The Loner: The Bounty Killers (25 page)

“What about . . . Max?”

She hadn’t seen the dog yet. He leaned over, whined softly, and licked her face. She let out a pleased laugh.

“He’s . . . all right?”

“A few bullet scrapes, but he was lucky. He wouldn’t leave your side, all the time the marshal was patching you up.”

“Thank God.” She paused. “I guess . . . I won’t have to hold you . . . to that promise you made . . . to look after . . . my little girl.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he assured her. “You’ll have plenty of money to take care of her yourself. I’ll see to that.”

Even in her weakened condition, anger flashed in her eyes. “Damn it, you don’t have to—”

“We’ll talk about that later. Right now, just concentrate on recovering.”

“Conrad, what happened to . . . to Pike?”

“He’s dead,” Conrad said. “He’ll never bother you again.”

“You killed him.”

“He had it coming.”

She closed her eyes for a second and murmured, “Damn right.” Then she looked at him again and asked, “Are you hurt?”

“A bullet through the leg. I’ll be fine. In a couple weeks, I ought to be able to start for Santa Fe.”

“You’re . . . still going?”

“As you said, damn right.” He thought about the envelope in his pocket that contained a telegram from John Stafford. One of the marshals had delivered the grim message to him. “I’ve got a job to finish there.”

Chapter 33

Three weeks later, Conrad Browning walked into the best hotel in Santa Fe with only a slight limp. He could have managed just fine without the heavy, silver-headed walking stick he used, but he liked it.

It would also make a fine, close-quarters weapon in a pinch, if he needed one.

He wore a restrained, dark brown suit and matching bowler. The suit was tailor-made, and the coat was cut especially so that it concealed the short-barreled .38 revolver Conrad wore in a cross draw rig on his left hip.

He had never used a cross draw until recently, but over the past couple weeks, since he’d been back on his feet, he’d been practicing with it until he was fairly proficient. He wasn’t as fast with it as he was with a standard draw—yet—but the instincts and reflexes he’d inherited from Frank Morgan had stood him in good stead. He was confident of his ability to handle himself in most gunfights using the .38, as long as they were at close range. The short-barreled gun had enough stopping power, but it wasn’t much for accuracy.

Conrad crossed the hotel lobby to the desk confident no one was going to recognize him as Kid Morgan. The simplest thing would have been to go back to his life as Conrad and let all memories of The Kid fade away. The charges against him and the bounty that had been placed on his head would be moot.

He couldn’t do that. Not until he had found out who was responsible for those wanted posters . . . and why they had wanted to make his life a living hell.

He gave the clerk his name, and the man gave him a toothy smile and said, “Of course, Mr. Browning. We weren’t sure exactly when you would arrive, but we’ve been holding a suite for you. I’ll have a boy take you right up. Your bags . . . ?”

Conrad inclined his head toward the entrance. “Out front in the hack that brought me from the station.”

“Yes, sir, we’ll take care of them.”

“I believe John Stafford is staying here as well.”

“That is correct, sir.”

“Let him know that I’m here, will you?”

“Of course. Right away.”

A bellboy took Conrad up to the luxuriously furnished suite on the second floor. A bottle of cognac was already there waiting for him, as he had specified in his telegram.

He had just poured two drinks when someone knocked on the door. He left them sitting on a beautifully carved table as he went over to the door and put his hand on the butt of the pistol under his coat.

“Who is it?”

“Stafford.”

Conrad opened the door to let the lawyer in. He thought John J. Stafford bore a certain resemblance to his partner, Claudius Turnbuckle, and wondered if all lawyers just looked alike to him.

The two men shook hands. Stafford said, “By God, it’s good to see you, Conrad. I wasn’t sure if I ever would again. How’s the leg?”

“Healing fine. It doesn’t give me much trouble except in damp weather. Then it aches a little.” Conrad stepped over to the table. “Do you want a drink?”

“Definitely.”

The cognac was smooth and went down like liquid fire. Stafford smacked his lips appreciatively and then said, “I don’t suppose you’re interested in making small talk.”

“Not at all,” Conrad said. “You’ve taken care of everything?”

