“You should let both of us go,” Frank said. “My friend needs medical attention.”
“We will tend to his wound,” Mano Rojo said calmly. “He will be safe here. And when we know that you have done as you say you will do, Frank Morgan, then he will be freed.”
“They want to keep me as a hostage?” Scheer asked. “Morgan, you can’t let them do that!”
“I don’t reckon I’ve got a whole lot of choice in the matter, if they’ve got their hearts set on it,” Frank said.
“But . . . but they’re savages! You can’t trust them!”
Frank fixed the engineer with a flinty stare. “I think I can trust Mano Rojo . . . if he gives me his word.”
The chief nodded gravely and said, “As you have given me yours.”
Frank took a deep breath. The situation wasn’t perfect, far from it, in fact, but he figured it was the best he could do under the circumstances.
“Then we are agreed,” he said. A faint smile touched his lips. “As the white men would put it, we’ve got a deal, Mano Rojo.”
Chapter 28
Since Conrad had never before taken part in a brawl such as the one that had erupted in the Big Nugget, he wasn’t quite sure what to expect the next morning. What he got were stiff and aching muscles, bruises so sore that they made him wince when he touched them gingerly, and a shiner to be proud of. His left eye was ringed with a large circle of black and blue and purple. The swelling around the eye had gone down enough so that he could see better, but it was still puffy.
He looked at himself in the mirror over the dressing table in his hotel room and shook his head. The excitement and exhilaration of battle had kept him from realizing just how much damage he was absorbing. Now there was no doubt. He clenched his jaw to keep from groaning as he pulled on his clothes.
Despite the pain, his head was still clear and he felt surprisingly good. The more he moved around, the less his muscles hurt. As he went downstairs, he realized that he was ravenously hungry.
More than anything else, he simply felt alive to a greater extent than he could remember feeling, perhaps ever.
Glancing around the dining room as he came in, he didn’t see Rebel, Pamela, or Tarleton. The waiter was familiar, though, and as he came up to the table where Conrad sat down, he shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Browning. I heard that you were involved in a disturbance. That eye must hurt like the dickens.”
Conrad grinned. “It does smart a mite,” he said.
“What can I bring you?”
“A pot of coffee. Strong and black. Flapjacks. Then a steak and some potatoes.”
The waiter bobbed his head. “Yes, sir.”
“By the way, George . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
“Have you see Mr. Tarleton or Miss Pamela this morning?”
George shook his head. “No, sir, I’m afraid not. They haven’t come down yet.”
“What about Miss Rebel Callahan?”
“No, sir, not her either.”
“All right, thank you. Bring that coffee now.”
“Right away, sir!”
Conrad leaned back in his chair and rubbed his jaw as the waiter hurried away. He wasn’t sure who he wanted to see first. That was out of his hands, he supposed. He would play the cards as they were dealt.
As it turned out, Pamela entered the dining room first, while Conrad was halfway through his first cup of coffee and still waiting for his food. The coffee had already helped him recover a bit more of his strength. He was sitting where he could keep an eye on the entrance, so he saw Pamela come in. He came to his feet and stood there until he caught her eye. She hesitated, but then walked toward him.
“Conrad, darling, you look so . . . so battered,” she said. “I want to give you a big hug, but I’m afraid I might hurt you.”
“I doubt that you would, but perhaps we’d better not take the chance,” he said dryly. “Sit down, Pamela. Join me. We have things to talk about.”
“We do?” she asked, arching her eyebrows quizzically.
“That’s right.” He held out a hand toward the empty chair on the other side of the table. “Please?”
“All right.” She waited until he came around the table to hold her chair for her, and then sat down. “You look like a positive ruffian! It’s scandalous. I hear that you were attacked in one of the drinking establishments.”
“The Big Nugget Saloon,” he said as he settled back in his own chair. “But I wasn’t exactly attacked. I threw the first punch.”
