The Loner: The Devil’s Badland

by J. A. Johnstone

  “Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug. He could tell that she was a little annoyed with him. He supposed she had taken his reaction as a rejection—which, of course, it was.

  He waited until she had rolled up in the blankets—with her back turned pointedly toward him—before he stretched out on the ground nearby with his saddle for a pillow. Even though it hadn’t been dark long, a chill had already begun to creep into the air. It would be a cold night, and since he’d be spending it on the hard ground, Conrad didn’t expect to sleep very well. Considering that his sleep was often haunted by nightmares under the best of conditions, he assumed the same thing would be true there.

  The long hours spent in the saddle had taken a toll on him, though. He dropped off to sleep faster than usual. His slumber was deep and dreamless, at least as far as he remembered. The sound sleep actually wasn’t what he wanted. He’d planned to doze lightly, so that he’d wake up right away in case of any trouble.

  As it was, it took Pamela’s frightened scream to jolt him awake, and as he came up off the ground, he was groggy at first, not knowing what was going on or what had happened.

  Then he heard another soft cry and the sounds of a struggle nearby. He turned toward the bluff. The fire had burned down to embers, and the moon was only a thin sliver in the sky, casting faint illumination.

  But there were millions of stars in the heavens, and they were so bright in the clear, thin, desert air that Conrad could make out the shapes wrestling on the tangled blankets where Pamela had been sleeping.

  “Son of a—” Conrad bit off the curse and leaped toward the struggling figures. He reached down, his fingers brushing the coarse fabric of a man’s shirt. He grabbed hold and hauled the man away from Pamela, who scooted back against the bluff and screamed again.

  By then, the whole camp was in an uproar as Whitfield, his men and James MacTavish cursed and yelled questions. The man Conrad had grabbed twisted around and threw a punch at him. Conrad sensed as much as saw the blow coming and ducked under it. He slammed a fist into the man’s stomach. The man’s breath smelled of whiskey as it gusted into Conrad’s face.

  Conrad hit him again, this time a looping left that sent the man flying backward to land on the hard, sandy ground. When he’d first realized what was going on, Conrad expected the man wrestling with Pamela to turn out to be Jack Trace, but he’d been able to tell by the man’s thick body that it wasn’t the slender gunman. One of Whitfield’s other hired killers, then. Conrad didn’t care who it was. As the man tried to get up, Conrad waded in again, swinging a left and then a right that slammed home and stretched the man out.

  A match flared to life. Clutching a six-gun in his other hand, Whitfield demanded, “What the hell’s goin’ on here?”

  Pamela sat up against the bluff and leveled a shaking finger at the man Conrad had knocked down. “That…that man crawled into my blankets and tried to…to…”

  One of the other men stirred up the fire so that the flames started dancing again. Whitfield dropped the match he’d been holding and strode forward to dig his booted toe in the ribs of the man on the ground.

  “Is that true, Bourland?” the rancher demanded. “Did you try to molest Miss Tarleton?”

  The man sat up and shook his head in an obvious attempt to clear away the cobwebs left behind by the beating Conrad had handed him. “Hell, no,” he rasped after a moment.

  “I found you tangled up in her blankets,” Conrad said.

  “Well, yeah, but she invited me to crawl in with her and mess with her.”

  “That’s a lie!” Pamela cried. “I’d never do such a thing.”

  Conrad glanced at her. She looked horrified. It was certainly true that the bearded, heavy-featured gunman called Bourland wasn’t the type of man you’d expect Pamela Tarleton to even talk to, let alone anything more intimate. She’d been angry with him when she turned in, though, Conrad reminded himself.

  No. It was impossible. Pamela had said that Bourland attacked her, and Conrad believed her.

  “I think you should give this man his time, Whitfield,” he said. “He can head back to Val Verde in the morning, or go wherever else he wants to.”

  Whitfield rubbed his jaw. “Yeah. Hate to lose a gun when we don’t know for sure what we’re ridin’ into, but I can’t abide a man who mistreats a woman.”

