The Devil's Badland: The Loner (10 page)

The clerk stiffened, but he didn’t fight. “We’re taking the stairs,” The Kid went on. “Not a sound, you understand?”

The clerk jerked his head in a nod.

“Up you go,” The Kid said.

They climbed the stairs in near-silence. When they reached the landing at the top, The Kid took his hand away from the clerk’s mouth. “Don’t yell,” he warned. “This gun’s got a hair-trigger.”

It didn’t, but the clerk didn’t have to know that.

“There are four men staying here with a woman,” The Kid went on. “The leader’s a big man, with graying brown hair and a mustache. One of the other men is an albino. You know the bunch I’m talking about?”

It was possible that this wasn’t the hotel Pamela had meant, The Kid thought. But the clerk nodded. He licked lips that had gone dry with fear and husked, “They’re here, all right, mister. But I just rented ’em the rooms. If you got a grudge against ’em, I ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”

“Just tell me which rooms they’re in.”

The clerk pointed with a shaking finger. “Them two right down there at the end of the hall, across from each other. The woman on the right, the fellas on the left.”

“Are they in there now?”

“Hell if I know, mister. I don’t keep up with folks’ comin’s and goin’s.”

“All right. I reckon that’s all I need from you.”

The clerk started to relax. “Don’t you worry, mister, I know how to mind my own business—”

The Kid brought the gun up and chopped down with it. The barrel thudded against the clerk’s skull. The man’s knees buckled. The Kid caught him and lowered him silently to the threadbare carpet runner. He hadn’t hit the clerk hard enough to put him out for very long. But for a few minutes The Kid didn’t have to worry about the hombre raising a ruckus.

He knew that Pamela’s room was empty, since she was up at the Val Verde Hotel. With any luck, Anthony Tarleton and his hired gunmen would be in the other room, trying to figure out what to do now that their ambush had failed. The Kid cat-footed up to the door of that room and took his hat off so that he could place his ear against the panel. He listened for voices but didn’t hear anything. A lamp was burning in there, though. He could see the glow through the cracks around the poorly fitted door.

The knob was locked, he discovered when he wrapped the fingers of his left hand around it and tried to turn it silently. That left only one way in. The Kid backed off as much as he could in the narrow corridor, lifted his right leg, and lunged forward, driving his boot heel against the door beside the knob. The jamb splintered. The door flew open. The Kid went into the room low, ready to fire as he tracked the Colt from side to side.

The creaking of a floorboard behind him was the only warning he had before the roar of a shotgun crashed through the hallway.

That split-second of warning was enough. The Kid was already twisting aside as the scattergun belched fire and lead from across the hall, from the door of the room where Pamela had been held prisoner. He felt the sting as several of the balls scraped his leg and side, but the double load of buckshot hadn’t had room to spread out very much.

Since the man with the shotgun had fired both barrels, that meant the weapon was useless to him until he reloaded. The Kid didn’t intend to give him that much time.

He spun so hard that he lost his balance and went down on one knee. His left hand slapped against the floor to catch himself. His right brought the Colt up and he squeezed the trigger. The muzzle flame lit up the dim hall. In the glaring flash, The Kid saw a stocky figure in
charro
jacket and sombrero throwing aside the empty shotgun and clawing at a holstered revolver. The Mexican didn’t make it. The Kid’s bullet punched into his midsection. He doubled over and staggered back a couple of steps before collapsing.

The Kid surged up and sprang across the corridor. He had already seen for himself when he first charged into the room on the left that it was empty. The bitter realization that he had walked into yet another trap filled his mind for a second.

Frank Morgan wouldn’t have made a mistake like that. The Kid had plenty of gun-speed and guts. What he lacked was experience, and he was going to need luck to live long enough to gain that wisdom.

He would worry about that later, he told himself. He saw that the Mexican had one hand pressed to the wound that welled blood through his fingers, but the other hand was still trying to fumble that revolver free of its holster.

The Kid bent and jerked the gun away. He tossed it on the bed, then knelt beside the Mexican. Pressing the Colt’s barrel hard under the wounded man’s chin, he leaned over and said, “Listen to me, Vicente. You’ve got a bullet in your gut. You’re a dead man. Question is, will you die now…or five or six hours from now after you’ve gone through hell?”

Vicente blinked tear-filled eyes up at him. “You…you would spare me that pain…Señor?”

“Tell me where to find Anthony Tarleton,” The Kid said.

“He and Hogan…and Loomis…rode out,” Vicente gasped. “They left me here…in case you came looking for them. The señorita…
aiiieee
…” The spasm in his gut left the Mexican breathless with agony for a moment. Then he was able to resume, “The señorita…told you…where to find us…just as…just as…”

“Just as Tarleton expected,” The Kid finished. “Where were they going?”

Sweat beaded on Vicente’s face. He shook his head. “I don’t know…No one told me…”

The Kid heard loud voices downstairs. No one had come to check on the gunshots yet. It was the sort of place where people minded their own business. He knew that their curiosity would get the better of them in a minute or two, and then footsteps would sound on the stairs.

