Her eyes darted toward him. “But what about you?”
“Don’t worry about me.” He smiled faintly. “You wanted me to escape, remember?”
“Not like this,” the bank robber said. “That’s Pronto Pike, Kid! He’s a bounty hunter, and from what I’ve heard, he never takes his prisoners in alive.”
“Shut up,” Pike snapped at the man as he advanced into the cell block. His gaze was fastened on The Kid. “You’re Kid Morgan, the man who’s worth ten grand. I recognize you from the description on those wanted posters. When some stupid bartender told me you were locked up in here, I wasn’t sure whether to believe him, but it’s true. You must not be much of an outlaw to let a two-bit marshal in a backwater town like this lock you up, Kid.”
“It’s all a mistake,” The Kid said, not expecting Pike to believe him.
Not only that, but after his experiences in New Mexico, he was getting damned tired of having to tell people they were wrong about him. “You’ll never collect that reward,” he went on, “because there are no real charges against me.”
“The Territory of New Mexico says different,” Pike shot back. “Come on the rest of the way out of that cell, Morgan. You’re leaving with me.”
Carly moved to get between The Kid and Pike as she spoke. “No! You can’t—”
Pike moved like a striking snake, lashing out with his left arm and backhanding her across the face. She cried out in pain as she fell across the aisle and came up against the bars of the bank robber’s cell.
The Kid lunged toward Pike, but before he could reach the bounty hunter, Pike leaped back and leveled the gun again. The man’s lips drew back from his teeth in a snarling grimace.
“Come on, Morgan,” he said. “Dead or alive, it doesn’t matter to me.”
The Kid froze, knowing the trigger of Pike’s gun needed just a hair more pressure on it to make it go off. He might have risked the jump anyway, if a burst of gunfire hadn’t sounded outside in the street just then.
Pike’s head jerked toward the blistering racket, giving The Kid his chance. He plunged forward and slashed his left arm at Pike’s gun.
The revolver exploded just as The Kid hit it. He had knocked the barrel off-line just enough to send the slug burning across his left side instead of burying itself in his body. In the next heartbeat, The Kid crashed into Pike, knocking the bounty hunter off his feet. He yelled in alarm as he went over backward.
The Kid grabbed the wrist of Pike’s gun hand and rammed it against the floor. At the same time, he hooked a hard right into Pike’s midsection. He brought his elbow up under Pike’s chin with stunning force. The blow bounced the back of Pike’s head off the floorboards.
The bounty hunter went limp. He might not be out cold, but at least he was stunned.
The shooting was still going on in the street outside. The Kid snatched Pike’s gun from the bounty hunter’s fingers and surged to his feet.
“Kid,” Carly gasped behind him. “My father’s out there somewhere!”
The Kid had the same thought. With all the shooting going on, chances were the marshal was mixed up in it. If Pike had partners they might have opened fire on Fairmont as they saw him returning to the office while Pike was in the jail.
The Kid knew there was only one way to find out. But he wanted his own gun before he took cards in that game.
“Stay here,” he said over his shoulder to Carly as he hurried out of the cell block. He looked around and spotted his gunbelt hanging on a peg on the wall next to the cabinet that held Fairmont’s shotgun and a couple of Winchesters. He set Pike’s gun on the desk while he took down the belt and buckled it on.
That was better, he thought. He picked up Pike’s gun with his left hand and used his right to draw his own Colt. He was ready for whatever trouble might be out there.
But not for the trouble that was going on in the jail.
Carly screamed.
The sound was choked off as The Kid whirled around. He saw that Pike had made it back to his feet and grabbed the young woman. As Pike stood in the aisle between the cells, he had his left arm looped around her neck, pressing up so that the skin of her throat was drawn taut.
His right hand held a knife to that tight-drawn skin, and as he glared over her shoulder at The Kid, he said, “Drop those guns, Morgan, or I’ll cut her throat!”
Chapter 14
The Kid stood absolutely still, swiftly calculating the odds of firing a shot past Carly’s head and putting the bullet in Pike’s brain. That would be difficult enough, but the chances of accomplishing it before the bounty hunter could plunge the blade into Carly’s throat were even higher.
