The marshal stepped over to the woman and asked, “Are you all right, Mrs. Grimsley?”
“Yes, I . . . I’m fine,” she replied. She was pale and shaky, but appeared to be unharmed. “I was never so frightened in all my life as when that man grabbed me!”
“Well, he can’t hurt you now. When I buffalo somebody, he stays out cold for a while.”
The men from the bank, aided by a male customer, had taken hold of the unconscious outlaw and lifted him from the floor. They were ready to carry him out. After picking up his shotgun, the marshal moved to accompany them to the jail and jerked his head at The Kid.
“Come along.”
The Kid was getting a little tired of being ordered around. From the looks of things, the star packer was used to getting his own way. Not wanting to draw any extra attention to himself, The Kid followed the group of men out the door.
A large crowd had gathered in front of the bank to gawk at the bloody corpses of the dead outlaws. Trying to make the gesture look natural, The Kid reached up and tugged his hat brim lower to shield more of his face. He also kept his head lowered as he fell in step beside the marshal.
“All right, you folks break it up and go on about your business!” the lawman told the crowd. “The undertaker will be here in a minute, and he’ll need to get through with his wagon to load up what’s left of those ne’er-do-wells.”
“Did they get away with any money from the bank, Marshal?” someone in the crowd called.
“They didn’t get away, period. What about it, Bennett? Did they get their thieving hands on any loot?”
The banker shook his head as he helped the other men carry the unconscious outlaw. “No, the shooting broke out before they could start emptying the tellers’ drawers. They never got around to forcing me to open the vault.”
“What started the ball?”
“The ball?” The banker looked baffled for a second before understanding dawned on his face. “Oh, the shooting! Calvin here grabbed his gun and got off a shot.” He nodded toward one of the tellers. “We all dived for cover when they returned the fire.”
“Is that true, Calvin?” the marshal asked the man. “You keep a pistol in your drawer?”
“Yes, I do, Marshal,” Calvin said. “I got held up once when I was working at a bank over in Flagstaff, and I swore it would never happen again.”
“Well, that was mighty brave of you . . . and mighty foolish.” The marshal’s voice took on a whiplike quality, lashing at the man. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed, not to mention everybody else in that bank. Next time some owlhoot with a mask on his face comes in, just give him the money and let the law deal with him.”
Calvin swallowed and nodded. “Yes, sir. I was just trying to do what I thought was right.”
“Let the law do the thinking.”
That exchange rubbed The Kid the wrong way, and he had a hunch Bennett felt the same way. Of course, Bennett was grateful the robbery had been stopped and the deposits in his bank were safe.
The Kid didn’t like the idea that the marshal didn’t want people to defend themselves and their property. Sure, it was necessary to have the law around, but sometimes a man had to stomp his own snakes.
The Kid smiled to himself as he kept his head down. That sounded like something Frank Morgan would say. It had been a long time since he’d seen his father.
Maybe when the mistake about the wanted posters was cleared up, he’d try to find The Drifter. It would be good to visit with Frank again.
Chapter 7
The marshal’s office and jail was a squat, sturdy-looking adobe building on one of the cross streets. A frame cottage sat behind it on the same lot, and The Kid wondered if that was the marshal’s living quarters.
The lawman led the way inside and directed the men with him to place the unconscious outlaw in one of the four empty cells in the cell block. They lowered the man onto the narrow bunk and filed out of the iron-barred cell.
The marshal checked the outlaw’s clothes for another gun or a knife but didn’t find any weapons. He stepped out and clanged the door shut.
Bennett said, “Marshal Fairmont, I intend to bring up the subject of hiring a deputy for you at the next town council meeting.”
The marshal grunted. “Told you before and I’ll tell you again. I don’t need a deputy. I can handle things just fine without one.”
Bennett used a pudgy hand to point toward The Kid. “Without this young fellow’s help, you’d be dead right now, Marshal, and those outlaws would have gotten away.”
“You don’t know that,” Fairmont said, bristling with resentment at the charge.
