The Loner: The Big Gundown

by J. A. Johnstone

As his senses came back to him, he saw Colonel Black step out of the stronghold, saber in hand. He twisted his neck to look up at the top of the cliff and screamed, “Gloriana! I did it all for you, Gloriana!” Then as the rest of the gang began to boil out behind him, Black swept the saber toward The Kid and cried, “Kill Morgan!”

  “Not before I kill you first, you son of a bitch,” The Kid said as he jammed the torch against the touch-hole of the cannon and threw himself desperately away from the big gun.

  Chapter 34

  In the split-second before he touched off the cannon, he had seen that the barrel was lined up with the front of the stronghold where Colonel Black stood. As he hit the ground, the roar of the shot slammed into his ears and the massive weapon’s recoil made it lurch backward in the debris. Lying on his stomach, The Kid watched as the heavy lead ball flew toward the stronghold, rising slightly as it traveled.

  It rose just enough to catch Colonel Gideon Black in the belly. The Kid had killed quite a few men in a number of ways, but he had never blown a hole in anybody quite like the hole that cannonball blew through Black. For a second, The Kid would have sworn he could look right through it and see the men standing behind the colonel.

  Then the ball tore through them, too, and crashed into the stronghold with a tremendous impact that sent a cloud of dust and chunks of adobe and wood flying into the air. The Kid couldn’t even see the cliff anymore.

  But he could hear Phil Bateman shouting from the top of it. “The gates, Morgan!” the gunman yelled. “Open the gates!”

  The Kid scrambled to his feet and ran to the gates. The bar that held them closed was too heavy for one man to lift out of its brackets, but he was able to shove it enough so that it fell free at one end. The gates swung open then, and some of Sheffield’s men rushed through, firing toward the stronghold as they charged.

  Exhausted, The Kid reeled over to the wall and collapsed onto the ground. He leaned against the adobe and watched as Bateman’s men mopped up the last of the outlaws. The shooting didn’t last long, only another minute or so. Then silence descended on the place once more.

  The Kid stayed where he was until a buggy rolled through the now wide open gates of the compound and came to a stop not far away. Elena climbed down from the vehicle awkwardly. Someone had draped a jacket around her, over the nightgown she wore. She held out a hand and called, “Señor Morgan! Señor Morgan!”

  The Kid put a hand against the wall to steady himself and pushed to his feet. “Here, Elena,” he called.

  She ran toward the sound of his voice, the long white gown flowing around her legs as she hurried. She came into his outstretched arms and buried her face against his chest.

  “Señor Morgan…Kid,” she said. “You are all right?”

  “Just a little tired,” he told her.

  He looked toward the buggy and saw Glory sitting there next to Sheffield. Someone had given her a coat, too, to cover up the skimpy gown she wore. She gave him a long, intense look, and he sensed that she was saying good-bye to him. She was reunited with her husband…and after a few months, she would be assured of someday being rich.

  The Kid could have told her that having all the money in the world wasn’t what it was made out to be. It couldn’t bring back everything that was lost.

  “Kid, you saved us,” Elena whispered. “You destroyed that monster, Colonel Black, and his men.”

  “I had a lot of help, and a lot of luck, too,” The Kid said. “But we’re alive, and that’s what matters.”

  Sheffield said something to Glory, then climbed down from the buggy and walked toward The Kid and Elena. “Mr. Morgan,” he said. “It seems I owe you a great deal. Mrs. Sheffield told me how you saved her life more than once.”

  The Kid left an arm around Elena’s shoulders as he turned to face the tycoon. “No offense, Sheffield, but you don’t owe me a damn thing. I set out to kill Gideon Black, and I did.”

  Sheffield frowned. “A personal grudge?”

  “You could call it that,” The Kid said, thinking of Sean and Frannie Williams and their little boy Cyrus.

  “You never said anything—”

  “It was my business.”

  Sheffield shrugged. “Of course. But at the very least, you can accept my thanks. They’re heartfelt, I assure you.”

