Bullets Don't Die

by J. A. Johnstone

  At the moment, only a couple tables had customers seated at them. A desultory poker game was going on at one of them, while at the other several men were drinking in morose silence. Nearly a dozen men were crowded up to the bar, where Rutherford and his fat Indian wife served them.

  Rutherford spotted Selmon, and his bushy eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I was expectin’ you earlier today, Selmon.” He waved over the newcomer. “What happened?”

  Selmon limped up to the bar, grimacing with every step as he had been for the past five miles. “Benny and me ran into some trouble. Our wagon lost a wheel, then some fellas came along, tried to kill us, and stole our mules.”

  “Good Lord,” Rutherford muttered. “You look like you could use a drink.”

  “Yeah, and a place to sit. I walked the whole way up here, a good twelve miles.” More like a bad twelve miles, he thought.

  “Sit down there at that table. I’ll bring you a glass.”

  “Much obliged,” Selmon said with a nod.

  It was a great relief to get the weight off his feet. He looked down at his boots and frowned. He was almost afraid to look at the damage done to his feet. Besides, if he took the boots off, he might not be able to get them back on. The smartest thing was to leave them alone until he rescued Benny and got the wagon to the saloon.

  Rutherford came over with a glass and a bottle. The whiskey wasn’t as good as the shine Selmon and Benny brewed, but Selmon was happy to get it. He took the glass and gulped it down. A welcome warmth spread through him.

  “Tell me what happened,” Rutherford urged.

  “We were headed up here to make that delivery to you when we lost a nut off one of the back wheels,” Selmon explained. He picked up the bottle and splashed more whiskey into the glass. “Damn wheel came all the way off before we realized what was goin’ on.”

  “Shoot, Benny’s big enough he should’ve been able to pick up the wagon so you could put the wheel back on.”

  Selmon grunted in disgust. “Yeah, you’d think so, wouldn’t you? But he couldn’t raise it high enough by himself, and if I helped him, there wasn’t anybody to slip the wheel back on. Then a couple of fellas came ridin’ along.”

  “The ones who stole your mules.”

  “That’s right. But before they did that . . .” Selmon hesitated as he debated how much to tell Rutherford. He decided not to lie about it. Rutherford was as big a crook as anybody in those parts and had no love for the law.

  “We sort of had a run-in with those fellas. One of ’em was that old gunfightin’ marshal from over at Copperhead Springs.”

  Rutherford frowned in confusion. “What are you talkin’ about? Riley Cumberland’s the marshal at Copperhead Springs. At least he was the last time I heard.”

  “No, no,” Selmon muttered. “I mean old Marshal Tate.”

  “Jared Tate? Why, he hasn’t been a lawman for four or five years, maybe longer.”

  “Well, I didn’t know that, all right?” Selmon tossed off the second drink and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I got better things to do with my time than keep up with who’s wearin’ a badge and who ain’t.”

  Rutherford looked like he was trying not to smile as he said, “Lemme get this straight. You started a fight with that old retired marshal because you were afraid he was gonna arrest you for haulin’ moonshine?”

  “It wasn’t just him,” Selmon said miserably. “He had some young hotshot with him. Could’ve been a federal man for all I know.”

  Rutherford couldn’t hold in a chuckle. “So you got roughed up by a retired star packer and a kid, and then they stole your mules. You are quite the desperado, Selmon, you really are.”

  It was all Selmon could do to keep from losing his temper. Through clenched teeth, he said, “I’ll settle that score with ’em one of these days. You can bet on that, Ab.”

  “Yeah, well, what’re you gonna do now?”

  “I thought maybe you’d let me borrow some horses so I can go back down there and fetch Benny and the wagon.”

  “Is Benny all right?”

  “Yeah, the wagon, uh, sort of fell on his foot and—”

  Rutherford laughed again, then shook his head and waved a hand. “I’m sorry. Go on.”

  “I need a team, and I need somebody to help me get that wheel back on the wagon. Then we can finish deliverin’ that load of shine to you.”

