chest. The impact made him take a step backward, although he didn’t go down right away. Blood welled from his mouth as he struggled to lift the gun in his hand and get off another shot.
The Kid fired a third shot, and a black-rimmed hole appeared in the center of Levesy’s forehead. He went down hard and didn’t move again.
The Kid swung around to see Constance on her knees beside Tate’s fallen form. Tears ran down her face.
Tate opened his eyes and said in a weak voice, “Constance? Constance, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
“Because you’re shot, you damned old fool!” she cried.
“Is that all?” Tate asked with a smile. “I’ve been shot before, you know.”
His eyelids slid closed, but the smile remained on his face.
“He’ll be fine,” Doc Franklin assured The Kid, Constance, and all the other people gathered in his front room. “The bullet nicked him in the side, that’s all. In a man his age, any bullet wound can be dangerous, but it’s my professional opinion he’ll be back on his feet in a few days.”
Constance heaved a sigh of relief. “That’s mighty good to know, Doc. I was afraid the old coot had gone and gotten himself killed.”
“No, he should be all right. Unfortunately I can’t say the same for half a dozen other citizens.”
An air of sorrow mitigated the relief they felt over Marshal Jared Tate’s condition. People had died during the battle, including Milt Bennett. People who had seen him go down with a smoking gun in his hand said that despite his reservations about putting up a fight, the liveryman had battled as valiantly as anyone and personally accounted for a couple hired killers before he fell.
The others who had died would be mourned, too, and no one would forget the sacrifice they had made to help free the town from the tyrannical grip of the Broken Spoke gunmen . . . but that wouldn’t bring them back.
The Kid and Constance went into the room where Marshal Riley Cumberland lay recuperating. His father Bert was with him, sitting beside the bed with his hands clasped together anxiously.
When Cumberland heard them come in, his eyes fluttered open. “It’s . . . it’s all over then, is it?”
“That’s right,” Constance said. “Harlan Levesy is dead, and so are most of his gunnies.”
Cumberland shook his head. “There’s going to be . . . a lot of trouble . . . over this. Levesy had . . . plenty of friends . . . in high places.”
“I have a friend who knows some important folks, too,” The Kid said, thinking of his lawyer Claudius Turnbuckle.
Turnbuckle could bring pressure to bear all the way to the corridors of power in Washington. The Kid was confident if he threw Conrad Browning’s wealth and influence behind the citizens of Copperhead Springs, he could assure a fair and impartial investigation into the bloody affair. No one should suffer because they had finally risen up and defended themselves from Harlan Levesy and his hired killers.
And before it was all over, The Kid thought there was a good chance Jed Ahern would be convicted of murder and sentenced to hang. “I’ll send some wires. We’ll see to it the truth comes out.”
He and Constance talked to Cumberland for a short time longer, then left to let the wounded marshal get some rest. As they walked back toward the Trailblazer, The Kid realized it was only mid-morning. That seemed impossible, considering how much had already happened.
“What are your plans once everything has settled down, Kid?” Constance asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “I started in this direction thinking I might get a riding job, but that idea has sort of lost its appeal. Jared said he could get me a job at the Broken Spoke, but I’ve got a hunch whoever inherits it won’t want to take me on.”
“Probably not,” Constance agreed. “Cy had a cousin back in Salina. I guess he’ll get the spread now. Lord knows what he’ll do with it. Probably sell
The Kid fired a third shot, and a black-rimmed hole appeared in the center of Levesy’s forehead. He went down hard and didn’t move again.
The Kid swung around to see Constance on her knees beside Tate’s fallen form. Tears ran down her face.
Tate opened his eyes and said in a weak voice, “Constance? Constance, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
“Because you’re shot, you damned old fool!” she cried.
“Is that all?” Tate asked with a smile. “I’ve been shot before, you know.”
His eyelids slid closed, but the smile remained on his face.
“He’ll be fine,” Doc Franklin assured The Kid, Constance, and all the other people gathered in his front room. “The bullet nicked him in the side, that’s all. In a man his age, any bullet wound can be dangerous, but it’s my professional opinion he’ll be back on his feet in a few days.”
Constance heaved a sigh of relief. “That’s mighty good to know, Doc. I was afraid the old coot had gone and gotten himself killed.”
“No, he should be all right. Unfortunately I can’t say the same for half a dozen other citizens.”
An air of sorrow mitigated the relief they felt over Marshal Jared Tate’s condition. People had died during the battle, including Milt Bennett. People who had seen him go down with a smoking gun in his hand said that despite his reservations about putting up a fight, the liveryman had battled as valiantly as anyone and personally accounted for a couple hired killers before he fell.
The others who had died would be mourned, too, and no one would forget the sacrifice they had made to help free the town from the tyrannical grip of the Broken Spoke gunmen . . . but that wouldn’t bring them back.
The Kid and Constance went into the room where Marshal Riley Cumberland lay recuperating. His father Bert was with him, sitting beside the bed with his hands clasped together anxiously.
When Cumberland heard them come in, his eyes fluttered open. “It’s . . . it’s all over then, is it?”
“That’s right,” Constance said. “Harlan Levesy is dead, and so are most of his gunnies.”
Cumberland shook his head. “There’s going to be . . . a lot of trouble . . . over this. Levesy had . . . plenty of friends . . . in high places.”
“I have a friend who knows some important folks, too,” The Kid said, thinking of his lawyer Claudius Turnbuckle.
Turnbuckle could bring pressure to bear all the way to the corridors of power in Washington. The Kid was confident if he threw Conrad Browning’s wealth and influence behind the citizens of Copperhead Springs, he could assure a fair and impartial investigation into the bloody affair. No one should suffer because they had finally risen up and defended themselves from Harlan Levesy and his hired killers.
And before it was all over, The Kid thought there was a good chance Jed Ahern would be convicted of murder and sentenced to hang. “I’ll send some wires. We’ll see to it the truth comes out.”
He and Constance talked to Cumberland for a short time longer, then left to let the wounded marshal get some rest. As they walked back toward the Trailblazer, The Kid realized it was only mid-morning. That seemed impossible, considering how much had already happened.
“What are your plans once everything has settled down, Kid?” Constance asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “I started in this direction thinking I might get a riding job, but that idea has sort of lost its appeal. Jared said he could get me a job at the Broken Spoke, but I’ve got a hunch whoever inherits it won’t want to take me on.”
“Probably not,” Constance agreed. “Cy had a cousin back in Salina. I guess he’ll get the spread now. Lord knows what he’ll do with it. Probably sell
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