  “You’re welcome,” The Kid said with a nod. “Just take care of that wife of yours. And you might tell me how it is that you and Bateman showed up tonight, instead of tomorrow when the colonel was expecting you.”

  Sheffield smiled thinly. “We were out searching for you and Gloriana, and we were only a few miles from here when we ran into a man heading for Titusville. He had a box with a rather grotesque item in it.”

  Devlin, The Kid thought. He said, “You figured out that Dunbar was one of Black’s spies?”

  Sheffield nodded. “That’s right. We had to kill the man who was carrying his head. He put up a fight instead of surrendering. Then we found Black’s note and the map in the, ah—”

  The Kid said, “I know where they were.”

  “At any rate, once we knew where the hideout was located, Mr. Bateman and I worked out a plan of attack, believing that we could take the outlaws by surprise by striking tonight. Clearly, it was successful.”

  The Kid looked around at the death and devastation filling the stronghold. “Clearly.”

  “It would have been much more difficult, without your help, and there’s no telling what might have happened to Gloriana in the fighting. As I said, I owe you—but never mind. We’ve been through that.”

  “Yeah,” The Kid said. “We have.”

  “I should get back to my wife,” Sheffield said. “Thank you again, Mr. Morgan.”

  The Kid didn’t say anything as Sheffield returned to the buggy and climbed up next to Glory. Beside him, Elena tilted her head as if she were actually looking up at him and asked, “Will you take me away from here, Kid?”

  “Where would you like to go?”

  A shudder ran through her slender body. “Anywhere but here.”

  The Kid knew the feeling.

  No one left until morning, though. By then, the bodies of the dead outlaws had been piled up like cordwood. There were too many of them to haul back to Titusville, and nobody wanted to bury them. Sheffield gave orders for the corpses to be taken into the wrecked stronghold under the cliff. Rocks were piled up in front of the openings, sealing off the place and its grisly contents.

  A few members of the gang had survived, along with Lopez and his wife. They would all be taken to Bisbee and turned over to territorial authorities.

  The Kid commandeered a horse for Elena and some supplies for them. As they were getting ready to leave that morning, Phil Bateman sauntered over to where The Kid was tightening the cinches on the buckskin’s saddle.

  “I had a hunch that before this was over, you and I would find out which of us is faster on the draw,” the gunman drawled.

  The Kid smiled. “It’d be a shame if it had to come to that. This place has seen enough killing.”

  “Yeah. I was kinda thinking the same thing. But maybe another place, another time—”

  “If our trails happen to cross again,” The Kid said.

  Bateman nodded, touched a finger to the brim of his hat, and turned to walk away.

  “That man hates you, Kid,” Elena said quietly. “I heard it in his voice. Why?”

  “I don’t know. Some men just have too much hate in them. It has to come out somewhere.” For a while, he had been that way himself, he thought.

  Glory had pointedly ignored him since the night before, and that was fine with The Kid. As the group prepared to leave the outlaw stronghold, she sat in her husband’s buggy, her face expressionless and her gaze directed straight ahead. But as The Kid and Elena rode past, he saw her eyes flick toward them, just for a second, and he recognized the regret there. She might wind up rich, but she would pay a high price in doing so, and she knew it.

  They rode out throug
h the open gates and turned east, while Sheffield, Glory, Bateman, and the others headed south toward Titusville. Their destinations were different. Their trails had parted.

  For Kid Morgan, it was a lonely trail and always would be. He glanced over at Elena. She couldn’t fill the void in his heart. No one ever would.

  But she could travel beside him for a while, until it was time for their trails to part, as well.

  They rode toward the rising sun.

  Turn the page for an exciting preview of

  SLAUGHTER OF EAGLES

  by William Johnstone

  with J. A. Johnstone

  Coming soon, wherever Pinnacle Books are sold!

