The Loner: The Bounty Killers

by J. A. Johnstone

  The rider didn’t slow down. If anything, the horse galloped faster. Colt flame bloomed in the darkness as the bounty hunter opened fire with a revolver.

  The bullets fell short, but they came close enough to kick up dirt into The Kid’s face. He slid down the bank a little as he blinked rapidly, blinded by the grit that stung his eyes.

  The big black horse flashed toward him, never slowing. The Kid’s vision cleared just in time for him to see the huge animal practically on top of him.

  With a startled yell, he jerked backward and lost his balance, rolling down the rest of the bank to the sandy bottom of the arroyo. As he rolled he caught only fragmented glimpses of one of the most amazing things he had ever seen.

  With all its powerful muscles behind it, the black horse took off from the bank, sailing up and over the arroyo. As if the animal had somehow sprouted wings, the horse stayed in the air for what seemed like an impossible time. Its front hooves stretched out, out, as the far bank rushed at it.

  The Kid came to a stop on his back and watched as those hooves cleared the edge of the arroyo by mere inches, digging in and hauling the rest of the horse’s body forward as momentum carried it on. Then somehow all four hooves were on the ground and the horse was slowing, turning. The rider’s gun came up, and The Kid knew he was about to be caught in a crossfire.

  He had managed to hang on to his rifle as he tumbled down the slope. Rolling onto his side, he propped himself up on an elbow, and fired.

  The bounty hunter’s handgun belched flame again. The bullet thudded into the arroyo wall several feet above The Kid, as the rider swayed and toppled out of the saddle.

  Still a little out of breath, The Kid leaped to his feet. He hoped the hunter wasn’t fatally wounded, but he didn’t have time to worry about that. The buckskin stood nearby. The Kid grabbed the horse’s reins and led him up the far side of the arroyo.

  He heard hoofbeats approaching as the other bounty hunters picked their way down the bank as fast as they could.

  Shots began to roar again. The Kid ignored them. If one of the bullets was destined to find him, so be it. His eyes were on the big black horse.

  The magnificent animal represented his last chance to escape.

  The horse had shied away from the crumpled figure sprawled on the ground. In the moonlight, The Kid saw that the man he’d shot wasn’t moving. It was the bounty hunter wearing the poncho, he realized. Some of the loose garment was draped over the man’s head.

  The Kid grabbed the black’s trailing reins. For the second time that night, he stole a horse. The black sunfished a little as The Kid swung into the saddle, but his firm hand on the reins settled the animal down. Still leading the buckskin, The Kid kicked the black into a gallop.

  The shots from the remaining bounty hunters were coming closer. He felt the wind-rip of several bullets as they passed close to his head. But none of them found him, and the range instantly grew longer as the black horse lunged over the ground.

  Leaning forward in the saddle to make himself a smaller target, The Kid hung on to the buckskin’s reins, not wanting to lose the horse. They had been through a lot together. Freed of the burden of having to carry The Kid’s weight, the buckskin was able to keep up with the big black. Both horses swept swiftly over the ground.

  As the bounty hunters crossed the arroyo and stopped to check on their fallen comrade, The Kid was increasing his lead. For the first time since the chase had begun, he thought there was a good chance he might get away.

  Being a bit superstitious he chided himself for thinking such a thing, not wanting to jinx it. But no misfortune befell him as he continued galloping eastward.

  After a while, sensing that even the powerful brute beneath him was tiring, he pulled the horses back to a walk, giving him a chance to hip around in the saddle and gaze behind him. He didn’t see anything moving through the moonlight and brought both horses to a halt, listening intently.

  Nothing. No sound of hoofbeats. He was either so far ahead of the pursuit that it was out of earshot . . .

  Or the bounty hunters had given up and abandoned the chase.

  The Kid couldn’t risk believing that just yet. He gave the horses a few minutes to rest, then started out again at a relatively slow pace, increasing it as they went along until he was pushing them fairly hard again.

