The Loner: The Devil’s Badland

by J. A. Johnstone

  Trace slid his Winchester from its saddle boot. Conrad glanced over at him and said, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? We’re not supposed to ambush him. We want to capture him so we can find out who he is and why he’s been following us.”

  “Yeah, well, what if he puts up a fight?” Trace asked. “I ain’t in the habit of lettin’ anybody shoot at me without shootin’ back.”

  “We won’t let it come to that.”

  “How do you intend to stop it?”

  Conrad thought for a second, then said, “Let’s split up. We’ll flank him and come in from two directions at once. He’ll see that he can’t get rid of both of us and surrender.”

  “You hope.”

  “Well, if it doesn’t work, we’ll deal with that then,” Conrad snapped.

  “Whatever you say,” Trace agreed grudgingly. “Any bullets start to fly, though, and all bets are off.”

  Conrad didn’t like the situation any more than Trace did, but for different reasons. Still, there was nothing he could do except go along with the gunman and hope they could capture the mysterious follower without anyone getting hurt.

  He angled the buckskin to the right, while Trace went to the left. The rider was about a quarter of a mile ahead of them. The sun had just dipped below the western horizon, so the light was starting to fade. Night fell quickly out there. Conrad knew they couldn’t afford to waste any time, and called on the buckskin for more speed.

  The horse had already put a lot of miles behind him that day. He needed rest, just like Conrad did. But the buckskin responded gallantly, stretching out into a gallop, giving it everything he had.

  Conrad glanced to the left, where Trace had split off a couple of hundred yards and also pushed his mount into a run. The two of them closed in on the follower. If the man had looked back, he would have seen them, but instead he kept his gaze fixed on the group of riders he’d been trailing all afternoon.

  That was good. It was more likely they’d be able to take him alive if he didn’t notice them until it was too late. Conrad urged the buckskin on.

  In the fading light, he still couldn’t see the man very well. As the distance between them narrowed, Conrad veered left to get behind the rider. Finally, when only twenty yards separated them, the man heard hoofbeats and he glanced back. Conrad saw him jerk in the saddle as he realized that the hunter had become the hunted.

  Conrad thought the man might pull a gun and put up a fight, but instead, he leaned forward in the saddle and tried to get more speed out of his mount. Conrad looked at Trace and saw that the gunman had his Winchester out again. He waved for Trace to stay back and dug his heels into the buckskin’s flanks. The horse responded, spurting ahead to match the increased pace of their quarry.

  The rider kept looking back. Conrad could tell that he was getting frantic. The man’s horse didn’t have the same speed and stamina as the buckskin, and steadily, Conrad closed the gap.

  He could see now that the man was dressed in a rough work shirt and trousers, as well as a hat with a broad, drooping brim. As far as Conrad could tell, the man wasn’t wearing a gunbelt. He didn’t see a rifle butt sticking up from a saddle sheath, either.

  What sort of fool would come out here in the middle of nowhere unarmed? Maybe the man had a revolver in his saddlebags.

  Conrad was right behind him, only a few feet away. He debated whether to tackle the man and knock him out of the saddle, or just try to grab the reins and bring the horse to a stop. That would be less dangerous. Tackling the man would risk breaking both their necks.

  Before Conrad could do either one, fate took a hand. The man’s horse stumbled and went down, spilling the rider from the saddle and landing hard. Dust billowed into the air and obscured Conrad’s vision for a second. He couldn’t see what had happened to the man. The horse might have rolled over him and crushed him.

  Conrad hauled back on the buckskin’s reins. As the big, rangy horse skidded to a stop, Conrad swung down, his boots hitting the ground while the buckskin was still moving. He turned toward the fallen horse and rider and drew his gun. Between the dust and the fading light, he still couldn’t see much, but he wasn’t taking any chances. If the rider hadn’t been knocked out by the fall, he might come up with a gun in his hand.