  “If I’ve got to loan you some horses and lend you a hand, I’ll expect a nice discount on the price.”

  Selmon winced, and it had nothing to do with the pain in his feet. “We’re already givin’ you the rock-bottom price, Ab—”

  “If you’re not ready to deal, you can find some help somewhere else.”

  There wasn’t anywhere else, and Rutherford damn well knew it, Selmon thought. He sighed. “All right, we’ll knock some off the price.”

  “A third?”

  “A third!” Selmon yelped. “We won’t make no money at all, at that price! I was thinkin’ . . . five percent?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  They haggled back and forth for a few minutes, and Selmon actually forgot about how much his feet hurt as he got caught up in the negotiating. They settled on twenty percent. Rutherford wouldn’t budge from that price.

  “We’ll head down there to get Benny and the wagon first thing in the mornin’,” the proprietor said.

  “We can’t go tonight?”

  Rutherford let out a snort. “Hell, no. The night’s half gone, and I plan on sleepin’ in my own bed. Tomorrow mornin’s soon enough.”

  Selmon nodded in agreement. There was nothing else he could do.

  A shadow fell over the table, causing him to look up. A shaggy-haired man in a buckskin jacket and high-crowned felt hat stood there. The man had a soup-strainer mustache hanging over his mouth, under a prominent beak of a nose. Selmon didn’t recognize him.

  “Somethin’ I can do for you, mister?” he asked, trying not to whine.

  “Did I hear you mention Marshal Jared Tate a few minutes ago?” the man asked in a deep, gravelly voice.

  “What if I did?” Selmon tried to move his hand closer to the butt of the pistol tucked in his waistband without being obvious about it. “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “A friend of mine?” the shaggy stranger repeated. He laughed. “Not hardly. I didn’t know he was anywhere around these parts.”

  “Well, he is, and he ain’t a lawman no more. Ain’t much better than an owlhoot, if you ask me, the way him and that other fella jumped me and my pard and hurt us and stole our mules.”

  The stranger shook his head. “That don’t sound like Tate. He was always so upright. Acted like he had a ramrod instead of a spine.” The man’s voice hardened. “And he hid behind that badge of his when he killed my brother. I been waitin’ years to get even with him for that.”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about that,” Selmon said. “All I know is he sure mistreated us.”

  “How about where he was bound for?” The man leaned over the table and his voice dropped to a low, menacing snarl. “You know that?”

  “Take it easy, Carl,” Rutherford advised nervously. He glanced at Selmon. “You better answer the question.”

  “Wichita,” Selmon said. For a moment he hadn’t been able to remember if either Tate or the other man had said anything about where they were going, but then it had come to him. “The young fella said they were headed for Wichita.”

  The stranger called Carl straightened. “Wichita’s a pretty good ride from here,” he mused. “It’ll take ’em some time to get there.”

  “What’re you thinkin’ about doin’?” Rutherford asked.

  “Nothin’ you want to know about.” Carl tossed a coin on the table. “That’ll pay what I owe you. I’m ridin’ out.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Oh, I intend to.” An ugly grin stretched Carl’s mouth under that soup-strainer. “As soon as I round up my other brothers, we’ll suit ourselves just fine.”


  Selmon figured he wouldn’t have to worry about getting his revenge on Tate and the other man. He had a hunch by telling Carl where they could be found, he had just done that.

  Chapter 19

  The Kid and Marshal Tate reached Dodge City the next day. Since the vast buffalo herds that once covered the prairie for seemingly endless miles were all gone and the railroads had extended their reach into Texas, ending the cattle drive era, Dodge had lost its two main reasons for being. Its boom days were long over, but the settlement clung to existence as a small town serving the needs of the farms and ranches in the surrounding area.

  Travelers sometimes stopped there, and The Kid and Tate fell into that category. As they rode into town late in the afternoon, the old lawman said, “I hate to admit it, Kid, but I’m not as young as I used to be. Sleeping out on the trail is hard on these old bones of mine. You reckon we could get rooms in the hotel and spend the night here? Sleep in a real bed?”

