The Loner: Trail Of Blood Page 15

  The lawman came to the hotel late in the morning and knocked on The Kid’s door. Arturo was waiting there, too. The buckboard was ready to roll down at Barlow’s livery stable, and The Kid’s black gelding was saddled.

  Fisher came in and gave both men a curt nod. “I didn’t turn up anything about the woman and the children you’re looking for, Morgan. Like I told you last night, I don’t think they were ever here, except to pass through on the train.”

  The Kid nodded in acceptance of that opinion. “Thanks anyway, Marshal.” He shook hands with Fisher. “I appreciate you looking into it.”

  “If you want, I could ride over to Powderhorn with you,” Fisher suggested. “I’d be out of my jurisdiction over there, so I wouldn’t have any legal standing, but I might be able to lend you a hand.”

  The Kid shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but you have enough on your plate right here. How’s that injured woman doing, by the way?”

  “She died early this morning. Elam’s man will be charged with murder. I don’t doubt that he’ll wind up dancing at the end of a hangrope.”

  “Sounds like the best place for him,” The Kid said.

  “I already wired the sheriff over in the county seat. He’s on his way here with some deputies to pick up the prisoner. I’ll have Barnes off my hands before the end of the day, and that’s just fine with me.”

  “Maybe we should stay here to lend you a hand, in case you need it.”

  “You mean if all of Elam’s men ride back here to bust him out?” Fisher smiled and shook his head. “It was different while the girl was still alive. Elam was willing to risk trying to get him out then. Now that it’s murder, he won’t try it. He’s got a thin shred of respectability left in Powderhorn, and he’d like to hang on to it. He won’t risk turning outlaw all the way for scum like Barnes.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Sure enough.” The marshal gave a humorless chuckle. “I’ll say one thing, though. Court Elam’s going to be in a mighty bad mood by the time you and your friend get to Powderhorn.”

  “We’ll have to risk it. Maybe we won’t have any run-ins with his men. We’re just going to Mrs. Shanley’s orphanage. No reason for us to get involved in anything else.”

  “Hope it works out for you. Good luck,” Fisher added as he left the room.

  Less than ten minutes later, The Kid rode out of Abilene, leading the pack mule, with Arturo following in the buckboard. The main trail was easy to follow. Even if it hadn’t been, the railroad tracks lay a couple hundred yards to the south, with the telegraph poles running along beside them.

  They probably wouldn’t be able to cover the whole thirty miles to Powderhorn in one day, The Kid knew, but they would put enough distance behind them that they could reach the settlement the next day without any trouble.

  Arturo had packed a lunch from a place back in Abilene called the Sunrise Café. They stopped to eat and rest the horses early in the afternoon, when they were only a few miles from town, then resumed the trip. A short time later, The Kid spotted some dust ahead of them. A cloud of it boiled up and moved toward them.

  “Riders coming, and they’re in a hurry,” he called to Arturo as he held up his hand in a signal to stop. “Must be half a dozen or more horses, to be kicking up that much dust.”

  “Who do you think they are, and why are they in such a hurry?”

  “I’m not sure, but let’s get off the trail.” The Kid pointed to a clump of scrubby cottonwood trees about a hundred yards to the north. Arturo turned the team and got the buckboard rolling in that direction.

  The Kid hung back and watched the dust approach. When he could see some black shapes at the base of the cloud, he turned the black and galloped over to the trees.

  The cottonwoods didn’t provide all that much cover. If the riders had been paying any attention, they might have spotted the two men, the horses, the mule, and the buckboard, but they were racing hellbent-for-leather toward Abilene and didn’t appear to even glance toward the trees.

  By the time they went past, The Kid had pulled a pair of field glasses from his saddlebags and was watching them. He recognized three of them from the previous evening in Marshal Fisher’s office: the longhaired youngster, the derby-wearing old-timer, and a pale-faced gunnie with jet-black hair, the one member of the group who hadn’t said anything the night before.