  Later—long after midnight, judging by the stars and the moon’s progression across the heavens—The Kid stopped again to let the horses rest. When he didn’t see or hear any signs of pursuit, he had to admit it seemed like he had given the bounty hunters the slip.

  Would they try to trail him? Or would they cut their losses, turn around, and head west again to search for Kid Morgan and the ten thousand dollar reward on his head?

  None of them had gotten a good look at him. When he thought back over everything that had happened, The Kid was sure of that. So the bounty hunters didn’t know he was actually the man they were after.

  He hoped ten grand, American, would be a greater temptation than avenging the two men he’d been forced to shoot. He didn’t know for certain that either of them was dead, but it was a strong possibility.

  The Kid kept moving all night, stopping only occasionally to let the horses blow. As the eastern sky was turning orange with the approach of dawn, The Kid checked the saddlebags draped over the black horse’s back. He thought he might find some clue to the bounty hunter’s identity. There might be something he would need to send—anonymously, of course—to the man’s family.

  He found supplies, ammunition, a spare Colt revolver, a roll of bills that added up to several hundred dollars . . . and an envelope. It was addressed to “L. McCall,” in care of a hotel in Tucson.

  The Kid turned the envelope over, saw a return address scrawled on the flap. The name on it was Hoskins, and the address was in Kansas City, Missouri.

  The Kid didn’t particularly want to read McCall’s mail, but he decided it would be better to see what was in the envelope. A letter might tell him more about the man he’d been forced to shoot.

  Maybe more than he really wanted to know, he thought warily.

  But he lifted the envelope’s flap, slid a couple fingers inside, and brought out a folded piece of paper. It was blank and had been wrapped around a photograph to protect it. The Kid lifted the picture, turning so the dawn light fell over it.

  The photograph was of a little girl, probably four or five years old. She wore a frilly dress, nothing real fancy or expensive, but nice. Long, pale hair fell over her shoulders. She had gazed into the camera with a solemn expression on her face. The Kid supposed she was pretty, although he wasn’t much of a judge of such things.

  He turned the photograph over, thinking there might be a name or something written on the back. Nothing was there except the name of a photography studio in Kansas City. No hint of who the girl was or how she was related to the bounty hunter named McCall.

  As far as The Kid could tell, if anybody had a rightful claim to the money McCall had saved up, it was the little girl. Whoever had sent the picture ought to have it back, too. McCall didn’t need it anymore.

  When he got to Las Vegas, The Kid decided, as soon as he had sent a wire to Claudius Turnbuckle, he would wrap up the photograph and the cash and send it to Hoskins, whoever that was, at the address in Kansas City. He didn’t need or want the money himself. Since it had belonged to a bounty hunter, it might well be blood money.

  But the little girl wouldn’t know that, and she might need it.

  Carefully, The Kid folded the photograph back into the piece of paper, slipped it into the envelope, and replaced it in the saddlebag, along with the roll of greenbacks.

  He gave the horses some water, pouring it into his hat from one of the canteens and letting them drink. Then he had a drink himself and splashed some of the water over his head, shaking the droplets away. In the cool morning air, it would help him stay awake and alert, since he hadn’t had the chance to get any rest the night before.

&nbs
p; That done, he mounted up again, riding the buckskin and leading the black. The big horse was even more impressive in the growing daylight than he had been in the silvery moonlight.

  The Kid wasn’t sure what to do with the black. People would remember a horse like that. Leading it could draw more attention than he wanted and somebody in Las Vegas might recognize it as McCall’s. He was already worried that somebody might recognize him as Kid Morgan from the description on those wanted posters.

  At the same time, he hated to let the black go. A man didn’t run into a horse like that every day. Sure, the black didn’t belong to him, but he thought the fact that McCall had done his damnedest to kill him ought to count for something.

  He would figure it out later, The Kid told himself, when he got closer to Las Vegas.

  For now he rode east, into the rising sun.

  Chapter 6

  In the end, that afternoon he found a place to camp a couple miles outside the settlement and left the black there. It was a little canyon formed by a pair of sheer, rocky upthrusts. A tiny creek trickled through it, no doubt fed by springs higher in the ridges, and hardy grass grew alongside the stream to give the black something to graze on.

