Bullets Don't Die

by J. A. Johnstone

  He would have bet the saloon was a lot more raucous on a normal evening. Only a low hum of conversation was punctuated by the clink of glass on glass as drinks were poured. That hum came to an abrupt end at the sight of him.

  Constance was sitting at a large round table in the back of the room. Jared Tate was with her, and so was the white-mustached man who had spoken up to condemn Ahern earlier. Tate smiled and lifted a hand when he spotted The Kid, who started across the room toward them. The buzz of talk started up again.

  Constance and the man with the mustache had glasses and were sharing a bottle of whiskey. A mug half full of beer sat in front of Tate. As The Kid pulled back an empty chair, Constance asked, “What’ll you have, Mr. Morgan? Whatever it is, it’s on the house. Seeing that big ape Ahern handed his needin’s for a change is worth it.”

  “Don’t you mean dooming the town to death and destruction?” The Kid asked. “That seems to be the marshal’s assessment of what I’ve done.”

  Constance let out an unladylike snort. “No offense to my friend Bert, but his boy Riley sees the sky falling every time there’s a cloud. He’s always been that way. Jumpy, ready to think the worst.”

  Tate said, “Are you sure he’s the marshal? I would have sworn I was. Riley Cumberland’s not old enough to be a lawman.”

  Constance patted his hand. “We’re all a heap older than it seems like we should be, Jared.”

  “I guess so. It’s just that when I look around, there’s so much that’s not right. Just not right . . .”

  “Did you get Ahern locked up all right?” The man with the mustache stuck out his hand. “I’m Milt Bennett, by the way. Own the livery stable.”

  “Kid Morgan,” The Kid introduced himself as he shook hands with Bennett. “Yeah, Ahern’s behind bars . . . for now.”

  Bennett frowned. “Riley’s gonna let him loose once it’s good and dark, isn’t he? He’ll hope that’ll do some good, but it won’t.”

  The Kid shook his head. “I wondered about that, too, but he claims he’s not planning to do any such thing. He’s riding out to the Broken Spoke to talk to Harlan Levesy instead.”

  “Like that’ll do any good.” Constance pounded the table with her fist. “No, we’re finally going to have to stand up to that bunch and let them know they can’t waltz in here and do whatever they please. Once they see that, they’ll back down. The town’s just as important to Levesy as his business is to the town.”

  The Kid hoped she was right about that, but he had his doubts.

  “You didn’t tell me what you wanted to drink,” Constance went on.

  “Beer’s fine,” The Kid said. With trouble possibly on the way, it would be a good idea to keep a clear head.

  Constance signaled to one of the bartenders, then added, “I’ll have some food brought over, too. I imagine it’s been awhile since you and Jared ate.”

  “It has been,” The Kid admitted. “Thanks.”

  Then, with a touch of the same bleakness that gripped Riley Cumberland, he thought, And the condemned men ate a hearty last meal.

  Chapter 10

  The food Constance had brought to the table was unusual fare for a saloon—sausages and cabbage—but good, The Kid thought, and he was hungry enough to enjoy it. While he and Tate were eating, Constance and Milt Bennett continued talking about how things had gone sour around Copperhead Springs ever since Cy Levesy died and left the Broken Spoke to his son.

  “I think Cy knew Harlan wasn’t much good, even though he didn’t want to admit it,” Bennett said. “He raised the boy by himself after his wife died when Harlan was mighty young. He wasn’t cut out for it, though. He knew he’d done something wrong, but couldn’t figure out how to fix it.”

  “A few good beatings might’ve gone a long way,” Constance said caustically. “But I’m not sure even that would have helped Harlan.”

  “How many smaller spreads has Levesy taken over?” The Kid asked.

  “Let’s see.” Bennett frowned in thought and counted on his fingers. “I make it four.”

  “That’s right,” Constance agreed with a nod. “They were all little greasy sack outfits that didn’t amount to much . . . but even so, Harlan didn’t have the right to run off their owners and gobble them up that way.”

  “Nobody’s ever gone to the law about him? Sent for the county sheriff ?”

