Bullets Don't Die

by J. A. Johnstone

  “Someone’s in trouble!” Holly said. “We have to go help them!” She hurried toward the sound of the shots.

  The Kid caught up to her in a couple quick strides. “That could be a trick to lure us into the open.”

  “Can’t take that chance,” Holly snapped. “People’s lives could be in danger.”

  The Kid knew she was right about that. He trotted alongside her as they moved quickly through the night shadows.

  They paused at the rear corner of a building. The Kid leaned over to take a look toward Main Street. Someone appeared to be pinned down behind some barrels at the mouth of the narrow passage between buildings. Bullets whined and sizzled around him and threw splinters from the barrels into the air and the walls of the buildings.

  Whoever was behind the barrels returned the fire briefly before being forced to duck down again. Those muzzle flashes lit up the gunman’s face enough for The Kid to recognize Marshal Bob Porter. He saw a second person in the brief flashes and felt sure it was Tate crouched with Porter, although the Chalk Butte lawman was the only one shooting.

  Holly recognized her father, too, and called, “Papa! Back here!”

  Porter jerked around in surprise, then grabbed Tate by the arm and dragged him along as he ran through the passage toward his daughter and The Kid. “Holly!” he cried. “Is that you? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she told him as they threw their arms around each other. “But we’ve got to stop those men and free the hostages!”

  “I know. I was hoping we’d find you—”

  The reunion was rudely interrupted by gunshots ripping apart the darkness from the far corner of the building. The raiders had sent several men circling around to catch Porter and Tate from behind.

  Those gunmen got more than they bargained for. The Kid was already whirling around to meet this new threat even as the shots began to blast. His Colt roared and bucked in his hand as he aimed at the muzzle flashes. Porter and Holly were only a hair slower in their reactions as they joined in the fight. Keeping Tate behind them, they pulled back into the dubious shelter of the narrow opening between buildings.

  “We can’t stay here,” Porter said between shots. “They’ll charge us from the other direction and catch us in a crossfire.”

  “Then let’s do what they won’t expect and meet them head-on,” The Kid suggested as he thumbed fresh rounds into his Colt. “I’ll lead the way.”

  “Right behind you,” Porter said. “Holly, keep an eye on Marshal Tate.”

  The Kid didn’t wait to hear if Holly was going to object to being given that responsibility. He charged into the alley behind the buildings, the gun in his hand roaring and spitting flame and lead.

  Thinking their quarry was trapped in the gap between buildings, the would-be killers hadn’t bothered to take cover. The sudden counterattack took them by surprise, and as muzzle flashes cast their hellish glare over the alley and lit it up almost as bright as day, The Kid saw men spinning off their feet as slugs ripped into them. He felt the tug of a bullet on his coat and hoped those behind him were safe.

  The raiders who were still on their feet broke and ran in the face of the fierce assault. The Kid and Porter sent them on their way with a few last shots.

  “Holly,” Porter said urgently as he lowered his gun. “Are you hit?”

  “No, Papa, I’m fine,” she replied. “So is Marshal Tate.”

  “Cantrell’s here. Brick Cantrell. I have to arrest him,” Tate exclaimed.

  “I hope you get the chance to do just that, Marshal,” The Kid said. “Right now we’ve got to find those hostages and see if we can free them. One of Cantrell’s men said he had them locked up in a church. You have any idea which one, Marshal Porter?”

  The local lawman shook his head and gave the same answer Holly had earlier. “Could be any of the three—”

  A bell began to toll in the night. It went on for a long moment, then as the sound began to die off in echoes, Cantrell shouted, “You hear that, Tate? That’s a funeral bell for those hostages if you don’t face me like a man right now!”

  “I know that bell,” Holly said breathlessly. “It’s the one in the Baptist Church.”

  “Then that’s probably where they are,” The Kid said. “We don’t have anything else to go on. Can you get us there without running into any more of Cantrell’s men?”

  “Can’t guarantee that,” Porter said, “but we can get there, that’s for sure. Come on.”

  “I . . . I should go face him, like he wants,” Tate said.

