“I don’t have time for normal procedures.” Conrad placed the carpetbag on the manager’s desk. “When I leave here, I need to have fifty thousand dollars in this bag.”
The man ventured a nervous laugh. “You sound almost like a holdup man, Mr. Browning.”
Conrad’s face remained impassive as he said, “If that’s what it takes.”
The manager swallowed hard. “No . . . no, of course not. You’re well known to be a man of sterling reputation. Of course you’re good for the money. It won’t be necessary to wire any of your other banks.” He went to the door of his office, opened it, and called to the clerk who had announced Conrad a few minutes earlier. Quietly, the manager said, “Joseph, I want you to begin putting together a package of cash for Mr. Browning. Fifty thousand dollars. And be discreet about it.”
The clerk’s eyes widened. “Did you say—”
“You heard what I said,” the manager snapped. “Hop to it!”
“Yes, sir!”
The manager closed the door again and turned back to Conrad. “We’re more than happy to help you with this, Mr. Browning,” he said. “But if there’s anything else I can do . . . I mean, if you’re in some sort of trouble . . .”
“What makes you think that?”
The manager looked solemn as he said, “Whenever someone needs a great deal of money in a hurry, there’s always some sort of trouble.”
The chief of police had promised to keep the news of Rebel’s kidnapping quiet. Obviously, he had kept his word. If the story had leaked out, the bank manager would have heard about it by now.
Conrad smiled. “I appreciate your concern, but this is something I have to handle myself. I can promise you, I won’t forget about how you’re cooperating with me.”
“We’ll do anything we can to help, Mr. Browning. You know that.”
A short time later, the clerk came back to the office carrying a box that contained bundles of twenty- and fifty-dollar bills. He placed it on the manager’s desk and said, “Will there be anything else, sir?”
The manager looked at Conrad, who shook his head.
When the clerk was gone, Conrad and the manager both counted the money to be sure the amount was correct; then Conrad placed the bills in the carpetbag. The bag was fairly heavy when he was finished. He signed a receipt for the money, then said, “I’m sure that I can count on your discretion?”
“Of course,” the manager answered. “No one will hear about this from me.”
“I’ll replace these funds, one way or another, within forty-eight hours.” If the ransom payoff went off without a hitch and he got Rebel back safely, he would have fifty thousand sent to the Carson City bank from one of his other banks. If it didn’t . . .
Conrad wouldn’t allow himself to think about that.
As Conrad started to leave the office, the bank manager said, “Surely, you’d like one of our guards to go with you, Mr. Browning. That’s a great deal of money to be carrying around with you.”
“I’m aware of that,” Conrad said. He pulled back his coat so that the manager could see the butts of the Colt .45s tucked behind his belt on each hip. “That’s why I’m taking precautions of my own.”
The manager didn’t say anything to that. He just stared at the man in his office as if he had never seen Conrad before.
And it was true—he had never seen this Conrad Browning. This Conrad Browning had appeared only a few times in the past, when faced with danger to himself or someone he loved. This Conrad Browning was his father’s son.
Conrad carried the carpetbag with him when he stopped at a clothing store on his way home. He came out half an hour later with a paper-wrapped bundle under his other arm. One more stop, at a local gunsmith’s shop, and then he went back to his house to continue getting ready for that night.
Black Rock Canyon was northwest of the city, well off the road to Reno and not far from Lake Tahoe. Conrad had been there once, when he was investigating some land he was thinking about buying, just over the state line in California. One trail led through the canyon, which was steep-sided and covered with pines. No one lived there; it was dark and desolate, and above it loomed a huge bluff that gave the place its name. An appropriate lair for the sort of evil bastards who would abduct a man’s wife, he thought.
When he had awoken from his troubled sleep earlier in the day, the beginnings of a plan had been in the back of his mind. First and foremost was Rebel’s safety, of course, but once that was assured, he planned to go after the men who had taken her, with all the forces at his command. Also, he knew better than to assume that the gang would return her even if he paid the ransom. The chances that they would try to pull a double cross were high. If that happened, Conrad was going to be ready for them, or at least he was going to try to be. He would have felt a lot better about his chances if he’d had his father siding him.
