The Loner: The Bounty Killers

by J. A. Johnstone

  “Which I can’t do without seeing him.”

  “Which you can’t do until next month, yes,” the clerk said with an exasperated glare. “I fail to see what the confusion is.”

  Turnbuckle glanced out the window and thought about how good it would feel to toss the smarmy little slug through it. Reaching into his coat he took out an envelope. “I have a letter here from Lew Wallace asking Governor Otero to meet with me right away.”

  The clerk’s eyes widened. “Governor Wallace?” he asked.

  “That’s right.” Lew Wallace had been the governor in New Mexico more than fifteen years earlier, but he was still a well-known figure in the territory because of his personal involvement with Billy the Kid, Pat Garrett, and the Lincoln County War. The fact that he had authored the phenomenally successful novel Ben-Hur while serving as governor only increased his prominence. Even after all that time, his name carried considerable weight in Santa Fe.

  The clerk was clearly torn about what to do. Finally, he stood up, held out his hand, and said, “I’ll give the letter to Mr. Blanton. If he chooses to pass it on to the governor, I’ll let you know.”

  Turnbuckle shook his head. “Not good enough. I want you to put the letter in the governor’s hand personally.”

  The clerk looked shocked. “I can’t do that. Mr. Blanton—”

  “I’m tired of hearing about Mr. Blanton.”

  It hadn’t taken long for a man as skilled as Turnbuckle to find out how things worked. Charles Blanton, though he didn’t hold an official position in the territorial government, was Governor Otero’s most trusted aide. Although Otero was the son of a prominent New Mexico family with considerable wealth and influence, no one had expected the president to appoint him to the governorship. He had little in the way of broad support from the often squabbling factions battling for control in the capital. Therefore Otero relied heavily on Blanton, who had business connections with the governor’s family.

  The few times Turnbuckle had met Blanton, he had instinctively disliked and distrusted the man. The feeling seemed to be mutual.

  Turnbuckle swung his heavy body toward a door at the side of the office. It was smaller than the ornate door leading into the governor’s private office, but Turnbuckle knew that beyond it was where most of the real power lay. Blanton’s office was on the other side of that door.

  “I’m going to talk to him myself, damn it,” Turnbuckle growled.

  The clerk shot up from his chair, saying, “Sir, you can’t—”

  He was too late. Turnbuckle already had hold of the knob. He twisted it and shoved the door open.

  The chair behind the desk in Blanton’s office was empty. Turnbuckle glanced to his left and saw the man standing next to a sideboard with a decanter of liquor in one hand and a glass in the other.

  Charles Blanton was a rawboned man with a squarish head and graying fair hair. He frowned at the lawyer and asked, “What’s the meaning of this, Turnbuckle?”

  “A bit early in the day, isn’t it?” Turnbuckle asked with a nod toward the liquor.

  Blanton flushed and set the decanter and glass back on the sideboard. “What do you want?”

  Turnbuckle held up the envelope. “I have here a letter from Lew Wallace requesting that Governor Otero see me immediately and grant me every possible consideration.”

  “General Wallace is no longer in a position of authority in New Mexico Territory.”

  “I’m aware of that, but he’s asking Governor Otero to cooperate out of personal courtesy, as one statesman to another.”

  “You can’t see the governor,” Blanton snapped. “He’s much too busy. You’ll just have to wait—”

  “Every day this matter waits is another day my client is in needless danger.”

  “Perhaps if your client hadn’t escaped from prison, he wouldn’t be in danger.”

  “If Conrad Browning hadn’t escaped from prison, he never would have exposed the crimes of some powerful men.” Turnbuckle’s rather bushy eyebrows raised. “Perhaps that’s why you don’t want me to see the governor. You don’t want the stench of official corruption to rub off on him.”

  “The governor is an honest man,” Blanton said. “His reputation is beyond reproach. And he didn’t appoint that crooked warden. His predecessor did.”

  “Then he should be anxious to undo the damage that was done, including the injustice to my client.”