  The only one missing was the hombre with the big nose and the drooping mustache. Fisher had told The Kid that his name was Jim Mundy, and that Mundy had a reputation of sorts as a gun-slinger and killer. The old coot was Riggs, the flat-eyed youngster Chet, and the pale gunman Stevenson.

  The Kid lowered the glasses. He could think of only one reason why some of Court Elam’s men would be on their way to Abilene in such a hurry. They had heard about the soiled dove dying and knew the sheriff was on his way to pick up Barnes and take him back to the lockup in the county seat. It looked like some of Elam’s men weren’t prepared to abandon Barnes to that fate, no matter what their boss said. Mundy hadn’t come along, but his place had been taken by three more gun-wolves.

  “You look troubled, Kid,” Arturo said.

  The Kid nodded toward the trail. “Those were some of the men who shot up the marshal’s office last night. I think they’re on their way to Abilene to bust their friend out of jail.”

  “It’s not your responsibility to prevent that.”

  The Kid rubbed his jaw. “I know. And my kids could be less than thirty miles away, right this very minute.” He grimaced. “But Fisher’s a good man, and he tried to help us.”

  “Only after you helped him,” Arturo pointed out.

  “That wouldn’t have made any difference.” The Kid said with certainty.

  He reached a decision. “I’m going back. It’s not that far to town. You can wait for me here. There’s some shade, and I shouldn’t be gone long.”

  “Unless you’re fatally injured, of course.”

  “In that case, don’t wait.”

  “Kid, perhaps I should come along—”

  “You’re good at a lot of things, Arturo,” The Kid said with a smile, “but this is my kind of work.”

  With that, he heeled the black into a run and took off after the hardcases who were pounding toward Abilene.

  Chapter 24

  By the time The Kid came in sight of the town, he heard the faint popping of gunfire. Elam’s men hadn’t wasted any time, he thought grimly. They had just ridden in and started shooting.

  He figured Marshal Fisher had to be alive since the battle was still going on. If the lawman had been able to fort up in the sturdy stone building that housed his office and the jail, he would be able to hold off Elam’s hired killers for a while.

  As long as the shooting went on, the innocent citizens of Abilene would also be in danger.

  The Kid knew better than to go charging in without scouting out the situation first. Being careless was a quick way of getting killed. He pulled his Winchester from the saddle boot and reined the black to a stop on the edge of town. Dropping to the ground, he ran around one of the buildings and started up the alley that ran behind the businesses. He could tell from the steady blasting of guns when he was getting close to the ruckus.

  He moved up the side of a hardware store until he reached the front corner of the building. Venturing a glance into the street, he saw that he was diagonally across from the marshal’s office. Guns roared to his right. The Kid looked that way and saw four men firing at the office. One of them was stretched out behind a water trough, Stevenson crouched behind a barrel on the porch of the general store, and the old-timer Riggs and another man had taken cover behind a wagon parked in front of the store. The Kid didn’t see the longhaired youngster Chet or the other man who had been in the group riding toward Abilene.

  The whereabouts of Chet and the other man worried The Kid. He had a hunch they were up to no good somewhere close by.

  Return fire came from one of the windows in the marshal’
s office. The shutters were closed except for a narrow gap that allowed Fisher to thrust the barrel of his rifle through it. Eventually Riggs and the others might do enough damage to the shutters with their heavy, continuous fire that the shutters wouldn’t stop their bullets anymore. Likewise, Fisher might be able to pick off attackers even though they were behind cover, if he had long enough to work at it.

  For the moment, it was a standoff. The Kid was glad to see the boardwalks along both sides of the street were deserted. The citizens had scrambled to get out of sight as soon as the shooting started. Maybe no innocent bystanders would be hurt.

  None of the gunmen had spotted The Kid. He was going to take them by surprise, he thought as he lifted his Winchester. He could down a couple before they realized what was going on, and then he would take his chances with the other two.

  But before he could fire, he spotted movement on top of the jail. The building had a flat roof with a low stone wall around it. The Kid saw the heads of two men moving around behind that wall.

