The Loner Page 19

  The door into the cell block opened, and Marshal Davis came in with another man, a tall, imposing, white-haired gent in an expensive suit and Stetson. Morgan and Bearpaw were the only prisoners at the moment, other than a couple of drunken Navajos sleeping off a bender, but the marshal pointed at them anyway and said, “There they are, Colonel.”

  “Thank you, Marshal,” the man said in deep, powerful tones. Morgan had heard voices like that before, and they were nearly always in courtrooms. He got to his feet and went over to grasp the iron bars in the door as Marshal Davis went back into the jail office and the stranger came over to the cell.

  “Did Turnbuckle send you?” Morgan asked tensely.

  The man smiled and said, “Colonel Theodore Binswanger at your service, sir. My old friend from law school, the esteemed Claudius Turnbuckle, did indeed communicate urgently with me this afternoon via the telegraphic wires. He asked that I render any possible aid to you, and, I suppose by extension, to your ruddy companion there. It’s quite fortunate for you that Claudius is acquainted with someone who practices law here. Marshal Davis tells me that the charge will be quite serious when you’re arraigned. Murder.”

  “It wasn’t murder,” Morgan snapped. “Baggott fired first, and so did Hooper. It was self-defense in both cases.”

  “The story told by the proprietress of the establishment varies considerably from that version, Mr. . . . Morgan, is it?”

  “That’s right.” Morgan didn’t know how much Turnbuckle might have told Colonel Binswanger in his telegram, so for now he was going to keep his connection with Conrad Browning to himself.

  “Oh, by the way,” Binswanger said as he reached into his coat, “Claudius sent a private wire for you as well.” He held out a folded, sealed paper. “I’ve honored the sanctity of your communication.”

  “Obliged,” Morgan said as he took the telegram and tore it open to read the words printed on it.

  WHAT IN THE BLAZES STOP THOUGHT YOU WERE

  DEAD STOP WILL TRY LOCATE FRANK AND TELL

  HIM STOP TRUST BINSWANGER STOP FULL OF HOT

  AIR BUT HONEST STOP

  Morgan folded the message and slipped it into the pocket of his black shirt. He was glad he had finally gotten in touch with Turnbuckle. At least, he had started the process of letting his father know that he was still alive. It had taken a lot longer than Morgan had intended.

  “Now, what can you tell me about the fatal incident?” Binswanger asked.

  Morgan rubbed his jaw. He had been thinking about how to play this.

  “Bearpaw and I just stopped at the whorehouse for . . . well, you know.”

  The lawyer sniffed. “I am aware of the establishment’s unsavory reputation naturally, though I have no, ah, personal knowledge of what goes on there.”

  “Bearpaw was outside, and I was just standing there in the parlor when that first fella came in, yelled something about Carson City, and started blazing away at me. All I can figure is that he thought I was somebody else, somebody he had a grudge against.”

  “Have you ever been to Carson City?”

  “Yeah, but I never saw that hombre before,” Morgan lied. “He didn’t have any reason to throw down on me.”

  “What happened then?”

  Morgan told the rest of the story just the way it had happened, leaving out only the part about Bearpaw questioning Spence Hooper—and then putting Hooper’s own knife in the outlaw’s chest.

  Binswanger nodded and said, “That does indeed sound like classic, clear-cut cases of self-defense. Unfortunately, it’s your word against that of this . . . Rosa. And I’m relatively certain that the, ah, ladies in her employ will corroborate her testimony.” The lawyer lowered his voice. “However, I happen to know that there’s a move afoot among the city fathers to clean up some of the more unsavory sections of town. I have a feeling that if there was even one witness to support your claims, the judge could be persuaded to drop the charges against you before the case proceeds any further . . . on the condition, of course, that the two of you depart from our fair city posthaste.”

  “We’d be glad to,” Morgan said, thinking of what Hooper had told them about Rattigan and White Rock prospecting in the Sangre de Cristos up in Colorado, “if the marshal would just let us out.”

  Binswanger sighed. “I’ll see what I can find in the way of a witness,” he said. “But to be honest with you, sir, I don’t hold out much hope of success.”

