That horrible, bittersweet thought was in his mind as he held her and cried, and then he felt the cold ring of a gun muzzle press against the back of his neck as a man said, “Don’t move, Browning! I figured you’d come back for that bitch.”
Chapter 8
Conrad stiffened as the man went on. “That was my brother you killed back yonder! My twin brother! Shot him like he was no better’n a damn dog! You know what that feels like?”
Forcing the words past the huge lump in his throat, Conrad said, “I’m holding my wife’s dead body in my arms. And men like you and your brother killed my mother. So, yeah, I know what it feels like.”
The response seemed to throw the kidnapper for a loop. He must have expected Conrad to beg for his life. It would be a cold day in hell before that happened, even though Conrad wanted desperately to live now, so that he could have his revenge on Rebel’s murderers.
Even as he spoke, he was moving one hand carefully toward the makeshift torch stuck in the ground beside him. His fingers touched the branch. He pushed on it, gently and slowly, so the kidnapper wouldn’t notice what he was doing.
“Well, now you’re gonna find out what it feels like to get your brains blown out, just like my brother.”
Before the man could pull the trigger, the torch tipped over, falling straight at his legs. The flames coming at him caused him to jump back instinctively, and even though he jerked the trigger of his gun, Conrad had already rolled to the side, taking Rebel’s body with him. The gun still blasted painfully close to Conrad’s ear, but the bullet thudded harmlessly into the ground.
Conrad wound up lying on his back, with the kidnapper looming above him. He brought his right leg up and buried the toe of his boot in the man’s groin. The kidnapper screamed in agony and doubled over, but he didn’t drop his gun. He managed to get another shot off as Conrad flung himself to the side. The bullet plucked at the sleeve of the black shirt, but didn’t touch Conrad’s flesh.
Conrad whipped a leg around and caught the kidnapper behind the knees, sweeping the man’s legs out from under him. The man fell heavily and curled up into a ball as he clutched at his injured privates. Conrad came up on his knees and pulled his Colt, then lunged forward. The gun barrel thudded against the man’s head. He shuddered and then straightened out, unconscious.
Out cold like that, at least he wasn’t thinking about how bad his balls hurt anymore.
A sudden glare caught Conrad’s attention as he knelt there, breathing heavily. He looked around and saw that the carpet of dry pine needles on the ground had caught fire where he’d shoved the torch over. A fire like that would spread quickly in these woods, and for a second he thought about leaving the kidnapper there to roast alive.
Something inside him wouldn’t allow him to do that. He had thought that all vestiges of his humanity had died with Rebel, but maybe that wasn’t completely the case. He pushed himself to his feet, hurried over, and stomped out the flames before they could spread. That plunged the canyon into darkness again.
Conrad tried to ignore the pain of his own bullet wound as he knelt next to the unconscious kidnapper once more and used the man’s own belt to lash his hands together behind his back. He didn’t want the fellow going anywhere just yet. Conrad realized that he might be able to make use of him.
Then, using matches to light his path, he made his way back to the buggy and retrieved a blanket from the area behind the seat. The same blanket he had spread out on that hillside so they could sit on it to enjoy their picnic, he thought as another shred of his soul peeled away. He had never carried it back into the house. Now he took it into the woods and gently wrapped Rebel’s body in it.
Once he had placed her in the buggy, he went back for the kidnapper, who was beginning to stir. Conrad hit him again with the gun to keep him still. He took hold of the man’s feet and dragged him through the woods, back to the trail where the horse and buggy waited. He didn’t worry about how scratched up the bastard got along the way either.
Conrad knew he had lost quite a bit of blood. He could feel the insidious weakness creeping through him. Grunting from pain and effort, he lifted the unconscious man and toppled him onto the buggy’s floorboard, in front of the driver’s seat. Conrad would have to ride back to Carson City with his feet resting on the man. It would be uncomfortable, but there was no way he was putting the kidnapper in the back of the vehicle with Rebel.
