Chapter 17
The brushy ridge dropped steeply into a circular depression about five hundred yards across. The ground at the bottom of it was fairly flat and grassy. Stands of stubby pines grew here and there, and other areas were choked by briars, cactus, and scrubby mesquite trees.
It wasn’t a very pretty place, but at one time somebody had thought it would make a decent place to live. A large log cabin that looked at least twenty years old sat in a clearing in the pines. The smoke Conrad and the other men had been following rose from a stone chimney at one end of the structure.
A pole corral with a number of horses in it lay behind the cabin. Conrad didn’t see anyone moving around.
“They’ve got her in there, the bastards,” James said through gritted teeth. “I know it.”
“More’n likely you’re right, boy,” Whitfield agreed, keeping his rumbling voice as quiet as he could. “I don’t see a good way of gettin’ in there. I reckon we could lay siege to the place, but who knows how long it’d take to get ’em out that way.”
“Too long,” Conrad said. “If they have Meggie, they could threaten to kill her if we didn’t let them go.”
He frowned as he studied the terrain. After a moment, he went on, “It looks to me like a man could get pretty close to the cabin and still stay in the trees. If he could work his way around behind the cabin, then climb on the roof and throw a blanket over that chimney . . .”
“Smoke ’em out, eh?” Whitfield nodded. “Might work. Fella who tried it would be runnin’ a mighty big risk of bein’ shot before he ever got there, though.”
“I’ll do it,” James said without hesitation.
Conrad shook his head. “That will be my job. And we’ll wait until dusk. That way it’ll be harder for their guards to see.”
“Dusk is hours away,” James argued. “We don’t know what’s goin’ on in there. They could be doin’ . . . anything . . . to Meggie.”
Trace laughed. “Don’t worry about that, MacTavish. Anything they were gonna do to your sister, they’ve already done . . . probably more than once.”
James’s face reddened angrily. Whitfield snapped, “Damn it, Jack, there ain’t no call to talk like that.”
“Just tellin’ the truth,” Trace said with a shrug.
“Let it go, James,” Conrad said. “I know that’s easier said than done—”
“Damn right it is,” James said. “What if that was your sister in there, Browning?”
Conrad didn’t have a sister—at least, not that he knew of for sure, although Frank had dropped hints that there was a girl back in Texas who might be his half-sister—but he had gone through the ordeal of Rebel being kidnapped. He said, “I know how you feel. It’ll still be better to wait until the light starts to go.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Whitfield said. “Why don’t we leave a man here to keep an eye on the cabin, and the rest of us can go back to where we left the others?”
That seemed like a reasonable suggestion to Conrad, as long as it wasn’t James MacTavish they left behind. He didn’t trust the young man not to do something foolish. Trace solved that problem by saying, “I’ll stay, boss.”
“All right. You let us know if anything changes down there.”
Trace nodded. “I will.”
Conrad felt worry stir uneasily inside him. He didn’t trust Trace, but as far as he could see, the gunman had no reason to betray them now.
He moved back down the ridge with Whitfield and James. Two things filled his mind—concern for Meggie MacTavish, and the knowledge that he might soon be face to face with the man truly responsible for Rebel’s death.
When they rejoined the other men, Whitfield explained the situation to them. They nodded, taking the news expressionlessly. They were professional fighting men, so the prospect of one more battle didn’t faze any of them. They didn’t have any emotional ties to Meggie. This was just another job to them.
Conrad and Whitfield hunkered on their heels to work out the rest of the plan. Everyone except Conrad would take up positions on top of the ridge so that they would have good shots at the cabin in the depression. Conrad said, “Chances are, when the smoke forces them out, one of the men will have Meggie and will try to use her as a hostage. Since I’ll be the closest, I’ll take him. I’ll jump him from the top of the cabin and get her away from him. As soon as I’ve done that, you open up on the rest of them.”
“Gun ’em down, just like that?”
“They tried to kill Hamish MacTavish. They may have succeeded, for all we know. And they kidnapped an innocent young woman. I’d say they deserve whatever happens to them.”
Whitfield shrugged. “Don’t reckon I can argue with that. One thing worries me, though. We figured they planned on bushwhackin’ us. How come they didn’t? How come they’re just sittin’ down there like they’re waitin’ for us to come callin’?”
