Bullets Don't Die Read online

  “Where is it they live?” The Kid said. “Wichita?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, if you’re going over there, Marshal, I’ve got a big favor to ask of you.”

  “Sure, go ahead, Kid.”

  “You think it would be all right if I rode along with you? I’m headed in that direction myself, and the company would be nice on a long trip like that. Not to mention I’d feel a mite safer having a lawman along.”

  “I suppose that just makes sense,” Tate said. “And I’d admire to have your company, too, Kid. When do you want to go?”

  The Kid glanced at Constance. There were still a few hours of daylight left, and he didn’t want to waste this opportunity. It might be easier to keep Tate from getting lost in the past if they were away from Copperhead Springs.

  When Constance gave him an encouraging nod, he said, “I travel pretty light. I can gather up my gear, pick up a few supplies, and be ready to ride in half an hour.”

  Tate chuckled. “I like that. No point in burning daylight. I’ll be ready, too.” He lifted his mug. “To Wichita.”

  “To Wichita,” The Kid replied as he lifted his own mug. That had gone easier than he expected. Of course, they weren’t actually on the trail yet.

  And even if they managed to get started, he was pretty sure the trip itself wouldn’t be easy. He expected challenges every foot of the way.

  Chapter 16

  Constance hugged them before they mounted up to ride away. Not surprising, the embrace she gave Tate lingered longer than the one The Kid got, which he didn’t mind. It was possible Constance would never see her old friend and lover again.

  Tears shone in her eyes as she turned back to The Kid, but with her usual hard-boiled attitude, she managed not to shed them.

  “Don’t you let anything happen to him,” she warned. “If you do, I’ll never forgive you, and you don’t want me holdin’ a grudge against you.”

  “No, I don’t think I do,” The Kid agreed with a smile. “Don’t worr y.”

  “I swear, Constance, you talk like I’m a little kid who needs somebody to look after me,” Tate said. “You don’t have to be like that. I’m fine. Nothing wrong with me. I’m sharp as a tack, just like I always was.”

  That was one of the pernicious things about Tate’s condition, The Kid thought. At this moment, the old lawman completely believed what he was saying . . . because he couldn’t remember all the times when it wasn’t true.

  “Don’t get your feathers ruffled,” Constance said. “I was about to tell you the same thing about him. We owe The Kid a lot. I don’t want anything to happen to him.”

  Tate nodded. “Oh. I understand now. Well, like he told you, don’t worry. We’ll look after each other.”

  “Sounds like a good plan,” The Kid agreed.

  Several of the townsmen gathered to shake hands and say good-bye as well, among them Doc Franklin, Riley Cumberland, and Bert Cumberland. The marshal hadn’t fully recovered from his injuries, but he was getting around fairly well.

  “The town is in good hands,” Tate told Cumberland as he shook with him. “I wouldn’t be leaving other wise.”

  “I really appreciate that, Marshal. I’ll try to live up to it a little better than I have sometimes in the past.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Tate assured him.

  With their farewells said, The Kid and Tate swung up into their saddles, waved to the people they were leaving behind, and rode out of Copperhead Springs.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing my daughter and her family,” Tate said as they left the settlement behind them. “But I already know it’ll be good to get back home after our visit.”

  The Kid didn’t say anything. There was a good possibility Jared Tate would never set foot in Copperhead Springs again, but he didn’t see any reason to point that out. Even if he did, Tate would soon forget it.

  They were able to cover only a few miles before the hour grew late enough to start looking for a good campsite. The Kid hadn’t expected to travel very far. He’d just wanted to get started while Tate’s mind seemed to be fairly clear and the old lawman was being cooperative.

  They spread their bedrolls in a small, grassy hollow. There was no water nearby, but their canteens were full so that wasn’t a problem. The café in Copperhead Springs had sent food with them, so they didn’t even have to worry about preparing a meal, but The Kid brewed a pot of coffee.

  “Do we need to take turns standing watch?” Tate asked as he sipped from his cup after supper.

  “You think that’s necessary?”

