The Loner: The Blood of Renegades

by J. A. Johnstone

  At the top of the cut, Conrad reined in and turned in the saddle to look back at the beautiful valley behind them. Arturo brought the buggy to a stop and asked, “Do you regret leaving?”

  “Not at all,” Conrad answered honestly. “This isn’t my home and never could be.” He smiled. “But I hope it’s a good one for them.”

  With that, they headed west.

  Over the next couple days, Conrad and Arturo worked their way back down and out of the mountains and finally came to the Southern Pacific Railroad again. Conrad questioned if they were still in Utah or if they had crossed the border into Nevada. It didn’t really matter, he supposed, but he was curious anyway.

  He also wondered when they would come to a settlement. They had a few supplies left, but they were going to have to restock their provisions soon. Either that or live off the game he was able to shoot, and considering the mostly barren region didn’t have a lot of wildlife, that was a chancy proposition.

  Late in the afternoon of the second day, he spotted some buildings along the tracks far ahead of them. “Looks like a little town up there.” He pointed them out to Arturo.

  “Do you think there might be a hotel?”

  “You never can tell. It’s possible, since the railroad goes through there.” Conrad chuckled. “Are you wanting to sleep in a real bed again, Arturo? It’s only been a couple days since we left Paradise Valley.”

  “Yes, but the mattresses those people use are filled with corn shucks. They’re certainly not the most comfortable mattresses I’ve ever slept on.”

  “Well, we’ll see,” Conrad said. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up too high if I was you.”

  “I never do,” Arturo said. “That way the only surprises are pleasant ones.”

  Conrad laughed as they rode on.

  When they came closer to the settlement, he saw that it wasn’t a very big one. There was an adobe depot building next to the tracks, with a short street stretching north a few blocks. The town had a couple general stores, which meant he and Arturo could pick up some provisions. There were three saloons, a blacksmith shop, a livery stable, a few other businesses, and maybe a dozen houses, some made out of adobe, the others from weathered, sun-faded lumber. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant-looking place, but Conrad was glad to see it.

  They went to the livery stable first. A short, stocky Mexican who introduced himself as Ricardo was glad to take care of Conrad’s roan and the buggy team. “You must have come far. You have the look of men who are well traveled.”

  “Too far,” Conrad said. “But we have still farther to go.”

  “Is there a hotel in town?” Arturo asked.

  Ricardo nodded. “Sure. The Humboldt House. It’s not too fancy, but the bugs won’t bite you too bad.” He laughed at the stricken look on Arturo’s face. “No, señor, I’m joking. There are no bugs.”

  The look he gave Conrad behind Arturo’s back said that maybe there were a few bugs.

  “Which mercantile is the best?” Conrad asked.

  “Trafford won’t cheat you. The others . . .” Ricardo wiggled his hand up and down. “You got to watch them a little closer.”

  Conrad nodded. “We’re obliged. Arturo, why don’t you go to the store and see about ordering supplies, then get us rooms at the hotel? I’m going over to the train station.”

  “You’re catching the train?” Ricardo asked. “You want to sell this buggy and these horses?”

  “No, I just need to talk to the stationmaster,” Conrad explained.

  He and Arturo split up, Arturo heading for Trafford’s General Store while Conrad walked toward the depot. Stepping inside he realized the thick adobe walls kept the building cool. It was a small depot serving a small settlement. He figured one man probably served as stationmaster, ticket clerk, baggage handler, and telegrapher. Conrad found him behind a narrow window with a wicket in it.

  The man was bald except for a fringe of white hair around his ears and the back of his head. In a high-pitched voice, he introduced himself as Percy and tried to sell Conrad a ticket on the train.

  Conrad shook his head and said no thanks to the ticket. “Have you been around here long? What’s the name of this place, anyway?”

  “Why, this is Cavendish. Cavendish, Nevada,” Percy said proudly. “And I’ve been here as long as the depot has. Eleven years, come August.”

  “You’ve been in charge of the station that whole time?”

  “Yes, sir. Right down to sweeping out the place.”

