Dead Man's Gold. J.A. Johnstone

old-timer came over to join him. “Is she all right?”

      “That’s what I’m about to find out. Why don’t you find a rag and get it wet? We’ll need to wash the blood away from the wound.”

      “All right.” The man went back to the wagon as The Kid took hold of the woman’s sleeve and ripped it away from her shoulder.

      He was pleased to see that there weren’t any entry and exit wounds on her arm. Instead, there was just a bloody furrow on the outside of her upper arm. The bullet had nicked her, creating a messy but not serious wound. It had traveled far enough before striking her that it had lost some of its power, which helped. All he really needed to do was clean the wound and bind it up. He had a flask of whiskey in his saddlebags. That would do for swabbing out the bullet crease, even though it would burn like hell.

      The Kid turned his head to see how the old man was coming along with the chore he’d given him. Because of that, he didn’t see the young woman move. He sensed it, though, and a second later he felt the hard jab as she dug the muzzle of her pistol into his belly.

      “Don’t move,” she said, “or I’ll blow your guts out.”

      Chapter 3

      “Annabelle, no!” the old man called from the wagon. “That’s the young man who’s helping us!”

      “I’ll kill you, Fortunato,” the redhead muttered. Green eyes filled with hatred glared up at The Kid when he looked at her.

      He shook his head and said, “I’m not Fortunato.” He hoped that gun didn’t have a hair trigger.

      “You’ll never get the Konigsberg Candlestick,” the young woman called Annabelle went on. “Or the secret of the Twelve Pearls, either. I’ll kill you…kill you…”

      Those striking green eyes suddenly rolled up in their sockets as she passed out again. Her arm fell to the side, and the gun slipped out of her fingers when the back of her hand hit the ground.

      The Kid heaved a sigh of relief.

      “You have to forgive her,” the old man said as he bustled back over to them from the wagon, carrying a piece of cloth he had soaked with water from a canteen. “She’s out of her head from being shot. Will she be all right?”

      “I think so,” The Kid replied as he took the wet cloth from the old man and began washing away the blood around the wound. “There’s a whiskey flask in my saddlebags. Reckon you can get it?”

      The old-timer frowned. “You need a drink at a time like this?”

      The Kid pointed to the bullet crease on the young woman’s arm. “It’s to clean the wound,” he said, even though he was a little annoyed by having to explain himself.

      “Oh. Oh, yes, of course. I’ll see if I can find it.”

      While the old man was digging through the saddlebags, The Kid asked, “What’s her name?”

      “Annabelle. Annabelle Dare.”

      The Kid grunted. “Pretty name. She your granddaughter?”

      “No. My, ah, daughter.”

      That struck The Kid as odd. He would have said there was too much differences in their ages for Annabelle to be the old-timer’s daughter. She must have come along late in life for the couple.

      “What about her mother?”

      “I’m not married.”

      “All right.” None of his business, The Kid told himself. Of course, he had tried to stick by that notion earlier, he recalled, and they could all see how that had worked out. “Have you found the whiskey yet?”

      “Right here,” the old man said as he brought the flask to The Kid, who took it and unscrewed the cap.

      The Kid nodded toward Annabelle Dare and suggested, “Why don’t you get up there by her head and hold her shoulders? She’s liable to jump a little when I pour this Who-hit-John over that wound.”

      “All right.” The old man got in position and put his hands on Annabelle’s shoulders. He might not be strong enough to hold her down completely, but at least his grip might help steady her a little.

      The Kid grasped Annabelle’s arm with his left hand and turned it slightly, so that he could get to the wound better. Then he poured the whiskey onto it, making sure to saturate the furrow thoroughly.

      Annabelle reacted instantly, letting out a small cry of pain. Her back arched, but the old man’s grip was strong enough to keep her from thrashing around. Her breath hissed between clenched teeth. Her eyelids fluttered.

      The Kid wiped away the mixture of blood and whiskey that ran out of the wound. With a long sigh, Annabelle relaxed slightly, and The Kid realized that the pain must have eased somewhat. After a moment, her eyes opened.

      “Should I move that gun out of your reach,” he asked her, “or do you know who I am now?”

      “I don’t…know who you are.”

      “But you know I’m not Fortunato.”

      “Of course…you’re not…Fortunato. What do you…mean by that?”

      The old man leaned in and said, “A few minutes ago, you mistook our young benefactor here for that Italian brigand.”

      “Really?” Annabelle murmured.

      “Yeah, you threatened to blow my guts out,” The Kid said with a smile. “You sounded like you meant it, too.”

      “Oh, my God.” She closed her eyes. “I…I’m sorry. I must have been out of my head.”

      The Kid nodded. “Getting shot will do that to some people. You lost some blood, too. Though not enough to worry about.”

      She opened her eyes and looked around. “Where…are we?”

      “Some hills near those flats where Fortunato’s men were chasing you,” The Kid told her. “I reckon you’re safe here for the moment. They can’t cross those flats without us seeing them.”

      “Fortunato won’t come after us this soon, anyway,” Annabelle said. Her voice was a little stronger now. “You killed two of his men and wounded another. As far as I know, he doesn’t have anyone else with him except a servant.” A bitter edge came into her tone. “But it won’t take him long to recruit some more gunmen to send after us.”

      The Kid sensed that she was still waiting for him to ask for an explanation. Maybe he was just contrary, but he didn’t do it. Instead, he told the old man, “I’ll need some clean cloth to bind up this wound.”

      He nodded. “I’ll see what I can find.”

      While the old man was doing that, Annabelle said to The Kid, “You haven’t told me who you are.”

      “Just a fella with a bad habit of sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

      “Well…I’m glad you stuck it in today.”

      “Is that your way of saying thank you?”

      “I suppose we do owe you our thanks. If you hadn’t come along and helped us, we might be dead now.” A shudder ran through her. “Or worse, Fortunato’s prisoners.”

      The Kid sighed. She wasn’t going to stop until she got what she wanted. He asked, “Who is this Fortunato hombre?”

      “Count Eduardo Fortunato. He’s an Italian nobleman.”

      “The old fellow called him a brigand, so I figured he was an owlhoot of some sort.”

      “Oh, he’s a criminal, all right,” Annabelle said. “Being of noble birth doesn’t necessarily make a person honest. He’s looted art treasures from all over the Continent.” She added condescendingly,