The Loner: The Bounty Killers

Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36
Copyright Page

Chapter 1

The shot came out of nowhere.

The first warning Kid Morgan had was the whine of a high-powered bullet as it passed his head, followed a second later by a rifle’s distant boom.

Instinctively, he kicked his feet out of the stirrups, yanked the Winchester from the sheath strapped to his buckskin horse, and rolled out of the saddle. He hit the ground feet first and running. He ducked behind one of the pine trees growing thick on the Nevada hillside just a few seconds after the slug whipped past his ear.

Another shot sounded in the distance, but the bullet didn’t come close enough for him to hear it pass.

The Kid planted his back against the pine trunk, uncertain the tree would shield him, since he didn’t know exactly where the bushwhacker was. A moment later a slug thudded harmlessly into the far side of the trunk.

He was safe . . . as long as the rifleman didn’t move and get a better angle on him. And unless there were more than one of the bastards stalking him.

The buckskin had run off into a brushy grove. The Kid hoped the horse would be safe. It was possible the man who’d ambushed him might decide to shoot the horse, just to insure that he was set afoot.

It might be wise in the long run to draw the fire away from the buckskin, The Kid decided. Darting out from behind the tree trunk he dashed toward another pine, heading in the opposite direction, away from where the buckskin was going.

The bushwhacker tried to hit him on the run, the bullet kicking up dirt several yards behind The Kid. Breathing a little hard from the sudden exertion, as well as from the fact that after more than a year of drifting in and out of trouble, he still didn’t like people shooting at him, he hid behind a second tree.

According to the Kid’s father, Frank Morgan, the famous—or infamous—gunfighter known as The Drifter, a man never really got used to dodging bullets.

The distant rifle fell silent. The bushwhacker figured out he wasn’t going to be able to hit The Kid.

Maybe he would give up trying.

More than likely, though, he would move and try to get a better shot.

The Kid frowned in thought as the minutes dragged by. He could make a run for his horse, but it was possible the rifleman was waiting for him to do just that. He could call the buckskin to him, but if the bushwhacker figured out what was going on, he would shoot the horse for sure.

Or he could give the would-be killer a little surprise.

The Kid turned to face the tree trunk and tipped his head back. The pine branches above him were heavy with needles and cones, creating a thick layer of greenery. The lowest branch was barely out of his reach. If he jumped he might be able to get a hand on it.

He tossed the Winchester into some brush where he could retrieve it later . . . if he was still alive.

After rubbing his hands together for a second, The Kid bent his knees, gathered his strength, and jumped. He grabbed the branch with both hands and hung on tight. Ignoring the discomfort of the rough bark he pulled himself up. The toes of his boots dug against the trunk helping him climb.

He hooked an arm all the way over the branch and swung a leg up, getting it a little higher with each attempt until he was able to hook it over the branch, too. From there, it wasn’t all that difficult to pull himself up so he sprawled on top of the branch, which was about as big around as his thigh.

Being careful to keep himself balanced, The Kid took a minute or so to get used to being in the tree. Then he edged closer to the trunk and grasped it to help pull himself up.

Within seconds, he was standing on the branch, hugging the tree trunk. Branches thrust out from the trunk all around him. He clambered up them, moving carefully to avoid a fall. The last thing he needed with somebody gunning for him was a broken arm or leg.

It was just a matter of waiting for the bushwhacker to get curious enough to ride over there and investigate.

Luckily, The Kid had developed some patience, a quality he’d never had to any great degree when he was still the rich, spoiled young man named Conrad Browning. He had started to grow up a little when he met and got to know his father, but that first meeting hadn’t happened until Conrad was nearly grown.

Meeting and marrying Rebel Callahan had helped mature him even more. But Rebel was dead and buried, and once the men responsible for her death had been tracked down and dealt with, Conrad had decided to bury his own past as well.

He had adopted the identity of a gunfighter and became known as Kid Morgan to conceal his true identity and help him in his quest for vengeance. Even though it was no longer needed, he had realized that he would rather continue to be The Kid than go back to being Conrad Browning.

So he had turned his back on what he was and kept drifting. Despite his desire to be left alone with his grief, trouble and danger seemed to seek him out. Being ambushed was the latest instance.

Confident that he couldn’t be seen from the ground, at least not easily, The Kid remained motionless. After what seemed like ages but was probably more like an hour, he heard a horse’s hoofbeats steadily coming down the hill toward his hiding place.

The rider wasn’t in any hurry. He knew that his quarry might be laying a trap for him.

The Kid was counting on the fact that the bushwhacker might not expect any danger from above.

The horse came closer and closer. Carefully, The Kid parted a couple pine boughs, taking pains not to dislodge any cones. He looked down and saw the rider pass underneath the tree.

“Damn it, I know it was somewhere right around here that I saw him last,” the man muttered.

The Kid couldn’t see the bushwhacker’s face, since he was looking almost straight down at the man. All he could see was the top of a broad-brimmed hat and enough of the man’s clothes to tell that he was wearing range garb. He carried some sort of long-barreled hunting rifle across the saddle in front of him, which had enabled him to take those long-range shots.

The Kid was fortunate the man’s aim had been slightly off on his first attempt. After that, The Kid had been moving enough so the man hadn’t been able to draw a good bead on him.

The bushwhacker kept riding. The Kid moved another branch aside so that he could watch the man. He leveled the Colt and centered the sights on the man’s back.

It would have been easy to pull the trigger and blow the man out of the saddle. But that would probably kill him, and a dead man couldn’t answer any questions. The Kid wanted to know why someone was trying to kill him. A thing like that could turn out to be important.

The rider kept moving. Since there was no telling where he might go, The Kid holstered his gun and crept out quickly on the branch, until it started to droop under him. Grasping it with his hands, he let his feet drop and swung out, releasing his hold so that he dropped right on the bushwhacker’s back.

The unexpected impact knocked the man forward on his mount’s neck. The horse shied and lunged ahead. The Kid felt himself falling, and wrapped an arm around the man’s neck. Hanging on tightly, he dragged the man out of the saddle with him.

They crashed to the ground, the landing knocking them apart. The Kid rolled over and came up swinging. The bushwhacker, gasping for breath, struggled upright just in time for The Kid’s rocketing fist to slam into his jaw.

The blow landed cleanly and knocked the bushwhacker sprawling. The Kid leaped and landed on top of him.

Before the man could fight back, The Kid palmed out his revolver and pressed the muzzle up under the man’s chin.

“Freeze or I’ll blow your head off,” The Kid warned.

“That’s good advice, friend,” a voice said from behind him. “You’d damned well better heed it.”

Chapter 2

The Kid knew the words had the threat of a gun behind them. But he was far from helpless. He said, “Back off, mister. No matter how fast you shoot me, it won’t be fast enough to keep me from killing your friend.”

The second man laughed. “Friend?” he repeated. “Who said anybody so damned dumb as to get himself jumped on from a tree would be a friend of mine?”

The man had a point there, The Kid supposed.

He could see the face of the man he had tackled. The man’s hat had come off, revealing thinning dark hair over an olive-skinned face. The left eye had a peculiar cast to it. Dark beard stubble shadowed his jaw.