“Really? I must say, Conrad, you surprise me. You sound almost proud that you initiated the fisticuffs.”
“I am. The varmint had it coming, and I let him have a good one.”
“The . . . varmint?”
“I could call him some other names,” Conrad said casually, “but it wouldn’t be polite to use such language in the presence of a lady.”
“Well, I’m glad to see that you haven’t totally lost the qualities of a gentleman. The way you’re dressed and your general demeanor had me worried that you were turning into one of these horrid . . .” She lowered her voice as she looked around the room. “Westerners!”
“Thank you,” Conrad said simply.
“For what?”
“For comparing me to Western men. It’s about time I evoked such a comparison, I think, since many of my business interests are located out here and I plan to spend much more time west of the Mississippi than I have in the past.”
Pamela frowned prettily. “I suppose that’s all right for now, but after we’re married, surely you plan to spend most of your time in Boston.”
Slowly, Conrad said, “That’s another thing. . . .”
Pamela stared across the table at him, not saying anything as understanding soaked in on her. Her eyes gradually widened, and she said in a whisper, “No, you can’t possibly . . . Conrad, you don’t mean . . . I know there have been problems, but you can’t just—”
“I’m sorry, Pamela,” he said. “I know it’s a dastardly thing to do, but I simply don’t think it’s meant to be. You and I aren’t right for each other, and you know it.”
“I know no such thing! My God, Conrad, we’ve made so many plans—”
“You made plans,” Conrad said. “I just went along with them.”
The expression on her face was turning from shock to anger. “You went along with them, all right,” she said. “You led me to believe that you wanted this marriage as much as I did.”
“At the time, that was true. But it’s not any longer, and I think it’s much better to cause a bit of pain now than a great deal of pain later.”
Pamela’s face began to flush with rage. “This is because of that little blond slut, isn’t it?” she hissed.
“I’ll thank you not to talk about Rebel that way,” he said tightly, a little angry now himself.
She leaned forward, keeping her voice low so that there wouldn’t be a scene. “You fool! Don’t you know that she’s forgotten you and set her sights on my father now?”
“She’s just trying to make me jealous,” Conrad said, shaking his head.
“Don’t make me laugh. She’s decided that Clark Tarleton is the better catch. And she’s right. My father is a man.” Pamela’s mouth twisted in a contemptuous sneer. “You’re just a little boy.”
Conrad kept a tight rein on his temper. “I’m sorry I’ve hurt you, Pamela,” he said. “As I’ve indicated, I think this is the best thing in the long run.”
She shook her head, glared at him, and probably would have had more to say if her father hadn’t entered the dining room at that moment. Clark Tarleton spotted his daughter and Conrad sitting at the table and strode quickly across the room, a scowl on his face. Ignoring Pamela for the moment, he snapped, “I hope you’re pleased with yourself, Browning. Because of that brawl you and your men started last night, half of my best men are laid up and won’t be able to work for several days. Some of them even have broken bones. It’ll be weeks
before they can go back to work!”
Coolly, Conrad said, “While it’s true that I threw the first punch, Tarleton, it was your foreman, Ned Cameron, who really caused the fight by acting like a boor. He’s the one you should be blaming for any inconvenience, not me.”
“Well, I do blame you—” Tarleton stopped short as he glanced down at his daughter and saw how ashen and upset she looked. “Pamela?” he said. “My God, what’s wrong?”
“Conrad has done more than cause trouble for you at the mine, Father,” she said. Her voice shook a little. “He’s just broken our engagement.”
“What!” Tarleton roared, and any hope of getting out of here without a scene was gone. “How dare you!”
“And do you know why he doesn’t want to marry me anymore?” Pamela went on. “It’s because of that Callahan woman!”
“Rebel? Good Lord!”
Conrad stood up, well aware that everyone else in the dining room was watching now. Let them, he thought. He didn’t care anymore.
