Bullets Don't Die by J. A. Johnstone

thinking. Tate had told him the Broken Spoke was the biggest ranch in the area, which meant the man who owned it was probably the most powerful man in those parts. Apparently that was Harlan Levesy, the son of Cy Levesy, Marshal Tate’s old friend. If The Kid had to guess, he’d say it was likely Cy was dead and Harlan had inherited the Broken Spoke.
    Inherited it, hired a hardcase crew ramrodded by the brutal Jed Ahern, and set out to tighten his grip even more. The Kid had seen similar setups in the past and had heard about more of them from Frank Morgan, who had stepped in to help out folks against range hogs on numerous occasions.
    However, none of that was really any of The Kid’s business. He had come to Copperhead Springs because Jared Tate had saved his life during the run-in with those outlaws. It was up to the people of the town to settle their own problems.
    Although . . . after that battle with Ahern, The Kid sort of had a personal grudge against the big man. It sure wouldn’t break his heart to see Ahern behind bars, or dangling from a hang rope, for that matter. That was what he deserved.
    At the moment, Ahern was starting to stir, moving his arms and legs where he lay in the street and turning his head from side to side.
    “You’d better make up your mind what you’re going to do, Marshal,” The Kid said. “Ahern’s waking up. If you’re going to put him in jail, you’ll probably have an easier time of it while he’s still groggy.”
    “This stranger’s right,” Constance said. “You’ve got three witnesses accusing Ahern of murder. Isn’t that enough to justify locking him up?”
    “Four witnesses,” another townsman said as he stepped out of the saloon. “It’s time we got some sand in our craw again. Past time, maybe.”
    Several other men crowded just inside the saloon’s entrance started to mutter, and Cumberland realized where things were going. “All right, all right. We’ll lock him up, and the law can run its course. Somebody give me a hand with him.”
    Nobody appeared to be eager to do that, but The Kid didn’t mind. “What do you want me to do?”
    “Let me get some rope from my horse,” Cumberland said. “Roll him onto his belly. I want him tied up good and tight before we try to move him down to the jail.”
    The Kid approached Ahern carefully. The man’s eyes were still closed, but the eyelids were starting to flutter a little. He would regain consciousness soon.
    With a grunt of effort, The Kid rolled Ahern onto his belly. Cumberland hurried over with a length of rope. He pulled Ahern’s arms behind his back and lashed the thick wrists together, pulling the rope pretty tight.
    “Let’s sit him up.” Cumberland and The Kid raised Ahern to a sitting position, and Cumberland wrapped the rest of the rope around and around the man’s massive torso, finally tying it off so Ahern couldn’t move his arms.
    Ahern’s head hung forward. He shook it back and forth, and a rumble like the sound of distant drums grew inside him. It came out in a grated curse as he lifted his head and stared around him in obvious confusion. “What the hell!” he roared. He struggled to move, but couldn’t budge his arms.
    “Take it easy, Ahern,” Cumberland told him. “You’re under arrest.”
    “Arrest! What the hell for?”
    “Murder,” Cumberland said. “You killed Ed Phillips.”
    “That . . . that little gnat? Killin’ him ain’t murder. That’s more like . . . like steppin’ on a piddlin’ little bug!”
    Constance said, “You see, Marshal, he admits it.”
    “That’s not exactly what it sounded like to me,” Cumberland snapped. He took hold of the rope and nodded for The Kid to do likewise. “We need to get him on his feet. Heave him up in one . . . two . . . three!”
    It was a little like lifting a mountain, The Kid thought, but they managed.
    “Help me get him down to the jail.”
    “What about Marshal Tate?”
    From the boardwalk, the swamper said,