But he had known for years that he wouldn’t always have Frank Morgan to help him. The time had come for him to grow up and handle his own problems. Stomp his own snakes, as Frank would put it.
He opened the bundle he had brought from the clothing store and laid out his purchases on the bed in the spare room. He had bought a pair of black whipcord trousers and a black bib-front shirt, as well as a flat-crowned black Stetson. He already owned a pair of black, high-topped boots. At the gunsmith’s shop, he had picked up a holster and cartridge belt of fine black leather. If it was necessary, he wanted to be able to blend into the shadows. The black outfit would make that easier. He planned to wear it underneath his regular clothes. The gunbelt would be in the buggy, along with a Winchester and his shotgun.
The kidnappers would be expecting a scared, inexperienced Easterner. That was what Conrad would give them—up to a point. But if they went back on the deal, or if Rebel was hurt in any way . . .
Then the man they would have to deal with would be someone else entirely.
Lasswell was beginning to wonder if the payoff would be worth it. He’d hardly had a moment’s peace since they’d snatched that crazy bitch out of her house the night before.
At the moment, she was tied and gagged, the first time she had been quiet for more than a minute or two. For a gal who was married to a rich businessman from back East, she could cuss like a Texas cowboy who’d been following a trail herd and eating dust all the way to Kansas. Lasswell knew that for a fact, because he had been a cowboy just like that, years earlier as a kid, before he’d decided that following the owlhoot trail was more to his liking.
It was dangerous to get too close to her, too. Clem Baggott had made that mistake. Mrs. Browning had gotten her teeth fastened on his left ear and damn near ripped it off his head before Carlson pulled her away from him. Carlson had taken advantage of the opportunity to run his hands over her breasts, and she had repaid him by twisting around and kicking him in the balls. Howling in pain, Carlson had backhanded her and knocked her a good ten feet. When Abel Dean and Spence Hooper rushed over to grab her and keep her from getting away, she’d hauled off and punched Spence in the face hard enough to break his nose. Gant and White Rock had had to pile on as well to bring her under control.
And that was just getting her out of the house and onto a horse.
By the time they were able to ride away from there, Lasswell had gotten pretty worried that the law would show up. That didn’t happen, though, and he started to think that maybe nobody had heard that shot after all.
Their camp was at the foot of the bluff that loomed over Black Rock Canyon. Finding the place in the dark was difficult, but Lasswell had been over the ground enough in the past few days so that he was able to do it. Once they got there, he had told Mrs. Browning that they would leave her legs untied and not gag her if she would promise to behave. Not only had she not made that promise, she had told him to go to hell and then do something physically impossible once he got there. Lasswell had never run into a woman quite like her.
Her hair had come loose from its upswept curls and hung in disarray ar
ound her face. Her eyes burned with anger and hatred, and Lasswell knew by looking at her that if she had been loose and had a gun in her hand, he’d be a dead man by now. They’d all be dead if she had her way.
If he had been thirty years younger, he thought, he could come damn near falling in love with a woman like Rebel Browning.
Sure made him sorry about what was going to happen. But he had his orders, and he intended to carry them out; otherwise, he might not get paid. A man didn’t have to be young to be in love with money.
All day long she had carried on, tied hand and foot and lying under a pine tree. Lasswell had finally gotten fed up and told a couple of men to gag her. Rattigan had almost lost a finger trying to follow that order.
Moss came over to Lasswell and said, “Duncan just died.”
Lasswell grimaced. “Damn. Ray was a good man. He hung on longer’n I expected him to really.”
“If he was a good man, he wouldn’t have let a girl shoot him.”
Lasswell felt a flash of anger toward Moss. “I rode with him for a long while, you didn’t,” he snapped. “I reckon I know how good he was. Anyway, that ain’t no regular gal. She’s a hellcat if ever I saw one.”
