Bullets Don't Die

by J. A. Johnstone

The Kid bore down with his boot heel on Selmon’s wrist.

  “Ahhhhh!”

  “What did I tell you about that? Now, I’m going to step back, and you’re going to sit up and stay right there. Because if you don’t, I’ll shoot you. Don’t doubt that for a second.”

  Selmon opened his mouth, but if he was about to curse at The Kid, he thought better of it. His mouth snapped shut and stayed that way as he sat up.

  The Kid stepped back, keeping Selmon covered as he asked, “Marshal, are you all right?”

  Tate climbed slowly to his feet and brushed the dust off his clothes. “I’m fine. You think these two have learned their lesson, Kid?”

  The Kid looked at Selmon cradling his painful wrist with his other hand, then at Benny, who was slumped against the wagon whimpering, trapped by the vehicle’s weight on his foot.

  “I don’t know,” The Kid said in answer to Tate’s question. “Let’s see what they were so worried about.” He tucked Selmon’s revolver behind his gun belt and moved closer to the wagon. Reaching into the back to grasp the canvas cover, he threw aside one corner and revealed several wooden crates packed with bottles and jugs full of clear liquid.

  He had a pretty good idea what it was. “A load of moonshine.” He frowned at Selmon. “That’s what this was all about? You were willing to shoot us over some damned white lightning?”

  “It’s illegal,” Selmon said with a whine in his voice, “and that old fella’s a lawman. I remember seein’ him in Copperhead Springs wearin’ a badge. For all I know, you’re one of those damned star packers, too, mister.”

  “Well, you’re behind the times, as well as mistaken. Marshal Tate’s retired, and even if he wasn’t, as long as you stayed out of Copperhead Springs with that stuff he wouldn’t have any reason to arrest you. And I’m not a lawman at all . . . just a man who gets mighty upset when somebody shoots a gun at him.”

  “You ain’t hurt,” Selmon said. “Benny and me, we’re the ones in pain.”

  “Benny more than you, I’d say, since that wagon full of hooch fell on his foot.”

  Benny chose that moment to throw back his head and bellow like a wounded bull. “Oh, Gaaawwd, it hurts!”

  “See?” The Kid said. “What do you think we ought to do about that?”

  “We, uh, oughta get it off of him, I reckon.”

  “How are we going to do that? You and I might be able to lift the wagon enough for him to pull his foot out, but I’d have to holster my gun, and after the stunt you just pulled, I’m not sure I want to do that.”

  “I’m not armed. I can’t do anything else,” Selmon said. “I swear. Help me get that thing offa him, mister. Please.”

  The Kid thought about it. He was still angry about Selmon trying to shoot him. And after seeing the way they’d mistreated their mules he wasn’t feeling very sympathetic toward either man. But he didn’t enjoy seeing Benny suffer. Just because they were cruel didn’t mean he had to be.

  He told Selmon, “You stand where I can see you. Marshal, keep an eye on him, too, and sing out if he looks like he’s going to try anything funny.”

  “I sure will,” Tate said.

  The Kid pouched his iron and moved around Benny. One at a time, he pulled the guns from behind the sash around the big man’s waist, tossing them well out of reach. He got a grip on the wagon bed and said, “On three . . . one . . . two . . . three!”

  He and Selmon heaved on the wagon, lifting it enough for Benny to grab hold of his leg and drag his foot out from under it.

  As soon as Benny was clear, The Kid let the wagon down again and stepped back, resting his hand on the butt of his Colt.

  Benny sat down hard, unable to stand up. Selmon scrambled over to him. “Let’s get that boot offa there so we can see how bad you’re hurt.” He glanced up at The Kid. “That’s all right, ain’t it?”

  The Kid nodded. “Go ahead.”

  Benny screamed as Selmon worked the boot off. The sock was soaked with blood. Selmon peeled that off as well, also accompanied by screams, and revealed an ugly gash in Benny’s foot.

  It wasn’t mangled as much as The Kid had expected. Since the other wheels were still on the wagon, not all of its weight had come down on Benny’s foot.

  “I’m plumb ruined,” Benny sobbed. “I’ll never be able to walk again.”

