A glance at the chalkboard next to the ticket window told him the eastbound was on schedule. He took out his pocket watch and flipped it open. Another fifteen minutes or so and the train would arrive.
Another fifteen minutes and Brick Cantrell’s second career as an outlaw would be launched.
In the meantime, he sat down on one of the benches to wait and idly picked up a newspaper some traveler had left behind. A headline about a gunfight caught his eye.
The Dodge City paper from a few days earlier crinkled as his hands tightened on it. A familiar name leaped from the densely printed paragraphs.
Jared Tate.
Tate. The man who had captured him. The man responsible for the past ten years behind bars.
The man Brick Cantrell hated more than anyone else in the world.
He stood up, folded the paper, and stuck it under his arm. The man he had settled on to be second in command, Herb Tuttle, had just come into the depot. Cantrell caught his eye and stalked toward him.
“What’s up, Brick?” Tuttle asked. “I thought we were gonna pretend not to know each other until the train got here.”
“Forget the damned train,” Cantrell snapped. “There’s something more important I have to do first.”
“More important than a job?”
Cantrell showed him the paper, stabbing a blunt finger down on the story about Marshal Jared Tate. “This is the hombre who put me behind bars. According to this story, he’s headed in this direction. He hasn’t had time to get here from Dodge yet.”
“Wait a minute.” Tuttle frowned as he scanned the printed lines. “Wichita’s southeast of here. He wouldn’t be coming exactly this way.”
“I know. That’s why we’ve got to cut him off.”
Tuttle hesitated, then said, “Look, Brick, I understand you’ve got a score to settle with this lawdog, but we put some planning into this job. The boys are counting on the loot they’ll get from it.”
“There’ll be other trains we can hold up,” Cantrell snapped, “and plenty of loot later on. Tate’s old, and this story makes him sound like he’s sick. I can’t let the old peckerwood die before I come face-to-face with him again.”
“Seems like you’d want him dead, after what he did to you.”
“I do . . . but I’ve got to be the one who kills him.” With a vicious snap of his wrist, Cantrell threw the folded newspaper into a nearby wastebasket. “Get out there and spread the word to the rest of the boys. We’re callin’ off this job, and heading south to intercept Tate and this fella Morgan who’s riding with him. If they don’t like it, they can do whatever they damn well please, but they won’t be riding with Brick Cantrell anymore.”
“Take it easy, Brick, take it easy,” Tuttle urged. He sighed. “We’ll go along with you . . . for now. But once this chore is done, we’ll be expecting to clean up on the next job.”
“Sure. I’ll even forgo my share, to make up for calling off this job.” Cantrell heard a train whistle in the distance. “Better hurry, Herb. Get the boys together. We’ll rendezvous south of town.”
Tuttle nodded and hurried out of the depot. Cantrell started to follow him, then detoured to stand for a moment in front of a large map of Kansas tacked to one of the station walls.
His eyes traced the route Tate and Morgan would take from Dodge City to Wichita. He tried to estimate the amount of ground they could have covered in the time since they’d left Dodge on horseback. If Tate was in poor health, as the newspaper story made it sound, surely they couldn’t travel too fast. There was still time for Cantrell and his men to get in front of them.
A good trail led in the right direction. It passed through several small settlements along the way: Hope Corners, Friedlander, Chalk Butte.
Maybe once he was finished with Tate, the gang could raid one of those towns and empty it of everything valuable, just as the Cantrell gang had done in the old days. It might be enough to appease any hard feelings left over from calling off the train robbery.
To tell the truth, Brick Cantrell didn’t really care, one way or the other. He just wanted his revenge on Jared Tate.
Once he had that, everything else would take care of itself.
Chapter 22
It was pretty obvious where the town of Chalk Butte got its name. The landmark in question rose about half a mile west of the settlement. It wasn’t very tall, thirty or forty feet, but on the Kansas plains even that much height made it stand out.
