The Loner: The Bounty Killers (6 page)

The depot was built of red sandstone, as opposed to the heavy tan blocks that made up the bank’s walls. The atmosphere in the lobby was hot and sleepy, and quiet enough The Kid could hear flies buzzing.

He saw the window of the Western Union office tucked in a corner and headed for it. A gaunt, elderly clerk wearing thick spectacles and a black cap manned it. He looked almost too frail to push down the telegraph key, The Kid thought as he came up to the window and asked for a message form.

“Here you go, sonny,” the old-timer said as he slid one of the yellow flimsies under the wicket. “Stranger in Las Vegas, ain’t you?”

“That’s right,” The Kid said. He picked up a stub of pencil from several that lay there and stepped over to a counter to compose his message.

He thought for a moment about how to word it, then wrote:

REWARD OUT FOR KID MORGAN STOP SHOULD BE NO CHARGES PENDING STOP INVESTIGATE AND QUASH STOP BROWNING

He went back to the window and handed the form to the clerk, who counted the words and named the price for sending the message. As The Kid slid a coin under the wicket, the old-timer said, “Kid Morgan, eh?”

“What about him?”

“Just a funny thing, that’s all. I was just readin’ about him when you come in.”

The Kid stiffened. The old man might have seen one of those wanted posters and recognized him from the description. He might start yelling for help as soon as The Kid stepped out of the station.

The clerk reached down for something, and The Kid’s breath caught in his throat. Surely the old fool wasn’t reaching for a gun. Did he really intend to apprehend a wanted fugitive himself?

The clerk slapped a thin, yellow-backed booklet down in front of him. The Kid saw the crude drawing and the garish lettering on the front of it.

“Yes, sir,” the old-timer cackled, “
Kid Morgan and the El Dorado Gold Train Robbery
. It’s one hell of a yarn. Lots of fightin’ and shootin’.”

The Kid was startled. There were dozens of dime novels about his famous father, but he had never seen one about
him
before. He managed not to grin. When he had chosen the name Kid Morgan, he had thought it sounded like something out of a dime novel.

Now it really was.

He tapped a finger on the booklet and asked, “Where did you get this?”

“Oh, you have to send off for ’em. Some comp’ny back east publishes ’em. There’s scads and scads of ’em about all these different quick-gun fellas.”

“You think there’s any truth to them?”

The clerk pushed out his lips and frowned in thought. “Naw, prob’ly not,” he said with a shake of his head. “Some of the folks in ’em are real enough, mind you. I’ve done read some about Bill Cody and ol’ Wild Bill Hickok, and they was real enough, but I know good an’ well they never did all the things that’ve got wrote about ’em.”

“No, probably not,” The Kid agreed. “Well, enjoy the rest of your book . . . but send that message for me first, all right?”

“Sure thing, mister. I’ll get it on the wire right now.”

The Kid waited while the man sat in front of the key and tapped out the message with surprising deftness considering how bent with age his fingers were. When he was finished, he swiveled toward the window and asked, “What if I get a reply?”

“I’m having supper with Marshal Fairmont and his daughter, and after that I suppose I’ll be at the hotel,” The Kid replied. He dropped a nickel on the counter. “Can you send a boy to bring the reply to me when it comes in?”

“Sure thing.”

The Kid looked down at the dime novel again. The illustration on the front cover showed a man with an impossibly huge hat firing two revolvers into a gang of ruffians and outlaws on horseback as he stood on the top of a speeding train.

“Is this supposed to be Kid Morgan?” He pointed to the two-gun man.

“Yep, that’s him, all right, defendin’ the gold train.” The old-timer got a sly look on his wizened face. “I ain’t finished the story yet, but I’m sort of figurin’ that maybe he’s tryin’ to fight off that bunch ’cause he wants to steal the gold for his own self.”

“You could be right,” The Kid said, caring only that the man in the picture didn’t look a blasted thing like him. The artist had made it all up, just like the scribbler who had written what was inside the booklet.

He allowed himself a faint smile and a shake of his head as he left the depot. The things people came up with.

