The Devil's Badland: The Loner (12 page)

And Conrad knew that, too—or rather, Kid Morgan did. Every time blood spurted from an opponent’s nose as The Kid’s knuckles flattened it, every time a man grunted in pain as The Kid’s fist sunk wrist-deep in his belly, every time fists and feet smashed into him and he ignored the pain because he simply wouldn’t let himself fall, wouldn’t allow himself to lose…those moments were like rousing from a long sleep and being truly awake and alive for the first time in ages. Maybe ever.

Aching and battered, blood dripping from his mouth and nose, swaying with exhaustion, Conrad found himself still on his feet, with four men sprawled on the ground around him, stunned and only semi-conscious. James MacTavish was still upright, too, having accounted for two more men. He stared at Conrad and said, “My God, man, where’d you learn to fight like that?”

Conrad knew he had always known how to fight like that. It had just taken tragedy, hatred, and outrage to wake him up to the fact.

He didn’t have the time to explain that to James. Instead, he started looking around for his gun, saying, “More of Whitfield’s men will be here any minute—”

The metallic sound of a gun being cocked stopped him. A voice drawled, “No, Browning, we’re already here.”

Conrad looked up and saw Jack Trace standing about twenty feet away, along with half a dozen more of Whitfield’s hired guns. All of them had their revolvers drawn and leveled at Conrad and James.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” Trace went on, “but I’ve got to admit, I’m glad you’re here. Whitfield told us to bring MacTavish back alive, but he didn’t say a damned thing about you, Browning…and there’s nothing I’d like better than an excuse to put a bullet in you, you son of a bitch.”

Conrad smiled as he looked at the gunman. “If you shoot me now, Trace,” he mocked, “we’ll never know which one of us is faster, will we?”

Trace’s face darkened with anger. “I know, damn you! No fancy pants Easterner can outdraw me!”

One of the other men said, “Take it easy, Trace. Maybe we better take both of ’em down to the ranch house and let the boss decide what to do with them.”

Trace’s head jerked toward the man, and for a second Conrad thought Trace was going to swing the gun around and pull the trigger. The man who had spoken up thought that, too, because his face went pale under his tan.

But Trace controlled his killing rage and snapped, “Fine. Take ’em down. Just don’t ever cross me again.”

The man muttered something Conrad couldn’t catch. Maybe an apology, maybe a promise that he wouldn’t interfere with Trace’s wishes in the future.

The men surrounded Conrad and James and gathered up their guns. Then they prodded the two unarmed men down the hill from the rocks toward the ranch house.

“Where’s my sister?” James demanded.

“You mean that pretty little redhead?” Trace asked from behind the prisoners. He chuckled. “I don’t have any idea, but I know where I’d like for her to be. Right there in my bunk, with all that red hair spread out on my pillow.”

James grated a curse and started to turn around. Conrad stopped him with a hard grip on his arm.

“That’s just what he wants you to do,” Conrad warned. “Whitfield told him to take you alive, but that won’t stop Trace from blowing your knee apart.”

Trace laughed again. “You’re a smart man, Browning. Too smart for your own good, I reckon.”

Conrad didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to antagonize Trace—but at the same time, he wasn’t going to forget any of the marks against the gunman.

As they neared the ranch house, the front door opened and Dave Whitfield stepped out onto the porch, trailed by several of his men. All of them held rifles. From the set of the rancher’s slab-like jaw, Conrad knew that Whitfield’s rage was barely contained.

“MacTavish!” Whitfield barked as soon as the prisoners came to a stop in front of the porch. “As soon as I heard the first shot, I knew it was one of you damn squatters causin’ trouble again!”

“We’re not squatters!” James snapped. It seemed a little foolish to Conrad to be arguing over words right now, but James went on, “We own our spread free and clear. Pa saved for years to buy the land from the government.”

“I’ve used that range for years.”

Conrad spoke up, saying, “The open range days are over, Whitfield. You’re intelligent enough to know that.”

Whitfield glowered at him. “Just ’cause some fella in Santa Fe or Washington says something, it don’t mean that’s the way it ought to be!”

“I couldn’t agree with you more. Unfortunately, the law doesn’t see things that way. Nor does it condone kidnapping.”

“Damn it!” Whitfield roared. “If you’re talkin’ about Meggie MacTavish, I don’t have her! I never did!”

“You lie!” James yelled.

Whitfield’s big, callused hands tightened on the rifle he held. For a second, Conrad thought that James had pushed the cattleman too far. Whitfield looked like he was about to use the gun.

Then, with a visible effort, Whitfield controlled his anger and said, “Listen to me, MacTavish. Get this through your thick, dumb skull.
I didn’t kidnap your sister. I don’t know where she is.
”

“What about your men?” Conrad asked. “You claimed you didn’t send them over to the MacTavish spread with dynamite the other night. Couldn’t some of them have raided the place and carried off the girl without telling you about it?”

