The Loner: Trail Of Blood (26 page)

“Come on!” he called over his shoulder to Kellogg and Arturo. “Let’s give them a hand!” He jumped off the porch and advanced toward the knot of hired killers in the street. Bracing the Winchester against his hip, he emptied it as fast as he could work the lever and crank off the rounds. Arturo, Kellogg, and several other defenders from the house joined in. Elam’s men didn’t stand a chance, trapped between the two forces the way they were. Clouds of powdersmoke rolled, and the stench of burned powder and the cries of dying men filled the air.

When the shooting stopped, it was eerie in its abruptness. A few of Elam’s men were still alive but wounded. They threw their guns down and begged for mercy.

The Kid looked over the bodies but didn’t see Court Elam or Jim Mundy among them. Since his rifle was empty, he tossed it aside and drew the Colt on his hip. Leveling it at one of the wounded men, he asked in a voice as cold as the grave, “Where are Elam and Mundy?”

The man was pale from terror and loss of blood. “Don’t shoot!” he wailed.

“Tell me where they are,” The Kid ordered.

“They … they took off when the fight started goin’ against us. Looked like they were headed for … the railroad station.”

The Kid looked over at Tom Kellogg, whose face was grimy from gunsmoke. Blood dripped
down Kellogg’s face from a scratch on his head. He didn’t look much like a preacher.

“When’s the next train due through here, do you know?”

“Sometime this afternoon,” Kellogg replied. “Could be any minute.”

The Kid nodded. He wasn’t surprised. Despite his arrogance, Elam was cunning. He had timed the attack so he’d have a way of escaping if things went bad.

Turning back to the man he’d questioned, The Kid said, “Elam ordered the marshal and Dickinson killed, didn’t he?”

The man swallowed hard and nodded. “Mundy did the actual killin’, but Elam gave the orders.”

“You’ll testify to that?”

“Sure.”

“All right.” The Kid holstered his gun. “Arturo, you and Tom stay here and start getting things cleaned up. Make sure Mrs. Shanley is all right.”

“Where are you going, Kid?” Arturo asked.

“To make sure Elam and Mundy get what’s coming to them.”

“I’ll come with you—”

“No, stay here. You know what you have to do if I don’t come back.”

With that, The Kid strode quickly toward Main Street. On the way, he thumbed a cartridge into the Colt’s chamber he usually left empty. He wanted a full wheel for the last act in the drama.

He broke into a run when he heard the shrill blast of a train whistle.

Swinging into Main Street, he saw the plume of
smoke from the locomotive’s stack as it approached the town from the east. The whistle blew again. Main Street was empty—as if Powderhorn was a ghost town. Everybody was lying low until the battle was over.

It would be soon, one way or the other.

The Kid circled the depot at a run and came up the stairs at the west end of the platform. The train was about five hundred yards away, slowing to pull into the station.

In the middle of the platform, Court Elam and Jim Mundy stood waiting. Elam nervously clutched a carpetbag. Mundy had a gun in his hand. He was watching the door from the depot lobby, not the end of the platform.

“Elam!” The Kid called. “Mundy!”

Both men jerked toward him. The train whistle screeched again as Mundy’s gun came up. The killer’s mouth worked, no doubt spewing curses, but The Kid couldn’t hear them over the rumble of the engine, the hiss of steam, and the clatter of the train’s brakes.

Flame spouted from the muzzle of Mundy’s gun. The Kid fired at the same time. He felt the wind-rip of Mundy’s slug as it sizzled through the air next to his ear. Mundy staggered. His gun hand drooped. When he tried to bring it back up, The Kid shot him again.

Mundy folded up. His face hit the platform, but he was past feeling it.

That left Elam. The Kid expected him to surrender, but was surprised when the man pulled a
pistol from under his coat and started firing as he broke into a run toward the far end of the platform. The Kid squeezed off a shot that clipped Elam’s thigh. Dropping the carpetbag and the gun, he flung his arms in the air, and cried out in pain as he fell. He clutched at his wounded leg and rolled over.

The Kid leaped forward, calling, “Elam, look out—”

Elam rolled right off the edge of the platform and landed across the tracks as the train rumbled into the station. The Kid heard him scream, even over all the racket, but the scream didn’t last long before it was cut short.

