Bullets Don't Die

by J. A. Johnstone

  Marshal Tate still stood with the gun thrust out in front of him. The Kid moved over to him, put his hand on the revolver, and gently pushed it down. “Looks like it’s over, Marshal. You finished off Brick Cantrell.”

  “After all this time . . .” Tate murmured. He glanced at The Kid with the light of understanding in his eyes. It might not last, probably wouldn’t last, but for now Tate knew what had just happened.

  “Kid!”

  The cry from Holly made The Kid swing around. He saw her running toward him, apparently unhurt. Her father limped along behind her with a bloodstain on his trouser leg, but didn’t seem to be injured too badly.

  For a second, The Kid thought Holly was going to throw her arms around him, but she stopped before she let herself get completely carried away. “Are you all right?”

  The Kid took hold of his chin, worked his jaw back and forth, and grimaced. “I’ll be sore and bruised in the morning from that pounding Cantrell gave me, but it’s nothing to worry about.” He turned to look at Porter. “Are the outlaws all dead, Marshal?”

  “Dead or wounded bad enough they won’t put up a fight anymore,” Porter confirmed. “That is, the ones who didn’t light a shuck out of here when they saw the fight going against them. When Holly shot down the guards in the church and freed the hostages, some of the townsmen got their hands on guns and started getting even with Cantrell’s men. That tipped the balance in our favor.”

  The Kid nodded. When good men stood up to evil, things didn’t always work out in their favor. But when good men did nothing, evil always won.

  “So you shot it out with the guards in the church, did you?” he asked Holly with a smile.

  “I told you I can handle a gun,” she said with a characteristically defiant toss of her head.

  “That you did,” The Kid agreed. “I’m glad we were on the same side.”

  “We’ve got some prisoners to round up and put in jail,” Porter said.

  “I can give you a hand with that,” Tate offered.

  “Thanks, Marshal. I’ll take you up on it.”

  The two lawmen moved off to handle mopping up after the battle. Several armed townsmen came out to help them.

  “We were lucky,” Holly said quietly to The Kid. “What Marshal Tate did could have gotten us all killed.”

  “He sure stood tall there at the end, though, didn’t he?”

  “He did,” she agreed with a smile.

  “Not everyone gets a last hurrah like that,” The Kid said. “I think Jared Tate just made the most of his.”

  Chapter 29

  Marshal Bob Porter’s leg wound wasn’t bad enough to keep him from getting around, but The Kid thought it might be a good idea to stay in Chalk Butte for a few more days, just in case any more trouble cropped up. Holly was an able deputy, but the law could always use a helping hand.

  Also, after the punishment they had taken, neither The Kid nor Jared Tate felt like getting in the saddle and riding for several more days to Wichita. Since there was no hurry, they stayed and rested up a little first.

  Porter sent a wire to the county sheriff, advising him of the prisoners he was holding in his jail, the remnants of the gang Brick Cantrell had put together. All of them were wanted outlaws, so the sheriff was glad to travel to Chalk Butte with some deputies and take them off Porter’s hands.

  With that taken care of, the town settled back into being the peaceful little community it had been before The Kid and Tate rode in. Well, peaceful other than the occasional visit from the Boomhausers . . .

  One evening The Kid and Porter sat on the front porch of the marshal’s house. Tate had offered to dry the dishes for Holly, so the two of them were still inside.

  Porter took his pipe out of his mouth and said, “I reckon you’ll be leaving pretty soon.”

  “I set out to take Marshal Tate back to his daughter’s place,” The Kid said. “I suppose I need to get around to it, even though the past few days here have been mighty pleasant.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Porter said, “but I think it’s best you move on, too. Holly’s taken a real liking to you, Kid, but I’ve got a hunch you’re not the sort of man to stay in one place for too long. That usually spells trouble for a woman who’s grown fond of you.”

  “I’d never do anything to hurt your daughter, Marshal. You have my word on that.”