It was late in the afternoon but not yet time to head for the marshal’s house for supper. The Kid stopped at a general store to pick up a few supplies and replenish his stock of ammunition. As the proprietor got a box of .44-40s off the shelf, he said, “You’re the fella who killed those outlaws and saved all the money from the bank earlier today, aren’t you?”

“It wasn’t exactly like that,” The Kid said. “The marshal had a bigger hand in stopping them than I did, and the way I heard it, they never actually made it out of the bank with any money.”

“Well, Henry Bennett put the word out that if you wanted anything, we should just send the bill for it over to him. So you don’t owe me anything for these goods, Mr. Browning.”

The Kid shrugged and nodded. “All right. I’m obliged.” He started to leave, then paused and asked, “Say, you wouldn’t know a man by the name of McCall, would you?”

The storekeeper frowned. “McCall, McCall . . .” he repeated. “Nope, can’t say as I do. Friend of yours?”

“Not really. Just somebody I ran into, and I thought he might have come through here.”

“Lots of people come through Las Vegas and never give their names to anybody. He might’ve even bought supplies from me without me knowing who he was. What’s he look like?”

The Kid had no idea. He had never actually gotten a look at the man, other than the poncho and the broad-brimmed hat he wore.

“Never mind,” he told the storekeeper. “It doesn’t matter. Where’s the post office?”

The man grinned and pointed to a window on the far side of the store. “You’re lookin’ at it. I’m the postmaster here, too. It’s after operatin’ hours, but if you’ve got something you need to mail, you can give it to me and I’ll make sure it goes out in the mail bag on the train, day after tomorrow.”

“Thanks. Have you got a little box of some kind, and some paper to wrap it up with?”

The storekeeper provided the supplies. The Kid stepped to a corner for some privacy and put the envelope with the picture in it and the roll of greenbacks into the box. He tore the flap with the address off the envelope, then wrapped up the package, tied it with string, and used a pencil to print the address on the outside.

After paying the postage, The Kid took his supplies and ammunition and left the store. He had done what he’d promised himself he would do. His debt to the dead bounty hunter, if such there really was, had been discharged.

He stowed the goods in his saddlebags and led the buckskin toward the middle of the settlement heading to the marshal’s house.

He was aware that many of the people he passed were watching him. Loafers sitting in chairs on the front porch of the hotel passed low-voiced comments back and forth. He knew they were talking about the shootout in front of the bank.

Short of collecting a bullet, things couldn’t have worked out much worse for him. The last thing he’d wanted when he rode into Las Vegas was attention, and that was practically all he had gotten.

He led the buckskin around the marshal’s office and tied the horse to a scrubby tree in the little yard in front of the house. When he knocked on the door, Fairmont answered. The marshal still wore his gunbelt, but he had a pipe in his hand and looked more relaxed.

“So you showed up, eh? Might as well come in.”

It wasn’t the most gracious of greetings, but The Kid didn’t care. He was more concerned with the delicious aromas that floated from the kitchen through the rest of the house.

He hadn’t forgotten the days on bread and water he had spent in Hell Gate Prison. He wasn’t sure he ever would. The experience had given him a whole new appreciation for good food.

It was also one more reason he was never going to let himself be sent back to prison, no matter what sort of trumped-up charges somebody had leveled against him.

The Kid took off his hat as he went inside. Fairmont used the pipe stem to point at a hook on the wall where he could hang the Stetson, and ushered the visitor into a nicely furnished parlor. “Want a drink?” Fairmont asked. “I’ve got a bottle of brandy, but I don’t break into it very often.”

The Kid shook his head. “No, that’s fine, thanks.”

Fairmont’s teeth clamped down on the pipe. “You get your telegram sent?” he asked around it.

“Yes, I did. I’m just waiting for a reply now. I hope it’s all right I told the telegrapher I was having supper here. He’s supposed to send a boy with the reply if it comes in.”

Fairmont waved a hand and nodded. “Sure, sure, that’s fine,” he said. “Still plan on riding out as soon as you hear back from whoever you sent that wire to?”

“Well, not this late. I suppose I’ll spend the night at the hotel.”

“It’s a comfortable place, or so I’m told.”

The Kid sensed the air of awkwardness in the room. He knew that Marshal Fairmont didn’t like him much. Normally that wouldn’t have bothered The Kid at all. Since he had adopted the identity of Kid Morgan and gone on the drift, the opinions of other people didn’t concern him much.