  Conrad waited, legs slightly spread and gun in hand, for the dust to blow away. As it did so, the fallen man’s form became visible. He was sprawled face down on the ground a few yards away. Nearby, the horse struggled upright, blowing and snorting as it did so. The animal didn’t appear to be badly hurt, although it might be too lame to ride for a day or two.

  Something struck Conrad as odd, and as he moved forward and the dust cleared even more, he figured out what it was. The man’s hat had fallen off, spilling long, dark hair around his head. It wasn’t common to find a man with hair that long these days. And there was something else that didn’t seem quite right.

  With a shock, Conrad realized what seemed wrong to him. The fallen rider wasn’t shaped like a man. Despite the rough work clothes, Conrad could tell that much. The slender waist and swelling hips belonged to a woman. That explained the long hair, too.

  Conrad stalked over to the body on the ground, reached down to grasp the woman’s shoulder, and rolled her onto her back. As he did, her arm came up suddenly, and he found himself staring into the barrel of a small pistol about six inches from his nose.

  Even more shocking, he found himself staring into eyes that he knew were deep green, even though their color was hard to make out in the dim light.

  Because those eyes belonged to Pamela Tarleton.

  Chapter 15

  For a long moment, Conrad was too surprised to do anything except stand there and stare at Pamela. She seemed equally surprised to see him. Her eyes were wide with shock as she looked up at him.

  Finally, she said, “Conrad?”

  He noticed that the pistol in her hand was cocked, and her finger was taut on the trigger. It wouldn’t take much pressure to make the gun go off.

  He said, “Pamela, if you don’t mind, I really wish you’d point that somewhere else.”

  “Oh!” she cried out as if just realizing how close she had come to shooting him. She lowered the gun. She didn’t object when Conrad took it from her and eased the hammer back down.

  “What in blazes? Is that a woman?”

  Jack Trace’s voice reminded Conrad that the gunman had been closing in on Pamela, too. As he straightened, he glanced over his shoulder and said, “It’s all right, Trace. She’s not dangerous.”

  Trace grunted. “You could’ve fooled me. Looked like she had a gun stuck in your face.”

  Conrad holstered his Colt and then reached down to help Pamela to her feet. She took his hand. When she was standing, she asked, “What are you doing back here, Conrad? I thought you were up ahead with those other men.”

  “I was…until we realized that someone was following us.” He frowned at her. “Which brings up an even better question. What are you doing out here, Pamela?” He gestured at her outfit. “Dressed like that, following us…I thought you were catching a train back east.”

  Her head gave a defiant toss that was all too familiar to him as she answered, “You told me to catch a train back east. I never agreed to that. As for what I’m doing here…” Her voice softened slightly. “I wanted to be with you, of course.”

  “That’s madness. We’re on the trail of the men who raided the MacTavish ranch and kidnapped Margaret MacTavish. This is no place for…for…”

  “For a spoiled Eastern girl?” Pamela shook her head. “I told you, Conrad, I’ve changed. I’ve learned how to look after myself. And I thought…” She shrugged. “I thought you might need my help.”

  That idea was so ludicrous, Conrad’s first impulse was to laugh. But that would insult her, he realized, so he suppressed the urge. Instead, he said, “I think we can handle this, Pamela. Whitfield brought half a dozen men with him, including Trace here.”

  “But why i
s Whitfield helping you?” Pamela asked. “I thought he hated the MacTavishes.”

  Trace spoke up, saying, “He does. But he don’t like bein’ blamed for something he didn’t do. He wants to prove to Browning that he didn’t have anything to do with kidnappin’ the MacTavish girl.”

  “Trace is right,” Conrad nodded. “So you see, Pamela, we’re fine. You shouldn’t have followed us.”

  She smiled. “It’s too late to worry about that now, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?” Conrad asked with a sinking feeling.

  “I mean that we’re a long way from Val Verde, and night is falling. You can’t very well expect me to turn around and ride back to town by myself, can you?”

  Conrad knew she was right about that. Now that he was aware the person who’d been following them was Pamela, he felt responsible for her. He would have to look out for her. That meant either turning around and taking her back to Val Verde himself, abandoning the hunt for Meggie MacTavish…

  Or taking her with them on the trail of a gang of bloodthirsty killers.