“I saw everything from inside the bank,” Bennett insisted, “and I’m sure plenty of other people in the street did, too. This young man saved your life.” He extended a hand to The Kid. “What’s your name, friend?”
That sure wasn’t the way The Kid had intended for his visit to Las Vegas to go. He kept his face expressionless, careful not to reveal the annoyance he felt, and shook the banker’s hand. “Browning,” he supplied his name curtly, using the real one for a change since, rightly or wrongly, for the moment Kid Morgan was a wanted man.
“Well, Mr. Browning, I’m grateful to you . . . every citizen of Las Vegas is grateful to you . . . for taking a hand in this affair and making sure those vicious desperadoes were brought to justice.”
The Kid shook his head. “No thanks necessary. I just saw the trouble and figured I ought to take a hand.”
“Not everyone would have done that. Most people run and hide when the bullets start to fly.” Bennett laughed self-consciously. “I know I hit the floor pretty quickly when the shooting started in the bank.”
“That’s smarter than what I did,” The Kid said.
He meant that more than Bennett could possibly know. The Kid hadn’t wanted anybody looking at him except maybe the clerk in the telegraph office. Backing the marshal’s play had been foolish.
But he hadn’t been able to sit there on his horse and let the lawman get killed.
Bennett and the bank tellers were gazing at him with open admiration while Marshal Fairmont regarded him with a shrewd, somewhat resentful frown.
The Kid thought maybe it would be a good idea to get back on the buckskin and ride out of Las Vegas as soon as he could, getting while the getting was good.
“For the next twenty-four hours, your money’s no good in this town,” Bennett declared. “Whatever you need . . . supplies, a hotel room, food and drink . . . the bank will stand good for it.” He slapped The Kid on the back. “You’re a hero, my boy, a hero!”
“You’d better get back to the bank so you can see about getting all that bullet damage repaired,” the marshal said with a scowl.
Bennett nodded. “That’s right.” He pointed at The Kid and grinned as he left the marshal’s office. “Remember what I said, Mr. Browning. Whatever you want, it’s on us!”
The Kid started to follow the group of men out, but Fairmont growled from behind him, “Hold it. I said I wanted to talk to you, Browning.”
The Kid half turned. “What is it, Marshal? I have business to tend to.”
“Is that so? I’m curious what sort of business brings you to Las Vegas, mister.”
The Kid couldn’t very well answer that. He said, “Nothing that concerns the law, Marshal.”
“Everything concerns the law if it effects the safety of the community. And having a gunfighter in our midst is a definite safety hazard.”
The Kid shook his head. “I never said I was a gunfighter.”
“You didn’t have to,” Fairmont replied with a note of contempt in his voice. “I saw how slick you handled that Colt out there, Browning. There aren’t very many men who can do that. I admit I haven’t heard of any gunfighters with your name . . . but maybe it’s not your real name.”
“Why don’t you just call me a liar while you’re at it?” The Kid snapped. He turned to face the lawman as anger boiled in him. “In case you d
idn’t notice, my gun was fighting on your side out there.”
“I noticed, all right. I noticed plenty.”
For a moment, the air in the marshal’s office was thick with tension. Frank Morgan had told Conrad about men like that, star packers who didn’t like gunfighters, no matter who they were or what they had done. Frank had been asked to leave many towns where he hadn’t caused a bit of trouble, simply because the local law didn’t want him around.
Maybe Fairmont would be reasonable, The Kid thought as he struggled to keep a tight rein on his temper. The man was in late middle age, with a weathered face and plenty of gray in his hair. He had probably been wearing a tin star long enough to be set in his ways, firm in his likes and his dislikes. The Kid might be able to take advantage of that.
“Look, Marshal,” he said. “I have to send a telegram, and I’d like to wait a little while to see if I get a reply. Other than that, I have no interest in staying in Las Vegas. I won’t be here long, and I won’t cause any trouble while I am here.”
“How can you guarantee that?”