  “I don’t see why not,” The Kid answered. “We’re not in any big hurry to get where we’re going. We can pick up a few more supplies while we’re here, too.”

  They turned their horses toward the Dodge House. The hotel had its own stable out back, so they didn’t have to hunt up a livery. After they’d rented adjoining rooms, The Kid turned the horses over to the hostler and carried their gear upstairs.

  He found Tate standing at the window in one of the rooms, looking out at the street. He glanced over his shoulder at The Kid. “Lots of memories in this town. The Mastersons, the Earps . . . It was a wild place in the old days, you know, but at the same time so vital, so alive . . . You never knew what was going to happen in Dodge. Now it just seems . . . sleepy.” He sighed. “Sort of like me, I guess.”

  Tate seemed pretty lucid at the moment.

  The Kid said, “It’ll be getting dark soon. Why don’t we go hunt up some supper?”

  Tate brightened. “We can go to Delmonico’s,” he suggested. “Best steaks you’ll find this side of Kansas City.”

  The Kid didn’t know if Delmonico’s was still there or if it existed only in Tate’s memory, but he said, “Sure, Marshal, let’s go.”

  As it turned out, Delmonico’s was not only still there, but the food was excellent. Steak, potatoes, greens, corn on the cob, huge fluffy rolls with steam rising from them when torn open, peach cobbler, all washed down with fine coffee . . . Tate had been right. For a sleepy little former cowtown, the meal was a lot better than The Kid expected.

  When they finished, Tate said, “I’d like to stroll around town a little, Kid, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure, that’s fine,” The Kid replied with a shrug.

  “You can go back to the hotel if you want. I’ll be fine.”

  Tate had seemed fine the whole day. He hadn’t done anything odd or displayed any lapses of memory or judgment. The Kid knew he couldn’t rely on that condition continuing, though. To keep from offending Tate, he said, “Why don’t you show me around? I’d really like to hear about the old days when you were a peace officer here and Dodge City was the Queen of the Prairie.”

  Tate chuckled. “You shouldn’t ask an old man to reminisce. You might get more than you bargained for.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” The Kid said with a smile.

  “All right, then. Over here is where the Long Branch Saloon used to be . . .”

  They spent a pleasant hour walking around town while Tate pointed out the landmarks, the ones still standing as well as the locations of those that were gone, and told at least one story to go with every place they came to. The Kid had heard plenty of yarns from his father over the years, and Tate’s were similar, full of colorful characters and blood-and-thunder adventure.

  Those must have been exciting times in which to live, The Kid mused. The West had settled down considerably since then.

  Of course, his own life was ample proof there were still pockets of violence on the frontier. With a new century coming soon, people talked about how the Wild West was dead. The Kid knew good and well that wasn’t true.

  They were ambling back toward the hotel when several men rode into town and dismounted in front of one of the saloons a few doors down from the Dodge House. The Kid didn’t pay much attention to them as he and Tate stepped up onto the hotel porch. The glow from the lamps in the lobby came through the windows and lit up their faces.

  A man suddenly yelled, “There he is, by God! There’s Tate!”

  Hearing the menacing tone in that shout, The Kid whirled toward the men who had stopped in front of the saloon. All three of them were clawing at the guns on their hips.

  Tate was unarmed and had been ever since he’d mistaken The Kid for Brick Cantrell and tried to shoot him. The Kid grabbed the old lawman’s arm with his left hand and gave Tate a hard shove that sent him crashing against the double front doors of the hotel. The doors flew open, and Tate stumbled and fell across the threshold. He was out of the line of fire, at least for the moment.

  At the same instant, The Kid’s right hand dipped and came up with the Colt. The revolver rose with blinding speed. The three men had cleared leather; they were pretty fast themselves. Shots crashed from their guns.

  The Kid heard the wind-rip of a slug past his ear as he triggered twice. One of the would-be assassins went down, doubling over as The Kid’s lead punched into his guts.

  Standing tall, The Kid thrust his arm out and fired again. A second gunman fell, spinning off his feet from the impact of the bullet.

