The Ninth Shot
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A shot rang out, and a second later the door to the saloon flew open. A man in his middle thirties stepped into the alleyway, looking back over his shoulder at something he had just heard. His hair was gray, his face lined with worry and weariness. He was tall for his age but thin as an old scarecrow.
His clothing was worn and dirty; one sleeve was ripped off, exposing half of the tattooed skin on his arm. His boots were caked with mud, so much mud that they looked like they could barely walk two steps without falling over their own weight. The smell coming from them only added to this image of the poor rube walking down this dusty road alone in the middle of nowhere.
This man’s eyes met Morgan’s immediately, and his expression went from fear to disbelief. “How…?”
“I don’t know how I found you.” Morgan kept the gun pointed at his head. “But here we are now.” She lowered it slightly so she didn’t have to hold it quite so close. “Why did you rob that bank?”
He swallowed hard and glanced down at the floor, unable to meet her gaze. “For my wife,” he said softly. Then, raising his head again, he looked directly at her. “My wife is sick. My children are starving because I can’t provide for them anymore.
And now I’m going to be arrested for a crime I never committed. I’ll spend years in jail before being hung.” He paused briefly, then continued quickly. “You must not tell anyone about me or what happened today. No one! Not even your partner will come soon. If I am taken into custody, it means that my family has no hope of ever getting our money back.”
Morgan nodded, though he couldn’t see her face. It was obvious by the desperate sound of his voice that this was not the first time he had been caught stealing in order to care for his family. What she wanted to do right now was grab him up and throw him out of the saloon.
But she knew that would solve nothing. Instead, she took another step closer to him until their bodies touched. She leaned forward so they were almost nose to nose.
His breath hitched as if she reached inside his chest and tore out all his hopes and dreams with her next words. “But I have something else to say before you turn me over to those men. You’ve heard about what happened tonight. Well, let me put it this way: The last thing I want to do is hurt anyone—especially when they’re doing the best they can to help someone in need.”
Her statement seemed to calm the man enough to stop breathing so heavily and look back over his shoulder once more to check that he was truly alone. When he looked back at her, his lips parted slightly, but he remained silent for several seconds. Finally, he whispered, “What?”
Morgan gave him a reassuring smile and held out her hand. “Let’s go somewhere else, where no one knows us. We can talk there.”
He hesitated but finally took her hand and let her pull him through the door and down the stairs to the bar below. Morgan ordered three mugs of beer.
The rube sipped his drink nervously. “So what do you want from me?”
She thought carefully before she answered, knowing that any lie he told could ruin their chances of success. She took another sip of her beer and set the mug down slowly, making sure he saw the movement and realized she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. “We need your help to get my friend free.”
“Who?” He looked surprised by the question.
Morgan smiled. “Well, I don’t think you really know your partner very well, do you? She has a tendency to change partners every other week, which means that she has many enemies among the outlaws.” Morgan paused and looked directly into his eyes.
“I’ve heard rumors that this particular partner of hers might be one of those men you call a ‘lucky son-of-a-gun.’ But we don’t know exactly why she has such a high number of enemies.” She picked up his unfinished beer and handed it back to him. “Tell us what happened tonight, and we may be able to figure it out.”
After a few minutes, Morgan noticed that this was the first time since their meeting that the man had stopped staring at the floor and actually looked her in the eye. His eyes were filled with tears, and the muscles around his mouth tightened. With great difficulty, he began to speak.
“It started about seven years ago after my wife lost her job.” He wiped his eyes with the palm of his hand, then continued speaking so softly she could hardly hear him. “One day she came home from work looking sad. There was no reason for it, so I assumed that she was just having a bad day.
But by morning, it was obvious that things weren’t good at her job. They were laying off people left and right. My wife is the type who doesn’t like to ask for help—she’d rather suffer silently than ask for assistance. So for three months, she worked long hours trying to find another job without luck.
By the end of the third month, she couldn’t take it anymore. One night, she packed up the kids and headed for California.”