“I suppose I can’t,” The Kid replied with a shrug. “But I promise you I won’t be looking for any trouble.”
Fairmont frowned in thought as he rubbed his chin with his left hand. His fingertips rasped a little on the silvery beard stubble that had started to sprout.
“Well, I suppose—” he began.
“Dad?” a woman’s voice asked from behind The Kid. A quick flurry of footsteps sounded. “Dad, are you all right? I heard all the shooting, but I couldn’t get away until now.”
The Kid turned his head to look at the woman who had just come into the office. She was in her early twenties, not much more than a girl. Wings of honey-blond hair framed her face. She was tall and slender and moved with a natural grace.
“Carly, take it easy,” Fairmont said. “I’m fine.”
“I heard talk on the street about some killings.”
The marshal nodded. “Four men tried to hold up the bank. Three of them are down at the undertaking parlor by now, I expect. The other one is safely locked up.”
“You killed three men?”
“Only two.” With a grudging nod toward The Kid, Fairmont added, “This young fella took care of the other one.”
She turned to gaze at him. Her brown eyes were open wide with admiration. Despite not wanting to, he took off his hat. The courtesy that Western living had instilled in him demanded it.
“Then . . . you saved my father’s life.”
“I don’t know about that,” The Kid said. “Everything happened so fast, it’s hard to say.”
“I think you’re just being modest, Mister . . . ?”
“Browning.”
Might as well stick with that name for now, The Kid thought.
She held her hand out. “Well, just in case I do owe you my father’s life, Mr. Browning, I want you to have supper with us tonight. It’s a small price to put on such a debt, but I’d like to do it anyway.”
“Now, blast it, Carly—” Fairmont began again.
“By the way,” she said, ignoring him, “I’m Carlotta Fairmont, named after Emperor Maximilian’s wife. But everyone calls me Carly.”
The Kid took her hand. There wasn’t much else he could do. Her grip was strong, and her palm was cool and smooth.
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Fairmont.”
“Supper’s at six.” She nodded toward the rear of the jail. “That’s our house, back there behind this building.” A smile lit up her face as she squeezed his hand. “You will be there?”
The Kid felt a little like he’d been caught in an avalanche. A hundred tons of rock sliding down a mountainside wouldn’t have taken “no” for an answer, either.
“I suppose so. And I’m much obliged, miss.”
“Carly,” she insisted. “We’re not very formal around here. Las Vegas is just a rough little frontier settlement.”
“All right . . . Carly.”
The Kid might not have admitted it, but he got a little pleasure out of the glare that appeared on the marshal’s face when he said the young woman’s name.
She let go of his hand and turned back to her father. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine,” he told her. “You fuss over me too blasted much, girl.”
“Somebody has to,” Carly said. She lifted a hand in farewell to The Kid. “I’ll see you at six, Mr. Browning.”
When she was gone, Fairmont said, “I don’t much like the idea of having a gunslinger sitting at my dinner table.”
“It wasn’t my idea, Marshal. If you want, I’ll stick by what I said earlier. I’ll ride out of Las Vegas just as soon as I’ve gotten a reply to my telegram.”
Fairmont sighed. “No, if you did that, I’d never hear the end of it. You said you were coming to supper, and you’re coming to supper. That’s all she’ll stand for.”
The Kid saw how it was. The marshal bossed everybody in town, and his daughter bossed him.
“You’ve still got time to send that wire of yours,” Fairmont went on.
The Kid put his hat back on. “That’s just what I intend to do.”
“Try not to shoot anybody while you’re going about it.”
“Only if they shoot at me first,” The Kid said.
Chapter 8
Somebody had tied the buckskin’s reins to the hitch rail in front of the bank. The Kid was grateful for that thoughtfulness, although he knew the buckskin wouldn’t have wandered very far.
