The Loner: Trail Of Blood Page 2

  Surging to his feet he drew his guns again. He had lost track of how many men he had killed and had no idea how many more outlaws there were. Obviously some of them were up in the cab, or they wouldn’t have been able to force the engineer to move the train. Conrad sprinted for the locomotive.

  “Over there!” a man shouted from the other side of the train. “He’s headed for the engine!”

  A man leaned out of the cab and drew a bead on him. Before Conrad could react, someone jumped the outlaw from behind, tackling him and knocking him out of the cab. Both men fell to the ground. Conrad knew from the clothes of the man who had pitched in to help that he was the fireman.

  The outlaw rolled over and swung his gun toward the fireman. Conrad got there first and launched a kick that slammed into the outlaw’s head and drove it far to the side. The man’s neck broke with a sharp crack like that of a snapping branch. The gun went off as his finger involuntarily jerked the trigger, but the bullet screamed off harmlessly into the vast West Texas sky.

  Conrad holstered his left-hand gun and grabbed the fireman’s arm to haul him to his feet. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” The man stared at him. “Good Lord! Ain’t you Mr. Browning?”

  Conrad didn’t waste time answering him. “Do you know how many more of them there are?”

  “At least two.”

  From the corner of his eye, Conrad spotted a cloud of dust boiling up a couple hundred yards from the train. As it came closer, he realized the outlaws would have had at least one member of the gang bring their horses. The odds were about to get worse … and he had already overcome more than any man, by rights, should have been able to.

  But not every man was the son of Frank Morgan.

  “Get back in the cab,” Conrad snapped. “Tell the engineer to get the train moving again. Open it up. I want us rolling away from here before the rest of the gang shows up.”

  The fireman jerked his head in a nod. “Sure thing, Mr. Browning.” As he climbed back into the cab, he called to the wide-eyed engineer, “Full throttle, Asa! Mr. Browning says we’re gettin’ the hell outta here!”

  Conrad hurried along the tracks. The train was a relatively short string: a couple freights, the two passengers, the baggage and express cars, Conrad’s private car, and the caboose. By the time he reached the first passenger car, smoke was billowing from the locomotive’s diamond-shaped stack and the train was moving again.

  He reached up for a grab iron and swung himself onto the steps, hoping the rolling train would take the gang members still alive by surprise and they wouldn’t have time to get back on board. Screams came from inside the car as he lunged onto the platform.

  Conrad could tell the engineer had the throttle wide open. The train began to rattle and sway as it picked up speed. He paused on the platform long enough to thumb fresh rounds into both guns, then threw the door open and dived inside.

  He slid to a stop on one knee with both guns leveled. At the far end of the car, one of the outlaws had an arm around the neck of a female passenger, dragging her backward as he held a gun pressed into her side. The other passengers in the car were hunkered on the seats, trying to stay out of the line of fire.

  The robber’s bandanna had slipped down to reveal a hard, heavy-jawed face with dark beard stubble on it. “Stay back, mister!” he yelled at Conrad. “I’ll blow a hole right through her!”

  “If you do, you’ll be dead a second later,” Conrad said. “You know that. You might as well drop the gun and save your life.”

  A savage grin twisted the outlaw’s face. “You can go to hell!” he cried. “You can’t shoot me without hittin’ her!”

  That wasn’t strictly true. Conrad could see enough of the man’s face looking over the woman’s shoulder that he thought he could put a bullet in the outlaw’s eye. But it was chancy, and he couldn’t guarantee the hostage wouldn’t be hurt. He held his fire for the moment, as the outlaw continued to back up with his hostage in tow until they reached the vestibule and were almost to the platform.

  Conrad glanced through the window to his left. Though much of the West Texas landscape was featureless, making it difficult to know exactly where they were, there were a few landmarks. One of them flashed past as he looked out the window.

  As a major stockholder in the line, Conrad had ridden the route a number of times, and he recognized the elevated water tank they had just passed. Normally, the train would have stopped there to take on water, but the engineer still had it barreling along the tracks.

