The Loner: The Devil’s Badland

by J. A. Johnstone

  Tarleton didn’t move as The Kid approached. He had to be either dead or unconscious. Otherwise, he would have heard the hoofbeats. The Kid reined to a halt about twenty feet away and drew his gun. He didn’t think Tarleton was trying some sort of trick, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility.

  Keeping an eye on the motionless shape, The Kid dismounted and moved closer on foot. Tarleton still didn’t move. The Kid hooked a toe under the man’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back.

  A large, dark red bloodstain spread over the front of Tarleton’s shirt. It looked like he’d been shot at least twice. At first, The Kid thought he was dead, but then he saw Tarleton’s chest moving. The man’s eyelids fluttered as the bright sunlight struck them.

  The Kid moved so that his shadow fell over Tarleton’s face. Tarleton’s eyes opened and peered up at him, but The Kid wasn’t sure Tarleton really saw anything. He seemed more dead than alive. The Kid hunkered on his heels and said, “Tarleton? Can you hear me?”

  The man’s dry, cracked lips moved. “B-Browning? Is…is that…”

  “Yes, it’s me,” The Kid said. Tarleton’s eyes moved back and forth but seemed unable to lock onto anything. “What happened to you?”

  “P…Pamela…she…she did this…”

  “Pamela shot you? Your own niece?”

  “There were only…two horses.”

  “Ah,” The Kid said. It made sense. He looked around and spotted the hoofprints leading east. The three of them had come upon two of the horses, and neither Pamela nor Trace had been willing to ride double and take a chance on the mount giving out.

  So Pamela had made the logical decision, based on which of her two companions might be able to do more for her in the future, and shot her uncle. Somehow, The Kid wasn’t the least bit surprised.

  “Browning,” Tarleton went on, “ev…everything that happened…to your wife…was Pamela’s idea. You have to…help me.”

  “There’s nothing I can do for you,” The Kid said. “You’re dying, Tarleton. I’m surprised you’re not dead already.”

  “Then you’ve got to…settle the score…with that bitch. They’re headed for…Val Verde…Don’t let her…get away with…”

  “I don’t plan to let her get away with anything.”

  Tarleton didn’t hear what The Kid said. His eyes had already glazed over. His plea for vengeance on his niece had been his dying words.

  The Kid straightened. He’d told the truth. He didn’t intend to let Pamela get away with everything she had done. He wouldn’t be settling any scores for Anthony Tarleton, though. The man had brought his own doom upon him by allying himself with Pamela.

  Taking the buckskin’s reins in his hand, The Kid mounted up and pointed the horse’s head northeast, following the trail left by Pamela and Trace. Just the two of them left for him to deal with. They were an hour, maybe an hour and a half ahead of him.

  But he was in no hurry to catch up.

  The showdown, when it came, would be in Val Verde.

  The same place Rebel was laid to rest.

  Chapter 24

  “Mr. Browning! Mr. Browning! Is that you?”

  The excited shouts made The Kid look over toward the hotel. He saw Rory MacTavish standing there waving at him and turned the buckskin in that direction.

  The Kid put a weary smile on his face as he reined to a stop in front of the hotel porch. “Howdy, Rory,” he said.

  “I thought that was you,” the boy said. “You look…different.”

  “Never mind that,” The Kid said. “How’s your father? Did he pull through?”

  Rory nodded. “Yeah. Doc Churchill said it was touch and go for a while, but now he thinks Pa’s gonna be all right.”

  The Kid felt relief wash through him at that news. He was glad Hamish MacTavish hadn’t died because of Pamela’s twisted need for vengeance.

  “What about your brother and sister? Are they here?”

  Again, Rory nodded. “They rode in this morning. I was never so glad to see anybody in my life. I was afraid they wouldn’t make it back.” The youngster rested his hands on the porch railing. “They said they wouldn’t have, if it hadn’t been for you, Mr. Browning.”

  “Just call me Kid. Conrad Browning’s not really here anymore.”

  Rory looked puzzled by that, but he didn’t question it. He just said, “James and Meggie aren’t the only ones who rode in today. That gunfighter who worked for Mr. Whitfield, Jack Trace, is in town, too. I saw him go into the saloon a little while ago.”

  “What about Miss Tarleton?”

  Rory frowned and shook his head. “I haven’t seen her.”

  That surprised The Kid. He wondered where Pamela was.

  But there was still Trace to deal with. He swung down from the saddle and held out the reins toward Rory. “Would you mind taking my horse over to the livery stable? Tell the hostler to take mighty good care of him. He’s been through a lot the past few days.”

  Eagerly, Rory took the reins. “Sure, I can do that. What are you going to do, Mr. Browning? Go in the hotel and clean up?”

