The Devil's Badland: The Loner (11 page)

Conrad nodded encouragingly. Rory was telling a coherent story now, and he wanted the boy to continue.

Rory took another deep breath. “Some of the men charged the dugout. I couldn’t stop ’em, and neither could James. They got inside, and I thought for sure they were gonna kill me. But one of them just walloped me and knocked me out.” He gestured toward an ugly bruise on his face. “I heard Meggie screamin’…and when I came to, she was gone. James said they dragged her out and took her with them.”

Horror filled Conrad. Another innocent young woman carried off by killers. It made him sick to think about it.

“James tried to stop ’em, but there were too many of them,” Rory continued. “He had to duck back behind the smokehouse to keep them from filling him full of lead. As it was, he got creased a couple of times.”

“You said the men came into the dugout. Did you get a good look at any of them?”

Rory hesitated. “Not really,” he said. “We hadn’t lit any lamps, so it was dark in there. And I think they had bandannas over their faces.” His voice took on a fierce tone. “But they were Devil Dave’s men. They had to be. Nobody else around here would’ve done such a terrible thing.”

As far as Conrad knew, Rory was right about that. Whitfield was the only real enemy the MacTavish family had. Whitfield and Jack Trace had been forced to back down here in Val Verde the day before. That would have eaten at them, especially the arrogant gunman, Trace. Conrad could easily imagine Trace talking Whitfield into the raid on the MacTavish ranch.

“What happened after that?”

“We…we had to take care of Pa. We carried him back in the dugout, and we stopped the bleedin’ as best we could and bandaged him up. Then James said…” Rory swallowed. “James said he was goin’ after Meggie and for me to bring Pa to town and get him to the doc. That’s what I did.”

“James went after the men who raided your place? By himself?”

“Yeah. There was nobody else to help us.”

The words didn’t carry any tone of accusation, but Conrad felt a twinge of guilt, anyway. He wished he could have been there to lend a hand to the MacTavishes.

But he’d had plenty of trouble on his own plate the night before.

“You said you didn’t get a good look at the men. How did James know where to go? Or did he wait and follow their trail this morning?”

Rory shook his head. “No, he left before sun-up. He was goin’ straight to the Circle D. He said he knew that’s where he would find Meggie.”

If that was true, then Whitfield and his men, including Trace, were probably waiting for James MacTavish. James might be dead by now, shot to pieces by Trace and the rest of Whitfield’s gun-wolves.

But maybe, just maybe, there was a chance James was still alive.

“You go on inside now,” Conrad told the boy. “I’m sure the doctor will take care of your father to the best of his ability.”

“You look like you’re gonna do something, Mr. Browning.”

“I am,” Conrad said. “I’m going out to Whitfield’s ranch and do whatever I can to help your brother. If your sister is there, we’ll get her back. You have my word on that, Rory.”

After getting directions to the Circle D from Rory, Conrad headed back to the hotel. He saw Pamela waiting on the porch for him.

“What’s happened?” she asked him as he went up the steps.

“Hamish MacTavish has been shot,” he replied, “and his daughter Margaret was kidnapped.”

“Dear Lord! I’m sorry to hear that.” She frowned at him. “You’re not going after her, are you?”

Conrad nodded. “I am.”

Pamela put a hand on his arm. “Conrad, you should leave this to the law. It’s not your place to go chasing after a bunch of—” She stopped short as a look of horror appeared on her face. “Oh, my God. It’s almost like…”

Her voice trailed off as if she couldn’t bring herself to go on.

“That’s right,” Conrad said with a grim nod. “Margaret MacTavish doesn’t deserve what’s happening to her any more than Rebel did.”

Pamela tightened her grip on his arm. “But you’re not married to this MacTavish girl. I understand why you feel sorry for her, but it’s not your responsibility to go off and get killed trying to help her!”

Conrad pulled away from her. “I’m not going to get killed.”

“Can you guarantee that?”

“There are no guarantees in life, Pamela. You know that.”

“All too well,” she said with a bitter edge in her voice. “I once thought my happiness was guaranteed, but look how
that
turned out.”

Conrad turned away. There was nothing he could do to change the past. He said, “I’m sorry I can’t see about putting you on an eastbound train. I’m sure you can handle that for yourself.”

“Of course,” Pamela said coldly. “I’m used to doing things for myself now. I had to learn when I lost my father
and
my fiancé.”

Conrad refused to give in to the guilt she was trying to make him feel. He strode into the hotel and headed up the stairs.

When he went back down a minute later, he was carrying the carpetbag in which he had the clothes he wore as Kid Morgan. He didn’t see Pamela in the lobby or the dining room and was grateful for that. He didn’t want to waste any more time in useless argument with her.

He left Val Verde a short time later in the buggy. The hostler at the livery stable had tied the buckskin behind the vehicle, as Conrad requested. He didn’t know if he would need the saddle horse, or his other clothes, but he would be ready if he did.

Dave Whitfield’s spread was east of the MacTavish place. Conrad veered in that direction when he passed a spire of rock that split about halfway up, the first landmark Rory had told him. He followed the directions the boy had given him and after a couple of hours, he knew he ought to be getting close to the Circle D.

