Bullets Don't Die Read online

  “I do”—a grim look settled over Porter’s face—“but it’s not money. Those men abused and murdered a young woman. A friend of my daughter’s in fact. I would’ve trailed them pretty much all the way to hell if I had to . . . if they hadn’t run into you two first.”

  “Good Lord,” Tate muttered. “That’s awful. I didn’t feel bad about killing them to start with because I knew they had to be owlhoots of some sort, but now I wish we’d made them suffer more.”

  “At least they’re dead. It won’t bring that poor girl back, but it’s about as close to justice as we’ll find in this world.”

  The three men stood in solemn silence for a moment, then The Kid said, “There might still be a little coffee in the pot, Marshal. You’re welcome to join us if you want.”

  “I’m obliged for the invitation,” Porter said with a nod. “I’ll take you up on it. When I saw your fire I left my horse about half a mile downstream. I’ll fetch him and be back shortly.”

  “We don’t have any supper left, but I can fry up some bacon while you’re gone,” The Kid offered.

  “No need, but again, I’m obliged. I’ve still got plenty of jerky and biscuits I brought with me. I knew it might be a long chase.”

  Porter started down the creek while The Kid and Tate returned to the fire.

  “What do you think?” The Kid asked. “Is he telling the truth about everything?”

  “I believe so,” Tate said. “I was pretty suspicious at first because I thought I knew all the lawmen in these parts and I’d never heard of him. The last I heard, a fella named Griggs was the marshal in Chalk Butte. But like I told Porter, that’s been a few years. They could have changed marshals over there more than once in that time.”

  The Kid nodded. “He seems genuine enough to me, too.”

  “I’m going to keep an eye on him anyway,” Tate said. “It never hurts to be careful.”

  Porter returned about a quarter hour later leading a saddled horse. He unsaddled the animal and picketed it with the others.

  “We boiled some more coffee,” Tate said, “so you won’t have to drink the dregs.”

  “Mighty hospitable of you.” Porter brought out his own cup, filled it from the pot, and settled down to make a late supper of jerky and biscuits he took from his supplies. Between bites, he said, “Reason I asked about those saddlebags is those men stole some jewelry from the girl they attacked. I’d like to be able to take it back to her family. It won’t help much . . . hell, it won’t help any, I expect . . . but at least losing it won’t make matters even worse.”

  “It should still be there,” The Kid assured him.

  From the other side of the fire, Tate said, “I’m a little curious about something, Marshal.”

  “What’s that?” Porter asked.

  “Did you bring a posse with you?”

  Porter shook his head. “No, this was a chore I wanted to handle myself. Like I said, the girl was a friend of the family.”

  “So those four hardcases were running away like the Devil himself was after them, when it was only one man?”

  “I guess they didn’t know I was by myself. Either that or they figured I was mad enough they didn’t want me catching up to them, alone or not.” Porter shook his head. “Let’s face it, after what they’d done, they had to know there was no place they could hide. If they were ever caught, they’d be strung up. Even most other outlaws would’ve gunned them down like the hydrophobia skunks they were.”

  Tate nodded slowly. “That’s true, I reckon.”

  Porter turned to The Kid. “I’ve been thinking. I remember hearing a lot about a man named Morgan. A gunfighter. Just the sort of man who wouldn’t think twice about throwing down on those badmen, even with four to one odds. But you seem mighty young to be him.”

  “You’re talking about Frank Morgan,” The Kid said.

  “That’s it. That’s the name, all right.”

  “I’m not him.” The Kid left it at that and didn’t go into the details of his relationship to Frank Morgan.

  “This is Kid Morgan,” Tate added.

  Porter smiled thinly. “Are you a gunfighter, too, Kid?”

  “There are no wanted posters out on me, if that’s what you’re asking, Marshal.”

  “Can’t blame an old lawman’s instincts for kicking in.” Porter took another drink of the coffee and nodded in satisfaction. “That’s good. So we’ll share this camp tonight and then go our separate ways in the morning? I’m anxious to get back home, and I expect you are, too, Marshal.”

