Bullets Don't Die Page 7

  “Harlan said to have Ahern waiting for them . . . said if he wasn’t turned loose by then, they’d take him out of the jail . . . and make the town pay for defying him. Give him what he wants, and he promised . . . they wouldn’t kill anybody.”

  “Is that all?”

  Cumberland’s head moved slightly from side to side. “No . . . He heard about how you . . . beat Ahern. The town has to . . . turn you over to them as well.”

  “And if that doesn’t happen?”

  “He said that Broken Spoke . . . would make everybody in Copperhead Springs sorry.”

  “Did he tell you all this before or after they tied you to a horse and dragged you?”

  A little croaking sound came from Cumberland. It took The Kid a moment to realize the marshal was laughing.

  “Harlan said all that . . . before his boys jumped me. Said for me to . . . see that what he wanted was done.”

  “What did you tell him?” The Kid asked.

  Again that croaking laughter. “Told him . . . to go to hell.”

  Having seen what he had of Marshal Riley Cumberland, The Kid wouldn’t have thought the lawman had that much defiance in him. But the marshal’s badly beaten condition seemed to indicate he was telling the truth.

  “He told his men . . . to be sure not to kill me,” Cumberland went on. “He wanted me alive . . . to bring his message back to town.”

  That agreed with the theory The Kid had explained to Constance earlier. “So what is it you want me to do, Marshal? Do you really expect me to turn Ahern loose and surrender myself to Levesy’s men?”

  “No . . . Hell, no . . . Got to . . . fight them. Get everybody together . . . tell them it’s time to fight . . .”

  “If I do that,” The Kid warned, “innocent people are liable to get hurt.”

  “You think they won’t get hurt . . . if the Broken Spoke keeps running things . . . around here?”

  Cumberland had a point there, The Kid thought. Innocent people like Ed Phillips had already been hurt. And others would continue to suffer at the hands of the Broken Spoke crew as long as they were a law unto themselves.

  “That’s enough,” Franklin said. “He really has to rest now.”

  “Not yet!” Cumberland tried to push himself up from the pillows, but grimaced as he failed. “Give me . . . your word, Morgan.”

  “I can’t speak for anybody else in town,” The Kid said, “but I don’t like giving in to skunks like that. I won’t back up from their trouble.”

  “Good,” Cumberland breathed. “People will look at you . . . and know what they need to do.”

  The Kid never set out to be anybody’s leader. Sometimes circumstances thrust him into that role, however, and it appeared to be one of those times, he thought as Cumberland’s eyes closed. The battered lawman’s chest rose and fell fairly steadily as sleep claimed him.

  “He’s worn out,” Franklin said quietly. “Be the best thing in the world for him if he sleeps the clock around.”

  “Maybe,” The Kid said. “Question is, if he does that will there still be a town here when he wakes up?”

  He left the doctor and the marshal and returned to the front porch.

  Bert clutched at The Kid’s sleeve. “How is he? What did he have to say? Is he going to be all right?”

  The others gathered around The Kid to hear what he’d learned. “I’m no sawbones, but I think the marshal will recover. He’s resting now. I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to talk to him, Bert.”

  The swamper sighed and shook his head. “As long as he’s all right, it don’t really matter. It’s, uh, not like he ever talks that much to me anyway.”

  “Why did he want to talk to you, Mr. Morgan?” Constance asked.

  “To pass on a warning. Harlan Levesy’s riding to town with his men the first thing in the morning. He expects Ahern to be turned loose by then, or he’ll take it out on the town.”

  “What’d I tell you?” Bennett said. “That’s what we have to do.”

  Constance looked at The Kid. “That’s not all Levesy wants, is it?”

  “Well, no,” The Kid replied with a faint smile. “He wants me, too. I expect he wants to turn me over to Ahern.”

  “So Ahern can kill you,” Constance said heavily.

  “I’m not afraid of Ahern.”

  “Maybe not, but I say no! We don’t turn Ahern loose, and we sure as hell don’t serve you up on a silver platter.”