“Not damn likely!” Whitfield said.

“But not impossible.”

Whitfield glared at Conrad for a moment, then turned to one of the men on the porch with him. “Ramsey, you control the crew. Any of them unaccounted for?”

The man called Ramsey, who had the weathered face and drooping white mustache of a long-time cowboy, shook his head. “Nope. I know where each and ever’ one of ’em is, boss, and they didn’t kidnap no gal, last night nor any other night!”

“That’s just the ranch crew your man’s talking about, Whitfield,” Conrad pointed out. “What about the hired guns?” He knew that on the Circle D, those were likely two separate and distinct groups. “They’d be the ones more likely to have carried out such a raid.”

Whitfield looked at Trace. “What about it, Jack?”

James snorted contemptuously before Trace could answer. “Why should we believe anything a killer like him says?”

Trace ignored James and said, “We were right here on the ranch all night, Mr. Whitfield.” With a sneer, he added, “Normally, I wouldn’t mind lyin’ to trash like MacTavish, but in this case, it’s the God’s honest truth.”

Whitfield looked at James and said, “There you go. I believe my men. Now I’ve got half a dozen injured men because you flew off the handle, MacTavish. What are you gonna do about that?”

“What am I gonna do?” James repeated. “I’m gonna tell you all to go to hell! You’re lyin’, and one way or another, I’ll prove it!”

Conrad’s patience finally ran out. “James, shut up!” He stepped forward, ignoring the startled glare that James gave him. “Listen to me, Whitfield. If your men are telling the truth, then you shouldn’t object to helping us prove that they didn’t kidnap Margaret MacTavish and shoot Hamish.”

“Hamish is hurt?” Whitfield asked with a frown.

“That’s right. He was wounded during the attack on his ranch.”

“How bad?”

Conrad shook his head. “I don’t know. Rory took him to Val Verde in a wagon, and some of the men from town carried him into the doctor’s house. That’s the last I saw of him. That’s how I found out what had happened at the MacTavish place, and when Rory told me that James had ridden over here, I figured I’d better see if he was all right.”

Trace drawled, “You got a bad habit of stickin’ your nose in where it ain’t wanted, Browning.”

“I didn’t ask him to help me,” James snapped.

Conrad bit back a curse at James’s galling attitude. Instead, he asked, “How many men attacked your place last night?”

James frowned and shrugged. “I don’t know. It was dark. Eight or ten, I’d say. Maybe a dozen.”

Conrad looked at Whitfield again. “That many riders will have left tracks. I suggest we ride over there and have a look around. Maybe we can follow them and find the men who took Margaret.”

Whitfield lowered his rifle and rubbed his jaw. He appeared to be considering Conrad’s suggestion.

Trace said, “Careful, boss. This damn Easterner could be tryin’ to trick you.”

“I don’t see how it could be much of a trick,” Whitfield said, “considerin’ that there’s only two of them and more than twenty of us. Of course, I wouldn’t take all the crew along. Just you and maybe four or five of your men. That’s still plenty to handle these two.”

“What if Browning’s tryin’ to lead you into a trap?”

“Who’s left to spring it?” the rancher asked. “Hamish MacTavish is hurt. We got this boy, and the other one’s just a kid.”

“What about the other little ranchers around here?”

Whitfield shook his head. “I haven’t had any trouble with any of those greasy sack outfits. They’re all too scared to go against me.” He gestured toward James. “Those damn Scottishers were the only ones with gumption enough to rustle my stock.”

“We never rustled any of your stock!” James yelled.

Quietly, Conrad said, “We’re wasting time arguing. We can settle the matter of Margaret’s kidnapping, by picking up the trail of the men who took her.”

“You’re right,” Whitfield said with an abrupt nod. “Pick five of your men, Jack, and get your horses saddled. We’re ridin’ to the MacTavish place.”

Trace began, “I still think it’s a—”, but he stopped when he saw the hard look that Whitfield gave him. Devil Dave was used to having his orders obeyed without question, Conrad thought.

While Trace went off to see about getting his men ready to ride, Conrad said to Browning, “My rig is at the top of the hill. My saddle horse is tied on behind it.”

Whitfield nodded. “I’ll have a man bring it down. What about you, MacTavish? Where’s your horse?”

James gestured sullenly toward the rise. “Up there in the trees, too, probably not far from where Browning left his buggy.”

“All right, I’ll see to it.” Whitfield started to turn away, then paused. “For what it’s worth, I hope we find your sister and that she’s all right. I don’t make war on women.”

“Bullets don’t distinguish between the sexes,” Conrad said. “Neither does dynamite.”

Whitfield scowled. Maybe he knew he had allowed his feud with the MacTavishes to get out of hand. Maybe he would do something about it in the future. Conrad would believe that when he saw it, though. Old-time cattlemen like Whitfield were sometimes too set in their ways to ever change.