Arturo and Tom Kellogg burst through the doors from the depot lobby, followed by several more townsmen. Kellogg said, “Mr. Morgan! I know you told us to wait, but we had to find out what happened.”

“You got your town back, that’s what happened,” The Kid said as he started to reload the Colt.

Since the orphanage was shot full of holes, Theresa moved into a suite at the Elam Hotel … or as it would soon be known, the Powderhorn Hotel, which was its original name. She would stay there until the damage done to her house could be repaired. The children would stay with the various families that had taken them in. The Kid figured there was a good chance some of them wouldn’t want to give up the kids when the time came and
would welcome them permanently into their homes. He hoped that was the way it turned out.

The next morning, Theresa and Tom Kellogg had breakfast with The Kid and Arturo in Theresa’s suite. She said, “I’m not sure how I’m going to pay for all this.”

“It’s taken care of,” The Kid assured her. “Just like the repairs to your house will be.”

“What about all the property Elam owned?” Kellogg asked. “He bought most of it legally, even though the sales were forced on the previous owners by threatening their lives.”

The Kid sipped his coffee. “I’ve already got my lawyers working on that. They’ll straighten it all out and figure out who should own what. Eventually things will settle back down.”

Theresa looked at him and shook her head. “You have all these lawyers working for you and a seemingly limitless amount of money. Who
are
you, Kid Morgan?”

He smiled. “Well … I suppose I can trust a preacher and a lady who runs an orphanage. My real name is Conrad Browning. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that to yourselves, though.”

Kellogg frowned, still baffled, but Theresa looked surprised. “Browning,” she repeated. “I know that name, from when my husband worked for the railroad. Someone named Browning
owned
part of the railroad.”

“My mother,” The Kid said. “Now I do.”

The minister leaned forward in his chair. “Then what are you doing going around like a … a …”

“Gunfighter?” The Kid asked with a smile.
“Sometimes it takes us a long time to find out who we really are. I suppose maybe I’m still learning.”

“But that story about the two missing children,” Theresa said. “That was true?”

“Every word of it.”

She reached across the table and rested her hand on his for a moment. “Then I’m sorry you haven’t found them. You’re going to keep looking?”

“Of course.” The Kid drank the rest of his coffee. “In fact, we’ve already replenished our supplies, the team is hitched up to the buckboard, and my horse is saddled. Arturo and I are ready to go.”

“And even though you have a lovely town,” Arturo said, “I won’t be sad to leave.”

Kellogg laughed. “I don’t blame you. But we’ll be sorry to see you go, after everything the two of you have done for us and everybody else in Powderhorn. You saved the settlement in more ways than one.”

Theresa added, “I don’t know how we can ever repay you.”

“Just keeping making it a good place to live,” The Kid said. “That’ll be payment enough.”

A short time later, they stood on the hotel porch and waved farewell as the rider and the buckboard left Powderhorn, heading west again. Kellogg reached over and took Theresa’s right hand in his left as they continued to wave.

“Do you think he’ll ever find them?” Theresa asked.

“I know he will,” Kellogg said. “No matter how long it takes. And when he does, God willing, Kid Morgan won’t be alone anymore.”

When Matt Jensen rode into Swan, Wyoming, few who knew him would have recognized him. He had a heavy beard, his hair was uncommonly long, and he looked every bit the part of a man who had not been under a roof for two months. He had said good-bye to Smoke Jensen in Fort Collins, Colorado, arranging to meet him in Swan eight weeks later. Not since then had Matt seen civilization, having spent the entire two months in the mountains prospecting for gold.

The success of Matt’s two months of isolation was manifested by a canvas bag he had hanging from the saddle horn. The bag was full of color-showing ore. Prospecting wasn’t new to Matt. He had learned the trade under the tutelage of his mentor, Smoke Jensen, so he knew the color in the ore was genuine. But exactly how successful he had been would depend upon the assayer’s report.