  Chet and the other man, The Kid realized as the men rose up on their knees. He recognized the longhaired killer without any trouble. They were fumbling with something between them, and as sparks suddenly flew, The Kid figured out Chet had lit the fuse attached to a small bundle of dynamite being held by the other man. The hard-case put a hand on top of the wall and leaned out. He was going to drop the dynamite right in front of the window where Fisher was shooting at the men across the street.

  Without thinking, The Kid snapped the rifle to his shoulder and fired. The slug smashed through the shoulder of the man with the dynamite and threw him backward. The red, paper-wrapped cylinders of explosive flew high in the air as they slipped from his fingers, then dropped back toward the roof.

  Chet let out a terrified yell and leaped off the top of the building. He might break a leg in the fall, but at least he wouldn’t get blown to smithereens.

  It wasn’t working out exactly like The Kid had hoped. He yelled to the marshal, “Fisher, get out of there!” as he swung the rifle toward the other killers and worked the lever. It was no longer a matter of surprise since his first shot had warned them that he was there.

  Riggs and the other man behind the wagon swung about and opened fire on him. The Kid ducked around the corner as flame spurted from their gun muzzles and bullets began to whip past his head.

  Across the street, Chet scrambled to his feet and ran away from the marshal’s office, limping heavily. Obviously he hadn’t broken his leg when he landed. He hadn’t made it very far when the dynamite exploded on top of the building.

  The blast was powerful enough to shake the ground under The Kid’s boots. The force of it sprayed chunks of rock through the air and picked Chet up, tossing him forward like a rag doll. Debris carried far enough to pelt the buildings across the street, forcing Riggs and his pals to stop shooting for the moment and duck for cover. A cloud of dust and smoke billowed up, obscuring The Kid’s view of the marshal’s office.

  He was sure he hadn’t seen Fisher come out of there before the blast.

  The Kid recovered his wits and stepped out of the alley with the rifle ready in his hands. Stevenson, who still knelt behind the barrel on the porch, jerked his rifle toward him. The Kid’s Winchester cracked first, the slug drilling into Stevenson’s chest and knocking him on his ass.

  The Kid shifted his aim toward the wagon. Riggs had fallen down, but the other man was still on his feet. He got a shot off, the bullet chewing splinters from the wall near The Kid’s head. The Kid’s rifle blasted again. The man doubled over as the bullet slammed into his belly and tore through his gut.

  The next instant, The Kid’s Winchester was ripped out of his hands as a bullet from the man on the ground behind the water trough smashed into the breech. Pain shot up The Kid’s arms as his hands went numb. He dived to the ground at the mouth of the alley. Another bullet went over his head, then another. Riggs had climbed to his knees and was back in the fight with a revolver he had yanked from the holster on his hip.

  The Kid tried to force his stunned nerves and muscles to work, but he couldn’t draw his Colt. It would only be a matter of seconds before Riggs and the other man filled him full of lead.

  Marshal Fisher came out of the cloud of smoke and dust that still clogged the street. He was hat-less and blood streaked his face, but he was alive and had a revolver in his hand. “Hey!” he shouted, causing Riggs and the other killer to turn toward him. Flame geysered from the muzzles of all the guns as the three men opened fire.

  Riggs stumbled and clutched at his chest. Crimson welled between his fingers. He fell to his knees, then pitched forward onto his face. The other man’s head jerked as one of Fisher’s slugs exploded through it. He dropped his gun and rolled onto his side as he died.

  Fisher didn’t seem to be hurt any worse than he already was when he emerged from the smoke. Slowly, he lowered his gun.

  Enough feeling had returned to The Kid’s right arm and hand that he was able to reach down and draw his Colt. He pointed it in Fisher’s direction and pulled the trigger. Fisher jumped in surprise as the bullet sang past his head.

  The slug thudded into flesh behind him, and he turned his head in time to see Chet collapse with a bright flower of blood blooming on the chest of his shirt. He smacked face-first into the dirt as his gun fell out of his hand.

