The Loner: Seven Days to Die (13 page)

The saloon stretched the length of an entire block and had two entrances, one at the corner and one down the boardwalk in the middle of the block. A freshly painted sign hung from the awning and read:
HARRISON’S SALOON—COLD BEER—GAMES OF CHANCE—DANCE HALL
.

It was a full-service establishment, The Kid thought with a faint smile as he studied it from across the street.

Business was good. Men went in and out the batwinged entrance at the corner. The Kid looked through the big plate-glass front windows and saw a horseshoe-shaped bar in the center of the big room. To the right of the bar were tables where men sat and drank and flirted with the girls in short, spangled dresses who worked there. To the rear on the right was the open area where men could dance with the girls for a price. The player piano he had heard earlier was tucked into the corner. The tinny notes had stilled when the gunshots rang out down the street, but they were playing again.

To the left were poker tables, along with faro and keno layouts and a roulette wheel. Past the gambling tables was a staircase that led to the second floor. The girls probably earned some of their pay up there, too.

The room was brightly lit by oil-burning chandeliers decorated with cut glass. Overall, Harrison’s was a little bigger and a little fancier than a lot of frontier saloons, but it was still a saloon. The Kid knew even without stepping in there what it would smell like—whiskey, stale beer, tobacco smoke, cheap perfume, and hair pomade.

To some men, that was the breath of life. Not to him. Being around that many people bothered him. He rode alone by choice, and for a good reason. He preferred the solitude of his grief.

Life just didn’t seem to understand that. It kept dragging him into one mess after another. He would never be free of the current mess until he brought Bloody Ben Bledsoe—or Matthew Harrison as he was calling himself—to justice.

The Kid started across the street, pausing to let a group of vaqueros on their way to the saloon get there first and push through the batwings ahead of him. He followed them in, knowing their wide-brimmed, steeple-crowned sombreros would shield him from immediate view.

The Kid’s eyes quickly surveyed the room from one end to the other, before anyone got a good look at him.

Alonzo Cragg and Dakota Pete stood at the bar, drinking. Clyde Woods, the gambler, was sitting at one of the poker tables, playing with several other men. The Kid didn’t see J.P. Malone. And he didn’t see anybody who looked the least bit like the face he saw, with or without a beard, looking out at him from the mirror when he shaved.

Bledsoe might be back in the office, or he might be upstairs.

One thing was certain: if he was at the saloon, a ruckus would draw him out.

The Kid ambled over to the bar. He could pick a fight with one of Bledsoe’s top gun-wolves. If he survived, there was a chance Bledsoe might hire him to replace the dead man.

There was just as good a chance if he killed, say, Dakota Pete, the rest of Bledsoe’s men would throw down on him. The Kid had plenty of confidence in his abilities, but he was realistic. He couldn’t outshoot a dozen professional killers. He would get lead in several of them, no doubt about that, but they would down him, too.

There was no need to rush, he told himself. He was a long way from Hell Gate Prison, and none of the men who were after him knew where he was. He could afford to bide his time and wait for a better chance to work his way closer to Bledsoe.

Standing not far from Cragg and Dakota Pete, he nodded to the bartender and ordered a beer. The apron drew it, slid the foaming mug across the hardwood, and said, “That’ll be four bits.”

“For a beer?” The Kid asked with a surprised frown.

“For the coldest, best beer you’ll find this side of Tucson, friend,” the bartender said. “Anyway, that’s the going rate, so take it or leave it.”

The Kid pushed a couple of coins across the bar. “I’ll take it.” He picked up the beer and took a swallow of it. The bartender had overstated the case a little, but the beer wasn’t bad.

From the corner of his eye, The Kid saw Dakota Pete nudge Cragg. The sullen gunman leaned back so he could look past his big companion. After a moment, Cragg picked up the bottle in front of him and splashed whiskey into a shot glass on the bar. He picked up the glass with his left hand and stepped away from the bar, turning toward The Kid.

“Hey,” said Cragg, “aren’t you the hombre we saw a little while ago when we were coming out of the China gal’s whorehouse?”

The Kid set his mug on the bar, turned to look at Cragg, and nodded. “I think so.”

“You follow us up here, mister? You looking for trouble?”

The Kid shook his head. “No. The madam said they were closed temporarily—something about having to haul out some corpses—so I figured it wouldn’t do me any good to wait around there. I came up here looking for a drink instead.”

Cragg nodded, seeming to accept the explanation. He held out the glass. “Have one on me.”

“Thanks. I don’t mind if I do.”

The Kid reached for the glass.

Cragg dropped it as his other hand flashed toward the gun on his hip.

