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Authors: J. A. Johnstone

BOOK: Bullets Don't Die
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Chapter 22
It was pretty obvious where the town of Chalk Butte got its name. The landmark in question rose about half a mile west of the settlement. It wasn’t very tall, thirty or forty feet, but on the Kansas plains even that much height made it stand out.
The town itself was about half the size of Copperhead Springs, The Kid thought as he and Tate rode in. A pleasant enough place with a main street a few blocks long, a couple whitewashed churches with tall steeples, and a redbrick schoolhouse at the edge of town.
At least, it would have been pleasant if something wasn’t wrong. The Kid’s eyes narrowed as he realized no one was on the streets. No teams and wagons were parked in front of the stores, and no horses were tied at the hitch racks. All the doors were closed.
From the looks of it, Chalk Butte had been abandoned.
Even Tate could see and understand that. “Where is everybody?”
“I don’t know, Marshal,” The Kid answered quietly. “I sure don’t like the looks of this.”
The sound of a door opening made him stiffen in the saddle. He turned quickly in the direction of the sound, his hand moving toward his Colt.
“Hold it, mister!” a voice called sharply. The Kid found himself looking over the barrel of a rifle aimed at him from a doorway. Instinct made him glance along the street. Other rifles had appeared, thrust from doors and windows.
Keeping his voice strong and steady, The Kid said, “Take it easy, friend. We’re not looking for trouble.”
A few heartbeats of silence ticked by.
“Good Lord. It’s Marshal Tate and Mr. Morgan.” The door swung back, and Marshal Bob Porter stepped out of the building. He lowered his rifle and waved a hand over his head in a signal that everything was all right.
“What in the world’s going on here?” The Kid asked without making a move to dismount.
“The town’s waiting for trouble,” Porter said in his Texas drawl.
“I can see that. What kind of trouble?”
“The Boomhauser brothers. Three old buffalo hunters. I had to arrest one of them the other night for raising a ruckus in one of the saloons. He paid his fine for disturbing the peace, so I didn’t have any choice but to let him go. He said he was going to get his brothers and come back to teach the town a lesson.”
Tate blew out a disgusted sigh. “There’s always something like that going on when you’re a lawman. Folks just won’t accept it when they’re wrong and let things go.”
“The Boomhausers won’t, that’s for sure. They’ve treed other towns and gotten away with it. That’s not going to happen here.”
“And you’re expecting them any time now.”
Porter nodded. “Yep.”
Someone else stepped out of the building, which The Kid finally recognized as the marshal’s office and jail. His eyebrows rose as he realized the newcomer was a young woman, despite the fact that she wore boots, whipcord trousers, and a short charro jacket over a silk shirt. She had a Winchester in her hands and a gun belt strapped around her trim hips.
“You know these men, Papa?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Porter inclined his head toward her and went on. “My daughter Holly.”
With her olive skin, dark eyes, and mass of raven-black hair, Holly Porter was beautiful. She handled the rifle like she knew how to use it, and The Kid felt another jolt of surprise when he saw the badge pinned to her jacket.
“Your daughter is your deputy?” he asked.
Porter grinned. “She comes from good fighting stock on both sides. Why not?”
Tate pursed his lips in obvious disapproval. “I never heard of such a thing. A woman can’t be a deputy.”
“Remember how Constance was right in the middle of the fight with the Broken Spoke?” The Kid said. “She was as much a part of that as anybody else.”
“Maybe so,” Tate said grudgingly, “but some things just don’t seem right to me.”
“We need to get off the street,” Porter said. “When the Boomhausers get here, they’re liable to come in shooting. I don’t want anybody to get hurt. There’s a little corral out back. You can put your horses there.”
The Kid and Tate dismounted and led the animals around the building. Porter opened the rear door to let them in that way after they had put the horses in the corral and unsaddled them.
“You fellas might have preferred to just ride on,” he commented once they were inside. “This isn’t your trouble, after all. You already helped me out once when you took care of those outlaws I was after.”
“And you said then to stop by and pay you a visit sometime.” The Kid smiled. “That’s why we’re here.” He leaned his head toward Tate and lowered his voice. “And to let the marshal rest a little before we head on to Wichita.”
Porter’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Tate. “Is something the matter with . . . No, never mind. We can talk about that later.”