Moss shrugged and then lowered his voice. “Carlson’s gettin’ some of the boys stirred up. He wants to have a go at her, and the others think they ought to have a turn, too.”
“I never said anybody could do that.”
“You never said they couldn’t either.”
Moss had a point. But Moss didn’t know the rest of the plan. Nobody did except Lasswell. He was the only one who had actually talked to the boss. The orders he had were very specific, and they didn’t include molesting Mrs. Browning. But he had allowed the other men to believe they might get a chance to have some fun with their captive, thinking that might make them more inclined to go along with what he wanted. He saw now that might have been a mistake.
“All right,” he said with a weary sigh. “I reckon we’d better clear the air.”
The sun was low enough in the sky so that thick shadows were gathering under the trees. Lasswell strode through them to the center of the camp and called, “Everybody gather ’round. I got somethin’ to say.”
The men formed a rough circle around him. Lasswell looked at them and thumbed his hat back on his head. Then he lowered his hand and hooked his thumb behind his gunbelt, so that his fingers hung near the butt of his Colt.
“There’s been some complainin’ around the camp because you fellas ain’t had a chance to get more . . . friendly-like . . . with Mrs. Browning.”
“Damn straight,” Carlson said.
“Well, I’m here to tell you, that ain’t gonna happen.”
The men stared at him in surprise. Some of them, like Rattigan, didn’t seem to care all that much. Others, like Titus Gant and the Winchell brothers, looked mad.
Carlson was the most upset, though. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” he demanded. He waved a big hand toward Rebel. “She’s right there, and she can’t do a damned thing to stop us. Why can’t we take turns with her?”
“Because I say you can’t,” Lasswell said. “I’m the boss of this outfit, and what I say goes.”
“Is it because you want her for yourself?” Gant asked. He wore a black frock coat and a string tie, and when he wasn’t holding up banks or trains—or kidnapping women—he dealt faro in saloons. His voice was soft, but Lasswell recognized a dangerous quality in it. Maybe Carlson wasn’t the one he ought to be worrying about the most.
“That ain’t it,” he said. “We took Mrs. Browning for the ransom money. That’s all I’m thinkin’ about.”
“Her husband won’t know that he’s not getting her back in exactly the same condition as he saw her last until after he’s paid the money,” Gant pointed out.
“Yeah, well, what if he won’t hand over the loot until he’s talked to her? If she tells him that you fellas molested her, he might not pay.”
Gant shook his head. “That’s loco. He won’t be calling the shots. If he tries anything like that, we’ll just kill ’em both and take the money anyway.”
“Not if he’s hidden it somewhere.” Lasswell was trying to think of arguments he could use to convince them without having to tell them the truth. “I’m tellin’ you, we got to be careful and cover all our bets.”
Gant sneered and brushed his coat back. “And I’m telling you I intend to have that woman before we give her back to her husband.”
Lasswell sighed. He read the challenge on Gant’s face and in the gambler’s stance, and he knew that he couldn’t let it go unanswered.
With a flickering move that filled his hand and gave Gant no chance, Lasswell drew and fired.
He was close enough so that the bullet drove Gant back a couple of steps as it thudded into his chest. Gant tried to draw, but his body was no longer following his commands. He weaved to the side and then spun off his feet, crashing to the ground.
Lasswell stood there, apparently as casual as he had been a couple of heartbeats earlier, when Gant was still alive. Smoke curled from the barrel of the gun in his hand.
“Let’s make it simple,” he said. “None of you are gonna bother Mrs. Browning because I say you ain’t. That plain enough for you?”
Nobody argued, not even Carlson. A few of the men muttered agreement, and the gathering broke up, the men drifting away to see to their horses or roll a smoke or get a card game going. Lasswell told the Winchell brothers to grab some shovels and start digging. They had both Gant and Ray Duncan to bury.
