The Loner: Killer Poker

by J. A. Johnstone

  He didn’t need the lasso anymore, The Kid told himself. He could make it from there without it. He dragged in a breath, set himself, and reached higher, ignoring the fear that made his heart hammer madly in his chest.

  Ten feet . . . five . . . he could see the top of the cliff, tantalizingly close. He shifted a foot, dug his bloody toes into a narrow opening, and lifted himself. Reaching again, he closed his hand over an outcropping. He was almost close enough to stretch out and grasp the rimrock itself.

  It exploded right above his head in a shower of rock splinters and dust as rifles began to crack somewhere below him.

  Chapter 28

  The Kid fought off the urge to make a desperate leap and try to grab the edge of the cliff. The odds of him being able to do that were so slim he stood a better chance if he continued the climb with the rifle bullets whipping and zinging around him. He clamped down on his nerves and reached for the next handhold.

  Firing upward at such a sharp angle was tricky. Most of the slugs struck the cliff below him or sailed over his head. A few pocked the rock face around him, causing little chips of rock to sting his bare torso. He expected to feel the smashing impact of a bullet at any second, but until that happened, he was going to keep pulling himself toward the top.

  He got a good hold and pulled himself upward. The rimrock was within reach.

  A hundred feet below him, Rance McKinney bellowed, “Shoot him! Shoot the son of a bitch! Five hundred dollars to whoever brings him down! A thousand, damn it!”

  The sharp rattle of gunfire filled the air as The Kid stretched his right hand up and closed it over the rocky brink. He shifted his left foot and pushed upward with it. His left hand clamped onto the rimrock as well. He got the toes of his right foot in a tiny crack and put his weight on them, at the same time hauling himself upward with all the strength he had left in his arms and shoulders. A slug burned along his side and struck the rock, almost dislodging him, but he hung on desperately and heaved. His shoulders cleared the top of the cliff, then the rest of his torso, and then he was toppling forward, rolling away from the edge as bullets continued to scream through the air.

  But they couldn’t reach him. The cliff cut him off from view of McKinney and his men.

  He could hear McKinney’s livid curses. While The Kid tried to catch his breath and waited for his pounding heart to slow down a little, McKinney turned the air blue with profanity. When the obscene tirade finally ran down, McKinney replaced the curses with swiftly barked orders.

  “Get the horses! Get the horses, damn you! We’ll get up there and cut him off! He can’t get away from us!”

  McKinney didn’t understand.

  The Kid began to laugh. He didn’t want to get away. He wanted to meet his enemies on his own terms, at a time and place of his own choosing.

  He rolled onto his side, then onto his hands and knees and on up to his feet. Pain shot through him as he put his weight on those lacerated soles. He hobbled toward a sandstone bluff that rose to the mouth of a canyon.

  McKinney’s reaction told The Kid that what he’d suspected all along was right. There was a trail leading to the top of the cliffs. It had been too far away for him to have reached it on foot in the time they had given him, but on horseback his pursuers could get there a lot faster. He didn’t know how much time he had before they would be up there trying to pick up his trail.

  Unfortunately, the bloody footprints he was leaving behind with every step meant he would be easy to follow.

  Although he hated to take the time to do it, he paused long enough to tear strips of denim cloth from the trousers he wore using a sharp rock. He wrapped those strips around his feet and tied them in place. They served the dual purpose of protecting his feet and slowing down the bleeding, so he wouldn’t leave such an obvious trail.

  Once he had done that, he was able to move a little faster. While he hurried toward the bluff, he thought about what he was going to do. He needed a gun, a horse, and some boots, not necessarily in that order. He would take them however he could get them, but it wouldn’t be easy. His best chance would be to jump McKinney or one of the rancher’s men while they were alone. The Kid wasn’t sure how many men McKinney had with him, but it stood to reason they would have to spread out some as they searched for him.

  If he could overpower one of them without any shots being fired or an alarm raised, that would be his best chance. Gunfire would bring the rest of them at a gallop, and he would be right back where he started, outnumbered and alone.

