The Loner: The Blood of Renegades

by J. A. Johnstone

  “There’s a siding and a little shed. That’s all I recall. There’s certainly not a settlement or anything like that.”

  Conrad nodded. “Then there won’t be anybody around to help them or get caught in a crossfire.”

  “You mean no one will be in danger except you.”

  Conrad shrugged. “I have a pretty good idea what I’m getting into.”

  “So you’re going to risk your life—again!—for someone you haven’t even known for twelve hours.”

  “He does this sort of thing all the time,” Arturo said.

  “Why don’t you let me worry about that?” Conrad suggested. “The next question is, do you know how to get to Navajo Wash from here?”

  Selena hesitated, then said, “I think I can find it.”

  “In the dark?”

  “Probably. It’s on the railroad, so all we really have to do is find the tracks.”

  “How long will it take to get there?”

  “I don’t really know. A couple hours, maybe?”

  The moon had risen while Conrad was on his way back to the rocks. He took out his watch, opened it, and used the moonlight to see the time. With a snap, he closed the watch.

  “Try to get some sleep,” he told Selena. “We won’t leave here for a while. I want to get to Navajo Wash before dawn, but when it’s light enough so the men who are there can see me coming and recognize Kiley’s coat and horse. The two of you will be well behind me, out of sight.”

  “I don’t like it,” Selena said, “but there’s not really any point in arguing with you, is there?”

  Arturo answered that question. “None at all.”

  Conrad was able to snatch an hour’s sleep while Arturo stood watch, but his nerves were too taut to let him relax much. Everyone was still tired when they saddled the horses, hitched up the buggy team, and started for Navajo Wash.

  Selena had insisted on saddling her own horse again, and Conrad was starting to think there was something odd about that. He didn’t know what to make of it, but didn’t want to press Selena for answers. He had more important things to worry about.

  Selena seemed worried, too. From the seat of the buggy where she was riding, she asked, “Why can’t we just go around Navajo Wash and avoid Frenchman’s Flat, too?”

  “If we don’t stop at either of those places, where’s the next good water?” Conrad asked as he rode alongside the vehicle.

  She was slow in answering. “I don’t know.”

  “Neither do I. That’s the point. In country like this, you’re better off taking on water wherever you can, because you don’t know how long it’ll be before you find more. There’s something else to consider, too. It’s possible a westbound train will come along while we’re there, and we can get you on it without having to take you to Nevada. You could be out of this Father Agony’s reach in a few hours.”

  “That sounds good,” Selena admitted. “But we have no way of knowing a train will come along and stop there.”

  “It’s a chance,” Conrad agreed, “but I think it’s a risk we can afford to run if we take care of those two men who are waiting there.”

  Selena started to say something else, but fell silent before the words left her mouth. Conrad had a pretty good idea what she was thinking. She was afraid of the avenging angels and didn’t want them taking her back to Juniper Canyon, but they were also part of the community in which she had grown up. Conrad had killed one of them already, and two more of them might die at his hands before the sun came up. It had to bother her.

  She didn’t want to go back and marry Hissop. That feeling was the stronger, Conrad sensed. So she was torn. When it came down to making a choice, she would choose her freedom over the lives of the men pursuing her.

  Nobody could blame her for that.

  They practically tripped over the steel rails of the Southern Pacific. “Navajo Wash should be a few miles west of here,” Selena said. “You’ll cross the wash itself on a trestle before you get to the water tank. You’ll be able to see the tank without any trouble.”

  “And the men waiting there should be able to see me,” Conrad said as he looked at the eastern sky, which had started to turn gray with the approach of dawn. Sunrise was still an hour or so away. That would give him plenty of time to reach the wash before the sky brightened enough to give the waiting gunmen a good look at him.

  He swung down from the black and tossed his Stetson into the back of the buggy. Arturo handed him Kiley’s wider-brimmed hat. Conrad settled it on his head, then shrugged into the long duster they had brought with them.

  “From a distance, you’ll look enough like him to fool them,” Arturo said with a satisfied nod.

