Free The Loner: The Bounty Killers by J. A. Johnstone Page A

breakfast and maybe a little rest, The Kid thought.
    The office wasn’t deserted for long. He heard the front door open, then a moment later a key rattled in the lock of the cell block door.
    It swung open to reveal Carly standing there. She said, “I’ve brought breakfast for the two of you.”
    The Kid stood up and went to the bars. He leaned against them and gave her a sardonic smile.
    “What?” she asked after a second. “Why are you looking at me like that, Mr. Browning? I mean, Mr. Morgan.”
    “Why not just call me Kid?” he suggested. “I was just thinking that you don’t look like the sort of woman who’d try to bash a man’s head in with a pistol.”
    She frowned at him. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you, after what you did to my father.”
    “Luck had nothing to do with it,” The Kid said. “You tried to shoot me, remember? If I hadn’t been fast enough to get out of the way of the bullet, I’d be dead right now.”
    “And good riddance. Dad said you killed a couple prison guards down in New Mexico Territory.”
    “That’s what the wanted poster says,” The Kid corrected. “It’s not true.”
    “If it’s not, I’m sure you’ll have your chance in court to prove it.” She turned away from the door and came back a moment later carrying a tray with a plate of hotcakes, bacon, and eggs on it. “For now you get your breakfast.”
    She passed the tray to The Kid through the narrow opening in the barred door designed for that.
    “Hey, what about me?” the other prisoner asked.
    “I have your breakfast, too,” Carly assured him. “Just a minute.”
    She returned to the office and came back with another tray. When she had passed it into the cell, she said, “There’s coffee on the stove. I’ll get cups.”
    As she turned back toward the office, the front door opened and a boy about twelve years old came in. He wore overalls and a cap, which, when he saw Carly standing there, he tugged off to reveal a mop of flaming red hair.
    “Howdy, Miss Fairmont,” he greeted her. “Cyrus down at the telegraph office sent me to look for that Mr. Browning fella who stopped the bank robbery yesterday. Said he’d probably be at the hotel, but they ain’t seen him. I figured I’d ask your pa. Is he here?”
    “No, he’s not, Davey,” Carly replied. “But I know where Mr. Browning is.” She held out her hand. “If you’ll give me the message, I’ll see that he gets it.”
    The boy hesitated. “Well, I dunno . . . Cyrus said to give it straight to Mr. Browning . . .”
    The Kid’s heart had started to pound harder as soon as the boy announced why he was there. It could be his ticket out of the jail.
    He set the breakfast tray on the bunk and stepped quickly to the bars, thrusting an arm out between them.
    “That message you have is for me, son,” he called.
    The boy stepped closer to the cell block, his eyes widening as he peered into the cell and recognized The Kid. “Golly!” he said. “You are him!”
    “That’s right. That telegram is addressed to me.”
    Davey took an envelope from the pocket of his overalls and squinted at it. “The name on here is . . . Conrad Browning.”
    The Kid nodded. “That’s my real name.”
    Davey looked at Carly. “Miss Fairmont?”
    She sighed and nodded. “He’s the one who sent a wire to San Francisco,” she confirmed, without addressing the issue of his true identity. “I suppose he has a right to see the reply.”
    “Thanks,” The Kid said dryly.
    “All right.” Davey advanced hesitantly and held out the envelope to The Kid. “How come you’re in the hoosegow, Mr. Browning?”
    “It’s a long story,” The Kid said. “And a big mistake.” He felt in his pockets to see if Fairmont had left him any money. Finding a silver dollar, he handed it to Davey and took the envelope.
    “Thanks!” the boy said.
    “Run along now, Davey,” Carly told him.
    “You bet!”
    He dashed out of the marshal’s office, no doubt on his way to