  “Not on purpose, maybe, but when you ride away it’s gonna hurt her anyway. It’ll just get worse the longer you’re here.”

  The Kid chuckled. “That sounds like you’re telling me to get out of town.”

  “Not exactly. But since you’re going to be leaving anyway . . .”

  “I understand,” The Kid said.

  “Now, Jared, on the other hand, I’ll be sorry to see him go. He’s a fine hombre, and he’s been mighty helpful around here. I know he’s got to get back home, though.”

  “Maybe his daughter will bring him back to visit sometime,” The Kid suggested.

  “Maybe.” Porter didn’t sound like he believed that would happen. “He’s already forgotten the battle with Cantrell. He won’t remember any of us for very long.”

  The Kid sighed. “I’m afraid you’re right about that.”

  The next morning he got their gear together and saddled their horses. Holly, who was walking past the stable, saw him and exclaimed, “What are you doing?”

  “Getting ready to ride,” The Kid told her. “Marshal Tate and I still need to get to Wichita.”

  “You weren’t going to tell me?” Holly asked with a frown. “You were just going to ride off without saying good-bye?”

  “I didn’t say that. Anyway, your father knows about this.”

  “He didn’t say anything to me!” She was visibly upset.

  The Kid had steered clear of spending any time alone with her, and he hadn’t done anything that she could have mistaken for a romantic advance. But the feelings were there regardless, and The Kid understood. He felt drawn to her, too. If things had been different . . .

  But they weren’t, and he had long since learned that brooding too much about such things led only to madness.

  “Do you think you’ll ever ride this way again?” Holly asked.

  “That’s hard to say. I can’t rule it out.”

  “But you can’t promise it, either.”

  “I don’t like to make promises if I don’t know whether I can keep them,” The Kid said. “I sort of go where the wind takes me these days.”

  She blew out her breath in exasperation. “Like some dime novel hero?”

  He thought about Kid Morgan’s origins for a second, then said, “More than you know.”

  Marshal Tate didn’t seem to be too fond of the idea of leaving Chalk Butte, but he went along without causing any trouble. He shook hands with Porter, and then Holly hugged him. “You’re welcome back here any time, Marshal.”

  “Why, thank you, ma’am,” Tate said with a smile. “What was your name again?”

  “It’s . . . Holly,” she replied with a catch in her voice.

  “Of course.” Still smiling, Tate patted her on the shoulder. “Good-bye, Holly.”

  Porter shook hands with The Kid. “Good luck on the rest of your journey. If you think about it, send me a wire to let us know you got there all right.”

  “I’ll do that,” The Kid promised.

  He turned toward his buckskin, but Holly was there. She put her arms around him, but it was no affectionate hug like the one she had given Tate. She twined her arms around his neck and pulled his head down so her mouth found his in a passionate kiss. When she broke away a moment later, she grinned. “There. I wanted you to know what you’re riding away from.”

  “Believe me. I know.”

  It took a considerable amount of willpower for The Kid to swing up into the saddle and put Chalk Butte behind him.

  When he looked back, Holly and her father were waving. The Kid and Marshal Tate lifted their arms in farewell and kept riding.
>
  Wichita was a big town. Nothing like New York or Boston or San Francisco, of course, or even St. Louis or Denver. But compared to places like Chalk Butte or Copperhead Springs, Wichita was a real metropolis.

  Constance had given Bertha Edwards’s address to The Kid back in Copperhead Springs. He asked directions and found the street without too much trouble. It was lined with cottonwoods. The shoes on their horses’ hooves rang against the paving stones as The Kid and Marshal Tate rode along looking for the Edwards house.

  It was a nice neighborhood, the sort of place where normal families lived. At least, that’s what The Kid thought. He couldn’t be sure, he reminded himself, because he’d never been part of a normal family. Growing up, his mother had been one of the richest women in the country, and after her death he had found himself in the position of taking over the vast Browning business and financial empire.