As she listened to his story, she could imagine how difficult it was for him to talk about this. She wanted to tell him to stop talking, that they didn’t need all this detail. But she remembered her own childhood and the times she had suffered as an orphan, so she stayed silent and waited patiently until he finished.
Then he cleared his throat and looked up at her. “That’s when I met my partner. I don’t remember much about our first meeting except that she looked like a real lady.” The man’s voice cracked on the last word and he took another drink of his beer.
“She also told me that she was traveling west to meet some friends.” He laughed bitterly at the memory of those days. “But that was only part of the truth. It turned out she had no friends waiting for her in California. She was traveling west so her husband wouldn’t catch up with her. That was about two years ago.”
He looked at her steadily. “Now you probably think I’m not telling you the whole truth, or even close to it. And you’d be right.” He drained his mug of beer and set it down hard. Then he stood up and went to stand at the bar.
As Morgan watched him, she suddenly realized what he was doing. “Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t known your partner longer than the two years I’ve been working for her?”
“Of course not!” he replied defensively. “You can always tell when someone is lying because their shoulders start to move up and down faster and more irregularly. You know that if a person lies often enough, sooner or later they’ll slip up.
But I can assure you that I’ve never lied to you about anything important. This isn’t something to be ashamed of, but if you have any doubts, then let’s both go down to that saloon across the street and ask them how long it has been since they’ve seen either of us there.”
Morgan frowned. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I don’t trust you.” He walked over to his partner and grabbed her hand, then jerked her toward the door. “Now, if you’re done interrogating this poor rube—” he said in a mocking tone, “you can come with me and leave that poor guy alone to enjoy his drink.”
Morgan sighed. “If you say so, boss,” she said and followed him outside into the street. After a few steps, she glanced back inside the saloon to see how the rube was faring. He looked relieved as the bartender came over to sit beside him and began asking questions about himself.
She hoped he’d be safe now and not be too embarrassed for being questioned by a woman. She wondered how he would answer the question about his age, which he hadn’t mentioned before.
When she joined her boss again, he was already in his car and waiting impatiently for her.
“So are you satisfied that we have enough information?” She knew he wasn’t; it was impossible to get everything she needed from one meeting. But it was the best chance they had to make a start. She was also concerned that the man might be recognized by someone else in town.
He didn’t seem like a criminal, but there were plenty of them in Montana. And if anyone saw them talking together, it might spark an investigation into the death of his wife. She had to keep her distance from him, at least for now, until he learned that she was working for the railroad company and that they were on the same side. “Let’s get out of here before someone spots you with me.”
***
The next day after her shift ended, Morgan went straight to her house. When she pulled up in front, she noticed that two men were sitting on the porch. One had a shotgun and the other had a rifle. She parked behind a truck that was loaded with boxes so no one would notice her approach.
She got out of her car, closed the door, locked it, then went around to the trunk. She opened it and reached inside to pull out her pistol. As soon as she had it in her hand, she heard the sound of footsteps behind her.
A shot rang out and Morgan dropped to the ground. She rolled quickly and ran toward the nearest house. The two men shouted something unintelligible and pointed their guns toward her. They were trying to shoot her in the leg, she thought, but it would be easy to dodge.
As she approached the house, she heard another gunshot and felt a burning pain in her lower left arm. A second later, a bullet thudded into the ground where she had been standing only moments before. The shooter was aiming low and missed by inches, so she took cover behind a tree. As she moved to get away from the tree, she stumbled and fell. Pain seared through her entire body and she cried out in agony.
She crawled on all fours until she got to the rear door of a nearby cabin. There she dragged herself over to a chair and sat down. She tried to control her breathing so she wouldn’t pass out, but it was a difficult task. Her arm had swollen badly and seemed ready to burst open.
Blood soaked into her shirt. At first, she just stared at the door, wondering what to do next. It was possible the gunmen could break in and try to kill her and her father. If that happened, they’d probably shoot at whoever was in the house, so she had no choice but to protect him.
After some time passed, she finally gathered enough strength and will to lift herself off the floor. She couldn’t walk, but she managed to drag the chair to the door. She was still in a daze from the blood loss. She held onto the knob and turned it slowly. No one came to investigate the noise. The gunman must have gotten the message and gone elsewhere.