If he dropped the guns, though, he’d be sealing his death warrant. He knew Pike had no intention of taking him in alive. A dead man couldn’t argue when somebody went to collect the price on his head.
Pike backed away, maintaining his grip on Carly.
Suddenly, the bank robber reached through the bars and grabbed Pike’s right arm, jerking the knife away from Carly’s throat. At the same time, he caught hold of Pike’s shirt collar and jerked him back hard. Pike’s head thudded against the iron bars. The impact was enough to unhinge his knees and make him collapse.
Carly pulled free of Pike and stumbled toward The Kid. Since the firing was still going on in front of the jail, he holstered his Colt, took her arm, and told her, “Go out the back door! You can’t stay in here with Pike!”
“But my dad—”
“I’ll find him,” The Kid promised.
He gave her a push toward the door that opened into the alley behind the jail. As Carly stumbled toward safety, The Kid drew his gun again and turned toward the front door, glancing into the cell block at Pike’s senseless form as he did so.
“Go on, Kid,” the bank robber urged. “I’ll keep an eye on this one.”
The Kid wondered what the man could do from inside the cell . . . but he had saved Carly’s life. Jerking his head in a curt nod of thanks, The Kid went to the front door. It stood ajar several inches. He hooked the toe of his boot in the gap, threw the door open, and went out fast and low in a gunfighter’s crouch. His gaze darted rapidly from side to side. The street had cleared in a hurry as people hunted for cover when the shooting started, so it wasn’t hard to locate the source of the shots.
Several men had ducked behind a wagon parked to The Kid’s left. They were firing at somebody who had taken shelter in the alcove of a store down the block.
One of the men behind the wagon caught sight of The Kid and yelled, “That ain’t Pronto! It’s Morgan!”
“Get him!” another man shouted.
So Pike had partners, just as The Kid supposed. The man in the alcove was probably Marshal Fairmont. That was all The Kid had time to think about before bullets started whizzing around his head.
He threw himself off the boardwalk in front of the jail in a dive that landed him behind a water trough. Rolling onto his belly, he made himself as small a target as possible and edged one eye and the barrel of his Colt around the corner of the trough.
The wagon was about twenty feet away from him. He could see the legs of the men who had taken cover behind it.
The Kid opened fire.
Inside the cell block, Pronto Pike groaned, heaved himself onto his hands and knees, and shook his head. He didn’t see the girl or Morgan anymore, but since the battle was still going on outside, he assumed that Morgan was in the thick of it.
Instinct warned him, and he ducked away just as the prisoner in the cell behind him, having reached through the bars and picked up Pike’s knife, slashed at him with it.
The knife missed its target, and Pike climbed to his feet. He looked through the bars at the man standing there, still holding the knife. “You made a big mistake,” Pike said coldly.
He turned and stalked into the office, confident that the men outside could handle Morgan. Taking down the shotgun from the rack, he broke it open and saw the empty barrels. He jerked open the middle drawe
r of the desk. Sure enough, several thick red shells lay there.
He picked up two of them and thumbed them into the greener. Then he snapped it closed and walked back into the cell block.
The prisoner dropped the knife. It clattered on the stone floor. The man backed away toward his bunk. “No!” he cried as he held out his hands toward Pike. “Jesus, no!”
“You picked your side,” Pike said as he leveled the shotgun. His finger squeezed both triggers.
The roar was deafening in the cell block as it bounced back from the thick walls. The double load of buckshot lifted the prisoner and slammed him against the suddenly blood splattered wall behind him. What bounced back and pitched forward to the floor was a gory, shredded travesty of a man.
Pike turned away, his need for cruel revenge satisfied and promptly forgotten. He strode into the office and grabbed more shells from the desk drawer. With the shotgun reloaded, he headed for the front door, ready to take a hand in the fight out there.
The Kid heard the shotgun blast from inside the jail just as he saw one of the men behind the wagon go down howling in pain. The Kid’s bullets had cut the man’s legs out from under him.