  Bourland came to his feet. “I’m tellin’ you, I only did what that…that bitch asked me to do!”

  Pamela gasped.

  Whitfield’s eyes narrowed. “I ain’t waitin’ until mornin’,” he said. “Gather up your gear and get outta here now, mister. You ain’t welcome in this camp.”

  Bourland glared around at all of them, but he didn’t find any sympathy in any of their faces, not even Jack Trace’s. Conrad figured that much, at least, was an act. Trace didn’t care what happened to Pamela. If he’d believed he could get away with it, he’d have been crawling into her blankets himself.

  Bourland turned and took a step toward Pamela. “Tell ’em!” he roared. “Tell ’em it was your idea!”

  She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, muffling the scream that welled up her throat.

  Conrad stepped forward and grabbed Bourland’s shoulder. He jerked the man around, saying, “Stay away from her, you—”

  He didn’t finish what he was going to say. Bourland jerked free, stepped back, and reached for the gun on his hip, his hand stabbing toward the Colt.

  Chapter 16

  Conrad reacted instinctively. He hadn’t been a gunfighter for very long, but long enough to learn that when a man slapped leather intending to kill him, he had only shaved instants of time to react.

  His Colt leaped into his hand and roared just as Bourland’s gun cleared the holster and started to pivot up toward him.

  The bullet, aimed by instinct as well, smashed into Bourland’s chest and drove him back a step. He collapsed against the bluff, falling next to Pamela, who cried out again and cringed away from him.

  Bourland struggled to get up. He hadn’t dropped his gun. As he started to raise it again, Conrad kicked it out of his hand and sent the weapon spinning off into the darkness. Bourland gasped, “Damn you! I’m tellin’…the truth…she…”

  He made a gagging sound as blood welled blackly from his mouth. His head fell back against the bluff. His shoulders slumped, and his arms hung limp at his sides.

  “Well, hell!” Whitfield rasped into the silence that followed.

  Tension gripped the camp. Conrad glanced around, saw that Trace and the other four gunmen had him and Pamela and James surrounded. Bourland had been their friend, or at least, they had ridden together. If they decided to avenge him, Conrad wouldn’t have much of a chance. Not only that, but Pamela and James would be in danger as well if lead started flying around.

  “I didn’t want to kill him, Whitfield,” Conrad said. “He didn’t give me much choice.”

  The rancher sighed heavily. “No, I reckon not.” He looked at Conrad with narrowed eyes. “That’s several times you’ve shown how slick on the draw you are, Browning. I thought you was supposed to be just some rich Eastern dude.”

  Trace said, “There’s more to Browning than that, boss. He really is his father’s son, I reckon, and Frank Morgan’s a killer.”

  Whitfield jerked his head toward Bourland’s body. “So’s Browning.” He took a deep breath and then looked around at his men. “All right. Bourland brought this on himself, the damned fool. It’s over. Somebody wrap him up in a blanket, and come mornin’, we’ll bury him.”

  One of the men gestured toward Conrad. “You’re gonna let this son of a bitch get away with killin’ him, boss?”

  “I told you, Bourland called the tune. You boys know good and well that when you reach for a gun, there’s always a chance the other feller’ll be faster.” Whitfield turned to Pamela. “Are you all right, miss?”

  “I…I suppose I am.” She started to get up. Conrad used his left hand to take her arm and help her. His right hand
still gripped the Colt. Pamela brushed herself off and went on, “I’m sorry about what happened. I…I hope I didn’t do anything to give that man the wrong idea.”

  “No, ma’am, I’m sure you didn’t. We’ll get him away from you, and you can try to get back to sleep.”

  A couple of the men wrapped Bourland’s body in a blanket, as Whitfield had instructed, and carried him to the other side of the camp, going far enough so that they were out of the light of the fire. Since the potential for more gunplay seemed to have faded, Conrad holstered his Colt and knelt next to Pamela as she stretched out again.

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he told her. “I should have been keeping a better eye on you.”

  “You’re not my protector, Conrad. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate what you did, but things aren’t like they used to be between us.” She paused. “You’ve made it clear that you don’t want them to be that way again.”

