The Loner: The Bounty Killers
Page 21
He had done business with railroader and financier Clark Tarleton. He had been engaged to Tarleton’s daughter Pamela.
But Clark Tarleton had wound up dead because of his criminal dealings, and Pamela had blamed Conrad Browning for that, as well as for breaking his engagement to her and marrying Rebel Callahan. Pamela’s attempts to settle the score with him had led to numerous tragedies, including her own accidental death.
And yet another member of the Tarleton family was smirking at him with cold hatred in his eyes.
“I don’t know what you think happened,” Conrad said, “but I didn’t murder Pamela. I wasn’t responsible for her death. You’ve got it all wrong, Tarleton.”
“I don’t think so,” Roger said. “I loved my cousin very much, Browning, ever since we were children.” He cocked an eyebrow. “And not just as cousins, if you understand what I mean.”
“You son of a bitch,” Conrad said through clenched teeth.
“That’s why I couldn’t allow her death to go unavenged. Someone has to pay the price for it, and that someone is you. If you hadn’t betrayed her, she’d still be alive.”
Conrad shook his head, but he knew that nothing he said would do any good. From everything he had seen of the Tarleton family, there was a flaw in their brains, an inability to accept the truth, a hatred that knew no bounds when they felt wronged, a need for revenge that bordered on insanity.
Blanton moved closer and hissed, “This is not the place for this, Roger—”
“I agree, it’s not,” Tarleton cut in. “That’s why we’re going out into the plaza, where we’ll have room to settle things once and for all.”
“A gunfight?” Conrad asked, his lips curving thinly.
“That’s right. Only I won’t be taking on the infamous Kid Morgan. That would hardly be fair, now would it? I have several . . . surrogates, if you will . . . to stand in for me.”
“Hired killers, you mean. You’re going to have them murder me.”
Tarleton shrugged eloquently. “Call it what you will. I call it justice.”
“And why would I walk into a trap like that?”
“Because if you don’t, Lace McCall won’t live to see the sun come up tomorrow morning.”
Chapter 35
It was all Conrad could do not to reach under his coat, pull his gun, and put a bullet in Roger Tarleton’s brain at that moment.
He controlled the urge and forced his brain to remain level as he said, “What are you talking about?”
“Unless they receive a telegram from me calling them off, several men in my employ will kill Lace McCall tonight.”
“And you won’t send the telegram unless I walk out in the plaza and face your gunmen.”
“That’s right. If you do, then I’ll let the slut live.”
“You’ve really found out a lot about me, haven’t you?”
“A suitable revenge requires suitable preparation,” Tarleton said. “How do you think I found out about your little misadventure in Hell Gate Prison?”
“That gave you the idea of paying off Blanton to see that those phony reward posters were put out?”
“There’s nothing phony about them,” Tarleton snapped. “If someone had succeeded in killing you, the bounty would have been paid as promised.”
“But that didn’t happen, so you decided to come out into the open to take your revenge.”
“That’s right. I’m tired of waiting for Pamela’s death to be avenged.”
“You know,” Conrad said, “those hired guns of yours might not kill me. I just might beat them. What happens then?”
“Why, I’ll keep my part of the bargain, of course. I’ll send word to my men in Phoenix to leave Miss McCall alone.”
Conrad didn’t believe Tarleton for a second, but he could only play the game one hand at a time. Tarleton seemed to hold all the cards at the moment.
“All right,” he said. “You want a showdown, I’ll give you a showdown.”
Blanton was so nervous he was practically wringing his hands together. “This is not the time or place for this, Roger,” he said as he leaned toward Tarleton.
“Stop it, Charles,” the young man said. “You’ve been well-paid for your part in this, so you have no room for complaint. Besides, this is a matter of honor. The Spanish influence is still strong here in Santa Fe, isn’t it? And the Spanish are a people who know the importance of a family’s honor.”
“There’s been enough talk,” Conrad said. “Let’s get this over with.”
Tarleton smiled. “You really do sound like a gunfighter, Browning. I agree. Let’s go.”
“You’re going to come along and watch?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Tarleton said. “I’ve dreamed of nothing else for months.”
The two men turned and started toward the doors. Blanton hesitated for a second, looking torn, and then started after them.
From the corner of his eye, Conrad noticed that Governor Otero had noticed them leaving and wore a curious frown on his face as he watched them walk out of the Palace of the Governors.
There were still quite a few people in the plaza, although it wasn’t nearly as crowded as it had been earlier. Most of the guests who were on their way to the ball had already gone in. Conrad spotted three men lounging near a fountain. One wore a suit much like his own, only not nearly as expensive, while the other two wore range clothes and long dusters.
