Bullets Don't Die

by J. A. Johnstone

  “Well, that makes sense. But we still have to find him.”

  “Of course. I’ll start trailing him at first light.”

  “You really think you can pick up his trail?”

  “I know the way to Copperhead Springs from here, and so does Marshal Tate. I can catch up to him. I don’t think he would travel through the night. He probably stopped and made camp. He’ll be a few miles ahead of me, but it shouldn’t take more than a day or two to close that gap.”

  “But in the meantime something could happen to him,” Edwards said. “I don’t want my wife put through that.”

  “You can go to the authorities here, of course. That’s probably a good idea. They can search here in town. But I don’t think they’ll find him. My hunch is he’s somewhere out on the trail, like he would have been in the old days.”

  Wearily, Edwards scrubbed a hand over his face and then sighed. “Thank you. I know this isn’t your problem, Mr. Morgan. I can pay you for your help.”

  “Like I told your wife, just forget about that. Marshal Tate saved my life twice. I’m glad to do anything I can to give him a hand.”

  “It’s funny the way you call him Marshal Tate. He hasn’t been a lawman for a long time.”

  “I reckon Jared Tate will always be a lawman where it counts,” The Kid said. “Inside.”

  He left at first light in the morning, heading west out of Wichita on the road that would eventually turn into the trail leading to Copperhead Springs. He had no way of knowing for sure that Tate had gone that way, but it certainly seemed likely. The Kid’s gut seldom steered him wrong, and it was telling him he would find Tate by going in that direction.

  About ten miles west of town he found something supporting his theory. The smell of ashes led him off the road to a small pond where someone had camped the night before. The Kid could see where the traveler had built a fire. He dismounted and hunkered on his heels to study the hoofprints left by the horse that had been picketed nearby. He thought they looked like the prints left by the horse Marshal Tate had been riding for the past few weeks.

  The ashes of the campfire were cold. Tate had gotten an early start, too. The Kid swung back up into the saddle and rode on, keeping the buckskin moving at a steady, ground-eating pace.

  The first settlers in that part of Kansas had been farmers, and the lack of trees had led them to build their homes out of blocks of sod, usually against the side of a small, rolling hill they had hollowed out. The roofs, which extended out from the hill crest, were of sod and thatch. Those dwellings were cold in the winter, damp always, but not too bad during the summer. As the decades had gone by, the successful farmers had been able to afford to build real houses of lumber, and most of the so-called soddies had been abandoned. Given the materials of which they were constructed, it was no surprise many of them had collapsed, going back to the earth from which they had sprung.

  Some of the more sturdily built soddies were still standing, and that afternoon The Kid noticed smoke coming from the chimney of one of them a couple hundred yards north of the trail.

  His keen eyes spotted something else, and he reined in. A horse was tied to a hitching post in front of the homestead, and unless The Kid was mistaken, it was the same animal Marshal Tate had been riding.

  Tate must have stopped here at this farm, The Kid thought as he swung the buckskin toward the soddy. He hoped they had treated him kindly.

  As he came closer and got a better look at the horse, he was certain it belonged to Tate. The chore had turned out to be considerably easier than he’d expected. He could have Tate back in Wichita by nightfall, if they hurried.

  A frown creased The Kid’s forehead as that thought crossed his mind. Did he really want to take Tate back to his daughter’s house? That was what he’d set out to do, of course, when he agreed to accompany the old lawman from Copperhead Springs back to Wichita.

  But he had carried out that task, he reminded himself. His responsibility was over. It sure as hell wasn’t his job to make Tate stay somewhere he didn’t want to stay.

  What else was Tate going to do, though? He couldn’t be out on his own. Sometimes he couldn’t remember even the simplest things. Something was bound to happen to him.

  The logic of that realization warred with the revulsion The Kid felt at the idea of Tate spending the rest of his days locked in a room, not understanding where he was or why he was stuck there, never seeing anyone except two people who might as well have been strangers to him. Bertha Edwards might actually love her father, The Kid thought, but she also resented him and had no patience with him.

