The Loner: Seven Days to Die

by J. A. Johnstone

  The townspeople did so, reluctantly walking away from the blacksmith shop, but not without glaring some more at The Kid first.

  He went to where Dakota Pete had fallen and knelt at the side of the big Viking gunman.

  Pete’s eyelids were fluttering. He moved his arms and legs around a little as awareness came back to him.

  The Kid put a hand on his shoulder. “Pete,” he said. “Pete, can you hear me?”

  Pete rolled onto his side and groaned. “Oh, Lord!” he said. “What…what the hell happened?”

  “Bonham knocked you out for a minute, that’s what happened,” The Kid told him with a faint smile on his face.

  “Aw, hell!” Pete struggled into a sitting position. “I can’t believe I let that big bastard whip me.”

  “Don’t worry. It was a pretty even fight most of the way.”

  Pete leaned to the side and looked past The Kid at the blacksmith’s senseless form stretched on the ground. “What happened to him? Who knocked him out?” Pete lifted his eyes to The Kid. “Surely it wasn’t—”

  “Me?” The Kid said. “Well, yeah, it was.” He hefted the heavy Colt revolver. “But I had a little help.”

  “Oh.” Pete nodded in understanding. “I get it now. You pistol-whipped him.”

  “Yeah, and I’m not proud of it. But I thought that would be better than breaking every bone in my hands and probably getting my head handed to me, as well.”

  Still holding the gun, The Kid straightened and turned toward Bonham. The blacksmith had begun to stir. It was amazing that anybody could have taken as much punishment as he had and not be unconscious for hours.

  “If you can get up, help me turn him over,” The Kid said to Pete, assuming command without even thinking about it. In his life as a wealthy businessman, he had been used to giving the orders, and that tendency still cropped up from time to time.

  Pete climbed heavily to his feet. He was still a little unsteady but was able to reach down and take hold of Bonham’s shoulder. With a grunt of effort, he rolled the massive blacksmith onto his back.

  The Kid knelt and put the barrel of his gun under Bonham’s beard, bearing down enough to dig the muzzle into the man’s throat.

  After a moment, Bonham forced his eyes open and gasped. He seemed to understand what the cold ring of metal prodding his neck was.

  “That’s right,” The Kid said. “All I have to do to blow a chunk of your head off is pull the trigger. So you’d better not move, Bonham.”

  “Wha…what do you want?” rasped the blacksmith.

  “You know why we’re here, otherwise you wouldn’t have jumped us.” The Kid’s voice was cold as ice. “You’ve been giving trouble about living up to your responsibilities.”

  “I don’t have any…responsibilities…to that snake Harrison!”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Things are different now in Gehenna. If you want to do business here, there’s a price. You can pay it, or get out.”

  “Or die,” Pete added ominously.

  “Bonham here is too smart for that,” The Kid went on. “He knows that part of something is better than all of nothing. And a dead man can’t make any money. So why don’t you show up down at the saloon with what you owe by, say, sundown tomorrow? That gives you a little time.”

  “Go to…hell,” Bonham ground out.

  The Kid pressed harder with the gun barrel. “You think it over,” he advised softly. “You just think about it.”

  Then he pulled the Colt away and stood up with the lithe motion of a snake uncoiling. “Come on, Pete. I think he got the message.”

  The Kid and Dakota Pete backed away from the blacksmith.

  Bonham sat up and glowered at them as he lifted a big hand to massage his sore neck. Bruises were already starting to form on his face where Pete’s fists had battered him.

  The same sort of bruises were beginning to be visible on Pete’s face.

  The Kid didn’t holster his gun until he and his companion had turned toward the saloon. As they walked along the street, he was aware of people staring at them.

  He thought about the old saying and was glad that looks couldn’t kill. If they could, he and Pete would be buzzard bait.

  “I can’t believe he beat me,” Pete muttered. “Nobody beats me.”

  “It happens to the best of us,” The Kid said. “Cragg was fast, but I was faster. There are men out there faster on the draw than I am.”

  “That’s a little hard to believe.”

