by Bill Dugan
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.
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By Bill Dugan
DUEL ON THE MESA
TEXAS DRIVE
GUN PLAY AT CROSS CREEK
BRADY’S LAW
DEATH SONG
MADIGAN’S LUCK
War Chiefs
GERONIMO
CHIEF JOSEPH
CRAZY HORSE
QUANAH PARKER
SITTING BULL
Copyright
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.
Copyright © 1990 by Charlie McDade
Cover art from the original painting by Mort Künstler, “Night Riders” © 1974 Mort Künstler, Inc. www.mkunstler.com
ISBN: 0-06-100079-5
EPub Edition © 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.
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