He didn’t bother mounting up. Too many people in Las Vegas had seen his face for him to worry about being inconspicuous, and he led the horse down the street to the railroad station. The arrival time of the next train was chalked onto a board beside the door. The sleepy little hamlet only got a couple of trains a week. It wasn’t due to arrive until two days later, in the middle of the day.
The depot was built of red sandstone, as opposed to the heavy tan blocks that made up the bank’s walls. The atmosphere in the lobby was hot and sleepy, and quiet enough The Kid could hear flies buzzing.
He saw the window of the Western Union office tucked in a corner and headed for it. A gaunt, elderly clerk wearing thick spectacles and a black cap manned it. He looked almost too frail to push down the telegraph key, The Kid thought as he came up to the window and asked for a message form.
“Here you go, sonny,” the old-timer said as he slid one of the yellow flimsies under the wicket. “Stranger in Las Vegas, ain’t you?”
“That’s right,” The Kid said. He picked up a stub of pencil from several that lay there and stepped over to a counter to compose his message.
He thought for a moment about how to word it, then wrote:
REWARD OUT FOR KID MORGAN STOP SHOULD BE NO CHARGES PENDING STOP INVESTIGATE AND QUASH STOP BROWNING
He went back to the window and handed the form to the clerk, who counted the words and named the price for sending the message. As The Kid slid a coin under the wicket, the old-timer said, “Kid Morgan, eh?”
“What about him?”
“Just a funny thing, that’s all. I was just readin’ about him when you come in.”
The Kid stiffened. The old man might have seen one of those wanted posters and recognized him from the description. He might start yelling for help as soon as The Kid stepped out of the station.
The clerk reached down for something, and The Kid’s breath caught in his throat. Surely the old fool wasn’t reaching for a gun. Did he really intend to apprehend a wanted fugitive himself?
The clerk slapped a thin, yellow-backed booklet down in front of him. The Kid saw the crude drawing and the garish lettering on the front of it.
“Yes, sir,” the old-timer cackled, “Kid Morgan and the El Dorado Gold Train Robbery. It’s one hell of a yarn. Lots of fightin’ and shootin’.”
The Kid was startled. There were dozens of dime novels about his famous father, but he had never seen one about him before. He managed not to gr
in. When he had chosen the name Kid Morgan, he had thought it sounded like something out of a dime novel.
Now it really was.
He tapped a finger on the booklet and asked, “Where did you get this?”
“Oh, you have to send off for ’em. Some comp’ny back east publishes ’em. There’s scads and scads of ’em about all these different quick-gun fellas.”
“You think there’s any truth to them?”
The clerk pushed out his lips and frowned in thought. “Naw, prob’ly not,” he said with a shake of his head. “Some of the folks in ’em are real enough, mind you. I’ve done read some about Bill Cody and ol’ Wild Bill Hickok, and they was real enough, but I know good an’ well they never did all the things that’ve got wrote about ’em.”
“No, probably not,” The Kid agreed. “Well, enjoy the rest of your book . . . but send that message for me first, all right?”
“Sure thing, mister. I’ll get it on the wire right now.”
The Kid waited while the man sat in front of the key and tapped out the message with surprising deftness considering how bent with age his fingers were. When he was finished, he swiveled toward the window and asked, “What if I get a reply?”
“I’m having supper with Marshal Fairmont and his daughter, and after that I suppose I’ll be at the hotel,” The Kid replied. He dropped a nickel on the counter. “Can you send a boy to bring the reply to me when it comes in?”
“Sure thing.”
The Kid looked down at the dime novel again. The illustration on the front cover showed a man with an impossibly huge hat firing two revolvers into a gang of ruffians and outlaws on horseback as he stood on the top of a speeding train.
“Is this supposed to be Kid Morgan?” He pointed to the two-gun man.
“Yep, that’s him, all right, defendin’ the gold train.” The old-timer got a sly look on his wizened face. “I ain’t finished the story yet, but I’m sort of figurin’ that maybe he’s tryin’ to fight off that bunch ’cause he wants to steal the gold for his own self.”
The Loner: The Bounty Killers Page 4