  “That’s the idea.” Conrad untied Kiley’s dun from the back of the buggy.

  Selena jumped to the ground and went over to him. “I’ve only known you for a few hours, and already this is the second time I’m telling you to be careful and not get killed.”

  “You might as well get used to it,” Arturo put in.

  Conrad smiled. “I’ll be all right,” he told Selena. “When they see me coming, they’ll think I’m Kiley and they’ll wonder where I’ve been all night. They’ll be too curious to start shooting until it’s too late.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Conrad turned to Arturo. “I’ll come back and get you when it’s safe. Until then, stay here and keep your eyes open. Keep your Winchester handy, too.”

  “Like it’s my oldest, dearest friend,” Arturo promised.

  Conrad mounted up, nodded to them, and heeled Kiley’s horse into motion. The dun was a big, strong animal, and soon it stretched its legs into a smooth, ground-eating lope.

  Conrad followed the twin dark lines of the rails as they arrowed westward. Arturo, Selena, and the buggy were soon out of sight behind him, disappearing into the thick gray predawn gloom. A cold wind swept the arid landscape.

  Half an hour later, the sky was light enough that Conrad was able to spot something sticking up beside the tracks about half a mile ahead of him. He slowed the dun to a walk. Within a few minutes, he recognized the shape as a big round water tank elevated on a spidery framework of wooden legs. An eerie creaking sound drifted to his ears. After a second, he identified it as the blades turning on the adjacent windmill that pumped water from deep under the ground into the tank.

  Conrad maintained his slow, steady approach. He came to the wash, a dry, wide, shallow cut in the ground that once or twice a year would fill with raging water during the flash floods caused by an occasional downpour making its way through the normally arid landscape. A trestle spanned the wash. Conrad rode onto it. The dun’s shoes clinked against the cinders of the roadbed as the horse picked its way along, putting its hooves down between the crossties.

  Conrad looked intently at the shed next to the water tank. He didn’t see any movement, but it was big enough the two avenging angels and their horses could be concealed behind it. If they were there, likely they had spotted him already. They would be watching—ready for trouble—trying to make out his identity.

  The dun reached the end of the trestle. Conrad moved the horse to the side of the rails again and urged it into a slightly faster pace. He was ready to get it over with, no matter how it played out.

  The water tank was about a hundred yards beyond the wash. Conrad had covered half that distance when he saw two men step out from behind the shed, just as he expected. They were holding rifles, but as he tensed, poised to reach for his own Winchester which he had slipped into Kiley’s saddle boot, one of the men suddenly took off his hat and waved it over his head in what Conrad took to be an all-clear signal. His heart thudded in his chest as he rode closer. His masquerade had worked, at least so far.

  Only twenty yards more.

  The man waving his hat clapped it back on his head and called, “Hey, Kiley, where have you been? We expected you a long time ago!”

  The other man moved a step closer and asked a question of his own. “Did y
ou run into trouble?”

  Conrad didn’t answer. He just kept the horse moving and narrowed the gap between him and the avenging angels that much more. He was almost in handgun range. . . .

  The second man stopped short, shouted, “That’s not Kiley!” and jerked his rifle to his shoulder. Flame spouted from the weapon’s muzzle.

  Chapter 8

  Conrad dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and sent the animal lunging ahead in a gallop. He heard the high-pitched whine of the rifle bullet pass his ear. The wind caught the wide-brimmed hat, plucked it from his head, and sent it sailing behind him. The long tails of the duster flapped like the wings of a giant bird.

  The second whipcrack of a rifle sounded before the first shot had a chance to echo across the desert. Conrad didn’t know where the slug went, but didn’t feel its smashing impact. He drew his Colt and felt the familiar buck of its recoil against his palm as he triggered two swift shots.

  The first man spun off his feet as those bullets crashed into him. Kiley’s horse was practically on top of the second man, who leaped desperately out of the way to avoid being trampled and in the process dodged the shot Conrad sent toward him. The gunman dropped his rifle as he rolled, but he came up with his revolver in his fist, spitting fire. He threw three shots at Conrad as he made a dash for the shed.

