The Kid holstered his gun and threw a leg over the windowsill. He climbed out, hung by his hands, and then dropped the six feet or so to the ground.
He was in an alley behind Sloan’s, so he followed it back up the street toward the Val Verde Hotel. He had to cross the street to reach the hotel. As he paused at the corner of a building, he saw the marshal and his deputy hurrying toward Sloan’s. Winston had probably heard the shotgun go off and was going to see what the ruckus was about.
The lawman would be too late to do anything except fetch the undertaker for Vicente.
Disappointment gnawed at The Kid’s gut. He wished he’d been able to get the Mexican to talk. It was possible, though, that Vicente really didn’t know where Tarleton and the others had gone. The Kid would have to find the spot where the rest of the gunmen had been camped and pick up the trail there.
When Winston and Carey were out of sight, The Kid walked across the street to the hotel. He used the back stairs again to reach his room. As he paused in the corridor, he glanced at the door of Pamela’s room. He wanted to make sure she was all right, but he couldn’t very well knock on her door looking like this. A faint smile curved his lips as he thought about what her reaction might be to the sight of Kid Morgan.
Five minutes later, with The Kid’s outfit back in the carpetbag, wearing an expensive dressing gown, Conrad Browning rapped softly on Pamela’s door. He heard her sleepy murmur from within the room. “Who is it?”
“Conrad,” he said. “Are you all right, Pamela?”
“Of course.” She sounded more wide awake now. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason. I just wanted to check on you before I turned in.”
He heard a step on the other side of the door. The key rattled in the lock, and then the door opened a couple of inches. Pamela looked out at him, her green eyes still drowsy. “I’m fine, Conrad,” she said. “It’s sweet of you to be so thoughtful.”
The door eased open a little more. Conrad saw an appealing stretch of bare shoulder and arm. He suddenly found himself wondering if she was wearing anything.
He forced that thought out of his head and gave her a curt nod. “Well, I’ll say good night, then. Again.”
“Good night, Conrad,” Pamela said. She was clearly puzzled by this late night visit and his attitude, but she didn’t say anything else. The door clicked shut behind Conrad as he turned toward his room.
It had been a violent, eventful day. He was tired.
And yet, as he often did, he lay in bed for a long time, staring up at the ceiling of the darkened room, before sleep finally came to him.
After a restless night with too many of the familiar nightmares, he woke up in the morning, dressed, and went along the hall to Pamela’s room. She answered his knock immediately. Even wearing the dress she’d had on the day before, she looked better than any woman had a right to this early in the morning, Conrad thought. In fact, the only woman he had ever known who looked better first thing in the morning was—
He caught his breath, forced himself not to think about that, and smiled. “How are you?” he asked.
“Fine. I slept better than I have in weeks, thanks to you.” As if realizing how that might sound, she went on hastily, “I mean—”
“I know what you mean,” Conrad said. “Are you ready for some breakfast?”
“Oh, yes. And then what are we going to do?”
She came out into the hall and closed the door behind her. Conrad took her arm and led her toward the stairs. He said, “We’re going to the general store, as I mentioned last night, and once we’ve taken care of that, we’ll go to the train station and see about getting you a ticket on the next eastbound train.”
Pamela stopped and frowned at him. “You mean I’m leaving?”
“There’s no reason for you to stay here, now that you’re free of your uncle and his gunmen,” Conrad pointed out.
“But…you’re here.”
He shook his head. “Not for long.”
“You’re going to confront Uncle Anthony?”
Conrad realized he had said too much. Pamela wasn’t stupid. Her eyes widened with understanding when he didn’t reply.
“You’ve already gone after him, haven’t you?” She clutched his arm. “Conrad, did…did you kill him?”
“I didn’t see your uncle. I found the hotel where you’d been staying, but he and his men were already gone.”
