Bullets Don't Die

by J. A. Johnstone

  Let that be a last resort, The Kid decided. He bored in again, sending a pile driver punch at Hubert’s head.

  Capable of some speed, after all, Hubert got his hand up and grabbed The Kid’s wrist before the blow could land. He turned and heaved . . .

  And suddenly The Kid found himself airborne.

  He landed in the middle of the street, where his momentum sent him rolling over and over. As dust billowed up around him, choking him and making him cough, he realized Hubert had flung him through the air like a child throwing a rag doll.

  It was like fighting a mountain on legs.

  The Kid did some quick calculations. If he could keep Hubert from smashing his skull in or breaking his back, maybe he could outlast the former buffalo hunter. Hubert was considerably older than him. Not as old as Tate, certainly, but The Kid still had the advantage in years. Hubert might get tired.

  The ground was shaking again. The Kid looked up and saw Hubert barreling at him like a runaway freight train. He scrambled up onto hands and knees, and launched himself forward, throwing his body right into Hubert’s knees.

  The impact was tremendous, jolting The Kid to the core of his being, but he’d finally done some damage. With a startled yell, Hubert plunged forward out of control as The Kid knocked his legs out from under him. He went down like an avalanche.

  Grimacing from the pain of having Hubert’s knees rammed into his torso, The Kid rolled over and got to his feet. Seeing Hubert was still down, The Kid leaped on him, landing with his knees in the small of the big man’s back.

  Again he clubbed his hands together and hammered them against the back of Hubert’s head. The powerful blow drove Hubert’s face into the dirt. The Kid raised his arms and brought them down a second time.

  Hubert roared and came to his feet, almost straight up. The Kid nearly fell off, but lunged forward and got his arms around Hubert’s neck. In spike of the thick beard and buffalo coat in his way, he managed to thrust his right forearm across Hubert’s throat and grab that wrist with his left hand to lock it down.

  Hubert tried to bellow again but The Kid cut off his air. He clawed at The Kid’s arm. His thick, blunt fingers couldn’t get inside the smaller man’s grip and tear it loose.

  The Kid’s feet dangled well off the ground as he hung on for dear life. Hubert turned around and around, trying to sling him off. But The Kid didn’t let go.

  Suddenly Hubert stopped spinning and lurched backward.

  The Kid realized his opponent was trying to smash him against a building. He twisted his head around to glance back at the wall rushing toward him.

  Timing the move perfectly, he let go and dropped right behind Hubert. The big man tripped over him and crashed into the wall with such force that boards splintered under his weight and he knocked a hole in the wall. Stunned, he fell through the opening, his legs still draped across The Kid.

  Fighting down a touch of panic, The Kid struggled out from under them. He made it to his feet and turned to see that Hubert wasn’t moving. For a moment he thought the man had fatally impaled himself on a broken board or something, but as the pounding of his own pulse subsided, he heard the rasp of the big man’s breathing.

  “Is he still alive?” one of his brothers called anxiously.

  The Kid turned away from the scene of destruction and nodded. “He’s alive. Looks like he knocked himself out when he ran through the wall.”

  “That was a dirty trick,” the other Boomhauser brother accused.

  “I didn’t hear anything about any damned Marquis of Queensbury rules,” The Kid snapped. “As far as I know, it was no holds barred and devil take the hindmost.”

  “That is the way Hubert always fought,” Alvin said.

  “Yeah, I reckon so,” Forrest agreed grudgingly. “But I still say that little fella couldn’t ’a beat him without cheatin’ somehow.”

  Porter said, “It was a fair fight. Everybody in town saw that. And you know good and well Hubert would be the first one to agree with that. He said he wanted a fair fight in return for being arrested, and he got one. Now you boys pick him up and get out of town, and don’t come back until you’re ready to not cause any more trouble.”

  “Deal’s a deal,” Alvin said heavily. “That fella’s mighty lucky Hubert didn’t kill him, though.”

  “Looked more like good smart fighting to me,” Porter said.