  Neither did Morgan. He knew that the soiled doves who worked for Rosa weren’t going to contradict her story.

  Binswanger left the jail, and Morgan sat down on the cot next to Bearpaw again. He picked up his hat, which was lying on the cot next to him, and looked at it idly. After a moment, he said, “Well, damn.”

  “What is it?” Bearpaw asked.

  Morgan held up the hat and poked his finger through a hole in the crown. “There’s a matching one on the other side,” he said. “My hat fell off when I was tussling with Hyde, and then when Hooper took that shot at me, the bullet must have hit the hat while it was lying on the floor.”

  “Pure luck once again. Good luck, in this case.”

  “How can you say that? I’ve got a hole in my hat!”

  “Better than a hole in your head,” Bearpaw said.

  Morgan laughed. “You’re right about that.”

  They watched the light fade in the cell’s single, barred window. It faced west, so they could see a slice of sky as it turned orange and crimson from the setting sun. Some of those brilliant hues still remained in the sky when Colonel Binswanger appeared again, bustling into the cell block when the marshal unlocked the door. A smile wreathed the old attorney’s face.

  “Superlative news,” Binswanger said as he came up to the cell door, followed by the marshal, who was jingling a ring of keys. “A witness came forward to support your story. I didn’t even have to locate her. She came to me when she heard that I was representing the two of you.”

  “She?” Morgan repeated.

  Binswanger waved off the question as Davis unlocked the cell door and swung it open. “Judge Applewhite has dismissed the charges.”

  “We weren’t even arraigned yet,” Morgan said, not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, but puzzled by the turn of events.

  “You were arraigned in absentia, and then the charges were dismissed. Simple really. Informal, but effective. The only caveat, as I said, is that the two of you are now expected to depart as soon as possible. You are henceforth persona non grata in Gallup.”

  “He means light a shuck outta here,” Marshal Davis growled.

  “We intend to,” Morgan said as he retrieved his Stetson from the cot. “Just as soon as I buy a new hat.”

  “Make it quick,” the marshal warned. “Rosa’s gonna pitch a fit when she hears about this. And she’s still got some influential friends in this town. Men who use the back door when they visit her place, if you know what I mean.”

  Morgan did. He wasn’t surprised to hear that some of Gallup’s leading citizens were also secret patrons of the whorehouse.

  He and Bearpaw followed Binswanger out of the cell block, with the marshal bringing up the rear. Binswanger led them through the jail office. They stepped out onto the porch, and Morgan was surprised to see the young whore Tasmin standing there, wearing a simple brown dress.

  “You?” he said. “You’re the one who told the law what really happened?”

  She nodded. “That’s right. I couldn’t let you and your friend be railroaded for something you didn’t do.”

  She stood there while Binswanger shook hands with Morgan and nodded civilly to Bearpaw. “I’ll bid you gentlemen farewell. Claudius instructed me to submit the bill for my services to Turnbuckle and Stafford, and he would see to taking care of it.”

  “Thanks,” Morgan said. “You were a big help, Colonel.”

  Binswanger shook his head. “I didn’t do all that much.” He gestured toward Tasmin. “It was mostly this young lady here.”


  He tipped his hat to her and then walked away.

  “You know you’re not going to be able to work for Rosa anymore after this,” Morgan told her. “I don’t know how we can thank you for what you’ve done.”

  “I do,” Tasmin said. “I heard what that bastard Hooper told you.” The loathing in her voice told Morgan that she’d probably had a few unpleasant experiences with Hooper while he and Baggott were staying at Rosa’s. “You’re going to Colorado to look for those two men he was talking about, aren’t you?”

  Morgan glanced at Bearpaw, who inclined his head as if to say that it was pretty obvious they were, but he was leaving the decision of what to tell Tasmin to Morgan.

  “That’s right,” Morgan said to her. “I reckon we are.”

  “Then if you want to pay me back for helping you . . . take me with you.”

