Authors: Bill Dugan

Gun Play at Cross Creek (11 page)

BOOK: Gun Play at Cross Creek

2.75Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

ALBERT MITCHELL JOINED
the small knot collecting in front of the office. “Mr. Kinkaid,” he said. “What are you charging the Atwater boy with?”

“Hell, I don't know. Public nuisance, obstructing justice, whatever.”

“What's his bail?”

“Bail? He ain't got no bail. It ain't been set. Need a judge for that. No judge in town, you know that.”

“That's right, there isn't. But as mayor, Mr. Crimmins is authorized to function in such matters. He is a magistrate, and he can handle it.”

“I don't know anything about that.”

Crimmins looked at Mitchell. “I didn't know that,” he said.

“Just do it, Crimmins,” Morgan snapped.

Crimmins cleared his throat, once, then a second time. His voice sounded strangely thin, as if his collar were too tight. “Ten dollars. That about right, Albert?”

Mitchell nodded.

“I got the money,” Henessey said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. “Ten dollars?” He counted out the bills and handed them to Crimmins. Then he turned to Kinkaid. “There, now let him go.”

Mitchell stepped up onto the boardwalk. Henessey followed him. Kinkaid squared up, blocking the door. “Where the hell you think you're going?” he asked.

“We're going to get Tommy Atwater,” Henessey said. “You got no reason to hold him, now. Get out of the way.”

“Don't you think his father ought to be the first one to see him? Seems like if he can't afford to pay to get him out, the least he could do is be the one to pick him up.”

Morgan stepped onto the boardwalk “I'll get him,” he said.

“Through me, though. Ain't that the way it's supposed to be, Morgan? Ain't you supposed to go through me?”

“No. That's not the way it's supposed to be. I'm through with that.”

“You disappoint me, Morgan. It's plain to see you're nothing anymore.”

Morgan swung and caught Kinkaid by surprise. The punch landed in Kinkaid's mid-section, and he doubled over, falling backward into the office. Morgan was on him in a flash. He jerked Kinkaid's gun free and threw it out into the street, then he propelled him on through the door. Kinkaid landed in the dirt. He lay there stunned as Morgan turned to move back into the cell block.

Henessey rushed in after him, snatching the keys from a wooden peg over the door. He unlocked the cell and yanked the door open, then stepped back to let Morgan inside.

Tom still lay unconscious. His left arm was draped, palm down, over his face. The back of the wrist was covered with dried blood. His neck and the front of his shirt were bloody, the dark stains already beginning to flake on the skin and peel away. Morgan knelt beside the cot, reached up for Tom's hand, and pulled it away gently.

When he saw Tom's face, the nose flattened where he had been kicked, the ugly gash under one eye, and all the blood, he cursed. Tom's eyes had been blackened, and both cheeks were swollen. He groaned as Morgan moved the limp arm to one side. “Tommy? Can you hear me? Tom? It's me, MorÂ .Â .Â it's Dad. Are you alright?”

Tom groaned again, and his head flopped to one side, but his eyes didn't open.

Morgan got to his feet. “That sonofabitch,” he shouted. “Where is he?”

He started back through the cell block as the doctor stepped in. He knocked the doctor to one side as Henessey clawed at his back. “Wait, Morgan, hold on, now. Just wait, dammit.”

But Morgan was in no mood to wait. He barreled through the front door and out onto the walk, Henessey right behind him. A crowd had begun to gather, and they buzzed excitedly as Morgan stepped into the street.

He walked up to Crimmins and shook him by the shoulders. “Where is he?”

Crimmins shook his head. “Don't know. He just left. HeÂ .Â .Â .”

Morgan shoved him aside. Someone pointed toward Largo's, and Morgan started to run.

“He took his gun,” Crimmins shouted.

Morgan ignored him. He stood in front of Largo's and shouted, “Come on out, Kinkaid.”

There was no answer. Morgan bent to pick up a rock and threw it under the swinging doors. “Kinkaid! Kinkaid, come on out.”

He stepped toward the walkway, feeling that awful tension between his shoulders. It came down to this. The thing he wanted to avoid, the thing he had tried to hide from, and to outrun, and to pretend had never been. But he couldn't avoid it. There was no place to hide, and it was too fast for him. It was his life, and he would have to live it this way, whether he wanted to or not.

Morgan picked up another rock and tossed it into the bar. He saw a shadow just inside the doors and a second later one boot. But it wasn't Kinkaid. The boot was plain, and dusty, not the fancy Mexican leather Kinkaid wore. A second later the doors started to move and a burly man wearing an apron burst outside.

“He's in there,” he said. “Kinkaid's in there.”

“Tell him to come out.”

“He won't do it. Says you should come after him.”

Morgan knew better. He wasn't going inside. If Kinkaid wanted him, he would have to come out. In a loud voice, he said, “I don't have time for this bullshit. If he doesn't have the guts to come out, that's fine with me.”

He started back, never taking his eyes off the door. Kinkaid would not be able to resist. He knew that. Too much was riding on this. If Kinkaid quit now, he would be unable to face himself. He'd rather die than cut and run. And Morgan realized that he didn't care which choice Kinkaid made. For the first time in his life, it wasn't important. There were things that mattered, that meant something. But this wasn't one of them. Brett Kinkaid wasn't worth it. He could crawl back under whatever slimy rock he called home, and that would be just fine.

But he knew it wasn't going to be that easy. He knew it had gone too far for that. He was nearly thirty yards from the walk in front of Largo's when he heard a voice calling from inside the bar.

