Once again he had killed a man in cold blood, Conrad thought as he lowered the limp corpse to the ground. A part of him regretted it, but the steel at his core knew it was necessary. Lannigan’s hired gun would have killed him without blinking, blasting him to bits with that shotgun.
He damned Pamela Tarleton for setting the tragic events in motion. He damned her for making him the man he was. Then he grimaced and wiped the blade on the dead man’s shirt. Pamela might bear some of the responsibility, but not all of it. Not by a long shot.
He supposed there had always been a killer inside him. He just hadn’t known it, and it had taken a great tragedy to bring that killer out. Once it was over ... once his children were with him ... he had to put that part of himself away. He had to bury Kid Morgan once and for all.
Conrad shook off his reverie and moved toward the house. Frank should have taken care of the other roaming sentry, and they had to deal with the men guarding the door.
Trees around the back of the house had been cleared away for a distance of thirty or forty feet, and a couple lanterns hanging on each side of the door cast a yellow half circle of light over that area. Conrad couldn’t get close enough to strike with the Bowie without being spotted, and he doubted his ability to throw the knife with enough power and accuracy to kill one of the guards. Even if he did, that would leave another guard to sound the alarm.
Suddenly, from the woods a man called, “Hey, Toby! Lunsford! Get out here! I caught somebody tryin’ to sneak up on the place!”
That was the other patrolling guard, Conrad realized as a shock went through him.
From the sound of it, he had taken Frank prisoner.
Chapter 30
The guards by the door reacted instantly, running toward the trees, shotguns at the ready. Conrad moved fast, too, circling swiftly through the pines toward them. He had to help Frank, and it was a chance to deal with those two guards without having to approach them across the open ground.
The hired guns ran into the trees. Conrad heard one of them exclaim, “What the hell!” Then a heavy thump sounded just ahead of him. He darted around a tree and saw one of the guards trying to swing his scattergun around to aim it at a shadowy figure. Knowing the guard was an enemy, Conrad lifted his knife and brought the brass ball on the end of the handle down hard against the back of the guard’s head.
The man grunted in pain and stumbled forward as the shotgun’s twin barrels drooped toward the ground. The shadowy figure leaped forward, grabbed the barrels, and forced the muzzles into the dirt. His other fist smashed into the guard’s face and knocked him loose from the weapon. The guard toppled to the ground, out cold.
“Good teamwork,” Frank said.
Conrad frowned in surprise at his father. “I thought you’d been captured!”
“Yeah, well, that’s what I wanted those fellas by the house to think. The idea came to me when I jumped the one who was patrolling out here. Instead of killing him, I put my Bowie to his throat and made him call out to those two and lure them out here. I walloped one with my gun. I thought maybe you’d show up to give me a hand, and sure enough—”
“Where’s the other guard, the one you used as bait?”
Frank gestured toward a shape on the ground nearby. “Knocked out, tied up, and gagged. He won’t give us any trouble. We’d better do the same with these two.”
Working quickly, they cut strips from the guards’ shirts and used them to bind the men securely, as well as for gags to keep them quiet. That left the back door of Lannigan’s lodge unguarded.
Conrad and Frank took the pistols worn by the unconscious guards. Having extra shots without needing to reload might come in handy. They trotted through the lantern light to the door and pressed their backs to the wall as they listened for any sounds of alarm. Everything was quiet. Evidently their approach hadn’t been noticed.
Conrad reached over and tried the latch. He swallowed a frustrated curse as it refused to budge. Looking over at Frank, he mouthed the word
Locked.
They would have to find another way in.
Frank leaned back and looked up. Conrad followed suit. The roof overhung the door and slanted up to darkened windows on the second floor. Frank pointed up with his thumb, then bent over and formed a stirrup with his hands. Conrad nodded. He weighed less, so it made sense for him to go first.
Putting a booted foot in Frank’s hands, Conrad stepped up and reached for the overhang. Frank heaved him up. Conrad’s hands closed over the edge, the rough shingles providing a good grip. He hauled himself up, and Frank pushed from below. Conrad cleared the edge and rolled onto the sloping roof.
Once he was there, he unbuckled his belt and slipped it out of the loops on his jeans. After wrapping the tongue end around his hand a couple times, he lowered the buckle end to Frank, who grasped it with both hands and started climbing up the wall. In a few seconds, Conrad was able to reach down with his other hand and catch hold of his father’s arm. With grunts of effort, he pulled Frank onto the roof.