The Kid expected it. His eyes didn’t follow the falling glass, as Cragg had figured they would. Instead, The Kid took a fast step forward and threw a hard left that smashed into Cragg’s jaw just as the man’s gun started to clear leather.

The powerful blow sent Cragg stumbling backwards into Dakota Pete, who instinctively grabbed him to keep him from falling. That occupied Pete’s hands long enough for The Kid to palm out his Colt and level it at both of them.

“Don’t try reaching for your guns,” The Kid warned as he leaned against the bar. He thumbed back the hammer. “If the bartender or anybody else behind me gets the bright idea of walloping me over the head, my thumb’s coming off this hammer. At this range, there’s a good chance the slug will go clean through both of you.”

Dakota Pete didn’t go for his gun. Neither did anyone else. They weren’t going to get mixed up in that when The Kid already had his gun cocked and aimed.

The punch had made Cragg groggy for a moment, but with a shake of his head to clear away the cobwebs, he straightened and snarled at Dakota Pete, “Let go of me, you big Scandihoovian lummox.”

“Sorry, Lonzo,” Pete rumbled. “I was just tryin’ to keep you from fallin’ down.”

Cragg spread his feet a little, stiffened his back, and tugged his vest back into place as he glared at The Kid. “What’s the idea?” he demanded.

“You tried to draw on me,” The Kid reminded him.

“I was just seeing what you’re made of,” Cragg snapped.

“Well, now you know.”

“I wasn’t going to shoot.”

“Didn’t have any way of knowing that,” The Kid drawled.

“All right, all right.” Cragg’s gun had fallen to the sawdust-littered floor at his feet. “I’m going to pick up my iron now.”

“Go ahead. Might be a good idea to do it careful-like, though.”

Cragg bent and retrieved the revolver. He slid it into leather and then said, “You can lower that hammer now, cowboy. You’re making me a mite nervous. Your thumb could slip.”

“It never has yet,” The Kid said. He carefully let the hammer down, lowering the gun until he held it at his side, but he didn’t holster it.

“What’s your name?”

He didn’t see any reason not to tell the truth. “They call me Kid Morgan.”

Dakota Pete said, “I think I’ve heard of him, Lonzo. He’s supposed to be pretty fast.”

“I’d say we saw that with our own eyes.” To The Kid, he said, “I’m Alonzo Cragg. This is Dakota Pete.”

The Kid gave them a curt nod and said, “I’d be willing to bet you have quite a few friends in here, Cragg.”

The gunman gave a minuscule shrug.

“If any of them decide to make a try for me, they might get me,” The Kid went on, “but I’ll get you first. If I’m going to hell, you’ll be there to welcome me.”

“Don’t be so damn touchy,” Cragg snapped. “I told you I wasn’t going to shoot you. Nobody’s going to bother you, Morgan.” He raised his voice a little so everyone in the saloon could hear him as he said it. “Now, how about I buy you a drink? For real this time.”

“All right,” The Kid said. “You won’t mind if I don’t holster this shooting iron just yet?”

“Suit yourself.” Cragg kicked aside the glass he had dropped and motioned for the bartender to bring a fresh one. He poured drinks for himself, Pete, and The Kid, who picked up his glass with his left hand.

“You sure are a distrustful cuss,” Pete said.

“It’s how I’ve lived this long,” The Kid told him.

The three men drank. Around them, the atmosphere in the saloon slowly got back to normal after the tension that had gripped the room when it appeared guns might start to roar at any second.

“What brings you to Gehenna?” Cragg asked as he started to pour a second round.

“Same things that have taken me everywhere else I’ve been. A horse, and the need to earn some money.”

“I hear some of the mines across the border in Mexico are hiring.”

“I’m not a miner,” The Kid said.

Cragg grunted. “No, I can see that.”

“You know of anything else a man could do around here to earn some wages?” The Kid asked. Fate had presented him with an opportunity, and he wasn’t going to let it pass him by.

Before Cragg could answer the question, The Kid heard a stirring in the crowd behind him. He had just started to turn when a man’s voice asked, “Who’s your new friend, Alonzo?”

The Kid continued the turn, moving smoothly and unhurriedly as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He found himself looking straight into the face of the man he had come so far to find.

Bloody Ben Bledsoe.

It wasn’t exactly like looking into a mirror. There were some significant differences. Bledsoe’s eyes were set slightly closer together. His nose was a little broader, his jaw slightly more angular, although it was hard to be sure about that because of the close-cropped sandy beard.

With the two of them standing together, no one except maybe blind Viejo would have any trouble telling them apart. If a person was only looking at one of them, however, it was understandable one might be mistaken for the other, The Kid thought.

