The Loner: Trail Of Blood (16 page)

The sour taste of disgust rose in The Kid’s mouth, and it grew stronger when he glanced at the girl and saw the look of interest, even avarice, that sprang up in Sara Beth’s eyes.

“Forget it,” he said. “That’s not going to happen.”

Sara Beth made a little sound of disappointment.

“What are you gonna do to me?” Potter asked in obvious fear.

The Kid straightened to his feet and slipped the
Colt back into leather. “If you’ve told me the truth, nothing. But if I find out you’ve lied to me, I’ll be back to see you one of these days. Until then, you can live with your own greed and misery. I’ve heard Davenport’s name. He’s a lawyer in Boston. He’ll probably send you the money Pamela promised you.” The Kid shook his head. “I don’t think it’s going to make any real difference.”

Potter swallowed again. “That’s because you got plenty of money, Mr. Browning, and always have. You don’t know what it’s like. You just don’t.”

The Kid thought about everything
he
had lost, everything he had struggled, and was still struggling, to get back. “Nobody does, Potter. Nobody does.”

During the ride back to Kansas City, The Kid thought hard about everything he had learned.

After the shootout on the street near the Cattleman’s Hotel, the police had taken him into custody and questioned him about the attempt on his life. Enough witnesses to the incident had spoken up that there was no question about his actions being self-defense.

The Kid hadn’t told the police the ruckus was deliberate on the part of Rankin and the other men. He let them think it was an ugly fight that had spiraled out of control into deadly violence. The fact that all five men had bad reputations had helped convince the authorities. Rankin was well-known as a troublemaker, and he was suspected of being involved in bank robberies and train holdups in Missouri, Kansas, and Nebraska.

Just the sort of man Pamela Tarleton would hire to carry out a killing, The Kid mused. He had no doubt she had promised Rankin more money
once Conrad Browning was dead. Rankin had probably had instructions to get in touch with Willard Davenport, too.

Maybe Pamela had told Eddie Murtagh the same thing, as well as Dr. Vernon Futrelle. The lure of an extra payoff would have been necessary to insure the men did exactly what Pamela wanted them to do.

The Kid couldn’t help but wonder how many other men between there and San Francisco had received similar instructions from Pamela Tarleton.

He was convinced Potter had told him the truth that afternoon. Pamela really had been headed for San Francisco when she came through Kansas City with her maid and the two children. She had
wanted
Conrad to know that. She was deliberately leaving a trail he could follow, luring him farther and farther west.

At the same time, she had set up traps along the way, like the one with Rankin. The point of the whole thing was to torment Conrad. If he fell victim to one of the ambushes, then Pamela would have her revenge that way. But if he survived, as he had so far, he would continue to be tormented by the knowledge that she had stolen his children away from him. The whole thing was a two-edged sword, and it was one of the most diabolical schemes he had ever encountered.

What made it even more impressive, in its own macabre way, was that it was actually a contingency plan on Pamela’s part. The main thrust of her vengeance had been Rebel’s kidnapping and
murder, along with the attempts to kill The Kid after that.

There were no limits to her evil, he thought. She had come up with ways to torture him from beyond the grave.

When he got back to the hotel, he would send wires to Charles Harcourt and Jack Mallory, asking them to investigate Willard Davenport and his dealings. It would be a long shot, but maybe they could find out something about other traps that might be waiting for him somewhere up ahead on Pamela’s trail.

With that decision made, he reconsidered another one. When he reached Kansas City, he took the horse back to the stable where he had bought it. As the hostler put the animal in a stall for the night, The Kid said, “I’ll be back for him in the morning.”

The clerk in the hotel lobby looked puzzled by The Kid’s clothes, but he recognized the tall, sandy-haired man as Conrad Browning. The Kid got a couple of telegraph forms from the clerk, printed his messages, and shoved them back across the desk. “See that these are sent right away.”

“Of course, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

The Kid smiled faintly. “Where’s the closest wagon yard? I need to buy a buggy in the morning.”

Armed with that information, he went upstairs. Arturo was still awake and fully dressed, of course. He would have been no matter what time it was when The Kid got back.