Those questions nagged at Conrad, too, but he didn’t have any answers for them. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe we’ll find out once we’ve taken the girl away from them.”
“If she’s down there,” Whitfield said, voicing another of Conrad’s worries.
“She’s there,” he said. “Where else can she be?”
Where else, indeed.
Conrad knew from experience how difficult waiting could be. That afternoon was a good example. It seemed to drag by as they waited for the sun to dip below Big Hatchet Mountain. Conrad went up the ridge a couple of times to check with Trace and see if there had been any activity around the cabin. Each time the gunman shook his head and said, “Nobody’s as much as even poked a head out. Are you sure they’re down there, Browning?”
“They have to be,” Conrad said. “Their horses are there.”
Trace shrugged. “I reckon.”
Late in the afternoon, James MacTavish approached Whitfield and said, “You’ve got to give me my gun back now. You can’t expect me not to help rescue my own sister.”
“You’re convinced that I didn’t have anything to do with her bein’ carried off?” the rancher demanded.
“Yeah. I don’t think even you would’ve gone to this much trouble to fool me.”
Whitfield snorted. “Damn right I wouldn’t. I got better things to do . . . like keepin’ my beef from bein’ widelooped by a bunch of no-good squatters.”
James’s anger flared up again. “Haven’t you figured out by now that we’re not rustlers?”
“Then what happened to that stock of mine that’s disappeared?”
Conrad spoke up, saying, “Any number of things could have happened. Mexican bandits could have come across the border and stolen them, like I told you before.” He moved his head in a barely perceptible nod toward the hired gun-wolves who waited nearby. “Or maybe you’ve got some men on your payroll who are working more for themselves than they are for you.”
Whitfield glowered at him. “That’s a mighty sorry accusation to be makin’, considerin’ that you’re gonna be fightin’ side by side with those boys before too much longer.”
“One thing doesn’t rule out the other,” Conrad said.
“No, I reckon not,” Whitfield admitted. His mouth worked as he thought, which made his heavy jaw shift from side to side. “I suppose it ain’t impossible . . .”
“But it doesn’t have anything to do with the job that’s facing us now,” Conrad went on. “When we get back to Val Verde, you really ought to sit down with Hamish MacTavish and hash out the problems the two of you have with each other. You’d be better off in the long run if you were friends, rather than enemies.”
“How would you know? You don’t strike me as a man who has many friends, mister.”
That was true, Conrad thought. Phillip Bearpaw might qualify, but there was no telling when, or even if, he would ever see the Paiute Indian again. He and Frank Morgan were friends now, over and above the blood tie between them, but Frank was a man who went his own way. Conrad had inherited that same trait. Even in his younger days, he had never opened up and let anyone get that close to him. He had always been something of a loner . . .
Until he met Rebel. Things had changed then.
And with her death, they had changed again. He might spend time with families like the MacTavishes, might ride for a while with men such as Devil Dave Whitfield . . . but in the end, if he lived, he would move on by himself. That was the way he wanted it. A solitary man.
A loner, now and forever.
The sun finally made its long, slow way down the western sky and slid behind the mountains. As shadows gathered, the men started toward the top of the ridge, taking their horses along with them this time. When they left, they might have trouble on their back trail, so there wouldn’t be any time to waste.
James had his long-barreled Remington revolver back, along with his Winchester. Although an air of tension still existed between him and Whitfield, Conrad believed that the two of them had called a truce. He hoped it would last once they got back to Val Verde—assuming, of course, that they made it back to the settlement safely.
He stole ahead of the others, since he’d have to get in position first. He had a rolled-up blanket tucked under his left arm. When he got on top of the cabin, he would use it to block the chimney and cause the smoke to back up into the structure.
As he approached the spot where they had left Trace earlier in the afternoon, he called the gunman’s name softly. It was never a good idea to risk spooking a man who made his living with a gun.
Trace didn’t respond. Conrad called his name again. Still nothing. Conrad stiffened with alarm for a second, then drew his gun and went on to the top of the ridge.
Trace was nowhere in sight.
Conrad bit back a curse. He had no idea where Trace could have gone. There hadn’t been any shots, so it was unlikely that the kidnappers had stumbled on him. Of course, it was possible they might have taken him prisoner without having to resort to gunplay, Conrad supposed.