  The Kid took the old lawman’s arm. “Not now, Marshal. Maybe later, if it comes to that, but not now. We need you with us.”

  “All right,” Tate said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Lead the way, Holly,” Porter said. “I’ll bring up the rear.”

  It was a good thing Holly knew where she was going, The Kid thought as he followed the twisting, turning route she took through Chalk Butte’s alleys and back streets. They were all alert, knowing they might run into more of Cantrell’s men at any moment.

  They paused as Cantrell bellowed, “I warned you, Tate! I warned you!”

  The shout was followed by a single gunshot.

  “Oh!” Holly exclaimed in horror. “Did . . . did he just—”

  “We’ll have to worry about that later,” The Kid said in a flat, grim tone. “The sooner we free the hostages, the fewer people will lose their lives.”

  “Mr. Morgan’s right, Holly,” Porter said. “Let’s go.”

  They resumed their trek through the shadows, and a few moments later, Holly came to a stop at the mouth of an alley across the street from a large church with a bell tower and steeple. Lights burned brightly inside it, and men holding rifles were ranged around it.

  “No doubt about it,” Porter said quietly. “That’s where they’ve got the hostages. But how in blazes are we going to get in there?”

  “Cantrell probably has men inside, too, with orders to start shooting the prisoners if the place comes under attack,” The Kid said. “We have to force them out of there some way.”

  Tate said, “What about . . . what about if we set the church on fire?”

  The others turned to look at him. After a moment Marshal Porter said, “There are fifty prisoners in there.”

  “I know outlaws,” Tate said, his voice growing stronger. “They don’t care about anybody but themselves. They’ll forget all about the prisoners if it means saving their own hides.”

  “The marshal might be right about that,” The Kid said. “If we can get somebody into the church to lead the prisoners out, they’d stand a chance of surviving, anyway.” He looked at Porter. “It’s your decision, Marshal.”

  Porter frowned, deep in thought for several seconds, but then he sighed and nodded. “We’ll have to give it a try. We can get a jug of kerosene from the general store, make a fuse of some sort, and heave it up on the church roof.”

  Tate said, “I could still go out there and meet Cantrell face-to-face. That’s what he wants.”

  “That may be what he wants,” The Kid said, “but the rest of his men won’t be satisfied with that. I’ll bet they’re planning on looting the whole town, and there’s no telling how many people will be killed if they do.”

  “I agree with Mr. Morgan,” Porter said. “Nobody doubts your courage, Marshal Tate, but if you surrender you’ll be throwing your life away for nothing.”

  “All right, then,” Tate agreed. “Let’s see about getting those people out of there.”

  Chapter 28

  The first order of business was to get their hands on some kerosene. Porter said, “You three stay here. I’ll go back to the general store. I can break in and get a jug of kerosene without much trouble, I think.”

  “One of us should go with you,” Holly protested. “If you run into any of Cantrell’s men, you’ll need help.”

  Porter shook his head. “No, if anything happens to me, I want
the three of you to be able to carry on without me. We don’t want to split our forces in half.”

  “That makes sense,” The Kid agreed. “Good luck, Marshal.”

  Porter cat-footed off into the darkness with Holly anxiously watching him go.

  The minutes ticked by with maddening slowness as they waited for Porter to return. To help pass the time and distract her from worrying about her father, The Kid asked Holly about the layout of the church.

  “There’s a small door in the back that leads through a storeroom and then into the sanctuary.”

  “That’s the way we’ll need to get in.”

  “They’re sure to have it guarded.”

  “We’ll deal with that when the time comes,” The Kid said. “Once we’re inside, your father and I will take care of any outlaws that are left while you get the townspeople out.”

  “Why do you give me that job?” she demanded. “I can shoot, too, you know.”

  “I know, but there’ll be women and children among those hostages, and I figure they’ll be more likely to follow you. In the middle of a bunch of fear and confusion, to them your father and I will just be two more men with guns.”

  Holly pondered that for a moment before nodding. “What you say makes sense,” she admitted reluctantly. “But if I need to get right in the middle of the fight, I will.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything else from you,” The Kid told her honestly.