  In less than a mile, the tracks angled sharply to go around a mesa. Knowing that put an idea in Conrad’s head. “Let the woman go,” he called to the outlaw. “If you do, I give you my word you won’t be killed.”

  “What’ll you do? Send me to prison for twenty years? No thanks. I’d rather take a chance on a bullet.”

  “If anything happens to that woman, it’ll be a hang rope, not prison,” Conrad promised. “I’ll see to that.”

  “Who in blazes are you, mister?”

  “My name is Conrad Browning. I own this railroad.”

  That was a stretch. He actually owned only part of it. But his father owned another block of stock, and between them they had almost a controlling interest.

  The train robber didn’t believe it. He laughed harshly as he backed onto the platform. “That’s a damned lie. You’re a gambler or a gunfighter. No damn railroad tycoon could ever handle a gun like you!”

  Conrad smiled thinly as he approached, both guns still in his hands. “It’s true.”

  “Stay back!” the robber snapped. “Send word to the engine to stop this damn train so my pards with the horses can catch up.”

  Conrad shook his head. The train was almost at the bend. “Give up now, while you’ve still got a chance.”

  A snarl curled the outlaw’s lips. He spat, “Go to hell—”

  The train hit the bend.

  At that high rate of speed, the turn was almost too much. But the engineer knew his train, knew it would stay on the rails. The sudden lurch was violent enough it threw the outlaw on the platform off balance. He yelled in surprise, staggering toward the edge. His gun fell away from the hostage as he windmilled his arm in an attempt to keep from falling off the train.

  It was what Conrad had been waiting for. His right-hand gun snapped up and blasted. His shot drilled the man’s forearm and sent the gun flying away.

  The outlaw howled in pain, let go of the woman, and stumbled backward. Conrad leaped forward, grabbed the woman, and practically threw her behind him. He reached for the wounded outlaw next, but he was too late. The man had staggered too close to the opening in the railing around the platform. With a shriek of terror, he toppled backward through it, landing on the coupling between the cars and sliding off to wind up underneath the wheels. His scream ended abruptly as those flashing wheels chopped him to pieces.

  Conrad caught hold of the woman’s shoulder as she sobbed in relief. “Are there any more of them?”

  She shook her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I … I don’t know!”

  Conrad pushed her into the car, then turned toward the second passenger car.

  It might not be over yet.

  Chapter 3

  But it was, Conrad discovered a moment later. He met the wounded conductor and the two brakemen coming forward through the second passenger car, and they reported the surviving pair of train robbers had been left behind, along with the other outlaws who had tried to rendezvous with them.

  “We got a Winchester back there in the caboose,” one of the brakies said. “I threw some lead at those varmints as the train was pullin’ away, but I don’t know if I hit any of ’em or not.”

  “It’s all right if you didn’t,” Conrad told the man while he reloaded the round he had expended on the robber who had fallen underneath the train. “You discouraged them from coming after us, anyway.”

  “Asa’s got this thing flying,” the conductor said. He had a makeshift bandage
tied around his arm. “Somebody better get up to the engine and tell him it’s all right to slow down.”

  “We passed the water stop at Yucca Flats,” Conrad pointed out. “Can we make it to Monahans without taking on more water?” He didn’t particularly want the train to have to back up to the water tank, not with several owlhoots still roaming around the area.

  “I’ll check with the engineer, but I’m pretty sure we can,” the conductor said. “Especially if he slows down.” The man looked at Conrad and shook his head in awe. “I never saw anybody take on a whole gang of killers and nearly wipe them out. How’d you learn to shoot like that, Mr. Browning?”

  “It’s a knack.”

  In truth, it was an ability inherited from his father, a natural talent he had never known he possessed until great tragedy had forced him to pick up a gun and become an avenger. Since then he had worked diligently to improve his gun-handling skill.