  Conrad grimaced in the darkness. Why couldn’t she see that he couldn’t go back? Too much time had passed. Too many tragedies had taken place. They weren’t the same people they had been when he came to New Mexico Territory to build that railroad spur.

  And yet…wouldn’t it be nice to have someone again? Someone with whom he could give and take some comfort? Someone to help stave off the inevitable darkness that was life…?

  Conrad stiffened as he caught those thoughts going through his brain. The fact that he had allowed himself to be tempted, even for a second, sickened him. That was the height of disloyalty to his dead wife.

  Dead wife, a mocking voice in the back of his head reminded him. Rebel was dead, and nothing would ever change that. Unless he was going to blow his own brains out, he had to go on. He had to find some path so that he could make his way through the rest of his own life. He had dedicated himself to avenging Rebel’s murder, but someday—someday soon, he hoped—that task would be accomplished.

  What then? Conrad asked himself. What then?

  As usual, he had no answers. Adrift in his thoughts, he finally dozed again, only a few feet from the woman he had once loved.

  By morning, things weren’t any clearer in Conrad’s mind, at least as far as his feelings for Pamela Tarleton were concerned. He had come to a decision about one matter, though.

  “You’re coming with us,” he told her as they sat by the fire and drank coffee.

  Pamela’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “I thought you were determined to send me back to Val Verde, and from there back east.”

  “I would if there was a way to do it that wouldn’t put you in danger. But we’re too far away to send you back alone, and I can’t turn back until we’ve rescued Meggie MacTavish.”

  He didn’t mention the idea of sending her back with one of Whitfield’s men. All of them might be needed to deal with Meggie’s kidnappers. Besides, he wouldn’t trust any of them alone with her. He knew that James wouldn’t abandon the pursuit until they found Meggie.

  Pamela smiled faintly. “Taking me along is going to be dangerous, too, you know.”

  “Of course it is,” Conrad said, a little annoyed with her for stating the obvious. “But at least this way, I can keep an eye on you and try to see to it that you stay out of trouble.”

  “Be still my heart,” she gibed.

  Conrad drained the last of his coffee and stood up. He went to check on the horses. As he did so, the two men who had carried Bourland’s body a short distance from camp and dug a grave for it came back, their grim chore completed.

  A short time later, everyone was ready to ride. They had an extra horse now, which would come in handy when they found Meggie and took her away from the men who’d kidnapped her. She wouldn’t have to ride double with one of her rescuers, since Pamela’s horse was no longer limping.

  Conrad knew the possibility still existed that Meggie was already dead. He wasn’t going to give up hope, though, until he saw her body for himself.

  And that was an unusual situation for him these days, he realized. Clinging to even a shred of hope in times of trouble was something he hadn’t done very often since Rebel died.

  The nine of them pushed on toward the Hatchet Mountains as the sun rose higher in the sky. The peaks were gray and purple in the distance where they thrust up from the scrub-covered plains. Conrad didn’t know how rugged the mountains were since he had never been there before. He was willing to bet that they held plenty of hiding places.

  Places where Anthony Tarleton and his hired killers could lie in ambush and wait for him to follow them, if his theory was right, Conrad thought.

  The day quickly grew hotter as the sun climbed higher. He looked over at Pamela and saw the weariness and strain on her face. She had ridden for hours the day before as she followed them, and Conrad knew she was probably very sore and tired. Her jawline was firm and determined, though. She had never been a woman who gave up easily when she wanted something, he recalled.

  “You still have that gun you pointed at me yesterday?” he asked her.

  “Of course I do. I’m not giving it up, either.”

  “I wouldn’t think of asking you to. Can you handle a rifle? We have an extra Winchester now.”

  He didn’t add that the rifle had belonged to Bourland. Pamela didn’t need him to remind her of the dead man.

  She shrugged in answer to his question. “I’ve never fired a rifle, but how hard can it be? I know which end the bullet comes out of.”

