Bullets Don't Die by J. A. Johnstone Page B

that?”
    “Morgan,” The Kid replied.
    An audible sigh of relief came from the man who had challenged him. “Constance said you were takin’ over as the marshal, Mr. Morgan.” The man stepped out of the dark mouth of an alley, holding a rifle slanted across his chest. “Do you have any orders?”
    The Kid started to explain he wasn’t the marshal, or even an acting lawman, but there didn’t seem to be any point. “Do you know where the other men are set up?”
    “Not all of ’em, no, but I got a couple fellas in this alley with me, and I know there’s a man with a rifle on top of the hardware store across the street.”
    “That’s good,” The Kid said with a nod.
    “Uh, Marshal . . . when the Broken Spoke gets here, how will we know if we’re supposed to start shootin’?”
    A grim chuckle came from The Kid. “You’ll know. You haven’t seen Marshal Tate, have you?”
    “The old fella who used to be the marshal here? No, can’t say as I have.”
    “Well, if you see him, tell him to go back to the marshal’s office, will you?”
    “Sure thing, Mr. Morgan.”
    The Kid moved on up the street and encountered men barricaded inside stores, crouched behind water barrels, and waiting behind false fronts. When he spoke to them, he heard the tension in their voices, but at least they seemed to have their nerves under control.
    No one had seen Jared Tate. It was possible the old lawman had found himself a saddled horse, mounted up, and ridden off bound for no telling what destination. In a way that would be better, The Kid thought. Tate would be well out of harm’s way, at least as far as the potential battle with Levesy’s men. Of course, he might find himself in other danger.
    When The Kid reached the Trailblazer Saloon, he found Constance sitting on a bench in front of the saloon with a shotgun across her knees. “The town’s ready. As ready as it’s ever going to be, I guess.”
    The Kid nodded. “I’d say we’ve got between thirty and forty men waiting to join in when the shooting starts.”
    “Don’t you mean if the shooting starts?” Constance asked with wry humor.
    “I’d like to think there’s a chance of that, but from everything I’ve heard about Harlan Levesy, that’s not what I’m expecting.”
    “And you’d be wise not to,” Constance agreed. “He won’t back down. I never saw a man with more stubborn pride in my life. Reckon it comes from feeling like he could never measure up to his father.”
    “Do you know how many men he has in his crew?”
    “That depends on whether he brings all his hands or just the gunnies. He has about ten actual cowboys working for him, taking care of the real work on the Broken Spoke, but twenty hombres who were hired for their guns.”
    “So we’ll outnumber them either way.”
    “Yeah,” Constance said, “assuming none of our men lose their nerve and run. And you’ve got to remember that a professional killer is more than a match for two or three store clerks and blacksmiths.”
    The Kid knew that, but it was too late to worry about such considerations. He changed the subject. “Have you seen Marshal Tate?”
    “Jared?” Constance sat up straighter and peered sharply at The Kid in the gray predawn light. “Blast it, you haven’t lost him, have you?”
    “He was in the marshal’s office when I dozed off for a while, but when I woke up . . .”
    “Damn it! I should have kept him with me.”
    “I’m sorry,” The Kid said. “I didn’t think about him wandering off like that, and I should have.”
    “He wandered off from his daughter’s house in Wichita and wound up here, clear across the state. There’s no telling where he might go.”
    The Kid didn’t mention he’d already thought that same thing.
    “Well, he’s bound to be around somewhere. As long as he stays out of the line of fire, we can always find him later,” Constance went on. “Assuming there is a later.”
    “I got the feeling that at one time the two of