The Devil's Badland: The Loner

by J. A. Johnstone

  Luckily, James MacTavish—or whoever was in the boulders—took advantage of the opportunity to throw some lead toward the men on horseback. As that blunted their charge even more, Conrad dashed behind the rocks.

  Sure enough, James was the man who was holed up there. He glanced at Conrad and exclaimed, “What the hell! You again?” Then he cranked the lever of his Winchester and continued firing at the riders, who were trying to circle around the boulders to get a better shot at him and Conrad.

  Conrad crouched behind one of the rocks and joined James in peppering Whitfield’s men. He assumed they were from the Circle D. Under the circumstances, he couldn’t think of anybody else who’d be trying to kill James.

  The riders broke off their attack and wheeled their horses, heading back into the trees. Two men in the boulders were considerably harder to root out. The gunmen had been taking advantage of the fact that James wasn’t able to fire in two directions at once. Now Conrad could cover his back.

  “Looks like they’re gonna give us a little breath-in’ room,” James commented as he lowered his rifle. He took a handful of cartridges from his pocket and started thumbing them into the Winchester’s loading gate. He went on, “Maybe you’ll have time to tell me what in blazes you’re doin’ here, Browning.”

  “Saving your sorry hide, from the looks of it,” Conrad replied. “That was a damn-fool stunt, taking on Whitfield and all of his men by yourself. Don’t you think your family deserves better than to have you commit suicide that way?”

  James bared his teeth in a grimace. “I’m still alive and fightin’, ain’t I?”

  “Yes, but you might not be by now if I hadn’t shown up when I did to give you a hand.”

  “You don’t know that,” James snapped. He frowned. “If you’re out here, you must’ve seen Rory in town. Is…is my pa still alive?”

  “He was when they carried him into Dr. Churchill’s house,” Conrad said. “But that was a couple of hours ago.”

  James sighed. “He was hit bad. I didn’t know if he’d even make it to town.”

  Conrad nodded toward the bloody bandages tied around James’s upper left arm and right thigh. “Rory told me you were wounded, too.”

  “These are nothin’ but scratches,” James said with a disgusted snort. “They didn’t stop me from ridin’ over here and havin’ a showdown with Dave Whitfield.”

  Dryly, Conrad pointed out, “I see that you’re holed up in these rocks, and you don’t have your sister with you.”

  “The bastards claim they don’t have her. They say they don’t know anything about that raid on our ranch last night.” James spat. “The lyin’ sons o’ bitches.”

  No shots were coming from the ranch buildings at the moment. Conrad risked a look. He didn’t see anyone moving around down there.

  “While we’ve got a chance, why don’t you tell me what happened this morning?” he suggested. “To be honest, I figured I’d find you dead when I got here. I thought you’d go riding in with guns blazing and get yourself shot to pieces.”

  James snorted. “I reckon that’s what would’ve happened…if I was the idiot you make me out to be. I knew these rocks have a good view of Whitfield’s place. I hid up here, waited until one of his hired killers was walkin’ outside, and plugged the no-good bastard.”

  “You murdered a man from ambush?” Conrad asked.

  “Hell, no. I just winged him.” There was a note of pride in James’s voice as he added, “I’m a damn good shot.”

  “What did that accomplish?”

  “It got their attention, didn’t it? When some other hombres ran out to see what the shootin’ was about, I made ’em dance by puttin’ bullets around their feet. They ducked back into cover mighty quick-like. Every time one of them stuck his head out after that, I parted his hair for him. They could see I meant business. Once the fella I’d wounded had crawled back inside the barn, I hollered down to Whitfield and told him to let Meggie go, or I’d keep them bottled up there and pick them off one by one.”

  “And Whitfield claimed he didn’t have Margaret.” Conrad’s words were a statement, not a question.

  “That’s right. What kind of damn fool does he take me for? Who else could have carried her off?”

  That was a good question, but Conrad was starting to wonder if there might not be an answer to it.

  “When those men raided your ranch last night, did you get a good look at any of them?”