  “Believe it,” The Kid said, thinking of his father, Frank Morgan, the notorious Drifter. “There’s always somebody faster, bigger, stronger. That’s just the way life is.”

  “Maybe so, but I don’t have to like it.” Pete shook his head. “I sure hope the boss don’t hear about what happened.”

  “He probably will. A lot of people saw the fight. Word will get back to him.”

  “Then you’ll look good, and I’ll just be a loser.”

  “Don’t worry,” The Kid told him. “If Harrison asks me about it, I’ll tell him I never would have been able to handle Bonham if you hadn’t taken him down a notch first.”

  “You’d do that, Kid?”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s mighty nice of you.” Pete hesitated, then went on, “I got a hunch that when the boss hears about this, he’s gonna make you his segundo, just like Lonzo was. That’s liable to make J.P. and Clyde even more mad at you for killin’ him.”

  The Kid nodded. “I’d already thought about that. I’m going to need eyes in the back of my head as long as I’m around here.”

  A big hand slapped into the middle of his back, knocking him forward a step. “Don’t worry, Kid,” Pete said with a big grin. “You got me for that.”

  Chapter 30

  As The Kid had predicted, Bledsoe had already heard about the fight at the blacksmith shop by the time he and Pete got back to the saloon.

  “That’s why I wanted two people to handle that chore,” Bledsoe said as he stood at the bar and talked to The Kid and Pete. Malone and Woods weren’t around, as far as The Kid could tell.

  “He got in some lucky punches, boss,” Pete said.

  Bledsoe lifted an eyebrow. “Quite a few lucky punches, from what I heard,” he commented. “But don’t worry about it, Dakota. From the sound of it, you and Morgan here make a good team. Why don’t you stick together?”

  Pete beamed. “That sounds mighty good to me.”

  “Sure,” The Kid said as he nodded. He wasn’t too happy about the partnership, despite the smile he put on his face. Bledsoe’s insistence on always knowing where his men were was already making it difficult for The Kid to get out of town and rendezvous with Drake and Jillian. He needed to talk to them if they were going to figure out how to grab Bledsoe and get him out of Gehenna and back to Hell Gate.

  There was nothing he could do about it at the moment, although an idea had begun to play around in the back of his head. “Anything else we can do for you now, boss?” The Kid went on.

  Bledsoe shook his head. “No. I’ll let you know if I need you for anything. Until then, just hang around here at the saloon or down at the café.”

  The Kid nodded in understanding.

  Pete was pretty good company, friendly and easygoing and full of stories about growing up in North Dakota with his Norwegian grandparents. His parents had both been killed by Indians when Pete was just a boy.

  The Kid pretended to be paying attention as he sat at one of the tables with the big Viking, dealing hands of solitaire with a deck of cards that someone had left lying on the green felt.

  In reality, he was working on the plan he’d hatched to get out of Gehenna without Bledsoe knowing about it.

  At midday, he and Pete walked down to the café, which was run by a middle-aged couple who gave them frightened, resentful glances from time to time while they were eating.

  The Kid wanted to pay for the meals when he and Pete left, but he knew that the sort of man he was pretending
to be wouldn’t do that. A callous, mercenary gunman would be only too happy to take advantage of the chance for free meals.

  Later on, if there was a chance, he would see to it that the couple got paid something for all the food they’d had to dish out to Bledsoe’s hired killers. The Kid vowed to make things right with Bonham, the blacksmith, too.

  As they strolled back toward the saloon, The Kid asked, “Have you ever paid a visit to Rosarita’s, Pete?”

  Pete grinned. “You mean the whorehouse run by that Chinese gal with the Mex name? You know I been there, Kid. You saw me there last night.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” The Kid said, pretending that he’d forgotten about that…and the dead men on the floor of Rosarita’s parlor. “What about the girls? Are they any good?”

  “Sure. They’re soiled doves, ’bout like what you’d find anywhere else, I reckon.”

  “I was thinking I might go down there this evening.”

  “Mr. Harrison said you and me was supposed to stay together.”

  The Kid chuckled. “Well, hell, Pete, you could come along, too, couldn’t you?”