  “I think you will,” The Kid said, “but not if you keep going around trying to kill people. You won’t have to worry about your foot because you’ll get yourself shot.”

  “Are you gonna turn us over to the law?” Selmon asked as he used the tail of his shirt to wipe away some of the blood on Benny’s foot.

  “It’s not my responsibility to put moonshiners out of business. As for taking a shot at me . . . well, maybe by the time I’m through with you, you’ll have been punished enough without bringing the law into this.”

  Selmon gave him a worried look. “What else are you gonna do? You already pert near busted my wrist, and Benny’s foot’s all messed up.”

  “That’s Benny’s fault for letting go of the wagon. As for what else I’m going to do, those mules are coming with us.”

  “You can’t do that!” Selmon protested immediately. “Them mules are ours. That’d be stealin’!”

  “It’s not as bad as trying to shoot somebody,” The Kid pointed out. “I don’t like the way you’ve treated them.”

  Benny glared at Selmon. “I told you not to whip those jugheads so dang much!”

  “Shut up! You’re a jughead your own self!” Selmon looked at The Kid. “You’re gonna leave us here with no team and a wheel off the wagon?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’ll we do with all that ‘shine?”

  “I’d get a bottle and use some of it to clean that wound on Benny’s foot. Then you can sit around and drink the rest of it for all I care.”

  “This ain’t right. It ain’t fair—”

  “Save your breath,” The Kid interrupted. “And be grateful. I thought about burning it.”

  Selmon looked like he wanted to say something else, but kept his mouth shut.

  The Kid told Tate, “Keep watching them,” and went to the front of the wagon to unhitch the mules. He tied their harnesses together so they would be easier to lead.

  Selmon took The Kid’s suggestion and poured whiskey from one of the bottles over the gash in Benny’s foot, causing Benny to howl at the bite of the fiery liquor on raw flesh. The Kid saw him wiggling his toes and figured no bones were broken. Benny was lucky his foot hadn’t been crushed.

  “All right, Marshal, I guess we’re ready to go,” The Kid said. “I’ll lead these mules if you can lead our pack horses.”

  “Sure, I can do that,” Tate said. They got mounted up and paused beside the spot where Selmon and Benny were sitting on the ground behind the wagon.

  The Kid fixed Selmon with a hard stare. “Anybody takes a shot at me, I generally go ahead and kill him right then and there. I’ve made an exception in your case, but if I ever see you again, and your hand is anywhere near a gun when I do, I won’t wait to see what you’re planning to do with it. I’ll just go ahead and shoot you. You remember that.”

  “I’ll remember,” Selmon said in a surly growl. It sounded as much like a threat as a promise.

  “I know what you’re thinking. You’ll let this fester and gnaw at you and tell yourself that one of these days you’ll get even with me. But you won’t. You’ll just get dead.” The Kid hoped his little speech would be enough to get through the fog of hatred in Selmon’s brain, but he didn’t believe it would be. Sooner or later he’d probably have to kill the weaselly little varmint . . . unless, of course, their trails never crossed again, which was certainly possible.

  As he and Tate rode away, leaving the wagon and the two moonshiners behind, The Kid said, “Thanks for helping out back there, Marshal, but you’d better let me handle the gunplay, if there is any from here on out.”

  “I reckon I’ll have to,” Tate said. “I see
m to have misplaced my Colt. Can’t find it anywhere.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” The Kid replied, knowing good and well the marshal’s gun, gun belt, and ammunition were tucked away in his gear.

  “That’s all right. I’m getting a mite forgetful, the older I get, I suppose. I’ll buy another gun when we get to Wichita.”

  The Kid didn’t say anything. It would be up to the marshal’s daughter to keep him from getting his hands on another gun.

  Late that afternoon they came to a small farm. The Kid could tell by looking at the place it wasn’t doing that well. The house needed work, and so did the barn.

  But the rawboned man who walked out to greet them had a friendly smile on his face, and he was trailed by a couple kids, a boy and a girl, who seemed just as friendly, as did the big shaggy dog that bounded out to bark at them.

  “You fellas looking for a place to spend the night?” the farmer asked. “Plenty of room in the loft, and my wife’ll be glad to put another couple plates on the table.”

