The Devil's Badland: The Loner

by J. A. Johnstone

  “Conrad?” she said.

  “Used to be,” he drawled. “The name now is Kid Morgan.”

  “My God,” Pamela said softly. “You’re the one who killed Lasswell and all those other men?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When I heard the description of the man, it never occurred to me that it might actually be you. I thought that you had hired some gunman to track them down…” A sneer twisted her mouth. “But no, you decided to become a gunfighter like your father, is that it?”

  “Something like that.” She would never really understand, he thought, so he wasn’t going to waste his time trying to explain it to her.

  She leaned her head back against the tree trunk and laughed. “You’re mad, do you know that? You’re insane. You’re Conrad Browning! There is no Kid Morgan!”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” he whispered. He turned away from her.

  “Fine! Play your little game. See if I care. But you can’t bring Rebel back, no matter who or what you pretend to be.”

  The Kid swung back around. He fought down the impulse to draw his gun and shoot her. He was a killer more than a dozen times over, but he was no murderer. Pamela would face justice for what she had done…justice from the law. James and Meggie MacTavish and Dave Whitfield had been in the other room. They could testify to what they had heard in the cabin. Pamela would go to jail for the rest of her life, which was probably the worst punishment of all for a woman like her.

  Tight-lipped, he said, “Sorry I can’t offer you a fancy breakfast. I can give you a piece of jerky and a sip of water from my canteen, though.”

  “Go to hell,” she snapped. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  He shrugged. “Have it your way.” He got some jerky from the saddlebags and went over to hunker on his heels at the top of the trail.

  From there, he could see for miles over the arid landscape of southern New Mexico Territory. Closer at hand, as the sky lightened more, the small, brush-covered foothills below became visible where they folded in on each other. Closer still, the slopes became more rugged, with less vegetation. His eyes searched them, looking for any sign of the pursuit he knew must be down there.

  After a few minutes, he spotted movement in several places. The gunmen had spread out to search for him and Pamela. They were traveling in pairs, he saw, and the closest two men were riding through some mesquites about a quarter of a mile below him.

  That wasn’t far from where he had stumbled over the game trail that led him to this bench. He stood up and walked quickly back to the tree where he’d left Pamela.

  She gave him a sullen look and said, “I guess I am pretty hungry, after all. I’ll take a piece of that jerky.”

  “Sorry,” The Kid said. “You’re too late.”

  “What are you talking—”

  She didn’t get any further because he knelt in front of her and crammed the handkerchief in her mouth again. This time he took off his bandanna and used it to tie the gag in place, so she couldn’t work it out and start yelling. He didn’t want Tarleton’s men finding either of them just yet.

  Not until he’d had a chance to whittle down the odds a little.

  To that end, he went back to the buckskin, took a sheathed knife from the saddlebags, and attached it to his belt on the left side. The knife had belonged to Phillip Bearpaw. After the Paiute was wounded, he had insisted that The Kid take it, along with the old Sharps carbine that Bearpaw carried.

  The Kid intended to put the knife to good use.

  He loped past the tree where he had tied Pamela and ignored her muffled grunts of protest. When he reached the top of the trail, he started down it, staying low so that the brush flanking the path gave him some cover. In the still, clear mountain air, he heard the slow, steady hoofbeats of the horses below him as their riders searched for his trail.

  The Kid left the path and made his way into the brush where it was particularly thick. He stretched out on the ground and waited. He knew it was only a matter of time before the men found the tracks the buckskin had left.

  Sure enough, in less than ten minutes he heard the horses coming closer. A minute after that, he heard voices.

  “—still think we should signal the others,” one of the men was saying.

  “Don’t you reckon Tarleton will be even more grateful if we bring back Browning and the girl by ourselves?” the other man asked. “And I reckon the girl might be real grateful if we was to rescue her.”

  The first man snorted. “You’re dreamin’, Quint. That gal ain’t ever gonna give you the time of day. She’s too rich and snobby for that. Not to mention a mite loco.”