The town itself was about half the size of Copperhead Springs, The Kid thought as he and Tate rode in. A pleasant enough place with a main street a few blocks long, a couple whitewashed churches with tall steeples, and a redbrick schoolhouse at the edge of town.
At least, it would have been pleasant if something wasn’t wrong. The Kid’s eyes narrowed as he realized no one was on the streets. No teams and wagons were parked in front of the stores, and no horses were tied at the hitch racks. All the doors were closed.
From the looks of it, Chalk Butte had been abandoned.
Even Tate could see and understand that. “Where is everybody?”
“I don’t know, Marshal,” The Kid answered quietly. “I sure don’t like the looks of this.”
The sound of a door opening made him stiffen in the saddle. He turned quickly in the direction of the sound, his hand moving toward his Colt.
“Hold it, mister!” a voice called sharply. The Kid found himself looking over the barrel of a rifle aimed at him from a doorway. Instinct made him glance along the street. Other rifles had appeared, thrust from doors and windows.
Keeping his voice strong and steady, The Kid said, “Take it easy, friend. We’re not looking for trouble.”
A few heartbeats of silence ticked by.
“Good Lord. It’s Marshal Tate and Mr. Morgan.” The door swung back, and Marshal Bob Porter stepped out of the building. He lowered his rifle and waved a hand over his head in a signal that everything was all right.
“What in the world’s going on here?” The Kid asked without making a move to dismount.
“The town’s waiting for trouble,” Porter said in his Texas drawl.
“I can see that. What kind of trouble?”
“The Boomhauser brothers. Three old buffalo hunters. I had to arrest one of them the other night for raising a ruckus in one of the saloons. He paid his fine for disturbing the peace, so I didn’t have any choice but to let him go. He said he was going to get his brothers and come back to teach the town a lesson.”
Tate blew out a disgusted sigh. “There’s always something like that going on when you’re a lawman. Folks just won’t accept it when they’re wrong and let things go.”
“The Boomhausers won’t, that’s for sure. They’ve treed other towns and gotten away with it. That’s not going to happen here.”
“And you’re expecting them any time now.”
Porter nodded. “Yep.”
Someone else stepped out of the building, which The Kid finally recognized as the marshal’s office and jail. His eyebrows rose as he realized the newcomer was a young woman, despite the fact that she wore boots, whipcord trousers, and a short charro jacket over a silk shirt. She had a Winchester in her hands and a gun belt strapped around her trim hips.
“You know these men, Papa?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Porter inclined his head toward her and went on. “My daughter Holly.”
With her olive skin, dark eyes, and mass of raven-black hair, Holly Porter was beautiful. She handled the rifle like she knew how to use it, and The Kid felt another jolt of surprise when he saw the badge pinned to her jacket.
“Your daughter is your deputy?” he asked.
Porter grinned. “She comes from good fighting stock on both sides. Why not?”
Tate pursed his lips in obvious disapproval. “I never heard of such a thing. A woman can’t be a deputy.”
“Remember how Constance was right in the middle of the fight with the Broken Spoke?” The Kid said. “She was as much a pa
rt of that as anybody else.”
“Maybe so,” Tate said grudgingly, “but some things just don’t seem right to me.”
“We need to get off the street,” Porter said. “When the Boomhausers get here, they’re liable to come in shooting. I don’t want anybody to get hurt. There’s a little corral out back. You can put your horses there.”
The Kid and Tate dismounted and led the animals around the building. Porter opened the rear door to let them in that way after they had put the horses in the corral and unsaddled them.
“You fellas might have preferred to just ride on,” he commented once they were inside. “This isn’t your trouble, after all. You already helped me out once when you took care of those outlaws I was after.”
“And you said then to stop by and pay you a visit sometime.” The Kid smiled. “That’s why we’re here.” He leaned his head toward Tate and lowered his voice. “And to let the marshal rest a little before we head on to Wichita.”
Porter’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Tate. “Is something the matter with . . . No, never mind. We can talk about that later.”
The Kid nodded in agreement.
