The Loner: Crossfire

Chapter 17

“I am sorry, Señor Browning,” Carmen said. “I really am. If I had not done what they wanted, they would have killed me.”

Morelli said in alarm, “What’s this?”

“A trap,” Conrad said, “and the señorita was the bait.”

It was true. Half a dozen big men had followed them onto the dock, blocking their escape. Conrad didn’t see Dutchy, but even in the bad light he recognized two of the men as Hans and Ulrich. The others were strangers to him but equally large and dangerous-looking. Conrad had no doubt they worked for Dex Lannigan.

Morelli started to reach under his coat.

Carmen cried, “Don’t! I will kill Mr. Browning.”

“Sir?” the bodyguard said in a voice taut with tension and strain. “What do you want me to do?”

Conrad didn’t answer for a second. The wheels of his brain were spinning rapidly. It wouldn’t take much strength for Carmen to slide that blade between his ribs and pierce his heart.

Not much physical strength, that is, Conrad thought, but it would take the sort of resolve he wasn’t sure the girl possessed. The odds were against him and Morelli, but Conrad had faced long odds before. Besides, he figured the chances of them surviving if they surrendered were nonexistent.

To think was to act, where Conrad was concerned. He answered Morelli with action, twisting his body away from the knife in Carmen’s hand, planting a hand against her shoulder, and giving her a hard shove. With a startled cry, she reeled away from him and plunged off the edge of the dock into the water.

He hoped she could swim, but if she couldn’t, there were a lot of boats tied up along the dock. She could grab a mooring line to keep herself from sinking.

While the splash from Carmen falling into the water hung in the air, the six bruisers charged toward Conrad and Morelli. The bodyguard pulled a thick black leather sap from under his coat and met their attack, wading into his enemies as he struck out right and left with the shot-filled weapon.

Morelli couldn’t stop all of them, though. Conrad reached for his gun, but one of the men tackled him before he could pull the .38. The impact of the collision drove him backward, his boots slipping on the damp planks. He went down, sprawling on the dock.

Seeing a big, ham-like fist coming at his face, he jerked his head aside. The punch landed on the dock, causing the attacker to howl in pain. Conrad brought his elbow up under the man’s chin and forced his head back. A heave threw the man off to the side, and he barely caught himself before he rolled off the dock.

Conrad scrambled to his feet just in time to meet the charge of another man, who landed a hard, straight left catching Conrad in the chest with such force it seemed to paralyze him for a few seconds. A second looping punch landed on Conrad’s jaw and knocked him down again. He lay there stunned.

A few yards away, Morelli bellowed curses at the top of his lungs as he battled against three men. His sap laid out one, but another grabbed his arm and held it while the third man sunk a brutal punch in the bodyguard’s belly.

Conrad rolled aside from a kick aimed at his ribs. Reaching up, he grabbed the attacker’s foot and twisted. A heave sent the man crashing to the dock.

The first man Conrad had knocked to the dock made it back to his feet, and reached down to haul Conrad upright. A punch from behind slammed into the small of his back and sent pain shooting through him.

Conrad was a good bare-knuckles brawler, but there were just too many of them. They were all around him, and no matter which way he turned trying to escape the punishment, another man was there to smash a fist into his face or body.

The same was true for Morelli. The bodyguard put up a valiant struggle, but he was outnumbered by men who were his equal when it came to fighting. He didn’t have any more chance than Conrad did. Both were forced to their knees, driven down by blow after blow, and then the kicking and stomping started in earnest.

Deep inside, Conrad raged in disbelief. He had traveled so far, endured so much, come so close to finding his missing children. No hired killers were going to prevent him from completing his quest!

Newfound strength surged through him. As another kick thudded into his side, he grabbed hold of the man’s leg and began pulling himself up.

“Get him off me!” the attacker yelled, swinging a fist at Conrad’s head. Conrad hunched his shoulders and butted the man in the stomach. The man lost his balance and went over backward with a startled shout.

Conrad made it to his feet.

Then one of the other men stepped up behind him, holding the sap he had taken away from Morelli, who lay bleeding and motionless on the dock a few feet away. He hit Conrad in the back of the head.

It was like a gigantic explosion going off inside his skull. He saw a brilliant flash and felt like his head was coming apart. The odd thing was that the devastating explosion was silent. Completely noiseless. Instead of blackness, a great white void expanded and engulfed him. He didn’t hear anything, didn’t feel anything, and didn’t know anything as he fell endlessly through nothingness.

