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

too.”
    “Sure thing, mister,” the apron said. He turned and reached for a bottle sitting on the backbar.
    “Not that swill,” the stranger snapped. “We’ll be needing something better than that.” The flinty tone of his voice left no room for argument.
    The bartender nodded a little nervously and reached under the bar as he said, “Of course, sir.”
    He fetched out a different bottle, unwrapped the seal from around its neck, and set glasses on the hardwood. As he studied the five men without being too obvious about it, he wished they had picked one of the other saloons in town to do their drinking.
    Standing next to the white-haired leader was a thick-bodied man with a drooping walrus mustache of a muddy shade. To his left was a tall, skinny man with a patchy beard that tried to cover up his weak chin and prominent Adam’s apple, but failed. The fourth man was either a Mexican or a ’breed and really shouldn’t have been drinking, but the bartender wasn’t going to argue with anybody who had such an evil face.
    That left the medium-sized, gray-haired man in black who looked like a preacher, but only if a preacher carried two guns, butt-forward under his coat ready for a cross-draw. His expression was mild, but something about the look in his eyes made the bartender shudder.
    The white-haired man tossed back his drink and asked, “Any strangers ride into town lately?”
    “Besides you fellas, you mean?”
    The man fixed the bartender with an impatient stare. “I don’t think I’d be asking about us, do you?”
    “No, I, ah, reckon not.” The bartender tugged at his celluloid collar. “People come and go in Las Vegas all the time. It’s hard to remember ’em all.” He paused. “Unless something happens that makes you remember them, like that bank robbery yesterday.”
    “Bank robbery?” the white-haired man repeated.
    “Yeah. Well, attempted bank robbery, I guess you’d have to say, since the varmints didn’t get away with any loot. Shucks, none of ’em got away, period. Three of ’em are dead, and the fourth is locked up in Marshal Fairmont’s jail, thanks to that stranger.”
    The bartender had relaxed a little as he warmed up to the story he was telling, but a shiver went through him again as the white-haired man asked, “What stranger?”
    “He said his name was Browning at first. He helped the marshal stop that robbery, and Henry Bennett over at the bank was gonna pay for whatever expenses the fella had while he stayed here in town. But then Marshal Fairmont figured out he’s really some gunfighter and outlaw called Kid Morgan who’s wanted over in New Mexico Territory, so he locked him up. I’ll bet he hated to do it, since Morgan helped him, maybe even saved his life, but the law’s the law, you know?”
    “Yeah,” the white-haired man said, “I know. So this Kid Morgan is still locked up in the jail?”
    The bartender nodded. “Yep. I don’t know what the marshal plans to do with him. Maybe New Mexico’s sending somebody to take him back there.”
    “That’s mighty interesting,” the man said. He glanced over at his companions and saw the avarice that had appeared in their eyes.
    Their glasses were empty. The bartender asked, “You want me to refill those drinks?”
    The man spun a coin on the bar. It twirled for several seconds before rattling to a stop. “No thanks.”
    He turned and headed for the door without motioning for the others to follow him. They did, anyway.
    When they were outside, the man who looked like a preacher said, “That’s mighty providential, The Kid dropping into our laps like this, Pronto. What are we going to do about it?”
    “What do you think?” replied the man called Pronto. “We can’t collect the reward for him if somebody else locked him up.”
    “So what are we gonna do?” the man with the walrus mustache asked.
    “The only thing we can,” Pronto said. “We’re going to break him out and then kill him.” His thin lips