  “That’s right,” Tate said.

  “Copperhead Springs . . . Maybe I’ll get over that way again one of these days.”

  “You’ll be welcome,” Tate assured him. “Copperhead Springs is a nice, friendly place.”

  Chapter 5

  After a shared breakfast in the morning, the men saddled up and got ready to ride.

  “Do you want those three horses that belonged to the men you were chasing?” Tate asked Marshal Bob Porter. “We don’t really need them.”

  Porter shook his head. “No, I reckon they’re rightfully yours now.” He patted one of the saddlebags slung on his horse. “I got that jewelry I came after, and the only other thing I wanted was to see those scum brought to justice. You and The Kid here took care of that.”

  “Well, I’m glad we could help out, even though we didn’t know at the time what they’d done.”

  Porter swung into the saddle and lifted a hand in farewell as he turned his horse. The Kid and Tate stood for a moment, watching him ride off to the east before they mounted up as well.

  “It strikes me the marshal is a pretty good hombre,” Tate commented. “And my years carrying a badge have given me a pretty good instinct for such things.”

  “I think you’re right,” The Kid said. “He seemed friendly enough, but if I was a lawbreaker I don’t think I’d want him hunting me.”

  They pushed on west toward Copperhead Springs. As they rode, The Kid asked Tate if he knew how the place got its name.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. This was before I ever came to these parts, of course, but back when the wagon trains were coming through here, one group of immigrants decided to stop and settle at some springs they came to. A good supply of water is one of the most important things a town can have, and these springs looked like they’d been there for a long time and were in no danger of going dry. So the people figured they’d build a town around the springs.

  “They hadn’t been there long, though, before they realized the place was crawling, and I do mean crawling, with copperhead snakes. Several folks got bitten, and a couple even died.

  “So the immigrants were faced with another decision. They could leave that perfect spot for a settlement, or they could stay and try to wipe out the snakes. They decided to stay and fight.”

  “I’m guessing they eventually got rid of the snakes?”

  Tate nodded. “It took a long time, but the old-timers tell me nobody has seen a copperhead around there for more than twenty years. I know I’ve never seen one since I went there to be the marshal. Other kinds of snakes every now and then, but no copperheads. Which is fine with me, because I don’t care for snakes, period.”

  “I don’t, either,” The Kid said. “I spent some time once in a place called Rattlesnake Valley.”

  “Now that is somewhere I would not like to go,” Tate drawled with a smile on his lined face.

  “It’s not quite as bad as it sounds, especially now that all the two-legged reptiles are cleaned out.”

  Tate glanced over at him. “You had something to do with that, I’m betting?”

  “A little,” The Kid admitted.

  When they camped that night after an uneventful day, Tate said, “We ought to make the town by tomorrow evening. I’ll be glad to get back.”

  “Do you have a deputy you left to take care of things while you were gone?” The Kid asked.

  “Oh, sure. Deputy, uh . . . Deputy . . .” Tate laug
hed and shook his head. “If that don’t beat all. I’ve had so many deputies they’re getting all mixed up in my head. And this boy’s almost like a son to me.”

  “Well, it doesn’t really matter,” The Kid said. “I’ll be meeting him soon enough when we get there.”

  “Hope you’ll stay around town for a while and take advantage of our hospitality. Copperhead Springs is one of the friendliest towns you’ll ever find.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be around if you can help me get a job on one of the ranches in the area,” The Kid pointed out.

  “You’re looking for a riding job?”

  “Yeah. I told you yesterday.”

  “Oh.” Tate laughed again. “Well, I’ve slept since then, haven’t I?”

  “I guess we both have.” The Kid broke out the skillet and the coffeepot and started preparing supper.