Conrad never remembered all the details of the drive back to town. By that time, he was functioning largely on instinct and sheer determination. He recalled that a time or two, the kidnapper started to move around a little, and each time, Conrad kicked him in the head. In the back of his mind, he hoped the man wouldn’t die from the punishment before they got back to town.
The kidnapper knew things that he needed to know. Conrad intended to have answers.
The moon was down by the time the buggy reached Carson City. The darkest hour of the night lay over the town. No one was in the streets, and there was no one to challenge Conrad or even see him as he drove around the house and into the carriage house.
The kidnapper was still breathing, but hadn’t budged for a while. Conrad hauled the man out of the buggy and stood him up against one of the posts that supported the roof, tying him in place with some rope that was in the carriage house. Then, he lifted Rebel and carried her into the home that they had shared for all too short a time. Just having her in his arms seemed to give him strength, despite the wound in his side.
He took her upstairs and placed her on their bed, still wrapped in the blanket. Then, he went back downstairs and out to the carriage house, reeling like a drunken man as he did so. He paused just outside the carriage house and leaned against the wall for a moment in an attempt to regain some of his strength. It didn’t really help.
He heard thumping and then a groan from inside the building. The kidnapper was regaining consciousness again. This time, Conrad didn’t intend to knock him out. Not until he had the answers he wanted.
He drew his gun and shoved the door open, then heeled it closed behind him as he went in. He had left a lantern burning, and in its flickering light, he saw the kidnapper looking around wildly and pulling against the rope that held him to the post. Conrad took a deep breath and forced his stride to be steady as he walked toward the man. He lifted the gun as he advanced, and the kidnapper grew wide-eyed and still as he stared down the barrel of the Colt.
Conrad stopped in front of the man and rasped, “What’s your name?”
For a second, he thought the kidnapper was going to be stubborn and refuse to answer, but the sight of a gun muzzle only inches from his face was a powerful persuader.
“It’s Winchell,” the man said sullenly. “Jeff Winchell.” He grimaced. “What’d you do to me? My head feels like it’s about to fall plumb off.”
“You’re lucky you’ve still got a head,” Conrad said. “What was your brother’s name?” He didn’t have to know that to carry out his plan of vengeance, since the kidnapper’s brother was already dead, but for some reason he was curious.
“It was Hank. Hank Winchell, you murderin’ son of a bitch.”
“You’re a fine one to talk,” Conrad snapped. “After the way you killed my wife.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with that! I swear it, mister. That was all Lasswell’s doin’. As far as any of the rest of us knew, we were gonna let her go as soon as we had that ransom money.”
“Lasswell?”
“Clay Lasswell. Some old Texas gunfighter. He was the ramrod of the bunch. He’s the one who wired Moss and had him get together some men.”
Conrad nodded as he made a mental note of the man. So the ginger-bearded man was Clay Lasswell, and he was the leader of the kidnappers, just as Conrad had supposed. Winchell’s frightened words confirmed Conrad’s earlier speculation that Lasswell had crossed up his own men by shooting Rebel.
He didn’t let any of that show on his face, though, as he went on, “Who’s Moss?”
“Vernon Moss. He’s the one who was waitin’ in the trail for you. You broke both his legs when you run over him with that buggy, you know.”
“Good,” Conrad said. “He had it coming. What about the others? What are their names?”
Winchell’s eyes narrowed. “I know what you’re doin’,” he said. “You’re tryin’ to get me to sell out my pards. Well, I won’t do it, damn you. I won’t!”
“I think you will,” Conrad said. He eared back the Colt’s hammer so that only the slightest pressure on the trigger would be needed to send a bullet into the kidnapper’s brain. “If you won’t tell me what I need to know, then you’re no good to me.”
Winchell stared at him. The kidnapper’s face paled, and beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. “You . . . you can’t kill me,” he said. “You’re a businessman. You own banks and mines and railroads. You don’t go around shootin’ people!”
“You know who my father is, don’t you?”
Winchell didn’t answer with words, but he bobbed his head up and down, then winced at the fresh pain the movement must have set off inside his skull.
