The Loner: The Bounty Killers

by J. A. Johnstone

  “You could be right,” The Kid said, caring only that the man in the picture didn’t look a blasted thing like him. The artist had made it all up, just like the scribbler who had written what was inside the booklet.

  He allowed himself a faint smile and a shake of his head as he left the depot. The things people came up with.

  It was late in the afternoon but not yet time to head for the marshal’s house for supper. The Kid stopped at a general store to pick up a few supplies and replenish his stock of ammunition. As the proprietor got a box of .44-40s off the shelf, he said, “You’re the fella who killed those outlaws and saved all the money from the bank earlier today, aren’t you?”

  “It wasn’t exactly like that,” The Kid said. “The marshal had a bigger hand in stopping them than I did, and the way I heard it, they never actually made it out of the bank with any money.”

  “Well, Henry Bennett put the word out that if you wanted anything, we should just send the bill for it over to him. So you don’t owe me anything for these goods, Mr. Browning.”

  The Kid shrugged and nodded. “All right. I’m obliged.” He started to leave, then paused and asked, “Say, you wouldn’t know a man by the name of McCall, would you?”

  The storekeeper frowned. “McCall, McCall . . .” he repeated. “Nope, can’t say as I do. Friend of yours?”

  “Not really. Just somebody I ran into, and I thought he might have come through here.”

  “Lots of people come through Las Vegas and never give their names to anybody. He might’ve even bought supplies from me without me knowing who he was. What’s he look like?”

  The Kid had no idea. He had never actually gotten a look at the man, other than the poncho and the broad-brimmed hat he wore.

  “Never mind,” he told the storekeeper. “It doesn’t matter. Where’s the post office?”

  The man grinned and pointed to a window on the far side of the store. “You’re lookin’ at it. I’m the postmaster here, too. It’s after operatin’ hours, but if you’ve got something you need to mail, you can give it to me and I’ll make sure it goes out in the mail bag on the train, day after tomorrow.”

  “Thanks. Have you got a little box of some kind, and some paper to wrap it up with?”

  The storekeeper provided the supplies. The Kid stepped to a corner for some privacy and put the envelope with the picture in it and the roll of greenbacks into the box. He tore the flap with the address off the envelope, then wrapped up the package, tied it with string, and used a pencil to print the address on the outside.

  After paying the postage, The Kid took his supplies and ammunition and left the store. He had done what he’d promised himself he would do. His debt to the dead bounty hunter, if such there really was, had been discharged.

  He stowed the goods in his saddlebags and led the buckskin toward the middle of the settlement heading to the marshal’s house.

  He was aware that many of the people he passed were watching him. Loafers sitting in chairs on the front porch of the hotel passed low-voiced comments back and forth. He knew they were talking about the shootout in front of the bank.

  Short of collecting a bullet, things couldn’t have worked out much worse for him. The last thing he’d wanted when he rode into Las Vegas was attention, and that was practically all he had gotten.

  He led the buckskin around the marshal’s office and tied the horse to a scrubby tree in the little yard in front of the house. When he knocked on the door, Fairmont answered. The marshal still wore his gunbelt, but he had a pipe in his hand and looked more relaxed.

  “So you showed up, eh? Might as well come in.”

  It wasn’t the most gracious of greetings, but The Kid didn’t care. He was more concerned with the delicious aromas that floated from the kitchen through the rest of the house.

  He hadn’t forgotten the days on bread and water he had spent in Hell Gate Prison. He wasn’t sure he ever would. The experience had given him a whole new appreciation for good food.

  It was also one more reason he was never going to let himself be sent back to prison, no matter what sort of trumped-up charges somebody had leveled against him.

  The Kid took off his hat as he went inside. Fairmont used the pipe stem to point at a hook on the wall where he could hang the Stetson, and ushered the visitor into a nicely furnished parlor. “Want a drink?” Fairmont asked. “I’ve got a bottle of brandy, but I don’t break into it very often.”