  Luckily, the decision could be postponed, at least until morning. “You’ll camp with us tonight,” he said. “We’ll figure out what to do tomorrow.”

  “All right. Let me get my horse.”

  “That horse doesn’t need to be ridden after that fall. See, he’s limping a little.”

  With a smile, Trace said, “The lady can ride with me, Browning.”

  Conrad felt a flash of anger at the leer on Trace’s face. He snapped, “No, she’ll ride with me. You lead her horse.”

  Trace shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Conrad swung up into the saddle, then reached down to grasp Pamela’s hand and help her climb onto the buckskin’s back behind him. She slipped her arms around his waist and hung on tightly as he heeled the horse into motion.

  Their positions made Conrad acutely aware of how Pamela’s breasts were pressed against his back. Even though there were a couple of layers of clothing between them, he couldn’t help but think about the firm, warm mounds of flesh. His jaw tightened. He had too much to do to allow himself to be distracted by a woman, no matter how lovely and sensuous she was. And yet, he was still a man, too.

  Whitfield, James MacTavish, and the other men had stopped, Conrad saw a few minutes later as they approached the spot Whitfield had selected for their camp. It backed up to a low, rocky bluff with a small pool of water at its base. Probably in years past, Indians had camped there regularly, but all the Indians were on reservations now, so Conrad knew they didn’t have to worry about that.

  “What the Sam Hill!” Whitfield exclaimed when Conrad, Pamela, and Trace rode up. “That’s your lady friend from town, ain’t it, Browning?”

  “That’s right,” Conrad acknowledged. He dismounted. As he reached up and put his hands under Pamela’s arms to help her, he went on, “This is Miss Tarleton.”

  Even in the bad light, Conrad could tell that the gunmen Whitfield had brought with him were eyeing Pamela with lust and greed in their expressions. He intended to stay very close to her that night. He didn’t trust those hombres. Not where beautiful women were concerned—or any other way.

  “Well, what’s she doin’ out here?” Whitfield wanted to know.

  “I can speak for myself, you know,” Pamela said. “You’re Mr. Whitfield, aren’t you?”

  Habit prompted Whitfield to reach up and remove his hat when Pamela spoke to him. “That’s right, miss,” he said. “Dave Whitfield.”

  “Mr. Browning and I are old friends,” Pamela told him. “I knew he was going to look for Miss MacTavish, so I decided to come along and see if I could help him. I hadn’t counted on him joining forces with you men, but that doesn’t really change things, does it?”

  Whitfield looked confused, but he said, “Uh, no, I reckon it don’t. Why would you think Browning would need your help?”

  Pamela looked over at Conrad. “To be honest, Mr. Whitfield, I didn’t think Conrad needed to be alone in this situation. I’m sure it brings up too many painful memories for him.”

  Conrad gritted his teeth. He wished Pamela would just quiet down.

  That had never been her strong suit, though.

  “Painful memories of what?” Whitfield asked.

  “Of the time several months ago when his wife was kidnapped and murdered.”

  Whitfield looked at Conrad, who stood there with his face stony and expressionless. “Don’t reckon I’d heard about that,” the rancher said.

  “That’s because it has nothing to do with this,” Conrad said. “It’s in the past, over and done with.”

  That was a lie, of course. As long as Anthony Tarleton was alive, it wasn’t finished. Not by a long shot.

  But Conrad had a feeling everything was coming together. Clearly, Whitfield and his men hadn’t raided the MacTavish ranch and carried off Meggie, and as far as Conrad could see, only one other group had the slightest reason to have done so.

  That was Anthony Tarleton, Hogan, Loomis, and the rest of Tarleton’s hired killers.

  It all made sense, assuming that Tarleton had found out somehow about Conrad’s connection with the MacTavishes. After the ambush at the cemetery failed and Pamela escaped, Tarleton and all the others except Vicente had left Val Verde. They could have ridden out to the MacTavish spread, wounded Hamish, and kidnapped Meggie, knowing that Conrad would likely follow them if he survived the ambush by Vicente. It was yet one more trap set by Anthony Tarleton, with Meggie as the bait this time instead of Pamela.