“Did you find out what you wanted to know,
sir?” Arturo asked as The Kid took off his wide-brimmed Stetson and dropped it on a table.

“I did,” he replied. “Pamela was behind the whole thing. She paid off Potter and the leader of the men who jumped me later in the afternoon. She promised them more money, through a Boston lawyer, if they were successful in carrying out her orders.”

“To have you killed, you mean,” Arturo murmured.

The Kid inclined his head in agreement.

“No offense, sir, considering that you were once engaged to the lady in question … but was there no end to the woman’s deviousness?”

“Evidently not,” The Kid said. “That’s the reason I’ve made up my mind about something.”

“And what might that be, sir?”

“You’re coming with me after all.”

Surprise leaped into Arturo’s eyes, but he concealed it quickly and kept his usual unflappable expression on his face. “An excellent decision, I must say. But what prompted you to reconsider the one you made earlier, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“I’m liable to run into one trap after another, all the way to San Francisco,” The Kid explained. “I’m going to need somebody watching my back. And you
did
save my life on the train coming out here. I know I can count on you, Arturo.”

“Indeed you can, sir. You won’t regret this.”

“You know, of course, it’s going to be dangerous.”

“Of course,” Arturo said. “But after all, I’m going
to be in the company of a notorious gunfighter, aren’t I?”

First thing in the morning, they went to the wagon yard. The Kid couldn’t imagine Arturo riding horseback all the way to California, if that was what it took, but the valet
could
drive a buggy that far, as long as they didn’t have to travel through territory that was too rough for such a vehicle. If they did … well, The Kid would deal with that when the time came.

They settled for a buckboard with a single seat and enough room behind it to carry quite a bit of their gear. The Kid wouldn’t have to leave behind as much as he had expected to. Between the buck-board and the pack mule, they would be able to take plenty of supplies with them. The Kid made arrangements to have a cover added to the buck-board so Arturo would have at least a little protection from the sun and the rain.

“Really, sir, that’s not necessary,” Arturo protested. “I can travel without that luxury.”

“It’s not a luxury,” The Kid said. “The cover will protect our gear, too.”

The owner of the wagon yard promised to have the buckboard ready to roll by that afternoon. The Kid and Arturo went back to the hotel to pack.

When they entered the lobby, the clerk saw them and called, “Mr. Browning.”

The Kid went over to the desk. “What is it?”

“I have a response to the telegrams you sent out
last night.” The man handed over a Western Union envelope.

The Kid tore it open and slid out the yellow flimsy inside. His eyes quickly scanned the words printed on it.

The wire was from Charles Harcourt and explained that the lawyer hired by Pamela, Willard Davenport, was refusing to cooperate and wouldn’t admit he knew who Pamela Tarleton was. Harcourt could sue in an attempt to force him to open his records, but that would take a long time and might not be successful in the end.

In the meantime, Jack Mallory was conducting a more discreet investigation of his own. Reading between the lines, The Kid knew Harcourt and Mallory were trying to come up with something they could use to blackmail Davenport into talking.

Mallory was enough of a big Irish bulldog that he stood a good chance of finding something they could use against the attorney. It was a dirty way to play the game, but not nearly as dirty as the tricks Pamela had pulled.

Anyway, it wasn’t a game, The Kid thought. It was business, deadly serious business.

That afternoon, Arturo returned to the wagon yard and picked up the buckboard while The Kid got the black gelding and the pack mule from the livery stable. It was late enough in the day that they wouldn’t get very far before having to stop and make camp for the night.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait and
get a fresh start in the morning?” The Kid asked Arturo.

“Really, sir, I think I know you better than that by now,” Arturo replied. “I can tell you’re anxious to be on your way, and this will give me a chance to become accustomed to driving the buckboard before I have to handle it for an entire day.”

“Well, that’s a good point,” The Kid said with a smile. “We’ll load up and light a shuck out of here.”

“Light a shuck … what an odd expression.”