If Pike had fired the greener, The Kid knew he’d soon be facing an even greater threat. He twisted on the ground and brought up both revolvers as Pike charged out of the marshal’s office with the shotgun in his hands.
Flame gouted from the muzzles of the two guns before Pike could bring the greener to bear on The Kid. One of the bullets struck the underside of the twin barrels right where the breech joined them. The impact wrenched the weapon up and drove it out of Pike’s hands. The shotgun hit Pike in the face and knocked him back through the door.
“Son of a bitch!” one of the men behind the wagon yelled. “Pronto’s down, and Gomez is hit, too. We better get out of here!”
Shooting fiercely to cover their retreat, the men headed for some horses tied at a nearby hitch rail. One of them helped the wounded man limp along as fast as he could.
The Kid knew he couldn’t stop them by himself, and the marshal’s gun had fallen silent. Fairmont might be wounded or worse. Keeping one eye on the door of the marshal’s office in case Pike reappeared, The Kid thumbed fresh cartridges into his guns.
The fleeing bounty hunters reached their horses and piled into the saddles. Still shooting and yelling, they took off down the street. The Kid risked a look, and to his surprise, he saw a figure leap out of an alley and intercept them.
“Give me a hand!” the man yelled.
The Kid recognized Pronto Pike’s voice. After having the greener shot out of his hands, Pike realized luck wasn’t on his side. He’d run out of the jail through the open back door and along the alley until he caught up with his partners as they tried to light a shuck out of Las Vegas.
One of the riders reached down and snagged the wrist of Pike’s upthrust hand. The man slowed just enough to haul Pike up onto the back of the horse behind the saddle. Digging in his spurs, he sent his mount racing after the others as Pike hung on for dear life.
The Kid could have thrown a few bullets after them, but didn’t see any point since they were already getting out of town as fast as they could. Besides, he was more worried about Marshal Fairmont.
He scrambled to his feet and ran toward the alcove. “Hold your fire, Marshal!” he called, in case Fairmont took him for one of the gunmen. “It’s me—Morgan.”
No shots came from the alcove. When The Kid reached it, he saw the figure slumped in the shadows. Biting back a curse, he dropped to a knee.
“Marshal! Can you hear me?”
Fairmont groaned. “M-Morgan?” he rasped. “Is that . . . you?”
“Yeah. How bad are you hit?”
“Bastards . . . shot a leg out from under me.”
The Kid tucked Pike’s pearl-handled gun behind his belt and reached down to feel along Fairmont’s legs. He found a bloody patch on the right one, on the outside of the thigh.
“Doesn’t feel like it’s too bad,” he told the marshal. “Probably just a deep crease, enough to knock you down and make you lose some blood, but if the bone’s not broken, I think you’ll be all right.”
“What are you doing . . . out of your cell?”
“It’s a long story,” The Kid said. “We’ll worry about that later. Right now, we need to get you some help.”
He wrapped his free arm around Fairmont and lifted the marshal to his feet. They had taken a couple unsteady steps toward the jail, when a sudden rataplan of hoofbeats made The Kid jerk his head around.
It was only two horses, and someone was leading one, not riding it. The Kid felt a shock of surprise go through him as he recognized his own buckskin.
The person holding the reins was Carly Fairmont. “Kid!” she called to him as she dismounted. “Kid, I brought your horse from the livery stable. Take him and get out of here!”
“But your father—”
She stepped up onto the boardwalk and held out the reins toward him. “I’ll take care of Dad. You can’t stay here. You saw what happened tonight. Other bounty hunters are liable to show up and try to take you. Men will risk anything for that much money. You have to leave and clear your name.”
The Kid knew she was right. Pike and his men might return. Other bounty hunters might hear that he was locked up in Las Vegas’s jail and come for him. It was too dangerous for him to stay there, especially with Fairmont already wounded.
“He’s got a bullet through the leg,” The Kid told Carly as he took the buckskin’s reins from her and helped her get her arm around the marshal. “He’ll be all right, but he needs a doctor.”