  He reached the foot of the bluff. It was pretty steep, but some scrubby bushes grew out of it and by holding on to the branches he was able to pull himself up the slope. When he reached the top he found himself looking down a narrow canyon no more than a hundred yards wide. In places it closed in even more than that. Some sparse, hardy grass grew on the canyon floor, and pine trees dotted the rimrock on both sides.

  The faint rataplan of distant hoofbeats drifted to The Kid’s ears. He couldn’t tell if the riders were still below the cliffs or if they had found the trail and reached the top. Either way, he intended to be gone by the time they got there.

  Taking a deep breath, he plunged into the canyon and broke into a trot that sent jolts of agony from his feet up through his body with every step he took.

  An attractive, middle-aged woman Arturo hadn’t met before was at the desk in Ellery Hudson’s outer office when he came in. His injured left arm was in the black silk sling, and his face was pale from the strain of being up and around. He had raised a fuss until the doctors at the hospital discharged him on his own responsibility. He hadn’t been able to lie in the bed any longer as he worried about Conrad Browning.

  True, it had been a little less than twenty-four hours since Conrad had visited him in the hospital. But most of the day had gone by without a word from his friend and employer, and Arturo had a feeling something was wrong. Conrad would have kept his promise and been by to see him unless something pretty bad had prevented it.

  The woman at the desk looked up at him. “Yes, sir, may I help you?”

  Arturo took off his hat and held it politely in front of him. “Yes, I’d like to see Mr. Ellery Hudson, please. My name is Arturo Vincenzo.”

  The woman looked puzzled. “I happen to know you don’t have an appointment, Mr. Vincenzo . . . Wait a minute. I know that name. You work for Conrad Browning, don’t you?”

  “That’s right, madam. Is Mr. Hudson available?”

  “I can check and see.” She got to her feet. “Did Mr. Browning send you?”

  “Actually, I was hoping Mr. Browning had been here and you could tell me that he’s all right.”

  “But I haven’t seen—” The woman stopped herself and said, “Perhaps you should talk to Mr. Hudson.”

  She hurried through the door behind her, then reappeared a moment later to tell Arturo to come with her. They went along the hallway to the double doors of Hudson’s private office.

  “Hello, Arturo,” the lawyer said as he shook hands. “What can I do for you? This is about Conrad?”

  “That’s right. He never came to the hospital today.”

  Hudson frowned. “Well, I suppose he might be busy—”

  “You don’t understand, sir,” Arturo broke in. “When he left yesterday, he said he would come by today, and then he never showed up. I don’t know how well you know Mr. Browning, but I’ve always found him to be a man of his word.”

  “Yes, of course.” Hudson rubbed his jaw in thought. “Did you check at the hotel?”

  Arturo nodded. “That’s the first place I went. No one there could recall seeing him all day.”

  “That’s odd,” Hudson admitted.

  “I went up to the suite,” Arturo continued. “Some of the furniture was slightly disarranged, as if someone had bumped into it, and the rug in the sitting room was a bit mussed. I think there was a struggle there.”

  “But you didn’t see any blood or anything like that?”

  Arturo sh
ook his head. “No. But I’m still convinced there was some sort of trouble.”

  “What about the Palace? Have you talked to Bat Masterson?”

  “No, I came here first.”

  “Masterson was here earlier. He delivered the bank draft for Conrad’s winnings in that poker tournament, then I prevailed upon him to accompany me to the bank so I could deposit it. I doubted that anyone would bother me while I had the famous Bat Masterson with me.”

  “And he didn’t say anything about seeing Conrad today?”

  “Not a thing.” Hudson went over to a hat tree and reached for his hat. “Let’s go to the Palace and see what we can find out. That is, if you feel up to it. It’s only been a couple days since you were shot.”

  “I’m fine,” Arturo said without hesitation. He was rather weak, but he wasn’t going to give in to that feeling when Conrad might be in danger.

  As they went out, Hudson told the woman at the desk, “I probably won’t be back today, Mrs. Moorehead.”