  “Not just yet,” The Kid said. He turned and walked toward the saloon.

  Behind him, Rory said, “Holy cow! I gotta get back so I can see this!”

  The Kid had taken it easy during the day-and-a-half ride back to Val Verde, not moving any faster than his quarry. Despite that, a great weariness gripped him. The grief and strain of the past few months was like an unbearable weight on his shoulders, threatening to press him down until there was nothing left of him. There only was one way to lift that weight.

  His side was stiff and sore where the bullet had creased him. His shirt stuck to the dried blood. His legs and back ached from the long hours in the saddle. But none of that mattered. He felt an irresistible force drawing him on toward the bat-winged entrance of the saloon. A hard desert wind sprang up, lifting the dust in the street. He stepped onto the low porch, pushed the batwings aside, and proceeded into the cool dimness of the place.

  The drinkers at the bar and the card players at the tables began to scatter. How they knew what was coming, The Kid didn’t know or care. They were like wild animals, fleeing instinctively before a natural disaster.

  That left a lone, slender figure standing at the far end of the bar, his left hand raised halfway to his mouth with a shot glass of whiskey in it.

  Jack Trace smiled. “I knew you’d make it out alive,” he said. Then he brought the glass to his lips and tossed back the drink.

  “Time to see who’s faster, Trace,” The Kid said.

  “Damned well about time.”

  Trace dropped the empty glass at the same instant he spun toward The Kid, his hand flashing toward his gun. The Kid’s eyes hadn’t fully adjusted to the light inside the saloon. He relied on speed and instinct, muscle and blood, heart and soul. The Kid’s gun was in his hand, sliding out of the holster and coming up level, so fast a normal man’s eye could never follow it. So was Trace’s, and flame spouted from the muzzle of his Colt just a hair ahead of The Kid’s.

  The revolver in The Kid’s hand bucked against his palm. A split-instant later, he felt the hammer blow of a bullet striking him. He took a step back but caught himself before he fell. Down the bar, Jack Trace stood there smiling, smoke curling from the barrel of the gun he held.

  “Like something out of a dime novel, ain’t it?” Trace said.

  Then blood slid from the corner of his mouth, and his fingers lost their grip on the gun. It thudded to the sawdust-littered floor at his feet. Trace made a half-turn and fell against the bar, then toppled away from it to land on his back, his arms out-flung. A shudder went through his body, and then he lay still.

  The Kid felt a hot weakness filling him. He lowered his gun and turned to stumble back out into the sunlight. He heard the men who had scrambled for cover inside the saloon coming out of their hiding places to see who had lived and who had died, but he paid no attention to them. With the wind in his face, he reeled across the
boardwalk, caught hold of one of the posts supporting the awning. He leaned against it and tried to catch his breath as he looked down at himself and saw the fresh bloodstain on his left side. Every time he drew air into his lungs, pain stabbed through him. He knew Trace’s slug must have broken a rib, at the very least.

  He groaned through gritted teeth, but not from the pain. He hadn’t found out from Trace where Pamela was, and now the gunman was dead. He would have to try to backtrack them…

  The whistle of a train approaching Val Verde made him lift his head. That movement took his eyes along the street toward the mission. He blinked against the dust and the glare of the sun on the whitewashed adobe walls as he saw movement in the cemetery. A woman, her long skirt swishing around her legs as she walked…a shawl over her head, protecting her from the sun…Was he imagining things? Had the pain from his wound and the blood he’d lost sent him over the edge into madness?

  No. She was really there. As she began to walk faster toward the depot, the shawl slipped back to reveal thick brown hair falling around her shoulders.

  Pamela.

  She was going to catch that train and ride away, out of his life, safe once again from the justice she so richly deserved.

  That thought stiffened his spine. He stepped down to the street and staggered forward. The train station was between them. The Kid was a little closer to it, but all he could do was shamble along. Pamela saw him and stopped short for a second, then hurried toward the depot. The Kid forced himself to move faster as the train whistled again. He saw puffs of white smoke and steam rising from the engine as it rolled over the tracks just west of the settlement.

  Agony stabbed through The Kid with every step, but he didn’t slow down. He broke into an awkward run. He didn’t go into the station itself but headed for the stairs at the end of the platform instead.

  “Mr. Browning!”

  He recognized Meggie MacTavish’s voice and glanced over to see her, James, and Rory running toward the station from the hotel. He waved them back. Pamela was bound to have a gun, and she wouldn’t hesitate to use it on anyone who got in her way.

  He reached the steps and stumbled up them. As he careened onto the platform, the few people who were waiting to board the train or to meet someone getting off gasped in surprise at the bloody figure who was suddenly among them. At the sight of the gun in his hand, they backed off. Some of them turned and ran into the depot.