“He says his name’s Kid Morgan, boss,” Cragg said.

Bledsoe nodded to The Kid. “I’m Matthew Harrison,” he said. “This is my place.” He gestured toward the glass in The Kid’s hand. “Your first drink?”

“Tonight,” The Kid confirmed.

“It’s on the house, then.” Bledsoe looked at the bartender and the man nodded in understanding. Turning back to The Kid, Bledsoe asked the same question Cragg had a moment or two earlier. “What brings you to Gehenna, Mr. Morgan?”

“We were just talking about that, boss,” Cragg said before The Kid could answer. “Morgan’s looking for work.”

Bledsoe’s eyebrows lifted a little. “Is that so? What occupation do you follow?”

He was a well-spoken man, thought The Kid. It was easy enough to believe Bledsoe had once taught law at that university back east. How he had gotten to Gehenna, Arizona Territory, from William & Mary, was unknown, but that didn’t really matter.

“I don’t have what you’d call an occupation,” The Kid replied. “I pick up work here and there.”

Bledsoe nodded. “I see. And you’re looking to pick up work here in Gehenna?”

“If there’s any to be had.”

Bledsoe’s voice hardened. “Well, you see, that may be a slight problem. Men who do…your sort of work…are employed by me, or not at all.”

“You’ve got a monopoly on trouble?”

“You could say that,” Bledsoe answered. “No offense, Morgan, but how does a drifting gunman know about such things as monopolies?”

“I read a newspaper every now and then,” The Kid said with a shrug. He had almost slipped, revealing a knowledge of business that a man whose main interests were whiskey, whores, and killing might not have.

“That’s good. I believe people should be better-informed about this world we live in.” Bledsoe made a curt gesture, and a second later the bartender handed him a glass that he’d filled from a bottle he took from underneath the hardwood. Brandy, The Kid guessed. Bledsoe drank from the glass, licked his lips appreciatively, and said, “So, do you want to work for me?”

“If you have something that needs doing, sure.”

“That’s the problem. I already have Alonzo and Pete here working for me, along with several other equally talented men. They’ve done such a good job bringing the town in line with my wishes there’s really nothing left to do.”

“In that case, I reckon I’ll ride on in a day or two.”

Bledsoe smiled. “Maybe something will come up between now and then. You never know.”

The Kid shrugged again and lifted his glass. “Thanks for the drink.”

“You’re welcome.” Bledsoe nodded. “See you around.”

He moved away from the bar, walking through the big room, stopping here and there to speak to someone. The men he talked to looked nervous, as if they wanted to curry favor with him but were afraid of him at the same time. That was probably the case, The Kid thought.

Cragg said quietly, “If I was you, Morgan, I’d give some thought to riding on out of town tonight, instead of hanging around for a few days.”

The Kid arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Why is that?”

“Because like Mr. Harrison said, he’s got plenty of help already. There’s no reason for a man like you to hang around.”

The Kid tossed back the rest of the whiskey and placed the empty glass on the bar.

“Having a little competition around worries you, does it, Cragg?”

The man’s rawboned face flushed with anger. “Not hardly. Anyway, I wouldn’t call it competition. You took me by surprise.”

“Because I didn’t fall for your little trick?”

Cragg didn’t have an answer. He picked up the bottle from the bar and said, “Come on, Pete. I’m getting bored.”

“Where are we goin’, Lonzo?” the Viking gunman asked.

“I don’t know, blast it! Somewhere else.”

Pete’s massive shoulders rose and fell. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

Cragg and his companion went over to a table and sat down, leaving The Kid standing alone at the bar. The apron ambled up and nodded toward The Kid’s empty glass.

“You want a refill on that, or another beer?”

The Kid shook his head. “No thanks. I think I’m done for the evening.”

The bartender leaned closer and lowered his voice as he said, “I heard what Cragg told you. Don’t worry about lookin’ like he’s got you buffaloed, mister. You’d be smart to get on outta town tonight, like he said. Men who don’t pay attention to Cragg…well, they wind up dead, most times. Sometimes they weren’t lookin’ at what killed ’em, if you get my drift.”

“So he’s a backshooter?”

“I sure didn’t say that. No, sir, I never did.”

Despite the bartender’s denial, the real message came through loud and clear. The Kid nodded his thanks for the warning and said, “I’m obliged for the advice, but my horse is tired and needs to rest. I’ll be around.”

“Suit yourself,” the bartender replied in a bleak tone. He moved off, wiping circles on the hardwood with a damp rag.