  Conrad nodded. “I know this is a long shot, but do you recall a woman who came through on the train about three years ago, traveling with a couple small children and a nanny?”

  Percy frowned at him. “Now how in the world would I remember something like—Wait a minute. You don’t mean Mrs. Browning, do you?”

  Conrad’s breath caught in his throat. “Mrs. Browning?” he repeated.

  “Sure. The wife of a fella named Conrad Browning. He’s a big stockholder in the line, so I went out of my way to make sure Mrs. Browning was comfortable while she and her kids were here. They wouldn’t have stopped over at all, except one of the regulator valves on the engine went bad and the company had to send out another one. Had to park the train on the siding for a couple days while we were waiting for it. Didn’t want an important lady like Mrs. Browning having to stay in a Pullman compartment when the train wasn’t even moving, so the line put her up in the hotel. What a nice lady.”

  Conrad could have told the man some things that would have proven Pamela wasn’t a nice lady at all, but he didn’t see any point in it.

  “So she did have the children with her?”

  “Yep, a little boy and a little girl, as I recall. And that woman traveling with her to help out with the kids. She was nice, too. Really devoted to those young’uns, almost like they were her own.”

  Conrad was glad to hear the twins were being well taken care of, anyway. “So when the locomotive was repaired, the train went on west?”

  “Yep. San Francisco bound.” Percy frowned. “Say, why all the questions, mister? What business is it of yours?”

  “I used to be friends with . . . Mr. and Mrs. Browning.” Conrad almost choked on the words. It was the first time he’d heard Pamela sometimes pretended to be his wife to get what she wanted. It didn’t surprise him. She had always been willing to go to any lengths to get her way.

  “Sure you don’t need a ticket?”

  Conrad was tempted. Surely Pamela hadn’t come so far west with the twins then not taken them on to San Francisco with her. He could be there in a day and enlist Turnbuckle and Stafford in the search. He could afford to hire an army of private detectives to scour the city for any sign of the children.

  But there was a slim chance that Pamela had hidden them somewhere between where he was—Cavendish, Nevada—and the coast, so Conrad couldn’t afford to risk bypassing any of the settlements. He told Percy, “No, that’s all right. Thanks anyway.”

  He went to the Humboldt House and found Arturo waiting for him in the lobby. “I’ve rented two rooms for us,” Arturo reported, “and Mr. Trafford will have our supplies ready for us first thing in the morning.”

  Conrad nodded. “Good job. I talked to the stationmaster and found out Pamela still had the twins with her when she passed through here.”

  “He remembered her after all this time?”

  “She was pretending to be my wife,” Conrad said with a wry smile. “That got her some special treatment.”

  “I see.”

  Conrad clapped a hand on Arturo’s shoulder. “What say we get some supper? Is there a dining room here in the hotel?”

  “No, but the desk clerk recommended a restaurant down the street called Faraday’s. He said it was the best food in Cavendish.” Arturo shook his head and added quietly, “I’m not sure just how sterling a recommendation that really is.”

  “Let’s find out,” Conrad suggested.

  Calling Faraday’s a restaurant was being gener
ous. It was more of a café, and only a step up from a hash house. But the steaks actually were pretty good, and they came with plenty of potatoes. The coffee Conrad and Arturo drank to wash down the food was slightly bitter but not too bad.

  Dusk was settling over Cavendish when they stepped outside. Conrad paused to take a deep breath of the evening air, when a harsh voice bellowed, “Heathens! Murdering heathens!”

  Instinct sent Conrad’s hand flashing toward his gun as he twisted toward the sound. He saw a man’s shape loom up, saw the sudden bloom of Colt flame in the shadows, heard the roar of the shot. The muzzle flash lit up the man’s scarred, hate-filled face.

  Jackson Leatherwood wasn’t dead after all.

  The avenging angel was back.

  Chapter 40

  Close beside Conrad, Arturo grunted and stumbled back a step. As Leatherwood charged them, firing wildly, Conrad’s Colt roared and bucked in his hand. He fired three times. Leatherwood shuddered as each of the slugs smashed into his body. Reeling to the side, he fired again, the bullet kicking up dust at Conrad’s feet. Conrad squeezed the trigger again and Leatherwood’s head jerked as the slug caught him in the forehead, bored through his brain, and exploded out the back of his skull. He crumpled bonelessly to the ground.