  Oh, and his real father had turned out to be one of the most notorious gunfighters in the Old West, a living legend who still roamed the frontier as one of the last of that dying breed. So, no, he thought wryly, not really a normal family anywhere in his background.

  But his past had made him the man he was, and he could live with that.

  “I think this is it,” he told Marshal Tate as he drew rein in front of a small, neat house with whitewashed walls, flower boxes under the windows, and a picket fence around the yard. “Does the place look familiar to you, Marshal?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this house before,” Tate replied with a nervous edge in his voice. “Who is it that’s supposed to live here?”

  “Your daughter Bertha and her husband Tim. Their last name is Edwards.”

  Tate sighed. “If you say so.” Clearly he didn’t have any idea who The Kid was talking about.

  The Kid tightened his jaw and held in the sigh wanting to escape. He was filled with the fervent hope he would never fall victim to whatever malady had claimed Jared Tate. It was more than simple old age.

  Given the dangerous life he led, the chances he would live long enough to worry about that were pretty slim, he thought.

  They dismounted and tied their horses to the fence. The Kid opened the gate and ushered Tate through it onto the walk leading to a small porch. They went up the steps, and The Kid knocked on the door.

  He immediately saw the resemblance between Marshal Tate and the woman who opened the door. She was lean, with faded blond hair, and looked somewhat older than her years.

  The Kid took off his hat. “Mrs. Edwards?”

  She ignored him, staring past him at Tate with slowly widening eyes. “Papa? Is that really you?”

  “Hello,” Tate said in a polite, neutral tone of voice, making it clear he didn’t know her.

  Bertha Edwards’s mouth twisted briefly in a grimace. She looked at The Kid. “You’re Mr. Morgan?”

  “That’s right, ma’am.”

  “I got a wire from Marshal Cumberland in Copperhead Springs saying you were bringing my father home.” She opened the screen door. “Come on in, I suppose.”

  “Thank you,” The Kid nodded. He touched Tate’s arm and inclined his head toward the door. “Let’s go, Marshal.”

  “All right.” Tate was being cooperative, but that was all.

  Bertha ushered them into a nicely furnished parlor. “Can I get you something, Mr. Morgan? Some coffee?”

  “That would be fine, thank you,” The Kid said.

  “I could use some coffee, too,” Tate said.

  “Of course, Papa.” She gestured toward armchairs. “Go ahead and sit down.”

  When Bertha had left the room and The Kid and Tate had taken their seats, the old lawman leaned over and said quietly, “She keeps calling me Papa.”

  “That’s because she’s your daughter, Marshal,” The Kid explained patiently. “You need to try hard to remember her.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Tate asked with a frown. “My daughter lives in Copperhead Springs with my wife. We’re not in Copperhead Springs, are we?”

  “No. Things have changed since the time you remember.”

  “I don’t see how,” Tate said with heartbreaking sincerity.

  Bertha came back into the room with cups of coffee on a tray. She handed them to The Kid and Tate, then sat down on a sofa across from them with the tray on her knees.

  “Thank you for bringing him home, Mr. Morgan. I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been about him.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m sure.”

  “Did you have any trouble along the way? I expected you to be here sooner.”

  “There was . . . a little trouble,” The Kid said. “Nothing to worry about, though. Your father is fine.”

  She let out a snort and shook her head. “He’s not fine.” Her voice was heavy with bitterness. “He’ll never be fine. Not the way he is now.”

  “Well, I mean . . . he . . .” The Kid didn’t know what to say. For one of the few times in his life he was speechless, and he didn’t like the feeling.

  Bertha shook her head again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t let that out. It’s just difficult.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “I can pay you for your time and trouble getting him here,” she went on. “My husband doesn’t make a great deal of money—he’s a clerk in a law office—but we have a little set aside . . .”

  “That’s not necessary at all.” The Kid took a sip of the coffee. Not surprising, it was bitter, too. “I was headed this direction anyway,” He went on, stretching the truth, “and I was glad to have your father’s company on the trail.”

  “Kid,” Tate said, “when are we leaving? We need to get back to Copperhead Springs.”