  They slept well that night and were on the trail again early the next morning. Tate brought up the cowboying job The Kid hoped to get. “Since you mentioned it last night, I’ve been doing some thinking about it, and I think the place to start would be Cy Levesy’s Broken Spoke Ranch. It’s the biggest spread in the area, and Cy’s a good friend of mine.”

  “I appreciate that,” The Kid said.

  “Of course, if Cy really doesn’t need any hands right now, I’m sure he’d take you on anyway, as a favor to me, but I wouldn’t ask him to do that.”

  The Kid shook his head. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

  “There are plenty of other outfits around that might take you on. You won’t be without work long, I guarantee that.” Tate chuckled. “After seeing the way you can shoot, maybe I ought to hire you as my deputy. I could use a good man to take over when I’m gone.”

  “I thought you already had a deputy,” The Kid said with a frown.

  “What? Me? No, I’ve been keeping the peace alone in Cottonwood Springs for years now.”

  “Copperhead Springs.”

  “What about it?”

  “You said Cottonwood Springs instead of Copperhead Springs.”

  Tate frowned and shook his head. “No, I don’t think I did.”

  “I’m pretty sure—”

  “Maybe you just heard me wrong. Copperhead, cottonwood, they’re sort of similar sounding. That’s all it was.” Tate looked relieved and went on. “I should know what the town’s called, since we were talking about Cy Levesy a few minutes ago and Cy’s one of the old-timers in those parts. He told me the story about how a wagon train full of immigrants on their way west came to the springs and decided to stop there. A town needs a good supply of water, you see, and those springs were good and strong and looked like they’d been there a long time. They weren’t likely to dry up any time soon. But it wasn’t long after those folks decided to settle there that they discovered the place was crawling, and I mean crawling, with copperheads. Mean, nasty snakes those are, let me tell you. They bit some of the settlers, and a few of those poor people died. So they were faced with the choice of moving on and leaving those springs behind, or staying and trying to get rid of the snakes, because other than that, the place was perfect for a town. What do you think they did?”

  Slowly, trying not to frown, The Kid said, “They decided to stay and wipe out the snakes?”

  Tate grinned and slapped his thigh as he rode along easy in the saddle. “That’s exactly what they did! It took a while, mind you, years, in fact, before they got rid of all those scaly little devils, but folks who have been around there for a long time, like Cy Levesy, tell me it’s been twenty years or more since anybody saw a copperhead around.”

  “Maybe they should change the name of the town to No Copperhead Springs,” The Kid said.

  That brought a pleased laugh from Tate. “That’s a good one. It surely is. I’ll have to tell Cy what you said, Mister . . . uh . . .”

  “Just call me Kid.”

  “Sure, Kid. Anyway, I’ll tell Cy. That’s a good one.”

  The Kid turned his head and stared off into the distance. He didn’t want Tate to see the bleak look he knew was in his eyes.

  In the roughly day and a half he had known the marshal he had noticed several times that Tate seemed to be a mite absentminded. At first The Kid hadn’t thought anything about it. Everybody could be forgetful at times. Even someone as young and healthy as he was had things slip his mind.

  But Tate seemed more muddled than he had been the day before, from not being able to remember his deputy’s name—if he even had a deputy—to forgetting the name of the town where he lived, to telling The Kid the same story about the origin of the town’s name as if he had no memory of spinning the same yarn the night before. It was troubling to think a man could forget so much.

  If he couldn’t remember such basic things, how could anyone know if anything he’d said had been true?

  The Kid glanced over at his companion, specifically at the badge pinned to Tate’s vest.

  How could he be sure Tate was really a lawman? The badge looked real . . . the badge might be real . . . but did Tate really have the right to wear it?

  And if he did, what sort of town would hire a man with obvious mental problems to keep the peace?

  The Kid didn’t know, but he suspected he would find out. He knew Copperhead Springs existed because he had seen it on that map, which was a recent one, as he recalled. For the same reason, he knew they were headed in the right direction to reach the settlement. The best thing to do, he decided, was to keep riding along with Tate and see what happened when they got there.