He didn’t see any point in telling her about the shootout with Vicente. With any luck, he could get her out of Val Verde before she even heard about that. He hoped there would be an eastbound train coming through today.
“But you’re going to try to find him, aren’t you?” she asked grimly. “You won’t rest until you track him down.”
“He’s responsible for Rebel’s death,” Conrad said. “You don’t think I can just forget about that, do you? Not to mention the fact that he held you prisoner and threatened to kill you, too.”
Pamela dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “Uncle Anthony may have threatened me, but he never would have really hurt me. At least, I don’t believe he would have.”
“What about those gunmen working for him? If something had happened to him, how do you think they would have treated you?”
Her face paled as she considered that possibility. “You’re right,” she admitted. Her fingers tightened on his arm. “Still, you’re no match for those men. I don’t mean to offend you, Conrad, dear, but you’re simply not.”
Conrad, dear…It had been a long time since she had called him that. The term must have slipped out from habit, since any romance between them was long since over.
“If you’re bound and determined to see this through,” she continued, “you should at least get your father’s help. Send for Frank Morgan and stay here until he arrives, Conrad.”
He shook his head. “I’ll handle this as I see fit,” he said, not bothering to keep the harsh tone out of his voice.
“You always were an infuriatingly stubborn man,” Pamela said. Her voice was cool now. “Very well. At least if you insist on getting yourself killed, I won’t have any part in it. I’m grateful to you for that, anyway.”
With that new air of tension between them, they went on downstairs and into the dining room. Conrad ordered breakfast for both of them.
They didn’t talk much during the meal. Conrad was lingering over his coffee while Pamela finished her food, when pounding hoofbeats in the street outside caught his attention. He looked up, glancing through the front window in time to see a wagon race in front of the hotel, careening along barely under control.
Unless Conrad was mistaken, Rory MacTavish was at the reins, slashing the team with the lines and urging them on.
Conrad came quickly to his feet. Pamela saw the look of alarm on his face.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, “but Rory MacTavish just drove by in the family’s wagon, whipping the horses for all they’re worth.”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with you,” Pamela pointed out.
“I know. But they treated me well.”
“Only because you helped them.”
Conrad started for the dining room door. Behind him, Pamela called his name, but he ignored her. He knew logically that she was right, that whatever trouble had befallen the MacTavishes now, it was none of his affair. He had responsibilities of his own, such as tracking down Anthony Tarleton.
But once again, he couldn’t help but think that Rebel would want him to help them if he could.
He strode quickly through the lobby and out of the hotel. The wagon had come a stop down the street, in front of one of the houses. The youngster’s bright red hair was unmistakable. Rory had hopped down from the seat and was at the back of the wagon, watching anxiously as several men lifted someone from the wagon bed. As Conrad hurried closer, he saw that the man being taken from the vehicle was Hamish MacTavish.
A blo
ody bandage was wrapped around Hamish’s midsection. Conrad saw a sign hanging on a post in the front yard announcing that the house was where Dr. Edward Churchill practiced medicine. The townsmen who had responded to Rory’s frantic calls for help carried Hamish up onto the porch, where a middle-aged man with gray hair waited.
“Take him inside and put him on the bed in the front room,” the man instructed. The townies disappeared into the house with their burden.
Rory would have followed, but Conrad had caught up to him. He stopped the boy with a hand on the shoulder. Rory jerked around to face him, wide-eyed with fear and shock.
“Rory,” Conrad said. He put enough urgency in his voice to break through the emotions that held Rory in their grip. “Rory, what happened?”
“Pa’s been shot!”
“I could see that.” Conrad took hold of Rory’s other shoulder. “Who did it?”
“I don’t know! They…they attacked the place in the middle of the night! Shootin’ and yellin’…they set the barn on fire…Pa and James ran out to try to stop them, but Pa got hit!”
“What about James? Was he hurt?”
Rory shook his head. “Not then. I don’t know about now.”
