The Loner: Trail Of Blood

by J. A. Johnstone

  The newcomer gave him a curt nod. Charles Harcourt was one of Boston’s leading attorneys, the senior partner of an exclusive practice. He had been one of the many lawyers representing the Browning financial interests for years.

  Harcourt fixed steely eyes on McLaughlin and demanded, “Inspector, you are aware that Mr. Browning is one of Boston’s leading citizens?”

  “He hasn’t lived here for several years,” McLaughlin said. “Anyway, I just released him. There’ll be no charges brought against him.”

  Harcourt glanced over at Conrad. “Is that true?”

  “It is,” Conrad replied with a nod. “I was just about to leave.”

  “Well, then … I suppose my presence here wasn’t needed after all.”

  Conrad gripped the lawyer’s arm. “But I’m very glad to see you anyway, Charles. I need to fill you in on everything that’s been happening.”

  “Your personal secretary gave me some of the details. I’d like to hear more.”

  Good old Arturo, Conrad thought. Mallory must have gone back to the hotel with the news that Conrad had been arrested, and Arturo had sprung into action and summoned Harcourt.

  As they turned toward the door, McLaughlin warned from behind the desk, “Tell your client to keep his nose clean the rest of the time he’s here in Boston, counselor.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Conrad said. “I’ll be leaving as soon as I can. I’ve had enough of this town to last me for a long time.”

  Arturo and Mallory were waiting at the hotel when Conrad and Harcourt got there. Arturo paced anxiously back and forth on the expensive rug while Mallory sprawled in an armchair, apparently at ease but with a worried frown on his rugged face.

  Mallory got to his feet and said without preamble, “I didn’t want to leave you there, but I didn’t see what good I could do you by getting arrested, too.”

  Conrad nodded. “You did the right thing, Jack. When I came to my senses, one of the first things I hoped was that you had come back here to tell Arturo what happened.”

  “Did Murtagh tell you anything before he got away?”

  “He did.”

  Harcourt held up a hand to stop Conrad from going on. “Why don’t you tell the story from the beginning, so I don’t get any more confused than I already am?” he suggested.

  Conrad complied. He, Harcourt, and Mallory sat down, and Arturo brought snifters of brandy for them before helping himself to one as well. Conrad ran through the entire affair, holding back nothing. He paused from time to time to sip the smooth liquor. Its bracing effect was welcome after the day he’d had.

  When Conrad was finished, Charles said, “What a terrible thing to find out.”

  “It’s been difficult,” Conrad acknowledged with a slight nod of his head.

  “Are you certain it’s true? As you said, there’s no real evidence that it happened, other than the testimony of several people.”

  “That’s enough for me. You can see how it all ties together.”

  “Yes, it does,” Harcourt admitted. “Perhaps I can do something to help you. I might be able to bring some pressure to bear on Futrelle—”

  Conrad stopped the attorney with a shake of his head. “There’s a good chance some of Futrelle’s patients are also clients of your firm, Charles. Stirring everything up could come back to hurt you. I don’t want that.”

  “You know what a high opinion I had of your mother, Conrad. I don’t mind—”

  “No. We’ll let it rest.” A solemn smile touched Conrad’s lips. “I wouldn’t mind knowing what names Pamela gave them … but let’s face it, she could have changed their names a dozen times before she hid them … wherever she hid them.”

  Harcourt frowned. “I might be able to learn more about the maid Pamela had with her. I don’t know if that would be any help.”

  “It can’t hurt,” Conrad said.

  Harcourt sighed. “To think that at one time I represented the Tarleton family. I was shocked when I found out that Clark was little more than a common criminal.”

  “There’s nothing common about the Tarletons,” Conrad said.

  “Evidently not. From what you’ve told me about Pamela and her cousin Roger, the whole lot of them seem quite mad.”

  “But there’s a method to their madness, and more important, a motivation. Revenge is what Pamela lived for.”

  “And died for,” Harcourt said quietly.

  Conrad nodded. “And died for.”