The Kid nodded in agreement.
Somewhere outside, a bell began to ring. Porter and his daughter looked around, their heads jerking toward the sound. Obviously, they knew what the signal meant.
“We’ve got a man in the bell tower of the Methodist Church,” Porter said. “He’s warning us the Boomhausers are on their way.”
The marshal took a step toward the door.
Holly caught the sleeve of his buckskin jacket and stopped him. “You can’t go out there by yourself, Papa. I’m going with you.”
Porter shook his head. “Not hardly. You can cover me from the window, but you’re not setting foot outside this building, Holly. I already let you run enough risks just wearing that badge. You want your mama to turn all the way over in her grave?”
“My mother would be the first one to back you up in case of trouble,” Holly said, her voice fiery with anger and determination.
“Well, that’s true enough, I reckon. But you’re still not—”
“I’ll come with you, Marshal,” The Kid said.
Porter looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re not even a lawman, Mr. Morgan. It’s not your job—”
“I’m volunteering,” The Kid cut in. “If Miss Porter—I mean Deputy Porter—can keep an eye on Marshal Tate for me, I’d be glad to help you out.”
“Nobody needs to keep an eye on me,” Tate said. “I’m fine.”
“I want you to stay here anyway, Marshal,” The Kid said. “As a favor to me.”
Tate sighed and nodded. “All right. But I get tired of being treated like I’m five years old.”
The Kid wished that wasn’t necessary. For now, he had more pressing concerns.
“You want a rifle?” Porter asked as they moved toward the door, not giving Holly the chance to continue the argument.
“No, my Colt ought to be enough. How many of these Boomhausers are there?”
“Just three.” a grim smile curved Porter’s mouth. “But they’re about as big and tough as the buffalo they used to hunt.”
The two men stepped out onto the porch. Before Porter closed the door behind them, The Kid glanced through the opening and saw the angry, frustrated face of Holly. The emotions she was feeling didn’t make her any less beautiful, he noted.
Three men on horseback had entered the town. Even from a distance of several blocks, The Kid could tell how big they were. The horses they rode stood tall, but in comparison to the riders the animals looked a bit like ponies.
Despite the warmth of the day, all three men wore buffalo coats, which made them look even bigger. As The Kid studied the massive, shaggy figures, he said quietly to Porter, “I see what you mean about them. Buffalo walking on two legs.”
“Damn near,” Porter agreed. “You sure you want to take cards in this game, Morgan?”
“I’d say the hand’s already been dealt.”
The Kid and Porter moved slowly into the middle of the deserted street. In a low voice, Porter said, “That’s Alvin on our left, Hubert in the middle, and Forrest on the right.”
“How do you tell ’em apart?” The Kid wanted to know. The faces of all three men bristled with beards.
“Alvin’s the good-looking one,” Porter replied with a dry chuckle.
“I’ll have to take your word for that.” The Kid grinned.
As the Boomhausers came on at a slow, deliberate pace The Kid continued. “All the big herds have been gone for a long time. What have these boys been doing since then?”
“They have a farm north of here. Most of the time they’re not bad sorts, really, but when they get to drinking . . . That’s what happened with Hubert the other day. He just can’t hold his liquor, and neither can the other two.”
“As big as they are, they ought to be able to down a whole barrel of whiskey without feeling it.”
“You’d think so, but it doesn’t always work out that way.” Porter licked dry lips. “Times like this, I almost wish I was back on the Rio Grande.”
The Kid didn’t really believe that. Porter seemed calm and confident, not the least bit spooked by the dangerous confrontation.
The Boomhausers brought their horses to a halt about twenty feet from the two men standing in the street. Hubert, the one in the middle, leaned forward and said in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder, “I told you I’d be back with my brothers, Marshal. You had no call to arrest me.”
“You were drunk and causing damage in the saloon, Hubert,” Porter said. “I was afraid you were going to hurt somebody, and I knew you wouldn’t want that.”
“I’m gonna hurt somebody, all right. You.” Hubert glared at The Kid. “And who’s that spindly young fella with you?”
“This is a friend of mine, Kid Morgan.”
“Well, Kid, you better light a shuck while you still can if you don’t want part of the marshal’s trouble. Consider that fair warnin’.”