  “Well, you never know when a Pawnee or Kiowa raiding party might come along.”

  The Kid figured it had been at least ten years, maybe longer, since any war parties had haunted those parts. Except in isolated places along the Mexican border where Apaches still raided from time to time, as The Kid knew from personal experience, the threat of Indian warfare was over.

  He said carefully, “I haven’t heard about any trouble from hostiles recently, Marshal. I think we’ll be fine.”

  “There are bands of roving bandits, too,” Tate insisted. “Brick Cantrell and his renegades are out there somewhere, and they could strike any time.”

  “That buckskin horse of mine is a mighty good sentry,” The Kid said. “If any other horses come around, he’ll let us know. Same with Indians or wild animals.”

  “Well, in that case I guess we might as well turn in and get a good night’s sleep.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.” The Kid cleaned up the little bit that needed doing after supper, checked on the horses, and then the two of them rolled up in their blankets. Even though the weather was warm, by morning it would be a little chilly out on the prairie.

  The Kid had been telling the truth about counting on the buckskin to warn them if any strange men or horses came around, but he was also relying on his own instincts, which had been honed quite sharp by the dangers of the past few years. He knew he would sleep lightly.

  He dozed off easily, a habit frontiersmen developed, and had no idea how long he had been asleep when something roused him. His eyes came open and he was awake instantly, in time to see a dark shape looming over him. He heard the metallic ratcheting of a gun being cocked.

  The Kid threw himself to the side, the bedroll impeding him slightly. When the gun roared the bullet came close enough for him to feel its warmth against his cheek as he rolled out of the way barely in time. He threw the blankets off and swept his leg around, catching the calves of the man who’d just tried to kill him.

  The man let out a startled yell as The Kid jerked his legs out from under him. The gun blasted again, but was pointed harmlessly at the night sky as the man fell.

  As The Kid surged to his feet, he grabbed the Colt from the holster he’d left lying close beside him. He almost fired, but instead stepped forward and swung his leg in a kick, catching the gunman’s wrist and knocking the man’s weapon flying.

  He stepped back and leveled his gun. “Don’t move!” He was worried this skulker could have already harmed Marshal Tate.

  He didn’t have to worry about that, he discovered with a shock as a second later Tate said from the ground, “You’d better go ahead and kill me, Cantrell. If you don’t, I’ll ventilate your mangy hide as soon as I get the chance!”

  The Kid stood with his heart slugging in his chest, trying to wrap his brain around the fact that it was Tate who had just tried to blow his brains out . . . and come mighty close to succeeding!

  After a moment, he said, “Marshal, listen to me! I’m not Brick Cantrell. It’s me, Kid Morgan. You know me.”

  “I never heard of any Kid Morgan. I’ve been on your trail for weeks, Cantrell.” Tate sat up and rubbed his wrist where The Kid had kicked him. “You’re a deserter and an outlaw, and I’m going to take you in.”

  The Kid muttered a curse, holstered his Colt, and backed off to the glowing embers of their campfire. Keeping a close eye on Tate, he knelt and stirre
d the embers back to life, feeding in some buffalo chips to make the flames grow brighter.

  “Look at me, Marshal. I don’t know what Brick Cantrell looked like, but you can tell I’m not him.”

  “You could be wearing a disguise,” Tate said, but The Kid heard doubt creeping into his voice.

  “No. You know better. You know who I am, if you’ll just stop and think about it.”

  The glow from the fire lit up Tate’s weathered old face, which was more haggard than usual. He stared across at The Kid, who couldn’t tell if he saw any signs of recognition in the old lawman’s eyes or not.

  Finally Tate said hesitantly, “Kid? Is that you?”

  The Kid sighed in relief. “That’s right. You remember me now? Kid Morgan? We’ve known each other for almost three weeks, and we left Copperhead Springs together this afternoon. We’re on our way to Wichita so you can visit your daughter and her husband.”

  “Copperhead Springs . . . I know that name. I . . . I used to live there.”