She opened the door and crept over to her father. “Dad, wake up!”
He groaned and struggled to sit up.
“Don’t move,” she whispered as she pulled a towel off a table and pressed it against his wound. “You’ll bleed out.” She wrapped it around his upper torso and helped him stand. She carried his gun and the knife that she wore under her skirt while she led him into the kitchen where she poured cold water into a pan and set it on top of the stove.
She knelt down beside him to take his pulse. His heart beat rapidly but steadily, although every so often his chest heaved. She hoped the bullet hadn’t torn any major arteries. Then she checked her own injury and discovered it wasn’t as bad as she expected.
While she waited for the water to boil, she asked, “What happened? Who shot at us?”
“We were sitting on our porch and these two strangers rode up,” her father replied. “They started talking to us and I told them you and I were alone here and not to bother you. But they kept coming closer to the door.”
Morgan’s heart sank. That meant one of the men was a friend of the man who died. Or even worse, the murderer was in that house!
She glanced up when she heard shouts outside and voices calling out. “Help!” A neighbor came running into the kitchen followed by others carrying guns. The men rushed to Morgan’s aid and helped her carry her father outside.
One of the neighbors took a look at Morgan’s wounds. “You should go to the hospital,” he said. “That’s an ugly wound you’re nursing there.”
Before they left, another woman brought a bucket of ice. She cut slices and handed them to the wounded women, one at a time. By the time she got to Morgan, the ice had already numbed the pain in her arm.
She took a deep breath and tried not to faint or lose consciousness, but neither possibility was very likely. With the help of the neighbors, she got her father on his horse, mounted hers, and rode back to the ranch house.
When they arrived at the main building, Morgan was grateful for the assistance. She knew she’d never make it without help.
The doctor examined Morgan’s arm and concluded that it looked serious. He called for more help to tend to her father and ordered everyone else outside. “There are too many witnesses in this room,” he explained, “so we need some space.”
Morgan went along with him and stood by his side as he began his examination. The doctor asked her about the incident and then sent her to the bedroom to change into clean clothes and put on a clean bandage on her arm. She also found a large bottle of whiskey, which she used to numb the pain from her wound.
Once the doctor finished examining her father and gave him a clean bill of health, he sent him to rest, telling him to sleep as much as possible. He didn’t seem concerned about Morgan’s condition, but she wasn’t sure why. She certainly deserved medical attention and care.
As she walked toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms, someone suddenly grabbed her hand and jerked her into an empty room. She gasped and fought against the man holding her arms. He forced her across the carpet until she fell to the floor.
A second man stepped inside and placed a gun to her head. “Stand up,” he snarled before he aimed at the center of her forehead.
Morgan closed her eyes and waited to feel the heat of a bullet rip through her brain. Instead, she felt a sudden jolt and the pressure vanished. She opened her eyes and saw that both gunmen were gone.
She quickly rolled away from the gun barrel, jumped to her feet, and ran for the door. She pushed open the door to the hallway and burst out the front door and into the yard. Her first thought was to find another place to hide.
A gunshot echoed nearby, and she turned in the direction it came from. One of the neighbors lay dead on the ground, his blood pooling on the grass. Another man was trying to drag him inside.
Morgan screamed for someone to come save the injured man.
But no one responded. No one seemed to hear her. Everyone must have assumed Morgan was responsible for the attack because it was impossible to think otherwise. After all, she was dressed like a man—and now she was wearing that very same man’s hat.
“Help!” she cried as loud as she could, knowing that if one of those gunshots had been fired by a real killer instead of an assassin, it might be her last chance to get someone’s attention. “Someone has to stop that shooter! Please help!”
Morgan searched around for a weapon to use against the gunman. There was only one shotgun leaning against the wall. She reached for it just as he stepped outside the house. It was a clear shot at point-blank range, but she wasn’t going to take him at this distance. Not with her shoulder still bleeding. So she dropped down behind the fence surrounding the yard.
