The Third Western Megapack. Johnston McCulley

knew the reputation of the Reed Brothers, seen their wanted posters for murder and robbery. They were a bad seed that would surely kill the unarmed stranger as soon as they got what they’d come for.

      I stood frozen at the head of the alleyway. A few feet from me lay Timmy Wirth, writhing in pain, a silent crumpled mass, motioning for me to get away. To run. To hide. I remained frozen. I ignored him. Instead, my eyes locked onto Timmy’s shotgun laying alone in the street where it had been flung scant minutes before.

      “I’ll kill you, Jack, if you don’t give up the gold.”

      “I don’t have no gold, Jonas.”

      Jonas Reed pressed the trigger of his six-gun sending a bullet into the unarmed man’s leg, and Black Jack Slade crumpled to the dirt of the street in a painful gasp.

      “Next one will be a might higher up, Jack,” Jonas Reed warned grimly.

      Klye Reed, wounded, but now standing beside his brother centered his six-shooter on the stranger, winced in pain, said, “We’re wanted men. We’re not playing games here. Give up the gold or we’ll kill you right now!”

      “If I give up the location of the gold you’ll kill me anyway.” Slade replied.

      “We’ll sure as hell kill you if you don’t give it up!” Klye barked. He was loosing patience. I knew I’d have to do something soon.

      I made up my mind and moved out of the alley to kneel beside Timmy Wirth, telling him what I was gonna do, making it look like I was tending to his wounds. Timmy tried to stop me but I put my hand over his mouth. I told him to shut up.

      Klye Reed took a quick look in my direction. I gulped and froze as he turned to shoot. He had me in a clear path of a bullet and I could see his finger ready and itching to squeeze the trigger.

      “Klye!” The stranger barker. “He’s just a kid. Leave him be and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

      Well that got Kyle Reed’s attention and probably saved my life. Kyle and his brother both turned away from me, trained their guns and attention back on Black Jack Slade.

      “Now you’re talking, Jack. Those are sensible words for once,” Jonas Reed said smiling now.

      That’s when I made a leap for Timmy Wirth’s shotgun. It was heavy. My fingers scrambled for the trigger as I brought it up high, trying my best to aim the scattergun in the general direction of the Reed Brothers before they blew my head off. I knew I didn’t have much time. I also knew I didn’t need a well-aimed shot.

      I saw Kyle Reed move his six-shooter my way, and that’s when I let loose with both barrels of the scattergun in a loud explosion that threw me back three feet into the street.

      There was a loud scream.

      It was from me!

      I felt hot searing pain in my leg. I looked down and saw blood there, a small red splotch soaking into the fabric of my pants and slowly growing larger as I watched with terror. I pulled my eyes away from my leg and looked at the Reed Brothers, saw Kyle Reed slumped down in the dirt. He was dead, no doubt about that, his head was practically blowed off his shoulders by the shotgun blast.

      Jonas Reed was down too, clutching his chest, silently mouthing cries of pain. I saw the stranger, still on the ground from his leg wound, with his gun in hand, crawl across the street to relieve Jonas Reed of his weapon.

      I got up and hobbled over to the scene of the carnage. A scene I had significantly helped to create, which was not lost on me as I looked at what remained of Kyle Reed.

      “You did a gutsy thing there, kid,” the stranger said to me. He quickly wrapped his wounded leg in a improvised tourniquet, then limped over to me to get a look at my own wound.

      He smiled, “Just a flesh wound, kid. You’re lucky.”

      He didn’t have to tell me how lucky I was.

      “You saved my life and I thank you for that. You also saved the gold.”

      “So there really is gold?” I asked full of excitement.

      He just nodded, went and looked in at Sheriff Wilson. By then a crowd had gathered and people were helping the sheriff and Timmy Wirth. Wilson’s deputy, Bob Gritz, had returned and was putting Jonas Reed in a jail cell while old Harry Mortimer, the barber and mortician, was already measuring what was left of Kyle Reed for a Boot Hill coffin. It turned out Sheriff Wilson was only grazed by the bullet and Timmy was going to be okay too.

      * * * *

      Next day we were sitting in the sheriff’s office in the jail. Slade and Sheriff Wilson were finishing up a long glass of tequila. I waited and watched, wondering why I’d been called.

      Finally the man known as Black Jack Slade looked to me and said, “I appreciate what you did for me the other day.”

      “It took a lot of guts, Joey,” Sheriff Wilson aded. “With me wounded and out of action, and Timmy cut down, there was no one here to stand up for law and order.”

      I nodded, still pretty numb after all the action the day before.

      “I came to this town, Joey,” Slade told me, “to keep a promise to a friend. I wasn’t lying about the gold. It’s all there, right in Warren’s safe.”

      “Real gold?” I asked.

      “Real gold, Joey, and a lot of it, too. California gold.”

      I looked at Black Jack Slade.

      “Joey, years ago I met a man and we became good friends. He always talked about the son and daughter he’d left behind. Felt terrible about it and swore if he ever struck it rich he’d give them each a share of what he made one day. He’d hit pay dirt out in California, a mine everyone thought was played out. He worked it for years, like a crazy man. Eventually he found an untapped vein and struck it rich. He was killed a few months back. Before he died he made me promise that his son and daughter would get this gold. Well, Joey, that man was your father. Now Warren here told me about your sister passing away, and I’m real sorry about that, but that just means all this here gold belongs to you now.”

      I didn’t know what to say. I thought of the father I’d never known. There were no memories there, just a big empty void.

      “Joey, use that gold wisely, make something of yourself so you’ll make your old man even prouder of you than I am. He loved you powerfully. You’ll never know how much,” Slade said.

      Sheriff Wilson took that as a cue, he stood up and shook hands with Black Jack Slade and wished him a safe journey. I watched him go, his limp barely noticeable, his six-gun saying at his side like winter wheat in a spring breeze.

      I didn’t know what to make of all this. It had hit me so sudden and all, but when Sheriff Wilson called me over to the safe behind his desk, opened the huge iron door, and pulled out half a dozen heavy sacks of gold dust, I knew it wasn’t some dream but all too real.

      I think I knew something else too.

      That’s when I ran out the door of the sheriff’s office and over to the Overland Stage depot at the other end of town.

      I saw the stranger there, a dangerous man, still the dreaded shootist, limping toward the stage. He seemed older now and more tired, but that look in his eyes and the bearing of his frame hadn’t diminished one bit. This was still a man you did not trifle with. But I had no choice.

      I yelled out, “Wait! Wait, Mr. Slade!”

      He turned slowly, watching me carefully as I ran over to him. The way he looked at me was strange, I noticed a sudden softness there, but for only an instant and then it was gone, replaced by his hard cruel eyes and tough visage. It made me more determined than ever in believing I was right in what I was thinking.

      I said, “Thanks for the gold, Mr. Slade.”

      He said, “It’s alright kid, least I could do.”

      I