“And consider
this
fair warning, Mr. Boomhauser,” The Kid said right back. “You’re not going to cause trouble here today. Turn around and ride out.”
The one called Alvin shifted in his saddle. “Is this stranger givin’ the orders now, Marshal?”
“Morgan wants the same thing I do,” Porter snapped. “No bloodshed. Listen, you three . . . there are a dozen rifles covering you right now. You might manage to kill the two of us, but you’ll be shot to pieces if you do. I don’t want anybody hurt, including you.”
“It don’t matter,” Hubert insisted. “We been insulted. Somebody’s got to pay.”
“Would you consider the chance for a fair fight payment enough?” The Kid suddenly asked.
Porter glanced over at him and muttered, “What’re you doing, Morgan?”
The Kid reached down to his gun belt and started to unbuckle it. “You and I will take each other on, Hubert, how about that? And when the fight’s over, win, lose, or draw, you and your brothers turn around, ride back to your farm, and promise to stop causing trouble around here.”
“You’re loco!” Hubert exclaimed.
“My brother can bust you in half with one hand!” Alvin added.
Porter said, “They’re right, Morgan. You wouldn’t stand a chance against that behemoth.”
“But if they’ll go along with the deal, then nobody has to die today,” The Kid pointed out.
“Except maybe you.”
“I’ll be all right.”
Hubert clawed fingers through his beard and looked back and forth at his brothers. “What do you reckon I ought to do?”
“That’s up to you,” Alvin said.
Forrest Boomhauser spoke for the first time. “Rip the scrawny little varmint to pieces.”
Hubert nodded. “All right,” he declared. “We’ll fight it out, me and this stranger, and that’ll be the end of it. But if he winds up dead, Marshal, you can’t blame me and call it murder.”
“Nobody’s going to do that,” The Kid said before Porter could respond. “It’s a fair fight, nothing more than that.” He handed his gun belt and hat to Porter. “Hang on to these for me, will you, Marshal?”
“Sure, but I’m afraid you won’t be needing ’em anymore.”
“We’ll see.” The Kid rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.
Hubert Boomhauser dismounted and stepped away from his horse. He handed his gun and hat to his brother Alvin.
“Aren’t you going to take that buffalo coat off ?” The Kid asked.
“I don’t like to,” Hubert said. “That make any difference to you?”
“I suppose not,” The Kid replied with a shake of his head. “Whenever you’re—”
Before he could say “ready,” Hubert charged him with a deafening roar.
To The Kid it felt like the very earth was shaking under his feet . . . as if a whole herd of buffalo was stampeding straight at him.
Chapter 23
Alvin and Forrest Boomhauser let out excited yells. Marshal Porter shouted, “Look out, Morgan!” and The Kid thought he heard a frightened, feminine cry come from Holly inside the marshal’s office.
But none of those things mattered. Facing a monster like Hubert, he couldn’t let himself be distracted if he wanted to stay alive.
He twisted aside and threw himself out of Hubert’s path. Clubbing his hands together, he swung them in a smashing blow to the back of Hubert’s neck as he lumbered past. The Kid put all his strength behind the punch.
Hubert didn’t even seem to feel it.
He wheeled around ponderously, swinging a massive arm in a backhand. Although bigger than Jed Ahern, whom The Kid had battled back in Copperhead Springs, he lacked Ahern’s surprising speed. The Kid was able to drop under that sweeping arm without any trouble.
Sometimes a big man would have a glass jaw, or his nose would be his weak spot. The Kid darted in and hammered a short left and right into the middle of Hubert’s face.
Hubert’s head didn’t rock back even an inch under the impact of the blows.
The Kid jumped back, escaping Hubert’s attempt to grab him in a bear hug. He wasn’t a dirty fighter by nature, but he gave some thought to kicking Hubert in the groin. Nothing else seemed to be doing any good.
Let that be a last resort, The Kid decided. He bored in again, sending a pile driver punch at Hubert’s head.
Capable of some speed, after all, Hubert got his hand up and grabbed The Kid’s wrist before the blow could land. He turned and heaved . . .
And suddenly The Kid found himself airborne.