Swan was a fly-blown little settlement, not served by any railroad, though there was stagecoach
service to Rawlings where one could connect with the Union Pacific. The town had a single street that was lined on both sides by unpainted, rip-sawed, false-fronted buildings. It could have been any of several hundred towns in a dozen western states. As Matt rode down the street, a couple of scantily dressed soiled doves stood on a balcony and called down to him.

“Hey, cowboy, you’re new to town, ain’t you?” one of them shouted.

“You gotta be new ’cause I don’t know you,” the other one added. “And I reckon I
know
just about ever’ man in town if you get my drift,” she added in a ribald tone of voice.

Matt smiled, nodded, and touched the brim of his hat by way of returning their greeting.

“Come on up and keep us company. We’ll give you a good welcome,” the first one shouted down to him.

“Ladies, until I get a bath, I’m not even fit company for my horse,” Matt called up to the two women as he rode underneath the overhanging balcony where the two women were standing.

The second soiled dove pinched her nose and, exaggerating, made a waving motion with her hand. “Oh, honey, you’ve got that right,” she teased.

Laughing, Matt rode on down the street until he reached a small building at the far end. A sign in front of the building read, J.A. MONTGOMERY, ASSAYER.

Matt swung down from his saddle and tied his horse at the hitching rail. Hefting the canvas bag over one shoulder, he stepped inside where he was greeted by a small, thin man.

“Can I help you?” the little man asked.

“Are you the assayer?”

“I am.”

Matt set the canvas bag on the counter, then took out a handful of rocks and laid them alongside the bag.

“I need you to take a look at this,” Matt said.

Montgomery chuckled. “You want me to tell you if it is gold or pyrite, right?”

“No, mister,” Matt said. “I know it’s gold. What I want you to do is tell me how much money all this is worth.”

The assayer picked up a couple of rocks and looked at them casually, before putting them back down. Then, taking a second look at one of them, he picked it up again, and he examined it through a magnifying glass.

“What do you think?” Matt asked.

“You’re right,” Montgomery said. “It is gold.”

“You have any idea as to the value?”

“Do all the rocks have this much color?”

“I wouldn’t have bothered carrying them in if they didn’t,” Matt replied.

“Well, then I would say you have two or three hundred dollars here. In fact, I’ll give you three hundred dollars for the entire bag, right now.”

Matt put the rocks back in the bag. “Would you now?”

“In cash,” Montgomery said.

“You always cheat your customers like that?” Matt asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“What I have here is worth two thousand dollars
if it is worth a cent,” he said. “Thank you, Mr. Montgomery, but I believe I’ll take my business somewhere else.”

“I’m the only assayer in town.”

“Perhaps. But Swan isn’t the only town,” Matt said as he left the office.

Up the street from the assayer’s office Matt saw a sign that read HAIRCUTS, SHAVES, BATHS.

“Tell you what, Spirit, you’ve had to put up with my stink long enough,” Matt said, speaking to his horse. “I think I’ll get myself cleaned up before I go looking for Smoke.”

Dismounting in front of the building, Matt lifted his bag of ore from the horse, then went inside. Fifteen minutes later he was sitting in a tub of warm water, scrubbing himself with a big piece of lye soap.

“Don’t know if there is enough lye soap in all of Wyoming to get that carcass clean,” a voice teased.

“Smoke!” Matt said, a big smile spreading across his face. He started to stand.

“No, no need to stand,” Smoke said, holding his hand out, palm forward, to stop him. “You think I want to see that?”

Matt laughed. “How did you know I was in here?”

“We did say we were going to meet in Swan today, didn’t we?”

“Yeah.”

“I saw Spirit tied up out front. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize him? He used to be my horse, remember?”

“I remember,” Matt said.

“How did you do?” Smoke asked.

“See that bag there? It’s full of ore. At least two thousand dollars worth, I would guess.”

Smoke whistled. “That is good,” he said.

“Tell you what, I’ll be finished here in a bit. What do you say we go get us a beer? I haven’t had a beer in two months.”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll go get us a table, and I’ll even let you buy the beer, seein’ as you had such a good outing,” Smoke said.

A few minutes after Smoke left, Matt was out of the tub, had his shirt and trousers on, and had just strapped on his gun belt when three men burst, unexpectedly, into the room. All three had pistols in their hands.