  Conrad put the pieces together and figured out what had happened. Leatherwood hadn’t joined in the charge of the avenging angels through the pass after all. At the last moment something caused Leatherwood to hold back. He had escaped the avalanche and escaped death, then followed Conrad and Arturo to Cavendish to have his vengeance on them.

  Conrad knew it, but didn’t care about it. Whirling toward Arturo he saw his friend was sitting on the ground, gasping in pain as he hunched forward.

  “Arturo!” Conrad cried as he holstered his Colt. He dropped to his knees and got an arm around Arturo’s shoulders to hold him up. “Arturo, how bad is it?”

  “I’m afraid I’m . . . wounded rather grievously, sir.” A dark worm of blood crawled out of the corner of Arturo’s mouth. “You’ll . . . find the children. . . . Promise me . . . you’ll carry on. . . .”

  “Don’t worry about that right now. Just hang on.” Conrad heard pounding footsteps and looked up to see the hostler from the livery stable running toward them. “Ricardo! Is there a doctor here?”

  Ricardo stopped and stared at Leatherwood’s body for a second, then turned to Conrad and Arturo. “Sí, there is a doctor, but he is an old man and not much good.”

  “Get him,” Conrad grated. “Quick.”

  “All right. The other man . . .”

  “He’s dead. He won’t ever hurt anybody again.” Ricardo jerked his head in a nod and ran off in search of the doctor. People were coming out of Faraday’s, as well as from the stores and the saloons, drawn by the sound of the shots. They wanted to see what was going on, so they began circling like buzzards.

  Conrad felt Arturo shivering as he held on to him. “The doctor’s on his way. Don’t you die on me, Arturo. Don’t you die.”

  “I will . . . endeavor not to . . . sir.” Arturo’s voice was weaker. More blood dripped from his mouth as he hugged himself.

  Conrad tipped his head back and looked up at the sky, which had darkened from blue to purple to black as the stars came out. Those stars mocked him with their peaceful twinkling, looking down on the scene of death and tragedy as if it meant nothing to them . . . which it didn’t, Conrad knew.

  But it meant something to him, and once again he whispered, “Don’t die.”

  Percy looked up behind his wicket as Conrad stopped in front of the ticket window. “I heard about what happened to your friend, mister,” Percy said. “I’m sorry. How’s he doing?”

  “He’s alive,” Conrad said, “but he may not be for long unless I can get him better medical care than what you have here. The doctor says it’ll be a risk for him to travel, but getting him to a real hospital is the only chance he has. When’s the next westbound?”

  “You’re in luck,” Percy said. “It’ll be through in about an hour. You want tickets?”

  Luck, Conrad thought as he slapped a bill down on the counter. “Two tickets for Carson City.”

  Built on dreams. Forged in blood.

  Defended with bullets. The town called Fury

  is home to the bravest pioneers to ever

  stake a claim in the harsh, unforgiving

  land of Arizona Territory.

  In William W. Johnstone and J. A. Johnstone’s

  blockbuster series, the settlers take in

  a mysterious stranger with deadly secrets—

  and deadlier enemies . . .

  Turn the page for an exciting preview of

  A TOWN CALLED FURY: REDEMPTION

  by William W. Johnstone

  with J. A. Johnstone

  On Sale Now

  Wherever Pinnacle Books are sold

  Prologue

  29 October 1928

  Mr. J. Carlton Blander, Editor

  Livermore and Beedle Publishing

  New York, New York

  Dear Carlton,

  Thank you so much for pointing me toward this Fury story! I know you didn’t mean for me to get a “wild hare” (or is that “wild hair”?) and go charging out to Arizona at the drop of your not-inconsequential hat, but that’s exactly what I did. The story runs deeper than you could have known—or the sketchy reference books say, for that matter—and I found a number of the participants still alive and kicking, and best of all, talking!