Regardless of what had happened, he didn’t have time to search for Trace right then. He had to get down there and put the plan he’d worked out with Whitfield into action.
Carrying the blanket, he slipped over the crest and started down the slope, half-crawling and half-sliding. He used the brush for cover. If anyone was watching from inside the cabin, they might be able to catch a glimpse of him, but in the fading light, a watcher might not be able to distinguish him from an animal.
When he reached the bottom of the ridge, he stayed in the brush and began working his way around the circular depression. Briars and thorns clawed at him, but he ignored the discomfort and kept his attention on the cabin. He wondered if anyone was even in there, smoke had been rising from the chimney all day, so someone had to be inside feeding the fire.
When he was behind the cabin, he crawled out of the brush, came up in a crouch, and darted behind the nearest tree. Moving from tree to tree, he approached the building. The shadows were thicker since the sun was setting.
Conrad paused behind a tree about five feet from the rear wall of the cabin. One of its branches stuck out far enough that he could climb onto it and drop down onto the roof. As a boy, he had never been one for climbing trees—one just didn’t do such things in Boston—but he thought that he could manage.
Climbing the tree proved to be harder than he expected, but he managed to reach the limb he wanted. Carefully, with his legs wrapped around the branch, he pulled himself along it until he could slide off. When he hung by his hands, his boots touched the rough wooden shingles on the roof. He let go. It seemed likely to him that whoever was inside didn’t even know he was up there. The plan was working perfectly so far.
As quietly as possible, he moved over to the chimney and draped the blanket over the flue. He held it in place and waited to see what would happen.
He didn’t have to wait very long. Someone began to cough heavily in the cabin below him. From the sound of the coughing, it was only one man. That didn’t make any sense. There were a dozen horses in the corral, and Margaret MacTavish should have been inside the cabin, too.
Conrad suddenly had a bad feeling.
That feeling got worse when the cabin door slammed open and one man stumbled out, holding a bandanna over his mouth and nose as he coughed. He pulled his gun from its holster, aimed at the sky, and fired three fast shots. That had to be a signal.
But a signal for what?
“Damn it!” Conrad breathed as guns began to roar up on the ridge. Those shots weren’t being directed at the cabin. They probably weren’t even being fired by James MacTavish, Dave Whitfield, and Whitfield’s men.
The ambush they had been waiting for was finally there.
He palmed out his Colt, thinking that the man who had just given the signal would be turning the gun toward him next. Instead, the man dashed into the trees. The move took Conrad so much by surprise that he didn’t fire a shot.
Whatever happened next, Conrad didn’t want to be stuck up there on the roof. He would be a sitting duck if anyone decided to line their sights on him. He holstered his gun, then hurried to the rear of the cabin, where he sat down, slid off the edge, hung by his hands for a second, and dropped the rest of the way to the ground.
The gunfire was still going on atop the ridge, but the shots seemed to be dying away. That couldn’t be good, Conrad thought. He drew his Colt again and hurried into the trees. Maybe he could circle around and get back up there to see what was going on without the bushwhackers spotting him.
Making his way up the slope wasn’t easy. It was steep and thick brush covered most of it. He had climbed only a few yards when the shooting stopped, leaving an eerie silence hanging over the depression along with the thickening shadows of approaching night.
Then a man’s voice called, “Browning! Browning, you hear me, you son of a bitch?”
Conrad’s breath hissed between his teeth as he recognized the voice. Trace! The son of a bitch had somehow double-crossed them after all. Conrad had been right not to trust him.
But that knowledge came a little bit late, he thought bitterly.
“I know you’re down there somewhere,” Trace went on. “Come on out in the open, in front of the cabin. You’ve got my word that you won’t be hurt if you do!”
Conrad wondered why Trace thought such a promise would mean anything to him. He stayed where he was in the brush and didn’t move. His brain worked furiously, trying to figure out some way he could get back to his horse and return to the spot where they’d left Pamela before any of the others could get to her.
It was probably too late for James MacTavish and Whitfield. Chances were, they’d been killed in the ambush. That thought put a bitter, sour taste in Conrad’s mouth.