All three men straightened from their casual poses as they spotted Conrad and Tarleton coming toward them, with Blanton trailing behind. Grins of anticipation stretched across their faces.
Conrad glanced to his left. The large carriage that had brought him from the hotel was parked nearby. He hadn’t been the only passenger, and he signaled unobtrusively to the men waiting inside the vehicle.
The door swung open, and John Stafford stepped out.
People began to take notice of the three gunmen and the way they stood next to the fountain, obviously waiting for trouble. Men grabbed hold of their wives’ arms and hustled them out of the way. A babble of concerned voices rose as the plaza began to clear.
It wouldn’t be the first gunfight that had taken place there.
Stafford turned back to the carriage to help another man step out of it. He held tightly to the second man’s arm, supporting him.
Conrad came to a stop facing the three killers at a distance of about twenty feet. That range was too far for the short-barreled .38 to be very accurate.
“Blanton,” he said without looking around, “if you’ll take a glance to your left, you might see something interesting.”
A second later, he heard Blanton’s shocked gasp and knew the man was looking at Claudius Turnbuckle, who stood next to Stafford. Turnbuckle was pale and drawn from his injury.
“But . . . but . . .” Blanton stammered.
“You thought I was dead, didn’t you, Blanton?” Turnbuckle called. He might not be strong at the moment, but his voice still was. “You thought the assassin you hired to kill me had succeeded and that I was dead. Well, not hardly, you scurrilous skunk! Neither is your hired killer!”
Conrad didn’t dare take his eyes off the three gunmen, who were starting to look a little confused. The confrontation wasn’t going exactly the way they had thought it would.
Though he couldn’t see it, Conrad knew what was happening. The chief of Santa Fe’s police force was climbing out of the carriage and hauling the man Blanton had hired to kill Turnbuckle with him. A policeman had found Turnbuckle in time to save his life, and the lawyer had persuaded the authorities to put out the story that he and the would-be assassin were dead. He had gotten in touch with Stafford, who had hurried to Santa Fe, and they had hatched a plan to expose Blanton. Faced with prison, the knife wielder had confessed that the governor’s aide had hired him.
Conrad had gone over all of it with his lawyer that afternoon. He had planned to have Stafford, Turnbuckle, and the police come into the ball and confront Blanton with the proof of
his villainy, but the evening hadn’t developed that way.
In fact, it might be even better. The plaza was almost deserted except for the participants in the little drama. There wouldn’t be as much of a crowd around when all hell broke loose.
“We planned to use your henchman’s testimony against you to force you to tell us who you were working with, Blanton,” Conrad said, “but now that’s not necessary. We know who’s really to blame for everything that’s happened.”
He risked taking his eyes off the gunmen, in order to look at Roger Tarleton. “Looks like you’ll be going to prison, too, right along with Blanton.”
Lines of horror and disbelief had etched themselves onto Tarleton’s handsome face over the past few moments. His features twisted into an expression of insane hatred.
Before Tarleton could say anything, Governor Otero called from the porch of the palace, “Charles! What’s going on here?”
Tarleton shrieked, “Kill them! Kill them all!”
His hired guns did their best to follow that order. Their hands stabbed toward their guns.
But Conrad was faster. Ignoring the .38 on his hip, his hand swept behind his back, under his coat, and pulled the Colt revolver tucked behind his belt. The gun came out and leveled in a blur of speed and began to roar just as the three killers cleared leather.
The man in the suit never got a shot off. He went over backward, clawing at his chest where Conrad’s first bullet had ripped into his heart. The second man raised his gun and jerked the trigger, but he had already been spun halfway around by a .44-40 slug through his left lung. His shot smacked harmlessly into the paving stones next to him as he crumpled.
The third gunfighter fired into the air as he went over backward, blood spurting from his bullet-torn throat. He landed in the fountain with a splash and slowly sank beneath the reddening water.
Conrad heard a gun being cocked and spun around. Panicking, Blanton had fumbled a pistol from under his coat and was trying to bring it to bear. Conrad lashed out with the walking stick, bringing it down across Blanton’s forearm. Bone snapped with a sharp crack under the impact. Blanton cried out in pain and dropped the gun.
Roger Tarleton stared at Conrad in shocked surprise. His eyes widened as Conrad lifted the gun and pointed it at his face from a distance of a few feet.
“Tell me who you’re supposed to send that telegram to and what you’re supposed to say,” Conrad ordered. “I’ll give you ten seconds, and then I’m pulling this trigger.”
“You . . . you’ll hang for murder! I’m unarmed ! You can’t shoot me!”
Conrad smiled. “I think I’ll risk it.”
“No!” A look of sly cunning appeared in Tarleton’s eyes. “You can’t kill me. If you do, then that whore will die.”