  The Kid unsaddled the horse and tied the reins to a scrubby bush growing out of one of the canyon walls, making sure they were loose enough so the black could pull away if The Kid didn’t ever come back. From there, the horse would probably wander into town.

  If it was possible, though, The Kid intended to return and claim the animal for himself. A man who could switch back and forth between two horses like the black and the buckskin could outrun just about anybody.

  Riding the buckskin, The Kid headed into Las Vegas. The day had grown hot, so he wasn’t wearing his black coat, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up a couple of turns over his tanned forearms.

  The town wasn’t very big, with only a single main street and a few cross streets. The springs that made Las Vegas a green oasis in the middle of a vast brown-and-tan landscape had attracted many different people over the years, beginning with the Piute Indians. Mormons had established a settlement there, but it hadn’t lasted.

  The discovery of gold and silver in the nearby hills had made Las Vegas spring to life again, and ever since it had flickered in and out of existence like a candle flame, depending on how the mines were producing. At times it was a bustling settlement, but it went through stretches when it was little more than a ghost town.

  The place seemed to be doing all right. A spur line had been built from the main route of the Santa Fe Railroad in the south, and that had brought the telegraph wires with it as well.

  Those telegraph wires were what interested The Kid. The sooner he got in touch with his lawyer, the better.

  A water tank stood at the far end of the settlement, beside the railroad tracks. The telegraph office was inside the depot. The Kid had to ride the entire length of the street to get there.

  No one seemed to pay any attention to him. He didn’t hurry, keeping the buckskin at a casual pace, instead.

  Halfway to his destination gunfire roared out.

  Women screamed and men shouted curses. Everybody in the street and along the boardwalks scurried for cover. The Kid reined in sharply and looked for the source of the shots. Whoever was burning powder didn’t seem to be shooting at him.

  Several men spilled from the double doors of an impressive two story building constructed of large sandstone blocks. Painted on the wall above the awning over the boardwalk were the words FIRST BANK OF LAS VEGAS.

  That and the gunshots were enough to tell The Kid what was going on, even before he saw the bandannas pulled up over the faces of the men who ran out. Smoke curled from the barrels of the guns in their hands.

  A bank robbery was none of his business. He had problems of his own. He was willing to let the outlaws get away, though the possibility they might have killed someone during the shootout in the bank nagged at him.

  But then a man came running around the corner carrying a shotgun. Sunlight winked off the badge pinned to his shirt.

  The four masked men who had just run out of the bank saw him and swung their guns toward the lawman.

  The Kid knew they could fire before the man would be able to bring his scattergun to bear and yelled, “Hey!” He palmed out his Colt and squeezed off a shot.

  The slug hit one of the outlaws in the back of his right shoulder, shattering bone and spinning him halfway around. He dropped his gun and let out a howl of pain as he staggered into the street clutching the wound and collapsed.

  Realizing they were suddenly caught between two fires caused the remaining outlaws to hesitate, giving the lawman time to raise the shotgun and squeeze off both barrels. Flame gushed from the weapon’s twin muzzles.

  The double load of buckshot tore into two of the robbers, flinging them backward and shredding their flesh. When they landed on the boardwalk, their chests and faces looked like raw meat.

  That left only one of the outlaws on his feet, and as The Kid snapped a shot at him, he twisted around and darted back through the open doors into the building. The Kid’s bullet missed and chipped dust and stone splinters from the wall next to the door.

  The lawman started toward the entrance, obviously intending to pursue the lone remaining robber into the bank. He didn’t notice the wounded outlaw in the street had clambered up onto his knees and was fumbling to pick up his fallen gun with his left hand.

  The Kid saw the threat and was swinging down from the saddle even as the outlaw finally succeeded in scooping the revolver from the ground.

  Moving to where the man could see him, The Kid leveled his Colt and warned, “Don’t do it!”

  The outlaw hesitated for a heartbeat, then jerked the gun toward The Kid.