  That hombre had Pamela pegged, all right, The Kid thought. She was everything he’d just said.

  The Kid didn’t recognize either voice, so he knew the men had to be some of the hired guns Anthony Tarleton had gathered. He stayed where he was, letting the men come closer. The trail grew narrower here, which was another reason he had picked that spot. As the riders came in sight, the brush closing in on either side forced them to climb the trail in single file.

  The Kid didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, as they went past him. When one of them started to say something, the other shushed him, whispering, “We might be gettin’ close now.”

  They didn’t know how close they were, The Kid thought.

  Close to death.

  He waited until both men had gone past him, then slid out of the brush almost noiselessly, drawing the knife as he did so. He leaped onto the back of the second horse, behind the rider, and looped his left arm around the man’s neck as he plunged the knife into his back. The man stiffened in shock and pain and made a little noise as the blade went into him. The Kid pulled it free, then drove it in again.

  The man in the lead started to hip around in his saddle. “You say somethin’, Quint?” he asked.

  He saw Quint’s face contorting in its death agony, with The Kid peering over his shoulder. The man yelped in surprise and clawed at the gun on his hip.

  The Kid had practiced quite a bit with the knife while he was on his way to New Mexico Territory. He wasn’t as good with it as he was with a gun, but he pulled the knife out of the dying man’s back and threw it with swift, unerring accuracy. It thudded into the second man’s chest.

  The hombre had his gun out by then got a shot off, his finger contracting involuntarily on the trigger as he started to topple off his horse. The revolver roared and bucked. The bullet screamed off harmlessly into the sky.

  The sound of the shot rolled through the morning air, echoing from the mountains and the foothills. It was only one shot, not the usual three that formed a signal, but that didn’t matter. It would still be enough to bring the rest of Tarleton’s men in their direction.

  The Kid would have preferred to eliminate at least a couple more of them before the showdown came, but that wasn’t the way the cards had fallen.

  He let go of the man he’d been holding and slid down from the horse. The corpse hit the ground. The other man had fallen off his mount as well, but he was still alive. He struggled to raise his gun. The Kid stepped over to him as both horses, spooked by the sudden smell of fresh blood, rattled their hocks toward the top of the trail.

  The Kid reached down and twisted the Colt out of the man’s hand. He didn’t have much time, but there were a few things he wanted to know. He hunkered beside the man and asked, “What’s your name?”

  “My…my name?”

  “That’s right.”

  “J-Jess. Jess Winger. Who…who the hell are you? You ain’t…” Recognition dawned in the killer’s pain-wracked eyes. “You’re him! You’re Browning!”

  The Kid shook his head. “Not anymore. The name’s Kid Morgan.”

  “K-Kid…Morgan? Hell, I…I heard of you…They say you’ve killed…half a dozen men.”

  “More than that,” The Kid said. “And two more now. Quint’s dead, and you’re about to be, Jess. How many more men does Tarleton have?”


  “G-go…to…hell.”

  The Kid grasped the knife and pulled it out of the man’s chest. Winger hissed in pain.

  “Die quick or bleed to death slow,” The Kid said. “Your choice.”

  “They’re gonna…kill you.”

  “Then what does it matter if you answer my question?”

  Jess Winger couldn’t argue with that logic. “There are…thirteen men…countin’ Tarleton…and that fella Trace. Hogan’s not much good, though. You…busted his knee. He can’t walk. Can barely ride.”

  “I’ll bet he can still shoot, though.”

  “You’ll…find out.” Winger raised a hand and pawed at The Kid’s arm. “Don’t kill me,” he pleaded. “Just…drag me off in the brush. I won’t…say nothin’…won’t warn—”

  His head fell back. His mouth hung open. Blood formed a red bubble in it, a bubble that burst a second later.

  The Kid had heard the whistling sound from the chest wound and knew that the knife had penetrated one of Winger’s lungs. He had known that the gunman had only moments to live, no matter what he did.