  “The county sheriff got a nice big campaign donation from Harlan in last year’s election,” Constance explained. “He’s always going to find some excuse not to come over here and look into what’s going on.”

  “How about wiring the governor, then?” The Kid suggested.

  “The governor was good friends with Cy. He’s not going to believe Cy’s son is doing anything wrong. That would be disloyal to his old friend.”

  The Kid nodded slowly. From the sound of it, the people of Copperhead Springs were in a bad fix, all right. They couldn’t look to outside help and weren’t able to stand up to the men from the Broken Spoke on their own.

  “I should do something about this,” Tate declared with a determined frown. “I’m the marshal, and it’s my job to see to it the laws are enforced.”

  “Oh, honey, you’re not the marshal anymore,” Constance told him. “I know you may not remember that, but it’s true. We appreciate the sentiment, but it’s not your job to help us.”

  “But if I’m not the marshal, then who is?”

  “Riley Cumberland,” Bennett said.

  “That’s not possible. He’s a little boy.”

  Constance sighed. The Kid knew what she was thinking. They’d had this conversation before with Tate. Not as far as Tate was concerned, though. It was all new to him.

  “I hate to say it,” Bennett said, “but maybe we need to go see Riley and ask him to release Ahern. It was easy to get carried away with the idea of standing up to the Broken Spoke, but if we do it’s liable to be the town’s ruination. Maybe if we let Ahern go now, he’ll spare most of us.”

  Constance nodded toward The Kid. “What about Mr. Morgan here? You think Ahern’s gonna just forget about settling the score with him?”

  With a surly look on his face, Bennett said, “No offense, Mr. Morgan, but we have to think about the good of the town—”

  “So I’ll be the sacrificial goat,” The Kid said with a wry smile.

  “It’s not that way, exactly—”

  “You’re hoping Ahern will kill me and leave the rest of you alone. I don’t know what else you’d call it.”

  “Nobody’s gonna be sacrificed,” Constance said. “Milt, I’m surprised to hear you talk this way.”

  “Just trying to think about the good of the town,” Bennett said again, but he looked down at the table, clearly embarrassed.

  The talk continued aimlessly for a while before The Kid said, “I think I’ll go back over to the jail and check on Marshal Cumberland.”

  “Make sure he hasn’t already turned Ahern loose, you mean?” Constance asked.

  “He said he was going out to the Broken Spoke to talk to Harlan Levesy. How long would that take?”

  “The ranch headquarters is about an hour’s ride from here,” Bennett said. “Depending on when he left . . . if he left . . . he could be back pretty soon.”

  Tate got to his feet at the same time The Kid did. “I’ll come with you. I may not be the marshal here anymore, although I still don’t see how that’s possible, but I know my way around the jail.”

  Constance said gently, “Why don’t you stay here with me, Jared? It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you, and I missed you, you know?”

  The Kid looked at her and wondered if there had been any sort of romantic relationship between her and Tate. The two of them were about the same age, and evidently neither of them was married. They might have had to be discreet about it, what with him being the town marshal and her running a saloon, but it was possible. Whenever Constance looked at Tate, The Kid saw a gentleness and affection in her eyes that belied what seemed t
o be her usual hard-boiled attitude.

  Tate responded to that as he moved around the table and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll come back, Constance, don’t worry about me. I just want to give The Kid a hand if he needs one.”

  She reached up, put her hand on his where it rested on her shoulder, and squeezed. “All right. But be careful.”

  She gave The Kid a hard look. She was holding him responsible for Tate’s safety.

  He nodded slightly to show he understood. “Come on, Marshal.”

  They left the Trailblazer and started up the street toward the jail. Copperhead Springs really did appear to be deserted. Lights burned only in the saloon and a few other buildings, one of which was the marshal’s office. Other than that, the town was dark and quiet as its citizens waited fearfully to see what was going to happen.