  Chapter 19

  Morgan and Bearpaw both stared at the young soiled dove. “Take you with us?” Morgan repeated after a moment, thinking about the danger he and the Paiute would be riding into for the foreseeable future. “We can’t do that.”

  “Well, I can’t stay here in Gallup,” Tasmin said. “Do you think Rosa’s going to let me get away with helping you? At the very least, she’ll have Hyde beat me. She might even order him to kill me.” She shook her head. “No, I’ve got to get out of town, and since I got in trouble helping the two of you . . .”

  “She has a point, Kid,” Bearpaw said.

  Morgan struggled with the decision facing him. When he rode away from Carson City, he’d had in mind tracking down the kidnappers on his own, so that no one else would be endangered. Then he had wound up traveling with Bearpaw. That had worked out all right so far, other than the fact that the Paiute had been wounded. Now this young woman—little more than a girl actually—was asking to join them on their journey as well.

  Tasmin seemed somehow different now that she was out of the whorehouse. She had scrubbed the paint off her face and was dressed more modestly, of course, but she also sounded more intelligent when she spoke. Morgan supposed that most men didn’t go to a place like Rosa’s for the conversation . . .

  His thoughts were straying, and Tasmin still stood there on the jail porch waiting for an answer. Morgan took a deep breath. Considering what she had done for him and Bearpaw, he didn’t see how he could deny her request. All she wanted was a chance to be safe from Rosa’s revenge.

  “All right,” he said. “You can come with us . . . for now. But if we find a good place for you to stay, that’s it. You’ll need a horse, too—”

  “I have one. How do you think I got here to Gallup?”

  “I don’t have any idea. And don’t take that as a request to tell me your life story.” Morgan knew he was being a little rude, but he didn’t like being forced into things. “We’ll be leaving in about ten minutes. Can you be ready to ride?”

  “I can,” she replied without hesitation. “I don’t have much in the way of belongings, and I brought it all with me when I slipped out of Rosa’s and went to look for Colonel Binswanger. My bag is down at the livery stable with my horse.”

  “All right. We’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

  “Thank you. You won’t be sorry, Mr. Morgan.”

  She had said something similar when she was about to take him upstairs in the whorehouse, but it sounded entirely different now.

  Tasmin hurried off, while Morgan and Bearpaw angled across the street toward a general store so that Morgan could buy a new hat. He still had quite a bit of the money he had brought with him from Carson City. As plentiful as game was, they hadn’t had to spend much on supplies.

  The store didn’t have a black hat like the one Morgan had been wearing. He settled on a brown one instead, with a lighter brown band. The crown was slightly higher than his old hat, but still flat.

  “Looks good on you,” Bearpaw said. “Why don’t you get that buckskin jacket there to go with it?”

  Morgan frowned as he looked at the jacket Bearpaw indicated. It was the sort that pulled over the head, with a neck opening that laced up with a rawhide thong. Fringe decorated the shoulders and arms of the garment.

  “Sort of gaudy, isn’t it?” he asked. “And this weather’s too hot for a jacket.”

  “Sure, it’s hot now,” Bearpaw admitted, “but it won’t be long before the northers start blowing down through these parts. You can be sweating at noon and shivering by the time the sun goes down. Besides, that rawhide fringe comes in mighty handy for mending saddles or harness.”

  Morgan thought it over for a moment, then shrugged and nodded. “All right, you’ve talked me into it. I don’t reckon it would hurt to be prepared for cooler weather.”

  He paid the storekeeper for the purchases, then walked out wearing the brown hat, with the buckskin jacket thrown over his left arm. He still thought it was a little gaudy—but he had to admit it was the sort of thing a notorious gunfighter might wear, at least in dime-novel illustrations. And since Morgan had been basing a lot of his new personality on those very dime novels, he supposed he ought to dress the part.

  Give people what they expected to see, Bearpaw had said. Morgan was willing to do that.

  Their horses were still in the corral next to Rosa’s. Morgan kept a wary eye on the place as they retrieved the buckskin and the Appaloosa, in case Rosa spotted them and sent Hyde after them. The door was closed and the shades were pulled on the windows, though. It looked like the house was closed down, maybe because Rosa was mourning her brother.