  Pamela came up the steps at the far end of the platform and stopped as she saw him again. As the rumble of the approaching train grew louder, she cried, “Why won’t you just die, you son of a bitch? Why won’t you just die!”

  “Not until you get what’s coming to you,” The Kid rasped as he started along the platform toward her.

  She laughed. “I had to stop at the cemetery to tell your precious Rebel that you were dead. I hate anyone making a liar out of me, Conrad. Just like I hate anyone who takes me for a fool!”

  Her hand came up, and sure enough, there was a pistol in it. The Kid knew he should lift his Colt and fire, but he couldn’t do it. Even after all she had done, he couldn’t bring himself to slam a bullet into her.

  But he weaved to the side as she fired, the gun going off with a spiteful crack. He lunged forward, jerking backwards as her gun went off a second time. She stood there like an angel of death, tall and haughty, the long shawl slipping off one shoulder to flap in the wind. An angel’s wing…

  No, not an angel. Heaven had no place for the pure evil that was Pamela Tarleton.

  He reached for her, knocked the gun aside as she fired again. She slashed the barrel across his face and twisted away from him.

  “Damn you!” she screamed. “Damn you, Conrad Browning!” Her finger tightened on the trigger for another shot as the locomotive roared past right behind her.

  The Kid never knew what Pamela’s trailing shawl caught on. All he knew was that one second he was looking into her hate-filled face, and the next she shrieked in terror as the shawl jerked tight around her neck and pulled her off the platform, under the wheels of the train. Her cry was lost in the hiss of escaping steam as the locomotive slowed.

  “Oh, my God,” Meggie MacTavish gasped in horror from behind him. He turned, and the world spun crazily around him. He would have fallen, but James and Rory were there to catch him.

  “Come on, Mr. Browning,” Rory urged. “Come on. There’s nothing you can do here.”

  Rory was right. There was nothing more he could do. It was over at last. Justice had been done. Justice of a sort, anyway.

  In this world, The Kid supposed, that was the most anybody could hope for.

  A week later, The Kid stopped by the mission to say goodbye to Father Francisco, who was almost recovered from his wound. The Kid was feeling better, too, although Dr. Churchill had warned him it was too soon for him to be riding. The advice was probably good, but The Kid ignored it. He was ready to put Val Verde behind him.

  For now. As long as Rebel was there, he would be back, from time to time.

  There would be fresh flowers on her grave every month. He had already made those arrangements, including a sizable donation to the mission, with Father Francisco. Conrad Browning’s money was good for something.

  Hamish MacTavish and his children were back home, where Hamish continued to recuperate. The Kid had told Angeline Whitfield of her father’s wish that the feud with the MacTavishes come to an end, and she had surprised him a little by agreeing. Grief had matured her, given her strength. It was a shame that it sometimes took a tragedy to make a person grow up, but The Kid knew that was true. Angeline planned to stay on and run the Circle D. Some of the ranch hands had taken wagons down to the Hatchets and recovered all the bodies, including Devil Dave’s. After her father’s funeral, Angeline had hinted to The Kid that she wouldn’t mind if he stayed around, too. But he just wished her luck. That was all he could do.

  He tied the buckskin to the hitching post in front of the mission. He had sold the buggy and the big black horse. They were left over from Conrad Browning’s life, and he didn’t need them anymore.

  Father Francisco came out of the mission and greeted him with a smile. “Hello, my friend,” the priest said. “You look like you’re ready to travel.”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” The Kid said with a nod.

  “Where are you going?”

  A faint smile touched The Kid’s lips. “Now, that’s a good question, padre.”

  Father Francisco nodded slowly. “You’re still a young man. You have time to find…whatever it is you are looking for.”

  “I hope you’re right, Father.” The Kid started walking along the path toward the cemetery. As the priest fell in beside him, he went on, “I couldn’t leave without stopping by here one more time.”

  “They brought the new stone this morning, you know.”

  The Kid nodded. “I know.”

  Father Francisco stopped at the cemetery gate. “I’ll let you go on alone. God’s blessings upon you, my son.”

  “Thanks, Father.”

  Hat in hand, The Kid walked into the cemetery and stopped in front of Rebel’s grave. He hadn’t replaced the tombstone that her brothers had put up, but he’d had another stone made for the foot of the grave. It was flat and lay almost flush with the ground. The words engraved on it were simple.

  REBEL

  One Love, For All Time.

  A few minutes later, Kid Morgan left the cemetery, mounted up, and rode out of Val Verde. A lone rider, headed north.

  No reason. Just moving on.

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  Copyright © 2009 J. A. Johnstone

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  ISBN: 978-0-7860-2685-2