  Normally he didn’t go out of his way to demonstrate it and wouldn’t have displayed it if circumstances hadn’t forced him to. Not many people knew that Conrad Browning, businessman, financier, stockholder in mines, railroad lines, shipping concerns, banks, and numerous other enterprises, was the son of Frank Morgan, the Drifter, last of the fast guns.

  Or perhaps next to last. When pushed to it, Conrad could almost match his father’s blazing speed with a Colt.

  The conductor said, “Maybe you’d better go talk to that butler fella who works for you and let him know you’re all right. He was so worried he was about to have a fit when we came through your private car a minute ago.”

  Conrad pouched both irons in the cross-draw rig and smiled a little. Arturo was the high-strung sort, all right.

  The conductor and the brakemen continued on toward the engine while Conrad left the passenger car and headed for the caboose. He had to climb onto the top of the baggage car and the express car to reach the rear of the string. That was the way the trainmen had come, but they were experienced at navigating the top of a swaying car. It was trickier for Conrad, but his sense of balance and superb reflexes enabled him to manage it without any trouble.

  He climbed down to the platform of the private car and went inside. As he stepped into the sitting room, he found Arturo pacing back and forth restlessly. The valet stopped short, stared at him for a second, and exclaimed, “You’re alive!”

  “And relatively unharmed,” Conrad said, holding up his gravel-scratched hands.

  For a moment he thought Arturo was going to hug him, but of course that would have been much too great a breach of decorum. Instead, Arturo looked down at Conrad’s knees and frowned. “You’ve ruined those trousers, in addition to getting blood all over the rug.”

  “You knew you were going to work for a barbarous American when you took this job,” Conrad pointed out.

  “Yes, I did, but I didn’t know you were going to wreak this much havoc before we even reached our destination.”

  Conrad’s smile disapeared and was replaced by a tight, grim mask. “Believe me, Arturo … I’ve just started wreaking havoc.”

  Arturo hesitated, then as the train began to slow, he said, “Why don’t you allow me to tend to those cuts on your hands, sir, and then you can don clean raiment. I’m sure the, ah, train workers will come and dispose of the, ah …”

  “Corpses.”

  “Yes, the corpses you left in your wake.”

  Conrad relaxed and let the valet clean the minor damage to his hands. None of the scrapes were bad enough to require a bandage.

  Arturo was an Italian by birth, although he spoke perfect English, without a trace of an accent. He had been educated not only in his homeland but also in England. Coming from a long line of servants, at one time he had worked for a deadly enemy of the notorious gunfighter known as Kid Morgan … who was, in reality, Conrad Browning.

  A few years earlier, Conrad had been rich, successful, and happily married to a beautiful young woman named Rebel. His life had been close to perfect.

  But in nature, perfection is always short-lived. So it was with Conrad Browning. His wife had been murdered, his life turned upside down. Since it had appeared he had died in a related outburst of violence, for a while Conrad had allowed everyone to believe he was dead. During that time, he recuperated from his injuries and taught himself how to be a cold, ruthless killer. He came up with a new identity, Kid Morgan, taking the name from his famous father, so Rebel’s murderers wouldn’t know Conrad Browning was actually alive and on their trail.

  One by one, Kid Morgan had tracked down the men he was after and had his vengeance on them. Eventually the trail had led The Kid to the person behind his wife’s death: Pamela Tarleton, who had once been engaged to Conrad Browning. Her twisted nature had brought about her own accidental death, completing Kid Morgan’s quest.

  That had left The Kid facing a heartbreaking revelation. All the blood, all the death, had not brought Rebel back. The emptiness caused by her loss was still inside him. Knowing that he could not return to his life as Conrad Browning while he felt that way, he chose to remain Kid Morgan, a loner riding through the West, drifting in and out of an assortment of dangers. His essential nature, no matter what he called himself, would not allow him to turn his back on people in trouble.