  “You were the marshal there for years, but you’re retired now. Remember?”

  “Of course I remember,” Tate snapped, abruptly losing his tentative, confused attitude. “Do you think I’m some sort of idiot?”

  “No, sir, not at all.”

  “There were some men . . . bad men . . . and we fought side by side against them. And . . . and Constance was there . . .”

  “That’s right.”

  Tate glared at him. “Did you just kick me? What the hell did you do that for?”

  “I’m sorry, Marshal,” The Kid said. “That was my mistake. Reckon I, uh, was dreaming or something and woke up thinking you were a bad hombre.”

  “Maybe I’d better move my bedroll a little farther away if you’re prone to doing things like that.”

  “No, it won’t happen again.” Although to be honest, The Kid wasn’t sure how he was going to prevent something similar from occurring. “Why don’t you go back to your bedroll and try to get some sleep? We’ll be on the trail a long time tomorrow.”

  Tate got to his feet and gave The Kid a suspicious frown. “Can I trust you? No more crazy shenanigans?”

  “I give you my word on it, Marshal.”

  “All right, then.”

  Tate hadn’t mentioned his gun, and The Kid wasn’t about to bring up the subject. He waited until the old lawman had rolled up in the blankets again and didn’t move until Tate’s deep, regular breathing testified that he was asleep.

  The Kid walked quietly to the area where the marshal’s gun had landed and searched until he found the weapon lying in the grass. He opened the cylinder and unloaded it, then stowed away the bullets and the gun in his gear.

  Tate was bound to think of the gun eventually and want to know where it was, and The Kid had no idea what he would say then. It hadn’t occurred to him Tate might be dangerous to himself and to innocent folks around him. He might be fuzzy about what year it was, or whether he was still the marshal, but he’d always known who needed shot and who didn’t.

  The Kid knew he couldn’t risk letting Tate carry a gun anymore.

  But he would think about that in the morning. It was the middle of the night and he just wanted to sleep.

  Despite that wish, sleep was quite a while coming.

  The next morning, Tate seemed to have no memory of the incident. From time to time he moved his hand around and frowned at his wrist, as if he were trying to remember how he might have hurt himself, but he didn’t say anything about it.

  The Kid had been awake first, and taken Tate’s holster and shell belt and put them away, too, hoping if the marshal didn’t see them, he wouldn’t think to ask about the gun. Surely he hadn’t gone around packing iron when he lived with his daughter. Wichita was a big city. The Kid figured they probably had laws about such things. He decided not to say anything else about Tate being a frontier lawman, not wanting to stir up those memories.

  The marshal seemed to be in a good mood, like they were on some sort of outing. The Kid supposed that was true. Tate had gone off on an adventure, and now he was returning home.

  They made breakfast of the beef, beans, and biscuits left over from what they’d had the night before, then saddled up and rode out, following the trail leading east. Tate talked about everything under the sun, mostly about people The Kid had never heard of. He didn’t mind. It seemed to keep Tate happy.

  In the middle of the day they stopped for lunch, then pushed on again. They had seen a few riders in the distance during the day, probably cowboys working on the ranches in the area, but it was a couple hours after noon before they encountered anyone on the trail. The Kid saw something up ahead and realized it was a wagon stopped at the side of the rough road. The vehicle was canted over, appearing to have lost a wheel.

  Two men stood beside the wagon looking disconsolately at it, as if they were trying to figure out what to do. The Kid was no expert on such things, but as he and Tate rode up he looked at the wagon and decided the nut had come off the left rear wheel, allowing the wheel to slip off its hub. As long as the nut wasn’t lost, or if they had an extra one, the problem wouldn’t be too difficult to remedy.

  “Howdy,” he said as he and Tate reined in. “Can we give you fellas a hand?”

  The two men had heard them approaching, but didn’t turn to look at them until they stopped. One of them was big and shaggy like a bear, wearing a duster and a battered old top hat. He carried two revolvers tucked behind a sash wrapped around his ample middle. The other man was smaller, reminding The Kid of a weasel with his sharp face and mean eyes. He was hatless, with leather trousers and a wool shirt. What looked like an old cap-and-ball pistol rode in a holster at his waist.