  The brothers dismounted, went over to Hubert, and dragged him out of the hole in the wrecked wall.

  “We ain’t payin’ for this damage,” Forrest said.

  “I’ll take care of it,” The Kid said. “I won, so it’s only fair.”

  Both brothers glared at him, but neither said anything else. Hubert was starting to come to, but he was so groggy he didn’t know what was going on. They got him onto his horse, and all three of them rode out of Chalk Butte.

  The Kid started brushing dust off his clothes.

  Porter looked at him and shook his head. “I hate to agree with the Boomhauser brothers about anything, but I’m mighty surprised you’re still alive, Mr. Morgan.”

  The Kid managed to smile. “They were right about me being lucky.”

  The door of the marshal’s office opened, and Holly walked out, followed by Jared Tate.

  “You’re one loco hombre,” she told The Kid. “But it looks like you saved us from having to bury anybody today.”

  “I knew you could beat him,” Tate said. “Never had a doubt in my mind.”

  “I appreciate that, Marshal,” The Kid said.

  Up and down the street, people were starting to emerge from the buildings.

  Porter called to them, “It’s all right, folks! The trouble’s over!” He turned back to the other three. “Maybe now things can get back to normal around here.”

  Marshal Porter and his daughter lived in a small but neat house around the corner from the jail. With no extra room for The Kid and Tate to stay there, they got rooms in Chalk Butte’s only hotel. It was fine with The Kid. He hadn’t wanted to put them out, anyway.

  Porter insisted they come to the house for supper, however, and the two travelers were happy to accept that invitation.

  Holly prepared enchiladas, a stew peppery enough to take the breath away, beans, and tortillas. The Kid hadn’t spent much time on the Mexican border, but when Porter made the comment the food was like what they ate along the Rio Grande, The Kid believed it.

  “Holly comes by her cooking skills honestly. Her mother was the sister of an old trail pard of mine,” Porter explained. Her family had a big rancho just on the other side of the border from the ranch that my folks owned.”

  “How about my gun-handling skills?” Holly asked with a smile. “Do I come by those honestly, too?”

  “I’m afraid you do,” Porter said. “That’s about all you got from me, though. Your looks and that temper of yours, those are all your mother’s.”

  Holly tossed her head as if to prove her father’s point.

  When the meal was finished, the men took cups of coffee out to the front porch to enjoy the evening air. Tate sat down in a rocking chair. Porter and The Kid stood at the railing, looking over the street.

  “You say you’re on your way to Wichita?” Porter asked.

  “That’s right,” The Kid said. “We’re going to visit Marshal Tate’s daughter.”

  “Well, that’s a good thing. If Holly didn’t live here, I’d sure want to go visit her from time to time.” Porter lowered his voice and went on. “To tell you the truth, I hope she doesn’t spend the rest of her life here. She was always a tomboy, but being a deputy marshal’s no kind of way for a young woman to live. She needs a husband, and kids of her own.”

  “Maybe that’s the way it’ll turn out,” The Kid said. “I’ve found that fate usually has its own plans for us, though, and those don’t always turn out the way we might hope.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  A snore came from Tate as he leaned back in the rocking chair. The Kid reached
over, gently took the half-empty coffee cup from the old lawman’s hand, and set it on the porch railing.

  “Poor old fella’s worn out,” Porter said quietly. “It’s been less than a month since I saw you boys that other time, and Marshal Tate looks like he’s aged a year in that time.”

  “Some days are better than others for him,” The Kid explained. “You’re right, though. The trip’s been hard on him, and it hasn’t helped that we’ve run into trouble several times along the way. I’ll be glad to get him back to Wichita so his daughter can look after him.”

  “This isn’t just a visit you’re going on, is it?”

  The Kid shook his head. “The marshal’s mind isn’t right anymore. Some days he knows where he is and what’s going on, but most of the time he doesn’t really remember. He thinks it’s ten or fifteen years ago and he’s still the marshal of Copperhead Springs.”