  “The circumstances don’t matter.” Blanton’s voice was flat and hard, unwilling to budge an inch. “The man known as Kid Morgan broke out of prison. Two men died in that escape. Until these matters are properly dealt with in court, the charges against him will remain in place. That’s my final word on the subject, counselor, and I don’t care how many letters you have from Lew Wallace or anybody else.”

  “So you’re the governor now, is that it?” Turnbuckle asked.

  “Of course not. But he’s given me great latitude to deal with administrative matters as I see fit. If you want to petition for a pardon for your client after he’s been tried and convicted, feel free to do so.”

  Turnbuckle’s free hand clenched into a fist. “With a ten grand bounty on his head, dead or alive, he’ll never make it to trial, and you know it!”

  “That’s regrettable, but nothing can be done about it.”

  “You mean you won’t do anything about it.”

  Blanton sighed. “Get out, Turnbuckle, or I’ll call the guards and have you removed.”

  The two men glowered fiercely at each other for a moment before Turnbuckle jabbed the envelope toward Blanton.

  “This isn’t over,” he said. “I’ll go to the newspapers. From what I’ve heard, the governor’s support is rather shaky to begin with. A scandal like this can’t help him.”

  “Following the rule of law is not a scandal,” Blanton said archly. “Do your worst, counselor.”

  Turnbuckle continued glaring for a second, then swung around and lumbered out of the aide’s office. The clerk, who had been watching from the doorway, stepped aside hurriedly to let him pass.

  If Blanton wanted war, Turnbuckle thought as he left the capitol, then, by God, it was war he would have!

  Late that afternoon, Charles Blanton slipped through the side door of a cantina located on one of Santa Fe’s narrow, twisting streets. He pushed aside a beaded curtain and stepped into a small, windowless room lit only by a single candle. The sound of a guitar being strummed drifted through the curtain from the front part of the cantina.

  A young, handsome man with sleek blond hair sat at a table. The table and a couple chairs were the only pieces of furniture in the room. The young man had a bottle of tequila and two glasses in front of him.

  “Come in, Blanton,” he said as he poured drinks for both of them. “Why did you want to see me?”

  Without sitting, Blanton picked up one of the glasses and tossed back the tequila without batting an eye.

  “It’s Turnbuckle,” he said. “He’s threatening to go to the papers.”

  “I don’t see how that’s a problem,” the young man said. “You assured me that nothing illegal was going on.”

  “It’s not . . . technically. But some of the papers are very opposed to Governor Otero. If they play up this affair, it could erode his support. And he can’t really afford that.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Take care of it,” Blanton said with a harsh, savage edge in his voice. “I’ve had a man following Turnbuckle for the past few days. He always has supper at the same café near his hotel. If he was waylaid by a thief while he was walking to the café . . .”

  The young man sipped from his glass and smiled. “That would solve the problem for both of us, eh?”

  “That’s right. It would be a tragedy, of course, but it’s not that uncommon for people to be killed by thieves.”

  “Indeed it’s not.” The young man downed the rest of his tequila and pushed the bottle toward Blanton, who still stood nervously. “Don’t worry ab
out it. I have a feeling that everything will work out for us. Unfortunately for Claudius Turnbuckle, he won’t be able to say the same thing.” Abruptly, the man’s face twisted into lines of utter hatred. “But that’s what he gets for trying to help a son of a bitch like Conrad Browning.”

  Turnbuckle frowned as he paced along the narrow street paved with flagstones. It had been a damned frustrating day, he thought. He had made appointments with the editors of the local newspapers but hadn’t been able to speak with any of them. Tomorrow would be different.

  At least he could look forward to a good meal. Being from San Francisco, he had eaten very little of the sort of cuisine favored in Santa Fe. He had discovered that he had a great liking for food seasoned with the hot peppers that were so popular, especially when he had a mug of beer to temper the spices in his mouth and throat.

  Since his thoughts were occupied not only with the impending meal but also the legal problems he was struggling with on behalf of Conrad, he almost didn’t notice the man who stepped out of the shadows at the mouth of an alley.

