Brutal Vengeance by J. A. Johnstone

they’ll try to clear things off and rebuild. I don’t know about that. Wouldn’t surprise me none if everybody up and moved away and let what’s left of the town go back to the earth. Might be the best thing.”
    The Kid thought that was right. Sometimes you could come back from a loss, but other times it was better to just let it all go. If he had died after avenging Rebel’s murder, he wouldn’t have counted it any great loss.
    But he had managed to help quite a few people since then, he reminded himself. He supposed that was worth something.
    “I’m going to hike back down there and get my horse and my pack animal,” he told Culhane. “I’ll be ready to ride by the time the rest of you are mounted.”
    The Ranger nodded. “Thanks for your help, Morgan. I’m glad you’re ridin’ with us. And again, I’m sorry about that little dustup earlier.”
    “Just ride herd on that posse of yours, Ranger. We don’t want any more ... little dustups.”
     
     
    By the time the horses were rounded up, The Kid had hiked down off the escarpment and whistled for the buckskin. The horse answered the call, and The Kid swung up into the saddle and rode after his pack horse.
    The posse members picked their way down the slope, led by Culhane, and joined The Kid on the flats.
    “Forty men can’t help but leave a trail,” Culhane said as they rode east by southeast.
    The Kid wasn’t any great shakes as a tracker, but even he could see the wide swath of hoofprints they were following.
    “And Latch don’t really care if anybody comes after him,” the Ranger went on. “Fella’s arrogant as all get-out. Thinks he can do whatever he wants to and get away with it.”
    Ed Marchman, who was riding on Culhane’s other side, grunted. “So far he’s been right about that.”
    “The law will catch up to him sooner or later,” Culhane responded. “That’s one thing about the Rangers ... we don’t never give up.”
    “Sooner or later doesn’t do us one damned bit of good,” Marchman said. “It’s already too late to save our town, and all of our people who were killed.”
    “Latch will answer for that,” Culhane insisted.
    Maybe, The Kid thought, but it wouldn’t change anything. It was just something these men had to do in hopes of easing the pain inside them. Whether it would or not was pretty doubtful.
    Of course, the punchers from the M-B Connected didn’t have such a personal stake in it. Their homes hadn’t been destroyed, and their loved ones hadn’t been killed.
    But the man they worked for had been stolen from, and if they were like most cowboys, they rode for the brand. That would be enough motive for them to go after Warren Latch.
    The Kid looked at Vint Reilly and saw the way the stagecoach station manager was swaying in his saddle. Every so often Reilly slipped a small brown bottle from his saddlebags and took a tiny swig from it.
    That would be the pain medicine Culhane had mentioned, The Kid thought. Laudanum, more than likely. He was surprised Reilly wasn’t passed out in a drugged stupor.
    Reilly was taking just enough medicine to make the pain bearable, but not enough to blunt it too much. He embraced the pain, relying on it to keep him awake and alert. To keep him going, along with his need for vengeance.
    The kindest thing anybody could do for him might be to draw a gun and put a bullet through his head, The Kid mused.
    But every man had the right to choose his own hell.
    The Kid’s horse drifted away from Culhane’s mount. He didn’t realize he was riding next to Nick Burton until the young man said, “Mr. Morgan, isn’t it?”
    The Kid looked over at him and nodded. “That’s right.”
    “Are you the one they call Kid Morgan?”
    The Kid’s eyes narrowed in surprise. “How’d you know that?”
    He spoke quietly, hoping Nick would keep his voice down.
    “I’ve read about you. In the dime novels.”
    The Kid smiled. When Conrad Browning had been casting about for a new identity to