Bullets Don't Die (10 page)
Authors: J. A. Johnstone
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 . . .”
The Kid bore down with his boot heel on Selmon’s wrist.
“Ahhhhh!”
“What did I tell you about that? Now, I’m going to step back, and you’re going to sit up and stay right there. Because if you don’t, I’ll shoot you. Don’t doubt that for a second.”
Selmon opened his mouth, but if he was about to curse at The Kid, he thought better of it. His mouth snapped shut and stayed that way as he sat up.
The Kid stepped back, keeping Selmon covered as he asked, “Marshal, are you all right?”
Tate climbed slowly to his feet and brushed the dust off his clothes. “I’m fine. You think these two have learned their lesson, Kid?”
The Kid looked at Selmon cradling his painful wrist with his other hand, then at Benny, who was slumped against the wagon whimpering, trapped by the vehicle’s weight on his foot.
“I don’t know,” The Kid said in answer to Tate’s question. “Let’s see what they were so worried about.” He tucked Selmon’s revolver behind his gun belt and moved closer to the wagon. Reaching into the back to grasp the canvas cover, he threw aside one corner and revealed several wooden crates packed with bottles and jugs full of clear liquid.
He had a pretty good idea what it was. “A load of moonshine.” He frowned at Selmon. “That’s what this was all about? You were willing to shoot us over some damned white lightning?”
“It’s illegal,” Selmon said with a whine in his voice, “and that old fella’s a lawman. I remember seein’ him in Copperhead Springs wearin’ a badge. For all I know, you’re one of those damned star packers, too, mister.”
“Well, you’re behind the times, as well as mistaken. Marshal Tate’s retired, and even if he wasn’t, as long as you stayed out of Copperhead Springs with that stuff he wouldn’t have any reason to arrest you. And I’m not a lawman at all . . . just a man who gets mighty upset when somebody shoots a gun at him.”
“You ain’t hurt,” Selmon said. “Benny and me, we’re the ones in pain.”
“Benny more than you, I’d say, since that wagon full of hooch fell on his foot.”
Benny chose that moment to throw back his head and bellow like a wounded bull. “Oh, Gaaawwd, it hurts!”
“See?” The Kid said. “What do you think we ought to do about that?”
“We, uh, oughta get it off of him, I reckon.”
“How are we going to do that? You and I might be able to lift the wagon enough for him to pull his foot out, but I’d have to holster my gun, and after the stunt you just pulled, I’m not sure I want to do that.”
“I’m not armed. I can’t do anything else,” Selmon said. “I swear. Help me get that thing offa him, mister. Please.”
The Kid thought about it. He was still angry about Selmon trying to shoot him. And after seeing the way they’d mistreated their mules he wasn’t feeling very sympathetic toward either man. But he didn’t enjoy seeing Benny suffer. Just because
they
were cruel didn’t mean he had to be.
they
were cruel didn’t mean he had to be.
He told Selmon, “You stand where I can see you. Marshal, keep an eye on him, too, and sing out if he looks like he’s going to try anything funny.”
“I sure will,” Tate said.
The Kid pouched his iron and moved around Benny. One at a time, he pulled the guns from behind the sash around the big man’s waist, tossing them well out of reach. He got a grip on the wagon bed and said, “On three . . . one . . . two . . . three!”
He and Selmon heaved on the wagon, lifting it enough for Benny to grab hold of his leg and drag his foot out from under it.
As soon as Benny was clear, The Kid let the wagon down again and stepped back, resting his hand on the butt of his Colt.
Benny sat down hard, unable to stand up. Selmon scrambled over to him. “Let’s get that boot offa there so we can see how bad you’re hurt.” He glanced up at The Kid. “That’s all right, ain’t it?”
The Kid nodded. “Go ahead.”
Benny screamed as Selmon worked the boot off. The sock was soaked with blood. Selmon peeled that off as well, also accompanied by screams, and revealed an ugly gash in Benny’s foot.
It wasn’t mangled as much as The Kid had expected. Since the other wheels were still on the wagon, not all of its weight had come down on Benny’s foot.
“I’m plumb ruined,” Benny sobbed. “I’ll never be able to walk again.”
“I think you will,” The Kid said, “but not if you keep going around trying to kill people. You won’t have to worry about your foot because you’ll get yourself shot.”
“Are you gonna turn us over to the law?” Selmon asked as he used the tail of his shirt to wipe away some of the blood on Benny’s foot.
“It’s not my responsibility to put moonshiners out of business. As for taking a shot at me . . . well, maybe by the time I’m through with you, you’ll have been punished enough without bringing the law into this.”
Selmon gave him a worried look. “What else are you gonna do? You already pert near busted my wrist, and Benny’s foot’s all messed up.”
“That’s Benny’s fault for letting go of the wagon. As for what else I’m going to do, those mules are coming with us.”
“You can’t do that!” Selmon protested immediately. “Them mules are ours. That’d be stealin’!”