  Tasmin was waiting in front of the livery stable when they walked up, leading their horses. She had changed into a man’s work shirt with the sleeves rolled up a couple of turns on her forearms, as well as a pair of denim trousers.

  Morgan glanced at her saddle and asked, “You’re going to ride astride?”

  Her chin lifted defiantly. “I reckon you already know that I’m not exactly a lady. I never cared for a sidesaddle.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Morgan said. A faint smile touched his lips as he recalled all the times he had seen Rebel riding that way. She didn’t have any use for a sidesaddle either.

  The three of them mounted up. Tasmin had a canvas bag tied to her saddle horn. She reached inside it and brought out an old hat with a floppy brim. She jammed it down on her head and heeled her horse into motion. Morgan and Bearpaw exchanged quick grins as they let her take the lead.

  “Where exactly are we going?” Morgan called after her as they reached the edge of town.

  “Colorado, right? Somewhere in the Sangre de Cristos?”

  “You know how to get there?”

  Tasmin slowed her horse and looked back at the two men. “Well . . . no,” she admitted. “I just wanted to get out of Gallup as quickly as I could.” She gave Morgan a challenging look as she went on. “Do you know how to get there?”

  “Just a general idea. I reckon Bearpaw does, though.”

  “Heap right,” Bearpaw said. “Know-um way to mountains.”

  Tasmin’s expression was withering as she said, “You’ve forgotten that I heard you talking back at Rosa’s place. Don’t try to pull that on me.”

  Bearpaw chuckled. “Sorry. You get in the habit of doing something and it’s hard to stop.”

  “Not me,” Tasmin said as she faced forward again. “I’d just as soon break all of my habits, and the sooner the better.”

  Bearpaw was right about the weather. As they traveled eastward across the rugged New Mexico landscape, the first couple of days remained warm, even hot, but then on the third morning, a strong wind started blowing out of the north. It carried more than a hint of a chill in it.

  “I told you,” Bearpaw said as they got ready to break camp. “Tonight, it’ll be cold enough to make your breath fog.”

  Morgan wondered what that would mean for the sleeping arrangements. The first two nights, there had been a minimum of awkwardness because Tasmin took her bedroll and carried it a good distance away from the men before she spread
it out. Tonight, she would probably want to be closer to the fire.

  By noon, he had taken the buckskin jacket out of his saddlebags and slipped it on to help shield him from the chilly wind. Tasmin wore a flannel coat, and Bearpaw had a small buffalo robe draped around his shoulders. The sky was clear, but the Paiute frowned as he squinted up at it.

  “Snow in less than a week,” he announced with serene confidence.

  “How can you tell that?” Morgan asked.

  “My people live in harmony with nature. We know these things.”

  Tasmin laughed. “One of my grandfathers was a Hopi medicine man. He always said things like that.”

  “And he was right, wasn’t he?” Bearpaw asked.

  “Usually,” Tasmin admitted with a shrug.

  That night, the air was frigid. As Morgan expected, Tasmin spread her blankets near the fire. He made sure there was a little distance between them when he laid out his own bedroll. He went to sleep with the sound of the north wind howling in his ears.

  When his eyes snapped open sometime later, the wind had died down. Unsure what had woken him, he gazed up into a crystal-clear sky in which the stars seemed like they were about to tumble down around him.

  Then, something moved against his back. His muscles tensed. His hand moved toward the Winchester that lay on the ground beside him.

  “It’s just me,” Tasmin said in a sleepy voice as she snuggled closer to him. “I got cold, so I moved my blankets over next to yours. All right?”

  Morgan grunted, then said, “Fine. I wouldn’t want you to freeze. Go back to sleep.”

  She didn’t, though, and neither did he. After a few minutes, she said in a small, tentative voice, “Kid?”

  “What?”

  “The other day at Rosa’s place, when you picked me to take upstairs . . . you didn’t really want to go up there with me, did you? You were just looking for Baggott and Hooper, right?”

  “That’s right,” Morgan said. He tried not to be curt or cruel about it, but he wasn’t going to lie to her.