“Of course. The coffin was shipped back to San Francisco. The last important thing Claudius did before he was attacked was to speak with a man named Charles Blanton, who’s a special aide to Governor Otero.”

“What have you found out about Otero?”

“He seems to be an honest man, or at least as honest as any politician.”

Conrad smiled. “People say the same thing about lawyers.”

“And successful businessmen,” Stafford shot back. “None of us rate very highly as far as trust goes.”

“Is there any reason Otero would be holding a grudge against me or my family?” It wasn’t common knowledge that there was a connection between Kid Morgan and the notorious gunfighter Frank Morgan, or between Conrad Browning and Frank, or Conrad and The Kid, for that matter. But someone could have uncovered those links, he supposed.

“I haven’t been able to uncover anything like that. Otero’s been busy enough trying to hold together the fragile political coalition he formed when he was appointed governor. He doesn’t seem to have had the time or the inclination to be carrying out a campaign of vengeance against you, Conrad.”

“And yet he refused to do anything about those wanted posters.”

“He might not have known about them,” Stafford pointed out. “Claudius wasn’t able to speak directly with the governor. This man Blanton kept him from meeting with Otero.”

“What do we know about Blanton?”

Stafford shrugged. “An old friend and ally of the Otero family. He wasn’t appointed to any official position but serves as a special aide to the governor. He’s paid out of Otero’s personal funds, not the territorial budget.”

“And yet he has enough power to determine who sees the governor and who doesn’t?”

“That’s right.”

Conrad swallowed the rest of his drink. “I never heard of the man. Why would he conspire against me?”

“There’s only one good reason I can think of,” Stafford said. “Money.”

“He was paid off?”

“It’s certainly a possibility. Or perhaps he was blackmailed into acting against you. I’m still looking into that, but if it’s true, the chances are that he’s covered up his trail so well I may not be able to find it.”

Conrad nodded slowly. “What about the rest of it?”

“I have a sworn deposition from Miss Jillian Fletcher explaining how you were mistakenly imprisoned because of your resemblance to the outlaw Benjamin Bledsoe. It also goes into detail about what happened after that and how you’re innocent of the charges against you. I expect that it will carry considerable weight since Miss Fletcher is the daughter of the late warden of Hell Gate Prison. I also have letters from the governor of Arizona Territory, from General Lew Wallace, and from President McKinley, all asking Governor Otero to issue a pardon absolving you of all charges.”

Conrad’s eyebrows rose. “President McKinley? I don’t even know the President.”

“But he knows who you are.”

Conrad grunted and shook his head. “With ammunition like that, it’s going to be difficult for Otero to refuse, I would think. But it still doesn’t answer the questions of who and why such a thing was done in the first place.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Stafford admitted. “I hate to say it, Conrad, but you may never know.”

“Oh, I’ll find out,” Conrad said. “There’s a ball at the Palace of the Governors tonight, and Otero and Blanton will both be there. So will I. One of them is bound to have the answers I want.”

A look of alarm appeared on Stafford’s face. “You can’t just burst in on something like that and start causing trouble. There’ll be guards—”

“I have an invitation.” Conrad held up a small envelope. “It was sitting on the table, next to the cognac, when I got here.”

Stafford drew in a sharp breath of surprise. “But why—”

“Why invite me to the governor’s ball?” Conrad smiled. “Someone must have heard that I was on my way to Santa Fe, and they’re ready for a showdown.”

Stafford’s fingers tightened on his glass. “What you’re saying is that it’s a trap.”

“Possibly,” Conrad replied with a shrug.

“Which you’ll walk right into, just to get to the bottom of this.”

“Gladly.”

The lawyer shook his head. “You don’t have to do this, Conrad. As one of your attorneys, I have to advise you to act in what I consider to be your best interests. Don’t attend the ball. Leave this alone. Go back to Boston, or San Francisco, or wherever you’d like to live from now on, and go on with your life. Let this . . . this whole Kid Morgan business die!”

“I can’t do that,” Conrad said without hesitation. “Whoever is responsible for it has a definite grudge against me. He’s not going to give up that easily. I’ll be in danger until I ferret out whoever it is, and so will everyone connected to me.” His voice hardened. “I would think you’d understand that, John, after what happened to Claudius.”

