Chapter 39

The cabbie pulled up in front of the ranch house near Kansas City and a well dressed man stepped out onto the driveway. He removed his baggage from the boot and handed the driver a folded bill. The driver gave him a sloppy salute and snapped the reins on the horses back and drove away.

“Mr. Le Monte,” said a man coming from inside the house to greet him with his hand out. “I was hoping you’d forgotten all about us.”

“No way,” said Chris as he shook the offered hand. “How’s my horse?”

“He’s one fine animal . . . and he’s just great,” said the man “I suppose you want to see him?”

“I have to be going,” he replied “the sooner the better.”

“I guess there’s no way I can talk you into selling that stud to me then?”

“No way, at all,” Chris said proudly “I raised him from a colt when his mare was killed by a mountain lion.”

“He’s in the corral,” the man pointed and they walked to the enclosure. “He was one mighty tired animal when you left him with me, but he’s been eating really well and now he’s just plain fat and sassy . . . he might just want to buck a little.”

“I don’t think he’ll buck, but just incase,” Chris took off his fancy hat and jacket.

“You can change in the tack room,” said the man leading the way.

Soon Chris stepped out into the corral dressed in his black shirt, pants, boots, spurs and his black gun belt and Colt revolver. He placed the black hat with a silver studded hat band on his head and dropped the cord behind his head and down his back. He stepped toward the horse at the far end of the pen. Chris stopped in the center of the corral and whistled loudly. The horse turned his head toward him. He whinnied loud and long, and then he came trotting to him.

“Midnight, how have you been?” said Chris as he rubbed the horse’s nose. The animal snorted and then whinnied once more. “Oh! So you want to go too.” Chris walked to the fence where the ranch owner placed the saddle and tack. Chris placed the items on the horse and then stepped aboard for the ride. Midnight snorted then made a right turn as Chris gently neck reined him in that direction. He nudged him with his spurs to a slow trot around the corral for a few laps. Chris pulled him up at the gate. “Open it up.”

The rancher removed the latch from the notch in the log post and swung the gate open. Chris rode out and pulled up to the doorway to the tack room in one corner of the barn. He dismounted and placed the reins on the fence. He then went inside and returned with his saddle bags and a sack of supplies. He tied them behind the saddle.

“You’ll be, wanting this, too,” said the rancher as he handed Chris a Winchester Rifle.

“Thanks for every thing,” said Chris as he shook hands with the man. “Do I owe you anything more?”

“Not a cent,” said the man “That is . . . maybe I should be paying you.”

“What for?” asked Chris.

“My three mares . . . they have been very friendly with your stud.”

“I see . . . well in that case I hope you will get some really good colts.” He mounted once more and reined the stud toward the road way. “So long,” Chris waved a sloppy salute and started to dig in his spurs.

“Hold it right there,” said a man stepping through the big barn door from the interior of the barn. He held a short double barreled shotgun in his hands and it was pointed at the two of them.

“Phillip Weston . . . where’s Bernie?” Chris asked.

“I’m right here.” Bernie stepped out through the barn door, too. He walked a few feet past Phillip. He also, was holding a shot gun with double barrels on the short side.

“It’s good to finally see you again, Chris,” said Phillip “Now at last we can even the score for our father,”

“If you intend to kill me with those shotguns then let me get off my horse and let the man take him out of the way.”

“No such luck,” said Phillip sharply “I’m going to count to three . . . then we’re both going to fire off both barrels. You can draw anytime after that.” He laughed a little and then Bernie joined him.

“Drop,” said Chris very quietly to the man standing next to him and the horse. He looked up into Chris’s face and he returned the glance. The rancher’s face was white as a ghost.

“One,” said Phillip and Bernie laughed with anticipation.

Chris repeated his word to the frightened man “drop.” The stockman looked toward the pair with the shotguns. “Let me get the horse out of the way,” pleaded Chris.

“Forget it,” shouted Phillip.

“Two,” said Phillip and Bernie both laughed wildly and looked at each other. Chris didn’t wait any longer he kicked the man in front of him as he dismounted on top of him and drew his six gun. He fired as he fell to the ground. Phillip was hit in the chest and he staggered backwards and turned to his right. Bernie turned to see him falling to his knees. Bernie quickly retuned his eyes to search for Chris, but as he brought the shotgun back in Chris’s direction he was stuck in the chest with a slug from the Colt in Chris’s hand. He dropped the gun and fell onto his back. Phillip rose to his feet and then staggered as he raised his shotgun once more in Chris’s direction. He looked at Chris and opened his mouth to speak, but fell forward to place the barrel of the shotgun in the dirt. His last act was to pull both triggers. The blast kicked him over backwards as the barrels exploded. Chris was struck with a few small pieces of shrapnel from the explosion with no damage to his person.

“You okay?” asked Chris as he went to the aid of the rancher.

“Yeah . . . I think so,” he got to his feet. “They were going to kill us both.”

“They’ve been after me for the past ten years,” said Chris as he stepped toward the pair on the ground. He reloaded his gun and returned it to the holster.

The stockman went to inspect the bodies. “Hey, this fellow’s still alive.” He was kneeling beside Bernie.

Chris came to him and knelt down beside him. Blood was running onto the ground from the wound in his chest despite his attempts to hold it in with his hands. “I don’t want to die,” cried Bernie. His speech was ragged as he bled. “We killed that lawyer . . . . Allan . . . Jackson.”

“Who else?” Chris asked.

“We hired a man . . . to kill you at . . . Willow Bend . . . but he missed . . . he killed (gasp) . . . another man.”

“John Morgan.”

“I guess so.”

“What’s the gunman’s name?”

“Billy Reno,” Bernie said with his voice fading fast. He released his hold on his chest and his body went limp.

“Where can I find him?” shouted Chris. He grasped the clothing and shook him.

“He can’t hear you,” said the rancher “he’s dead.”

“Billy Reno . . . . I’ll find him if it’s the last thing I ever do.” Chris rose to his feet and walked to his horse. He mounted and let the animal walk up to the rancher “I’m sorry for the trouble . . . can you explain it to the law?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he raised his hand to Chris “Thanks for saving my life.”

“So long,” Chris said as he released the man’s hand. He dug his spurs into the ribs of Midnight and they rode away at a slow trot out to the road leading south.