The Loner: The Bounty Killers (16 page)

“If that’s true,” Blount said, “then what in blazes are you doin’ runnin’ around the frontier lookin’ like some sort o’ saddle tramp?”

“It’s a long story.”

McCall snorted to indicate her disbelief. She said, “You gave me your word, Morgan.”

“That I’d go to Santa Fe with you. I still will . . . but only after we help Mr. Blount settle his troubles.”

“It ain’t that I don’t appreciate the offer,” Blount said. “But why would you want to help an old codger like me? An hour ago, you hadn’t ever laid eyes on me.”

“That’s true,” The Kid admitted. “I guess you could just say . . . I used to know somebody who would have wanted me to help you.”

That was the way it had been since Rebel’s death. Once his need for revenge had been satisfied, at least as much as it could be, The Kid had wanted nothing more than to be left alone with his sorrow.

Time and again, he had run into people who were in trouble, usually through no fault of their own. He knew Rebel would have wanted him to help them. He even seemed to hear her voice at times, speaking to him and urging him to do the right thing, even though it went against what he really wanted.

It had happened enough that he was growing to accept it. He had wanted to be a loner, holding the world at arm’s length . . . but it kept crowding in on him, refusing to allow him to sink into an abyss of solitude and grief.

When you came right down to it, he thought, trouble might well be the only thing that was keeping him alive. Maybe he had to risk his life in order to save it.

It was too much for him to figure out. All he really knew was that he couldn’t ride away and leave Chester Blount to face death alone.

“You can’t do anything to help him,” McCall argued. “You heard what he said. Guthrie has dozens of gunmen working for him. And you’ve got an appointment with the law in Santa Fe.”

“One that I’ll keep when the time comes,” The Kid said. “Think about it, McCall. This is a pretty isolated area. Pike’s not going to be looking for us here. If we hole up here for a while, maybe he’ll get tired and stop searching for us.”

“Who’s Pike?” asked Blount.

“An added annoyance,” McCall snapped. “You might have something there, Kid. We lay low for a while, then make a run for Santa Fe. There’s just one problem with the idea.”

“What’s that?”

She gestured curtly toward the rim. “Guthrie’s gunhawks will probably kill us!”

“Well,” The Kid said, “we’ll just have to make sure that they don’t.”

Chapter 21

Claudius Turnbuckle was a tall, burly, balding man with muttonchop whiskers. Dressed in an expensive suit and bowler hat, he made an impressive figure as he strode determinedly across the plaza in front of the Territorial Courthouse in Santa Fe.

For the past few years, the imposing brick building had served as the territorial capitol. The previous capitol building had burned down, and a new one was being built. According to one of the clerks in the hotel where Turnbuckle was staying, the fire’s origin was mysterious and likely arson, motivated by the fact that nearly everybody in town had thought the old capitol building with its Victorian design was ugly as sin and out of place in the predominantly Spanish architecture of Santa Fe.

Turnbuckle didn’t give a damn about any of that. He wanted to see Governor Miguel Otero face to face to plead Conrad Browning’s case. It was absurd to think that a man such as Conrad should be a wanted fugitive, but so far, Turnbuckle hadn’t had a chance to persuade the territorial governor of that fact.

Turnbuckle went into the building and proceeded down marble-floored hallways to the governor’s spacious office. Otero’s aides had turned him away a couple of times since he’d been in Santa Fe, but Turnbuckle wasn’t going to be stopped any longer, even if he had to pick up one of those slick-haired political flunkies and toss him out a window.

In fact, he almost hoped that would happen. It would feel good to cut through some of the red tape by force. Of course, he couldn’t give in to that impulse. And in the long run, it probably wouldn’t help Conrad.

Turnbuckle took off his hat as he entered the outer office. The clerk who sat at the desk there recognized him and sighed. “Governor Otero doesn’t have any time available today to meet with you, Mr. Turnbuckle,” he said. “As I’ve explained to you, and the governor’s aide Mr. Blanton has explained to you, you’ll need to make an appointment to speak to the governor, and the earliest you’ll be able to do that is the middle of next month.”

“The middle of next month is too late,” Turnbuckle said. “My client could be dead by then, murdered by bounty hunters who are after him on false charges.”