He crashed face-first onto the dock, out cold.

The man who got off the train the next morning was tired from sitting up the whole way during his journey. He could have booked a sleeping compartment if he’d been willing to wait for a later train; certainly he could afford the cost of such a luxury. What he hadn’t been able to afford was the time.

So he had ridden sitting up in a Union Pacific passenger car from Montana to Salt Lake City, dozing when he could, then caught the next Southern Pacific westbound for San Francisco. He would have preferred to take a couple weeks and make the trip on horseback, but there was no time for that, either.

He looked out of place as he disembarked among men in expensive suits and ladies in fancy dresses. He was medium height, but the highcrowned, cream-colored Stetson he wore made him appear taller than he really was. Broad, powerfully muscled shoulders stretched the faded fabric of a blue work shirt. He wore jeans and plain, functional boots.

The Colt revolver holstered on his right hip was plain and functional, too, as was the Bowie knife sheathed on his left hip.

He carried a simple carpetbag containing a few spare clothes and several boxes of ammunition. He hadn’t brought his saddle because he hadn’t brought a horse with him, and didn’t expect to need one. He felt that lack keenly. Despite everything that had happened in the past forty years, a part of him was still the young cowboy he had been. Part of him felt that a man without a horse just wasn’t a man.

He shrugged off the feeling and walked through the lobby of the train station. When he stepped onto the street, San Francisco spread out before him. A sigh escaped from him before he could stop it. He didn’t like big cities. Never had, never would.

But it was where he was needed.

A buggy pulled up in the street outside the depot. Claudius Turnbuckle climbed out and strode hurriedly toward the newcomer. “Frank! I meant to be here when your train arrived, but I was delayed at my office.” He added grimly, “By the police.”

“What’s wrong?” Frank Morgan asked as he shook hands with Turnbuckle.

“It’s Conrad,” Turnbuckle said. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but ... he’s missing.”

Frank’s rugged face was set in tense lines as he repeated, “Missing?”

“I’m afraid so. If you’ll come back to the office with me, I’ll tell you everything we know.”

Frank Morgan, The Drifter, the man some called the last true gunfighter, hadn’t been aware he had a son until a few years earlier. Now that he had gotten to know Conrad Browning, now that they had fought alongside each other against common enemies on several occasions, Frank would move heaven and earth to help the young man if Conrad needed his help.

The lawyer motioned Frank toward the buggy. Before they reached it, a voice called from behind them, “Mr. Turnbuckle! Mr. Turnbuckle, sir!”

They stopped and looked back to see a tall, slender man in a brown suit and hat coming toward them, also from the direction of the train station. He was moving deliberately, even gingerly, as if he were injured and didn’t want to make it worse. He was determined, though. That much was evident from the set of his narrow face.

“Arturo!” Turnbuckle exclaimed. “The two of you were on the same train?”

“The two of who?” the man called Arturo asked as he came up to them.

“You and Frank here.”

Arturo looked at Frank. “You’re Mr. Morgan, sir?”

“That’s right.” Frank nodded. “I reckon you must be that Italian fella I’ve heard about.”

“Arturo Vincenzo. I had no idea we were on the same train, or I would have sought you out and introduced myself after I boarded in Carson City.” They shook hands. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. Mr. Browning has spoken a great deal about you, always in the most glowing terms.”

Frank chuckled. “That wasn’t always the way he talked about me, and you can bet a hat on that.”

“Bet my headgear?” Arturo said with a puzzled frown. “Why would I want to—”

“Never mind that,” Turnbuckle broke in. “Something’s happened that you don’t know about, Arturo. Conrad has disappeared.”

“Good Lord! Tell me about it.”

“Frank and I were on our way to my office. I was going to fill him in there. You look pretty tired, though, and I know you’re still recuperating from that bullet wound, so perhaps we should drop you at the hotel—”

“Nonsense,” Arturo said. “No offense, sir, but I’m coming with you and Mr. Morgan. Dr. Taggart said I was fit to travel, and I can’t possibly rest until I know what’s happened to Mr. Browning.”

“That’s just it,” Turnbuckle muttered. “We don’t know. But come along, and I’ll fill you in on all the details.”

“I hope so,” Frank said, “because I haven’t followed much of this so far. I don’t even know what Conrad was doing here in San Francisco.”

“It’s not a pretty story,” Turnbuckle said with a sigh.

“It never is,” Frank said.