  The Kid thumbed back his hat. “We’re obliged for the offer, friend, but what we’re really looking for is a place to leave these mules for a while. We’re sort of in a hurry, and they’re slowing us down.”

  The farmer walked over to the mules and studied them, shooting a glance at The Kid as he did so. “They’re good-looking animals, but someone’s treated them pretty badly.”

  “That’s what I thought, so my friend and I took them off the hands of the men who did that. Made a trade with them.”

  That was true, The Kid thought. He and Tate took the mules, and he didn’t shoot Selmon and Benny. That was a fair trade as far as he was concerned.

  The farmer said, “I might’ve been tempted to do more than just trade if I ran into somebody who treats animals like this. You familiar with the story of Balaam and the ass in the Bible?”

  “I remember hearing about it,” The Kid said. “You think it would be all right for us to leave these mules here for awhile? I’d give you some money to pay for their feed and all.”

  The little boy said, “Pa, you know we sure could use a good team of mules—”

  “These men aren’t offering to give us the mules, Tom.”

  “No, but we wouldn’t mind if you were to work ’em some,” The Kid said. “Work’s good for mules.”

  “And boys,” the farmer said with a glance at his son.

  “Anyway,” The Kid went on, “as long as you take good care of them, you’re welcome to use them for whatever chores they might be good for. We’ll come back for them one of these days, but it might be a while.”

  The Kid could tell by the look in the farmer’s eyes the man understood and was grateful for it. No man liked to accept obvious charity in front of his children. Of course, to The Kid’s way of thinking it wasn’t exactly charity, since he and Tate had to do something with the animals. He sure didn’t want to have to lead a bunch of mules all the way to Wichita.

  “You got a deal,” the farmer said as he held up a hand. The Kid reached down and clasped it firmly.

  “And the invitation to supper still stands.”

  “We’re obliged, but we need to be moving on. Got more ground to cover before nightfall.” The Kid reached into his pocket, took out a couple double eagles, and passed them unobtrusively to the farmer. “To help out with their feed bill.”

  The man nodded and swallowed hard, evidently not trusting himself to speak.

  A few minutes later, with the youngsters waving good-bye and the dog barking behind them, The Kid and Tate rode on without the mules.

  The old lawman said quietly, “That was a good thing you did. That sodbuster looked like he could use all the help he can get. Making a hardscrabble farm like that pay off is mighty tough.”

  “Yeah, but he seemed like the sort who’ll make it,” The Kid said. “Man’s got a place of his own, a nice wife, some kids . . . well, he’s got a good start on everything he needs in life, doesn’t he?”

  “I’d say so,” Tate agreed. “You have any of those things, Kid?”

  The Kid smiled faintly, trying not to think about the past, as he shook his head. “Nary a one.”

  Chapter 18

  “Gonna kill that son of a bitch,” Selmon muttered as he wrapped a makeshift bandage around Benny’s injured foot. He had cleaned up the wound as best he could. “Gonna find him and kill him. Try standin’ on that.”

  Benny used the wagon to help him stand up and winced as he rested a little weight on the bad foot. When he rested a little more on it, he yelled and clutched harder at the wagon, lifting the foot again.

  “I can’t stand on it,” he said, panting from the pain. “I think . . . I think it’s broken.”

  “Well, you’re just gonna have to put up with it,” Selmon said. “There ain’t nothin’ else I can do for you.”

  “Maybe you could make me a crutch?” Benny suggested.

  “Out of what? And we’re ten miles or more from anywhere. Even with a crutch, how you gonna walk that far? You can’t.” Selmon sighed. “I got to leave you here, Benny, while I go for help.”

  “You . . . you ain’t gonna leave me for good, are you?”

  “No, of course not, just for a while. Anyway, we can’t both go off and leave this here load of moonshine unprotected. Hell, we got all our money tied up in it. You got to stay here and watch over it. That damn varmint tossed your guns out in the grass. I’ll go find ’em.”

  “Can you help me sit down first?”

  Selmon rolled his eyes, but he took hold of Benny’s arm and supported him. “All right, take it nice and easy.”