  A grim silence hung over the luxurious sitting room for a moment. Mallory broke it by clearing his throat and saying, “I can try to find Murtagh if you want, Mr. Browning. He’s probably gone to ground somewhere in South Boston. It’s a cinch he won’t be going back to Serrano’s any time soon. That big-nosed Eyetie would put a slug in him on sight.”

  “No, that’s all right, Jack. I’m confident Murtagh told me everything he knows. He seemed to have a little bit of a grudge against Pamela himself.”

  Probably because she had promised to share her bed with him if he did what she wanted and then gone back on her word, Conrad mused. That struck him as something Pamela would do.

  “You seem to be a competent investigator, Mr. Mallory,” Harcourt said. “My firm might be able to throw some work your way.”

  Mallory nodded. “I’d like that. I’ll do a good job for you.”

  The lawyer turned back to Conrad. “What do you plan to do now?”

  “There’s a westbound train leaving for Chicago at ten o’clock in the morning,” Conrad said. “From there I can make a connection to Kansas City.”

  “It’s become quite a populous city in recent years,” Harcourt pointed out. “How do you intend to pick up Pamela’s trail once you get there?”

  Before Conrad could answer, Arturo said, “Knowing Mr. Browning, I suspect he’ll barge in, wave some guns around, and demand answers of everyone he meets.”

  Harcourt frowned at what he undoubtedly considered a show of disrespect from a servant, but Conrad laughed.

  “It seems to have worked so far, hasn’t it?”

  Chapter 15

  Conrad and Arturo checked out of the hotel and headed for the train station early the next morning. Now that he was ready to take up the trail again, Conrad didn’t want to risk being delayed in any way.

  Harcourt met them at the station. “I’ve engaged Mallory to see what he can find out about Pamela Tarleton’s maid or nanny or whatever you want to call her. How can I get in touch with you if I have any information, Conrad?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know where I’ll be, other than in Kansas City a couple of days from now.” Conrad shook his head. “I’ll wire you when we get there, Charles, and I’ll stay in touch by telegraph whenever it looks like we’re going to be in one place long enough to make that practical.”

  “All right.” Harcourt held out his hand. “Good luck in your search. Don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  Conrad had engaged a Pullman compartment for himself and Arturo, rather than taking his private car. He might need to make a connection in a hurry somewhere, and having the private car hooked up to a train always took quite a bit of time.

  They boarded the train and settled in for the trip to Chicago and then Kansas City. Conrad knew it would be difficult to find out where Pamela had gone from Kansas City, but he carried considerable influence with the railroad. Any records that might still exist would be three years old, but he intended to have a look at all of them.

  If Pamela had paid cash for her and the maid’s tickets, there would be no record of her name. On the other hand, Pamela’s beauty and her imperious attitude made her easy to remember. Conrad held on to the hope that someone connected to the railroad might recall her and even remember where she had been going.

  He wore the shoulder harness for the two Colt Lightnings again and didn’t intend to be without them during the journey. The civilized East had proven to be just about as dangerous as the so-called uncivilized We
st.

  Arturo brought him a light lunch from the dining car, but by the time evening rolled around, Conrad wanted an actual meal. He announced his intention to walk up to the dining car for supper. “Join me, Arturo.”

  “That would hardly be appropriate, sir,” Arturo said with a frown and a shake of his head. “You’re my employer.”

  “I know that, but I consider you a friend as well.”

  “But I don’t consider you a friend,” Arturo said stubbornly. “You’re my employer,” he repeated, as if that explained everything.

  Maybe it did for some people, but Conrad had spent too much time around Frank, Rebel, and other Westerners to worry about false distinctions like that. “Come on. I’ll make it an order if I have to.”

  Arturo sighed. “Very well. Are you going to order me to enjoy myself as well?”

  “I just might,” Conrad said with a grin.

  “Well, in that case I shall do my best to comply.” Arturo pasted an artificial-looking smile on his face.

  Two regular passenger cars were between the dining car and the Pullman where Conrad’s compartment was. He and Arturo walked through the passenger cars and were soon seated at a table in the dining car where a white-jacketed waiter brought them a bottle of wine and a couple of steaks with numerous trimmings.