  He wiped the blood from the blade on Winger’s shirt, then straightened to his feet. He bent and grasped Winger under the arms. Winger had said to drag him off into the brush, and that was what The Kid did. He concealed Quint’s body the same way. Then he kicked some dirt over the blood that had spilled in the trail.

  Hoofbeats sounded faintly in the distance. The rest of Tarleton’s men were on their way.

  The Kid turned and hurried up the trail to get ready for them.

  Chapter 20

  Pamela’s eyes were wide as she watched The Kid walk toward her. Both horses had reached the bench and run off toward the cliff that formed the rear wall of the small level space. He saw them cropping grass. They had settled down in a hurry once they got away from the smell of blood.

  The Kid knelt beside her and drew his knife. Pamela’s eyes bugged out even more.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you.” He used the blade to cut the rope that held her to the tree. His other hand closed around her arm. “Come on.”

  He lifted her to her feet. She swung a punch at his head. He moved out of the way of the blow with ease and caught hold of her wrist. He sheathed the knife and grasped her other wrist, then moved them together and held them in one hand. Stooping, he picked up the rope and looped it around her wrists, quickly tying it in place and then cutting off the extra. He coiled the lariat on the saddle again.

  Pamela made noises at him. “You want me to take out that gag?” The Kid asked.

  She nodded.

  “Sorry. It stays for now. Let’s go.”

  Holding on to the short length of rope that dangled from her bound wrists, he led her toward the cliff. It wasn’t sheer. He had already noticed a ledge that led up to it, zigzagging back and forth. He hoped it was wide enough for the buckskin. He would hate to have to leave the horse behind. He’d never had a better mount.

  Whistling for the buckskin to follow him, he started up the ledge, which was about a yard wide. The buckskin followed after hesitating for a second. The Kid wouldn’t have wanted the ledge to be any narrower, but if it stayed like this all the way to the top, he thought that they could make it.

  Pamela continued to make muffled sounds of complaint through the gag. The Kid continued to ignore them. He wished there had been time to reconnoiter at the top of the cliff. He didn’t know what he’d find up there. But he knew he had to keep moving higher.

  Eventually, of course, he would run out of places to go.

  Then it would be time for the showdown.

  The ledge took them to the top of the cliff, where they came out on another bench, even smaller than the first one. Twenty yards deep, maybe forty yards long, it backed up to another cliff, and this one was sheer.

  The rock wall had an opening in it—the black mouth of a cave. The Kid led Pamela toward it. She pulled back on the rope and made more noises, sounding frightened rather than angry. He understood that. The cave mouth had a sinister aspect to it. Pamela didn’t want to be forced to go in there.

  But Rebel hadn’t wanted to be kidnapped and murdered, either, he reminded himself. He couldn’t allow himself to feel any sympathy for the woman who had ordered that.

  “Get inside,” he told her as they reached the cave mouth.

  Pamela hung back and shook her head emphatically.

  “There’s nothing in there,” The Kid said. Of course, he didn’t know that. The black hole in the cliff might be a bear’s den, or there might be a nest of rattlesnakes inside. He relented and fished a match from his pocket, snapped it to life with his thumbnail.

  The match flared up and cast a harsh light into the cave, which was shallow enough that The Kid could see all the way to the back of it. There was nothing inside except dust and a few broken branches that lay near a charred spot where a fire had once been…

  And the picked-clean skeleton of a dead man, also lying next to the old fire.

  Pamela managed to scream even through the gag. The Kid stepped back, his mouth tightening. Chances were, the bones belonged to an old Indian who had climbed up here to die. From the looks of the skeleton, it had been here for years, maybe even decades.

  “All right, settle down,” The Kid told Pamela. “I reckon you don’t have to go in there after all. Just sit down there with your back against the rock. And don’t move.”

  She sat about ten feet to the right of the cave mouth. She kept cutting her eyes in that direction, but at least she had stopped screaming.

  The Kid took the Winchester from the saddle boot and went back to the place where the ledge ended at this smaller bench. From there, he had a good view of the slopes below them, including the spot where the trail emerged onto the lower bench. He stretched out on the ground and trained the rifle on that spot.