  “Señor,” the man said urgently, “señor, please help. My child, she is very sick—”

  Instantly, Turnbuckle was suspicious, but the man was already too close to him. An arm shot out, and Turnbuckle felt the hot bite of cold steel into his body.

  Grunting in pain, Turnbuckle stumbled forward, but managed to stay on his feet. The knife flickered back. Turnbuckle lunged at the man as the blade darted toward him again.

  The thrust was hurried and scraped against his side. Turnbuckle’s right hand closed around the throat of the would-be assassin, while his left caught the wrist of the man’s knife hand.

  Despite his rather sedentary profession, Claudius Turnbuckle was a big, strong man. He squeezed so hard the bones inside the man’s wrist ground together. The man would have screamed in pain if Turnbuckle’s other hand hadn’t closed off his throat.

  Hot, wet agony flowed from the wound in his belly. He knew he was losing a lot of blood and would soon pass out because of it.

  But his instincts as a fighter wouldn’t let him surrender. He shoved his attacker deeper into the shadows of the alley and rammed him against the adobe wall of one of the buildings. The man struggled desperately against the grip Turnbuckle had on his throat, but he couldn’t get free.

  Turnbuckle pulled him away from the wall, then slammed him against it repeatedly, until the man went limp in his hands.

  The lawyer let go and staggered back. The assailant collapsed on the dirty floor of the alley and didn’t move. Turnbuckle wheeled around and looked at the rectangle of faint light that marked the alley mouth.

  He stumbled toward it, pressing his hands to his wounded midsection. “Blanton,” he muttered. He had no doubt the governor’s aide was behind the attack. Blanton wanted him out of the way so he couldn’t continue trying to get the charges against Conrad Browning dropped. That made Turnbuckle more convinced than ever there was something shady behind the ten thousand dollar bounty.

  But he had to live in order to prove it. His legs moved, putting one foot in front of the other. He had to remain conscious until he could get some help. If he passed out in the alley, he would bleed to death.

  He was only a few feet short of his goal when the world suddenly turned a black deeper than the shadows in the alley. Turnbuckle pitched forward, groaned once, and lay silent and motionless as his life’s blood continued running out onto the dirt.

  Chapter 22

  The Kid and McCall fetched Max and the horses from the trees, skirting wide around the crater and the bodies of the dead men as they did so. Blount told them they could put the horses in the small pole corral behind the cabin where he kept his mule.

  They had been keeping an eye out for the pair of Guthrie’s gun-wolves who had gotten away, just in case the men returned. Blount thought it was more likely the men would hightail it back to the Rafter G with the news of what had happened, and The Kid agreed with that.

  Sooner or later, more trouble would show up, and he wanted to be prepared for it when it did. “I’ll take my guns back now,” he told McCall. The revolver he had taken away from one of Guthrie’s men was tucked behind his belt.

  “I guess I might as well go along with that,” she agreed with a sigh. “We’ve sort of gotten past the point of considering you my prisoner, haven’t we?”

  “I’d say we’re partners . . . for now.”

  She shook her head and sounded disgusted with herself as she said, “This is the first time something like this has happened. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “It seems to me like you’re just being reasonable,” The Kid said as he took the Colt she handed to him. They carried all the rifles into the cabin, including his Winchester and Sharps.

  Blount said, “First time I’ve seen one of those Big Fifties in a while. Used to know a fella who hunted buffalo with a carbine like that. It’s a hell of a gun if you need to make a long-range shot. Packs a mighty big wallop close up, too. Almost like bein’ shot with a cannon.”

  The Kid had actually shot a man once with a cannon, but he didn’t mention that.

  “What are we going to do about those bodies out there?” McCall asked. “I can’t help but wonder if any of them have rewards out for them.”

  “Spoken like a true bounty hunter,” The Kid said.

  Anger flashed in McCall’s eyes. “It’s a job like any other,” she said.

  “Any other that pays in blood money.”

  “You two best save your squabblin’ for later,” Blount advised. “Guthrie will be back here before the day’s over, more’n likely, and we got to figure out what we’re gonna do about it. He can take them dead hombres with him when he goes, if he wants to.”