They sprawled on the shingles for a few moments to catch their breath, then Conrad sat up, put his belt back on, and moved on hands and knees up to the nearest window. The room on the other side of the glass was dark and he hoped unoccupied. He tried to raise the window, but it wouldn’t move. It was fastened shut.
Frank went to one of the other second-floor windows and tried it, then looked over at Conrad and shook his head. Chances were, they were all that way. Conrad took off his hat and drew his gun. Using the hat to muffle the sound, he rapped the gun butt sharply against one of the panes, just hard enough to crack the glass without shattering it. He pouched the iron, put his hat back on, and took out his knife. He got the tip of the blade into the crack and started working it back and forth gently.
The work was tedious, but it was important to be as quiet as possible. After several minutes, he managed to loosen a big piece of glass enough that he could get his fingers into the crack around it. Being careful not to slice his flesh open on the sharp edges, he worked the piece of glass back and forth some more and finally pried it loose from the window.
Conrad set the glass aside and reached into the room through the opening he had created. He felt around at the bottom of the window until he found the catch that held it closed. Thankfully, the window hadn’t been nailed shut. He slid the catch over, pulled his arm out, and eased the window up.
Conrad went through the window first, with Frank following him.
Once inside the house, it was a matter of finding the children and making sure they were safe before dealing with Lannigan and the rest of the man’s hired guns. The odds were still steep against them, but that was nothing new for Conrad Browning and Frank Morgan.
Walking softly in hopes the floor wouldn’t creak under their weight, they went to the door, which they could see dimly in the faint lantern light filtering into the room from outside. It appeared to be a bedroom, but no one was sleeping there at the moment. Conrad tried the door. The knob turned easily in his hand. He and Frank stepped into a corridor.
A staircase landing was a few yards to their right. The stairs led down into a big room filled with heavy, rustic furniture dominated by a huge fireplace with a massive stone mantel. A fire crackled in that fireplace, casting a garish, flickering glow over the man who stood in front of it with a drink in his hand.
Dex Lannigan.
Conrad looked around the room. He didn’t see Winifred or the children, or any of Lannigan’s hired killers, for that matter. The man appeared to be alone in the room. The way Lannigan stared pensively into the flames in the fireplace seemed to confirm that hunch.
Conrad and Frank glanced at each other. Taking Lannigan prisoner would give them the upper hand. They could force him to turn over the children, then take him as a hostage until they were safely away from the lodge.
Moving in absolute silence the way living dangerous lives had taught them, Conrad and Frank started down the stairs.
They had just reached the bottom when Lannigan turned abruptly from the fireplace toward them. They lifted their guns, but Lannigan didn’t seem to be surprised to see them. He didn’t drop his drink and try to claw out a weapon of his own. He just smiled. “I was expecting you.”
“Don’t move,” Conrad warned as he looked at Lannigan over the sights of his Colt. “And don’t yell for your guards.”
“Or what?” Lannigan replied mockingly. “You’ll shoot me? What good will that do you? I have a dozen men who’ll be here in a heartbeat if they hear a gun go off. The only reason they’re not in here already is because I want to talk to you, Browning.”
“We don’t have anything to talk about,” Conrad snapped, “except for you telling me where my children are so Frank can go get them while I keep you covered.”
“Your children,” Lannigan repeated. “
Your
children.” He laughed. “You damned fool. You don’t
have
any children.”
An ugly feeling had begun to crawl around inside Conrad as soon as he realized Lannigan wasn’t surprised to see them. It was like a snake in his belly, and it told him something was very, very wrong.
“Little Frank and Vivian,” he said. “Or David and Rachel, as you call them. You know good and well who I’m talking about.”
“Oh, I know.” Lannigan sneered. “But that doesn’t make them your children. They’re not here, anyway. They’re back in San Francisco with their mother. When I left there last night, I figured you’d follow me without ever checking to make sure I hadn’t left Winifred and the children behind.”
That was like a fist in Conrad’s gut. Every instinct he possessed told him Lannigan was telling the truth, about that part of it, anyway. The saloon owner had set a clever trap for him and Frank, and they had fallen into it. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Lannigan might have left the children behind.
But the rest of it had to be a lie. Conrad said, “Pamela Tarleton—”
“You’re about to tell me Pamela Tarleton is the twins’ mother, aren’t you?” Lannigan broke in. “How can you be so sure of that?”