The Kid chuckled. Crossing the country by train was vastly different from doing it on horseback and in a buckboard. It was going to be a real education in frontier life for Arturo. He had experienced some of that while he was working for Count Fortunato, but not like he was about to.

They carried their belongings downstairs, The Kid refusing the help of a porter. Now that he had slipped back into the personality of Kid Morgan, his impulse was to do things for himself, rather than waiting for somebody else to take care of a chore for him. It was different where Arturo was concerned. The Italian undoubtedly still saw himself as a servant, but to The Kid’s mind, they were rapidly becoming partners.

That was what happened when you fought side by side with a fellow and shared danger together. Those bonds went deeper than boss and employee.

The sun was still fairly high in the sky when they crossed the bridge that paralleled the railroad trestle over the Missouri. The Kid rode slightly
ahead, leading the pack mule, and Arturo guided the buckboard after him. The shrill whistle of a train made The Kid look to his left, where he saw a locomotive crossing the trestle with a long string of cars behind it. Smoke puffed from the big engine’s diamond-shaped stack.

Westbound. Headed for California and all the bright promises that lay between here and there, The Kid thought. Headed into the unknown, because no man truly knew what the next day would bring.

He and Arturo were headed in the same direction, and The Kid was ready for whatever the journey might bring.

They covered several miles the first day and camped on the bank of a creek that flowed into the Kansas River from the north. They planned to follow the railroad tracks, which ran along with the river past Abilene, to the point where the Saline and Smoky Hill Rivers flowed together to form the Kansas. From there the railroad continued running almost due west, The Kid knew, though the rivers twisted and turned away from the steel rails and then came back again.

Over the campfire that night, as trains rumbled past on the tracks several hundred yards away, The Kid mused as he sipped from a cup of the good coffee Arturo had brewed. “If Pamela hid the twins somewhere along the way, she likely would have done it someplace the train was already scheduled to stop. If she’d gone too far away from the railroad, she’d have had to hire a wagon and a driver, and I don’t see her doing that. We’ll have to stop in every settlement where the train stops.”

“But I was under the impression Miss Tarleton was capable of almost anything, sir,” Arturo said. “You can’t be sure she didn’t leave the train and strike out on her own with the children and her servant.”

“No, that’s true, I can’t be sure,” The Kid said with a shrug. “But that’s what my gut tells me, and I’ve learned to play my hunches.”

“If you’re wrong, it’s possible we may travel all the way to San Francisco without finding the children.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

“What will you do then?”

The Kid took a sip of the hot, strong coffee. “Reckon we’ll turn around and start back this way. Do it all over again.”

“That could take years.”

“Yeah. It could.”

The Kid’s tone made it clear that if the search took years, he was fully prepared to spend that much time on it.

Arturo didn’t say anything for a long moment. Off in the distance, a wailing sound arose, joined by another and another until they formed a discordant melody. Arturo lifted his head to listen. “Are those … wolves?”

“No. Coyotes.”

“Are they dangerous?”

“Not to a man who can stand on his own two feet. If you were wounded and there was a whole pack of them, they might come after you, but otherwise you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“I see.” Arturo hesitated. “Mr. Browning?”

“Just call me Kid.”

Arturo sighed as if that was going to be difficult. “Are there savages out here?”

“You mean Indians?”

“Yes, sir. Kid.”

“There may be some still roaming around. Most of them are on reservations now, though.”

“Are
they
dangerous?”

The Kid smiled. “There haven’t been any Indian fights in these parts for a long, long time, Arturo.”

“Well, that’s good to know. I wouldn’t want to be scalped.”

“Neither would I,” The Kid said, looking off into the night for two reasons. He knew better than to stare into the fire, because it would ruin his night vision, and he didn’t want Arturo to see the grin on his face.

Yeah, this trip was going to be an education for Arturo, he thought.

Lawrence was the first good-sized settlement they came to. It had been raided twice by jayhawkers, first before the Civil War and then during the war by William Quantrill’s marauders, who had burned the town to the ground. Lawrence had rebuilt and was now a peaceful farming community, with few if any reminders of the bloody violence that had taken place there.