The Loner: The Devil’s Badland Page 12
“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.”
Whitfield threw his hands in the air. “You’re the stubbornest fool I ever run across!” He pointed at James. “I don’t take kindly to bein’ called a liar, and that’s what you called me, right to my face. You’re gonna see that I was tellin’ the truth, and when you do, you’re gonna apologize…or you and me are gonna have even more trouble than we’d had so far.”
“Your men have murdered my brother and maybe my father and tried to blow up o
ur home,” James replied. “How much more trouble do you intend to cause, Whitfield?”
Muttering curses, Whitfield just shook his head and turned away. He and James might have called a truce—but Conrad wasn’t sure there would ever be any real peace between them.
The men pushed on a short time later. By the time the sun had lowered toward the western horizon, the Hatchet Mountains didn’t look much closer. Conrad and his companions had to make camp and wait until morning to push on, or else risk losing the trail in the dark.
He nudged the buckskin up alongside Whitfield’s mount and said, “Don’t you think you can give James and me our guns back now?”
Whitfield regarded him with narrow eyes. “You, maybe,” the rancher said after a moment. “I don’t reckon you’re the sort to go off half-cocked. But I’m not puttin’ a gun back in that boy’s hands just yet.”
Conrad shrugged. He was willing to accept a partial victory as long as it meant that he would have his Colt again. Anyway, there was something else on his mind.
“Does it seem to you that we didn’t have much trouble picking up and following this trail?” he asked Whitfield.
“You mean it’s almost like they want us to follow them?”
“Exactly.”
Whitfield nodded. “The thought crossed my mind. But it’s pretty hard to cover up a trail out here.”
“Not really. We’ve passed several rocky stretches where they could have veered off and not left any tracks for a while, if they wanted to.”
Whitfield’s eyes narrowed even more. “What are you gettin’ at, Browning? You think we’re ridin’ into a trap?”
“Could be.”
“Why would anybody think that grabbin’ Meggie MacTavish would make me follow ’em? I ain’t exactly a friend of the family, and everybody in these parts knows that.”
“Maybe it’s not you they baited the trap for,” Conrad said. “Maybe it just happened to work out that way.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Before Conrad had to decide whether to answer or not, Jack Trace spurred up to the front of the group, too, flanking Whitfield on the right. “I’ve got news for you, boss,” the gunman said. “While we’ve been followin’ these tracks…somebody’s been followin’ us.”
Chapter 14
Whitfield reined in sharply and hipped around in the saddle. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” he demanded.
Conrad twisted to look back, too, but he didn’t see anything behind them except a semi-arid wilderness.
“It’s just one man, as far as I can tell,” Trace said. “He’s stayin’ pretty far back, too. But he’s there. I’ve seen him a couple of times this afternoon.”
“Remember what we were just talking about, Whitfield,” Conrad said.
“One man don’t make a trap,” the rancher snapped.
“What’s this about a trap?” Trace asked. His right hand drifted toward his gun. “If you’ve double-crossed us, Browning…”
“Take it easy,” Conrad said. “I haven’t double-crossed anybody. Whitfield and I were just talking about how it seems like this trail has been pretty easy to follow.”
Trace’s eyes slitted with suspicion. “Yeah, you’re right about that. I reckon it could be a trap. Not much of one, though, if there’s only one hombre following us.”
“We don’t know what’s up ahead,” Conrad pointed out.
James said, “I don’t care. My sister’s up there somewhere, and I’m not stoppin’ until I have her back, safe and sound.”
Conrad hoped that was the way it turned out. He had worried ever since they picked up the trail that they might find Meggie MacTavish’s body lying used and broken in some gully. So far, that hadn’t happened.
He felt a twinge every time James blustered about saving Meggie. He had been full of the same confidence and resolve, back there in Carson City when Rebel was kidnapped.
Just because that situation had ended in tragedy, it didn’t mean this one had to, Conrad reminded himself.
“Why don’t the rest of you push on toward the mountains and find a place to camp?” he suggested. “I’ll split off from the group, circle back around, and see if I can jump whoever is following us. If I can get my hands on him, that might give us some answers.”
“How do we know you won’t just go runnin’ back to Val Verde?” Trace asked.
“I didn’t have to come with you, remember? I didn’t have to get mixed up in this mess at all. I’m here to help save Margaret, that’s all.”
“Unless you’re workin’ with whoever’s back there and the two of you are gonna ambush us once we make camp.”
Whitfield rasped his fingers over his beard-stubbled jaw and said, “Jack’s got a point there, Browning.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Conrad said. “I don’t know who’s back there any more than you do. It’s certainly not anyone I’m in cahoots with, because I don’t have any friends or partners in this part of the country.”