  Benny sat down on the ground next to the wagon, out of the trail. Selmon found his friend’s two revolvers and brought them back. He handed one of them to Benny. “I’m keepin’ one of these guns since that polecat rode off with mine.”

  Benny nodded. “That’s fine. I don’t mind sharin’ my shootin’ irons.”

  “I wasn’t askin’,” Selmon snapped. “Now, I’m countin’ on you, Benny. You can’t let nothin’ happen to this hooch.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Benny promised. “Selmon . . . you ain’t really goin’ after that fella, are you? He pretty much said he’d shoot you on sight if he ever saw you again.”

  “After what happened to you, don’t you want the score settled with him?”

  “Well, sure I would, but I don’t know that it’s worth gettin’ killed over. Anyway, we don’t even know who he is. He never said his name.”

  “We know he’s travelin’ with that old Marshal Tate from Copperhead Springs. Lotsa folks in these parts know Tate, or at least know of him. He was a reg’lar town tamer for a good long while.”

  “Reckon he’s still pretty tough, judgin’ from the way he tackled you.”

  “He took me by surprise, is all, damn it,” Selmon said defensively.

  Benny looked down. He and Selmon had been working together long enough for him to know it wasn’t wise to push the smaller man too far. Selmon had a loco streak in him and didn’t always bother to hold it in.

  “Anyway, I’ll settle up with those fellas later,” Selmon went on. “Right now, I got to do somethin’ about this mess we’re in. I’ll walk to Rutherford’s place and get some help there.”

  “That’ll take you half the night,” Benny protested.

  “You got any better ideas?”

  Benny sighed and shook his head. “No, I reckon I don’t,” he admitted. “You know me, Selmon. I ain’t much of one for ideas.”

  Selmon grunted. “I know. I’m used to doin’ the thinkin’ for both of us. You just stay here. I’ll be back.”

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Benny said dispiritedly. “Not with this busted foot.”

  Selmon checked the gun he’d kept to make sure dirt hadn’t fouled the barrel and found that it appeared to be all right, still in good working condition. With a nod to Benny, he started trudging westward along the trail.

  A couple miles from there, a smaller trail tur
ned off to the north. He and Benny had traveled the route before. That northbound trail ran into an isolated area and after ten miles or so he would come to Rutherford’s Store. Despite its name, it was actually a saloon and whorehouse that catered to men on the dodge. Abner Rutherford was a regular customer of the moonshine Selmon and Benny cooked up. He would be willing to help. He wouldn’t let a whole wagonload of the stuff go to waste.

  It was a long walk. Selmon knew it wouldn’t take him half the night, the way Benny had said, but it probably would be well after dark by the time he reached Rutherford’s. He hoped nobody would come along in the meantime, kill Benny, and steal the moonshine. He could always get another partner, but he’d hate to lose that hooch.

  Cowboys hated to walk. To a cowboy’s way of thinking, any chore that couldn’t be done from horseback was a chore not worth doing.

  Selmon, on the other hand, had never been a cowboy. The work struck him as being way too hard for the amount of money a fella could earn.

  Even so, he didn’t care much for walking, either, and he liked it less by the time Rutherford’s Store came into view. Blisters had sprung up on his feet, and every step sent pain jabbing into them.

  He’d hoped somebody would come along with a buggy or a wagon and give him a ride. Even somebody on horseback who’d let him ride double would have been welcome. But Selmon seemed to be the only one who was headed for Rutherford’s place.

  When he spotted the lights up ahead he felt the impulse to run. The sooner he got there, the sooner he could get off his feet.

  He couldn’t stand the extra punishment running caused, so he kept moving at the same slow, steady pace, gradually drawing closer to the store. The moon had risen, and along with the stars it provided enough light for him to see the low, rambling sod structure and a number of horses in the corral off to the side. Selmon hoped he could take some of those horses back to the wagon, as well as somebody who’d help him fix the busted wheel.

  He stepped through the open doorway into the large, smoky barroom. In a slight nod to the name of the place, a few shelves of supplies and other goods occupied the right end of the room, but nearly all the space was given over to tables and a long, plank bar supported by barrels of whiskey and beer. The left end of the room sported a row of curtained-off cubicles where three or four soiled doves plied their trade.