  He had asked the same question of Rory, and gotten the same answer. James frowned and said, “Not really. I was too busy duckin’ bullets and tryin’ to kill some of the bastards.”

  “Then you didn’t recognize any of them as being Whitfield’s men.”

  “Well…no. But who the hell else could it have been?”

  Conrad didn’t try to answer that just yet. Instead, he said, “So Whitfield claimed he and his men didn’t attack your ranch and didn’t kidnap your sister?”

  “That’s what I just said, ain’t it?” James responded irritably.

  “Did he offer to let you come down there and take a look around, so you could see for yourself that Margaret’s not there?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did. But I knew it was a trick, so I told him to go to hell. They would have blown me to pieces the second I stepped out into the open.”

  Unfortunately, that might have been true, since James had shot down one of Whitfield’s men from ambush. Conrad closed his eyes for a second and tried not to sigh in exasperation. James’s muleheaded refusal to admit that he might have jumped to the wrong conclusion had done more harm than good.

  Plus, it had been stupid of him in the first place to come charging over here alone when Whitfield had a whole crew of tough cowboys and hired gunmen. Taking them by surprise had given James a momentary advantage and kept him alive that long, but it wasn’t going to last. Probably at that very moment, more of Whitfield’s men were trying to circle around and get the drop on him.

  And he had plunked himself right down in that same boat, Conrad realized. He and James were trapped there.

  A fresh volley of shots from the ranch headquarters reinforced that point. Bullets hummed and sang in the air around the boulders. Some of them ricocheted, adding high-pitched whines to the racket. All Conrad and James could do was keep their heads down and hope that none of the slugs found them.

  As Conrad crouched there, he realized that this barrage might have another goal besides just possibly killing them. Whitfield could be trying to distract them so that some of his men could sneak up on the rocks and capture them.

  No sooner had that thought gone through Conrad’s mind than the guns abruptly fell silent. He began, “Look out, James, they’re going to rush—”

  Boots pounded against the ground even as Conrad started to voice the warning. With a grunt of effort, a man bounded on top of one of the boulders and launched himself in a flying tackle at James. They crashed together. Both men went down.

  Conrad heard harsh breath right behind him. He tried to twist around to meet the threat, but he made it only halfway before a heavy body collided with his and smashed him back against the rock. Pain shot through his ribs. The impact drove the breath from his lungs and left him gasping for air.

  He realized he had dropped his gun. He brought his fist up and felt it hit hard against bone, probably his assailant’s jaw. The punch rocked the man back a step and knocked his hat off. Conrad got a good look at his face and recognized him as one of the men who had been with Whitfield in Val Verde the day before.

  Although still shaken and breathless, Conrad brought his left fist around in a hard, crossing blow that jerked his opponent’s head the other way. He hooked a right into the man’s belly, doubling him over. The man was in perfect position for a left uppercut, but Conrad didn’t get the chance to throw it.

  Another man tackled him from behind. He fell forward. His legs tangled with those of the first man. All three of them sprawled on the ground. Conrad was on the bottom, the weight
of both his enemies crushing him.

  Some of that weight disappeared as James MacTavish roared a curse. Conrad figured that James had disposed of the man who’d jumped him and was lending a hand to his reluctant ally. Using his hands and knees, Conrad heaved himself to the side, and threw off the man who had tackled him.

  He turned the move into a roll that carried him into the open. As he looked up, he saw half a dozen men surrounding him and James. They had no chance against numbers like that. The smart thing would be to surrender and hope that Whitfield’s men wouldn’t kill them. That was his best chance of surviving in order to continue his quest for vengeance against Anthony Tarleton.

  Unfortunately, in the heat of battle Conrad wasn’t thinking that much about being smart. He was filled with anger—anger at Whitfield and the MacTavishes for their damned feud, at the men who were closing in to pound and stomp him into submission, at himself for getting mixed up in this mess to start with.

  That fury burst out of him as he surged up off the ground with a yell and waded into his enemies, swinging punches right and left.