  As you know, the story actually began long before the events you provided me to spin into literary fodder. In 1866 famed wagon master Jedediah Fury was hired by a small troupe of travelers to lead them west, from Kansas City to California. Jedediah was accompanied on this mission by his 20-year-old son, Jason, and his 15-year-old daughter, Jenny, they being the last of his living family after the Civil War. Jedediah was no newcomer to leading pilgrims West. He’d been traveling those paths since after the War of 1812.

  I have not been able to ascertain the names of all the folks who were in the train, but what records I could scrounge up (along with the memories of those still living) have provided me with the following partial roster: the “Reverend” Louis Milcher, his wife Lavinia and seven children, ages 5 through 15; Hamish MacDonald, widower, with two half-grown children—a boy and a girl, Matthew and Megan, roughly the ages of Jedediah’s children; Salmon and Cordelia Kendall, with two children, Sammy, Jr. and Peony, called Piney; Randall and Miranda Nordstrom, no children (went back east or on to California—there is some contention about this—in 1867); Ezekiel and Eliza Morton, single daughter Electa, 27 (to be the schoolmarm) and elder daughter Europa Morton Greggs, married to Milton Griggs, blacksmith and wheelwright (no children); Zachary and Suzannah Morton (no children), Zachary being Ezekiel’s elder brother; a do-it-yourself doctor, Michael Morelli, wife Olympia, and their two young children, Constantine and Helen; Saul and Rachael Cohen and their three young sons. There were a few other families, but they were not listed and no one could recall their names, most likely because they later went back east or traveled farther west.

  The train, which left for the West in the spring of 1866, also contained a number of saddle horses and breeding stock, a greater deal of cattle, goats, and hogs—mostly that of Hamish MacDonald and the Morton families—and, of all things, a piano owned by the Milchers. It was led by Fury, with the help of his three trusty hirelings. I could only dig up one of the names: a Ward Wanamaker, who later became the town’s deputy until his murder several years later (which follows herein).

  Most of the wagon train members survived Indian attacks (Jedediah Fury was himself killed by Comanche, I believe, about halfway West), visited wild settlements where now stand real towns, and withstood highly inclement weather. Several children died, and Hamish MacDonald died when his wagon tumbled down a mountainside, after he took a trail he was advised not to attempt. About three-fifths of the way across Arizona, they decided to stop and put down stakes.
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  Fortunately, the place they chose was right next to the only water for forty or fifty miles, both west and east, and close enough to the southernmost tip of the Bradshaws to make getting timber relatively easy. There was good grazing to be had, and the Morton clan made good use of it. Their homestead still survives to this day as a working ranch, as do the large homes they built for themselves. Young Seth Todd, the last of the Mortons (and Electa’s grandson) owns and runs it.

  South of the town was where Hamish MacDonald’s son, Matthew, set up his cattle operation, which had been his late father’s dream. He also bred fine Morgan horses, the only such breeder in the then-territory of Arizona. His sister, Megan, ran the bank before and after she married, having the head for figures that Matthew never possessed.

  For the first few years, everyone else lived inside the town walls, whose fortress-like perimeter proved daunting to Indians and white scofflaws. The town itself became a regular stopover for wagon trains heading east and west.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. What concerns us here is the spring of 1871, the year that gunfighter Ezra Welk went to meet his maker. Former Marshal Jason Fury (now a tall but spare man in his eighties, with all his own teeth and most of his hair, and, certainly, all of his mental capacities) was very much surprised that I was there, asking questions about something “so inconsequential” as the demise of Ezra Welk.

  “Inconsequential?!” I said, as surprised by his use of the word as its use in this context.

  “You heard me, boy,” he snapped. “Salmon Kendall was a better newsman than you, clear back fifty or sixty years!”

  I again explained that I was a writer of books and films, not a newspaperman.

  This seemed to “settle his hash” somewhat. It was then that I changed my mind about the writing of this book. I had planned to pen it pretending to be Marshal Fury himself, using the first person narrative you had asked for. However, in light of Marshal Fury’s attitude (and also, there being other witnesses still living), I decided to write it in third person.