  Pete thought it over. His grin slowly widened.

  “I don’t see why not,” he said.

  “Not in the same room, though,” The Kid warned. “A man needs privacy for some things.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. Both of us bein’ there in the whorehouse at the same time, that’s close enough to stayin’ together.”

  “That’s what I thought,” The Kid said with a nod, glad that Pete was falling in line with his plan without giving him any trouble.

  All he had to do was convince Rosarita to cooperate.

  The day was a long one, its monotony broken only by the appearance of Bonham at the saloon late that afternoon. The blacksmith had taken off his apron and put on a shirt, but otherwise he looked the same. He turned his bruised face from side to side, scowling as his gaze touched The Kid and Pete where they sat at one of the tables.

  Then Bonham marched up to the bar and plopped down a canvas poke on the hardwood. The Kid heard coins jingle, even from across the room.

  “Where’s Harrison?” Bonham demanded of the bartender.

  “Mister Harrison is back in the office. You want me to fetch him, Theo?”

  “I damn sure do,” Bonham rumbled.

  “Hang on.”

  The bartender went through the door at the end of the bar and came back a moment later with Bledsoe. Bonham gave the poke a shove that sent it sliding down the bar toward him. It came to a stop in front of Bledsoe.

  “There’s your blood money, Harrison,” Bonham said.

  The Kid stayed in his chair, apparently casual. He saw the anger smoldering in Bledsoe’s eyes. The man hadn’t gotten the nickname Bloody Ben for no reason. He put up a smooth façade, but underneath it he was just another outlaw.

  “You should show some respect, Bonham,” Bledsoe said. “I’m just trying to make this town a better place.”

  “Better for you, you mean,” the blacksmith snapped. “Anyway, there’s the money.” He turned away from the bar to start out of the saloon.

  Bledsoe stopped him by saying, “I’ll expect the same amount next week, plus twenty more dollars.”

  Bonham stared at him for a second, then exploded, “Hell, I don’t think I made twenty dollars over and above what’s in that poke all week!”

  “That’s not my problem,” Bledsoe said. “I guess you’ll just have to work harder.”

  “There ain’t that many horses and mules in these parts that need be shod.”

  “Again, you’ll have to worry about that, not me.”

  Bonham looked like he wanted to bound across the floor, grab Bledsoe by the neck, and squeeze the life out of him. The Kid was ready to stand up and stop Bonham from doing that if the blacksmith tried it, and so was Pete. In fact, he looked eager for an excuse to have another scrap with the blacksmith.

  But then Bonham’s broad shoulders sagged in defeat. “All right, all right,” he muttered as he turned toward the batwings again. “You’ll get your money.”

  “I thought so,” Bledsoe said with a smirk directed at Bonham’s back.

  When the man was gone, Bledsoe came over to the table and sat down at one of the empty chairs.

  “These people just don’t understand,” he said as he slipped a cigar from his vest pocket. “They’re like sheep or cattle. They were put here to benefit their superiors.” Bledsoe put the cigar his mouth, clamped his teeth on it, and continued around the cylinder of tobacco, “You understand, don’t you, Morgan? You strike me as a man who’s had some education.”

  The Kid shrugged. “I just go along to try to get along, boss,” he said.

  Bledsoe jerked a thumb at the bar and said, “Go get us some beers, Dakota. Take your time about it.”

  “Sure, boss,” Pete said as he lumbered to his feet.

  The Kid kept his face carefully expressionless. It appeared Bledsoe wanted to talk to him in private for some reason.

  When Pete had gone over to the bar, Bledsoe said quietly, “I sense a kindred spirit in you, Morgan. You might not know it to look at me now, but I’m an educated man. In fact, I once taught law at a famous university back east.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” The Kid said.

  “You don’t, eh?” Bledsoe leaned forward. “Well, what would you say if I told you that I grew up in these parts? I spent a lot of time in this jerkwater town when I was a young man. What’s really sweet about that is none of these bastards even remember me!”

  The Kid wasn’t sure why Bledsoe had decided to tell him all of that, but he wasn’t going to stop the outlaw.