  The feel of his fists smashing into their faces sent a savage exultation through him. At the exclusive university he had attended back east, he had listened to languid professors who had never been in a fight in their lives debate the fundamental nature of mankind. Back then, Conrad had been just as arch and pretentious as they were.

  But he had learned. He knew why the barbarians had enjoyed the ultimate triumph in every clash down through the ages—what civilized man simply could not comprehend; that in order to survive, sometimes you have to smash your enemy before he can smash you. The barbarians knew that. The knowledge was in their bone and muscle and blood.

  And Conrad knew that, too—or rather, Kid Morgan did. Every time blood spurted from an opponent’s nose as The Kid’s knuckles flattened it, every time a man grunted in pain as The Kid’s fist sunk wrist-deep in his belly, every time fists and feet smashed into him and he ignored the pain because he simply wouldn’t let himself fall, wouldn’t allow himself to lose…those moments were like rousing from a long sleep and being truly awake and alive for the first time in ages. Maybe ever.

  Aching and battered, blood dripping from his mouth and nose, swaying with exhaustion, Conrad found himself still on his feet, with four men sprawled on the ground around him, stunned and only semi-conscious. James MacTavish was still upright, too, having accounted for two more men. He stared at Conrad and said, “My God, man, where’d you learn to fight like that?”

  Conrad knew he had always known how to fight like that. It had just taken tragedy, hatred, and outrage to wake him up to the fact.

  He didn’t have the time to explain that to James. Instead, he started looking around for his gun, saying, “More of Whitfield’s men will be here any minute—”

  The metallic sound of a gun being cocked stopped him. A voice drawled, “No, Browning, we’re already here.”

  Conrad looked up and saw Jack Trace standing about twenty feet away, along with half a dozen more of Whitfield’s hired guns. All of them had their revolvers drawn and leveled at Conrad and James.

  “I didn’t expect to see you,” Trace went on, “but I’ve got to admit, I’m glad you’re here. Whitfield told us to bring MacTavish back alive, but he didn’t say a damned thing about you, Browning…and there’s nothing I’d like better than an excuse to put a bullet in you, you son of a bitch.”

  Chapter 13

  Conrad smiled as he looked at the gunman. “If you shoot me now, Trace,” he mocked, “we’ll never know which one of us is faster, will we?”

  Trace’s face darkened with anger. “I know, damn you! No fancy pants Easterner can outdraw me!”

  One of the other men said, “Take it easy, Trace. Maybe we better take both of ’em down to the ranch house and let the boss decide what to do with them.”

  Trace’s head jerked toward the man, and for a second Conrad thought Trace was going to swing the gun around and pull the trigger. The man who had spoken up thought that, too, because his face went pale under his tan.

  But Trace controlled his killing rage and snapped, “Fine. Take ’em down. Just don’t ever cross me again.”

  The man muttered something Conrad couldn’t catch. Maybe an apology, maybe a promise that he wouldn’t interfere with Trace’s wishes in the future.

  The men surrounded Conrad and James and gathered up their guns. Then they prodded the two unarmed men down the hill from the rocks toward the ranch house.

  “Where’s my sister?” James demanded.

  “You mean that pretty little redhead?” Trace asked from behind the prisoners. He chuckled. “I don’t have any idea, but I know where I’d like for her to be. Right there in my bunk, with all that red hair spread out on my pillow.”

  James grated a curse and started to turn around. Conrad stopped him with a hard grip on his arm.

  “That’s just what he wants you to do,” Conrad warned. “Whitfield told him to take you alive, but that won’t stop Trace from blowing your knee apart.”

  Trace laughed again. “You’re a smart man, Browning. Too smart for your own good, I reckon.”

  Conrad didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to antagonize Trace—but at the same time, he wasn’t going to forget any of the marks against the gunman.

  As they neared the ranch house, the front door opened and Dave Whitfield stepped out onto the porch, trailed by several of his men. All of them held rifles. From the set of the rancher’s slab-like jaw, Conrad knew that Whitfield’s rage was barely contained.