  The Kid didn’t like the looks of either man. When he glanced at the mules hitched to the wagon, he saw scars of old wounds on their backs where they had been whipped repeatedly. He knew mules could be balky and frustrating, but the sort of cruelty represented by those marks rubbed him the wrong way.

  “Lost a wheel,” the big man said unnecessarily. “I guess if you want to help me lift the wagon, my partner can slip it back on.”

  “All right.”

  As The Kid dismounted, he glanced at the back of the wagon. It was loaded with bulky cargo covered by canvas and tied down. What they were hauling was none of his business, of course, but the furtive looks the smaller man kept shooting back and forth between him and the wagon made him a little leery of trouble.

  The Kid hoped he hadn’t made a mistake by deciding to be a Good Samaritan. He wanted to get the wheel back on the wagon as quickly as possible so the two men could be on their way and he and the marshal could be on theirs.

  He and the big man stepped to the drooping corner of the vehicle. The Kid was on the side of the wagon, the other man around at the the rear. As they bent to get a good hold, the big man said in a friendly fashion, “Where you fellas headed?”

  “Wichita,” The Kid answered, not offering any more information than that. He wanted to get this chore finished and be on their way again.

  When they were set, The Kid shouted “All right . . . heave!”

  With grunts of effort, they lifted the wagon. Through clenched teeth, the big man said, “All right . . . Selmon . . . get the wheel . . . back on there.”

  “I don’t think so.” The man called Selmon stepped back quickly, pulled his old percussion pistol from its holster, and swung the barrel back and forth between The Kid and Tate. “That old man’s the marshal from Copperhead Springs! Don’t you recognize him, Benny? They’re on to us, and we’re gonna have to kill ’em both!”

  Chapter 17

  “What are you doing?” Tate exclaimed. “Put that gun down, you fool.”

  The big man, Benny, let out a startled curse. “Selmon, you shouldn’t oughta—”

  It was too late for that. Selmon had drawn his gun, and The Kid could tell he was ready to shoot. The man’s piggish little eyes gleamed with the desire to kill.

  The Kid let go of the
wagon and jerked his body backward as the old pistol erupted with a dull boom. Flame stabbed from the muzzle, followed by a gout of black smoke.

  The balls fired by those old percussion weapons didn’t travel nearly as fast as slugs from modern cartridges. The Kid heard one drone past his ear, sounding remarkably like a hummingbird.

  Benny screeched in pain, and The Kid thought Selmon’s shot had struck him. Then a glance told him the wagon’s weight had been too much for Benny to hold up by himself. He’d lost his grip, and the rear corner of the wagon had fallen on his foot.

  With Benny no threat for the moment, The Kid concentrated on Selmon. The man tried to swing the pistol in line again, but he was too slow by far. The Kid could have drawn twice before Selmon could get off another shot.

  As it was, the Colt flashed from his holster and his finger was on the trigger, ready to fire, when Marshal Tate launched himself out of the saddle and tackled Selmon from behind. The Kid stopped himself from squeezing the trigger so he wouldn’t take a chance on hitting the old lawman.

  Tate and Selmon crashed to the ground. Selmon had managed to cock the pistol again, and the jolt made it go off. The ball plowed into the trail, leaving a furrow in the dirt.

  Selmon twisted around and threw an elbow into Tate’s chest, knocking the lawman loose from him. Like a snake, he writhed to the side and started to swing the percussion pistol at Tate’s head like a club.

  Before the heavy weapon landed, The Kid’s boot came down on Selmon’s wrist, pinning it to the ground. Selmon yelped as The Kid’s weight bore down on his bones and flesh. His fingers opened, releasing the gun.

  The Kid reached down with his left hand and plucked the gun from Selmon’s hand. He pointed the Colt still in his right hand at Selmon’s face. “You’d better stop fussing. I’m in no mood for this.”

  “ You . . . you . . .”