A moment later, shots echoed throughout the neighborhood and bullets whizzed by her ear. Someone fired a gun in defense. Then a cry rang out, and a second shot sounded.
Suddenly, two of the neighbors raced outside their houses, yelling, “Stop shooting!” They pointed at the other shooter who was standing beside a tree, reloading his gun.
The man fired again and took aim at them, but then stopped when Morgan yelled at him. “Don’t shoot! Don’t kill anyone else!”
That surprised the gunman. And probably frightened him, too, since he didn’t know what kind of person he’d found himself confronting. He glanced at Morgan and then at the men rushing toward him. A small crowd started to form.
Morgan moved toward him with determination. “Don’t hurt any of my neighbors,” she said. “I’m here to help you.”
The gunman looked at her and then at his two accomplices. “Let’s talk this over,” he suggested.
“No.” Morgan shook her head. “We’ll do it your way so none of our friends get shot.”
He raised his gun and pointed it at her. Morgan backed away, keeping him between her and the others. When she saw no one else would come near him, she slowly stepped closer.
“Give me that gun,” she told him.
He hesitated, unsure if he should trust her. But then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a silver dollar and held it in front of his face. “You can count on this.”
After a long pause, the gunman accepted it. Morgan pressed the coin into his palm and watched him closely. He put the gun aside and handed her the shotgun. She checked its contents and nodded as she placed it against the fence post where she’d first picked it up.
Then she turned to the neighbors, saying, “This is a peaceful town and I don’t want it ruined by gunplay. If there’s a disagreement, let me know and we’ll settle it peacefully.”
Some people were nodding and agreed while others shook their heads. The gunman seemed reluctant to accept her offer. He eyed Morgan suspiciously as she approached him and said, “My name is James. What’s yours?”
“Morgan, ma’am.”
She noticed that he used the word “ma’am”—instead of addressing her as “sir.” His reluctance was telling because it showed he knew something was different about her appearance and he wanted to make sure it was a disguise that wouldn’t deceive him.
“Good enough,” he finally conceded. He paused and stared at the other gunmen who were watching him carefully.
He looked back at Morgan. “What exactly are you doing here?”
“I’m here to help you,” she repeated. “If you follow my instructions, there won’t be any more bloodshed.”
He looked skeptical. “Are you really willing to help us after killing two of our own? You can’t possibly expect us to believe that.”
It was true that she’d killed two men, but she hadn’t done it to help herself or anyone else. It was simply part of the job she was hired to do. Still, she wasn’t going to tell him that. Instead she said, “Why would I want to harm your friends when I’m trying to stop the bad guys from killing people?”
For a moment, neither he nor his friends seemed able to grasp the reason for her presence. “We’re not the bad guys,” one man shouted out.
Morgan looked at them and asked, “Who did you kill?”
“Those were my friends,” another added.
She ignored the remark about her friends and said, “Did either of them have a gun on his hip? Did they fire it at anyone?”
Everyone shook their heads. Both men had been shot at close range. She wondered how the killer had managed that. Maybe he’d used his gun instead of theirs. “You’re lucky he only shot at you, and not someone else, and even luckier he chose you to murder.”
She thought it might take them a little time to realize who it was they were dealing with. She couldn’t say anything because she didn’t want to tip the killers off that Morgan had recognized their friend. But she could watch for signs that might indicate they’d figured out who it was. She hoped it would give her more time before the gunmen returned.
A few minutes later, the men walked away from the fence, leaving Morgan alone with James. A silence settled on everyone except the dog, who kept snuffling around the yard and barking at the horse tied behind a house nearby.
“How many of our gang have you killed?” Morgan asked him.
He looked surprised at the question. “I didn’t know about their deaths until yesterday—after I shot one of your friends. I didn’t find out the other had died until last night.”
“So you haven’t actually seen anyone die,” she observed. “Have you tried looking at them afterward?”
James gave her an annoyed look. “Of course not,” he said angrily. “You must have heard about the killings and just decided to come here.”