It had been hours since James MacTavish had ridden over there. Conrad had a bad feeling that whatever was going to happen—had already happened.

Because of that pessimism, he was a little surprised a short time later when he heard gunshots popping in the distance. He slapped the reins against the buggy horse’s rump, urging him on to greater speed. If there was a chance James MacTavish was still alive, there was no time to waste.

Conrad knew he was on Circle D range by now. He came to a narrow creek that twisted through some rolling hills. According to Rory, if he followed it, it would lead him to the ranch headquarters.

The gunfire grew louder over the next ten minutes. Conrad sent the buggy up a rise. It sounded like some of the shots were coming from just over the crest. As he topped the rise, he was already reining in, hauling the big black to a halt. He reached down and plucked the Winchester from the floorboards as he caught sight of a cloud of powdersmoke hanging over a cluster of boulders. Someone in there was firing at a number of buildings spread out along the creek about two hundred yards down the hill.

Conrad had no doubt the hidden rifleman was James MacTavish. He also knew that James was in more trouble than he realized.

A group of riders had just burst from some trees along the rise to the right and were about to close in on James from that direction.

Conrad leaped from the buggy and ran to a nearby pine tree. He leaned against the trunk and brought the rifle to his shoulder. As the horsebackers opened fire on the boulders, Conrad began squeezing off shots in their direction.

He aimed in front of the galloping riders. As his bullets began to kick up dust, the men instinctively yanked on their horses’ reins in surprise. One of the animals got its legs tangled and went down, spilling its rider. The man’s companions had to swerve wildly around him to prevent their mounts from trampling him.

As the riders became aware that the man in the boulders wasn’t alone, some of them turned their guns toward Conrad. He ducked behind the tree as bullets chewed pine bark from the trunk, which wasn’t really wide enough to protect him.

Luckily, James MacTavish—or whoever was in the boulders—took advantage of the opportunity to throw some lead toward the men on horseback. As that blunted their charge even more, Conrad dashed behind the rocks.

Sure enough, James was the man who was holed up there. He glanced at Conrad and exclaimed, “What the hell! You again?” Then he cranked the lever of his Winchester and continued firing at the riders, who were trying to circle around the boulders to get a better shot at him and Conrad.

Conrad crouched behind one of the rocks and joined James in peppering Whitfield’s men. He assumed they were from the Circle D. Under the circumstances, he couldn’t think of anybody else who’d be trying to kill James.

The riders broke off their attack and wheeled their horses, heading back into the trees. Two men in the boulders were considerably harder to root out. The gunmen had been taking advantage of the fact that James wasn’t able to fire in two directions at once. Now Conrad could cover his back.

“Looks like they’re gonna give us a little breath-in’ room,” James commented as he lowered his rifle. He took a handful of cartridges from his pocket and started thumbing them into the Winchester’s loading gate. He went on, “Maybe you’ll have time to tell me what in blazes you’re doin’ here, Browning.”

“Saving your sorry hide, from the looks of it,” Conrad replied. “That was a damn-fool stunt, taking on Whitfield and all of his men by yourself. Don’t you think your family deserves better than to have you commit suicide that way?”

James bared his teeth in a grimace. “I’m still alive and fightin’, ain’t I?”

“Yes, but you might not be by now if I hadn’t shown up when I did to give you a hand.”

“You don’t know that,” James snapped. He frowned. “If you’re out here, you must’ve seen Rory in town. Is…is my pa still alive?”

“He was when they carried him into Dr. Churchill’s house,” Conrad said. “But that was a couple of hours ago.”

James sighed. “He was hit bad. I didn’t know if he’d even make it to town.”

Conrad nodded toward the bloody bandages tied around James’s upper left arm and right thigh. “Rory told me you were wounded, too.”

“These are nothin’ but scratches,” James said with a disgusted snort. “They didn’t stop me from ridin’ over here and havin’ a showdown with Dave Whitfield.”

Dryly, Conrad pointed out, “I see that you’re holed up in these rocks, and you don’t have your sister with you.”

“The bastards claim they don’t have her. They say they don’t know anything about that raid on our ranch last night.” James spat. “The lyin’ sons o’ bitches.”

No shots were coming from the ranch buildings at the moment. Conrad risked a look. He didn’t see anyone moving around down there.

“While we’ve got a chance, why don’t you tell me what happened this morning?” he suggested. “To be honest, I figured I’d find you dead when I got here. I thought you’d go riding in with guns blazing and get yourself shot to pieces.”

James snorted. “I reckon that’s what would’ve happened…if I was the idiot you make me out to be. I knew these rocks have a good view of Whitfield’s place. I hid up here, waited until one of his hired killers was walkin’ outside, and plugged the no-good bastard.”

“You murdered a man from ambush?” Conrad asked.

“Hell, no. I just winged him.” There was a note of pride in James’s voice as he added, “I’m a damn good shot.”

“What did that accomplish?”