  And he’d never had to walk in her shoes, The Kid reminded himself. He couldn’t judge her.

  But he didn’t know if he could take Tate back to her, either.

  With those thoughts racing through his head, he almost didn’t notice the fields around the soddy were overgrown, gone back to nature. A plow sat off to one side of the dwelling, but it was covered with rust and obviously hadn’t been used for years. The place had been abandoned.

  But if that was the case, why was smoke coming from the chimney? Why was Tate’s horse tied up outside?

  Those questions had just crossed The Kid’s mind, causing him to grow wary when a man stepped out of the soddy, pointed a rifle at him, and fired.

  The man had rushed his shot, and The Kid heard the bullet pass by his ear with a flat whap! He leaned forward in the saddle and drove his heels into the buckskin’s flanks to send the horse leaping ahead. At the same time he drew his Colt.

  The rifleman worked the gun’s lever and fired again, but The Kid charging at him threw off his aim. The slug whined high over The Kid’s head. Up close, The Kid recognized the man as the smaller of the two moonshiners he and Tate had encountered on the trail from Copperhead Springs.

  “Drop it!” The Kid yelled as he brought up his Colt.

  The man didn’t heed the warning. He desperately fired again, and a split second later The Kid squeezed off a round. The bullet struck the rifleman and knocked him halfway around, but he managed to stay on his feet.

  The Kid left the saddle in a rolling dive that carried him off to the side of the soddy’s entrance. The rifleman, swaying from his wound, tried to track him with the barrel of the Winchester. The rifle cracked again and the bullet kicked up dirt uncomfortably close to The Kid’s head.

  Tilting his gun barrel, The Kid triggered another shot as he scurried to the side of the abandoned building, but the wounded rifleman was already ducking back through the soddy’s door. The slug thudded harmlessly into the thick earthen wall.

  The man inside couldn’t fire at The Kid . . . but he didn’t have a shot, either.

  “Morgan! Morgan, you hear me?”

  The man’s voice was thin with strain, and The Kid figured it was from the pain of that bullet wound.

  “We got the old marshal in here!” the man went on. “Figured you’d come lookin’ for him, and sure enough, you did! Throw your gun away and come out where I can see you, or we’ll kill him!”

  The Kid didn’t say anything. The rifleman had revealed he wasn’t alone in there. The Kid figured the man’s heavyset partner, the one whose foot the wagon had fallen on, was inside the soddy, too.

  “I ain’t bluffin’, Morgan! You do what I say, or you can listen to the old man squeal while we’re killin’ him!”

  The Kid said, “How do I know he’s not dead already ?”

  The fact that he had responded brought a crazed laugh from the rifleman. “Take your hand off his mouth and let him talk, Benny.”

  A moment later, The Kid heard Jared Tate’s voice. “Kid, don’t pay any attention to what these two polecats say. They’re not going to hurt me. They know they’ll swing for it if they do.”

  The marshal’s voice was strong and confident. The Kid wasn’t particularly surprised. Tate seemed to be at his best in times of trouble, as if he was able to reach down deep in his heart and soul and mind and find the man he used to be.

  �
��You better not listen to him, Morgan,” the rifleman warned. “You’re the one we really want. Do like I told you, and we’ll let the old man live.”

  The Kid didn’t believe that for a second. The men intended to kill both of them.

  “You two are lucky goats.” The rifleman went on. “I told those gunslingin’ brothers where to find you, and I figured they’d kill you for sure. But you come out of that alive, and I hear you beat a whole gang of outlaws, too. Well, your luck’s run out, you hear me? Today’s the day you . . . the day you die . . .”

  The words trailed off into a strangled cough.

  The Kid called out, “It sounds more to me like you’re the one who’s dying, amigo. I hit you pretty hard, didn’t I? Think you can hang on long enough to get your revenge?”

  “Shut up!” the man yelled. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t think so. I think you’re losing blood and you’re going to pass out soon. Benny’s not a killer. I remember that from when we met before. As soon as you’re gone, he’s going to surrender because he doesn’t want to hang.”