  One thing he knew was he couldn’t ride off and leave the man alone out on the prairie. The shape he was in, there was no telling what might happen to him.

  Although Tate had been plenty capable when it came to gunplay, The Kid reminded himself. He had drilled that outlaw and saved The Kid’s life.

  Obviously there were some things Tate hadn’t forgotten.

  Late that afternoon, they topped a ridge and The Kid was able to look down into a green valley watered by a narrow, meandering stream flowing from a large pool on the far side of the valley. Sunlight reflected brilliantly from the surface of the pool, which was no doubt fed by those springs. Between stomping snakes, those early settlers must have figured out a way to trap some of the flow from the springs to form the pool.

  The settlement itself lay just to the south of the springs. To the north was a beautiful parklike area. The town was good sized consisting of four main streets running parallel to each other for half a dozen blocks, with the corresponding cross streets. The Kid saw a couple church steeples, a large brick building at the edge of town that was probably the school, and some substantial-looking businesses in the downtown area.

  A nice place to live, Tate had claimed, and The Kid could believe that, at least, judging by what he saw as the two of them approached. Peaceful, Tate had called it.

  But maybe not.

  A flurry of gunshots suddenly erupted, and as the ominous crackle drifted through the late afternoon air, Tate stiffened and leaned forward in the saddle. “Trouble!” he exclaimed. “And in my town! I’ll put a stop to that!”

  Tate dropped the reins of the extra horses he’d been leading and kicked his own mount into a run, ignoring The Kid’s urgent “Marshal! Wait!”

  Too late. Whatever the trouble was, Tate was charging right into the middle of it.

  And The Kid had no real choice but to go straight after him.

  Chapter 6

  The Kid dropped the reins of the pack horse and the extra saddle mount, then sent the buckskin galloping after Tate. The trail turned into the main street of Copperhead Springs. The shots were coming from the center of town.

  Tate reined in about fifty feet in front of The Kid and swung down smoothly from the saddle, his feet hitting the ground before his horse ever stopped moving. The marshal might have trouble remembering some things, but he was still mighty spry for his age.

  He had come to a halt in front of the Trailblazer Saloon, which appeared to be a large, s
uccessful establishment. By the time The Kid reined in and dismounted, Tate had bounded up the steps to the boardwalk. Gun in hand, he started toward the saloon’s batwing entrance.

  The shots had stopped for the time being, but they might start again without any warning, especially if Tate charged in there blindly with his gun drawn. As the lawman reached the bat wings, The Kid called after him, “Marshal, maybe you’d better—”

  With a crash of glass, a man came flying through one of the saloon’s front windows. He landed on the boardwalk, rolled under the railing, and dropped off the edge, landing limply on the ground with a heavy thud.

  Tate had paused with his left hand on one side of the bat wings, ready to thrust it open. He turned his head to stare in surprise at the man crashing through the window. Before the marshal could start inside again, a big man bulled his way through the doorway, slapping the bat wings aside.

  The swinging doors smacked into Tate and drove him back a step. One of his boot heels caught on the planks of the boardwalk, and he lost his balance and sat down hard.

  The man sneered at Tate. “Better watch where you’re going, Grandpa.”

  Anger welled up inside The Kid. “No, you’re the one who’d better watch out, mister.”

  The man glared murderously as he swung his head around to look at The Kid. He was huge, with slab-muscled shoulders seemingly as broad as an ox-yoke, long, gorilla-like arms, and a big gut that looked soft but probably wasn’t. Black stubble covered his cheeks, and his hat was pushed back on a thatch of equally coarse black hair.

  “What’d you say, mister?” he demanded in a rumbling voice.

  “I said you should watch where you’re going,” The Kid snapped. “That man you just knocked down is the marshal of Copperhead Springs.”

  A bark of laughter came from the big man. “What, that old fool?”

  Tate made a lunging grab for the revolver he had dropped when he fell. “I’ll show you who’s an old fool, you big lummox!”