A few minutes later, one of Whitfield’s punchers drove Conrad’s buggy down the hill to the ranch headquarters. Another Circle D cowboy led James’s horse. Conrad got the saddle from the buggy and put it on the buckskin. He wished he could change into the Kid Morgan garb, since it was considerably more comfortable for riding, but he didn’t want to make it too obvious that Conrad Browning and The Kid were one and the same. No one around here even knew that The Kid was in these parts.

He managed to slip the trousers, shirt, hat, and gunbelt into his saddlebags, though, and threw them over the buckskin’s back, lashing them in place. The Winchester went in the saddle boot. Reluctantly, he left the Sharps behind.

One of Whitfield’s men saddled the rancher’s horse and led it out. Whitfield had gone back into the house for a few minutes. He came out with saddlebags draped over his shoulder.

“We may be on the trail for several days before we catch up to the varmints,” he said. “I told my cook to put some supplies on a pack horse for us.”

“Good idea,” Conrad said. Whitfield gave him a sour look that said he didn’t care if Conrad agreed with him or not.

Trace and five more of the hard-faced gun-wolves rode out of the barn. Conrad didn’t like the idea of being accompanied by the hired killers. He didn’t trust Trace or any of the other men. He barely trusted Dave Whitfield. As long as Whitfield was paying their wages, though, Conrad thought the rancher could keep Trace and the others in line.

They left the ranch and headed for the MacTavish place. It was nearing midday, and the sun was high and hot overhead. Conrad took off his coat.

It took more than an hour to reach their destination. Conrad spotted the charred rubble of the burned-down barn before he saw the dugout that served as the family’s home.

“Better slow down,” he called to Whitfield, who had been setting a fairly fast pace. “We don’t know which way the kidnappers went. We don’t want to trample right over their tracks.”

Jack Trace sneered at him. “What are you, some kind of scout?”

“I know a little about tracking,” Conrad said, without explaining that what he knew, he had learned from his father. If Frank Morgan had been there, Conrad would have felt more confident about being able to pick up the trail of the men who had abducted Meggie MacTavish.

But Frank wasn’t there, and that was the way Conrad wanted it. He would handle this problem on his own.

“Browning’s right,” Whitfield said as he reined his horse back to a walk. “Keep your eyes open.” He looked over at James. “Did you see which way they went when they left your ranch?”

“East,” James snapped. “Straight toward your ranch.”

“Have you seen their tracks goin’ in that direction?” Whitfield demanded. “The only hoofprints
I’ve seen are
the ones you left when you went gallopin’ off half-cocked to the Circle D.”

“Whitfield’s right, James,” Conrad added. “We haven’t come across the tracks of a large group of riders like the bunch that attacked your ranch.”

“Well, then, who else could’ve done it?” James asked with exasperation plain to hear in his voice.

Conrad still didn’t try to answer that, although he had his suspicions. The theory that had begun to form in his head, though, didn’t make sense. He was missing some connection.

Whitfield suddenly grunted and pulled his horse to a stop. “Look there,” he said, leveling an arm and pointing.

The rest of the group followed his lead and reined in as well. Conrad leaned forward in the saddle and studied the ground. He could see the marks left behind by numerous riders who had come along there. The tracks curved off to the southwest.

“Would you look at that,” Whitfield said as he glanced at James. “A bunch of men on horseback headed east from your ranch, then started circlin’ back to the southwest less than a mile later. Hell, boy, if you’d just opened your ears, you could’ve
heard
’em swingin’ around this way.”

James’s face flushed angrily. “I was too busy tryin’ to stop my pa from bleedin’ where he’d been shot!”

“But not by me or any of my men,” Whitfield said. “You were dead wrong. You came over to my spread and started shootin’, woundin’ my men and just generally raisin’ hell, and you had the whole thing wrong.”

“I don’t know that,” James insisted.

Whitfield flung a hand toward the tracks. “There’s your damn proof, right there!”

James shook his head stubbornly. “All that proves is that they turned southwest. We don’t know if they kept going that way.”

“There’s an easy way to find out,” Conrad said.

“Yeah.” Whitfield heeled his horse into motion again. “Come on.”

The trail continued to lead southwest, circling completely around the MacTavish ranch. The landscape became flatter and more arid. Conrad knew they wouldn’t have to ride much farther south to reach the Mexican border, although the way the trail curved, they would still be on American soil the rest of the day.

Some low but rugged-looking mountains appeared on the horizon. During a break to rest the horses, Whitfield nodded toward them and said, “Looks like the varmints are headin’ for the Hatchets. Have you about got it through your head, MacTavish, that me and my men ain’t responsible for what happened?”

James didn’t answer for a long moment. Finally, he said, “Maybe. Maybe not. If you really took Meggie, you’re goin’ to pretty long lengths to convince me you didn’t.”