“I was at the sanitarium in Cambridge where they were born. I talked to Dr. Futrelle—”
“Are you saying Futrelle couldn’t have been paid to lie to you? I knew Pamela Tarleton, I don’t deny that. When she set out to either destroy you or make your life a living hell, however it worked out, she tried to think of every possible contingency. She’s always been two steps ahead of you, Browning.”
Conrad shook his head. “You’re lying through your teeth. Pamela went to that sanitarium—”
“With her maid, who was about to have a baby but had no husband to go with it.” Lannigan shrugged. “I probably shouldn’t talk this way about the woman who’s now my dear wife, but at one time in her life she was rather free with her favors. When she found herself in the family way, it played right into her employer’s hands. Pamela hatched the idea of making you believe the child was yours. As it turned out, there were two babies ... but that just doubled the misery for you, didn’t it?”
Conrad’s pulse began to hammer inside his skull. He didn’t want to believe the things Lannigan was telling him, but deep down he knew it was possible. Pamela could have done it all: fixed things so it looked like she had the children at the sanitarium, rather than her maid; written the letter to be delivered to Conrad after her death; acted like
she
was the twins’ mother during the cross-country journey, rather than Winifred; struck a bargain with Lannigan to marry Winifred and take in the children, knowing if Conrad made it through all the death traps to San Francisco, he would jump to the conclusion that the twins were his ...
All along, for months, he had played right into the hands of her twisted scheme.
“How do I know this isn’t just one more of Pamela’s clever lies you’re telling me?”
Lannigan chuckled and shook his head. “You don’t. That’s the beauty of it, Browning. You’re going to die not knowing for sure.”
He looked up at the top of the stairs behind Conrad and Frank and nodded.
The roar of guns suddenly filled the big room.
Chapter 31
Lannigan’s nod was enough to warn Conrad and Frank. They were moving even as the guns began to blast, and their superb reflexes flung them apart, Conrad going left and Frank going right, as half a dozen slugs burned through the space where they had been a shaved fraction of an instant earlier.
Conrad landed on his shoulder, rolled, and came up on one knee with the Colt in his right hand and one of the revolvers he had taken from the guards filling his left hand. Flame spouted from the muzzles as he fired up the stairs at the hired killers who had been waiting for Lannigan’s signal to bushwhack him and Frank.
Two of the men staggered, stumbled, and doubled over as Conrad’s bullets tore into them. Another man went down with blood welling from the hole in the center of his forehead where one of Frank’s shots had caught him. Frank lay on his belly on the other side of the staircase, firing upward.
The gunmen retreated, driven back by the deadly accuracy of their intended victims. As the shooting entered a momentary lull, Conrad glanced over his shoulder toward the fireplace. Lannigan was gone. He had ducked out and left his men to deal with Conrad and Frank.
The men upstairs weren’t the only ones they had to worry about. The front door slammed open, and several guards from outside burst into the room, brandishing shotguns. Conrad surged up from the floor and threw himself in a diving leap behind one of the heavy chairs as a guard touched off both barrels of a Greener. The double load of buckshot smashed into the chair, blowing stuffing and splinters into the air. The impact of the charge toppled the chair backward onto Conrad, who was unhurt but pinned down for a second.
Frank took some of the heat off him by opening fire on the shotgunners from the other side of the room. He darted behind one of the thick posts holding up the ceiling and put a bullet through the brain of one of the guards. The man collapsed with his shotgun still unfired.
Conrad shoved the chair aside and tipped his Colt up. The man who had loosed the blast at him was reloading, but Conrad didn’t give him time to snap the Greener closed. He fired and sent a bullet ripping through the man’s throat. The hired killer went over backward with blood fountaining from his torn jugular.
That left two of the shotgunners still on their feet. Conrad rolled desperately to avoid a blast from one of them. A few of the pellets stung his hide but didn’t do any real damage. The gunman was smart enough to fire just one barrel, leaving him with another load of buckshot. He tried to track Conrad with that barrel.
The hammers of Conrad’s pistols clicked on empty chambers. He dropped one, holstered the other and powered to his feet, grabbing the buckshot-shredded chair as he came up. He heaved it just as the man fired. The chair blocked the pellets, then crashed into the gunner, knocking him back a step.
By then Conrad had drawn the Smith & Wesson. While the hired killer was off-balance, Conrad put a .38 round through his head. The man fell back on the stairs, which were painted by the blood and brains that sprayed from his ventilated skull.
That left one more man with a shotgun, but as Conrad swung around in search of that final target, he saw Frank had already taken care of the threat. The fourth guard was down on the floor, kicking out his life as crimson leaked from the bullet holes in his chest and belly. Frank stood nearby, smoking Colt in hand.