  Left with no choice, The Kid fired. The slug hammered into the wounded outlaw’s chest and drove him over on his back. The gun in his left hand went off, but it was pointed at the sky and the bullet sailed off harmlessly.

  The lawman had disappeared into the bank, hot on the heels of the fleeing outlaw. The Kid bounded onto the boardwalk and stepped into the doorway as a woman screamed.

  Instantly, his eyes took in the scene. The outlaw had managed to grab a hostage. His arm was looped around the neck of a terrified woman as he dragged her backward. Her body acted as a shield.

  The man thrust his gun toward the lawman, who had dropped his empty greener and hauled out an old, long-barreled revolver. It was a standoff as the badge-toter pointed his gun at the bank robber and the hostage.

  “Let Mrs. Grimsley go,” the lawman warned. “Nobody’s dead in here, so you’re not facing murder charges, son. But if she gets killed, you’ll hang, sure as hell.”

  “No, I won’t,” the outlaw insisted. “I’m gettin’ out of here, old man. You let me go, or this lady’s blood’ll be on your head, not mine!”

  The lawman shook his head. “It’s not gonna work like that, and you know it. The only chance you have of walking out of here alive is to surrender, son.”

  “Stop callin’ me son!” the masked bandit raged. “I ain’t your son!”

  “No, but you’re young enough to be, and I don’t want to see you dead.”

  The outlaw moved his gun back and forth a little, tracking from the lawman to The Kid and back again. “Who’s that?” he demanded. “Your deputy?”

  The lawman hadn’t looked around when The Kid entered the bank. He said, “Somebody back there?”

  “Yes, but I’m on your side, Sheriff,” The Kid replied. “I’m the one who took a hand in the ruckus outside.”

  “I’m much obliged for your help, mister,” the lawman said without taking his eyes off his quarry. “If you don’t mind, why don’t you go around back and come in that way? We’ll have this varmint between us.”

  “Sure,” The Kid said easily. “Want me to go ahead and put a bullet in him while I’m at it?”

  “Sure,” the lawman drawled, “unless he wises up and lets the
poor lady go.”

  The trapped bank robber spat out a bitter curse. “All right, all right, damn it,” he went on. He angled his weapon’s barrel toward the ceiling and lowered the hammer. “I’m puttin’ the gun down before I let go of this gal, though. I don’t want you trigger-happy lawdogs ventilatin’ me.”

  The Kid didn’t bother to correct the outlaw’s assumption that he was a peace officer. He kept his Colt level and steady as the man tossed the revolver on the floor. Then he gave the woman a shove that sent her stumbling clear and thrust his hands in the air.

  “Don’t shoot!” he urged. “I’m givin’ up.”

  A couple sober-suited bank tellers rushed forward to help the woman, who appeared to be a customer who’d been in the bank when the holdup took place. They assisted her through a gate in a wooden railing and onto a chair, where she sat fanning her face, looking like she was about to faint.

  The Kid and the local lawman converged on the outlaw from different angles. When the lawman was close enough, he suddenly lifted his gun and smashed it against the side of the robber’s head. The man went down hard and didn’t move.

  “I’m not sure there was any call for that, Sheriff,” The Kid said with a frown.

  “I’m not the sheriff. I’m the marshal of Las Vegas,” the lawman snapped. “And I’m too old to risk this desperado trying any tricks while I’m getting him locked up. He’ll be easier to handle this way.”

  The Kid replaced the three rounds he had fired outside and slid the gun into leather. “I suppose it’s up to you how you handle your business, Marshal.”

  “You’re damned right it is. Like I said, I’m obliged to you for your help, but I’ll do things my own way.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The Kid started to turn toward the double doors, but the marshal stopped him by saying, “Stay right where you are. I want to talk to you.” He raised his voice. “Bennett! You and some of your employees lay hands on this bank robber and carry him around the corner to my jail.”

  A portly, balding man who was probably the bank manager or maybe even the owner pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his perspiring forehead. “Of course, Marshal,” he said. He motioned for the two tellers who had helped the female hostage to come with him.