  “You’d better think about that, Constance,” Bennett urged. “We never even saw this man before today.”

  “I don’t care. I’m not gonna condemn him to death just because I’m afraid of Harlan Levesy.” The woman’s voice was scornful as she added, “And I’m a little surprised and disappointed that you would, Milt.”

  “I’ve got a family and a business to think about,” Bennett snapped. “Those things have to come first.”

  “What if Harlan Levesy decides he wants to take over that business one of these days? What if he comes to you, offers you a fraction of what the stable’s worth and tells you you’d better accept . . . or else?”

  “Why would he do that? He’s not interested in taking over anything here in town.”

  “Not yet, maybe,” Constance replied. “But I never yet saw a man hungry for power who was willing to back away from the table.”

  The Kid thought she was right about that.

  Her words appeared to have gotten through to Bennett, too, as he stood frowning and looking uncertain. After a moment he said, “If we don’t give in, what can we do?”

  “Fight,” Constance answered without hesitation.

  “That’s what Marshal Cumberland wanted me to do,” The Kid offered. “He asked me to get folks together and get them ready to take on the Broken Spoke.”

  “But those men who work for Levesy are killers!” Bennett ojected. “We’re just . . . just normal people.”

  “You can hold a gun, point it, and shoot it, can’t you?” Constance asked.

  “Yeah, and I can get shot, too!”

  “A horse could kick you in the head and kill you tomorrow, Milt. You just don’t know. None of us do. We risk our lives every time we get up in the morning. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to risk them for something worthwhile for a change?”

  The Kid was willing to let Constance do most of the talking. She was good at it. He had other talents, most of which involved killing.

  Those would be needed, too, before it was over.

  “All right,” Bennett said. “I don’t like being run roughshod over any more than you do. And it’s true there’s no telling what Levesy will do in the future if we don’t stop him now. If we back down from him—again!—it’ll convince him he can do whatever he damn well pleases and get away with it.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Constance said with a curt nod. She turned to The Kid. “It appears the marshal put you in charge, Mr. Morgan. What do we do now?”

  “Spread the word. Anybody who has a gun and is willing to fight needs to be somewhere downtown at sunup tomorrow. That’s where we’ll make our stand. Anybody who’s not going to fight needs to lay as low as possible. We don’t want to have to worry about them.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “I plan on being front and center,” The Kid said. “I think it’ll be time for Harlan Levesy and me to meet face-to-face.”

  Chapter 12

  With the showdown coming first thing in the morning, The Kid knew he needed some rest. While Constance and Bennett split up to spread the word through Copperhead Springs, The Kid and Jared Tate returned to the marshal’s office. There was an old sofa in the office where The Kid figured he could stretch out and get a little sleep.

  Tate had been quiet during the discussion of how to meet the threat from the Broken Spoke, but when they reached the office, he said, “I wish Cy Levesy was still alive. I can’t believe he isn’t. He’d put a stop to this in a hurry.”

  “I’m sure he would, Marshal.”

  “You
don’t have to call me that,” Tate said with a shake of his head. He looked down at the badge pinned to his vest. “I know this tin star of mine is just an old souvenir.”

  “You wore it proudly. No reason you still can’t.”

  “I appreciate that.” Tate sat down behind the desk. “Hard to believe little Riley Cumberland grew up to be the marshal. He was always getting in trouble when he was a kid. No ma to raise him, you know, just Bert. And Bert was always either drunk or working at some odd job to make money for whiskey. Riley . . . well, Riley always sort of hated his old man, I think.”

  “Bert cares about him,” The Kid said.

  “Yeah. A father always does. Why, I always doted on my girl Bertha.” Tate smiled. “I remember last year I brought this puppy home for her . . .” His voice trailed away. After a moment he said, “That wasn’t last year, was it?”

  “Probably not,” The Kid said.

  “She’s a grown woman now. Got a husband and kids of her own. I . . . I seem to recall staying with them for a spell . . .”

