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

Morgan?” one of them challenged in a loud, harsh voice.
    “Oh, hell,” The Kid said softly, under his breath. He knew all too well what was coming next. Those varmints wanted to prove that they were faster on the draw than he was.
    And there he stood, his hands full of flour, salt, sugar, and a side of bacon instead of a six-gun.

Chapter 11

    “Mr. Morgan?” Annabelle said, her voice taut with worry.
    “Move off to the side, Doctor,” he told her. His eyes never left the three men as he spoke. He was at another disadvantage there, because they had the light from outside behind them. The late afternoon sun wasn’t as bright as if it had been midday, but even so, the men in the doorway were little more than silhouettes to The Kid.
    He kept his eyes on them anyway, watching for any telltale twitches or other involuntary movements before they slapped leather.
    Annabelle hadn’t moved. She asked, “Is there going to be trouble of some sort? Should I try to find the local authorities?”
    One of the men laughed. “You do that, missy,” he said. “You go find the local authorities.”
    Annabelle stiffened and took a step toward them. “How dare you mock me!” she said. “I’ll have you know that I’m a doctor!”
    “Good. Your friend there’s gonna need a sawbones when we get through with him.”
    “More likely an undertaker,” added one of the other men.
    “Dr. Dare,” The Kid said between clenched teeth. “Annabelle. Get the hell out of the way .”
    “Oh!” she said. But she moved; that was the important thing as far as The Kid was concerned. Carrying the box she had taken from him, she edged away, if not completely out of any possible line of fire, at least farther away from it.
    “I just came in here for supplies,” The Kid told the men in the doorway. “I wasn’t looking for trouble.”
    “You found it anyway, mister. We been hearin’ all over the territory about this gun-thrower who calls hisself Kid Morgan. That’d be you, right?”
    The Kid knew there was no point in denying it. “I’m Kid Morgan,” he said.
    “My name’s Culhane,” said the man in the middle of the trio. He nodded to the man on his right. “Jericho.” And on his left. “Mawson.”
    “Can’t say as I’m happy to make your acquaintance.”
    “Reckon not, since we’re the men who’re gonna kill you.”
    At first, The Kid had heard a lot of scurrying around behind him. He knew the clerks and the other customers were hunting cover. Now an uneasy silence hung over the store. The Kid didn’t hear anyone moving around.
    “Doctor,” he said.
    “Wh-what is it, Mr. Morgan?”
    “You see anyone else besides me and these three hombres in here?”
    “No,” Annabelle said. “Everyone’s hiding. It’s like the store is empty except for us.”
    “Good.” The Kid addressed the three men in the doorway. “Culhane, you and your pards just back on out of here, and nobody has to die.”
    “You got that wrong,” the gunman called Mawson said. “You have to die, Morgan, if we’re gonna be famous.”
    “Famous for gunning down a man when the odds are three to one in your favor? A man who has his hands full and can’t even reach for a gun?”
    “People will forget the details,” Culhane said. “They’ll just remember that we’re the men who killed Kid Morgan. And you can drop that box any time you want to. In fact, you’d better do it right about—”
    The Kid saw the tiny, almost imperceptible lift of their shoulders as they tensed to draw. At that same moment, a side door into the store opened and the little boy who had talked to The Kid earlier ran in, saying, “Mr. Morgan! Mr. Morgan!”
    The Kid didn’t drop the box of supplies. He threw it at the three gunmen, sending it sailing through the air toward them. Instinct made them duck away from it, even though it didn’t reach them but crashed to the floor in front of them.
    By the time the box hit the floorboards, The Kid’s Colt was in his hand,