“Damn it, I’m just as upset as you are about what happened to Claudius. He’s my partner, and more than that, he’s my friend. But we can’t change things now—”

“I know as well as anyone that we can’t change the past,” Conrad broke in. “But we can have an affect on the future, and I intend to.”

Stafford tossed back the rest of his drink. “Maybe you never should have started this blasted Kid Morgan business in the first place.”

The two men traded angry, level stares for a moment before Conrad said, “Maybe I shouldn’t have. I was trying to . . . I don’t know . . . put my life as Conrad Browning behind me, I suppose. Kid Morgan was just a useful fiction at first, but I found that it was easier being him. For a while I even tried to change the way I thought and spoke, to be more like what I thought a frontier gunman would be like.” He shrugged as his anger eased. “But in the end, I couldn’t escape reality. I am who I am.”

“Not entirely. You’ve changed, Conrad. Claudius told me that you had, and now I see it for myself. I’m afraid there’s a part of you that
is
Kid Morgan.”

Lace McCall had said much the same thing. Conrad was still turning that over in his mind, trying to come to terms with it.

But such pondering could wait for another day. For now, he had an enemy to find . . . and deal with, whatever it took.

And that would begin at the ball, at Santa Fe’s Palace of the Governors.

Chapter 34

The long, shaded walk in front of the Palace of the Governors was thronged with people on that warm, pleasant evening, and more were walking across Santa Fe’s main plaza toward it.

Conrad’s suit was black, with a matching vest. Like the outfit he had worn earlier, the clothes were cut to conceal the gun he carried. He wore a flat-crowned black hat and had an unlit cigarillo clenched between his teeth. His left hand gripped the silver-headed walking stick.

A guard in a fancy blue uniform with a scarlet sash stood at the entrance to the palace. Conrad held up his invitation. The guard looked at it, handed it back, and said, “Go right in, sir. Please enjoy the ball.”

“Thank you.” Conrad strolled into a lobby with several sets of large double doors that led into a ballroom. The palace was largely devoted to governmental offices, but the ballroom was used for official gatherings and soirees thrown by the territorial governor.

An attractive young woman with a brilliant smile took Conrad’s hat. “What about your cane, sir?” she asked.

“I’ll hang on to it,” he told her. “I was injured not long ago, and I might need it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Conrad smiled at her, appreciating her dark, sultry good looks.

At the same time, he couldn’t help but think of a woman with short, auburn hair who wasn’t nearly as pretty but was even more beautiful in his eyes. Lace was recovering from her injuries in Phoenix, and when she was healthy enough to travel, she would be going back to Kansas City to be reunited with her mother and daughter. Conrad had promised to come and see her when he could.

But first he had a job to finish.

Holding the walking stick, he moved into the crowded ballroom. The cream of Santa Fe society was there, along with the rich, powerful, and influential from Albuquerque and elsewhere in the territory. Conrad recognized several men he knew from business dealings in the past, and they knew him as well. All of them had heard about Rebel’s tragic death, so as he shook hands with them, he also graciously accepted the condolences they offered.

“For a while there was a rumor going around that you were dead, too, Browning,” one of the men commented bluntly.

“To paraphrase Mark Twain,” Conrad replied with a faint smile, “the rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated.”

And he was the one largely responsible for that exaggeration, he thought, since he’d left a body in the Carson City mansion to be discovered in its ruins after it burned down.

Now all of that had been put to rest. Kid Morgan wouldn’t do him any good there. Getting to the bottom of who was behind the wanted posters was Conrad Browning’s job.

“Have you met the governor yet?”

“No, but I hope to, soon.”

The man Conrad was talking to took his arm. “Well, come on. I’ll introduce you.”

The man led him toward a group of welldressed men engaged in an animated discussion. One of them looked too young and handsome to be a territorial governor, but he was the one Conrad’s acquaintance came up to and said, “Governor Otero, I’d like to introduce you to an old friend of mine, Conrad Browning.”

Otero turned toward them, and so did a man who stood close beside him. The second man was older, with graying sandy hair and piercing eyes.