Three gunmen were left upstairs, and they had been waiting for a chance. They opened fire on Frank. He grunted and twisted around as a slug creased his upper left arm. A second later, Conrad tackled him and knocked him out of the line of fire. They rolled up against the wall where the gunmen on the second floor couldn’t see them. The shooting stopped.
“How bad ... are you hit?” Conrad asked breathlessly.
“I’ve cut myself worse shaving,” Frank replied. “Anyway, it’s not my gun arm.”
Feet pounded on both sides of them. Men rushed into the room from right and left. Conrad and Frank were facing each other, so they fired
past
each other, downing the gunmen coming at their backs.
The shooting stopped again. Conrad and Frank reloaded while low voices came from upstairs. Conrad figured the surviving gunmen were debating what they should do next. If they charged down the stairs, they would be easy targets. On the other hand, if he and Frank moved away from the wall, they would be back in the line of fire.
It was a standoff ... and Lannigan was still out there somewhere.
Quietly, Conrad said, “Frank, do you think Lannigan was telling the truth? About the twins, I mean.”
Frank shook his head. “I just don’t know. Sounded like it could have been that way, all right. You knew Pamela Tarleton a lot better than I ever did. Was she smart enough and loco enough to come up with a plan like that?”
“She was,” Conrad answered without hesitation, “and evil enough, too. But that would mean ... everything that’s happened over the past few months ... all the danger I put you and Claudius and Arturo in ... all of it was for nothing. I did just what Pamela wanted me to do, like I was her puppet.”
“Blast it, that’s not the way it was at all,” Frank argued. “Whether those kids are yours or not, you believed they were, and you acted accordingly. You acted like their father, and what you felt was real.”
“But if they’re not mine, then it was all a lie.”
“All those fellas who tried to kill you were sure enough real,” Frank pointed out. “This trap Lannigan set for us was real, and so is the score we have to settle with him.”
Conrad took a deep breath. “Yeah. I guess when the bullets are flying, it’s best to save the philosophical debates until later.”
“You could say that,” Frank agreed with a grin. “Now, are you ready to have it out with those hombres?”
“More than ready,” Conrad said.
“Then I’ll draw ’em out ... and you finish ’em off.”
Before Conrad could ask his father what he meant by that, Frank darted away from the wall, twisted around, and started firing both guns toward the balcony along the second floor. More shots came from above as the gunmen returned the fire. Frank staggered but stayed on his feet and kept shooting.
“Noooo!” Conrad shouted as he dived into the open, turning his body in midair so he landed on his back. From where he lay he could see all three gunmen standing at the balcony railing and firing down at Frank. The guns in Conrad’s hands thundered as he sent a storm of lead sweeping across the balcony. The hired killers jittered and jerked as slug after slug smashed into them. They dropped their guns. Two of the bloody figures collapsed. The other one pitched forward over the railing and fell to the floor with a crash. He didn’t move again.
Conrad scrambled to his feet. He wanted to rush over to Frank, who had fallen near the fireplace. But he had emptied his guns, and one thing Frank had taught him was to reload as soon as possible after a gun battle. Conrad holstered the .38 and started plucking .45 rounds from the loops on his gunbelt. With fingers trembling just a little, he slid the cartridges into the Colt’s cylinder.
Only when he had a loaded weapon in his hand again did he hurry over to Frank and drop to one knee. Frank was still breathing, Conrad saw to his great relief. He rolled Frank onto his back and saw blood on his right trouser leg, as well as on his shirt.
Frank opened his eyes and grimaced in pain. “You get ’em?”
“Yeah,” Conrad said. “I got them.”
“Figured you would ... if I drew ’em out.”
“How bad are you hurt, Frank?”
“Not bad. Just creased a few more times. I’ll be fine.” Frank lifted a hand and clutched Conrad’s arm. “Help me into a chair, and then you go ... go find Lannigan.”
“You need me to patch up these wounds—”
“Not yet. I’ll bet ... Lannigan’s still around here ... somewhere. You find him ... settle up with him.”
Conrad nodded, feeling a tightness in his chest and in his throat. He had lived most of his life unaware of Frank Morgan’s very existence. The thought that Frank might not be around made Conrad feel like he couldn’t catch his breath.
He lifted Frank and settled him in one of the big armchairs. Conrad reloaded his father’s gun and slipped it into Frank’s hand. “Just in case I didn’t kill all those varmints and one or two still have some fight in them.”