“What do you think Frank Morgan would do if he were here right now?” Conrad asked softly. “Do you think he’d hesitate to pull this trigger?”
Actually, at this very moment, Conrad figured that he was closer to being able to commit cold-blooded murder than Frank would have been. Although exterminating this vermin hardly qualified as murder.
Winchell’s resolve broke. He twisted his head to the side and closed his eyes. “Don’t shoot me,” he said. “Please, don’t shoot. I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
“Everything,” Conrad said. “I want to know everything.”
Winchell looked at him again. “You gotta understand. I don’t know all of it. Lasswell was the only one who did. He was the only one who’d talked to whoever the boss was.”
“Lasswell didn’t come up with the idea of kidnapping my wife?”
“I don’t think so. I think he was just a hired hand, like the rest of us, only he knew who was really pullin’ the strings.”
“Keep talking,” Conrad said.
Winchell did, details spilling from him, although the kidnapper really didn’t know much beyond the things Conrad had already deduced for himself. He knew the names of all the other men involved, though, and Conrad was careful to memorize each one of them. In some cases, he had only one name—Buck, Carlson, and Rattigan—but that was better than nothing.
“The only other hombre I’m sure was in on it was that dude,” Winchell finally said.
“What dude?”
“The one who was supposed to let us in the house after he knocked you out.”
“Edwin Sinclair?” Conrad asked in a hoarse whisper.
“I never heard his name. All I know is that he worked for you, and Lasswell had Julio cut his throat once we had your wife.”
A chill washed through Conrad. So Sinclair hadn’t been trustworthy after all. He had plotted with the kidnappers, and then been done in by the treachery of his own allies. He hadn’t been killed trying to save Rebel. Conrad wished briefly that the kidnappers hadn’t killed Sinclair. He would have liked to have done that himself.
But that part was finished. He looked over the Colt’s barrel at Winchell and said, “You’re certain that’s all you know?”
“That’s it, Browning. Except . . .”
“Go on,” Conrad grated.
“I don’t know if it makes any difference or not, but nobody laid a finger on your wife except to bring her with us. She wasn’t, uh, molested or anything like that. I give you my word on that.”
“Why should I accept your word?”
“Because I’m tryin’ to convince you not to shoot me! Some of the fellas wanted to, uh, you know . . . but Lasswell wouldn’t let ’em. He made it clear that we had to leave Mrs. Browning alone. I reckon that must’ve been part of his orders, too.”
Conrad couldn’t see the logic in that, but as a matter of fact, he did believe Winchell. The man was too frightened not to be telling the truth. And even though the knowledge that Rebel hadn’t been assaulted was scant comfort at a time like this, it was better than nothing. At least she hadn’t spent her final hours in terror and pain, being brutalized.
A moment of silence stretched by, and then Winchell said, “I’ve told you everything I know. I swear it, Browning. What are you gonna do now?”
Conrad’s lips drew back from his teeth in a grimace as he stared at the kidnapper. He said, “I know what I ought to do, what I want to do . . .”
Winchell swallowed hard.
Conrad tilted the Colt’s barrel up and let down the hammer. He lowered the gun and slid it into its holster. Winchell sagged forward against the rope.
“I’m not going to kill you,” Conrad said. “I’m going to turn you over to the police and let the law deal with you. You’ll probably hang anyway, but I’m not going to be your executioner.”
Winchell licked his lips. “I’m much obliged. I’m mighty sorry about what happened to your missus. I really am, Browning. I never wanted to hurt nobody.” He began to sob. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry . . .”
“Shut up,” Conrad snapped. He turned away. His right arm was limp from holding up the gun as he interrogated Winchell, and his head was still spinning. He knew he needed medical attention. But not yet. First, he had to find someone to summon the police, so they could arrest Winchell, and then he had to deal with making the arrangements for Rebel’s funeral.
