The Loner: The Devil’s Badland

by J. A. Johnstone

  The Kid jerked out his Colt, and as soon as the shooting stopped below, he thrust it into the opening and triggered three fast shots. He wasn’t really trying to hit anything. He just wanted them to think twice before they started climbing up the chimney themselves.

  He looked around and saw that James and Meggie appeared to be all right except for a few bloody places where the rock walls had scraped them as they were climbing. Relieved to see that, The Kid studied their surroundings. Just as Whitfield had said, they were at the top of the mountain. Big Hatchet Mountain, a half-mile or so to the south, was the only one in the range that was taller. The slopes of the peak were tufted with grass and fell away fairly steeply, but The Kid saw several places where he and the MacTavishes could start making their way down.

  “Come on,” he said as he pushed himself to his feet. “We need to get moving. Tarleton’s not going to let us live if he can prevent it. He and his men will be looking for us soon.”

  “We just got out of that hole,” James complained. “We need to rest for a few minutes.”

  Meggie asked, “Where’s Mr. Whitfield?”

  The stricken look on her face told The Kid that she already knew the answer to that question, whether she wanted to admit it or not.

  “He stayed below to give us more time to get away,” The Kid said. “We can’t let what he did go to waste. Come on.”

  This time, James got to his feet, although he groaned about it. He took his sister’s arm and said, “Let me help you, Meggie.”

  “I’m all right,” she said. “You’re the one who’s wounded.”

  James shook his head. “Just scratches. Nothin’ to worry about.”

  The Kid got them moving down the far side of the slope away from the benches where the showdown had taken place. He wanted to put as much distance as he could between them and Tarleton’s bunch.

  But sooner or later, he would have to confront them again, he thought as he glanced back. He had left the buckskin on the upper bench, and James and Meggie didn’t have horses, either. Tarleton and his hired killers had the only mounts.

  Which meant that The Kid would have to take some away from them.

  James addressed that very issue as the three of them made their way down the slope. “How are we gonna get away from them?” he asked. “We don’t have any horses. Even if we manage to give them the slip, we’ll starve to death before we can walk all the way back home.”

  The Kid wasn’t worried about starving to death. There was game out there—rabbits, prairie dogs, the occasional deer or antelope—and anyway, it took a long time for someone to die from starvation. Water was a much greater concern. A person on foot could die of thirst in just a few days.

  “We’re not going to walk all the way back,” he said. “We’ll get our hands on some horses.”

  “How?”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “Like you’ve worried about everything else?”

  The Kid laughed and shook his head. “You never change, do you, James? You have to complain about everything.”

  The young man scowled. “If I hadn’t pulled you out of that hole, those fellas would’ve ventilated you for sure.”

  “Yes, they would have,” The Kid said with a nod. “And I’m glad you reminded me of that. I forgot to say thank you. I’m obliged to you for your help, James.”

  “Forget it.”

  “No. I won’t do that. I won’t forget what Dave Whitfield did for us, either. When we do get back, there’s going to be peace between the MacTavishes and the Circle D.”

  Meggie nodded. “That’s right, James. There won’t be any more feuding.”

  “But Pa—”

  “I said, there won’t be any more feuding.” The firm tone of Meggie’s voice made it clear she wasn’t going to put up with any argument, even though James was older than her. The Kid figured she had enough iron in her spine to back it up, too. She had gone through hell, and she hadn’t fallen apart yet.

  The descent was actually easier on the western side of the mountain range than it would have been on the eastern side. They didn’t encounter any cliffs. Some of the slopes were steep enough so that they had to turn around and back down them, clinging to rocks and bushes and clumps of grass to keep their balance, but that was the worst of it. By late morning, they were in the lower canyons.

  Another stretch of desert rolled off to the west. A range of mountains that looked to be about the same size as the Hatchets lay in that direction, ten to twenty miles away. The heat was already getting bad as the sun rose higher in the sky. The Kid knew he and his companions couldn’t walk that far during the day.