  A few minutes later, the soft pad of rapidly approaching footsteps made them turn quickly with guns drawn. Marshal Bob Porter came out of the shadows, carrying something that sloshed as he trotted up to them.

  He lifted the jug of kerosene. “Got it. I’ll settle up with the storekeeper later for the jug and for the damage I did to his back door.”

  “If we can save the town from being looted, I think he’ll be glad to call it square,” Holly said. “I was worried about you, Papa.”

  “No need to worry.” Porter’s teeth flashed in a grin. “Let’s get this done. We’ll have to circle around to come at the church from the back.”

  “Hold on a minute,” The Kid snapped. “Who’s this?”

  From the concealing darkness of the alley, they watched as several men strode toward the church, led by a tall man with graying red hair.

  “That must be Cantrell,” Porter whispered. “I remembered after all this started that I’d heard he was released from prison. I knew I’d heard something about him, but I couldn’t think of what it was until then. Maybe if I had . . .”

  “It wouldn’t have made any difference,” The Kid said. “Nobody would have expected him to waltz in here and take over the whole town like this.”

  “Not the whole town,” Holly reminded him. “We’re still loose. We can still make a difference.”

  Across the street, Brick Cantrell came to a stop and told his men in a loud, compelling voice, “Bring out another hostage. A woman this time.”

  In the alley, Holly breathed, “Oh, no,” and her father muttered a curse. The Kid just looked on, his mouth a taut, grim line across his face.

  “We can’t just stand by and let him murder someone else,” Porter said.

  “We won’t,” Tate said, and that made The Kid look around quickly. He made a grab for the old lawman, but Tate moved with surprising speed, lunging past Porter and Holly and running out into the street.

  “Cantrell!” Tate shouted. “Cantrell, this ends now!”

  It was about to end catastrophically, The Kid sensed, but maybe they could save the people in the church, anyway. He grabbed the jug of kerosene from Porter. “Split up! Come at them from three directions ! Holly, get in that church and get those people out!”

  He raced out into the street as Cantrell swung around and bellowed, “Tate! At last!”

  The Kid heaved the jug as hard as he could and dove forward, tackling Tate from behind and knocking him to the ground as Cantrell opened fire. Bullets screamed through the air just above them.

  Lifting his Colt, The Kid tracked the jug as it flew through the air. The revolver blasted, and the jug came apart as the bullet struck, spraying kerosene all over Cantrell and the dozen or so outlaws standing near him in front of the church.

  One man fired his gun without thinking, and that was all it took. The kerosene on his hand ignited, and flames engulfed his fingers and raced up the sleeve of his shirt as he screamed. The nightmarish sight was all it took to make the other outlaws hesitate about pulling their triggers.

  Porter and Holly quickly burst out of the alley and split up, Porter going left while Holly went right. They fired on the run, cutting down several outlaws.

  Cantrell let out an incoherent howl of rage and cast his gun aside, then charged toward The Kid and Tate.

  The Kid could have shot him, but Tate tore loose from him and scrambled up, getting in the line of fire. The Kid swung his Colt toward the remaining outlaws instead and triggered three times, putting two more men on the ground.

  The man who had set his arm on fire had fallen to the ground, igniting more of the kerosene. Flames raced here and there in the street. The men who had gotten the volatile stuff all over them were more concerned with staying away from the fire than they were with putting up a fight, which made them easy targets for The Kid, Porter, and Holly.

  The thunder of hoofbeats made The Kid roll over and come up on one knee. He reloaded quickly as he saw more of the gang racing along Main Street. They hadn’t been doused with kerosene, so they blazed away at the three people making a gallant stand for Chalk Butte.

  The Kid snapped his gun closed and brought it up to blow one of the charging outlaws out of the saddle. Then he flung himself to the side to avoid being trampled as the horses pounded past him. He rolled over and fired from his belly, his shot rewarded by the sight of a badman throwing his hands in the air and pitching limply off his horse.