  “Yes, sir. Is there anything you need me to do?” Hudson started to shake his head, then paused. “If you hear anything from Conrad Browning, call the Palace Theater and my home. I’ll be at one of those places.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Arturo and Hudson walked briskly to the Palace. As they started up the stairs to the main gambling room, Arturo spotted Bat Masterson at the top. Masterson saw them as well and motioned for them to stay where they were. Quickly, he went down the stairs to join them.

  “Well, Ellery, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” Masterson greeted them. His expression became more serious as he went on, “There’s not any trouble, is there?”

  “Perhaps you can tell us,” Hudson said. “Have you seen Conrad today?”

  Masterson shook his head. “Not at all. I left him in the lobby of the Lansing House last night. That’s the last time I saw him. You’re not afraid something’s happened to him, are you?”

  “He promised he would stop at the hospital today,” Arturo said, “and he didn’t do it.”

  “Well, plans change . . .” Masterson began.

  “He would have let me know,” Arturo said firmly. “As Mr. Browning would say, I have a hunch, and that hunch is that something’s wrong.”

  Masterson frowned in thought for a moment before nodding his head. “Let me get my hat. We’ll walk over to the Lansing and see what we can find out.”

  “I’ve already been there,” Arturo told him.

  “They didn’t know anything, but it looked as if there might have been a disturbance in the sitting room of our suite.”

  Masterson chuckled and said, “No offense, Arturo, but I reckon I’ve had a mite more experience at getting people to talk than you have.”

  Arturo shrugged as best he could with his wounded arm. The former lawman was probably right about that, and it wouldn’t hurt to have an experienced set of eyes check things out in the suite.

  A few minutes later, the three men reached the Lansing House. Masterson spoke to the clerk, who again denied having seen Conrad that day.

  “Gather up all your porters and maids and anybody else who was working here last night,” Masterson ordered. “I want to talk to them.”

  For a second the clerk looked like he might protest, but seemed to think twice about the idea of arguing with Bat Masterson. “Of course, Mr. Masterson. It’ll take a few minutes.”

  Masterson nodded. “While you’re doing that, I’m going to take a look at Mr. Browning’s suite.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  Masterson jerked a thumb toward Arturo. “It’s all right, Mr. Vincenzo has the key.” He didn’t give the clerk time to think up any other complaints, and led Arturo and Hudson to the stairs.

  After Arturo unlocked the door and the three of them stepped into the sitting room, Masterson gestured for his companions to stop where they were. “I want to take a look around without anything else getting disturbed,” he explained.

  It didn’t take long for Masterson’s keen eyes to study everything in the room. He nodded. “There’s been a struggle here, all right. There’s a little scratch in the polish on the floor where that writing desk got shoved over hard.”

  “I noticed the same thing,” Arturo agreed. “And someone’s been kicking and rolling around on that rug.”

  Masterson nodded. “You’re right. It’s a good thing the maid didn’t come along and straighten the place up before you saw it, Arturo.”

  Hudson said worriedly, “That makes it sound as if Conrad has been abducted . . . or worse.”

  “Let’s stay with abducted for now,” Masterson suggested. “No sense in borrowing trouble. Let’s go back downstairs and talk to the rest of the staff.”

  When they reached the lobby, they found the clerk had rounded up eight more employees. Masterson began questioning them about anything unusual they might have seen the night before. One of the porters, an elderly black man, lifted a hand and said, “I seen a wagon in the alley behind the hotel, suh. You reckon that could be somethin’?”

  “What sort of wagon?” Masterson asked.

  “Just a plain ol’ ranch wagon. Had a pile of blankets tossed in the back.”

  A lot of things could be hidden under some blankets. Masterson glanced at Arturo and Hudson, and the expressions of all three said they knew that.

  “What time was this?”

  “’Long about . . . eleven o’clock, I’d say.”

  Masterson nodded to Arturo and Hudson. “That was after I left Conrad here.” He asked the porter, “I don’t suppose you recognized the man driving the wagon.”