  Conrad didn’t want the man to get behind cover. He fired again, but just as he squeezed the trigger, one of the man’s wild shots burned across the dun’s rump and made the horse leap in the air. He wasn’t expecting that, and felt himself leaving the saddle. Quickly he kicked his feet free of the stirrups so the dun wouldn’t drag him if it bolted.

  He hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him, but there was no time to rest and catch his breath. He forced his muscles to work and surged to his feet. A bullet kicked up grit and gravel just to his right. He snapped a shot at the remaining gunman, who was crouched at the corner of the shed.

  Conrad was in a bad spot, and he knew it. He usually carried the Colt’s hammer on an empty chamber, but had slipped a sixth round into the cylinder before he approached the water tank. He had one shot left in the revolver, his rifle was in the saddle boot on the horse that was kicking around twenty yards away, still spooked by that bullet burn on its rump, and the man who wanted to kill him had the only good cover anywhere around.

  Well, maybe not the only cover, Conrad realized. The legs of the water tank were better than nothing. If he could make it up the ladder to the platform on which the tank sat, he could take cover behind the massive container. He broke into a run toward the tank and flung his last shot at the gunman. The bullet smacked into the shed wall close enough to make the man jerk back, giving Conrad a couple seconds.

  He took advantage of the respite and ran as hard as he could. The framework of the tank’s legs loomed in front of him, looking more spiderlike than ever in the dim light. A slug chewed splinters from one of the thick beams as Conrad ducked behind them. He pouched the empty iron and reached as high as he could on the ladder. Another bullet whistled past his head as he started to climb.

  He almost lost his hold on the ladder as he felt the vibration of a bullet hitting one of the rungs he was grasping. A splinter stung his cheek—but he didn’t fall. He kept moving, and a second later he reached the top and hauled himself onto the platform. A fast roll and jump put him behind the tank itself. The thick wood, and the thousands of gallons of water they held, would shield him from any more bullets.

  But a standoff wasn’t what he wanted. As he lay there he pulled fresh cartridges from the loops on his shell belt and thumbed them into the Colt, filling the cylinder again. He couldn’t afford to let the gunman pin him down. Arturo and Selena were waiting for him to return. He had to dispose of the last avenging angel so they could fill their canteens and water barrel, then wait for a train to come along or head west again, depending on what else happened.

  The gunman had stopped shooting at him. In the echoing silence, the man shouted, “Hey! You hear me, mister?”

  Conrad didn’t see what harm it would to answer. “I hear you!”

  “Where’s Kiley? How’d you get his horse and clothes?”

  “Think about it,” Conrad said. “Even a hardcase like you ought to be able to come up with the answer!”

  “You—” The man bit off whatever he’d been about to say. Evidently he took his religion seriously enough that he wasn’t going to curse, no matter how angry he was. “You shouldn’t have done that, mister.”

  “And you shouldn’t be trying to kidnap an innocent young woman!”

  “You don’t know our ways! You got no right to interfere! Elder Hissop’s a prophet, same as Joseph Smith or Brigham Young! He’s one of the anointed of God! You can’t oppose his will!” A bark of harsh laughter came from the man. “Anyway, you can’t call that shameless jezebel an innocent young woman! If that’s what you think, you’re a fool!”

  Conrad didn’t know and didn’t care what the man meant by that. He was trying to figure out some way of ending the standoff before it dragged on much longer.

  The shed was fairly close to the structure supporting the water tank. Ten feet separated them, Conrad judged. He looked at the tank itself. The pipe supplying the water ran up the side of the tank, then turned at a ninety-degree angle to go through an opening near the top. He thought he might be able to climb up that pipe, crawl over the cover on top used to keep the fierce heat of the Utah sun from evaporating the water it held, and leap down to the shed roof, which was almost flat and had only a slight slope to it.