  The Kid thought the door to the marshal’s office might be locked, especially if Cumberland wasn’t there, but it swung open easily when he twisted the knob. Cumberland wasn’t in the office, although a lamp burned on the desk. Through the small, barred window set into the door between the office and the cell block, The Kid could see only darkness. Loud, obnoxious snoring came from one of the cells. Jed Ahern had gotten tired of cussing and gone to sleep.

  Tate stood in the center of the room and looked around like a man who had come home after a long absence. “Are you sure I’m not the marshal anymore?”

  “That’s what everybody says,” The Kid replied. “I don’t think they’re lying.”

  “It just . . . It seems like I belong here.”

  “I know what you mean,” The Kid said.

  If somehow all his memories of the past few years faded from his mind and he could walk back into the mansion in Carson City where Conrad Browning had lived with his wife Rebel, he would have felt like he was supposed to be there, too. As if somehow nothing had changed . . .

  But it had changed. The mansion was gone, consumed by fire, and Rebel was dead. Conrad Browning was just a memory, too, and that was the way it had to be. The Kid’s last attempt to reclaim his former life had ended in failure, and he would never allow himself to be trapped like that again.

  Tate looked at the chair behind the desk. “You reckon he’d mind?”

  “I wouldn’t much care if he did.” The Kid waved a hand at the chair. “Go ahead.”

  Tate sat down, took his hat off, and placed it on the desk. He leaned back in the chair with an expression of utter satisfaction on his face.

  A swift rataplan of hoofbeats sounded in the street outside.

  Something about the hoofbeats made The Kid stiffen as tension gripped him. His hand moved toward his gun as he turned to face the door, which he and Tate had left standing partially open. Shots blasted in the night.

  The Kid twisted and blew out the lamp on the desk, plunging the office into darkness.

  “Stay here!” he told Tate.

  “But I’m the—”

  “No, you’re not! Stay here!”

  The Kid drew his gun as he moved to the door and looked out. There had been only three shots, and as he peered toward Main Street, he saw a figure on horseback had come to a stop at the corner. He couldn’t make out any details about the rider, but he felt confident the man was the one who had fired the shots.

  The man shoved something from the back of his horse. It thudded to the ground. The rider whirled his mount and galloped off.

  The shots had been to get everybody’s attention, The Kid thought. It wasn’t an attack. The man had been announcing that he was delivering something.

  The Kid had a bad feeling about what that something might be.

  He opened the door and stepped out, and as he did he heard Tate moving behind him. He was about to tell the old lawman again to stay there, but changed his mind, figuring it would be all right for Tate to come along. His instincts told him for the moment there was no danger.

  The two of them trotted toward whatever the horseman had dumped in the street. Up and down the blocks, the shots had drawn a few people out of the buildings, but nobody seemed anxious to investigate the commotion. As they got closer to the dark shape, The Kid recognized it as human, just as he’d feared.

  He holstered his gun, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the metal container of matches that had saved his life a few days earlier. He shook one of the matches from the tin and snapped it to life as he knelt beside the man lying in the street.

  Just as The Kid expected, the man was Marshal Riley Cumberland. It appeared he had gone out to the Broken Spoke just as he’d said he was going to.

  He hadn’t gotten a warm welcome, though. His face was swollen, bruised, and smeared with blood from numerous cuts and scrapes. His clothes were tattered and torn, and from the looks of them, as well as the damage to Cumberland’s body, he had been tied behind a horse and dragged over rough ground.

  But at least he was alive. Ragged breaths rasped in his throat. That was a little more than The Kid had expected. He’d thought they would find Cumberland dead when they reached his side.

  “Good Lord,” Tate muttered. “Poor hombre’s been beaten within an inch of his life. I’ll have to find out who did this.”

  “We know who—” The Kid began, then stopped. Explaining things to Tate would be a waste of time and breath. “He needs help. A doctor.”

  “Doc Franklin,” Tate said without hesitation. “His office isn’t far from here.”

  Given the source, that might be true, or it might not.

  A woman’s voice called, “What is it? Who’s there?”

  The Kid glanced up to see Constance coming down the street toward them, a lantern in her upraised hand. Bennett was with her, along with several other men, and a couple were armed with shotguns.