Somewhere outside, a bell began to ring. Porter and his daughter looked around, their heads jerking toward the sound. Obviously, they knew what the signal meant.
“We’ve got a man in the bell tower of the Methodist Church,” Porter said. “He’s warning us the Boomhausers are on their way.”
The marshal took a step toward the door.
Holly caught the sleeve of his buckskin jacket and stopped him. “You can’t go out there by yourself, Papa. I’m going with you.”
Porter shook his head. “Not hardly. You can cover me from the window, but you’re not setting foot outside this building, Holly. I already let you run enough risks just wearing that badge. You want your mama to turn all the way over in her grave?”
“My mother would be the first one to back you up in case of trouble,” Holly said, her voice fiery with anger and determination.
“Well, that’s true enough, I reckon. But you’re still not—”
“I’ll come with you, Marshal,” The Kid said.
Porter looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re not even a lawman, Mr. Morgan. It’s not your job—”
“I’m volunteering,” The Kid cut in. “If Miss Porter—I mean Deputy Porter—can keep an eye on Marshal Tate for me, I’d be glad to help you out.”
“Nobody needs to keep an eye on me,” Tate said. “I’m fine.”
“I want you to stay here anyway, Marshal,” The Kid said. “As a favor to me.”
Tate sighed and nodded. “All right. But I get tired of being treated like I’m five years old.”
The Kid wished that wasn’t necessary. For now, he had more pressing concerns.
“You want a rifle?” Porter asked as they moved toward the door, not giving Holly the chance to continue the argument.
“No, my Colt ought to be enough. How many of these Boomhausers are there?”
“Just three.” a grim smile curved Porter’s mouth. “But they’re about as big and tough as the buffalo they used to hunt.”
The two men stepped out onto the porch. Before Porter closed the door behind them, The Kid glanced through the opening and saw the angry, frustrated face of Holly. The emotions she was feeling didn’t make her any less beautiful, he noted.
Three men on horseback had entered the town. Even from a distance of several blocks, The Kid could tell how big they were. The horses they rode stood tall, but in comparison to the riders the animals looked a bit like ponies.
Despite the warmth of the day, all three men wore buffalo coats, which made them look even bigger. As The Kid studied the massive, shaggy figures, he said quietly to Porter, “I see what you mean about them. Buffalo walking on two legs.”
“Damn near,” Porter agreed. “You sure you want to take cards in this game, Morgan?”
“I’d say the hand’s already been dealt.”
The Kid and Porter moved slowly into the middle of the deserted street. In a low voice, Porter said, “That’s Alvin on our left, Hubert in the middle, and Forrest on the right.”
“How do you tell ’em apart?” The Kid wanted to know. The faces of all three men bristled with beards.
“Alvin’s the good-looking one,” Porter replied with a dry chuckle.
“I’ll have to take your word for that.” The Kid grinned.
As the Boomhausers came on at a slow, deliberate pace The Kid continued. “All the big herds have been gone for a long time. What have these boys been doing since then?”
“They have a farm north of here. Most of the time they’re not bad sorts, really, but when they get to drinking . . . That’s what happened with Hubert the other day. He just can’t hold his liquor, and neither can the other two.”
“As big as they are, they ought to be able to down a whole barrel of whiskey without feeling it.”
“You’d think so, but it doesn’t always work out that way.” Porter licked dry lips. “Times like this, I almost wish I was back on the Rio Grande.”
The Kid didn’t really believe that. Porter seemed calm and confident, not the least bit spooked by the dangerous confrontation.
The Boomhausers brought their horses to a halt about twenty feet from the two men standing in the street. Hubert, the one in the middle, leaned forward and said in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder, “I told you I’d be back with my brothers, Marshal. You had no call to arrest me.”
“You were drunk and causing damage in the saloon, Hubert,” Porter said. “I was afraid you were going to hurt somebody, and I knew you wouldn’t want that.”
“I’m gonna hurt somebody, all right. You.” Hubert glared at The Kid. “And who’s that spindly young fella with you?”
“This is a friend of mine, Kid Morgan.”