  Would the roof hold him, or would he crash through it and break a leg . . . or his neck?

  He was fairly certain the gunman wouldn’t expect him to try such a loco stunt. And that’s what it was, no mistake about that. But if it worked, he could take the man completely by surprise and put an end to the impasse.

  Once Conrad came up with a plan, he didn’t spend a lot of time mulling it over or brooding about its chances of success. He didn’t see any other way out so he stood up and eased partway around the tank on the narrow platform until he came to the water pipe. There was just enough room between the pipe and the wall of the tank for him to get his fingers in there. He holstered the Colt, reached over his head, and grasped the pipe, hoping the braces attaching it to the tank were sturdy enough to support his weight.

  He leaned back to test the pipe. It seemed strong, without any give to it. Conrad lifted his right leg and planted the sole of his boot against the side of the tank. The thick, curving planks were rough enough to give him a little purchase. The muscles in his arms and shoulders bunched as he hauled himself upward.

  It was a hard climb, but the tank was only about ten feet tall, so it didn’t take too long. As Conrad reached the top and rolled onto the boards, the man behind the shed called out to him again.

  “What’s it gonna be, mister? I can stay here all day and keep you up there. Pretty soon the sun will be up, and you won’t have any shade. It’ll fry you like an egg. Not only that, but Leatherwood and the rest of the men will be here before the day’s over. We’ll surround that water tank and pick you off. You might as well give up now.”

  Conrad didn’t respond. He lay there a few minutes, letting the quivering muscles in his arms, shoulders, and back recover.

  Without standing up, he peeled out of the duster and left it lying on top of the tank. Then he crawled to the other side. He couldn’t see the man who crouched at the edge of the shed. When he made his move, he wanted the gunman’s attention focused elsewhere, so he reached in his pocket and slid out a silver dollar. With a flick of his wrist he sent the coin sailing over the railroad tracks. When the silver dollar landed on a crosstie, it bounced and struck one of the rails with a loud ringing sound.

  That was enough to make the tightly-stretched nerves of the gunman snap. He whirled toward the sound and triggered his gun. Three shots roared out.

  And while that gun thunder rolled, Conrad surged to his feet, d
rew his Colt, and left the top of the water tank in a leap that carried him toward the shed.

  Chapter 9

  For a breathtaking instant, Conrad seemed to hang in midair. Then his boots slammed down on the shed roof, his momentum carrying him forward, off the little building. He tucked himself into a roll as his feet hit the sandy ground behind the gunman. Twisting he came back up on one knee. The gunman turned toward him, but Conrad’s gun was already level. Flame stabbed from the muzzle as he fired twice.

  Both slugs slammed into the gunman’s body and drove him back against the shed wall. His gun went off as his finger clenched convulsively on the trigger, but the weapon was pointed down and the bullet went harmlessly into the ground. He dropped his revolver and pitched forward, sprawling on his face.

  Conrad sprang up and kicked the fallen Colt out of reach while he covered the man he had just shot.

  The avenging angel didn’t move. Working the toe of his boot under the man’s shoulder Conrad rolled him onto his back. Reddish-gold light of the dawn reflected back from the man’s sightless, staring eyes.

  Just as Conrad reached down with his left hand to close the man’s eyes, another shot blasted out. The bullet whipped through the air above his head. He threw himself forward on his belly and lifted his gun.

  The first man he’d shot wasn’t dead! The man’s shirt was crimson with blood under the duster he wore, but he had managed to climb to his feet and stagger to the shed. The revolver in his hand roared again. Conrad fired at the same instant, the two shots sounding like one.

  The gunman’s bullet kicked up dirt inches from Conrad’s shoulder. The bullet from Conrad’s Colt, traveling upward at an angle, caught the man just under the chin and bored into the base of his brain. More blood poured out over the man’s chest as he staggered back a step, already dead even though his body hadn’t quite caught up to that fact. Slowly, he crumpled to the ground.

  Conrad climbed to his feet. He was the only one left alive at the isolated water stop.