The Devil's Badland: The Loner (9 page)

“Are you plannin’ on stayin’ in Val Verde long?” Winston asked, his voice cool.

“I don’t know. I suppose that depends on what else happens.”

“Don’t take it inhospitable-like, but if trouble’s got a habit of followin’ you around, maybe it’d be best if you moved on elsewhere.”

A tight smile tugged at Conrad’s mouth. That was exactly the sort of thing that lawmen usually said to his father, Frank Morgan, the notorious Drifter.

He supposed the apple really didn’t fall too far from the tree.

“Thank you for letting me know about Father Francisco, Marshal.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome, I reckon.” Winston clapped his hat on. There was nothing left to say to Conrad, so he jerked his head at his deputy and said, “Come on, Pete.”

When the two star packers were gone, Conrad sat down across from Pamela. She leaned forward and said, “I’ve caused you a great deal of trouble, haven’t I?”

Conrad shook his head. “You just played a small part in it, and most of that was against your will. The person who really caused the trouble is your uncle.”

“And it’s not over, Conrad. You don’t think Uncle Anthony will give up just because of what happened tonight, do you? He’ll still be coming after you.”

“Good,” Conrad said. “Because I still have a score to settle with him, too.”

Conrad asked Pamela where she had been staying. “There’s another hotel here in town,” she explained. “Not nearly as nice as this one, but Uncle Anthony didn’t want to call any attention to us.” An embarrassed flush spread across her face. “He allowed the proprietor to think that he and I were…well, that I was his mistress.”

“One more mark against him,” Conrad snapped. “You can’t go back there, of course. We’ll get you a room here. What about Hogan and the rest of the gunmen?”

“They’re staying there, too.”

“How many are there?”

“All I ever saw were Hogan and two other men. I can’t say for certain there aren’t more somewhere else.”

More gunmen could be camped somewhere outside of the settlement, Conrad supposed. But that didn’t really matter. If they weren’t with Anthony Tarleton all the time, he probably didn’t need to worry about them.

Pamela reached across the table and clasped his hand. It was an unself-conscious gesture, totally spontaneous. “Conrad, what are you going to do?”

“First of all, I’ll make sure that you’re safe, that you don’t have to take part in any more of your uncle’s sick, twisted games. Then I’m going after him.”

Pamela began shaking her head before Conrad even finished his answer. “You can’t do that. They’ll kill you. You should let the law handle it.”

“You mean Marshal Winston and his deputy?” Conrad laughed. “You saw them, Pamela. They might be able to handle some drunken cowboys blowing off steam on a Saturday night, but they’re not any match for hired killers like Hogan.”

“And
you
are?” Pamela shook her head again. “I don’t mean to insult you, I truly don’t, and I know that you’ve changed since we last met…but you’re still Conrad Browning. You’re a businessman, not a gunfighter.”

She didn’t know about Kid Morgan, Conrad thought. But then, not many people
did
know about the connection between him and the gunman known as Kid Morgan or just The Kid.

“I can take care of myself,” he said. He put the same sort of arrogance into the declaration that the Conrad Browning who’d been engaged to Pamela would have displayed. “Don’t worry about me.”

“But I do worry about you, Conrad,” she insisted as her fingers tightened on his hand. “You’ve already been hurt enough. I…I don’t want to see anything else happen to you.”

He was touched by her concern. She might not look any different, but it seemed that she had grown up over the past few years. Tragedy had changed her, just as it had him.

“Well,” he said, “I won’t do anything tonight. And we’ll discuss the situation again before I make any sort of move. All right?”

“Perhaps you should send for your father,” Pamela suggested.

Conrad shook his head. He knew that Frank would be glad to help him. He had said as much when Conrad last saw him in San Francisco, in the office of their lawyer Claudius Turnbuckle.

But the days of Conrad running to Frank Morgan for help were over and done with. Frank knew that and respected it. The fact that Conrad didn’t need him as much just strengthened the bond between father and son.

“We’ll talk again in the morning,” he said as he got to his feet. He held Pamela’s chair for her as she stood. They left the dining room and went into the lobby. Rowlett was in his usual spot behind the desk.

“How are you, Mr. Browning?” the hotel man asked. “I heard there was more trouble.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle, Mr. Rowlett.” Conrad nodded toward Pamela. “Miss Tarleton needs a room. I hope you can accommodate her.”

“Of course.” Rowlett chuckled. “The hotel does a good business, but we’re rarely full up. Not in a town like Val Verde.” He moved the registration book toward Pamela. “If you’d just sign in, miss.”