  “Shut up! Benny, I . . . I want you to snap that old man’s neck. Wring it like he was a damn chicken!”

  The Kid heard the rumble of the other man’s voice say, “Selmon, I don’t know . . .”

  “By God!” Selmon screamed. “Do what I tell you!”

  The Kid charged up the side of the hill while Selmon was yelling at his partner. If the soddy had been unused for quite a while, the roof was bound to have been weakened by the elements. The beams were probably rotten. The Kid braced himself for a second, then jumped, coming down as hard as he could near where the stovepipe chimney stuck up through the roof.

  Just as he’d hoped, it collapsed underneath him.

  The roof crashed down, taking The Kid with it. He slammed into someone as dirt showered around them. His hat protected his eyes from most of the grit, enabling him to see the man called Selmon struggling to get up from under the collapsed roof. Thrusting the rifle at The Kid, he pulled the trigger. Flame erupted from the barrel.

  The Kid caught his balance and fired twice. Selmon’s head jerked back as both bullets bored into his forehead and blew the back of his skull off. The Kid wheeled around, searching for Tate and Benny.

  Benny loomed up in front of him like a bear, roaring like an enraged grizzly. His hands locked around The Kid’s throat as his weight bore the smaller man backward.

  The Kid had no other choice. He jammed the Colt’s barrel against Benny and pulled the trigger until the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Benny sagged against him, a final breath rattling grotesquely in his throat.

  With a grunt of effort, The Kid rolled Benny’s corpse off himself and sat up. “Marshal?” He called as he looked around. “Marshal Tate!”

  The old lawman pawed dirt off him and struggled to his feet. “Kid, are you all right?”

  Relief flooded through The Kid at the sight of Tate, who seemed to be unharmed. He made it to his feet, and pounded Tate on the shoulder. “I’m fine. How about you?”

  “Never better . . . now,” the marshal answered. “I wasn’t sure how that was going to turn out, though. Those boys were loco.”

  “That they were,” The Kid agreed. He checked both men, but just as he’d thought, they were dead. They wouldn’t cook up any more moonshine. . . or any brutal revenge plans.

  The Kid and Tate made their way out of the collapsed soddy, leaving the bodies where they had fallen. As they caught their breath, The Kid asked, “Are you ready to go home, Marshal?”

  “Back to Copperhead Springs?” Tate asked, his face lighting up.

  “No, I’m afraid not. But I’ve got something else in mind.”

  Marshal Bob Porter was sitting in a cane-bottomed chair on the porch of his office, smoking his pipe, when The Kid and Tate rode up. Porter stared at them in amazement for a second before he took the pipe from his mouth. “Well, I didn’t expect to see you two fellas again so soon.”

  “It turns out that Marshal Tate needs a place to stay,” The Kid said. “From the way you were talking when we were here before, I thought you might have a job for him.”

  “What about his daughter?”

  “I already sent her a wire letting her know that he’s safe, and that he’ll be looked after. Was I right, Marshal?”

  Porter didn’t hesitate. He stood up and nodded. “There’s a sleeping porch on our house we can turn into an extra room. I can’t think of a better reason for doing that.”

  “Then . . . then I can stay here with you, Marshal ?” Tate asked.

  “Of course you can,” Porter said. “We’ll be glad to have you.”

  The riders dismounted. Tate shook hands with Porter, and the two lawmen slapped each other on the back. Porter suggested Tate go on in the office and he’d join him in a minute.

  “Sure,” Tate agreed. He lifted a hand. “Be seeing you, Kid.”

  “Hasta la vista, Marshal,” The Kid told him with a smile.

  When they were alone on the porch, Porter asked The Kid, “Is the law from Wichita going to come after me for kidnapping an old man?”

  The Kid shook his head. “I heard back from the marshal’s daughter before we ever came here. She wasn’t too happy with the idea at first, but she came around. I think maybe she knows he’ll be better off here, and she wants what’s best for him. She said she can’t pay you for looking after him, though.”