“I realize that’s your claim, but you’ll have to present proof to the governor.”

“Which I can’t do without seeing him.”

“Which you can’t do until next month, yes,” the clerk said with an exasperated glare. “I fail to see what the confusion is.”

Turnbuckle glanced out the window and thought about how good it would feel to toss the smarmy little slug through it. Reaching into his coat he took out an envelope. “I have a letter here from Lew Wallace asking Governor Otero to meet with me right away.”

The clerk’s eyes widened. “Governor Wallace?” he asked.

“That’s right.” Lew Wallace had been the governor in New Mexico more than fifteen years earlier, but he was still a well-known figure in the territory because of his personal involvement with Billy the Kid, Pat Garrett, and the Lincoln County War. The fact that he had authored the phenomenally successful novel
Ben-Hur
while serving as governor only increased his prominence. Even after all that time, his name carried considerable weight in Santa Fe.

The clerk was clearly torn about what to do. Finally, he stood up, held out his hand, and said, “I’ll give the letter to Mr. Blanton. If he chooses to pass it on to the governor, I’ll let you know.”

Turnbuckle shook his head. “Not good enough. I want you to put the letter in the governor’s hand personally.”

The clerk looked shocked. “I can’t do that. Mr. Blanton—”

“I’m tired of hearing about Mr. Blanton.”

It hadn’t taken long for a man as skilled as Turnbuckle to find out how things worked. Charles Blanton, though he didn’t hold an official position in the territorial government, was Governor Otero’s most trusted aide. Although Otero was the son of a prominent New Mexico family with considerable wealth and influence, no one had expected the president to appoint him to the governorship. He had little in the way of broad support from the often squabbling factions battling for control in the capital. Therefore Otero relied heavily on Blanton, who had business connections with the governor’s family.

The few times Turnbuckle had met Blanton, he had instinctively disliked and distrusted the man. The feeling seemed to be mutual.

Turnbuckle swung his heavy body toward a door at the side of the office. It was smaller than the ornate door leading into the governor’s private office, but Turnbuckle knew that beyond it was where most of the real power lay. Blanton’s office was on the other side of that door.

“I’m going to talk to him myself, damn it,” Turnbuckle growled.

The clerk shot up from his chair, saying, “Sir, you can’t—”

He was too late. Turnbuckle already had hold of the knob. He twisted it and shoved the door open.

The chair behind the desk in Blanton’s office was empty. Turnbuckle glanced to his left and saw the man standing next to a sideboard with a decanter of liquor in one hand and a glass in the other.

Charles Blanton was a rawboned man with a squarish head and graying fair hair. He frowned at the lawyer and asked, “What’s the meaning of this, Turnbuckle?”

“A bit early in the day, isn’t it?” Turnbuckle asked with a nod toward the liquor.

Blanton flushed and set the decanter and glass back on the sideboard. “What do you want?”

Turnbuckle held up the envelope. “I have here a letter from Lew Wallace requesting that Governor Otero see me immediately and grant me every possible consideration.”

“General Wallace is no longer in a position of authority in New Mexico Territory.”

“I’m aware of that, but he’s asking Governor Otero to cooperate out of personal courtesy, as one statesman to another.”

“You can’t see the governor,” Blanton snapped. “He’s much too busy. You’ll just have to wait—”

“Every day this matter waits is another day my client is in needless danger.”

“Perhaps if your client hadn’t escaped from prison, he wouldn’t be in danger.”

“If Conrad Browning hadn’t escaped from prison, he never would have exposed the crimes of some powerful men.” Turnbuckle’s rather bushy eyebrows raised. “Perhaps that’s why you don’t want me to see the governor. You don’t want the stench of official corruption to rub off on him.”

“The governor is an honest man,” Blanton said. “His reputation is beyond reproach. And
he
didn’t appoint that crooked warden. His predecessor did.”

“Then he should be anxious to undo the damage that was done, including the injustice to my client.”

“The circumstances don’t matter.” Blanton’s voice was flat and hard, unwilling to budge an inch. “The man known as Kid Morgan broke out of prison. Two men died in that escape. Until these matters are properly dealt with in court, the charges against him will remain in place. That’s my final word on the subject, counselor, and I don’t care how many letters you have from Lew Wallace or anybody else.”