That made no sense to Conrad, but he figured he could sort it out as he went along. “How about Margaret?”
“Meggie’s gone!”
Conrad resisted the impulse to shake the boy. Rory was so scared and upset, it was a wonder he was making any sense at all. Still, Conrad had to find out exactly what had happened before he could start figuring out what to do about it.
“Listen to me, Rory. Listen to me. You have to tell me what happened. Take a deep breath, and start at the beginning.”
Tears trickled down Rory’s cheeks. He gulped and then took a deep breath, as Conrad had told him to do. “It was the middle of the night, like I said,” he began. “When the shootin’ started, we looked out and saw that the barn was on fire. Pa told me to stay inside with Meggie. He and James ran outside and started shootin’ at the men. Pa was hit, and James dragged him behind the smokehouse. That was the closest cover.”
Conrad nodded encouragingly. Rory was telling a coherent story now, and he wanted the boy to continue.
Rory took another deep breath. “Some of the men charged the dugout. I couldn’t stop ’em, and neither could James. They got inside, and I thought for sure they were gonna kill me. But one of them just walloped me and knocked me out.” He gestured toward an ugly bruise on his face. “I heard Meggie screamin’…and when I came to, she was gone. James said they dragged her out and took her with them.”
Horror filled Conrad. Another innocent young woman carried off by killers. It made him sick to think about it.
“James tried to stop ’em, but there were too many of them,” Rory continued. “He had to duck back behind the smokehouse to keep them from filling him full of lead. As it was, he got creased a couple of times.”
“You said the men came into the dugout. Did you get a good look at any of them?”
Rory hesitated. “Not really,” he said. “We hadn’t lit any lamps, so it was dark in there. And I think they had bandannas over their faces.” His voice took on a fierce tone. “But they were Devil Dave’s men. They had to be. Nobody else around here would’ve done such a terrible thing.”
As far as Conrad knew, Rory was right about that. Whitfield was the only real enemy the MacTavish family had. Whitfield and Jack Trace had been forced to back down here in Val Verde the day before. That would have eaten at them, especially the arrogant gunman, Trace. Conrad could easily imagine Trace talking Whitfield into the raid on the MacTavish ranch.
“What happened after that?”
“We…we had to take care of Pa. We carried him back in the dugout, and we stopped the bleedin’ as best we could and bandaged him up. Then James said…” Rory swallowed. “James said he was goin’ after Meggie and for me to bring Pa to town and get him to the doc. That’s what I did.”
“James went after the men who raided your place? By himself?”
“Yeah. There was nobody else to help us.”
The words didn’t carry any tone of accusation, but Conrad felt a twinge of guilt, anyway. He wished he could have been there to lend a hand to the MacTavishes.
But he’d had plenty of trouble on his own plate the night before.
“You said you didn’t get a good look at the men. How did James know where to go? Or did he wait and follow their trail this morning?”
Rory shook his head. “No, he left before sun-up. He was goin’ straight to the Circle D. He said he knew that’s where he would find Meggie.”
If that was true, then Whitfield and his men, including Trace, were probably waiting for James MacTavish. James might be dead by now, shot to pieces by Trace and the rest of Whitfield’s gun-wolves.
But maybe, just maybe, there was a chance James was still alive.
“You go on inside now,” Conrad told the boy. “I’m sure the doctor will take care of your father to the best of his ability.”
“You look like you’re gonna do something, Mr. Browning.”
“I am,” Conrad said. “I’m going out to Whitfield’s ranch and do whatever I can to help your brother. If your sister is there, we’ll get her back. You have my word on that, Rory.”
Chapter 12
After getting directions to the Circle D from Rory, Conrad headed back to the hotel. He saw Pamela waiting on the porch for him.
“What’s happened?” she asked him as he went up the steps.
“Hamish MacTavish has been shot,” he replied, “and his daughter Margaret was kidnapped.”