The difference was that Fairmont was a lawman, and there were wanted posters out on The Kid. It was an unsettling situation.

“I’ve been thinking that I’ve seen you before,” the marshal went on.

“Before today, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

It was certainly possible. The Kid had ridden through Las Vegas several days earlier, stopping briefly to pick up some supplies in one of the smaller stores. He hadn’t talked to anyone except the proprietor, but Fairmont could have seen him riding past and taken note of him because he was a stranger.

That thought flashed through The Kid’s mind, but he didn’t show it on his face. He just shrugged and said, “It’s possible. I’ve been a lot of places.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got a good memory for faces. It’ll come to me.”

Before either of them could say anything else, Carly appeared in the doorway of the parlor, untying the belt of the apron she wore.

“The food’s ready,” she told them with a smile. “Come to supper.”

Chapter 9

The food tasted as good as it smelled. Roast beef, potatoes, greens, some of the lightest and best-tasting biscuits The Kid had ever eaten, followed by peach cobbler for dessert. It was a simple meal, but as fine as any Conrad Browning had ever had in those fancy restaurants back east.

The company was a damned sight better, that was for sure, at least where Carly was concerned. She kept up a lively string of conversation. Her father had been a lawman in a number of different towns, so she had seen a lot of sights.

The Kid had too, so they were able to talk about the places they had been.

Fairmont was much more taciturn, and when he spoke up, his questions had an edge to them.

“How come you never stayed in one place very long, Browning?”

“I guess I was always just a little too restless by nature. Fiddle-footed, some men call it.”

Then, a little later, “What sort of things have you worked at? You don’t strike me as a cowboy.”

“It’s true, I never got the hang of punching cows,” The Kid replied. “But I’ve worked on railroads and done some mining.”

Technically, that was true. As Conrad Browning, he held an interest in several railroads and had overseen the construction of more than one spur line. The Browning financial holdings also included gold and silver mines scattered across the West, including some in Nevada.

“Interesting you use the word ‘hang,’” Fairmont commented.

Carly frowned at him. “What do you mean by that, Dad?”

“Oh, nothing,” the marshal said.

But The Kid got the message plainly enough. Fairmont was suspicious of him. He was enjoying the marshal’s hospitality only because that was Carly’s wish.

When the meal was over, Fairmont suggested, “Why don’t you step out on the porch with me, Browning, so we can get some air? I can light up this pipe of mine. Carly doesn’t like for me to smoke it in the house.”

“If you’d burn something in it besides that foul-smelling tobacco, I might not mind,” she said with a smile.

The Kid didn’t want to add to Fairmont’s suspicions of him, so he nodded and said, “Sure, Marshal.”

The two men moved to the porch while Carly cleaned up after supper. Fairmont struck a lucifer and cupped the flame in the bowl of his pipe, puffing until it was burning well. He shook out the match, dropped it on the porch, and ground it under the toe of his boot.

“Nice evening,” The Kid said.

“It’ll be cold by morning,” Fairmont replied. He blew a little cloud of smoke in the air.

“More than likely,” The Kid agreed.

“You didn’t get that reply to your telegram.”

“Not yet. It could still come in. I told the clerk at the Western Union office I’d be at the hotel after this, so the boy should still be able to find me.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me what business this is about.”

The Kid glanced over at his host. “Sorry, Marshal. No offense, but I’d rather keep that to myself.”

Fairmont took the pipe out of his mouth. “A man who wears a badge likes to know what’s going on in his town,” he said. “And a gunfighter’s business usually means trouble.”

“I never said I was a gunfighter,” The Kid pointed out.

“You didn’t have to. I’ll ask you flat out, Browning, and since you sat at my table and broke bread with me, I expect a straight answer. Did you come to Las Vegas to kill a man?”

The Kid took a deep breath. “Absolutely not, Marshal. I don’t want any trouble at all.”

Fairmont looked steadily at him for a moment. The light on the porch was dim, but it was enough for The Kid to know the lawman was studying him and weighing his answer.

Finally, Fairmont nodded. “That’s good to know, anyway. Especially since . . . well, the girl’s taken quite a shine to you and all.”