Moss came over to Lasswell, who had replaced the spent shell and pouched his iron. “I remember you now,” he said quietly. “You were part of that big feud in Texas about twenty-five years ago. Seems like I recall hearin’ something about a shoot-out in a saloon in Comanche. Fella named Lasswell downed four of the other bunch even though he had a couple of slugs in him.”
“I’m still carryin’ around one of those slugs,” Lasswell said, “and it hurts like the dickens whenever it’s about to rain.”
“Hell, man, you’re a gunfighter!”
Lasswell shook his head. “Not to speak of, not when there are men like Frank Morgan still alive. That’s why I wouldn’t go into this job with just me and the boys who’d been ridin’ with me. Just the chance we might have to go up against Morgan is enough to make me mighty careful.”
“Well, I reckon you won’t have to worry about any of them comin’ at you head-on,” Moss said. “After seein’ that draw, they won’t want to do that. Gant was a pretty slick gun-thrower, and he didn’t even clear leather.” A shadow of a smile crossed Moss’s granite face. “All you’ll have to do is watch out behind you.”
“I always do,” Lasswell said.
Chapter 7
After night had fallen—after what had been the longest day of his life, without a doubt—Conrad went out to the carriage house and hitched the big buckskin horse to the buggy. The animal was more than just a buggy horse; Conrad had used him as a saddle mount before and knew the buckskin had plenty of speed and stamina. He stowed his saddle in the back of the buggy, along with the Winchester and the shotgun and the coiled shell belt.
He hoped he wouldn’t need any of those things. He hoped that he would turn the money over to the kidnappers and that they would give him Rebel in return. But if it didn’t work out that way, he was going after them. He would kill anyone who got in his way, until his wife was safe again.
It would take about two hours to reach Black Rock Canyon, Conrad estimated. He drove out of Carson City a quarter of an hour before ten o’clock, to give himself plenty of time. The carpetbag with the fifty thousand dollars in it was at his feet.
On his way out of town, he stopped at the Western Union office to see if there were any more messages from Claudius Turnbuckle concerning Frank Morgan, but of course there weren’t. Conrad had known there wouldn’t be. But he had checked just to make sure.
The kidnappers had picked a good night for their
evil purposes. The moon was only a thin sliver of silver in the sky, so the night was at its darkest, lit mostly by the millions of stars. They wouldn’t do much good in Black Rock Canyon.
Conrad’s thoughts were a confused, frightened jumble in his head. Most of the fright was for Rebel’s safety, of course, but he knew he was nervous about how he would handle himself tonight as well. Danger had tested him in the past and he had always come through, but that was no guarantee he would again. He had big footsteps to follow, the footsteps of Frank Morgan.
That’s loco, Conrad, he seemed to hear his father saying. Follow your own trail, not mine, and don’t walk in fear. You’ll be all right. You’ll do just fine. Do your best, and don’t back down.
Conrad took comfort from the words. A flesh-and-blood Frank Morgan would have been better, but right now he would take what he could get.
He was able to find the trail to Black Rock Canyon without much difficulty, although a time or two he worried that he had taken a wrong turn. Eventually, though, he spotted the huge rock formation that loomed above the canyon and knew he was in the right place. The bluff towered eighty or a hundred feet above the canyon floor, and formed a patch of even deeper darkness because it blotted out some of the stars. Conrad saw it above the tops of the pine trees that bordered the trail.
He didn’t know when or how the kidnappers would stop him and demand the ransom, but he assumed they would whenever they were good and ready. He didn’t bother taking out his watch to check the time. He would have had to strike a match in order to see it, and he didn’t want to do that.
Every muscle in his body was taut with tension. His heart pounded, causing the blood to pulse in a frantic drumbeat inside his head. He had trouble catching his breath. He imagined this must be what it felt like to be drowning.
Suddenly, a voice called out, “That’s far enough, Browning!”
Conrad hauled back hard on the reins. He was glad the kidnappers were confronting him at last. Anything was better than just driving slowly along in the buggy and waiting for them to show themselves.
The Loner Page 6