“How many men does Tarleton have? Just Hogan and Loomis?”

“No, Señor…Twelve more…camped outside of town.”

So the odds were more than a dozen to one. The Kid didn’t care. He would take on hundreds—thousands, if he had to—in order to avenge Rebel.

“Sorry you had to die, Vicente,” he said. “That’s what you get for throwing in with a man like Tarleton.”

“A man like…” The Mexican began to laugh.

Then he brought up the bloody hand that he had pressed to the wound in his belly. The Kid’s eyes caught a flash of light on cold steel. He realized that Vicente had slipped a knife from his belt, below the bullet hole. The Kid threw himself backward as the blade threatened to rip open his own belly.

The Colt in his hand roared and bucked again as the knife missed him by a whisker. Vicente’s head snapped back. There was a small black hole in his forehead, and a much larger one where the slug had blown out the back of his skull after boring through his brain. Blood and gray matter smeared the floor behind him.

Vincent had made it to hell quickly, all right, but he hadn’t managed to take The Kid with him.

The Kid stood up. He didn’t glance at the body again as he went into the room where Tarleton and the other men had been staying. He stalked over to the window and thrust the sash up. The clerk hadn’t gotten a look at him, and Vicente wasn’t going to be doing any talking. Even if Marshal Saul Winston bothered to investigate Vicente’s death, he wouldn’t find out much.

The Kid holstered his gun and threw a leg over the windowsill. He climbed out, hung by his hands, and then dropped the six feet or so to the ground.

He was in an alley behind Sloan’s, so he followed it back up the street toward the Val Verde Hotel. He had to cross the street to reach the hotel. As he paused at the corner of a building, he saw the marshal and his deputy hurrying toward Sloan’s. Winston had probably heard the shotgun go off and was going to see what the ruckus was about.

The lawman would be too late to do anything except fetch the undertaker for Vicente.

Disappointment gnawed at The Kid’s gut. He wished he’d been able to get the Mexican to talk. It was possible, though, that Vicente really didn’t know where Tarleton and the others had gone. The Kid would have to find the spot where the rest of the gunmen had been camped and pick up the trail there.

When Winston and Carey were out of sight, The Kid walked across the street to the hotel. He used the back stairs again to reach his room. As he paused in the corridor, he glanced at the door of Pamela’s room. He wanted to make sure she was all right, but he couldn’t very well knock on her door looking like this. A faint smile curved his lips as he thought about what her reaction might be to the sight of Kid Morgan.

Five minutes later, with The Kid’s outfit back in the carpetbag, wearing an expensive dressing gown, Conrad Browning rapped softly on Pamela’s door. He heard her sleepy murmur from within the room. “Who is it?”

“Conrad,” he said. “Are you all right, Pamela?”

“Of course.” She sounded more wide awake now. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason. I just wanted to check on you before I turned in.”

He heard a step on the other side of the door. The key rattled in the lock, and then the door opened a couple of inches. Pamela looked out at him, her green eyes still drowsy. “I’m fine, Conrad,” she said. “It’s sweet of you to be so thoughtful.”

The door eased open a little more. Conrad saw an appealing stretch of bare shoulder and arm. He suddenly found himself wondering if she was wearing anything.

He forced that thought out of his head and gave her a curt nod. “Well, I’ll say good night, then. Again.”

“Good night, Conrad,” Pamela said. She was clearly puzzled by this late night visit and his attitude, but she didn’t say anything else. The door clicked shut behind Conrad as he turned toward his room.

It had been a violent, eventful day. He was tired.

And yet, as he often did, he lay in bed for a long time, staring up at the ceiling of the darkened room, before sleep finally came to him.

After a restless night with too many of the familiar nightmares, he woke up in the morning, dressed, and went along the hall to Pamela’s room. She answered his knock immediately. Even wearing the dress she’d had on the day before, she looked better than any woman had a right to this early in the morning, Conrad thought. In fact, the only woman he had ever known who looked better first thing in the morning was—

He caught his breath, forced himself not to think about that, and smiled. “How are you?” he asked.

“Fine. I slept better than I have in weeks, thanks to you.” As if realizing how that might sound, she went on hastily, “I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” Conrad said. “Are you ready for some breakfast?”

“Oh, yes. And then what are we going to do?”

She came out into the hall and closed the door behind her. Conrad took her arm and led her toward the stairs. He said, “We’re going to the general store, as I mentioned last night, and once we’ve taken care of that, we’ll go to the train station and see about getting you a ticket on the next eastbound train.”

Pamela stopped and frowned at him. “You mean I’m leaving?”

“There’s no reason for you to stay here, now that you’re free of your uncle and his gunmen,” Conrad pointed out.

“But…you’re here.”

He shook his head. “Not for long.”

“You’re going to confront Uncle Anthony?”

Conrad realized he had said too much. Pamela wasn’t stupid. Her eyes widened with understanding when he didn’t reply.