“It got their attention, didn’t it? When some other hombres ran out to see what the shootin’ was about, I made ’em dance by puttin’ bullets around their feet. They ducked back into cover mighty quick-like. Every time one of them stuck his head out after that, I parted his hair for him. They could see I meant business. Once the fella I’d wounded had crawled back inside the barn, I hollered down to Whitfield and told him to let Meggie go, or I’d keep them bottled up there and pick them off one by one.”

“And Whitfield claimed he didn’t have Margaret.” Conrad’s words were a statement, not a question.

“That’s right. What kind of damn fool does he take me for? Who else could have carried her off?”

That was a good question, but Conrad was starting to wonder if there might not be an answer to it.

“When those men raided your ranch last night, did you get a good look at any of them?”

He had asked the same question of Rory, and gotten the same answer. James frowned and said, “Not really. I was too busy duckin’ bullets and tryin’ to kill some of the bastards.”

“Then you didn’t recognize any of them as being Whitfield’s men.”

“Well…no. But who the hell else could it have been?”

Conrad didn’t try to answer that just yet. Instead, he said, “So Whitfield claimed he and his men didn’t attack your ranch and didn’t kidnap your sister?”

“That’s what I just said, ain’t it?” James responded irritably.

“Did he offer to let you come down there and take a look around, so you could see for yourself that Margaret’s not there?”

“As a matter of fact, he did. But I knew it was a trick, so I told him to go to hell. They would have blown me to pieces the second I stepped out into the open.”

Unfortunately, that might have been true, since James had shot down one of Whitfield’s men from ambush. Conrad closed his eyes for a second and tried not to sigh in exasperation. James’s muleheaded refusal to admit that he might have jumped to the wrong conclusion had done more harm than good.

Plus, it had been stupid of him in the first place to come charging over here alone when Whitfield had a whole crew of tough cowboys and hired gunmen. Taking them by surprise had given James a momentary advantage and kept him alive that long, but it wasn’t going to last. Probably at that very moment, more of Whitfield’s men were trying to circle around and get the drop on him.

And he had plunked himself right down in that same boat, Conrad realized. He and James were trapped there.

A fresh volley of shots from the ranch headquarters reinforced that point. Bullets hummed and sang in the air around the boulders. Some of them ricocheted, adding high-pitched whines to the racket. All Conrad and James could do was keep their heads down and hope that none of the slugs found them.

As Conrad crouched there, he realized that this barrage might have another goal besides just possibly killing them. Whitfield could be trying to distract them so that some of his men could sneak up on the rocks and capture them.

No sooner had that thought gone through Conrad’s mind than the guns abruptly fell silent. He began, “Look out, James, they’re going to rush—”

Boots pounded against the ground even as Conrad started to voice the warning. With a grunt of effort, a man bounded on top of one of the boulders and launched himself in a flying tackle at James. They crashed together. Both men went down.

Conrad heard harsh breath right behind him. He tried to twist around to meet the threat, but he made it only halfway before a heavy body collided with his and smashed him back against the rock. Pain shot through his ribs. The impact drove the breath from his lungs and left him gasping for air.

He realized he had dropped his gun. He brought his fist up and felt it hit hard against bone, probably his assailant’s jaw. The punch rocked the man back a step and knocked his hat off. Conrad got a good look at his face and recognized him as one of the men who had been with Whitfield in Val Verde the day before.

Although still shaken and breathless, Conrad brought his left fist around in a hard, crossing blow that jerked his opponent’s head the other way. He hooked a right into the man’s belly, doubling him over. The man was in perfect position for a left uppercut, but Conrad didn’t get the chance to throw it.

Another man tackled him from behind. He fell forward. His legs tangled with those of the first man. All three of them sprawled on the ground. Conrad was on the bottom, the weight of both his enemies crushing him.

Some of that weight disappeared as James MacTavish roared a curse. Conrad figured that James had disposed of the man who’d jumped him and was lending a hand to his reluctant ally. Using his hands and knees, Conrad heaved himself to the side, and threw off the man who had tackled him.

He turned the move into a roll that carried him into the open. As he looked up, he saw half a dozen men surrounding him and James. They had no chance against numbers like that. The smart thing would be to surrender and hope that Whitfield’s men wouldn’t kill them. That was his best chance of surviving in order to continue his quest for vengeance against Anthony Tarleton.

Unfortunately, in the heat of battle Conrad wasn’t thinking that much about being smart. He was filled with anger—anger at Whitfield and the MacTavishes for their damned feud, at the men who were closing in to pound and stomp him into submission, at himself for getting mixed up in this mess to start with.

That fury burst out of him as he surged up off the ground with a yell and waded into his enemies, swinging punches right and left.

The feel of his fists smashing into their faces sent a savage exultation through him. At the exclusive university he had attended back east, he had listened to languid professors who had never been in a fight in their lives debate the fundamental nature of mankind. Back then, Conrad had been just as arch and pretentious as they were.

But he had learned. He knew why the barbarians had enjoyed the ultimate triumph in every clash down through the ages—what civilized man simply could not comprehend; that in order to survive, sometimes you have to smash your enemy before he can smash you. The barbarians knew that. The knowledge was in their bone and muscle and blood.