  The swamper Bert, Riley Cumberland’s father, was with the group as well. He cried out and rushed forward. “Riley! My God, Riley! What have they done?”

  Bert dropped to his knees beside the unconscious marshal, lifted Cumberland’s head, and cradled it in his lap.

  The Kid got to his feet and turned to meet the others.

  “Sorry it took us a few minutes to get here. I’ll be honest, we had to talk ourselves into it. We didn’t know what we’d find out here.” Constance glanced at Cumberland and lowered her voice. “Is he dead?”

  The Kid shook his head. “No, but he needs a doctor. Marshal Tate mentioned a Doc Franklin . . .”

  “Yeah, he’s still here, the only doctor we have.” Constance turned to the men with her and issued orders in a familiar tone of command. “Some of you boys pick him up and take him to the doc’s house. And be careful with him! There’s no telling how bad he’s busted up inside.”

  Bert didn’t want to let go of his son, but the men gently worked Cumberland’s unconscious form away from him. They lifted Cumberland and carried him to a side street with the rest of the group following.

  A man in a nightshirt and robe met them on the porch of a small, neat house. He had gray hair and a broad, florid face. “When I heard the shots I knew I’d likely be needed, so I got up and got ready. Take him into the first room there.” The doctor shook his head in dismay as he looked at Cumberland and echoed Tate’s comment. “Good Lord.”

  The Kid, Tate, Constance, and Milt Bennett stepped back out onto the porch.

  Constance said, “I could’ve told Riley he couldn’t talk any sense into Harlan Levesy. He was just wasting his time. He’s lucky that bunch didn’t kill him.”

  The Kid shook his head. “Levesy didn’t want to kill the marshal. He wanted him left alive for a reason . . . to send a message to the rest of you here in town.”

  “That message being that we can expect the same or worse from the Broken Spoke?” Constance asked harshly.

  The Kid nodded. “That’s right. The only question is when.”

  Chapter 11

  It was close to an hour before the doctor came out onto the porch to report that Riley Cumberland was still alive and had in fact regained consciousness.
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br />   Most of the men had drifted away, going back to the saloon or to their homes. The Kid, Constance, Tate, and Bennett were still there, as was Bert, who sat in a wicker rocking chair rocking back and forth slightly.

  When Franklin delivered his news, Bert jumped up from the chair. “Then he’s going to be all right, Doc?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Franklin cautioned. “He’s been through a lot, been treated mighty rough. I think he’ll recover, but he’ll need a lot of rest.” The doctor frowned. “He ought to be asleep now, but he’s insisting he talk to you, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Me?” The Kid said, surprised. It seemed to him if Cumberland talked to anyone, it ought to be Bert, his own father.

  “That’s what he said. But if you’re going to do it, it ought to be soon. I’m not sure how long he’ll be awake.”

  “Go ahead, Mr. Morgan,” Constance urged. “It could be something important.”

  The Kid supposed she was right. He nodded to the doctor, who led him into the house.

  Riley Cumberland was lying in bed, propped up with several pillows. His eyes were closed, and his face was pale and drawn in the lamplight. Doc Franklin had bandaged the worst of the cuts, but Cumberland’s features were still swollen and bruised.

  His eyes opened slowly at the sound of footsteps from the two men. He seemed to have a little trouble, but after a moment he was able to focus on The Kid. “M-Morgan.”

  “I’m here, Marshal. What can I do for you?”

  “I can tell . . . from that ruckus with Ahern . . . that you’re a fighting man,” Cumberland whispered. “You’re the only one . . . who can help these folks. Levesy said . . . he and his men are coming to town . . . at sunup tomorrow.”

  “To turn Ahern loose?” The Kid guessed.

  “Yeah.” Cumberland licked his lips. “Doc, can I . . . get a drink?”

  “Water,” Franklin said. “That’s all.”

  “That’ll . . . do.”

  Franklin took a cup from the bedside table and lifted it to Cumberland’s mouth. The marshal took a sip, spilling some of the water but getting some of it down his throat. That seemed to strengthen him slightly.