  “Shoot, I don’t want any pay,” Porter said. “There’s still a good man in there. I’ll be glad to have him around.”

  The Kid nodded, but knew he was going to have Claudius Turnbuckle send a regular bank draft to Marshal Porter. Jared Tate would be looked after for the rest of his life, and would be able to spend his days in a place where he was happy and comfortable.

  “Where’s Holly?” The Kid asked.

  “She’s at the house. You want to go see her?”

  The Kid smiled. “I’m not sure that would be a good idea.”

  “She’ll be mad as a hornet if she finds out you were here and didn’t even say hello.”

  “She’ll get over it. Anyway, I’ve got places to be.” The Kid stepped off the porch and swung up onto the buckskin.

  Porter followed him off the porch. “Oh? Where’s that?”

  The Kid nodded toward the west. “Yonder,” he said simply.

  He waved a hand and was gone, riding out of Chalk Butte, not sure where he was going next but satisfied with knowing he was moving on, answering the call of the frontier while it still existed in the hearts and minds of the men and women who called it home.

  TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCITING PREVIEW

  USA Today bestselling novelist

  William W. Johnstone unleashes the saga of

  Falcon MacCallister—wanderer, lawman,

  heir to a Western family that raised him

  on love, courage, and a gun.

  THIS IS NO DAY TO DIE

  In Sorrento, Texas, there is only one law: the Hangman’s law. The hangman’s next victim waits for his last meal in a cramped jail cell. But Falcon MacCallister will not go quietly to the gallows.

  Falcon was called to Sorrento by a crusading newspaper reporter trying to expose a conspiracy of greed and corruption—with innocent men dying at the end of a court-ordered rope. As acting U.S. marshall, Falcon quickly makes enemies. Then he is sentenced to hang. But in twenty-four hours he’ll be out of jail, on the streets, and spewing lead against a small army of gunmen. Because he knows the three men who have taken over Sorrento. And he sentences them to death—any way that works.

  CARNAGE OF EAGLES

  by William W. Johnstone

  with J. A. Johnstone

  On sale now, wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.

  Prologue

  HANGING TODAY

  2 o’clock

  Public Invited.

  The town of Sorrento, Texas, was filling with people as ranchers and farmers streamed in to do their weekly shopping and, as a bonus, witness a
nother hanging. This would be the seventh hanging this year, and it was only June. But Judge Theodore “Hang ’em High” Dawes was of the belief that it was cheaper to hang someone than to incarcerate them.

  Because of Judge Dawes’s propensity to issue the hanging verdict, the gallows with a hangman’s noose affixed had become a permanent fixture and had been added to, painted, and constructed in such a way as to become a fixture of the town. It was even a repository for advertisements, and the merchants paid a premium to have announcements of their goods and services posted on and around the substantial construction.

  He Won’t Be Needing

  Any More Haircuts . . .

  But You Will at

  MODEL BARBERSHOP

  Two blocks from the gallows, around which a crowd was already beginning to gather, Deputy Sharp walked back to the cell where the condemned prisoner was spending his last day.

  “Here’s your last meal,” Sharp said. “Steak, fried taters, a mess of greens, and biscuits. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t feed you nothing but bread and water, but the sheriff wanted to be nice to you.”

  “That’s very good of the sheriff. Did you bring catsup?” the prisoner asked.

  “Of course I brought catsup. You can’t very well have fried taters without catsup.” Sharp laughed. “And I’ve noticed that the prisoners that’s about to get hung purt’ nigh always don’t eat their meal, so I wind up eatin’ it for ’em. And I like catsup with taters.”

  The prisoner took the food, then returned to his bunk and sat down.

  “I tell you the truth,” Sharp said, turning his back to the cell and walking to the front window to look out onto the street. “I do believe they’s more folks that has come into town to watch your hangin’ than any hangin’ we’ve ever had before. Yes, sir, this is goin’ to be quite a show.”