He motioned for The Kid and Pete to come over and join them.

  As The Kid approached, he kept a wary eye on the two gunhawks. According to Pete, they’d been trail partners with Cragg in the past. They might be inclined to try to settle the score for him.

  Bledsoe smiled. Malone and Woods didn’t exactly follow his lead, but they didn’t glare murderously at The Kid. Their faces were carefully neutral.

  “Sit down,” Bledsoe invited, waving The Kid into an empty chair. “Did you get your horse settled in over at the livery?”

  The Kid nodded. “Yeah. Much obliged.”

  Bledsoe made a deprecating motion. “It’s nothing. Always happy to help out one of my men.”

  “I haven’t said I’d work for you,” The Kid pointed out.

  “No, but you need a job and I need a man with certain skills—skills which you’ve amply demonstrated tonight.” Bledsoe reached for a bottle on the table. “Drink?”

  The Kid shook his head. “I’d rather not let whiskey muddle my brain if we’re going to be talking business.”

  “I’ll take a drink, boss,” Pete said. “It don’t matter if my brain’s a little muddled.”