  The Kid shook his head. “No, that’s fine, thanks.”

  Fairmont’s teeth clamped down on the pipe. “You get your telegram sent?” he asked around it.

  “Yes, I did. I’m just waiting for a reply now. I hope it’s all right I told the telegrapher I was having supper here. He’s supposed to send a boy with the reply if it comes in.”

  Fairmont waved a hand and nodded. “Sure, sure, that’s fine,” he said. “Still plan on riding out as soon as you hear back from whoever you sent that wire to?”

  “Well, not this late. I suppose I’ll spend the night at the hotel.”

  “It’s a comfortable place, or so I’m told.”

  The Kid sensed the air of awkwardness in the room. He knew that Marshal Fairmont didn’t like him much. Normally that wouldn’t have bothered The Kid at all. Since he had adopted the identity of Kid Morgan and gone on the drift, the opinions of other people didn’t concern him much.

  The difference was that Fairmont was a lawman, and there were wanted posters out on The Kid. It was an unsettling situation.

  “I’ve been thinking that I’ve seen you before,” the marshal went on.

  “Before today, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  It was certainly possible. The Kid had ridden through Las Vegas several days earlier, stopping briefly to pick up some supplies in one of the smaller stores. He hadn’t talked to anyone except the proprietor, but Fairmont could have seen him riding past and taken note of him because he was a stranger.

  That thought flashed through The Kid’s mind, but he didn’t show it on his face. He just shrugged and said, “It’s possible. I’ve been a lot of places.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got a good memory for faces. It’ll come to me.”

  Before either of them could say anything else, Carly appeared in the doorway of the parlor, untying the belt of the apron she wore.

  “The food’s ready,” she told them with a smile. “Come to supper.”

  Chapter 9

  The food tasted as good as it smelled. Roast beef, potatoes, greens, some of the lightest and best-tasting biscuits The Kid had ever eaten, followed by peach cobbler for dessert. It was a simple meal, but as fine as any Conrad Browning had ever had in those fancy restaurants back east.

  The company was a damned sight better, that was for sure, at least where Carly was concerned. She kept up a lively string of conversation. Her father had been a lawman in a number of different towns, so she had seen a lot of sights.

  The Kid had too, so they were able to talk about the places they had been.

  Fairmont was much more taciturn, and when he spoke up, his questions had an edge to them.

  “How come you never stayed in one place very long, Browning?”

  “I guess I was always just a little too restless by nature. Fiddle-footed, some men call it.”

  Then, a little later, “What sort of things have you worked at? You don’t strike me as a cowboy.”

  “It’s true, I never got the hang of punching cows,” The Kid replied. “But I’ve worked on railroads and done some mining.”

  Technically, that was true. As Conrad Browning, he held an interest in several railroads and had overseen the construction of more than one spur line. The Browning financial holdings also included gold and silver mines scattered across the West, including some in Nevada.

  “Interesting you use the word ‘hang,’” Fairmont commented.

  Carly frowned at him. “What do you mean by that, Dad?”

  “Oh, nothing,” the marshal said. />
  But The Kid got the message plainly enough. Fairmont was suspicious of him. He was enjoying the marshal’s hospitality only because that was Carly’s wish.

  When the meal was over, Fairmont suggested, “Why don’t you step out on the porch with me, Browning, so we can get some air? I can light up this pipe of mine. Carly doesn’t like for me to smoke it in the house.”

  “If you’d burn something in it besides that foul-smelling tobacco, I might not mind,” she said with a smile.

  The Kid didn’t want to add to Fairmont’s suspicions of him, so he nodded and said, “Sure, Marshal.”

  The two men moved to the porch while Carly cleaned up after supper. Fairmont struck a lucifer and cupped the flame in the bowl of his pipe, puffing until it was burning well. He shook out the match, dropped it on the porch, and ground it under the toe of his boot.

  “Nice evening,” The Kid said.