  “MacTavish!” Whitfield barked as soon as the prisoners came to a stop in front of the porch. “As soon as I heard the first shot, I knew it was one of you damn squatters causin’ trouble again!”

  “We’re not squatters!” James snapped. It seemed a little foolish to Conrad to be arguing over words right now, but James went on, “We own our spread free and clear. Pa saved for years to buy the land from the government.”

  “I’ve used that range for years.”

  Conrad spoke up, saying, “The open range days are over, Whitfield. You’re intelligent enough to know that.”

  Whitfield glowered at him. “Just ’cause some fella in Santa Fe or Washington says something, it don’t mean that’s the way it ought to be!”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more. Unfortunately, the law doesn’t see things that way. Nor does it condone kidnapping.”

  “Damn it!” Whitfield roared. “If you’re talkin’ about Meggie MacTavish, I don’t have her! I never did!”

  “You lie!” James yelled.

  Whitfield’s big, callused hands tightened on the rifle he held. For a second, Conrad thought that James had pushed the cattleman too far. Whitfield looked like he was about to use the gun.

  Then, with a visible effort, Whitfield controlled his anger and said, “Listen to me, MacTavish. Get this through your thick, dumb skull. I didn’t kidnap your sister. I don’t know where she is.”

  “What about your men?” Conrad asked. “You claimed you didn’t send them over to the MacTavish spread with dynamite the other night. Couldn’t some of them have raided the place and carried off the girl without telling you about it?”

  “Not damn likely!” Whitfield said.

  “But not impossible.”

  Whitfield glared at Conrad for a moment, then turned to one of the men on the porch with him. “Ramsey, you control the crew. Any of them unaccounted for?”

  The man called Ramsey, who had the weathered face and drooping white mustache of a long-time cowboy, shook his head. “Nope. I know where each and ever’ one of ’em is, boss, and they didn’t kidnap no gal, last night nor any other night!”

  “That’s just the ranch crew your man’s talking about, Whitfield,” Conrad pointed out. “What about the hired guns?” He knew that on the Circle D, those were likely two separate and distinct groups. “They’d be the ones more likely to have carried out such a raid.”

  Whitfield looked at T
race. “What about it, Jack?”

  James snorted contemptuously before Trace could answer. “Why should we believe anything a killer like him says?”

  Trace ignored James and said, “We were right here on the ranch all night, Mr. Whitfield.” With a sneer, he added, “Normally, I wouldn’t mind lyin’ to trash like MacTavish, but in this case, it’s the God’s honest truth.”

  Whitfield looked at James and said, “There you go. I believe my men. Now I’ve got half a dozen injured men because you flew off the handle, MacTavish. What are you gonna do about that?”

  “What am I gonna do?” James repeated. “I’m gonna tell you all to go to hell! You’re lyin’, and one way or another, I’ll prove it!”

  Conrad’s patience finally ran out. “James, shut up!” He stepped forward, ignoring the startled glare that James gave him. “Listen to me, Whitfield. If your men are telling the truth, then you shouldn’t object to helping us prove that they didn’t kidnap Margaret MacTavish and shoot Hamish.”

  “Hamish is hurt?” Whitfield asked with a frown.

  “That’s right. He was wounded during the attack on his ranch.”

  “How bad?”

  Conrad shook his head. “I don’t know. Rory took him to Val Verde in a wagon, and some of the men from town carried him into the doctor’s house. That’s the last I saw of him. That’s how I found out what had happened at the MacTavish place, and when Rory told me that James had ridden over here, I figured I’d better see if he was all right.”

  Trace drawled, “You got a bad habit of stickin’ your nose in where it ain’t wanted, Browning.”

  “I didn’t ask him to help me,” James snapped.

  Conrad bit back a curse at James’s galling attitude. Instead, he asked, “How many men attacked your place last night?”

  James frowned and shrugged. “I don’t know. It was dark. Eight or ten, I’d say. Maybe a dozen.”