The Loner: Dead Man’s Gold by J.A. Johnstone Page A

will be as you wish.”
    Father Jardine ambled off toward the church. The Kid and Annabelle went into the store.
    The place was fairly busy. They had to wait to be helped by one of the aproned clerks behind the counter in the rear of the store. While they were standing around, The Kid consulted with Annabelle about exactly what they would need, so they had a list worked out by the time it was their turn. The clerk used a stub of a pencil to scrawl their order on a piece of butcher paper, then set about gathering up the supplies.
    Feeling eyes on him, The Kid glanced over and saw a couple of little boys standing in front of a glass-fronted candy case, stealing glances at him and whispering to each other. He smiled at them, and that emboldened one of the youngsters enough for him to come a couple of steps closer and ask, “Mister, are you a gunfighter?”
    “What makes you think so?”
    The boy pointed at the revolver riding in the buscadero holster on The Kid’s hip. “My pa says that men who carry a six-shooter like that are gunfighters.”
    “Well, I wouldn’t want to go against anything your pa told you,” The Kid said, still smiling. “I’m not really a gunfighter, though.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I just pretend to be one.”
    “But…ain’t that dangerous?” the boy asked with wide eyes.
    “Not if you pretend good enough.” The Kid took a couple of pennies from his pocket and held them out on the palm of his hand. “You and your pard have some licorice on me.”
    “Gee, thanks, mister!” Both boys snatched a coin from The Kid’s hand. They turned eagerly toward the candy counter, but the one who’d been talking glanced back and asked, “What’s your name?”
    “Morgan,” The Kid said.
    “Thanks, Mr. Morgan!”
    A minute later, as the youngsters scampered out of the store trailing long strings of licorice they had bought with the pennies The Kid had given them, Annabelle commented, “That was nice of you.”
    “You sound surprised.”
    “You put up a hard façade, Mr. Morgan. It’s nice to know that there are at least a few tiny cracks in it.”
    The Kid didn’t think it was so nice. In fact, he told himself that he was going to have be more diligent about being a hardcase. He didn’t want anybody thinking that he was turning soft, even his traveling companions.
    A few minutes later, the clerk set a couple of wooden boxes on the counter. “Here you go, folks,” he said. “These are the supplies you wanted.”
    “Much obliged,” The Kid said. “How much do we owe you?”
    “Three dollars and six bits.”
    The Kid reached for his pocket. Annabelle said, “Wait a minute. I can pay for this.”
    “No need,” The Kid told her. “If I’m going to be traveling with you, I can pay my share of the freight.”
    The fact of the matter was, he could have bought and sold their whole outfit thousands of times over. He didn’t have that much cash on him, of course, but there was plenty of money in bank accounts in Boston, Chicago, Denver, San Francisco, and Carson City. Of course, the name on those accounts wasn’t Kid Morgan, but he could put his hands on the funds any time he wanted them, just by sending a few wires to the attorneys who handled his legal and business affairs. His father Frank, who was equally wealthy because they had shared in the inheritance from Vivian Browning, had the same sort of set-up.
    That was just one more thing he had learned from Frank Morgan, The Kid thought with a faint smile.
    He handed a five-dollar gold piece to the clerk, collected his change, and then tried to pick up both boxes. Annabelle took one of them out of his hands.
    “The least you can do is let me help carry them out,” she said.
    “All right,” The Kid said as they took the boxes and turned toward the open double doors that led out onto the general store’s porch.
    They stopped short as three men suddenly appeared in the doorway, blocking it. “Morgan? Kid