“So
you’re
the governor now, is that it?” Turnbuckle asked.

“Of course not. But he’s given me great latitude to deal with administrative matters as I see fit. If you want to petition for a pardon for your client after he’s been tried and convicted, feel free to do so.”

Turnbuckle’s free hand clenched into a fist. “With a ten grand bounty on his head, dead or alive, he’ll never make it to trial, and you know it!”

“That’s regrettable, but nothing can be done about it.”

“You mean you
won’t
do anything about it.”

Blanton sighed. “Get out, Turnbuckle, or I’ll call the guards and have you removed.”

The two men glowered fiercely at each other for a moment before Turnbuckle jabbed the envelope toward Blanton.

“This isn’t over,” he said. “I’ll go to the newspapers. From what I’ve heard, the governor’s support is rather shaky to begin with. A scandal like this can’t help him.”

“Following the rule of law is not a scandal,” Blanton said archly. “Do your worst, counselor.”

Turnbuckle continued glaring for a second, then swung around and lumbered out of the aide’s office. The clerk, who had been watching from the doorway, stepped aside hurriedly to let him pass.

If Blanton wanted war, Turnbuckle thought as he left the capitol, then, by God, it was war he would have!

Late that afternoon, Charles Blanton slipped through the side door of a cantina located on one of Santa Fe’s narrow, twisting streets. He pushed aside a beaded curtain and stepped into a small, windowless room lit only by a single candle. The sound of a guitar being strummed drifted through the curtain from the front part of the cantina.

A young, handsome man with sleek blond hair sat at a table. The table and a couple chairs were the only pieces of furniture in the room. The young man had a bottle of tequila and two glasses in front of him.

“Come in, Blanton,” he said as he poured drinks for both of them. “Why did you want to see me?”

Without sitting, Blanton picked up one of the glasses and tossed back the tequila without batting an eye.

“It’s Turnbuckle,” he said. “He’s threatening to go to the papers.”

“I don’t see how that’s a problem,” the young man said. “You assured me that nothing illegal was going on.”

“It’s not . . . technically. But some of the papers are very opposed to Governor Otero. If they play up this affair, it could erode his support. And he can’t really afford that.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Take care of it,” Blanton said with a harsh, savage edge in his voice. “I’ve had a man following Turnbuckle for the past few days. He always has supper at the same café near his hotel. If he was waylaid by a thief while he was walking to the café . . .”

The young man sipped from his glass and smiled. “That would solve the problem for both of us, eh?”

“That’s right. It would be a tragedy, of course, but it’s not that uncommon for people to be killed by thieves.”

“Indeed it’s not.” The young man downed the rest of his tequila and pushed the bottle toward Blanton, who still stood nervously. “Don’t worry about it. I have a feeling that everything will work out for us. Unfortunately for Claudius Turnbuckle, he won’t be able to say the same thing.” Abruptly, the man’s face twisted into lines of utter hatred. “But that’s what he gets for trying to help a son of a bitch like Conrad Browning.”

Turnbuckle frowned as he paced along the narrow street paved with flagstones. It had been a damned frustrating day, he thought. He had made appointments with the editors of the local newspapers but hadn’t been able to speak with any of them. Tomorrow would be different.

At least he could look forward to a good meal. Being from San Francisco, he had eaten very little of the sort of cuisine favored in Santa Fe. He had discovered that he had a great liking for food seasoned with the hot peppers that were so popular, especially when he had a mug of beer to temper the spices in his mouth and throat.

Since his thoughts were occupied not only with the impending meal but also the legal problems he was struggling with on behalf of Conrad, he almost didn’t notice the man who stepped out of the shadows at the mouth of an alley.

“Señor,” the man said urgently, “señor, please help. My child, she is very sick—”

Instantly, Turnbuckle was suspicious, but the man was already too close to him. An arm shot out, and Turnbuckle felt the hot bite of cold steel into his body.

Grunting in pain, Turnbuckle stumbled forward, but managed to stay on his feet. The knife flickered back. Turnbuckle lunged at the man as the blade darted toward him again.

The thrust was hurried and scraped against his side. Turnbuckle’s right hand closed around the throat of the would-be assassin, while his left caught the wrist of the man’s knife hand.