  The railroads weren’t noted for their cuisine, but Conrad thought the food was all right. It beat prairie hen roasted over an open fire … but not by much, he decided. Of course, on the trail he’d be washing down his meal with water from a creek or his canteen, not a decent bottle of Chateau Fargeaux.

  The train was traveling through western New York on its way to Pennsylvania. Outside the windows all was dark except for occasional lights from a farmhouse or a small town. As always, the combination of food, wine, and the regular rhythm of the rails began to make Conrad sleepy. It was early yet, but he’d had a busy few days in Boston.

  He patted his lips with his napkin and said, “I think I’m going to turn in.”

  “A splendid idea, sir,” Arturo said. He had relaxed some during the meal and seemed to enjoy it. “I’ll prepare your berth as soon as we get back to the compartment. In fact, if you’d care to wait here for a few minutes, I’ll go ahead and have it ready for you when you get there.”

  Conrad picked up the bottle, which had a little wine left in it. “All right. That’s a good idea. I’ll just finish this off, and then stroll back to the Pullman.”

  “Excellent.” Arturo got to his feet and hesitated. “Thank you, sir.”

  “What for?” Conrad asked with a smile.

  “For the fine meal. And for saying … you know …”

  “That we’re friends?” Conrad chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. Once you’ve spent more time west of the Mississippi, you’ll understand.”

  “I suspect that I won’t, but I appreciate the sentiment anyway.”

  Looking vaguely embarrassed by the show of any emotion, Arturo quickly left the dining car and headed back to the Pullman. Conrad took his time, lingering over the last of the wine. When he finally finished it off, he scrawled his name on the bill the waiter had left and stood up.

  As he walked through the passenger cars, he was aware of the looks people were giving him. Some of the men appeared to be openly resentful of his youth, his good looks, his obvious wealth. The women, on the other hand, were more circumspect in their glances, which were frankly approving. Some of the younger women even had bold invitation in their eyes as Conrad passed. Any time anyone, male or female, caught his eye, he smiled, nodded, and moved on.

  He had finally moved far enough past Rebel’s death that he could be attracted to a woman again without feeling too guilty about it. The striking, redheaded bounty hunter Lace McCall had made him realize that.

  But the matter of his missing children had come up, and he had shoved everything else to the back of his mind. He didn’t have time for anything except the quest to find his stolen son and daughter.

  He would see Lace again one of these days, he promised himself as he stepped through the vestibule of the second passenger and onto its platform. One of these days …

  The shape came out of the darkness and slammed into him with terrific force, knocking him sideways. The impact rammed his hip against the railing around the platform and his momentum nearly carried him over it. He caught a bare glimpse of the ground rushing past beneath him as the train rocked along at a mile-a-minute clip. His hand shot out and grabbed the railing.

  He felt himself flip completely over in the air, heels over head, as he fell. Maintaining his grip on the rail he hung by one hand with his feet dangling mere inches above the roadbed. Grunting with the effort, he reached up with his other hand and managed to clamp it onto the rail.

  The shape of a man on the platform loomed over him, then laughed. “Did you think you could get away with what you did to me, Browning? Did you really?”

  As Conrad gritted his teeth in the effort to hang on, he recognized Eddie Murtagh’s voice. He didn’t know where Murtagh had come from. He would have sworn the platform was empty when he’d stepped out of the passenger car’s vestibule.

  “I don’t care about that Tarleton bitch or those little bastards of hers,” Murtagh went on. “It’s personal now. You came into Serrano’s and killed my friends. You tried to kill me. You will pay for that.”

  Murtagh must have been on top of the car, Conrad thought. He had waited for his intended victim to come along and then swung down from the roof, kicking Conrad and nearly knocking him all the way off the train.

  Through clenched teeth, Conrad said, “I made you … beg for your life … too. That’s what you … can’t swallow.”

  “Go to hell,” Murtagh snapped. Light from somewhere glinted briefly on the blade of a big knife he held in his hand. “We’ll see how long you can hang on once I start sawing your fingers off.”