  The tail of The Kid’s coat jerked as a shot tugged on it. Almost faster than an eye could blink, he squeezed off two more shots. The last of the gunmen staggered, but didn’t go down. He struggled to lift his weapon and get off another shot.

  The Kid’s revolver was empty. As a precaution he kept the hammer riding on an empty chamber. Only five rounds had been in the gun. Without taking his eyes off the wounded man, he opened the cylinder, dumped the empties, and pulled fresh cartridges from the loops on his gun belt. He thumbed them in, his fingers moving with smooth, practiced efficiency. He snapped the cylinder closed and raised the gun, ready to fire again.

  It wasn’t necessary. The last man’s gun slipped from nerveless fingers and thudded to the boardwalk. The man fell face-first right after it.

  But there were only two men in the street, The Kid saw with something of a shock. He had hit all three of the would-be killers, but one of them was gone.

  The missing man was the second one who had fallen. The hombre could have crawled off while The Kid was trading shots with the third gunman. The dark mouth of an alley was only a few feet from where he had fallen.

  The Kid pressed himself against the wall. For all he knew, the missing man was on his feet and drawing a bead on him from the alley.

  “Kid!” Tate called softly from the open doors of the hotel. “Kid, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Stay back, Marshal. One of the varmints is unaccounted for.”

  “Who in the world are they?”

  “Don’t know,” The Kid replied curtly. “Somebody with a grudge against you, from the sound of it.” He hadn’t forgotten how one of the men had yelled out Tate’s name just before the shooting started.

  A glance at the downed men told him they hadn’t moved since they’d fallen. The Kid would have felt better about it if he was sure they were dead, but if he stepped out there to check on them, he’d be making himself a better target.

  He watched them from the corner of his eye as he slid along the wall toward the alley. If either of them moved, he’d put another bullet in them.

  The street had cleared in a hurry when the shooting started. Enough people in Dodge still remembered the old days and knew to hunt cover when the bullets began to fly.

  Shouts of alarm were going up, and The Kid knew it wouldn’t be long before the local law arrived on the scene. He needed to find the third man and deal with him before things got more complicated.

  As he reached the corner and was about
to turn quickly around it and cover the alley with his gun, someone in the hotel yelled, “Look out!”

  The roar of a shot immediately followed the warning cry.

  The Kid bit back a curse as he whirled away from the alley and lunged toward the hotel entrance. He knew without being told what had happened: the wounded man had made it to a back door and entered the hotel. It was likely he was gunning for Jared Tate.

  The Kid leaped through the doors as another shot blasted. Padding flew from an overstuffed chair to his right as a bullet ripped into it.

  Tate crouched low behind the chair. He looked to be unharmed so far, but that wasn’t likely to last.

  The Kid snapped a shot at the gunman crouched behind the front desk counter. Splinters flew as the bullet struck the desk.

  The gunman stood, switched his aim, and threw a slug at The Kid. It whistled past his ear.

  The Kid fired again. The bullet found its mark, smashing into the gunman’s shoulder and slewing him around sideways. The man threw his gun up for another shot. His weapon and The Kid’s Colt blasted at the same time. The man flew backward into the rack holding room keys as The Kid’s bullet hammered into his chest.

  He bounced off the wall and sprawled across the counter as the gun slid from his fingers and fell to the floor.

  As the deafening echoes of the shots began to fade in the lobby, The Kid looked over at Tate. “Are you all right, Marshal?”

  Tate nodded. “He nearly winged me, but close doesn’t count.”

  That was certainly true, The Kid thought as he walked quickly across the lobby, keeping the fallen gunman covered as he approached the front desk. He went around the corner of it, grasped the man’s shoulder, and shoved him onto the floor. The boneless way he fell told The Kid he was dead.

  There was no sign of the clerk. He had lit a shuck out of there just as soon as the trouble started.

  “Better stay down,” The Kid told Tate as he turned back toward the entrance. “I need to make sure the others aren’t a threat anymore.”