  Bertha didn’t give The Kid a chance to answer. She said sharply, “You’re not going back to Copperhead Springs. You don’t live there anymore. Mama’s dead. You could remember that if you’d just try.”

  Tate blinked at the rebuke, obviously confused.

  Bertha looked at The Kid. “Again, I’m sorry, Mr. Morgan. I’m glad to see him, I really am, and I’m grateful to you, but he . . . he’s just so damned frustrating!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The Kid’s nerves were taut. He would have rather faced another horde of rampaging outlaws than deal with a situation like that. He set the cup on a small side table and stood up. “I should be going.”

  “Wait up, Kid,” Tate said. “I’ll come with you.”

  The Kid put a hand on the old lawman’s shoulder as Tate started to get up. “Sorry, Marshal, but you have to stay here.”

  “But I don’t want to.”

  “It’ll be fine. Your daughter will take good care of you.”

  “I won’t let you run off again and scare us half to death, that’s for sure,” Bertha snapped.

  Tate shook his head. “I . . . I don’t understand . . .”

  “There’s a big surprise.” Bertha stood up and strode across the room to take hold of her father’s arm. “Come with me. I’ll take you to your room. And you’ll stay there this time, do you understand that?” She glanced at The Kid and added in a clearly dismissive tone, “Thanks again.”

  “Sure.” The Kid stepped back and got out of the way as Bertha helped her father to his feet and urged him out of the parlor and down a hall.

  “You can let yourself out,” she called over her shoulder to The Kid.

  He stepped out onto the porch and eased the door closed behind him. From inside the house he heard Bertha saying something else to Tate, and although he couldn’t make out the words, the angry, hectoring tone was clear enough.

  Going down those steps and walking back to his horse was one of the hardest things The Kid had ever done. Yeah, that bunch of outlaws would be welcome right now, he thought. You could even throw in an Apache war party.

  Just about anything would be better than this.

  Chapter 30

  He was still worried he’d done the wrong thing by leaving Tate at his daughter’s when someone knocked on the door of his hotel room that
evening. He wasn’t expecting any trouble, but habit put a gun in his hand anyway as he went to answer the summons.

  When The Kid opened the door he found a man he had never seen before standing in the corridor. The man wore a brown tweed suit and had a mustache, bushy side whiskers, and a harried look about him. He didn’t seem threatening.

  “Mr. Morgan?”

  “That’s right,” The Kid replied. “What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Timothy Edwards. My father-in-law is Jared Tate.”

  “Of course,” The Kid said with a nod. “How do you do, Mr. Edwards?”

  “Not too well right now. Have you seen Jared?”

  The Kid shook his head. “Not since leaving him with your wife at your house this afternoon. Isn’t he there?”

  “No, the old—” Whatever Edwards as about to say, he stopped himself and took a deep breath. “He’s run away again. My wife claims she was watching him the whole time, but somehow he got out of the house and disappeared.”

  “Have you gone to the police? He couldn’t have gotten far.”

  “Well . . . he took his horse with him. Bertha searched the neighborhood, but by then he was long gone.”

  The Kid realized he was about to smile and managed not to. He was sort of pleased Tate had lit a shuck out of there, but some legitimate reasons to worry about him wandering around by himself came to mind.

  “We thought maybe he might have come here, since the two of you seem to be friends,” Edwards went on.

  “We rode some tough trails together, that’s true. But I haven’t seen him. He wouldn’t have known where I was staying, anyway.”

  “No, I guess not.” Edwards chewed worriedly at his drooping mustache. “I’ll have to go to the law. They’ll find him, and when they do, I’m afraid we’re not going to have any choice but to . . . to lock him up somehow. We can’t have this happening all the time.”

  “Hold on a minute.” The Kid suppressed the surge of anger welling up inside him at the idea of the valiant old lawman being locked up in a little room. “He’s got it in his head he still lives in Copperhead Springs. Maybe he headed for there again, like he did before.”