“It’s not as bad as trying to shoot somebody,” The Kid pointed out. “I don’t like the way you’ve treated them.”
Benny glared at Selmon. “I told you not to whip those jugheads so dang much!”
“Shut up! You’re a jughead your own self!” Selmon looked at The Kid. “You’re gonna leave us here with no team and a wheel off the wagon?”
“That’s right.”
“What’ll we do with all that ‘shine?”
“I’d get a bottle and use some of it to clean that wound on Benny’s foot. Then you can sit around and drink the rest of it for all I care.”
“This ain’t right. It ain’t fair—”
“Save your breath,” The Kid interrupted. “And be grateful. I thought about burning it.”
Selmon looked like he wanted to say something else, but kept his mouth shut.
The Kid told Tate, “Keep watching them,” and went to the front of the wagon to unhitch the mules. He tied their harnesses together so they would be easier to lead.
Selmon took The Kid’s suggestion and poured whiskey from one of the bottles over the gash in Benny’s foot, causing Benny to howl at the bite of the fiery liquor on raw flesh. The Kid saw him wiggling his toes and figured no bones were broken. Benny was lucky his foot hadn’t been crushed.
“All right, Marshal, I guess we’re ready to go,” The Kid said. “I’ll lead these mules if you can lead our pack horses.”
“Sure, I can do that,” Tate said. They got mounted up and paused beside the spot where Selmon and Benny were sitting on the ground behind the wagon.
The Kid fixed Selmon with a hard stare. “Anybody takes a shot at me, I generally go ahead and kill him right then and there. I’ve made an exception in your case, but if I ever see you again, and your hand is anywhere near a gun when I do, I won’t wait to see what you’re planning to do with it. I’ll just go ahead and shoot you. You remember that.”
“I’ll remember,” Selmon said in a surly growl. It sounded as much like a threat as a promise.
“I know what you’re thinking. You’ll let this fester and gnaw at you and tell yourself that one of these days you’ll get even with me. But you won’t. You’ll just get dead.” The Kid hoped his little speech would be enough to get through the fog of hatred in Selmon’s brain, but he didn’t believe it would be. Sooner or later he’d probably have to kill the weaselly little varmint . . . unless, of course, their trails never crossed again, which was certainly possible.
As he and Tate rode away, leaving the wagon and the two moonshiners behind, The Kid said, “Thanks for helping out back there, Marshal, but you’d better let me handle the gunplay, if there is any from here on out.”
“I reckon I’ll have to,” Tate said. “I seem to have misplaced my Colt. Can’t find it anywhere.”
“I’m sorry about that,” The Kid replied, knowing good and well the marshal’s gun, gun belt, and ammunition were tucked away in his gear.
“That’s all right. I’m getting a mite forgetful, the older I get, I suppose. I’ll buy another gun when we get to Wichita.”
The Kid didn’t say anything. It would be up to the marshal’s daughter to keep him from getting his hands on another gun.
Late that afternoon they came to a small farm. The Kid could tell by looking at the place it wasn’t doing that well. The house needed work, and so did the barn.
But the rawboned man who walked out to greet them had a friendly smile on his face, and he was trailed by a couple kids, a boy and a girl, who seemed just as friendly, as did the big shaggy dog that bounded out to bark at them.
“You fellas looking for a place to spend the night?” the farmer asked. “Plenty of room in the loft, and my wife’ll be glad to put another couple plates on the table.”
The Kid thumbed back his hat. “We’re obliged for the offer, friend, but what we’re really looking for is a place to leave these mules for a while. We’re sort of in a hurry, and they’re slowing us down.”
The farmer walked over to the mules and studied them, shooting a glance at The Kid as he did so. “They’re good-looking animals, but someone’s treated them pretty badly.”
“That’s what I thought, so my friend and I took them off the hands of the men who did that. Made a trade with them.”
That was true, The Kid thought. He and Tate took the mules, and he didn’t shoot Selmon and Benny. That was a fair trade as far as he was concerned.
The farmer said, “I might’ve been tempted to do more than just trade if I ran into somebody who treats animals like this. You familiar with the story of Balaam and the ass in the Bible?”
“I remember hearing about it,” The Kid said. “You think it would be all right for us to leave these mules here for awhile? I’d give you some money to pay for their feed and all.”
The little boy said, “Pa, you know we sure could use a good team of mules—”
“These men aren’t offering to give us the mules, Tom.”
“No, but we wouldn’t mind if you were to work ’em some,” The Kid said. “Work’s good for mules.”
“And boys,” the farmer said with a glance at his son.
“Anyway,” The Kid went on, “as long as you take good care of them, you’re welcome to use them for whatever chores they might be good for. We’ll come back for them one of these days, but it might be a while.”
The Kid could tell by the look in the farmer’s eyes the man understood and was grateful for it. No man liked to accept obvious charity in front of his children. Of course, to The Kid’s way of thinking it wasn’t exactly charity, since he and Tate had to do something with the animals. He sure didn’t want to have to lead a bunch of mules all the way to Wichita.
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