“Yeah, I reckon that makes sense…and your idea’s a good one. I’d like to know who’s trailin’ us, too. But I’d feel better about it if Jack went with you.”
An ugly grin spread across Trace’s face. “I reckon I could do that.”
Conrad was about to object when Whitfield moved his horse closer and reached into his saddlebag to pull out a Colt Peacemaker. Conrad recognized it as his gun.
“Don’t get any ideas, Jack,” Whitfield cautioned as he held out the revolver to Conrad, butt first. “You’ve been a good hand for me, but I don’t cotton to murder.”
“Furthest thing from my mind, Dave,” Trace said coolly.
Conrad checked the loads in the Colt and then pouched the iron. He met Trace’s look with a cold, level stare of his own.
“I’m ready when you are.”
“Lead the way, dude,” Trace said, grinning again. “Since you know what you’re doin’ and all.”
Conrad wheeled the buckskin and started back along the trail they had been following. He swung off to the right, recalling that he had seen an arroyo in that direction as they passed it a short time earlier. He didn’t look back to see if Trace was coming with him, but he could hear the hoofbeats of the gunman’s horse.
When Conrad reached the arroyo, he followed it until he came to a place where the bank had caved in, allowing him to ride down into the defile. Trace followed right behind him. As the two men rode along the sandy floor of the arroyo, Trace moved up alongside Conrad and said, “I’m curious about something, Browning.”
“Everybody’s curious about something, I suppose,” Conrad replied without looking over at Trace.
The gunman chuckled. “Take it easy. You don’t have anything to worry about. I’m not gonna shoot you in the back or even try to get you to throw down with me.”
“Because out here, there’s no one to see it,” Conrad guessed.
“Damn right. When I outdraw you and kill you, I want plenty of folks around watching, so they’ll know I’m faster than you and tell all their friends they were there when Jack Trace killed the son of Frank Morgan.”
“Be more impressive if you killed Frank Morgan.”
“Hell, I know that. But I’ll get to that. You’ll do for now. What I want to know is, how’d you get to be as fast as you are? Some of it you must’ve inherited from your old man, but I’ve got a hunch you been practicin’, Browning. Tryin’ to impress your pa?”
“Whatever is between my father and myself is none of your business, Trace. I’d advise you to keep your questions to yourself.”
“Sure, sure.” Trace chuckled. “Anyway, I reckon I got my answer.”
Conrad wanted to smash the smugness out of the gunman, but that could wait. Rescuing Meggie MacTavish came first, and then dealing out some long-delayed justice to Anthony Tarleton. Trace’s goading was just an annoyance compared to those two things.
A potentially dangerous annoyance, to be sure.
“Answer something for me,” Conrad said.
Conrad let that comment go. He asked, “Are you the one who killed Charlie MacTavish?”
Trace shrugged. “He came in talkin’ big about how the boss was lyin’ when he said the MacTavishes were rustlers. I told him that if he believed in what he was sayin’, he wouldn’t mind backin’ it up with some lead. He slapped leather.”
“He never had a chance against you, did he?”
“Not one damn chance in the world,” Trace said.
Conrad nodded. It was just as he had thought. Even though legally the shooting was a case of self-defense because Charlie MacTavish had reached for his gun first, to Conrad it was cold-blooded murder. And sooner or later, Trace would have to answer for it.
He’d just have to wait his turn.
When they had followed the arroyo for about half a mile, Conrad reined in where the bank sloped enough so a man could climb it without much trouble.
“Let’s take a look,” he said as he swung down from the saddle. “We ought to be able see whoever it is following the others when he rides past this spot.”
Trace dismounted as well. Both men took their hats off and climbed up the side of the arroyo. They edged their heads above the rim and peered out across the mostly flat landscape.
At first Conrad didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Then movement caught his eye. He honed in on it and saw a rider moving from right to left, paralleling the arroyo about five hundred yards away.
“There he is,” Trace breathed. “Wish I had a good pair of field glasses.”
“Yeah, so do I.” Conrad’s eyes were quite keen, but at that distance, even he couldn’t make out any details about the rider.
They slid back down the bank, mounted up, and rode on, looking for some place they could get out of the arroyo. Conrad’s frustration mounted as they didn’t find one. They should have turned around and gone back to the place where they had entered the defile, he thought.
They rounded a bend and saw another spot where the bank had eroded and collapsed. It was a rough climb for the horses, but Conrad and Trace dismounted and were able to lead the animals up the uneven slope. As they came up onto the plain again, they quickly climbed into their saddles and set out after the man who was following Whitfield and the others.