  Fisher looked at The Kid, nodded, and said into the sudden, echoing silence, “Obliged.”

  “Same here,” The Kid said with a nod toward Riggs and the other man Fisher had shot.

  That was all either man needed to say.

  The Kid climbed wearily to his feet. He grimaced as he looked down at his Winchester lying in the dirt and saw that the rifle was ruined. He’d buy another one, of course, before he rejoined Arturo and proceeded on to Powderhorn. But the battle with Elam’s men might have complicated the whole thing, he thought.

  He walked over to Fisher. “How bad are you hurt?”

  “Not enough to worry about,” the lawman replied with a shake of his head. “A few nicks and bruises, that’s all. I was damned lucky. I got blown out on top of the front wall.”

  The Kid looked at the marshal’s office. The smoke had cleared enough for him to see some of the damage the explosion had done to the building. Most of the front wall had collapsed, and so had some of the roof. The other walls were still standing.

  “What about your prisoner?”

  “I don’t know,” Fisher said. “Reckon I’d better go see, as soon as we make sure all the rest of these varmints are dead.”

  That didn’t take long. None of the men had survived. The Kid figured there wouldn’t be enough left of the man who’d been on the roof when the dynamite went off to bury.

  Guns in hand, the two men approached the ruined jail. They picked their way through the rubble of rocks and splintered roof beams until they reached the cell block. The roof had come down on top of the cell where the prisoner was being held. The Kid could see an arm and a leg sticking out from under the rubble, along with a rapidly spreading pool of blood around the remains.

  “Well, his friends saved him from the hangrope, anyway,” The Kid said.

  Now that the shooting was over, the people of Abilene began to emerge from their hiding places. A large group of them gathered in the street to gape at the destruction the dynamite had wreaked on the marshal’s office and jail.

  A wagon pulled up, and a black-suited man—the undertaker—climbed down. “Some of you fellas help me load these bodies.” He and some volunteers began lifting the dead gunmen into the back of the wagon.

  The Kid and Marshal Fisher climbed out of the rubble. Nodding toward the gash on the lawman’s forehead, The Kid suggested, “You’d better have a doctor stitch that up.”

  Fisher dabbed at the sticky blood with his fingertips. “I suppose you’re right. Come along with me?”

  “Sure,” The Kid replied with a shrug. The two of them walked along the street. The air still smelled of dust
and gunsmoke.

  “What made you come back?” Fisher asked. “I thought you were on your way to Powderhorn with your friend.”

  “I was. But we spotted those riders coming and my gut told me to get off the trail. When they rode past I recognized some of the men who were here last night. Figured they were bound for trouble and thought you might be able to use a little help.”

  “That’s for damned sure. I didn’t see Jim Mundy among them.”

  “He didn’t come along. I thought you figured Elam wouldn’t try to get his man free, now that the charge was murder.”

  “Mundy not being here proves that,” Fisher replied. “Riggs and Chet were a pair of hotheads, a lot alike even though there were probably forty years between them. Elam likely said to let it alone, but they couldn’t swallow that. Barnes was their friend. So they decided to bust Barnes out anyway and talked some more of Elam’s men into coming with them.”

  “That was a mistake on their part.”

  Fisher grunted. “The last one they’ll make.”

  They had reached the trim little house where the local doctor’s practice was located. The medico was young but seemed quite competent. He cleaned and sewed up the gash on the marshal’s forehead, then wrapped a bandage around Fisher’s head.

  As they left the doctor’s office, The Kid asked, “What’ll you do for a jail now?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll find some place to lock up prisoners if I need to. There are some pretty sturdy smokehouses around here. I’ll salvage what I can from the office and move into the town hall until we can fix the place.”

  “Rebuild it, you mean. I think Chet and the other man on the roof underestimated the amount of damage that dynamite was going to do. They were going to drop it right down in front of the window where you were returning the fire of the others and blow a hole in the front wall.”

  “Yeah, that would’ve blown me up, too,” Fisher said. “How come it went off on top of the building instead?”