Frank nodded. “Don’t worry. I can handle ’em.”
“I know that. I’ll be back.”
He checked through the lodge quickly but found no sign of Lannigan. That gave him a chance to check all the bodies, and confirm the hired killers were all dead.
There was also no indication Winifred and the children were there, or had ever been there, for that matter. Lannigan had been telling the truth about
that
, anyway.
When Conrad returned to the big main room, he told Frank, “Lannigan’s gone. But you don’t have to worry about any of those other men. They’re done for.”
Frank grunted and hefted the gun in his hand. “I wasn’t worried.” His voice sounded stronger. “Lannigan may still be waiting around outside to see what happens, or he might’ve lit a shuck away from here. Maybe you can find him, or pick up his trail.”
“You’ll be all right?”
“Better than all right. Now that I know I’m not gonna have to duck bullets any second, I can tie up some of these creases myself.”
Conrad nodded. He went out the front door carefully, with his gun up and ready for trouble. Lamps on the porch cast a wide circle of light in front of the house. His eyes scanned the landscape around the lodge carefully, but he didn’t see Lannigan anywhere. The road leading up the mountain from the bay ended in a large area covered with gravel. Conrad looked it over to see if he could find any fresh hoofprints, but he didn’t spot any.
Gun in hand, he turned toward the dark barn. Lannigan might be hiding in there, waiting for some of his gunmen to come to him and report that the intruders were dead.
Conrad was about twenty feet from the open double doors of the barn when a mounted figure suddenly exploded out of them, spurring straight toward him. He caught a glimpse of Dex Lannigan’s rage-twisted face as the man shouted incoherently. Lannigan had a gun in his hand. It roared as he jerked the trigger as fast as he could.
Conrad threw himself aside to keep from being trampled or shot full of holes. As the galloping horse pounded toward him he dropped his gun and lunged, reaching for Lannigan as horse and rider flashed by. Conrad caught hold of Lannigan’s leg and dragged him off the horse. Lannigan toppled out of the saddle with a startled yell and crashed to the ground, his gun flying through the air.
Conrad stood over the man. “Get up! Get up, Lannigan. We’ll have this out, you and me.”
Lannigan started to climb to his feet, then drove forward in a diving tackle that caught Conrad around the knees. Conrad expected a trick like that, but Lannigan’s move was too fast to avoid. Conrad went down hard and Lannigan swarmed after him, hammering fists into his body.
Conrad brought a knee up and drove it into Lannigan’s belly. At the same time, he caught hold of the man’s shirt front and heaved him to the side. Lannigan rolled a couple times but snapped a kick behind him catching Conrad in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. He fought through the pain and launched himself at Lannigan again.
Gradually, both men struggled to their feet, pounding each other, and stood toe to toe, slugging it out. Blood dripped in Conrad’s eyes from a cut on his forehead. Lannigan’s eyes were swollen. They wheezed and fought for breath. No one could stand up for long to the sort of punishment they were each dealing out and absorbing.
Lannigan caught Conrad on the jaw with a looping right, then bored in and started to grapple with him. Conrad felt it when Lannigan plucked the Bowie knife from the sheath on his left hip. Twisting, Conrad got a hand on Lannigan’s wrist just in time to stop the man from plunging the blade into his side. Conrad hooked a punch with his other hand into Lannigan’s belly. Lannigan stumbled, off balance. Conrad gave Lannigan’s wrist a hard twist, caught hold of his shoulder, and rammed his own body forward against the gambler.
Lannigan screamed as the collision sent twelve inches of cold steel slicing into his gut. Conrad had managed to turn the knife so it was pointing at Lannigan before they crashed together.
Conrad let go and stepped back. Lannigan swayed, his fingers still wrapped around the Bowie’s handle. He pawed at it but couldn’t pull it free. It wouldn’t have mattered if he did. The damage was already done. Blood leaked out around the knife, and the crimson stain spread rapidly.
“Lannigan,” Conrad said in an urgent voice. “Lannigan, is it true? What you told me about the children ... is it true? You’ve got nothing to lose now by telling me.”
Lannigan was looking down at the knife handle protruding from his belly. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet Conrad’s gaze, then started to laugh. The laughter was so hard it shook him and made the blood flow even faster.
Then he gasped, made a grotesque gurgling sound, and blood spilled from his mouth. His eyes opened wide but no longer saw anything. He pitched forward and lay on the ground motionless, curled around the blade that had ended his life.