  From where he lay The Kid suddenly caught sight of Jared Tate and Brick Cantrell, locked in a fierce hand-to-hand struggle in the middle of the street. Cantrell was younger, bigger, and stronger, and Tate shouldn’t have been any match for him.

  Somewhere inside him, though, Tate had found reserves of strength, and the blows he sledged into Cantrell’s face and body rocked the outlaw with unexpected power. Tate bored in, driving Cantrell back a few steps.

  Cantrell caught himself and recovered from the surprise of the fierce battle Tate was putting up. He blocked one of Tate’s punches and batted the old lawman’s arm aside. Cantrell’s fist shot in and smashed Tate in the face. Tate lost his footing and flew backward. Cantrell leaped after him. Landing on top of Tate, he closed his hands around his old enemy’s throat, clearly intent on choking the life out of him.

  The Kid surged to his feet and drew a bead on Cantrell. The range was a little long, but he thought he could put a bullet through the boss outlaw’s head.

  Before he could squeeze the trigger, a charging horse’s shoulder clipped him from behind, knocking him down again. The Colt flew out of The Kid’s hand.

  He lay there for a second, stunned, before he was able to get up. As he came to his hands and knees and lurched to his feet, he knew there was no time to look for his gun. He broke into a run toward Cantrell and Tate.

  When he was still a couple yards away, The Kid launched himself into the air. The diving tackle sent him crashing into Cantrell. The impact sent both men rolling through the dust of the street. The Kid came up first by a heartbeat and let fly with a haymaker that caught Cantrell squarely on the jaw and staggered him.

  Cantrell recovered almost instantly and charged. The Kid was between him and Tate, and Cantrell’s hate-distorted face made it plain that he was willing to go through anything to get to the man he wanted to kill.

  The Kid was equally determined to stop him. He absorbed the punishment as Cantrell’s rock-hard fists pounded into him and slugged right back at the outlaw chief. All around them, flames leaped and guns roared and people shouted and screamed, but for those two men nothing else in th
e world existed at that moment, only their anger and determination and the pain they could deal out to each other.

  The reek of kerosene soaking Cantrell’s clothes bit into The Kid’s nose. He ignored it and kept fighting. The battle moved back and forth across the street, swaying first one way then the other as each man in turn was forced to give ground.

  The Kid sensed he was slowly gaining the advantage. Cantrell’s arms seemed to be moving slower when he threw his punches. The outlaw’s face was swollen and bleeding from the damage The Kid had inflicted. His chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath.

  Cantrell realized he was losing and reached behind his back, producing a knife. The Kid jerked backward to avoid the blade’s sweeping thrust. A mere couple inches separated him from having his guts spilled out.

  While The Kid was off balance, Cantrell stuck a foot out and hooked it between The Kid’s ankles. The Kid went down, and Cantrell raised the knife high as he leaped forward, aiming to plunge the blade into The Kid’s chest.

  Somewhere nearby, a gun roared.

  A shudder went through Cantrell’s body as the bullet drove into his chest. The impact brought his attack to an abrupt halt, but didn’t cause him to drop the knife. He stumbled forward a step, and the gun blasted again.

  The Kid rolled to the side and came up on his knees. Jared Tate stood with a revolver gripped in both hands. Smoke curled from the muzzle. Flames lit up the old lawman’s grim face as he fired again and again.

  The slugs hammered into Brick Cantrell’s body and made the outlaw do a grotesque dance. The knife slipped from his fingers and thudded to the ground.

  Sheer willpower seemed to be all that was keeping Cantrell on his feet as blood welled from his wounds. Willpower, and pure hate. His face contorted in a snarl as he said, “Tate, you . . . you old . . . you . . .”

  Whatever venom he wanted to spew, he couldn’t finish. He collapsed, falling first to his knees and then pitching forward on his face, not to move again.

  The Kid spotted his gun lying on the ground and hurried to scoop it up. As he did, he looked around and saw bodies scattered up and down the street. The doors of the church were wide open, and people stood in front of the building holding each other and crying or asking questions. The shooting seemed to be over.