  “It’ll be cold by morning,” Fairmont replied. He blew a little cloud of smoke in the air.

  “More than likely,” The Kid agreed.

  “You didn’t get that reply to your telegram.”

  “Not yet. It could still come in. I told the clerk at the Western Union office I’d be at the hotel after this, so the boy should still be able to find me.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me what business this is about.”

  The Kid glanced over at his host. “Sorry, Marshal. No offense, but I’d rather keep that to myself.”

  Fairmont took the pipe out of his mouth. “A man who wears a badge likes to know what’s going on in his town,” he said. “And a gunfighter’s business usually means trouble.”

  “I never said I was a gunfighter,” The Kid pointed out.

  “You didn’t have to. I’ll ask you flat out, Browning, and since you sat at my table and broke bread with me, I expect a straight answer. Did you come to Las Vegas to kill a man?”

  The Kid took a deep breath. “Absolutely not, Marshal. I don’t want any trouble at all.”

  Fairmont looked steadily at him for a moment. The light on the porch was dim, but it was enough for The Kid to know the lawman was studying him and weighing his answer.

  Finally, Fairmont nodded. “That’s good to know, anyway. Especially since . . . well, the girl’s taken quite a shine to you and all.”

  Suddenly, The Kid realized he might have been misreading the situation all along. Fairmont’s suspicions might not come from the fact that he was a lawman as much as they did from him being the father of an attractive young woman.

  “I can set your mind to rest about that, Marshal,” The Kid said. “The only intention I have toward your daughter is an honorable one, and that’s to thank her for a fine meal and some very pleasant company. If you’d like, you can convey those thanks for me, and I’ll just get my hat and head on down to the hotel.”

  Fairmont shook his head. “No, no, she’d never forgive either of us if you did that. Wait a spell. You can say your good nights.”

  “Thanks,” The Kid said, smiling. “I’d like that.”

  Carly joined them on the porch a few minutes later. “It’s a beautiful evening,” she said, expressing the same sentiment The Kid had earlier.

  “Yes, it is,” The Kid agreed, “and that was a fine meal you prepared, miss.”

  “Carly,” she insisted.

  “We’ll compromise,” The Kid said with a smile. “Miss Carly.”

  “I suppose that’ll do. What are your plans now, Mr. Browning?”

  “Well, that depends on the answer I get to a telegram I sent earlier. I’ll be staying in Las Vegas tonight, but I expect I’ll be moving along in the morning.”

  “So soon?” she asked.

  The sound of disappointment in her voice told The Kid that maybe Marshal Fairmont was right to be worried. Carly had taken a shine to him.

  But nothing could ever come of that, and it was better that she be aware of it. “I’m afraid so,” he said.

  “Well, I’m glad we were able to keep you here for a little while, anyway.” She sounded disappointed but accepted his decision.

  Fairmont spoke up, saying, “Browning, I’m about to make my evening rounds. How about coming along with me?”

  The suggestion surprised The Kid a little. Maybe the marshal was more willing to be friendly now that he knew The Kid didn’t have any designs on his daughter.

  “I suppose I can do that. I need to find a livery stable for my horse before I check into the hotel.”

  “I can take you right to the best stable in town,” Fairmont said. “Just let me get my hat.”

  He went back inside the house and closed the door. Carly was standing at the edge of the porch, her hands on the railing that ran around it, but she turned quickly and stepped toward The Kid.

  Before he could stop her, she put her arms around his neck, came up on her toes, and pressed her mouth to his.

  The kiss took him a little by surprise. Instinctively, his arms went around Carly’s slim, supple body. Her lips were warm and sweet, and he was human enough to react favorably to what she was doing. Without thinking about it, he returned the kiss.

  But only for a moment, and then he reached up and disengaged her arms as gently as he could so that he could step back. “What was that about?” he asked quietly.