“You’ve already gone after him, haven’t you?” She clutched his arm. “Conrad, did…did you kill him?”

“I didn’t see your uncle. I found the hotel where you’d been staying, but he and his men were already gone.”

He didn’t see any point in telling her about the shootout with Vicente. With any luck, he could get her out of Val Verde before she even heard about that. He hoped there would be an eastbound train coming through today.

“But you’re going to try to find him, aren’t you?” she asked grimly. “You won’t rest until you track him down.”

“He’s responsible for Rebel’s death,” Conrad said. “You don’t think I can just forget about that, do you? Not to mention the fact that he held you prisoner and threatened to kill you, too.”

Pamela dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “Uncle Anthony may have threatened me, but he never would have really hurt me. At least, I don’t believe he would have.”

“What about those gunmen working for him? If something had happened to him, how do you think
they
would have treated you?”

Her face paled as she considered that possibility. “You’re right,” she admitted. Her fingers tightened on his arm. “Still, you’re no match for those men. I don’t mean to offend you, Conrad, dear, but you’re simply not.”

Conrad, dear
…It had been a long time since she had called him that. The term must have slipped out from habit, since any romance between them was long since over.

“If you’re bound and determined to see this through,” she continued, “you should at least get your father’s help. Send for Frank Morgan and stay here until he arrives, Conrad.”

He shook his head. “I’ll handle this as I see fit,” he said, not bothering to keep the harsh tone out of his voice.

“You always were an infuriatingly stubborn man,” Pamela said. Her voice was cool now. “Very well. At least if you insist on getting yourself killed,
I
won’t have any part in it. I’m grateful to you for that, anyway.”

With that new air of tension between them, they went on downstairs and into the dining room. Conrad ordered breakfast for both of them.

They didn’t talk much during the meal. Conrad was lingering over his coffee while Pamela finished her food, when pounding hoofbeats in the street outside caught his attention. He looked up, glancing through the front window in time to see a wagon race in front of the hotel, careening along barely under control.

Unless Conrad was mistaken, Rory MacTavish was at the reins, slashing the team with the lines and urging them on.

Conrad came quickly to his feet. Pamela saw the look of alarm on his face.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, “but Rory MacTavish just drove by in the family’s wagon, whipping the horses for all they’re worth.”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with you,” Pamela pointed out.

“I know. But they treated me well.”

“Only because
you
helped
them
.”

Conrad started for the dining room door. Behind him, Pamela called his name, but he ignored her. He knew logically that she was right, that whatever trouble had befallen the MacTavishes now, it was none of his affair. He had responsibilities of his own, such as tracking down Anthony Tarleton.

But once again, he couldn’t help but think that Rebel would want him to help them if he could.

He strode quickly through the lobby and out of the hotel. The wagon had come a stop down the street, in front of one of the houses. The youngster’s bright red hair was unmistakable. Rory had hopped down from the seat and was at the back of the wagon, watching anxiously as several men lifted someone from the wagon bed. As Conrad hurried closer, he saw that the man being taken from the vehicle was Hamish MacTavish.

A bloody bandage was wrapped around Hamish’s midsection. Conrad saw a sign hanging on a post in the front yard announcing that the house was where Dr. Edward Churchill practiced medicine. The townsmen who had responded to Rory’s frantic calls for help carried Hamish up onto the porch, where a middle-aged man with gray hair waited.

“Take him inside and put him on the bed in the front room,” the man instructed. The townies disappeared into the house with their burden.

Rory would have followed, but Conrad had caught up to him. He stopped the boy with a hand on the shoulder. Rory jerked around to face him, wide-eyed with fear and shock.

“Rory,” Conrad said. He put enough urgency in his voice to break through the emotions that held Rory in their grip. “Rory, what happened?”

“Pa’s been shot!”

“I could see that.” Conrad took hold of Rory’s other shoulder. “Who did it?”

“I don’t know! They…they attacked the place in the middle of the night! Shootin’ and yellin’…they set the barn on fire…Pa and James ran out to try to stop them, but Pa got hit!”

“What about James? Was he hurt?”

Rory shook his head. “Not then. I don’t know about now.”

That made no sense to Conrad, but he figured he could sort it out as he went along. “How about Margaret?”

“Meggie’s gone!”

Conrad resisted the impulse to shake the boy. Rory was so scared and upset, it was a wonder he was making any sense at all. Still, Conrad had to find out exactly what had happened before he could start figuring out what to do about it.

“Listen to me, Rory. Listen to me. You have to tell me what happened. Take a deep breath, and start at the beginning.”

Tears trickled down Rory’s cheeks. He gulped and then took a deep breath, as Conrad had told him to do. “It was the middle of the night, like I said,” he began. “When the shootin’ started, we looked out and saw that the barn was on fire. Pa told me to stay inside with Meggie. He and James ran outside and started shootin’ at the men. Pa was hit, and James dragged him behind the smokehouse. That was the closest cover.”