“I’ll be taking care of the bill,” Conrad said as Pamela took the pen from the inkwell.

She looked sharply at him. “That’s not necessary.”

“I insist.” Conrad gave Rowlett a stern look as the man’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Miss Tarleton and I are old friends.”

“Yes, sir, of course. None of my business, Mr. Browning. That’s a lesson you learn mighty quick in the hotel business.”

Conrad felt a prickle of irritation at Rowlett’s smug attitude and the assumption the hotelkeeper had obviously made. Going on about it would just be protesting too much, though, and would probably only strengthen Rowlett’s suspicions.

Let the man think whatever he damned well pleased, Conrad decided. He was long past the point himself where he gave a damn what anyone thought about him.

“Just give Miss Tarleton her key,” Conrad said in a stony voice once Pamela had signed in.

“You’ll, uh, want her room near yours, I reckon…”

Resisting the impulse to reach across the desk, grab the man by the collar, and shake some respect into him, Conrad said, “That doesn’t matter.”

In fact, he did want Pamela’s room near his, but only for the sake of her safety. Now that she had escaped from her uncle, Anthony Tarleton might guess that she was at the hotel with Conrad. He could send men to kidnap her and take her back to him.

Tarleton wouldn’t get away with kidnapping any more women. Conrad made that vow to himself.

To make sure it didn’t happen, he intended to strike first, no matter what he had told Pamela.

Rowlett handed over a key. “Room Eleven. It’s a couple of doors down from Mr. Browning’s.”

“That’ll be fine,” Conrad said. He took Pamela’s arm and led her toward the stairs.

As they climbed to the second floor, he went on, “I’m sorry you had to abandon all your things at the other place. We’ll go to the store and get you everything you need tomorrow.”

“Conrad,” she said with a soft laugh, “you’re sweet, but surely you don’t really think that a general store in a town like Val Verde will have
everything
that a lady needs.”

She hadn’t changed completely. She still had a touch of superiority about her. Conrad hadn’t really expected otherwise.

“We’ll do the best we can,” he promised. “Until you can get to a bigger town.”

He took the key from her as they approached the door of her room. There was no reason to worry about an ambush here, he told himself. Anthony Tarleton couldn’t be sure where Pamela was, and he couldn’t possibly have found out already which room was hers.

Still, Conrad made sure that his right hand wasn’t far from the butt of his gun as he unlocked and opened the door.

The room was empty. Conrad lit the lamp. He turned back to Pamela and said, “Tell me what your uncle looks like.”

“Why?” she asked with a puzzled frown.

“So that I’ll recognize him if I happen to see him,” Conrad said. He didn’t add that he fully intended to see Anthony Tarleton just as soon as possible. “He may still be here in town.”

“That’s true,” Pamela admitted. “He’s a big man, a powerful man. He’s worked all over the world. He has brown hair, starting to go gray, and a mustache. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you about him.”

“What about Hogan?”

“Medium-sized. Balding. He’d be a rather handsome man if not for a bad scar down the left side of his face.”

“What about the other two gunmen?”

“One is a Mexican called Vicente. The other is a man named Loomis. You’ll know him right away if you see him. He’s an albino.” Pamela shuddered slightly. “I hate to look at him. He reminds me of some creature you’d find under a rock.”

Conrad nodded. He would know his enemies now if he saw them. Which he intended to do, soon.

“I’m in Room Seven, if you need me,” he told Pamela. “Don’t hesitate to call on me.”

She smiled at him. “You’ve been remarkably considerate, Conrad, considering the history between us.”

“So have you,” he said. Even though her father had been a criminal, his death must have been painful for her. It wasn’t unreasonable for her to think that he and Frank had been partially responsible for what happened—although Conrad himself didn’t feel that way and never would. Clark Tarleton had made his own bed.

Pamela moved closer to him. Her head tilted back slightly so she could look into his eyes. She said, “Conrad, I know this isn’t the time or place—”

He didn’t let her go any further. “No, it’s not,” he said. He saw the brief flare of hurt in her eyes. It couldn’t be helped. In an odd way, he was glad to see her again. She was a link to his past, and yet he would never be able to think of her without thinking of Rebel as well.

And thinking too much about Rebel was just too damned painful.

Pamela swallowed hard. “I guess this is good night, then.”

“Yes,” Conrad agreed. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t worry about anything.”

She summoned up a smile. “I won’t.”

Conrad had left the door open. He turned and put his hat on as he left the room. He eased the door closed behind him, glad that he didn’t have to look at Pamela anymore. Beautiful though she might be, she was a painful reminder of his past and everything he had lost.