  “I’m sure you’ll go back and see them when this trouble is all over,” The Kid said.

  He hadn’t given much thought to what should be done about Tate, but clearly he needed somebody looking after him. He couldn’t be left alone to roam around on his own, lost in the past with his memories going in and out of his head.

  The Kid stretched out on the sofa and tipped his hat down over his eyes. “I’m going to get some shut-eye. But I’ll be awake in time to get ready for Levesy and the bunch from the Broken Spoke. You won’t wander off, will you, Marshal?”

  “No, I’ll stay right here,” Tate declared firmly. “Don’t worry, Kid, I’ll hold down the fort.”

  Like most frontiersmen, The Kid had developed the knack of being able to go to sleep quickly and wake up when he wanted to. He dozed off almost as soon as he closed his eyes, and when he opened them he knew it was about an hour before dawn.

  The marshal’s office was dark. The lamp had either gone out, or Tate had turned it out. The Kid sat up on the sofa. “Marshal?”

  No one answered him.

  He swung his legs off the old sofa and stood up. He had spent enough time in the marshal’s office that he sort of knew where things were, so he was able to cross the room and find the desk. He took the glass chimney off the lamp, struck a match, and lit the wick. The yellow glow that welled up revealed the room was empty except for The Kid.

  He bit back a curse. He had told Tate not to wander off!

  And he had trusted a man whose mind was half gone to do what he was told. It was his own fault, The Kid thought. He had never before dealt with anyone who had the sort of problems Tate did, and he had made assumptions he shouldn’t have made.

  It was too late to do anything except look for the old lawman . . . and he had to get out and see how the town was progressing with its preparations for the Broken Spoke crew, he reminded himself. He could combine those two tasks.

  Leaving the lamp burning in case Tate came back, The Kid left the marshal’s office and went to the corner. The buildings along Main Street were dark, but as he started along the boardwalk, someone called softly, “Who’s that?”

  “Morgan,” The Kid replied.

  An audible sigh of relief came from the man who had challenged him. “Constance said you were takin’ over as the marshal, Mr. Morgan.” The man stepped out of the dark mouth of an alley, holding a rifle slanted across his chest. “Do you have any orders?”

  The Kid started to explain he wasn’t the marshal, or even an acting lawman, but there didn’t seem to be any point. “Do you know where the other men are set up?”

  “Not all of ’em, no, but I got a couple fellas in this alley with me, and I know there’s a man with a rifle on top of the hardware store across the street.”

  “That’s good,” The Kid said with a nod.

  “Uh, Marshal . . . when the Broken Spoke gets here, how will we know if we’re supposed to start shootin’?”

  A grim chuckle came from The Kid. “You’ll know. You haven’t seen Marshal Tate, have you?”

  “The old fella who used to be the marshal here? No, can’t say as I have.”

  “Well, if you see him, tell him to go back to the marshal’s office, will you?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Morgan.”

  The Kid moved on up the street and encountered men barricaded inside stores, crouched behind water barrels, and waiting behind false fronts. When he spoke to them, he heard the tension in their voices, but at least they seemed to have their nerves under control.

  No one had seen Jared Tate. It was possible the old lawman had found himself a saddled horse, mounted up, and ridden off bound for no telling what destination. In a way that would be better, The Kid thought. Tate would be well out of harm’s way, at least as far as the potential battle with Levesy’s men. Of course, he might find himself in other danger.

  When The Kid reached the Trailblazer Saloon, he found Constance sitting on a bench in front of the saloon with a shotgun across her knees. “The town’s ready. As ready as it’s ever going to be, I guess.”

  The Kid nodded. “I’d say we’ve got between thirty and forty men waiting to join in when the shooting starts.”

  “Don’t you mean if the shooting starts?” Constance asked with wry humor.

  “I’d like to think there’s a chance of that, but from everything I’ve heard about Harlan Levesy, that’s not what I’m expecting.”