  Chapter 1

  From the MacCallister Eagle:

  Statue of Jamie Ian MacCallister To be Dedicated July Fourth

  The noted artist and sculptor Frederic Remington has, for some time now, been busy creating a life-size bronze statue of our founder, the late Colonel James Ian MacCallister. The work was commissioned by the MacCallister City Council and will be paid for by the city of MacCallister and the state of Colorado.

  Governor Frederick Pitkin will be present for the dedication, and will be the featured speaker. Colonel MacCallister’s children will be guests for the occasion, and will occupy positions of honor on the stage with the governor. It is not mere coincidence that the dedication is to be held on the Fourth of July, for Colonel Jamie Ian MacCallister embodied all that was noble about our country and our country’s founders. Festivities for the event are now being planned.

  Falcon MacCallister read the article as he was waiting for his lunch to be served at City Pig Restaurant. The youngest son of the legendary Jamie Ian MacCallister, Falcon was the biggest of all his siblings. He had his father’s size, with wide shoulders, full chest, and powerful arms. And, of all his siblings, he had come the closest to matching his father in reputation.

  However, he did have two siblings, the twins Andrew and Rosanna who, in their own field, were just as well-known. Andrew and Rosanna MacCallister were, according to a recent article in the New York Times, the “Toast of New York Theater.” They had performed for every President from U.S. Grant to Chester Arthur, missing only James Garfield because assassination had limited his term to only seven months. They had also performed for the Queen of England and the King of Sweden.

  But they would not be present for the dedication of their father’s statue.

  That very morning, Falcon had a letter from Andrew and Rosanna, explaining that they would be unable to attend because they would be closing one play on the fourth, and opening a new play one week later. Falcon had visited them in New York a few times, had gotten a glimpse of their world, and though he wished they could be there for the dedication, he could understand why they couldn’t. He was going to have to explain that to his other siblings, and he knew they would not be quite as understanding.

  “Hello, Falcon, it’s good to see you.”

  Falcon looked up from his paper and saw the Reverend and Mrs. Powell. He stood.

  “Brother Charles, Sister Claudia,” Falcon said, greeting his old friends with a smile. “How good to see you.”

  “Please, please, keep your seat,” Reverend Powell said. “It’s a wonderful thing, isn’t it? I mean our town getting a statue of your father.”

  “Yes,” Falcon said. “When I learned what the city council had in mind, I have to admit, I was very pleased.”

  “I have been asked to give the invocation,” Reverend Powell said. He chuckled. “I told them I’m retired now. They would be better off asking young Reverend Pyron.”

  “I asked that you give the convocation,” Falcon said.

  Reverend Powell smiled. “I thought, perhaps, that you did. Though I’m sure there are others who are imminently more qualified.”

  “Nonsense,” Falcon said. “Who better than you? You and my father were very close friends, and, like my father, you were one of the founders of the valley.”

  “I confess, Falcon, that I am both honored and pleased to have been asked to do the invocation. I am very much looking forward to it.”

  “Won’t you join me for lunch?” Falcon invited.

  “Claudia?” The reverend deferred to his wife.

  “We would be pleased to join you,” she said.

  Falcon called the waiter over so he could take their order.

  “Delay my order until theirs is ready,” he said.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. MacCallister.”

  “Now,” Falcon said as the waiter left. “Tell me what is going on in your life.”

  “We are about to be great grandparents,” Claudia said. “Any day now.”

  “Think of it, Falcon. That makes four generations of Powells. What have we loosed on this unsuspecting world?” the Reverend teased.

  The Dumey Ranch, Jackson County, Missouri

  As Falcon and the Reverend and Mrs. Powell enjoyed their lunch, 750 miles east, at a small ranch in Jackson County, Missouri, young Christine Dumey had come out to the barn to summon her brother, Donnie to lunch.

  “Hey, Christine, look at me!” young Donnie shouted at his sister. “I’m going to swing from this loft over to the other one.”

  “Donnie, don’t you do that! You’ll fall!” Christine warned, but, laughing at his older sister’s concern, Donnie grabbed hold of a hanging rope, then took several running steps before leaping off into space. The rope carried him across and he landed on a pile of loose hay.