“I’ll take care of him,” she said. “I’m sorry all this happened, Kid . . . Mr. Browning.”
“Leave it at Kid,” he said. “Thanks, Carly.” Fairmont groaned. “Carly, don’t . . . don’t help this prisoner get away.”
“I have to, Dad,” she told him. “He’s not a murderer. I know it.”
“Blast it . . . it’s not right. It’s not . . . the law.”
“Sorry, Marshal,” The Kid said. He stepped down from the boardwalk, put his foot in the stirrup, and swung up onto the buckskin’s back. “But this is better for everybody.”
He wheeled the horse around and sent it galloping out of Las Vegas without looking back. He hoped Fairmont wouldn’t stay mad at Carly too long for helping him. It was the best way, and once the marshal thought about that, he might see it, too.
As he rode through the night with the wind in his face, The Kid thought about what he would do next. One thing was certain: no matter where he went, he would be in great danger as long as those wanted posters with his name and description and the ten thousand dollar price on his head were circulating.
Claudius Turnbuckle’s wire had said he was going to Santa Fe to straighten everything out. That was where the true problem lay, and that was where the solution would be found as well. As he thought about it, his path seemed clear.
He would pick up that big black horse he had left hidden outside the settlement, and head for New Mexico Territory, to whatever fate awaited him in Santa Fe.
Chapter 15
Several days later, The Kid was in northern Arizona, near the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River. He had heard of the magnificent canyon but had never been there. Although he was tempted to detour to the north and have a look at it, having circled south of the imposing natural landmark, he didn’t want to take the time to do so.
Since leaving Las Vegas, nobody had tried to kill him . . . but The Kid knew better than to believe his luck would last.
He was riding the black through hills covered with a thick pine forest and leading the buckskin. Flagstaff was somewhere to the south of him, but he intended to avoid the town, as he had avoided other settlements on his journey. He didn’t want to run the risk of being recognized by another small-town lawman who might try to lock him up.
His plan was to steer clear of civilization as much as possible until he reached Santa Fe.
By the time he got there, Claudius Turnbuckle ought to have reached the territorial capital, too. The Kid would get in touch with him somehow and find out if the lawyer had been successful in quashing the charges against him.
He didn’t relish the idea of spending the rest of his life as a fugitive. But he liked the thought of being locked up even less.
Once the sun set, night fell quickly amidst the towering trees. As dusk settled down, The Kid found a clearing at the base of a rocky bluff that would make a suitable campsite.
A spring trickled from the stone wall and formed a small pool of clear, cold water. There was plenty of grass for the horses, and The Kid thought the trees were thick enough that he could risk a small fire to cook some of the supplies that Carly had stuffed in his saddlebags before she brought the buckskin to him.
Eventually he would have to pick up more provisions from a small hamlet or isolated trading post, but he had enough to last a couple more days.
The nights got cold at that elevation, so after his meager supper, The Kid was glad he had his coat as he hunkered next to the tiny fire he built. He held out his hands toward the flames to catch what little warmth they gave off.
He had ridden out of Las Vegas without his hat. When he stopped for supplies, he would see if he could find another one similar to it. A man got used to wearing a hat and felt a little naked without one.
The same thing was true of a gun. At least it was for men like The Kid.
He had guns: his own Colt, the pearl-handled revolver he had taken from Pronto Pike, which was tucked away in one of his saddlebags, the Winchester, and the heavy Sharps carbine he normally carried, along with a good supply of ammunition for all of them.
Some might say he was armed for bear, not that he expected to encounter one. For The Kid, packing that much iron was just the usual state of things.
The buckskin pricked up his ears, and a second later, so did the black.
The Kid noted the horses’ reactions and frowned. He was still nursing the last of the coffee in his tin cup. He set it aside and came to his feet. Moving over to the buckskin, he stroked the horse’s shoulder and murmured to him. “You hear something, fella?” The Kid asked in a voice barely above a whisper. “Or maybe smell something?”
The Loner: The Bounty Killers Page 8