“That’s not the entire reason,” he said. “I’ve been trying to explain to Pamela that she and I just aren’t suited to be married to each other. I’ve decided—”
“That’s just it!” Pamela broke in. Her voice quavered, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “You decided! You didn’t ask me. You just made up your mind, and that was it! The engagement was off.”
Conrad took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but . . . yes, that’s the way it is. The way it has to be.”
“You . . .” Tarleton grated. “You damned insolent pup!”
He brought his fist up and swung it, aiming right at Conrad’s head.
Conrad knew that Tarleton was still a strong man despite his years. He couldn’t afford to underestimate him. Ducking under the blow, he stepped in and swiftly got hold of Tarleton’s arm. He twisted it and brought it around behind Tarleton’s back, forcing the older man to turn.
“Clark, don’t do this,” he said, hoping to head off any further trouble. “I’m sure it’ll be best for everyone—”
“Let go of me!” Tarleton bellowed. He drove the elbow of his other arm back into Conrad’s belly, striking hard with it. Conrad coughed and started to double over, breathless for the moment. Tarleton twisted free of his grip.
Conrad expected Tarleton to try to hit him again, and he set himself and brought up his arms to block any blows. Instead, Tarleton straightened his coat, took Pamela’s arm, and helped her up from her chair.
“Come along, my dear,” he said. “This man isn’t worth brawling with. You’re better off without him.”
Pamela was still crying, but she sniffed and tried to put on a brave face. “You’re right, Father,” she said as she lifted her chin and stared defiantly at Conrad. “He’s not good enough to be a member of our family.”
They turned to leave. Conrad was sorry the situation had deteriorated so badly and turned out in such an embarrassing manner, but at the same time he was glad to see them go. The idea of not having to marry Pamela was like a huge weight off his shoulders. He had never realized just how heavy it was until it was gone.
He hadn’t been watching the dining room entrance after Tarleton came in, so now as he watched the two of them leave and looked in that direction, he was surprised to see Rebel standing there. She was dressed in range clothes again, boots and jeans and a man’s shirt, and Conrad wondered how long she had been there. Had she witnessed all of the embarrassing scene with the Tarletons, or just part of it?
More importantly, what did she think of the whole thing?
She stepped aside as Tarleton and Pamela walked past her. Tarleton glanced at her, but didn’t stop or say anything. Rebel didn’t come any farther into the dining room, which meant Conrad had to go to her. He was acutely conscious of eyes following him as he walked across the room.
“Rebel,” he said as he came up to her, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“You are?” she said, and she sounded genuinely surprised. “You’re glad I got to see you wrestling with a man more than twice your age?”
“You don’t understand,” he said quickly. “I didn’t want to hurt Mr. Tarleton. He was just upset because of the fight in the Big Nugget last night—”
“I heard about that,” Rebel cut in. “Regular saloon tough, ain’t you?”
“No, not at all. I was just defending a lady—”
“A saloon girl, was the way I heard it.”
Conrad took a deep breath and forged ahead. “At any rate, I’m not ashamed of what happened last night. I am, however, sorry that I upset Pamela this morning.”
“What did you do?” Rebel asked.
“I told her that our engagement is off,” Conrad said proudly. “I explained that we weren’t suited for each other and that it would be much better for both of us if we did not get married.”
Rebel’s eyes widened. “You broke it off with her, just like that?”
“Swift and merciful,” Conrad said decisively.
“I wondered why she was cryin’. Now I reckon I know.” For a moment, Rebel didn’t say anything else. She just looked at Conrad and shook her head solemnly and a little bit sadly. It didn’t take long for him to grow uncomfortable as she looked at him with a mixture of anger and pity.
“Rebel, I thought you would be pleased,” he said. “I don’t understand—”
“No,” she cut in. “You sure as hell don’t.”
And with that, she turned and walked away, not looking back at him.
Conrad watched her go, flabbergasted by her reaction. Didn’t she know that he had ended things with Pamela because he wanted to be with her? Surely she could see that!