“Dear Lord! I’m sorry to hear that.” She frowned at him. “You’re not going after her, are you?”
Conrad nodded. “I am.”
Pamela put a hand on his arm. “Conrad, you should leave this to the law. It’s not your place to go chasing after a bunch of—” She stopped short as a look of horror appeared on her face. “Oh, my God. It’s almost like…”
Her voice trailed off as if she couldn’t bring herself to go on.
“That’s right,” Conrad said with a grim nod. “Margaret MacTavish doesn’t deserve what’s happening to her any more than Rebel did.”
Pamela tightened her grip on his arm. “But you’re not married to this MacTavish girl. I understand why you feel sorry for her, but it’s not your responsibility to go off and get killed trying to help her!”
Conrad pulled away from her. “I’m not going to get killed.”
“Can you guarantee that?”
“There are no guarantees in life, Pamela. You know that.”
“All too well,” she said with a bitter edge in her voice. “I once thought my happiness was guaranteed, but look how that turned out.”
Conrad turned away. There was nothing he could do to change the past. He said, “I’m sorry I can’t see about putting you on an eastbound train. I’m sure you can handle that for yourself.”
“Of course,” Pamela said coldly. “I’m used to doing things for myself now. I had to learn when I lost my father and my fiancé.”
Conrad refused to give in to the guilt she was trying to make him feel. He strode into the hotel and headed up the stairs.
When he went back down a minute later, he was carrying the carpetbag in which he had the clothes he wore as Kid Morgan. He didn’t see Pamela in the lobby or the dining room and was grateful for that. He didn’t want to waste any more time in useless argument with her.
He left Val Verde a short time later in the buggy. The hostler at the livery stable had tied the buckskin behind the vehicle, as Conrad requested. He didn’t know if he would need the saddle horse, or his other clothes, but he would be ready if he did.
Dave Whitfield’s spread was east of the MacTavish place. Conrad veered in that direction when he passed a spire of rock that split about halfway up, the first landmark Rory had told him. He followed the directions the boy had given him and after a couple of hours, he knew he ought
to be getting close to the Circle D.
It had been hours since James MacTavish had ridden over there. Conrad had a bad feeling that whatever was going to happen—had already happened.
Because of that pessimism, he was a little surprised a short time later when he heard gunshots popping in the distance. He slapped the reins against the buggy horse’s rump, urging him on to greater speed. If there was a chance James MacTavish was still alive, there was no time to waste.
Conrad knew he was on Circle D range by now. He came to a narrow creek that twisted through some rolling hills. According to Rory, if he followed it, it would lead him to the ranch headquarters.
The gunfire grew louder over the next ten minutes. Conrad sent the buggy up a rise. It sounded like some of the shots were coming from just over the crest. As he topped the rise, he was already reining in, hauling the big black to a halt. He reached down and plucked the Winchester from the floorboards as he caught sight of a cloud of powdersmoke hanging over a cluster of boulders. Someone in there was firing at a number of buildings spread out along the creek about two hundred yards down the hill.
Conrad had no doubt the hidden rifleman was James MacTavish. He also knew that James was in more trouble than he realized.
A group of riders had just burst from some trees along the rise to the right and were about to close in on James from that direction.
Conrad leaped from the buggy and ran to a nearby pine tree. He leaned against the trunk and brought the rifle to his shoulder. As the horsebackers opened fire on the boulders, Conrad began squeezing off shots in their direction.
He aimed in front of the galloping riders. As his bullets began to kick up dust, the men instinctively yanked on their horses’ reins in surprise. One of the animals got its legs tangled and went down, spilling its rider. The man’s companions had to swerve wildly around him to prevent their mounts from trampling him.
As the riders became aware that the man in the boulders wasn’t alone, some of them turned their guns toward Conrad. He ducked behind the tree as bullets chewed pine bark from the trunk, which wasn’t really wide enough to protect him.
The Devil's Badland: The Loner Page 10
