surprise, he saw a figure leap out of an alley and intercept them.
“Give me a hand!” the man yelled.
The Kid recognized Pronto Pike’s voice. After having the greener shot out of his hands, Pike realized luck wasn’t on his side. He’d run out of the jail through the open back door and along the alley until he caught up with his partners as they tried to light a shuck out of Las Vegas.
One of the riders reached down and snagged the wrist of Pike’s upthrust hand. The man slowed just enough to haul Pike up onto the back of the horse behind the saddle. Digging in his spurs, he sent his mount racing after the others as Pike hung on for dear life.
The Kid could have thrown a few bullets after them, but didn’t see any point since they were already getting out of town as fast as they could. Besides, he was more worried about Marshal Fairmont.
He scrambled to his feet and ran toward the alcove. “Hold your fire, Marshal!” he called, in case Fairmont took him for one of the gunmen. “It’s me—Morgan.”
No shots came from the alcove. When The Kid reached it, he saw the figure slumped in the shadows. Biting back a curse, he dropped to a knee.
“Marshal! Can you hear me?”
Fairmont groaned. “M-Morgan?” he rasped. “Is that . . . you?”
“Yeah. How bad are you hit?”
“Bastards . . . shot a leg out from under me.”
The Kid tucked Pike’s pearl-handled gun behind his belt and reached down to feel along Fairmont’s legs. He found a bloody patch on the right one, on the outside of the thigh.
“Doesn’t feel like it’s too bad,” he told the marshal. “Probably just a deep crease, enough to knock you down and make you lose some blood, but if the bone’s not broken, I think you’ll be all right.”
“What are you doing . . . out of your cell?”
“It’s a long story,” The Kid said. “We’ll worry about that later. Right now, we need to get you some help.”
He wrapped his free arm around Fairmont and lifted the marshal to his feet. They had taken a couple unsteady steps toward the jail, when a sudden rataplan of hoofbeats made The Kid jerk his head around.
It was only two horses, and someone was leading one, not riding it. The Kid felt a shock of surprise go through him as he recognized his own buckskin.
The person holding the reins was Carly Fairmont. “Kid!” she called to him as she dismounted. “Kid, I brought your horse from the livery stable. Take him and get out of here!”
“But your father—”
She stepped up onto the boardwalk and held out the reins toward him. “I’ll take care of Dad. You can’t stay here. You saw what happened tonight. Other bounty hunters are liable to show up and try to take you. Men will risk anything for that much money. You have to leave and clear your name.”
The Kid knew she was right. Pike and his men might return. Other bounty hunters might hear that he was locked up in Las Vegas’s jail and come for him. It was too dangerous for him to stay there, especially with Fairmont already wounded.
“He’s got a bullet through the leg,” The Kid told Carly as he took the buckskin’s reins from her and helped her get her arm around the marshal. “He’ll be all right, but he needs a doctor.”
“I’ll take care of him,” she said. “I’m sorry all this happened, Kid . . . Mr. Browning.”
“Leave it at Kid,” he said. “Thanks, Carly.” Fairmont groaned. “Carly, don’t . . . don’t help this prisoner get away.”
“I have to, Dad,” she told him. “He’s not a murderer. I know it.”
“Blast it . . . it’s not right. It’s not . . . the law.”
“Sorry, Marshal,” The Kid said. He stepped down from the boardwalk, put his foot in the stirrup, and swung up onto the buckskin’s back. “But this is better for everybody.”
He wheeled the horse around and sent it galloping out of Las Vegas without looking back. He hoped Fairmont wouldn’t stay mad at Carly too long for helping him. It was the best way, and
“Give me a hand!” the man yelled.
The Kid recognized Pronto Pike’s voice. After having the greener shot out of his hands, Pike realized luck wasn’t on his side. He’d run out of the jail through the open back door and along the alley until he caught up with his partners as they tried to light a shuck out of Las Vegas.
One of the riders reached down and snagged the wrist of Pike’s upthrust hand. The man slowed just enough to haul Pike up onto the back of the horse behind the saddle. Digging in his spurs, he sent his mount racing after the others as Pike hung on for dear life.
The Kid could have thrown a few bullets after them, but didn’t see any point since they were already getting out of town as fast as they could. Besides, he was more worried about Marshal Fairmont.
He scrambled to his feet and ran toward the alcove. “Hold your fire, Marshal!” he called, in case Fairmont took him for one of the gunmen. “It’s me—Morgan.”
No shots came from the alcove. When The Kid reached it, he saw the figure slumped in the shadows. Biting back a curse, he dropped to a knee.
“Marshal! Can you hear me?”
Fairmont groaned. “M-Morgan?” he rasped. “Is that . . . you?”
“Yeah. How bad are you hit?”
“Bastards . . . shot a leg out from under me.”
The Kid tucked Pike’s pearl-handled gun behind his belt and reached down to feel along Fairmont’s legs. He found a bloody patch on the right one, on the outside of the thigh.
“Doesn’t feel like it’s too bad,” he told the marshal. “Probably just a deep crease, enough to knock you down and make you lose some blood, but if the bone’s not broken, I think you’ll be all right.”
“What are you doing . . . out of your cell?”
“It’s a long story,” The Kid said. “We’ll worry about that later. Right now, we need to get you some help.”
He wrapped his free arm around Fairmont and lifted the marshal to his feet. They had taken a couple unsteady steps toward the jail, when a sudden rataplan of hoofbeats made The Kid jerk his head around.
It was only two horses, and someone was leading one, not riding it. The Kid felt a shock of surprise go through him as he recognized his own buckskin.
The person holding the reins was Carly Fairmont. “Kid!” she called to him as she dismounted. “Kid, I brought your horse from the livery stable. Take him and get out of here!”
“But your father—”
She stepped up onto the boardwalk and held out the reins toward him. “I’ll take care of Dad. You can’t stay here. You saw what happened tonight. Other bounty hunters are liable to show up and try to take you. Men will risk anything for that much money. You have to leave and clear your name.”
The Kid knew she was right. Pike and his men might return. Other bounty hunters might hear that he was locked up in Las Vegas’s jail and come for him. It was too dangerous for him to stay there, especially with Fairmont already wounded.
“He’s got a bullet through the leg,” The Kid told Carly as he took the buckskin’s reins from her and helped her get her arm around the marshal. “He’ll be all right, but he needs a doctor.”
“I’ll take care of him,” she said. “I’m sorry all this happened, Kid . . . Mr. Browning.”
“Leave it at Kid,” he said. “Thanks, Carly.” Fairmont groaned. “Carly, don’t . . . don’t help this prisoner get away.”
“I have to, Dad,” she told him. “He’s not a murderer. I know it.”
“Blast it . . . it’s not right. It’s not . . . the law.”
“Sorry, Marshal,” The Kid said. He stepped down from the boardwalk, put his foot in the stirrup, and swung up onto the buckskin’s back. “But this is better for everybody.”
He wheeled the horse around and sent it galloping out of Las Vegas without looking back. He hoped Fairmont wouldn’t stay mad at Carly too long for helping him. It was the best way, and
Similar Books