  “No, suh, I’m afraid I didn’t. He was just some cowboy. I reckon he works for Mistuh McKinney.”

  “McKinney!” Arturo exclaimed.

  “Yes, suh. Mistuh Rance McKinney. I’ve seen him here at the hotel, meetin’ with important cattle buyers and such. Him and some other fellas on horses left outta here with that wagon I been tellin’ you about. And so’d the woman.”

  “What woman?” Masterson asked.

  The porter shook his head. “I never did see her face. She was ridin’ up front on the wagon seat, though. Had a coat with a hood on it, and the hood was pulled up so’s I couldn’t see her face.”

  Hudson said, “Rose Sullivan. It had to be.”

  Masterson nodded grimly. “And she’s in cahoots with McKinney now. Maybe she always was, for all we know.”

  “What are we going to do?” Arturo asked. It was clear to him that for some reason, McKinney had kidnapped Conrad.

  “I know the way to McKinney’s ranch,” Masterson said. “I think I need to take a ride out there and have a look around. Are the two of you coming along?”

  “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t do any good in a place like that,” Hudson said. “I’m strictly accustomed to being in the city. My arena is the courtroom.”

  “I understand.” Masterson turned to Arturo. “And you’ve got that bum wing—”

  “I don’t care,” Arturo said. “Just try and stop me from coming with you.”

  Masterson grinned. “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  Chapter 29

  The Kid followed the canyon’s twists and turns for more than half a mile. Once he was between its rocky walls, he couldn’t hear much from outside, so he didn’t know how close the search was getting. He concentrated on forcing his exhausted muscles to work and ignoring the pain in his feet.

  He spotted a narrow game trail, and the sight caused his heart to leap. Animals always knew where water was. The ordeal he’d been through had left him blistered and parched. The trail led deeper into the canyon, which was the way he wanted to go anyway, so he followed it.

  A few hundred yards later, he came to a place where brush grew thickly against the canyon’s left-hand wall. The game trail angled toward the spot. The vegetation and the trail told The Kid what he would find there, so he wasn’t surprised when he parted the bushes and saw a small pool of water that lay against the canyon wall where a
tiny spring bubbled out of the rock.

  The stone basin that formed the pool kept the water contained. He knelt carefully beside the pool and stretched out a hand toward the surface that seemed to shimmer, even though the sunlight didn’t strike directly on it in the narrow defile. He cupped a handful of water, brought it to his mouth, and let it trickle between his lips.

  He had never tasted anything so cold and delicious in his entire life.

  Throwing himself forward, he plunged his head into the pool. The icy shock of the water sent the blood pumping madly through his veins. He opened his mouth and gulped down a long drink. The bracing effect of it made some of his depleted strength return.

  It wasn’t easy, but he pushed himself away from the pool. He knew that if he drank too much, it would make him sick. Shaking the wet hair out of his eyes, he wiped his face, and turned around to unwind the rags from his feet. They were glued to his flesh by dried blood. He had to stick his feet into the pool to soak the cloth before he could work it loose.

  The cold water numbed his feet and brought blessed relief from the pain. He sat there soaking them for what seemed like a long time. Gradually he became aware of a soft current against his skin. He leaned forward to study the pool. When he saw how clear the water was, instead of fouled by the blood from his feet, he knew there had to be a crack in the rock that carried it away to some underground stream.

  It was Eden, The Kid thought in his exhausted half stupor. He had stumbled into paradise.

  His next thought was about Rance McKinney. Paradise always had to have a serpent in it, and in that case the low-down snake was McKinney. Lilith the temptress was there, too, in the person of Rose Sullivan.

  And if Satan was a woman, Pamela Tarleton fit the bill. Even dead, her hand stretched out to work its evil in his life.

  One at a time, The Kid pulled his feet out of the pool and examined them. The water had washed away all the dried blood and cleansed the cuts. Walking on them would just start the wounds bleeding again, he supposed. He would stay off them for as long as he could.