But he hadn’t told her, he reminded himself. For a second he thought about running after her and trying once again to explain, but then he decided he couldn’t do that. He was too proud. If she wanted to jump to conclusions about him, then so be it.
Slowly, he went back to his table and sat down. George stood nearby, a tray of food in his hands, a worried look on his face. He said, “Uh . . . Mr. Browning . . . you still want your breakfast?”
Conrad summoned up a faint smile and shook his head. “I’m sorry, George,” he said. “I seem to have lost my appetite.”
Chapter 29
Mano Rojo had given Frank his word that he and Scheer would not be harmed, but while Frank believed the chief, he wasn’t completely convinced that the rest of the Apaches would live up to the bargain. They were independent cusses, and they had good reason to hate all white men.
So Frank slept lightly that night, counting on his own senses as well as those of Stormy and Dog to warn him if any of the warriors came creeping close with murder on their minds. He was awake quite a bit, and during those times he thought about everything that had happened. The more he mulled it over, the more he was convinced that Royal and the rest of the gang of saboteurs were the most likely culprits when it came to the attack that wiped out the families of these Apaches.
Royal and the others were working for somebody, though. They were strictly hired guns, and they would have nothing to gain by stopping the spur line other than a payoff.
The question was who would profit if Conrad’s venture failed.
The next morning, Frank shook Walt Scheer awake and asked him, “Who owns the Southwestern and Pacific?”
Scheer blinked sleepily and then rubbed his eyes. Since he didn’t have a shirt, he had begged a blanket from the Apaches. One of the Indians had also given him some sort of foul-smelling medicinal ointment to rub on the long cut on his chest. The wound was caked over with dried blood and medicine, but at least the flesh around it wasn’t inflamed. It might heal without infection setting in. Scheer would have an ugly scar, but that was a hell of a lot better than being dead.
He pulled the blanket tighter around his bare shoulders, yawned, and said, “What?”
“I asked who owns the Southwestern and Pacific,” Frank repeated, keeping the impatience he felt under control.
“I don’t
really know,” Scheer said with a shake of his head. “Some sort of syndicate back East, I believe. The line has offices in Philadelphia and Boston.”
“You said the SW and P plans to take over the spur line if Conrad Browning fails to get it through?”
Scheer nodded. “That’s right. It should be quite a lucrative enterprise. The mines around Ophir produce a great deal of ore. There are also successful ranches in the area. The spur line will have plenty of business once it’s completed.”
“So to some people, there’s enough at stake to justify murder.”
Scheer’s eyes widened. “I didn’t say that,” he replied quickly. “I don’t know anything about murder, or sabotage, or the attack on those savages.”
“Would be mighty ironic, though, if Royal and his friends work for the same fellas you do. It’s like the old saying about one hand not knowing what the other hand is doing. They would have tortured you to death without ever knowing that all of you have the same boss.”
A shudder went through Scheer at the mention of the fate he had so narrowly avoided. “I suppose it’s possible,” he said as he looked down at the ground. “I don’t know anything about it, though.”
Frank nodded. He believed the engineer. Scheer had no reason to lie.
The Apaches didn’t have much to eat, just some dried venison and berries, but they shared with Frank and Scheer. Mano Rojo saw to that. Frank still had the impression that the rest of the band would have gladly killed the two white men, but no one was willing to stand up to Mano Rojo and insist on it.
When they had finished eating their meager breakfast, Mano Rojo brought one of the other Apaches over to Frank. “This is Maldito,” he said. “The Little Evil One.”
Maldito lived up to his name. He was even shorter and more stockily built than the other warriors. During some battle in the past, he had lost an eye. A white scar slanted across the empty socket where his left eye should have been. He squinted balefully at Frank with his right eye and fingered the hilt of the knife at his waist.
“Maldito will take you to where you can find the white man’s town,” Mano Rojo went on.
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