Maybe things would be different tomorrow, he thought.

By tomorrow morning—by the time he saw her again—he would have settled things,
El Señor Dios
willing.

And her uncle would be dead, just like her father. The only difference was that Anthony Tarleton was going to die by Conrad Browning’s hand.

Or rather, by the hand of Kid Morgan.

As soon as he was inside his room, Conrad unbuckled the plain black gunbelt, took off his boots, and began stripping off the sober gray tweed business suit he wore. When he was down to the bottom half of a pair of long underwear, he opened his bag and took out denim trousers and a fringed buckskin shirt. He unwrapped the shirt from around a brown gunbelt and buscadero holster.

Conrad pulled on the trousers and strapped the gunbelt around his hips. He took the Colt Peacemaker from the black holster and settled it in the one he wore now. The buckskin shirt went over his head. He took a hat from the bag. It had been flattened to fit in the bag, but it took him only a moment to punch it back into shape and put it on. The brown felt hat had a broad brim and a flat crown. The last thing he took from the bag was a red-checked bandanna that he tied around his neck. Then he stepped back into the high-topped black boots he’d been wearing before. As he turned toward the door, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the dresser.

With the broad brim of the hat pulled down to shield his face, no one would recognize him from a distance. Conrad Browning had returned to life for a while, but now he was dead again.

Long live Kid Morgan.

The Kid took the hotel’s rear stairs so he wouldn’t have to deal with Rowlett’s curiosity. He slipped into the alley out back and walked toward Val Verde’s main street. Even his walk was a little different, a bold stride that proclaimed he would back down from no man.

Pamela had said there was another hotel in the settlement. Conrad hadn’t noticed it while he was there—but The Kid intended to find it.

He walked along the street, checking the buildings he passed. He held out a hand to stop the first man he encountered and asked in a gruff voice, “Is there a hotel around here?”

The man swayed a little. The smell of whiskey came from him as he answered, “Yeah, the Val Verde Hotel. Right up the street.”

“No, another one,” The Kid said. “I’m not partial to anything that fancy.”

The man turned and indicated a building in the next block. “Go down to Sloan’s, then.” He chuckled. “Nothin’ fancy about that place, but Sloan’ll rent you a room if he’s got any empty ones.”

“Obliged,” The Kid said with a curt nod.

The townie called after him, “From what I hear, if you stay at Sloan’s, you’ll have company. Lots of little, crawlin’ company.”

The Kid’s jaw tightened. The idea of Pamela being forced to stay in a place like that rubbed him the wrong way. She must have been miserable.

He walked on and found the place he was looking for, a ramshackle frame building that looked like it would be drafty. The sort of place where sand would get in and grate constantly underfoot. A crudely lettered sign read SLOAN’S—ROOMS FOR RENT—BEER.

It was half saloon, half hotel from the looks of it. Lights still burned on the lower floor, but the upper story was dark.

The Kid circled the building, looking for a rear door. He found one, but it was locked. He grasped the knob, put his shoulder against the panel, and shoved hard as he twisted the knob. He could have kicked it open, but that would have made too much noise. Instead he kept up the pressure, and after a minute, the door gave with a small, splintering sound. With luck, no one up front had heard it.

The Kid eased inside and found himself in a dark hallway. He drew his gun and moved toward the front of the building. The floor was gritty with sand, just as he expected.

He reached an arched doorway with a dimly lit room beyond it. Staying back where the glow wouldn’t reach him, he studied the room and saw that it was a dusty, shabby hotel lobby. To the right, another door led into the saloon part of the establishment. The Kid heard the clink of glasses and bottles and a few voices, all of them male.

He edged forward and risked a glance into the lobby. A sleepy-looking clerk dozed behind the desk. No one else was in the lobby.

The stairs were on the other side of the desk. The Kid couldn’t reach them without going past the clerk. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a double eagle. Crouching, he reached around the edge of the door and, with a flick of his wrist, rolled the coin along the floor.

The gold piece rolled right under the stool where the clerk sat and came to a clinking, clattering stop against the first step in the staircase. The sound roused the clerk from his half-slumber. He looked around, blinking in puzzlement. Then his gaze lit on the coin. Like a flash, he was off the stool, hurrying over to pick up the double eagle.

A couple of long, swift strides brought The Kid right up behind him. The Colt’s barrel dug into the man’s back as The Kid’s left hand reached around and clamped over his mouth. Leaning close, The Kid breathed into his ear, “Don’t make any commotion, or I’ll blow your backbone in two.”