“Didn’t expect to run into a man who knows the classics out here in the middle of this godforsaken wilderness,” Malone said.
The Kid didn’t waste time explaining about his education. He knew that he and Diana were still balanced on the knife-edge of danger from these men.
And yet there was something about Malone, something about the way he looked at Diana, that told The Kid he didn’t want to hurt the young woman. The Kid’s own fate was another story, though. He had a hunch Malone would kill him without blinking an eye, if the whim struck him to do so.
“Is there a town in the valley?”
Malone looked a little surprised by the question. “Aye. Bristol, about fifteen miles east of here.”
“I need to replenish my supplies, and my horse could use a little rest before I ride on. I’m not looking for trouble from you or anyone else, Malone. Just let me ride on to the settlement and in a few days I’ll be gone.”
Malone frowned. “Are you sure Owen Starbird didn’t send for you?”
That would be Diana’s uncle, The Kid recalled. “Never heard of him until now,” he replied honestly.
“Well . . .” Malone scratched at his beard and hesitated as if he were considering what The Kid had said.
While that was going on, the little man in gray turned his horse from the trail and started riding around the area, his eyes directed toward the ground as if he were searching for something. After a moment, he found it. He reined in, dismounted, and reached into the brush to pick up the skull. He turned and held it up to show the others.
“Look at this, Terence.”
“My marker,” Malone rumbled angrily. “Part of it, anyway.”
The baldheaded man pointed toward the trail. “Only one set o’ fresh tracks comin’ from the west, Terence,” he said. “And the bones were there earlier. I seen ’em with my own eyes.”
Malone glared at The Kid. “That means you disturbed my marker, mister . . . What is your name, anyway?”
“It’s Morgan.”
Malone smiled, but his eyes were flintier than ever. “Like Henry Morgan, God rest his soul.”
Or like Frank Morgan, The Kid thought. But he didn’t mention his father, the notorious gunfighter known as The Drifter. He fought his own battles these days, with no help from anyone.
He recognized the name Henry Morgan, though. He had no doubt that Malone was referring to the infamous English buccaneer from the Seventeenth Century who had led a fleet of pirate ships against the Spaniards in the Caribbean and Central America and captured Panama City. The skull and crossbones that had been planted in the trail left no doubt about Malone’s interest in pirates and piracy.
“I’ve been known to let travelers use this trail, Mr. Morgan,” Malone went on, “if they can pay tribute. I’m afraid I can’t do that with you, though.”
“Just as well . . . because I don’t intend to pay you one red cent.”
Malone’s lips drew back from his teeth. “Destroyin’ my marker is like a slap in the face, Morgan, and I can’t allow you to go unpunished for that. You can go on down the trail . . . but you’ll have go past either Greavy”—he nodded to the small, gray-clad gunman—“or Wolfram.” A jerk of the bearded chin indicated the baldheaded man. “Guns or fists, Morgan. It’s up to you.”
Wolfram held up his right hand and opened and closed it into a fist as he grinned at The Kid. He flexed those strong, knobby-knuckled fingers and chuckled.
Greavy’s face was cold and expressionless. He was clearly the fast gun of this bunch. The Kid was confident that he could beat Greavy to the draw, but if he did, that didn’t mean the others would let him pass. They might just use the shooting as an excuse to kill him.
But if he took on the bruiser called Wolfram and bested him in single combat, that might be different. The rest of them might be impressed enough by such a victory to let him go. More importantly, such an outcome wouldn’t expose Diana Starbird to the danger of flying bullets.
And the anger that was always seething not far below the surface of The Kid’s mind would have an outlet again.
The Kid looked at Malone and said, “I have your word of honor that if I defeat one of them, you’ll allow me to ride on to Bristol?”
“Word of honor,” Malone said. He looked at his other men. “You hear that? If Morgan lives, no one bothers him . . . today.”
The Kid caught that important distinction but didn’t challenge it. First things first. He added, “And Miss Starbird comes with me, either to the settlement or wherever else she wants to go.”
Malone frowned. “Diana knows I’d never harm a hair on her head, and none of my men would dare to do so, either. I think the world of her.”
“Then you wouldn’t want to hold her against her will, would you?”
Before Malone could answer, Diana stepped closer to The Kid and said in a quiet voice, “You don’t have to do this on my account, Mr. Morgan. I’ll be all right—”
“You don’t want to stay here, do you?”
She shot a glance at Malone and his men and admitted, “Well . . . no.”
“Then you’re coming with me.” His words had a tone of finality to them.
“It’s mighty confident you are that you’re goin’ to live through this,” Malone said. “Greavy is a talented man with a gun, and I’ve seen Wolfram break bigger fellas than you in half with his bare hands.”
“I’ll risk it,” The Kid said. He took off his hat and handed it to Diana, who had a worried look on her face as she took it. The Kid didn’t want to demonstrate his own gun-handling prowess just yet, since it might come in handy later if he needed to take them by surprise, so he unbuckled his gunbelt and handed it to the young woman as well. Then he stripped off his coat and dropped it on the ground. “I’ll take on Wolfram.”
The baldheaded man had already figured that out. Grinning, he slid the rifle he carried into its saddle boot and then swung down from the back of his horse. He didn’t wear a handgun, but he had a knife sheathed at his waist. He removed the sheath from his belt and tucked it into a saddlebag, then took off his derby and hung it on the saddlehorn.
“I’m gonna enjoy this,” he said as he turned toward The Kid, who was rolling up his sleeves while Diana stood there looking more frightened by the second.
“Bust him up good, Wolfram,” called one of the other men.
“Yeah,” another man added in a raucous shout. “Show him he can’t mess with us.”
Wolfram started forward, moving at a slow, deliberate pace as he approached The Kid. He was still grinning and flexing his fists. The Kid stood there, arms at his sides, apparently waiting calmly, even though his blood surged at the prospect of battle.
Wolfram charged without warning, swinging a malletlike fist at The Kid’s head with surprising quickness, and the fight was on.
Chapter Three
The Kid moved now with the same sort of speed he exhibited whenever he drew his gun. He ducked under the looping punch that Wolfram threw and sprang aside from the bull-like charge.
Wolfram’s momentum carried him past his intended victim. The Kid kicked out behind him as Wolfram went by, driving the heel of his boot into the back of Wolfram’s left knee. The baldheaded bruiser howled in pain and pitched toward the ground as that leg folded up beneath him.
The Kid whirled toward him, intending to kick Wolfram in the head and finish the fight in a hurry, but he saw to his surprise that Wolfram had slapped a hand on the ground and managed to keep from falling. A supple twist of the big body brought Wolfram upright again, facing The Kid. The lips under the handlebar mustache pulled back in an ugly grin.
“Well, now I know that you’re fast, you little son of a bitch,” Wolfram said as he began to circle more warily toward The Kid. He limped slightly on the leg that had been kicked. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
The Kid knew his chances of surviving this fight had just gone down a little since he hadn’t been able to dispose of his opponent quickly. But the battle was far from over. True, Wolfram had advantages in height, weight, and reach, but as Conrad Browning, The Kid had been a boxing champion during his college days.