  “Of course, I had a different name then, and I didn’t have the beard,” Bledsoe went on. “Nobody gave a damn about me. I was just some starving kid. But I left and made something of myself, no matter what they thought of me.”

  “Sometimes when a fellow has it too easy, it’s not good for him,” The Kid said.

  Bledsoe jabbed the cigar at him. “Exactly! I knew what it was like to be poor, and that helped me to get rich.”

  “Teaching at some university?”

  “No, the getting rich came later,” Bledsoe replied with a shake of his head. “I thought I’d be satisfied just making a life for myself where people respected me.” A hint of bitterness edged into his voice. “I found out that people don’t really respect a man because of how smart he is or how much education he has. There are only two things people respect, Kid, and they’re actually variations of the same thing: money and power.”

  “What about a gun?”

  Bledsoe shook his head again. “It’s not the gun they respect. It’s the power of life and death behind it.”

  “You may be right, boss.”

  “I know I’m right,” Bledsoe said as he leaned back in his chair and chewed on the unlit cigar again. “I proved it by coming back here and using a different name as I seized power. I’ll let you in on my plan, Morgan. I’m going to bleed this town dry. This town, and everybody in it. And then, when there’s nothing else I can take from them, I’ll tell them that it wasn’t Matthew Harrison who ruined them. No, sir. It was Ben Bledsoe. Ben Bledsoe, the son of that old rumpot Silas Bledsoe, the town drunk. The town joke. If I’d stayed here, I would have inherited that position from him. That’s why I had to get out.”

  For a moment, The Kid didn’t say anything. Then, “That’s quite a story, boss. I’m thinking you don’t want me telling anybody about it.”

  “That’s right.” Bledsoe’s lips drew back from his teeth in a grimace. “If you tell anybody, I’ll kill you myself, Morgan. I’ll make sure you take a long, hard time dying, too.”

  The Kid shook his head. “You don’t have a thing to worry about. This is a good setup. I don’t want to ruin it.”

  “You’ll keep your mouth shut, then. I’m not sure why I told you all that, anyway. I just get…tired…of being surrounded by people who have never been anywhere and never done anything worth mentioni
ng. Like I said, you strike me as a man with some education. But if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s all right.”

  “Maybe someday,” The Kid said.

  “Sure. Whatever you want.”

  Pete came back over with the beers then, the tray with the mugs on it dwarfed by his big hands.

  “Looked like you fellas was havin’ quite a talk,” he said. “What’d I miss?”

  “Nothing much,” The Kid said. “I was just telling the boss that you and I plan to go down to Rosarita’s tonight.”

  “Yeah,” Pete said as a look of anticipation lit up his eyes. “Is that all right with you, boss?”

  Bledsoe took the cigar out of his mouth and waved the hand that held it in an expansive gesture. “Of course. Have a good time. I’ll know where to find you if I need you.”

  The Kid hoped that situation didn’t arise, because what Bledsoe had just said wasn’t strictly true.

  He was going to Rosarita’s with Pete…but he wasn’t going to stay there.

  Chapter 31

  After supper at the café, The Kid and Pete headed down the street toward Rosarita’s. The sun had set almost an hour earlier, and stars had come out in the sable panoply of the sky overhead.

  Something was nagging at The Kid’s brain. “Do you know where Malone and Woods are?” he asked Pete. He hadn’t seen the two gunmen around since early that morning.

  “Nope,” Pete replied with a shake of his head. “Could be they’re off doin’ somethin’ for the boss. Or they could just be holed up somewhere drinkin’. J.P.’s got a real fondness for that Who-hit-John. He goes on a bender now and then.”

  The Kid nodded. Pete’s explanation was certainly reasonable, but he would have felt better, knowing exactly where Malone and Woods were.

  The blind guitar player Viejo wasn’t on the porch, but Rosarita’s was open for business again. When the two men went into the parlor, The Kid saw that the blood had been scrubbed up off the floor. He could still see the ragged crimson stains in his mind’s eye, along with the bullet-riddled bodies from which the blood had leaked. Quietly, he asked Pete, “Did you do any of that shooting in here last night?”