He landed in the middle of the street, where his momentum sent him rolling over and over. As dust billowed up around him, choking him and making him cough, he realized Hubert had flung him through the air like a child throwing a rag doll.
It was like fighting a mountain on legs.
The Kid did some quick calculations. If he could keep Hubert from smashing his skull in or breaking his back, maybe he could outlast the former buffalo hunter. Hubert was considerably older than him. Not as old as Tate, certainly, but The Kid still had the advantage in years. Hubert might get tired.
The ground was shaking again. The Kid looked up and saw Hubert barreling at him like a runaway freight train. He scrambled up onto hands and knees, and launched himself forward, throwing his body right into Hubert’s knees.
The impact was tremendous, jolting The Kid to the core of his being, but he’d finally done some damage. With a startled yell, Hubert plunged forward out of control as The Kid knocked his legs out from under him. He went down like an avalanche.
Grimacing from the pain of having Hubert’s knees rammed into his torso, The Kid rolled over and got to his feet. Seeing Hubert was still down, The Kid leaped on him, landing with his knees in the small of the big man’s back.
Again he clubbed his hands together and hammered them against the back of Hubert’s head. The powerful blow drove Hubert’s face into the dirt. The Kid raised his arms and brought them down a second time.
Hubert roared and came to his feet, almost straight up. The Kid nearly fell off, but lunged forward and got his arms around Hubert’s neck. In spike of the thick beard and buffalo coat in his way, he managed to thrust his right forearm across Hubert’s throat and grab that wrist with his left hand to lock it down.
Hubert tried to bellow again but The Kid cut off his air. He clawed at The Kid’s arm. His thick, blunt fingers couldn’t get inside the smaller man’s grip and tear it loose.
The Kid’s feet dangled well off the ground as he hung on for dear life. Hubert turned around and around, trying to sling him off. But The Kid didn’t let go.
Suddenly Hubert stopped spinning and lurched backward.
The Kid realized his opponent was trying to smash him against a building. He twisted his head around to glance back at the wall rushing toward him.
Timing the move perfectly, he let go and dropped right behind Hubert. The big man tripped over him and crashed into the wall with such force that boards splintered under his weight and he knocked a hole in the wall. Stunned, he fell through the opening, his legs still draped across The Kid.
Fighting down a touch of panic, The Kid struggled out from under them. He made it to his feet and turned to see that Hubert wasn’t moving. For a moment he thought the man had fatally impaled himself on a broken board or something, but as the pounding of his own pulse subsided, he heard the rasp of the big man’s breathing.
“Is he still alive?” one of his brothers called anxiously.
The Kid turned away from the scene of destruction and nodded. “He’s alive. Looks like he knocked himself out when he ran through the wall.”
“That was a dirty trick,” the other Boomhauser brother accused.
“I didn’t hear anything about any damned Marquis of Queensbury rules,” The Kid snapped. “As far as I know, it was no holds barred and devil take the hindmost.”
“That
is
the way Hubert always fought,” Alvin said.
“Yeah, I reckon so,” Forrest agreed grudgingly. “But I still say that little fella couldn’t ’a beat him without cheatin’ somehow.”
Porter said, “It was a fair fight. Everybody in town saw that. And you know good and well Hubert would be the first one to agree with that. He said he wanted a fair fight in return for being arrested, and he got one. Now you boys pick him up and get out of town, and don’t come back until you’re ready to not cause any more trouble.”
“Deal’s a deal,” Alvin said heavily. “That fella’s mighty lucky Hubert didn’t kill him, though.”
“Looked more like good smart fighting to me,” Porter said.
The brothers dismounted, went over to Hubert, and dragged him out of the hole in the wrecked wall.
“We ain’t payin’ for this damage,” Forrest said.
“I’ll take care of it,” The Kid said. “I won, so it’s only fair.”
Both brothers glared at him, but neither said anything else. Hubert was starting to come to, but he was so groggy he didn’t know what was going on. They got him onto his horse, and all three of them rode out of Chalk Butte.
The Kid started brushing dust off his clothes.
Porter looked at him and shook his head. “I hate to agree with the Boomhauser brothers about anything, but I’m mighty surprised you’re still alive, Mr. Morgan.”
The Kid managed to smile. “They were right about me being lucky.”
The door of the marshal’s office opened, and Holly walked out, followed by Jared Tate.