“Come back here, you yellow bastard. Don't you walk away from me. Atwater? You hear me? Don't you walk away from me.”

Morgan saw the doors swing open partway, then swing shut again. He stopped. And waited.

In the gap under the door, he could see the fancy boots. If he wanted to, he could drill Kinkaid through the door. But he wouldn't and somehow Kinkaid knew it. The prisoner of some warped code that both men understood and only one followed any longer, he knew Morgan wouldn't shoot him. Not that way.

The doors swung open again, and Morgan heard the hush fall over the buzzing crowd up the street. Kinkaid, his jacket still smeared with dust from where he had fallen in the street, brushed the doors aside with his elbows. He stepped onto the walkway, and the doors clacked twice as they swung shut behind him.

“You were going to walk away from me, weren't you, Morgan?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Afraid to die?”

Morgan shook his head. “No, Kinkaid, I'm not afraid to die. But I'm not afraid to live anymore, either. But you are. That's why you won't let this go.”

“Ain't you the poet, though. You getting religion, Morgan? Seems like this town's already got enough ministers.”

Morgan shrugged. “It doesn't have to be this way, Kinkaid.”

“Oh, Morgan, but it does. It does have to be this way. You know that. Deep down inside of you, deep in that yellow gut of yours, you know it's got to be this way. I knew it as soon as I laid eyes on you. And then, when I got that newspaper and the picture, I knew it wouldn't be long.”

“You shouldn't have taken it out on my boy.”

“Hey, I had to do something, Morgan. You weren't cooperating.”

“Maybe you read too many dime novels, Kinkaid.”

“Hell, I'm gonna be in one, soon as we're through here.”

“You think so?”

“Got to be.” He walked down into the street. His jacket still covered his gun butt, and he brushed it back with a practiced maneuver. Morgan tensed for just an instant, but he knew Kinkaid wasn't ready. He had to talk himself into it awhile yet.

“Remember that feeling at the back of your neck you were talking about, Kinkaid? You got it yet?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Because I can see your cheek twitching. You're not ready for this, Kinkaid. This time you're on the other end.”

“Nice try, Morgan. But you can't fool me. I'm not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

Kinkald snorted. Then, like a father sadly disappointed in a favorite son, he shook his head slowly from side to side. “I'm not, Morgan. I'm really not.”

And he made his move. He was fast. Morgan saw the blur of Kinkaid's hand. But this was not something he had any control over. He had been through this so many times, he couldn't have stopped if he wanted to. He felt the weight of his Colt as it cleared the holster. He felt the texture of the trigger under his finger. He felt the kick back against his thumb as the gun went off.

Kinkaid's gun barked once, then again. Something slammed into Morgan's shoulder, spinning him to the left. He went down on one knee as Kinkaid fell. The marshal lay on his back and Morgan struggled toward him, his gun ready, but unwilling to shoot again if he didn't have to.

But Kinkaid wasn't going to let him off that easily. He sat up, braced on one elbow. “Told you it was going to happen, Morgan,” he said. His hand tensed around his pistol. Morgan saw it, and fired. The bullet slammed Kinkaid back onto the ground. One leg twitched spasmodically, shaking his whole body.

For some reason, Morgan saw only the fine mist of beige dust slide off Kinkaid's jacket, shaken loose by the spasm. He glanced at his arm, and saw where the sleeve had been sliced by one of Kinkaid's bullets, felt the sting of the plowed flesh. There was a lot of blood, but the bullet hadn't struck any bone.

He holstered his gun and turned to look up the block. Henessey was racing toward him. “You alright, Morgan?”

Morgan nodded. Crimmins waddled toward him, a hand outstretched. “Thanks, Atwater,” he said. He had a wad of bills in his other hand, and he thrust them toward Morgan.

When he saw the money, Morgan reached out, took the bills, and balled them in his fist. Then he stuffed them down inside Crimmins's vest. “No thanks,” he said.

He turned to Henessey, “How's Tom?”

“He's got to mend some, but he'll be alright.”

“I guess you'll be leaving my employ,” Henessey said.

“Like hell I will, Lyle. You don't get rid of me that easy. I got a life to lead, and I might as well do it here. If my family won't mind.”

“Somehow, I don't think they will.”

About the Author

Bill Dugan is the pseudonym of a full-time writer who lives in upstate New York with his family.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

By Bill Dugan

D
UEL
ON
THE
M
ESA

T
EXAS
D
RIVE

G
UN
P
LAY
AT
C
ROSS
C
REEK

B
RADY
'
S
L
AW

D
EATH
S
ONG

M
ADIGAN
'
S
L
UCK

War Chiefs

G
ERONIMO

C
HIEF
J
OSEPH

C
RAZY
H
ORSE

Q
UANAH
P
ARKER

S
ITTING
B
ULL

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover art from the original painting by Mort KÃ¼nstler, “Night Riders” Â© 1974 Mort KÃ¼nstler, Inc.
www.mkunstler.com

ISBN: 0-06-100079-5

EPub Edition Â© June 2011 ISBN: 9780062109460

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

10Â Â 9Â Â 8Â Â 7Â Â 6Â Â 5Â Â 4Â Â 3

About the Publisher

Australia

HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

25 Ryde Road (P.O. Box 321)

Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia

www.harpercollins.com.au/ebooks

Canada

HarperCollins Canada

2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor

Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada

http://www.harpercollins.ca