“I know you hear me, Browning! But just in case you ain’t payin’ attention . . .”
A woman screamed.
Conrad didn’t necessarily hear pain in her voice, but she sounded utterly terrified. He wasn’t sure if the voice belonged to Pamela or to Meggie MacTavish, but then a second later, the scream stopped and she cried, “Conrad! Oh, God, help me, Conrad! You have to do what they say!”
The world spun crazily around Conrad. Again. Again. Again. The word beat like a madman’s drum in his head. He didn’t love Pamela anymore, but he did care about her, and she was in deadly danger because of him. Sure, it had been her own choice to follow him, but if she hadn’t known him in the first place, she never would have experienced so much tragedy in her life, never would have found her life threatened that way. The same was true of Meggie MacTavish.
Was this his fate? To bring death and suffering to every young woman who crossed his path?
“In front of the cabin, Browning! Now!”
Conrad took a deep breath and shouted toward the top of the ridge, “All right! Just hold on!”
A fusillade of shots didn’t greet his response, so he figured that maybe they didn’t plan to kill him of hand. Anthony Tarleton had more in mind than simply killing him. That lunatic would want to torture him some more first.
Conrad moved through the brush and broke out into the open. He walked toward the cabin. The sky above Big Hatchet Mountain still held a faint rosy hue, the last afterglow of the vanished sun, but there most of the light was gone.
Conrad saw two burning brands flare into life. The men who came down from the ridge needed torches to light their way. He stood in front of the cabin, his arms at his sides, the Colt still gripped in his right hand, and watched as the torchbearers descended the slope. When the two men reached the bottom, they separated so that the rest of the group could move between them and walk toward the cabin. Conrad saw Jack Trace and another man leading the way. He recognized the second man from Pamela’s description.
He was looking at Anthony Tarleton, the man responsible for Rebel’s death, and for all the other deaths that had followed in the past few months.
Tarleton was a big man, as Pamela had said, and he wore a smug smile on his broad, florid face. He carried a rifle and wore the sort of clothes a rich man might wear on a hunting trip.
Conrad could see between Trace and Tarleton and was startled to spot Dave Whitfield and James MacTavish. He had figured that both men were dead. Whitfield clutched a bloody left arm but seemed to be all right otherwise.
James didn’t appear to have any fresh wounds at all. He had his arm around a redheaded young woman who huddled against him as they made their way along slowly. Meggie, Conrad thought as he recognized her and relief went through him. They were still in a very dangerous spot, but he was glad to see that Meggie was alive and apparently unharmed.
Several men he hadn’t seen before followed the prisoners with drawn guns. Covered and outnumbered as they were, Whitfield and James couldn’t do anything except cooperate. Judging by the amount of shooting that had gone on a few minutes earlier, Conrad had a strong hunch that the rest of Whitfield’s men were dead, but for some reason Tarleton had spared the rancher and the young brother and sister.
That left only one person unaccounted for. Conrad’s eyes searched desperately for her. He knew she was alive because he had heard her cry out to him moments earlier.
The garish, flickering light from the torches washed over the area in front of the cabin as the group came to a stop. Anthony Tarleton chuckled as he looked at Conrad.
“Conrad Browning,” he said. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time, boy.”
“No longer than I’ve wanted to meet you,” Conrad grated. He fought down the impulse to jerk his gun up and put a bullet between Tarleton’s eyes. He knew he was fast enough to do it before any of the others could stop him, even Jack Trace. At least he could die knowing that he had sent Rebel’s murderer to Hell.
But that would leave Pamela at the mercy of Trace and the other killers, and he couldn’t do that. He went on, “Where is she? Where’s Pamela?”
“My dear niece?” Tarleton asked with a leer. He turned his head. “Come here, Pamela. Browning wants to see you for himself, to make sure you’re all right.”
The group of gunmen watching the prisoners parted. Pamela stepped through the gap and walked forward. Relief washed through Conrad again as he saw that she appeared to be all right. They hadn’t hurt her when they captured her.
But then he realized that something was wrong, after all. Something that sent his heart plummeting and ripped the hide off what was left of his soul. Pamela was smiling as she asked, “Why wouldn’t I be all right, Uncle Anthony?”
Then she looked at Conrad—and laughed.