“Well, Kid, you better light a shuck while you still can if you don’t want part of the marshal’s trouble. Consider that fair warnin’.”
“And consider this fair warning, Mr. Boomhauser,” The Kid said right back. “You’re not going to cause trouble here today. Turn around and ride out.”
The one called Alvin shifted in his saddle. “Is this stranger givin’ the orders now, Marshal?”
“Morgan wants the same thing I do,” Porter snapped. “No bloodshed. Listen, you three . . . there are a dozen rifles covering you right now. You might manage to kill the two of us, but you’ll be shot to pieces if you do. I don’t want anybody hurt, including you.”
“It don’t matter,” Hubert insisted. “We been insulted. Somebody’s got to pay.”
“Would you consider the chance for a fair fight payment enough?” The Kid suddenly asked.
Porter glanced over at him and muttered, “What’re you doing, Morgan?”
The Kid reached down to his gun belt and started to unbuckle it. “You and I will take each other on, Hubert, how about that? And when the fight’s over, win, lose, or draw, you and your brothers turn around, ride back to your farm, and promise to stop causing trouble around here.”
“You’re loco!” Hubert exclaimed.
“My brother can bust you in half with one hand!” Alvin added.
Porter said, “They’re right, Morgan. You wouldn’t stand a chance against that behemoth.”
“But if they’ll go along with the deal, then nobody has to die today,” The Kid pointed out.
“Except maybe you.”
“I’ll be all right.”
Hubert clawed fingers through his beard and looked back and forth at his brothers. “What do you reckon I ought to do?”
“That’s up to you,” Alvin said.
Forrest Boomhauser spoke for the first time. “Rip the scrawny little varmint to pieces.”
Hubert nodded. “All right,” he declared. “We’ll fight it out, me and this stranger, and that’ll be the end of it. But if he winds up dead, Marshal, you can’t blame me and call it murder.”
“Nobody’s g
oing to do that,” The Kid said before Porter could respond. “It’s a fair fight, nothing more than that.” He handed his gun belt and hat to Porter. “Hang on to these for me, will you, Marshal?”
“Sure, but I’m afraid you won’t be needing ’em anymore.”
“We’ll see.” The Kid rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.
Hubert Boomhauser dismounted and stepped away from his horse. He handed his gun and hat to his brother Alvin.
“Aren’t you going to take that buffalo coat off ?” The Kid asked.
“I don’t like to,” Hubert said. “That make any difference to you?”
“I suppose not,” The Kid replied with a shake of his head. “Whenever you’re—”
Before he could say “ready,” Hubert charged him with a deafening roar.
To The Kid it felt like the very earth was shaking under his feet . . . as if a whole herd of buffalo was stampeding straight at him.
Chapter 23
Alvin and Forrest Boomhauser let out excited yells. Marshal Porter shouted, “Look out, Morgan!” and The Kid thought he heard a frightened, feminine cry come from Holly inside the marshal’s office.
But none of those things mattered. Facing a monster like Hubert, he couldn’t let himself be distracted if he wanted to stay alive.
He twisted aside and threw himself out of Hubert’s path. Clubbing his hands together, he swung them in a smashing blow to the back of Hubert’s neck as he lumbered past. The Kid put all his strength behind the punch.
Hubert didn’t even seem to feel it.
He wheeled around ponderously, swinging a massive arm in a backhand. Although bigger than Jed Ahern, whom The Kid had battled back in Copperhead Springs, he lacked Ahern’s surprising speed. The Kid was able to drop under that sweeping arm without any trouble.
Sometimes a big man would have a glass jaw, or his nose would be his weak spot. The Kid darted in and hammered a short left and right into the middle of Hubert’s face.
Hubert’s head didn’t rock back even an inch under the impact of the blows.
The Kid jumped back, escaping Hubert’s attempt to grab him in a bear hug. He wasn’t a dirty fighter by nature, but he gave some thought to kicking Hubert in the groin. Nothing else seemed to be doing any good.
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