  “I was looking at the cliff earlier,” The Kid said. “There’s a ledge up there, about a hundred feet above the cabin. Is there any way to get to it?”

  “Yeah . . . if you’re a durn mountain goat!”

  “What are you thinking, Kid?” McCall asked.

  “That a man on that ledge could keep anybody from getting close to the cabin if he had a rifle and plenty of ammunition. It’d be like a target shoot from up there.”

  McCall nodded. “Yeah, that’s true. Are you volunteering?”

  “I could take the first shift, anyway. You and I could take turns guarding the place.” The Kid frowned in thought. “That won’t solve Mr. Blount’s problem in the long run, though.”

  “Nothin’s gonna solve that except puttin’ a bullet through Spud Guthrie’s head,” Blount said. “I don’t much cotton to cold-blooded murder, though.”

  “If he’s attacking you, it wouldn’t be murder,” The Kid pointed out. “This is your land. It would be self-defense.”

  “Yeah. Problem is, all them hardcases workin’ for him would try to grab the range for themselves as soon as Guthrie was dead.”

  The Kid didn’t have a solution for that. For the time being, however, he and McCall could protect the old-timer and try to figure out something else as they went along. He picked up his Winchester and said, “Show me the trail to that ledge.”

  “Callin’ it a trail is bein’ mighty generous. But I’ll show you where to climb.”

  The Kid stuffed a box full of .44-40 cartridges into his coat pocket and followed the old man out of the cabin. McCall came along, too, and said, “I’ll keep an eye out for trouble.”

  The Kid and Blount went around the cabin and walked over to the cliff face. Blount started pointing out the footholds and handholds The Kid would need to use to reach the ledge, which had a slab of rock perched on it that he could use for cover.

  “I’ll head on up,” The Kid said when he was sure of the route. He took off his belt and used it to rig a sling for the rifle so he could carry the weapon over his shoulder.

  The climb took almost a quarter of an hour. When The Kid finally reached the ledge, he rolled onto it and waved a hand to let Blount know he was there safely. He unslung the Winchester and
scooted into position behind the rock.

  He could see the entire open area in front of the cabin, as well as the band of trees on the other side of it. In fact, the view was spectacular, stretching for several miles of green, pinecovered landscape. Sitting up there and looking out over the vast swath of Arizona Territory would have been pretty peaceful, he thought . . .

  If he hadn’t been waiting for a small army of gunmen to show up and try to kill him, McCall, and Blount.

  The Kid wondered if McCall was starting to believe that he was innocent of the charges leveled against him. She had agreed to give back his guns with much less argument than he had expected.

  Of course, the fact that he was already armed might have had something to do with that. It was easier for them to cooperate than to try to kill each other.

  Having her as an actual ally would make it easier for him to get to Santa Fe and set the record straight. From all indications, they had given Pike and the other bounty hunters the slip, but The Kid had believed that before and turned out to be wrong.

  He didn’t let his mind wander too much. His attention stayed focused on the approaches to the cabin. About an hour had passed since his climb to the ledge when he spotted riders approaching from the east.

  It was a large group, approximately twenty men, but according to Blount, that was only about half of Guthrie’s force. The rancher probably thought that was more than enough to overwhelm any defense Blount might put up.

  The Kid had no doubt that Spud Guthrie believed his word was law in those parts. The Kid had run into that sort of arrogant cattle baron before, and he had heard about others from his father. Men who believed they could run roughshod over anyone who opposed them, even to the point of murder, simply because they had more land and cattle than anybody else in the area.

  Sometimes they had to be shown the error of their ways at the point of a gun.

  The Kid’s eyes followed the riders as they circled to the far side of the trees. They disappeared from his sight there, but he was confident that they would show up again.

  Twenty minutes later, three of the men rode out of the trees and reined in where they could see the cabin. One of the riders edged his horse slightly in front of the other two. Even from far away, The Kid could tell that he was on the small side. That was probably what had gotten him the nickname Spud.