  It was during one of those adventures that he had run up against Arturo’s former employer, an Italian count willing to kill anyone in his way to get what he wanted. Tangling with Kid Morgan had not turned out well for the count, and Arturo had wound up without a job when Fortunato died in the New Mexico wasteland known as the Jornada del Muerto.

  By that time, the lawyers representing Conrad Browning’s business interests knew he was still alive, as did his father Frank Morgan. Having developed a liking for Arturo, The Kid had sent him to San Francisco, where Conrad’s lawyers had no trouble finding a job for him. He had remained in that position until recently.

  Kid Morgan had resumed drifting, until a case of mistaken identity had landed him in New Mexico’s Hell Gate Prison. Through a series of harrowing adventures, he had escaped and believed he had cleared his name.

  Being captured by ruthless bounty hunters proved him wrong. Again he had escaped with his life, but in the process The Kid had discovered he had a shadowy enemy, pulling the strings behind the scenes to make his life a living hell. In order to deal with that threat, he had put aside his identity as Kid Morgan and fully resumed the mantle of Conrad Browning. Things had come full circle … in more ways than one.

  A showdown in Santa Fe had revealed the mastermind behind The Kid’s troubles to be Roger Tarleton, Pamela’s cousin. The Tarleton family was still seeking vengeance on Conrad, and Pamela herself had reached out from the grave to drive one final knife into his heart.

  He didn’t have to reread the letter from her that Roger Tarleton’s lawyer had delivered to him. Every word of it was etched into his soul.

  Conrad,

  If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead. I’m entrusting this letter to my beloved cousin Roger with instructions that he should make certain you receive it, should my efforts to avenge my father’s life and my own honor go unrewarded. There is something I want you to know.

  As I am sure you recall, you and I were intimate before your marriage, Conrad. Committing those words to paper should shame me deeply, but I am beyond shame. What you did not know is that when you broke our engagement, I was with child by you.

  Yes, Conrad, you are a father … not once, but twice. I gave birth to twins, your children, not long after you married that other woman. They were healthy, happy infants, and now they are hidden away where you will never find them, somewhere in the vast frontier for which you deserted me.

  You are a father, Conrad, but you will never know your children and they will never know you.

  And this … is my final revenge on you.

  That staggering discovery might have been more than some men could stand. But the man who was both Conrad Browning and Kid Morgan had been forged in a crucible
of tragedy and grief, and though he was broken, that unholy fire had fused him together again, leaving him stronger than before. After reading that letter, he had allowed himself a moment of horror and sadness …

  And then he started making plans for how he would find his lost children.

  One thing was certain. Conrad would have to take up the trail first, not The Kid. He knew better than to trust anything Pamela had written in that letter. She had indicated the twins were hidden away somewhere in the West, but that was likely not true. After he had broken their engagement, she had remained in Boston, where both of them had lived at the time. He was confident that was where she would have given birth to the children.

  So that was where the trail would start. Conrad Browning was much better suited to dealing with the East than The Kid was, so it was Conrad that had boarded a train in Santa Fe and set off on the journey that would take him back to Boston.

  He hadn’t boarded the train alone, however. If he was going to fully assume the identity of Conrad Browning again, he needed a servant. Conrad wouldn’t travel without a valet. That was what his friends and associates back East would expect.

  He’d thought of Arturo and sent him a telegram, offering him the job. Arturo was more than happy to leave his current employer and accept the offer. True, Arturo was eccentric and set in his ways, but he was also loyal and intelligent, two qualities Conrad expected might come in handy before he found what he was looking for.

  “There,” Arturo said when he finished cleaning the scrapes and cuts on Conrad’s hands. “I think you’ll be fine until the next time you attempt to exterminate every owlhoot and gunman west of the Mississippi.”

  “Well, I’ve sort of got a cut on my back, too, where one of those train robbers tried to stab me …”

  Arturo rolled his eyes. “Turn around and let me see. Of course. The coat is ruined, too. It’s a good thing you’re filthy rich, sir, the way you go through clothes. Trouble just lies in wait for you, doesn’t it?”