  “And you’d be wise not to,” Constance agreed. “He won’t back down. I never saw a man with more stubborn pride in my life. Reckon it comes from feeling like he could never measure up to his father.”

  “Do you know how many men he has in his crew?”

  “That depends on whether he brings all his hands or just the gunnies. He has about ten actual cowboys working for him, taking care of the real work on the Broken Spoke, but twenty hombres who were hired for their guns.”

  “So we’ll outnumber them either way.”

  “Yeah,” Constance said, “assuming none of our men lose their nerve and run. And you’ve got to remember that a professional killer is more than a match for two or three store clerks and blacksmiths.”

  The Kid knew that, but it was too late to worry about such considerations. He changed the subject. “Have you seen Marshal Tate?”

  “Jared?” Constance sat up straighter and peered sharply at The Kid in the gray predawn light. “Blast it, you haven’t lost him, have you?”

  “He was in the marshal’s office when I dozed off for a while, but when I woke up . . .”

  “Damn it! I should have kept him with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” The Kid said. “I didn’t think about him wandering off like that, and I should have.”

  “He wandered off from his daughter’s house in Wichita and wound up here, clear across the state. There’s no telling where he might go.”

  The Kid didn’t mention he’d already thought that same thing.

  “Well, he’s bound to be around somewhere. As long as he stays out of the line of fire, we can always find him later,” Constance went on. “Assuming there is a later.”

  “I got the feeling that at one time the two of you—”

  “Mind your own business,” she broke in. “What happened a long time ago doesn’t have anything to do with what happens today.”

  “The past always has an effect on the present,” The Kid said, thinking about all the times his own past had risen up to torment him.

  “I guess so, but we’ve got bigger worries right now, like surviving the next hour.”

  He nodded. “You’d better go inside and stay there.”

  She lifted the shotgun. “I didn’t bring this Greener out here for show.”

  “No, but you can shoot over the bat wings if you need to, or from a window.”

  “Maybe, but it’ll be another half hour before the Broken Spoke gets here.” She took a deep breath. “I’m enjoying the morning air.”

  Th
e Kid didn’t waste time arguing with her. He just nodded and brought up something that had occurred to him. “When I ran into Marshal Tate, he told me he was on his way back from delivering a prisoner to Fort Hays. Somebody named Brick Cantrell.”

  Constance nodded. “Jared took Cantrell to the army, all right . . . ten years ago.”

  “So that part was true.”

  “You bet it was. Cantrell was a real bad hombre. Deserted from the army and put together a gang that rampaged all over this part of the country. After they raided the town, Jared put together a posse and went after them. They managed to catch the gang napping and jumped them. Killed about half the owlhoots, and the other half got away . . . except for Cantrell. They captured him and brought him back, and Jared turned him over to the army. He’s been locked up ever since.” Constance sighed. “Yeah, in his time, Jared Tate was one hell of a lawman, to put it bluntly. And now we have to worry about him because he might have wandered off and doesn’t know where he is. It’s just sad.”

  The Kid agreed. He nodded and moved on to check the defenders ranged along the rest of the street.

  A golden glow had started to creep into the eastern sky, spreading like water flowing across the heavens. While he still had a little time, The Kid went back to the marshal’s office, thinking Tate might have returned there out of habit, but the room was still empty.

  He went to the cell block door and opened it. Jed Ahern wasn’t sleeping and snoring anymore. The huge, ape-like man stood at the door of his cell, his fingers wrapped around the iron bars. “Where’s the marshal?” he demanded. “He better let me outta here if he knows what’s good for him.”

  “Marshal Cumberland can’t do anything right now,” The Kid said. “He went out to the Broken Spoke yesterday evening to try to talk sense to your boss.”

  A vicious grin spread across Ahern’s face. “So he’s dead, is he?”

  “No, but no thanks to Levesy and the rest of that bunch.”

  “Well, he’ll be dead soon enough,” ahern said with callous disregard. “And so will you, mister. If I know Harlan, him and the boys will be showin’ up any time to teach this town a lesson it’ll never forget.”