The Loner: The Bounty Killers by J. A. Johnstone

coolness from the morning, so as the day heated up it didn’t become too unbearable inside the cells.
    Carly brought sandwiches made from the leftover roast beef for lunch and stew for supper. After delivering the evening meal, she hesitated outside the cells, and The Kid could tell by looking at her that she had something on her mind.
    “What’s wrong?” he asked.
    “I’ve been thinking about it all day,” she said. “What if I was wrong about you? Growing up with a lawman for a father, I saw a lot of outlaws, and you don’t seem like the type to me, Mr. Morgan. Most of them were uneducated louts.” She glanced over her shoulder at the man in the other cell. “No offense.”
    He looked up from the stew he’d been slurping. “Oh, none taken, missy. I’ll be the first one to tell you I never had much schoolin’.”
    Carly turned back to The Kid. “Anyway, I’ve been worried about that. I hate to see any man locked up who doesn’t deserve it.”
    “What about that wanted poster?” The Kid asked, playing devil’s advocate. “According to the wire from Claudius, the territorial authorities in New Mexico meant to issue it and refused to retract it.”
    “Maybe they don’t know the full story of what happened.”
    “They ought to know. The warden’s daughter was going to testify that I was locked up by mistake.”
    Carly shook her head. “I just have a feeling that there’s been a mistake made somewhere, and I’m afraid I may be the one who made it.”
    After she’d left, taking the empty bowls with her, the other prisoner grinned at The Kid from across the aisle and said, “That gal’s gone sweet on you, Morgan. You play up to her, she might just let you outta here.”
    “It didn’t seem much like it last night when she was trying to stove my head in with a gun butt,” The Kid said.
    The bank robber waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, hell, you can’t go by that. I’ve had gals try to shoot me, stab me, and even bust my skull with a piece of cord wood, but they still loved me.” He grinned. “It’s because I’m such a roguish bastard. The gals just can’t resist me.”
    “Then maybe you’re the one who should be playing up to Miss Fairmont.”
    The man shook his head. “Naw. Not this one. She’s got her eye set on you.”
    “I think you’re wrong,” The Kid said.
    “Can’t hurt to try. Worst she can do is slap you across the mush.”
    The Kid stretched out and turned his face to the stone wall. He didn’t want to think about what the bank robber had said.
    In the first place, he wasn’t convinced Carly was smitten with him, and in the second, he wasn’t sure he could play up to any woman anymore. Conrad Browning had been quite the ladies’ man in his time, leaving a string of broken hearts behind him, but those days were long gone.
    Carly was right. What he needed to do was just be patient. He had faith in Claudius Turnbuckle’s legal skill.
    And Marshal Fairmont had been right, too. With that ten thousand dollar price on his head, he was probably safer in jail—for the time being—than he would be anywhere else.

    Five hard-faced men rode into Las Vegas a little after sundown that evening. They headed for the Nugget Saloon, which was the biggest and best of the four saloons in town. They left their mounts at the hitch rail in front and went inside.
    The man who carried himself like their leader wore black boots, black whipcord trousers, and a black vest over a dark red shirt. A black Stetson with a tightly curled brim was thumbed back on a rumpled thatch of prematurely white hair above his tanned, angular face.
    He stepped up to the bar and rested his left hand on the hardwood. The right stayed close to the pearl-handled butt of the revolver holstered on his hip.
    “Whiskey,” he told the barkeep without waiting for the man to ask him what he’d have. He angled his head toward his companions as they bellied up to the bar next to him and added, “That goes for my friends,