  Heading for those other mountains wouldn’t do them any good, anyway. Tarleton, Pamela, and the hired killers would spot them easily out there in that vast open area. What he really needed, The Kid thought, was somewhere he could leave the MacTavishes while he tried to get his hands on some horses.

  He found just the place a short time later. It was a little canyon with a narrow opening, no more than thirty feet across, and thick brush closed off most of that. The Kid just happened to notice it, and he thought it was possible men on horseback might ride right on past without giving it a second look.

  He led James and Meggie through the brush, James complaining as usual when it clawed and scratched at him. Beyond the brush, the canyon ran for about fifty yards before coming to an end at a tumbled mass of boulders that must have fallen down from higher on the mountain sometime in the past.

  “The two of you stay here,” he told the MacTavishes. “There’s some shade in those rocks, so the heat and sun shouldn’t be too bad.”

  “There’s no water here,” James said. “No food.”

  “That’s true, but by sometime tonight, I’m hoping you’ll be on your way back to Val Verde with enough supplies and canteens to get you there safely.”

  “You expect those things to fall down from the sky?” James asked, ignoring the warning glare that Meggie sent in his direction.

  “No,” The Kid replied with a shake of his head, “I expect to steal them from those varmints who’ve been trying to kill us.”

  Chapter 22

  By the time dusk began to settle again over the Hatchet Mountains, a tired, sunburned, hungry, and footsore Kid Morgan had located his quarry. It made sense that Tarleton and Pamela would order their gunmen to spread out and search for the three fugitives. With less than a dozen men, though, there was only so much ground the killers could cover. Because of that, The Kid couldn’t just sit back and wait for some of them—and more importantly, their horses—to come to him. He had had to find them.

  So once again, the hunters had become the hunted.

  The Kid crouched behind a rock and watched two men on horseback sit at the mouth of a canyon and debate whether or not they ought to ride up into it and carry on the search.

  “I don’t like it,” one of the gunmen said. “It’s already too dark and shadowy up there. I say we ought to go back to camp and wait there for the others.”

  “What are you worried about?” the other hardcase asked. “There are just three of ’em, and they ain’t armed.”

  The first man shook his head. “That’s not true. Browning’s got a pistol, accordin’ to what Miss Tarleton told her uncle.”

  A snort of contempt came from the other man. “Some eastern dude playin’ gunfighter! You afraid he’s gonna ambush us, Carlin?”

  “It could happen. A bullet fired by an eastern dude can kill you just as dead.”

  That was true, The Kid thought. He had proven it on numerous occasions.

  Carlin’s companion hitched his horse into motion. “Well, I’m goin’ to take a look up this canyon. You can stay here if you want, but if I catch those three, then I’ll get all the credit.”

  “All right, all right,” Carlin grumbled as he started his horse forward, too. “I’m coming.”

  The Kid knew they wouldn’t find anything in the canyon. He waited until they were out of sig
ht, then hurried after them, using every rock and tree and bush for cover.

  Their mention of the group’s camp intrigued him. That would be the best target for a raid. He couldn’t follow them back to it on foot, though. He needed to find out its location and get his hands on at least one horse right now. That might be a tall order.

  The sound of hoofbeats suddenly coming closer made him scramble for cover behind a slab of rock leaning against the canyon wall. The two gunmen hadn’t gone very far before running into a dead end and were returning.

  The Kid began climbing onto the rock, quickly formulating a plan as he did so. He waited on the side where they couldn’t see him until they rode past. As they did that, he launched himself in a diving tackle from the top of the rock at the gunman nearest to him.

  The man let out a startled yell as The Kid crashed into him and drove him out of the saddle. Both men landed heavily on the ground, but The Kid was on top and the impact stunned the gunman momentarily. The Kid rolled away and came up with his Colt in his hand as the other man fired at him. The bullet whined past The Kid’s ear. He triggered his revolver and sent a slug into the killer’s chest. The man slewed halfway around in the saddle, tried to hang on, but toppled off his horse anyway.

