Bullets Don't Die Read Free Page B

around to make it unnecessary to collect the dried buffalo chips usually needed to build a fire on the the prairie.
    “Let me boil the coffee,” Tate suggested when flames were leaping merrily from the heap of branches The Kid had arranged. “You shouldn’t have to use all your supplies.”
    “All right,” The Kid agreed. “I’ll fry up some bacon and heat the beans I’ve got leftover from last night.”
    Tate got a small coffeepot from the pack lashed behind his saddle. He carried it down to the stream to fill it with water.
    The Kid noticed a couple minutes later that Tate hadn’t come back. He lifted his gaze from the thick strips of bacon beginning to sizzle in his frying pan and looked toward the creek. The glow from the fire reached that far, and The Kid could see Tate standing beside the stream, the coffeepot still in his hand hanging at his side.
    “Marshal?” The Kid called. “Something wrong?”
    Tate gave a little shake of his head, not like he was answering The Kid’s question but more in the manner of a man waking up. He looked back over his shoulder. “What?”
    “Is anything wrong?” The Kid repeated. “You were going to get water for the coffee.”
    “The coffee . . .” Tate lifted the pot and looked at it, then laughed. “Good Lord. The night’s so plumb beautiful I reckon I just got caught up in it and forgot what I was doing. Thanks for the reminder, Mr. Morgan.”
    “You can call me Kid, Marshal. Most folks do.”
    Tate knelt to fill the pot. “Seems a mite disrespectful, calling a grown man Kid. Doesn’t it bother you?”
    “Not really. I’ve always figured Mr. Morgan is my father, not me.”
    He didn’t add that his father was Frank Morgan, also known as The Drifter, the last of the famous Old West gunfighters. There were still plenty of men around who were fast on the draw and lived by the gun, but Frank was the only survivor of the old breed who still lived as he always had. Some of the other famous shootists were still around, but they had all hung up their guns.
    “Your father is still living, is he?” Tate asked as he came back to the fire with the coffeepot.
    “Oh, yeah. At least as far as I know. We don’t see each other all that often.”
    “There’s not trouble between you, is there?” Tate asked with a small frown.
    “No, not at all. At one time there was, but in the last few years . . . well, we’ve become good friends. We’re just both too fiddle-footed to get together very often.”
    “I’m glad to hear it. You should enjoy all the time you do get to spend with him. It’ll seem all too soon that he’s gone.”
    The Kid shook his head. Frank Morgan was such a larger than life figure, it was impossible to imagine him not being around. Logically, of course, The Kid knew that was inevitable.
    But he couldn’t believe it in his heart.
    He continued fixing the meal, and realized something several minutes later as he glanced at the coffeepot sitting at the edge of the fire. “Marshal, you didn’t put the coffee in the pot, did you?”
    “What? Why, sure, I—” Tate leaned forward and sniffed. “That doesn’t smell like coffee. Come to think of it, I don’t believe I did. I’m feeling a little absentminded tonight, Kid. Probably has something to do with shooting that man. To tell you the truth, it’s been a while since I had to kill a man, and it’s never been something that sets easy on me.”
    “I understand.” The Kid had seen so much violence he’d become a little hardened to it, but knew most people, even peace officers, weren’t like that.
    Tate got a sack of Arbuckle’s from his gear and poured grounds into the pot. Soon the smell of the strong black brew filled the air, mingling well with the aroma of the bacon.
    The food was good, and The Kid ate his fill, washing it down with the marshal’s excellent coffee. When they were finished, since there was a creek handy he washed out the coffeepot, the skillet, and the pot he had used to