  It was just a matter of waiting.

  The hoofbeats weren’t long in coming. They stopped before they reached the top of the trail. Somebody in Tarleton’s bunch was smart enough to realize that it would be a mistake to ride out into the open without knowing what was waiting for them.

  After a moment, Jack Trace’s voice floated up to The Kid. “Browning! You up there, Browning?”

  There was no point in denying it. The Kid called back, “Come on up, Trace!”

  The gunman laughed. “And ride right into a bullet? I don’t reckon I’ll do that. Why don’t you send Miss Tarleton down here, and then we’ll talk about what happens next.”

  “I don’t reckon I’ll do that,” The Kid replied. “If I turn her over to you, I won’t be long in dying. Or maybe I will, if that fella Loomis has his way.”

  “Well, you’re probably right about that,” Trace admitted. “But where are you gonna go? There’s no way out for you up there!”

  “How do you know that?”

  Trace didn’t answer. The silence told The Kid that he had scored a point. Trace, Tarleton, and the others didn’t know what was up there. There could be another trail leading out. They had to be careful.

  When Trace spoke again, it was to voice a threat. “Give us Miss Tarleton, or we’ll kill one of the prisoners.”

  “If you hurt any of them, I’ll kill her,” The Kid shot back.

  That brought another laugh from Trace. “We got three chips, you just got one. You sure you want to throw everything into the pot first thing, Browning?”

  The Kid grimaced. Trace was right, damn it. He was at a disadvantage, so he couldn’t afford to wait.

  “We’ll make a trade,” he proposed. “Miss Tarleton for all three hostages.”

  “That ain’t hardly fair, three for one. How about we just trade gals?”

  “All or nothing,” The Kid responded coldly. “That’s the way it has to be.”

  Trace didn’t say anything. The Kid figured he was talking it over with Tarleton. He took advantage of the opportunity to study his surroundings a little better.

  There was no trail up the cliff at
the back of this bench, but he noticed a ledge farther up the side of the mountain that led off to the north and then angled down. That might be a path out of the Hatchets, The Kid realized, if there was any way to get to it.

  He peered up at the face of the cliff and saw a place where a fang-like rock jutted out. If he could throw a loop over that rock, he could climb up to it, use it for a foothold, and reach up to grasp the ledge, which was only about four feet higher. He was confident he could make that climb up the rope, but could James and Meggie and Whitfield?

  They might be able to, if they had some time. It would be dangerous, but worth the risk, especially if the alternative was certain death at the hands of lunatics and hired killers.

  Someone would have to cover their escape, though, he realized.

  That would be his job.

  Suddenly, Trace called from below, “How do you want to work this swap?”

  “You mean you agree to it?”

  “Mr. Tarleton wants his niece back safe and sound. He’s willin’ to let all of you go in return.”

  The Kid didn’t believe that for a second. Tarleton was up to some sort of trick. But The Kid didn’t see any option except to play along for the moment.

  “I’ll send Miss Tarleton down the ledge to the lower bench,” he called. “You send all three prisoners up. I’ll have my rifle on Miss Tarleton until the MacTavishes and Whitfield are up here with me.”

  Again there was no response for several moments. Then Trace said, “All right. But you’d damned well better not be trying any tricks, Browning! Our guns will be pointed at the three of them, too.”

  “All right. Give me a minute.”

  The Kid eased back from the edge, not standing up until he was out of the line of fire of the gunmen hidden in the brush. He went over to Pamela, reached down to grasp her arm, and helped her to her feet.

  “I know you heard all that,” he told her. “You’re going back to your uncle.”

  She made angry noises at him, but her eyes glinted in triumph. She thought she had won.

  She didn’t realize that all he was trying to do right now was secure the freedom of the MacTavishes and Whitfield. Once the three of them were safe, he would be going after her and Tarleton and the rest of them. Actually, he figured it was likely they would rush him, and he would make a final stand on this lonely, windswept bench high in the Hatchet Mountains.