  Ever since the theory had begun to form in Conrad’s head, he had been putting it together piece by piece, and now he was convinced he was right. It explained everything—why the MacTavish ranch had been raided by someone other than Whitfield in the first place, why the kidnappers had made their trail so easy to follow, why their goal from the start seemed to be to carry off Meggie, not to wipe out the rest of the MacTavishes.

  That was just one more sick, twisted way for Anthony Tarleton to punish him, to put him through hell by kidnapping a young woman who was bound to remind him of what had happened to Rebel.

  “I’m sorry to hear about it, anyway,” Whitfield said, breaking into Conrad’s thoughts. “We may not see eye to eye on most things, Browning, but I wouldn’t wish somethin’ like that on my worst enemy.”

  Conrad nodded curtly. “I appreciate that,” he said, “but right now let’s concentrate on the present. We’ll have to figure out what to do about Miss Tarleton.”

  “I’m coming with you, of course,” Pamela said without hesitation.

  Whitfield frowned. “That don’t hardly sound safe to me. There’s liable to be plenty of gunplay when we catch up to those varmints who carried off the MacTavish girl. I wouldn’t want my daughter mixed up in something like that. Shoot, I didn’t even leave her out at the ranch while we’re gone. I told my foreman Ramsey to put her in the buckboard and take her back to town, so she can stay in the hotel until I get back.”

  “Perhaps you’re too protective of her, Mr. Whitfield,” Pamela argued. “How is she going to know how to take care of herself if something happens to you?”

  Whitfield shook his head. “I don’t plan on anything happenin’ to me.”

  “Neither did my father,” Pamela said with a glance toward Conrad. “But he died a few years ago, and I was left mostly on my own. I had to learn quickly that the world can be a cruel, frightening place.”

  Whitfield cleared his throat and shifted his feet, obviously uncertain how to respond to that. Conrad said, “We’ll talk about it in the morning. There’s nothing we can do tonight, anyway.”

  “Nothing except enjoy the lady’s company,” Trace drawled.

  Conrad started to turn angrily toward the gunman, but he stopped himself. He wasn’t engaged to Pamela anymore. He hadn’t been for years. He didn’t have to defend her honor any more than he would have for any other woman. Instead, he asked her, “Did you bring any supplies?”

  “A few.”
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  Whitfield said, “We’ve got plenty of food. Don’t worry about that. You’re welcome to share with us, Miss Tarleton.”

  “Thank you,” she told him, smiling again. “It’s nice to know that someone here is a gentleman, anyway.”

  Conrad ignored that. He started unsaddling the weary buckskin. One of the men had built a small fire, and the smell of coffee beginning to boil filled the twilight air. Thinking back on things that Frank had told him, Conrad knew that there had been a time—not all that long ago, really—when it would have been too dangerous to have a campfire out there. It would have attracted the attention of the Indians. With that threat removed, the only real danger that remained was from bands of Mexican bandits who crossed the border from time to time. The likelihood of running into a bunch like that was small.

  As full darkness settled down over the landscape, one of the men rustled up some supper. The meal was simple—bacon, biscuits, and some canned peaches—but Pamela displayed a hearty appetite as she ate along with the men and washed the food down with strong, black coffee. She really has changed, Conrad thought. When he’d been engaged to her, she would have found fault with the finest restaurant. Now she ate on the trail and hunkered next to a campfire, without complaint.

  When everyone had finished eating, Whitfield assigned guard shifts for the night. Conrad and James were willing to take their turn, but Whitfield split up the duties among his own men.

  Conrad spread his bedroll near the bluff and told Pamela, “You take the blankets, unless you brought some of your own.”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid I didn’t think about that. I’m sorry. I don’t want to take your bed, Conrad.” She hesitated, then went on, “I suppose we could—”

  He shook his head before she could continue. “No. We can’t,” he said flatly.