  Conrad knew he couldn’t hang on. He was about to let go with one hand and reach under his coat for one of the revolvers in the shoulder harness, an awkward, risky move he probably couldn’t complete before that blade came chopping down into his fingers, when more light suddenly spilled over the platform and a furious voice shouted, “Get away from him!”

  Arturo lunged across the gap between cars from the platform of the Pullman. Murtagh whirled toward him and thrust out the heavy-bladed knife. Arturo grabbed the gang leader’s wrist with both hands and twisted, keeping Murtagh from sinking that cold steel into his belly. Murtagh cursed and crashed his left fist into Arturo’s face.

  Conrad knew Arturo didn’t stand a chance against Murtagh and wouldn’t be able to hold him off for more than a few seconds.

  Those few seconds were precious, giving Conrad time to pour all his strength into his arms and shoulders and heave himself up far enough that he could hook a leg over the railing. With a grunt of effort, he swung over the rail and sprawled onto the platform, putting him in a good position to grab Murtagh’s knees and pull the man’s legs out from under him just as he tore free of Arturo’s grip and slashed the knife at the servant’s face.

  With a yell of surprise, Murtagh toppled over backward and the knife stroke missed. Conrad clambered up the man’s body, grabbed Murtagh’s wrist, and slammed his knife hand against the edge of the platform. Murtagh yelled again as his fingers opened involuntarily and the knife went flying away into the dark.

  Murtagh brought a knee up sharply, aiming to bury it in Conrad’s groin. Conrad twisted aside and took the blow on his thigh. His left hand caught hold of Murtagh’s throat. His right balled into a fist that he brought down with stunning force into Murtagh’s face.

  The blow wasn’t strong enough to knock all the fight out of the man. He brought the heel of his hand up under Conrad’s chin, forcing his head back and making him loosen his grip on Murtagh’s throat.

  Proving as hard to hang on to as he had in their previous battle, Murtagh writhed away and aimed a kick at Conrad’s head. The kick landed on his left shoulder making Con
rad’s arm go numb. He struggled to get up while Murtagh scrambled nimbly to his feet.

  Before Murtagh could do anything else, Arturo went after him, swinging wild punches.

  “Arturo, no!” Conrad yelled. The servant was no match for a brawler like Murtagh, who proved that by easily blocking the valet’s blows and throwing a punch of his own that rocked Arturo’s head back. Stumbling backward, he cried out in horror and toppled off the platform, falling into the gap between the cars.

  “No!” Conrad bellowed again as he surged up. Curling his right hand in a fist, he hammered a punch into Murtagh’s face, then another and another, driving Murtagh toward the railing at the side of the platform. Conrad bulled into him, using his superior size and strength to pin Murtagh against the railing. The numbness in his left arm was wearing off so he locked both hands around Murtagh’s throat, forcing the man farther and farther back, bending him over the railing in a way the human spine wasn’t meant to bend. Murtagh punched and kicked and gouged, but Conrad shrugged it all off and never loosened his grip. Murtagh’s wide, terrified eyes stared up at him out of a sweat-slick face.

  Even over the loud rumble of the train’s wheels on the rails, he heard the sharp crack of Eddie Murtagh’s back breaking.

  Conrad let go of his neck. Murtagh screamed once, a hoarse scream that died away in a whimpering moan. Conrad bent, took hold of Murtagh’s useless legs, and lifted. Murtagh screamed again as he realized he was going over the railing.

  Conrad flipped him up, over, and away. Murtagh was gone in the blink of an eye.

  It was only when Conrad swayed forward and gripped the rail that he saw the train was passing over a trestle, high above a river. Conrad began to laugh hollowly. The fall would have killed Murtagh, even without the broken back.

  Three sharp, unexpected slaps caught Conrad’s attention. As he swung toward the sound, he heard Arturo’s weak voice calling, “Mr. Browning?” A hand reached over the back of the platform and slapped the boards three more times. “Mr. Browning?”