  “I knew that couldn’t be right when he mentioned it before,” Porter said. “I’ve heard about people like that who get really confused when they’re older. Doesn’t seem like there’s anything that can be done about it.”

  “There isn’t,” The Kid agreed. “At least not that I know of.”

  “You just have to take care of them and make sure they don’t hurt themselves or other folks.”

  “That’s right.” The Kid paused, then went on. “I had to take his gun away from him when he almost shot me one morning. Seems he’d convinced himself I was his old enemy Brick Cantrell.”

  “Cantrell . . .” Porter repeated. “I know that name.”

  “He was an army deserter and outlaw. Marshal Tate put him behind bars ten years ago. I suppose he’s still there.”

  “More than likely. Seems I remember hearing something about him. . . .” Porter shook his head. “I can’t recall what it was, though. Don’t reckon it matters anyway. Those days are long behind Marshal Tate now.”

  “That’s right. From here on out somebody needs to see to it that he’s cared for and comfortable.” The Kid wouldn’t have said it if Tate had been awake, but he added, “Jared Tate’s outlaw-fighting days are done.”

  Chapter 24

  Herb Tuttle had been right about the other members of the gang being upset because Cantrell called off the train robbery in Abilene at the last minute, but there were enough old-timers in the group still loyal to him to offset the young firebrands who might have said the gang needed a new leader.

  Cantrell had pushed them hard, not wanting Tate and Morgan to get past him. He would trail Tate all the way to Wichita to get his revenge if he had to, but it would be easier if the gang didn’t have to venture into the city.

  They had skirted around the smaller settlements on their way south, but supplies were running low and Cantrell knew he ought to send a couple men into the next town they came to. As the riders, almost two dozen strong, approached the place called Chalk Butte, Cantrell signaled a halt and waved Tuttle up alongside him.

  “Take one of the men and ride into town, Herb. The rest of us will swing west around that butte and wait on the far side of it.”

  “What is it you want me to do?” Tuttle asked. “Pick up some provisions? I know we’re runnin’ a little low.”

  “That’s right.” Cantrell gave him some money. “Get enough to last us several days.”

  Tuttle frowned slightly. “The storekeeper’s liable to wonder why two men are buyin’ so many supplies.”

  “Let him wonder,” Cantrell snapped. “When you put cash on the barrelhead, he’s not going to care too much.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right about that,” Tuttle said with a chuckle. “Never saw a storekeeper yet who cared about much of anything except makin’ money.”

  Tuttle picked the outlaw named Rowden to go with him. They split off from the other men and rode toward the settlement while Cantrell led the rest of the gang toward the butte.

  As they jogged along on their horses, Rowden said, “A lot of the boys still ain’t happy about this wild goose chase, Herb. I thought this would be a good chance to say something about that to you, since you and Cantrell are close. Maybe you can talk some sense into his head. We didn’t sign on to settle no personal grudge.”

  Tuttle looked over at the other man and asked coolly, “Are you done?”

  “Well . . . yeah, I reckon so.”

  “Then let me tell you something. You’re one of the fellas who never rode with Brick before, so you don’t really know what you’re talkin’ about. He led the gang for several years, and he never steered us wrong.”

  Rowden looked like he didn’t want to argue, but he said, “Then how come Cantrell wound up in prison and the rest of the gang got busted up?”

  “That was just pure bad luck,” Tuttle snapped. “Bad luck, and that damned Marshal Tate bein’ more stubborn than any lawman had a right to be. Most star packers would’ve given up before they chased us down like that. I don’t blame Brick for hatin’ Tate and wantin’ to settle the score with him. Once that’s done, you’ll see what sort of gang this really is.”

  “Well, if you say so, Herb. But I hope it don’t take too long to find this Tate. If it does, some of the boys might start thinkin’ they ought to go off on their own.”

  “They’d be sorry if they ever did,” Tuttle said.

  They left it at that, because they were getting close to the settlement. Chalk Butte wasn’t a very big town, but it was big enough to have a general store where they could buy the supplies they needed.