  The first man groaned and stirred as his wits started to come back to him. The Kid reversed the gun in his hand and slammed the butt against the man’s head, knocking him out cold. He hurried over to check the man he had shot. He knew he didn’t have much time.

  The second man was dead, drilled through the heart. As soon as The Kid was sure of that, he swung around and grabbed the horses before they could bolt.

  The pair of shots would draw the attention of the other searchers, he was sure. He wanted to be well away from there before any of them could show up to see what had happened. He lifted the man he had knocked out, slung him over the saddle on one of the horses, and lashed him into place with a rope that was on the saddle. He tied the man’s hands and feet together under the horse’s belly. Then he swung up onto the other mount and rode away into the dusk, leading the horse with its unconscious burden.

  He had two horses, but that wasn’t enough. If he went straight back to the canyon where he’d left James and Meggie, someone would have to ride double, which would slow them down enough that the pursuit was bound to catch them. The Kid had an idea what to do about that, but it would take some more work on his part.

  Gun work, more than likely.

  He put some distance between himself and the site of the brief gunfight, heading south now, around Big Hatchet Mountain. As the shadows thickened, he listened intently, because the sound of hoofbeats might well be the only warning he got if he was about to run into more of Tarleton’s men.

  When he had gone about a mile, he reined in. The man on the other horse let out a groan and struggled against the rope that held him on the saddle. The Kid dismounted, stepped over to the other horse, and pressed the muzzle of his Colt against the man’s head. That made the hombre freeze right away.

  “Browning?” he croaked.

  “Never mind who I am,” The Kid said. The explanation was too complicated to get into. Instead, he went on, “Tell me where the camp is.”

  “Get me off this horse first. My head hangin’ upside-down like this is makin’ me—”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. Because the next second he threw up. The Kid stepped back to avoid being splattered. He didn’t worry about a trick. Throwing up was something a fella couldn’t really fake.

  When the gunman’s spasms subsided, he groaned again. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “Come on, Browning. Give me a break here.”

  “Like you gave a break to those men of Whitfield’s you massacred?”

  “They were hired guns, too! Hell, they knew what they were gettin’ into.”

  The man was right about that. It didn’t make him any less of a cold-blooded killer. The Kid pointed the Colt at him again and said, “Talk.”

  “You want to know where the camp is? Fine, I’ll tell you. You gotta let me loose first. And give me my horse back, so I can get out of here. After Hogan and the others kill you, I’d just as soon they think I’m dead, so they won’t come after me for double-crossing them.”

  What the gunman said actually made sense, in a way, but The Kid wasn’t going along with it. “You’re not going to double-cross me,” he said. “You’re taking me to the camp.”

  “Go to hell!”

  The Kid thrust the gun barrel against the man’s temple again. “I’ve already reduced the odds against me by one. Knocking them down one more can’t hurt anything.”

  “Wait, wait! Hold on! Don’t shoot, mister. We can work something out.”

  “Damn right we can. Where’s the camp?”

  “You remember the place you left the girl? Miss Tarleton? That’s where her uncle said we’d all rendezvous.”

  That made sense. There was water there, and it was at the base of Big Hatchet Mountain, which meant it was about in the center of the range on the eastern side. Straight across the mountain from where he was right now, The Kid thought.

  He wondered if there was a trail that would let him reach the place without having to go all the way around. That would certainly make things simpler.

  Assuming, of course, that his prisoner was telling the truth.

  “You’re still coming with me,” he said as he stepped back and holstered his gun. “That way, if you’re lying you’ll regret it.”

  “Mister, I already regret ever signin’ on with this bunch. I’m sick, I tell you. At least untie me so I can sit up in the saddle.”