  “Ha!” Donnie said as he got up and brushed away several bits of straw. “You thought I couldn’t do it.”

  “You are lucky you didn’t break your neck,” Christine scolded.

  “Ah, you are always such a ’fraidey cat,” Donnie said.

  “Mama said we need to wash up for dinner,” Christine called up to him. Donnie was eleven, towheaded and freckle-faced. At thirteen, Christine was beginning to look more like a young woman, than a little girl.

  “I’ll be right down,” Donnie said. He walked over to the edge of the loft and looked out through the big window, toward the main house. He saw three horses tied up at the hitching post. “Hey, Christine, who’s here?” he asked. He grabbed on to another rope, then slid, easily, down to the ground.

  “What do you mean, who is here?”

  “There are three strange horses tied up at the hitching rail.”

  “I don’t know. There was nobody here when I came out to get you. Maybe it’s somebody wantin’ to buy some livestock.”

  Donnie shook his head. “We ain’t got nothin’ to sell right now,” he said. “Papa just sold off all the pigs. Got good money for ’em too.”

  “You look a mess. Come over to the pump. I’ll pump water while you wash your face and hands. I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t have pig doo on you, somewhere.”

  “It’s on my hands,” Donnie said, then, laughing, he ran his hands through Christine’s hair. “And now it’s in your hair.”

  “Donnie, stop it!” Christine shouted in alarm.

  “Oh, don’t get so excited. I didn’t really put pig shit in your hair,” Donnie said.

  “Don’t be using words like that.”

  “Words like what?”

  “You know.”

  “How am I going to know, unless you tell me?” Donnie teased.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Hold your hands under the pump.”

  Donnie stuck his hands under the mouth of the pump and Christine worked the handle until a solid stream of water poured out. Then, wringing his hands to get rid of the water, Donnie and Christine walked into the house. As soon as they got inside they sensed that something was wrong. Three men were standing in the kitchen, while Donnie’s mother and father were sitting in chairs over against the wall. Donnie’s mother had cooked pork chops for dinner and one of the men was holding a pork chop in his hand. He had just taken a bite and a bit of it was hanging from his moustache. He was, by far, the biggest of the three. The other two men were not much taller than Don
nie.

  “Mama, Papa, what’s going on?” Christine asked, the tone of her voice reflecting her concern.

  “Children, these gentlemen are Egan Drumm, and Clete and Luke Mueller,” Chris Dumey said.

  “The Mueller brothers!” Donnie said.

  One of the two small men smiled at Donnie, though the smile did nothing to ease the tension in the room.

  “So, you’ve heard of us, have you?”

  “I’ve heard you rob banks and trains,” Donnie said.

  “What do you think, Luke? We’re famous.”

  “Shut up, Clete, you damn fool.” Luke said.

  “Where at’s the money?” Eagan Drumm asked. Using his teeth, he tore the last bit of meat from the pork chop bone, then he tossed the bone onto the floor.

  “What money?” Chris Dumey asked.

  “Tell him what money, Luke,” Drumm said.

  Luke’s pistol was in his holster, but he drew it and fired, in the blink of an eye. The bullet hit Lillian Dumey in her left leg, and blood began to ooze down over her foot. She screamed out in pain, then doubled forward to grab the wound.

  “Mama!” Christine shouted, and she ran to her mother.

  “You son of a bitch!” Chris Dumey yelled, angrily.

  “I know you got a lot of money from selling your hogs yesterday,” Drumm said. “So don’t be playing dumb with me. I’m going to ask you one more time, where is the money, and if you don’t answer, I’ll put a bullet in her other leg.”

  “No, please! All right, all right, I’ll tell you! Just don’t hurt her anymore! The money is over there, in that vase, under the flowers.

  Drumm nodded at Clete Mueller, and he walked over to the vase, picked it up, then threw it on the floor, smashing it. There, in the shards of broken glass, was a packet of bills, tied together with a string into one neat bundle.

  “Ha!” Clete said, holding up the money. “Here it is!”