He was stumbling toward the buggy when the buckskin horse suddenly threw his head up in alarm. Conrad started to turn, but before he could, something crashed into him from behind. He couldn’t keep his feet. He went down hard, and Winchell landed on top of him. The belt Conrad had used to tie the man’s wrists looped around his neck, and Conrad barely got a hand up in time to keep the belt from closing tightly on his neck. His fingers gave him a little room to breath, but Winchell planted a knee in the small of his back and heaved harder and harder, cutting off Conrad’s air. The wound in his side had stopped bleeding earlier, but now he felt the hot, wet flow once again.
“Threaten me, will you?” Winchell rasped. “Kill my brother, shove a gun in my face, lord it over me . . . You’ll pay for that, you son of a bitch!”
Conrad had no idea how the man had gotten loose, and it didn’t matter. The only important thing at the moment was that Winchell was on the brink of strangling him to death. Conrad fought back desperately, driving the elbow of his free arm behind him, into Winchell’s belly. That bought him a little respite. Conrad shoved hard with his knees and arched up off the floor. Winchell toppled off him and the belt around Conrad’s neck came loose.
He wanted to stop and drag air into his lungs, but there was no time for that. Winchell came at him, flailing punches. Conrad lowered his head and bulled forward, tackling Winchell. They rolled across the floor, winding up almost under the buggy horse. The animal danced away skittishly as Conrad grappled with the kidnapper. Hatred mixed with desperation allowed him to find the last bits of strength remaining in his body, and he grabbed Winchell’s shirt and heaved the man against one of the buggy wheels.
Winchell’s feet slipped out from under him, and he went down. Conrad reached up and slapped the horse’s rump. The buckskin leaped forward, and since he was still hitched to the buggy, the vehicle lurched ahead as well.
The iron-tired wheel rolled right over Winchell’s throat, cutting short the terrified scream that had started to well from the kidnapper’s mouth.
Conrad looked away as the wheel crushed the man’s throat. The horse backed up, but the damage was done. Winchell thrashed wildly as he tried to get air into his lungs. His face turned purple, then blue. Then his spasms subsided and he lay still, except for a few twitches as his muscles caught up to the fact that he was dead. For the second time tonight, Conrad had used the buggy as a weapon, and this time it had been lethal.
He reached up, caught hold of
the buckskin’s harness, and pulled himself to his feet. Winchell had choked to death, he thought as he looked down at the body, but not at the end of a rope. Conrad didn’t care. One more of the kidnappers was dead; that was all that mattered.
And as he gazed at the corpse, an idea began to form in his mind, an offshoot of things that had happened earlier. The remaining kidnappers might worry that he would come after them and try to avenge his wife, but they wouldn’t think that if they believed he was dead. In fact, they might even let their guard down a little if they thought he was no longer a threat.
For the first time since this terrible night began, a smile touched Conrad’s lips. An agonized, haunted smile, to be sure, but still . . .
He pulled Winchell’s body clear of the buggy and then unhitched the horse and turned it into its stall. He picked up the rope he had used to tie Winchell to the post and saw that it was badly frayed. Running his fingers over the back of the post, Conrad found the rough spot where Winchell must have worked the rope back and forth until it parted. Even before that, he had worked his hands free from the belt. That had been going on all the time he was questioning the man, Conrad thought, and he hadn’t even noticed because he was so light-headed from loss of blood and had been concentrating on what Winchell was telling him.
Weaving, Conrad walked back into the house and went to his study. He barely had the strength to pull out some paper and a pen, and the letters he scratched onto the paper wavered and blurred. That was all right; he wanted people to think that he had written the letter in a state of great emotional distress. Actually, he was cold inside just then, numb to everything except the need for vengeance.
Leaving the letter in the middle of his desk where someone was sure to find it, he went upstairs and stepped into the bedroom. He had to say good-bye to Rebel. For the next several minutes, he spoke from the heart, telling her how much he loved her and how sorry he was for everything that had happened, then finished by saying, “I promise you that they’ll all pay for what they did. Each and every one of them.” He knew that if the situation were reversed, she would have devoted the rest of her life to hunting down his killers. He could do no less for her, and he knew she would understand.
The Loner Page 8