  “Sorry,” The Kid said, even though he really wasn’t.

  Not for a second.

  Gagging the prisoner was an obvious precaution. The Kid ripped pieces off the gunman’s shirt to serve as the gag and tied it in place. Then he set off up the slopes in the dark, hoping to find a pass to the other side.

  The Kid had discovered that he had a natural sense of direction, something else he had inherited from Frank Morgan. Even though natural obstacles forced him to take a twisting path through the mountains, he always had a general idea which direction he was going and which way he needed to go. After several hours, he had managed to reach the eastern side of the Hatchet range.

  The prisoner, who had tried to yell and curse through the gag at first, just like Pamela, had fallen silent after a while. When The Kid figured he was within half a mile of the camp—if the captive gunman was telling the truth—he reined in, dismounted, and cut the man loose, letting him fall to the ground. A low moan came from the man, telling The Kid that he was still alive.

  The Kid hunkered next to the prisoner and used the pieces of rope to tie his hands and feet. “You’re staying right here,” he said quietly as he straightened to his feet. “If you weren’t lying to me, I’ll come back to turn you loose later. If I get killed…” The Kid grinned down coldly at the gunman. “Well, you’d better hope no wolves or anything like that come along, I guess.”

  The man made muffled noises of complaint as The Kid turned away. He had left the ropes loose enough so that the man could work his way free eventually, although it might take him hours to do so. The hombre would figure that out sooner or later, when The Kid didn’t come back for him.

  Leading the horses, The Kid worked his way closer to the little pool at the edge of the foothills. He caught the scent of woodsmoke and knew he was smelling a campfire. So the man he’d captured hadn’t lied to him after all. Tarleton, Pamela, and the others really were camped here. If what Jess Winger had told him earlier in the day was true, there were only eleven of them left, counting Tarleton and Trace. Still bad odds, but getting better all the time, The Kid told himself with a grim smile.

  He left the horses tied to a mesquite tree and approached the camp as carefully and quietly as he could. Through a screen of brush, he caught sight of the flickering flames of the campfire. The Kid bellied down and went the rest of the way in a crawl.

  Whe
n he got close enough to part the brush and peer through the tiny gap, he saw that no one was talking around the campfire. It was late enough so that at least some of the group would be asleep. One man was sitting up by the fire, standing guard while everyone else was rolled up in blankets. The lone sentry had his back to the flames so that they wouldn’t ruin his night vision.

  On the other side of the pool, the horses were gathered in a makeshift corral formed by stringing ropes between some of the pines. The Kid had his eye on them, but he waited patiently until he was sure that each of the bedrolls actually contained a sleeping body. He didn’t move until he saw each of them shift around a little in slumber to be certain there was only one guard. Tarleton must have felt confident that they were in no danger. If he’d been in charge, The Kid thought, he would have posted at least a couple of men out from the camp a little way.

  Once he was satisfied, he crawled around the pool toward the horses. His heart gave a little leap when he spotted the buckskin among them. The bastards hadn’t even had the decency to unsaddle him. They would regret that. Their casual cruelty was just going to make it easier for The Kid to steal him back. The gunmen were using the other saddles for pillows, another thing they had in common with working cowboys.

  The saddlebags from the other horses were piled up just outside the corral. The Kid figured those saddlebags had some supplies in them, so he planned to grab as many as he could before he left there.

  The horses stirred a little as he slipped into the makeshift corral. The guard glanced toward them, but The Kid was stooped low enough that the man couldn’t see him. The horses shielded him from view. He waited until the guard turned around again before he used his knife to cut the rope between two of the pines.

  Then he grabbed the buckskin’s reins, vaulted into the saddle, and let out a bloodcurdling yell as he yanked his hat off and slapped it against the rumps of several horses. The panicky animals stampeded straight ahead. Some of them splashed through the shallow pool. Others circled it. Either way, their route took them right through the sleeping gunmen.