“You’re one loco hombre,” she told The Kid. “But it looks like you saved us from having to bury anybody today.”
“I knew you could beat him,” Tate said. “Never had a doubt in my mind.”
“I appreciate that, Marshal,” The Kid said.
Up and down the street, people were starting to emerge from the buildings.
Porter called to them, “It’s all right, folks! The trouble’s over!” He turned back to the other three. “Maybe now things can get back to normal around here.”
 
 
Marshal Porter and his daughter lived in a small but neat house around the corner from the jail. With no extra room for The Kid and Tate to stay there, they got rooms in Chalk Butte’s only hotel. It was fine with The Kid. He hadn’t wanted to put them out, anyway.
Porter insisted they come to the house for supper, however, and the two travelers were happy to accept that invitation.
Holly prepared enchiladas, a stew peppery enough to take the breath away, beans, and tortillas. The Kid hadn’t spent much time on the Mexican border, but when Porter made the comment the food was like what they ate along the Rio Grande, The Kid believed it.
“Holly comes by her cooking skills honestly. Her mother was the sister of an old trail pard of mine,” Porter explained. Her family had a big rancho just on the other side of the border from the ranch that my folks owned.”
“How about my gun-handling skills?” Holly asked with a smile. “Do I come by those honestly, too?”
“I’m afraid you do,” Porter said. “That’s about all you got from me, though. Your looks and that temper of yours, those are all your mother’s.”
Holly tossed her head as if to prove her father’s point.
When the meal was finished, the men took cups of coffee out to the front porch to enjoy the evening air. Tate sat down in a rocking chair. Porter and The Kid stood at the railing, looking over the street.
“You say you’re on your way to Wichita?” Porter asked.
“That’s right,” The Kid said. “We’re going to visit Marshal Tate’s daughter.”
“Well, that’s a good thing. If Holly didn’t live here, I’d sure want to go visit her from time to time.” Porter lowered his voice and went on. “To tell you the truth, I hope she doesn’t spend the rest of her life here. She was always a tomboy, but being a deputy marshal’s no kind of way for a young woman to live. She needs a husband, and kids of her own.”
“Maybe that’s the way it’ll turn out,” The Kid said. “I’ve found that fate usually has its own plans for us, though, and those don’t always turn out the way we might hope.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
A snore came from Tate as he leaned back in the rocking chair. The Kid reached over, gently took the half-empty coffee cup from the old lawman’s hand, and set it on the porch railing.
“Poor old fella’s worn out,” Porter said quietly. “It’s been less than a month since I saw you boys that other time, and Marshal Tate looks like he’s aged a year in that time.”
“Some days are better than others for him,” The Kid explained. “You’re right, though. The trip’s been hard on him, and it hasn’t helped that we’ve run into trouble several times along the way. I’ll be glad to get him back to Wichita so his daughter can look after him.”
“This isn’t just a visit you’re going on, is it?”
The Kid shook his head. “The marshal’s mind isn’t right anymore. Some days he knows where he is and what’s going on, but most of the time he doesn’t really remember. He thinks it’s ten or fifteen years ago and he’s still the marshal of Copperhead Springs.”
“I knew that couldn’t be right when he mentioned it before,” Porter said. “I’ve heard about people like that who get really confused when they’re older. Doesn’t seem like there’s anything that can be done about it.”
“There isn’t,” The Kid agreed. “At least not that I know of.”
“You just have to take care of them and make sure they don’t hurt themselves or other folks.”
“That’s right.” The Kid paused, then went on. “I had to take his gun away from him when he almost shot me one morning. Seems he’d convinced himself I was his old enemy Brick Cantrell.”
“Cantrell . . .” Porter repeated. “I know that name.”
“He was an army deserter and outlaw. Marshal Tate put him behind bars ten years ago. I suppose he’s still there.”
“More than likely. Seems I remember hearing something about him. . . .” Porter shook his head. “I can’t recall what it was, though. Don’t reckon it matters anyway. Those days are long behind Marshal Tate now.”
“That’s right. From here on out somebody needs to see to it that he’s cared for and comfortable.” The Kid wouldn’t have said it if Tate had been awake, but he added, “Jared Tate’s outlaw-fighting days are done.”

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