“I’ve got proof otherwise,” Morgan told him. “But I can show you what happened if it will convince you.”
“What kind of proof?” he demanded.
She smiled. “You can ask him.”
The dog stopped barking as he turned toward the house where the dead man lay. He barked a few times, making sure he drew attention to the body. Then he started sniffing the ground. At first the corpse had been covered with dirt and grass clippings, but some of that covering had come loose during the morning winds and now showed through.
“That’s why I’m here,” Morgan said softly. “There’s no need to waste bullets on anybody else.”
James glared at her and then looked back at the corpse again. He appeared puzzled, but he still seemed unconvinced. “What are you talking about?”
“Your friend was killed by one of your fellow bandits.”
He didn’t seem to hear her. He was staring intently at the body and seemed almost hypnotized by it, which worried her slightly because it might suggest he didn’t have a good sense of direction. She was also afraid that she might get in trouble if he found himself near the body.
But there was nothing she could do to avoid the problem because she had already told his friends about his death. She waited for his reaction.
“Why aren’t you helping me stop the killers?” he finally asked.
“Because I don’t want to shoot you and your friends.”
His gaze snapped to hers. “Why not? They all deserve to die.”
She hesitated. That was true; it was part of the job she’d been hired to do. But he wasn’t like the other gunmen. She couldn’t make him see that, so she said, “You don’t understand. There’s a way to save lives without hurting anybody.”
“Like what?”
She took a deep breath and said, “You need to trust me.”
He frowned. “What does that mean? Do you think I should believe every word coming out of this woman’s mouth?”
“It means you need to follow my instructions precisely.”
“I already did,” he replied defiantly, but she saw something else in his eyes: confusion. It might be a sign that he really hadn’t understood what she’d told him.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the photograph she’d taken of him with her new camera. He stared at it and then looked up at her. “Where did you get a picture of me?”
“I took it in town while you were buying your ammunition,” she answered.
He glanced around and realized that she was referring to his visit to the gunsmith. She’d been careful to keep her distance from him and had never gotten too close because she knew that was what he wanted. “I don’t believe you!” he cried. “Why would you lie?”
Morgan didn’t answer. She simply watched him. After a long pause, he said, “I guess you can prove it to me.”
She nodded and then handed him the photo. She expected him to throw it down or ignore it entirely, but he held onto the picture instead, turning it over and over in his hands.
“Do you remember this?” she asked when he finally spoke.
“No,” he admitted. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
She explained how she’d followed him to the gunsmith shop after he’d left the saloon and overheard him buying bullets for the gun she’d given him. She showed him the photographs of her shooting lessons as well as the ones she’d taken of him on the porch with the rifle.
And she talked about the time she’d trailed him and his gang to a bank robbery and how she had seen him kill a banker. The story took most of the morning before he finally asked her a question.
“How did you learn all of this information?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“I might.”
Morgan studied his expression carefully. His tone had changed. Now he sounded thoughtful. “Did you work for one of these newspapers?”
“Yes,” she replied. “But that’s not why I was hired.”
“Then who are you working for?”
Morgan shrugged. “You’ll probably never know.”
“Is it the law?”
“No. Not exactly.”
He thought about it for a moment and then said, “What’s your name?”
“It’s Miss Emerson now.”
For a time James stood silent. Finally, he asked, “Would you like some breakfast?”
She hesitated because she knew what she really wanted was a meal. Her stomach growled loudly enough to draw the attention of everyone in sight, including his dogs. When she didn’t immediately respond, he said, “We can eat right here since you’re hungry.”
That drew an appreciative smile from her. She didn’t think much of his cooking, but she ate anyway, knowing that she needed all the strength she could muster if they were going to survive their first day together. She finished and watched him for a reaction.
He seemed content and relaxed. Maybe he was happy to have someone to talk to, especially after all the years of being alone. Morgan was beginning to feel better about the situation herself when he said, “You mentioned a way to save lives.”
She cleared her throat. “There is,” she began, “but I’m afraid I won’t be able to explain it until we reach the train depot. We still have quite a ways to go.”,
The End