  A few minutes later they reined to a halt in front of the mercantile and swung down from their saddles. Tuttle led the way as they went up the steps to the porch and then inside the building.

  Because he was in front, he saw the girl first, and she was stunning enough to make him stop short. She was dressed like a man in high boots, whipcord trousers, and a buckskin shirt, but there was no doubt she was female. The curves displayed by the outfit were ample proof of that.

  Rowden bumped into Tuttle’s back. “What the hell? Why you stop so sudden, Herb?”

  Tuttle moved aside slightly so Rowden could see past him. That was all it took to answer the question.

  The young woman was standing at the counter talking to the storekeeper. She glanced over her shoulder at the newcomers, but didn’t really pay any attention to them. It was enough for Tuttle to get a glimpse of her face past the thick, curly black hair. She was every bit as pretty as he expected her to be.

  “Good Lord!” Rowden muttered. “I haven’t seen a girl who looks like that in, well, maybe ever!”

  “Yeah, I know,” Tuttle said as he got control of his own reaction to the girl’s beauty. “But we’re here to buy supplies, not to go courtin’, so just forget about her.”

  “Hell, what harm would it do just to talk to her a little?”

  “If you were older, you’d understand. Don’t let yourself get distracted from the job you’re supposed to do, no matter how good-lookin’ the distraction might be. Come on, and keep your mouth shut. You let me do the talkin’.”

  Rowden muttered some more, but didn’t say anything loud enough for Tuttle to understand him as they walked along the store’s center aisle toward the counter at the back.

  The young woman moved aside when they got there so they could talk to the proprietor. She must have been shooting the breeze with the man and not buying anything, Tuttle thought.

  The middle-aged storekeeper put his hands flat on the counter and asked, “Something I can do for you fellas?”

  “Yeah, we need some supplies.” Tuttle started naming off the items and the amount he wanted to buy.

  The storekeeper frowned. “That’s a lot of provisions for two men.”

  “We’re travelin’ with a few pards who didn’t come into town,” Tuttle explained. “And we don’t like to stop for supplies that often.”

  The storekeeper shrugged. “None of my business. You want these things crated or bagged?”

  “Better bag ’em,” Tuttle said. “We don’t have a wagon,
so we’ll have to pack ’em on our horses.”

  “All right. Shouldn’t take me long to gather up what you need.”

  “You’re not very busy today,” Tuttle commented. He and Rowden were the only customers in the store.

  “It’s a slack time,” the proprietor said with a shrug. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. I’ll be doing a booming business all day.”

  Tuttle nodded. Tomorrow at the end of the day would be the best time to rob the store, he thought, since the place would have taken in a lot of cash during the day. Of course, it was just habit that he considered such things, since he and the others would be long gone by then. Once a thief, always a thief, he supposed.

  He suddenly became aware that Rowden wasn’t standing at his elbow anymore. Looking around in alarm, he saw the younger outlaw sidling up to the woman, who was looking at a display of dresses.

  “Damn it, Rowden,” Tuttle said under his breath. “Why can’t you just listen—”

  “Howdy,” Rowden said to the young woman. “One of those dresses would look mighty nice on you, ma’am.”

  She turned her head to look at him and asked coolly, “Do I know you?”

  Rowden took his hat off and shook his head. “No, ma’am, I’m just passin’ through here, but I have sort of a rule in my life that says never pass up the chance to get to know a beautiful woman, because you never know when you’ll run into another one.”

  Tuttle came up behind him as Rowden was spouting that stuff. “Rowden, come on. Leave the lady alone.”

  “He’s not bothering me,” the young woman said with a trace of amusement in her voice. “That would take more than some smooth-talking saddle tramp.”

  Rowden’s forehead creased in a frown. “Now wait just a minute. I’m not exactly a saddle tramp, and I don’t like bein’ made sport of.”

  “Then you should be more careful who you try to flirt with,” the young woman said.

  Tuttle took hold of Rowden’s arm. “Come on.” He tried to tug Rowden back toward the counter.