Turnbuckle and Stafford had come up behind Conrad. Turnbuckle said, “That lady is currently surrounded by a dozen or more deputy United States marshals, sir, and is in no danger whatsoever. I don’t know who you are, but you’ve seriously underestimated your enemies.”
“Claudius?” Conrad said.
“I’m sorry John and I didn’t make you aware of that, Conrad, but to tell you the truth, there wasn’t time. We just thought of it a short time ago and asked one of the detectives to send the wire.”
“The way somebody had been striking at people close to you, we figured it would be a good idea to get some protection for Miss McCall,” Stafford added.
“Thank you,” Conrad said. “It was an excellent idea.” He looped his thumb over the Colt’s hammer and pulled it back. “Now I can just go ahead and shoot this mad dog.”
“Mr. Browning,” Governor Otero said. “Please. I don’t know what’s going on here, but there’s already been enough blood spilled tonight. Hasn’t there?”
For a long moment, Conrad didn’t answer. Then he took a deep breath, let the Colt’s hammer down gently, and lowered the gun.
“Yes. There’s been enough blood spilled to last a lifetime. As for what’s happened here, Blanton can explain all that. I’m sure he will to save his own skin as much as possible. I’m done.” Conrad turned away from Roger Tarleton. “I’m going home.”
Tarleton laughed. “Where is that, Browning?” he called as Conrad began to walk away. A policeman moved in and gripped his arm, but that didn’t silence him. “You don’t have anywhere to go! You’ve lost it all! Home! You don’t have a home! You don’t have anything! You just don’t know it yet!”
Chapter 36
“Tarleton and Blanton will be in prison for a good long time,” John J. Stafford said.
“You won’t have to worry about them anymore, my boy,” Claudius Turnbuckle added.
Conrad shook his head as he looked out the window of the suite at Santa Fe. “I’d feel better if Tarleton was dead. If you let a snake live, it can come back to bite you.”
“Not in this case,” Turnbuckle insisted. “The other good news is that Miss McCall is fine. The men Tarleton hired to kill her never got within a hundred yards of her before they were caught and arrested. It’s a clean sweep.”
Stafford reached under his coat and brought out a document. “Not only that, but here’s the pardon Governor Otero signed this morning, absolving the man known as Kid Morgan from any and all charges relating to his escape from Hell Gate Prison. The Kid would be a free man . . . if, of course, he really existed.”
Turnbuckle said, “Yes, no offense, Conrad, but I’m very glad that Mr. Kid Morgan has been permanently retired.”
Stafford placed the pardon on the table next to his armchair and said, “There’s just one more thing. The lawyer representing Roger Tarleton had this delivered to me this morning.” He brought an envelope from his pocket. “Evidently it’s a personal letter to you from Tarleton.” He hesitated before holding it out. “You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to. I’m sure it’s just more hateful venom spewed by that lunatic.”
Conrad turned away from the window and stepped over to take the envelope. “No, I’ll look at it,” he said. He tore the envelope open, extracted the folded sheet of expensive notepaper inside, and opened it. The faintest hint of a familiar scent came from it.
The blood seemed to turn to ice in Conrad’s veins as he recognized the handwriting. It didn’t belong to Roger Tarleton.
Pamela Tarleton had written this letter.
Conrad,
If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead. I’m entrusting this letter to my beloved cousin Roger with instructions that he should make certain that you receive it, should my efforts to avenge my father’s life and my own honor go unrewarded. There is something I want you to know.
As I am sure you recall, you and I were intimate before our marriage, Conrad. Committing those words to paper should shame me deeply, but I am beyond shame. What you did not know is that when you broke our engagement, I was with child by you.
Yes, Conrad, you are a father . . . not once, but twice. I gave birth to twins, your children, not long after you married that other woman. They were healthy, happy infants, and now they are hidden away where you will never find them, somewhere in the vast frontier for which you deserted me.
You are a father, Conrad, but you will never know your children and they will never know you.
And this . . . is my final revenge on you.
The letter was unsigned.
His fingers clenched involuntarily on the paper, crumpling it. Turnbuckle and Stafford both started up from their chairs, staring at him.
“My God, Conrad, what is it?” Turnbuckle asked. “You look like whatever is in that letter is the most horrifying thing you’ve ever read.”
Conrad didn’t answer the question directly. He said, “You were wrong a few minutes ago, Claudius.”
“Wrong? Wrong about what?”
“About Kid Morgan being retired.” Conrad turned to look at the coiled gunbelt and holstered Colt that lay on a side table, alongside a Stetson he had bought earlier. “Kid Morgan is going to ride again.”
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Copyright Page