  He didn’t bother explaining that a Winchester was pretty heavy, especially for someone who wasn’t accustomed to using one. With any luck, Pamela wouldn’t ever find out, because she’d never need to use one of the weapons.

  They drew steadily closer to the mountains. The Hatchets didn’t rise gradually. They thrust up sharply from the flats, with only a few small foothills. Conrad kept his eye on them, hoping to see a flash of reflected sunlight off metal. Something to tell them that they were on the right trail other than the tracks they’d been following for the past two days. The thought that they might be trailing somebody who had nothing to do with Meggie’s kidnapping worried him. However, that was unlikely, especially if his theory about Anthony Tarleton was correct. But it couldn’t be ruled out.

  Around mid-morning, Dave Whitfield said to Conrad, “Somethin’s started to worry me…Once those fellas we’re followin’ get into the mountains, they’ll be able to look back out here and see us on these flats.”

  Conrad nodded. “That’s true. But if we’re right about them leaving such a clear trail on purpose, they’ll expect to see someone following them.”

  Whitfield grimaced and drew the back of his hand across his mouth. “You intend to ride right into whatever trap they’re settin’ for us, don’t you, Browning?”

  “You know of a better way to find out what they really want?”

  Whitfield inclined his head toward Pamela, who had fallen back a short distance. “Gonna be mighty dangerous for your ladyfriend.”

  “She chose to come after us,” Conrad said, keeping his voice deliberately cool. He didn’t want Whitfield or any of the others to see just how worried he really was about Pamela’s safety. “And she’s not my ladyfriend.”

  “Maybe not now,” Whitfield said with a grin. “I ain’t so sure about what she’s got in mind for the future, though.”

  “It doesn’t matter—” Conrad began.

  “The hell it don’t. Once a gal makes up her mind about somethin’, there ain’t a whole hell of a lot us menfolks can do about it. I was married for nigh on to twenty-five years before my wife passed on, Lord rest her soul, and I learned that much.”

  A faint smile tugged at Conrad’s mouth. He supposed that Whitfield had a point. He and Rebel had been married for only a few years, but already in that time, Conrad had learned that he was wasting his time trying to change her mind about anything she considered important. Why, he remembered once when she—

  He stopped short in his thoughts as he realized he was about to chuckle at the memory of somet
hing Rebel had done. It didn’t matter what it was, or how amusing it had been at the time, she was gone and he had no right to be thinking of her with anything except grief and utter devastation.

  The problem was, grief and utter devastation got mighty weary after a while. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt anything to remember some of the good times and smile a little at the memories.

  Before Conrad had a chance to ponder on that, Jack Trace urged his horse alongside Whitfield’s and said, “Smoke up yonder, boss.”

  “I see it,” Whitfield said.

  So did Conrad. It was only a thin thread of bluish-gray rising into the sky from somewhere not far into the mountains. It came from a campfire or possibly a chimney, Conrad thought. Chances were, it also marked the destination of the men they had been following.

  “If we keep goin’, we’ll likely be ridin’ right into their gunsights,” Trace warned. “You want to get killed over some squatter gal, Dave?”

  Trace’s voice was loud enough for James to hear the callous description of his sister. He started to urge his horse forward, anger on his face, but Conrad motioned him back. With obvious reluctance and simmering resentment, James complied.

  Whitfield glared at the gunman. “Damn it, I told Browning I’d help him find the MacTavish girl, to prove I didn’t have anything to do with what happened. We ain’t found her yet.” His eyes narrowed as he stared at Trace. “But if you want to turn around and go back, Jack, I ain’t gonna stop you. Same goes for the rest of the boys.”

  Trace didn’t answer for a couple of seconds, then he shrugged and said, “You’re payin’ our wages. I reckon you’re still callin’ the tune.”

  Whitfield jerked his head in a nod. “Damn right I am. Come on.”

  As the group rode on, Pamela said, “Do you think they’re setting a trap for us, Conrad?”

  “It’s likely,” he said. “That’s why you’re not going with us.”

  “What?” she asked in surprise. “I’ve come this far. You can’t mean to send me back now.”