The man had probably worked for the saloon’s previous owner, George Hopkins, The Kid mused. The owner who had mysteriously gone missing just as “Matthew Harrison” had arrived in Gehenna and promptly taken over. The Kid had no doubt the man was either buried somewhere in the desert…or else he had been dumped so the buzzards picked his flesh and coyotes scattered the bare bones. The bartender and the others who had worked for Hopkins probably had no love lost for their current employer, but they were too afraid of Bledsoe and his gunmen to rock the boat.

The Kid finished the beer he’d been drinking earlier, then left the saloon. As he walked out, he was conscious of eyes following him and knew they belonged to Alonzo Cragg.

Cragg wouldn’t let things rest. The Kid had humiliated him in front of everybody in the saloon. Enough people had seen it so the story would be all over town by morning—how the stranger who had ridden into Gehenna had laid out Cragg with one punch, beating him to the draw with his fist.

Despite Cragg’s pose of friendliness following that incident, the thing would eat at him, nibbling away at his soul and his pride. The only way to stop the torment would be for The Kid to die. Out in public where everybody could see would be best, but Cragg would probably be willing to settle for an ambush, just as long as The Kid wound up dead.

The Kid turned toward Rosarita’s place, where he had left his horse. He walked slowly along the street, giving Cragg plenty of time to come after him if that’s what the gunman wanted.

It was a dangerous game he was playing. Cragg was fast. The Kid had seen that with his own eyes. He had been only a hair faster than Cragg. The next time, it might be Cragg who shaved off that whisker of a heartbeat first.

He sensed it was his chance to penetrate Bledsoe’s inner circle. What he would do when and if he got there, he didn’t know. But the more Bledsoe trusted him, the easier it would be to capture the man and take him back to face justice. It was a gamble worth taking.

The Kid wished he had eyes in the back of his head so he could see if Cragg left the saloon and followed him. He glanced back from time to time, trying not to be too obvious about it.

The third time he looked back, he saw a big figure lumbering after him. “Hey, Kid, wait up.”

The Kid stopped and turned, frowning slightly. He hadn’t expected Dakota Pete to come after him alone. Maybe Cragg had sent the big man to deliver an invitation to a showdown.

As The Kid came around, he saw that he had stopped in front of the pitch-dark mouth of a narrow alley between a hardware store and a saddle shop. For a split second he faced the alley mouth, and in that second a gun roared and flame lanced out of the gloom.

Instinct twisted him aside so the bullet whispered past him, close enough to tug at his sleeve. He whipped up his gun in the same heartbeat, and before the man in the shadows could fire again, two shots blasted from The Kid’s revolver. The reports were so close together they almost sounded like a single shot.

The gun in the alley went off again, but the flame from the muzzle spouted downward at the ground. The Kid backed away swiftly, continuing to turn so he could cover both the alley mouth and Dakota Pete.

The Viking gunman had thrust his hands in the air and made no move toward the revolver on his hip. “Don’t shoot,” he said. “I ain’t slappin’ leather, Kid.”

Alonzo Cragg stumbled out of the alley. The street was faintly lit but bright enough for The Kid to recognize the man’s clothing. His body had jerked so violently as both of The Kid’s slugs hammered into his chest, his hat had come off. He still had his gun in his hand and tried to lift it as he weaved forward a few stumbling steps. “You…son of a bitch,” he rasped. “You’ve…killed me!”

“Drop the gun, Cragg,” The Kid warned.

Cragg ignored him. The gunman summoned up the last of his strength to lift the Colt again.

The Kid shot him in the center of the forehead and the bullet slammed him backward. His gun flew from his hand and he landed with his arms and legs outflung in death.

Knowing that Cragg was no longer a threat, The Kid turned toward Dakota Pete again. The big man still had his hands up.

“I ought to kill you, too,” The Kid said, “for helping him try to bushwhack me.”

Pete shook his shaggy head. “I didn’t know what Lonzo was plannin’, Kid. You got to believe me. He just told me to wait a minute, then come after you and tell you he wanted to talk to you.”

“And it was just a coincidence that you called out to me as I was passing this alley, so I’d turn around and he’d have a chance to shoot me from the front and make it look like he downed me in a gunfight.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about that,” Pete insisted.

The Kid didn’t believe him, but it wasn’t worth arguing about. He would be careful about turning his back on Dakota Pete in the future.

The street was starting to fill with people as the citizens of Gehenna came out to see what all the shooting was about. Quickly, The Kid replaced the three rounds he had fired in case he needed a full wheel again.

He spotted Bledsoe coming down the street toward him, followed closely by the other two gunhawks, Malone and Woods.

Now they would see how the hand played out, The Kid thought as he slid his gun back into leather.