  “You know good and well what it was about, Mr. Browning,” she said. “I just wanted you to know what’ll be waiting for you if you ever decide to come back to Las Vegas.”

  “You plan on waiting for me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Don’t,” The Kid said. His voice had a brutal flatness to it. “Just don’t.”

  “Why not? Are you . . .” The words caught a little. “Are you spoken for? Do you have a wife somewhere?”

  Yes, I have a wife somewhere. She’s buried down in New Mexico Territory.

  He couldn’t say that to her, so he said, “Just take my word for it, Carly. You don’t want to wait for me. Find some other young man and marry him. Have a good family and a good life.”

  “But I—”

  “You can’t have either of those things with me,” The Kid said.

  She took a deep breath and said, “All right.” Her voice was taut with anger. “If that’s the way you feel.”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  She turned away and said, “Good night, Mr. Browning,” as the front door opened and her father came out on the porch again.

  “Good night,” The Kid said.

  Fairmont waited until his daughter had closed the door behind her, then said, “It’s getting chilly a little sooner than I expected.” He handed The Kid his hat.

  “Miss Carly didn’t like what I had to tell her.” Fairmont held up a hand. “I don’t need to know about it. Come on, Browning.”

  The Kid untied the buckskin and led the horse as the two men walked along the street. Fairmont was as good as his word and took The Kid to a livery stable that looked clean and well cared for. He told the proprietor to take good care of The Kid’s horse.

  “I sure will,” the man said. “And you don’t have to worry about paying for it, Mr. Browning. The whole town knows that Henry Bennett is taking care of that.”

  “I’m obliged,” The Kid said. He slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and slid the Winchester from its sheath. He would take them with him to the hotel.

  The two of them walked on. Music and laughter came from some of the saloons, and the general stores were still open to serve some latearriving customers. Overall, though, the town was pretty quiet.

  When he said as much, Fairmont replied, “Yes, Las Vegas is a nice, peaceful place most of the time. It’s had its wild days in the past, but I think it’s settled down now for good. I hope so, because I’ve had enough of drifting. I’d like to stay on here as marshal until I’m ready to take off the badge for good.”

  “I’d say the town would be lucky to have you.”

  They had completed their circuit of the town and found themselves back at
the marshal’s office. The Kid said, “We didn’t stop at the hotel.”

  “Blast it, I forgot.” Fairmont pointed a thumb at his office. “Let’s step inside here for a minute, and then I’ll take you back down there.”

  “I saw where it was. No need for you to come along, Marshal.”

  “Yeah, but there’s something in here I want to show you. It’s important.”

  The Kid didn’t fully trust the lawman, but Fairmont sounded sincere.

  “All right, just for a minute. I’m pretty tired.”

  “That’s all it’ll take.”

  Fairmont opened the door and led the way inside. A lamp with its wick turned down low burned on the desk. Fairmont went over to it and turned it up so that the yellow glow in the room brightened.

  “I got to thinking,” he said as he pawed through a stack of papers on the desk, “that there might be a reward for those bank robbers, and you’re entitled to a share of it, Browning. So I had a look through these reward dodgers for them.”

  The Kid started to shake his head. “I don’t want any reward,” he said. He couldn’t stop a bitter edge from cutting into his voice. “You can keep all that blood money.”

  “But look here,” Fairmont went on as he turned. “I found those owlhoots—”

  He leveled the little pistol that had been hidden under the papers. The barrel pointed right at The Kid’s middle.

  “And I found something else, too,” the marshal went on. “Put your hands up, Morgan. You’re under arrest.”

  Chapter 10

  The Kid’s hands didn’t rise, despite the fact that Fairmont thrust the gun at him menacingly.

  “You knew all along, didn’t you?” he asked coolly.

  “That you’re wanted for breaking out of prison and murdering some guards over in New Mexico Territory? I’ve known ever since I went through these wanted posters and found the one about you. I knew you had to be a gunfighter. I just didn’t know you were Kid Morgan.”