The Loner: Crossfire

Chapter 8

Things went from bad to worse a second later when Conrad saw stabs of orange muzzle flame ahead of them. He knew the hoofbeats he had heard before the shooting started came from mounted gunmen sweeping in on the bodyguards Turnbuckle had hired. Those gunmen would soon target him and Turnbuckle.

Something made him jerk his head around and glance over his shoulder. One of the barrels had bounded high in the air and was coming right at them. Conrad grabbed Turnbuckle’s arm again and yelled, “Down!”

He sent them diving forward. The barrel went over them, coming so close he felt it moving through the air. They scrambled to their feet on the beer-slick pavement and started running again.

A yell of alarm sounded in front of them. Conrad spotted two men trying to get out of the way of the barrel, but they were too late. The barrel smashed into them and rolled over them, probably breaking numerous bones in their bodies. Conrad saw the guns lying on the cobblestones next to the men and knew the trap had backfired on those two, at least. They were some of the hired killers trying to wipe him out.

That gave him an idea. “Slow down!” he called to Turnbuckle. “We can’t outrun those barrels. We need to dodge them!”

“You’re crazy!” Turnbuckle panted. “We can’t—”

“It’s our only chance!”

Conrad knew he was right. He turned to face the barrels and leaped high in the air to let one of them roll under him. Muttering, Turnbuckle wheeled around and threw himself to the side to let another barrel fly past him. There were only seven or eight of the barrels left, but it would only take one to crush him or Turnbuckle.

“To your right, Claudius!” Conrad called out. “Go to your right!”

Turnbuckle flung himself in that direction while Conrad leaped the other way. One of the barrels bounced off the cobblestones and flew between them.

“Now toward me !”

It was a deadly game, like children playing tag, but the stakes were much higher. Conrad and Turnbuckle darted here and there, ducked, leaped high, threw themselves aside. The frantic action lasted only moments, but it seemed much longer before the last of the barrels had caromed past them.

The barrels weren’t the only threat. The gunmen were distracted by the avalanche of beer barrels, and some of them fell victim to the bouncing, rolling, suds-filled dreadnaughts, but several killers avoided the onslaught and charged toward Conrad and Turnbuckle. Conrad heard shots booming and slugs whining off pavement, and he twisted around to meet the new threat as he reached for his gun.

The Colt hadn’t fallen out of its holster during all his frenzied jumping around, and he brought the revolver up, triggering a pair of swift shots that sent two of the attackers spinning off their feet. The sharp smell of powdersmoke mingled with the earthy, overpowering aroma of spilled beer. Shifting his aim, he fired again.

Another gunman stumbled and dropped his weapon to clutch at his arm. In a voice wracked with pain, he shouted, “Let’s get out of here!”

The remaining bushwhackers broke off the attack and fled into the night.

Conrad sent another shot after them to hurry them on their way, then went over to help a sprawled Claudius Turnbuckle to his feet. “Are you all right, Claudius?”

Turnbuckle was breathing hard. “Yes,” he managed to say after a moment. “I’m ... not hurt. Just soaked in ... beer ... and shaken up a bit.”

“Come on. I want to check on the driver.”

It was too late to help the man. He was lying in the wreckage of the carriage, dead. The avalanche of beer barrels had killed all the horses as well.

Conrad heard shrill whistles approaching and knew the San Francisco police were on their way, drawn by all the commotion. Explaining this mess wasn’t going to be easy. It could have been passed off as an accident, if not for the bodies of the slain gunmen. Luckily, he had Turnbuckle with him, Conrad thought, and it was the lawyer’s job to explain things away.

Before the police arrived, Conrad went to the abandoned wagon that had carried the beer barrels and blocked the street. There was nothing special about it. There were probably dozens just like it in San Francisco, maybe more.

Something lying on the street next to the wagon caught his eye. It was round and shiny, and although he had no way of knowing for sure that it had fallen from the driver’s pocket when he jumped down from the wagon’s high seat, that was certainly possible. Conrad slipped the object into his pocket before the police could arrive. He would take a better look at it later.

Uniformed men wearing peaked caps and carrying shotguns and pistols swarmed around him, their feet slipping a little on the beer-wet pavement. Conrad let the police take his gun, then lifted his empty hands to show he wasn’t a threat. Not far away, Claudius Turnbuckle was already blustering in his best lawyerly bluster.

Conrad had a feeling it was going to be a good long while before he made it to the hotel for that rest and relaxation Turnbuckle had urged him to take.

Conrad and Turnbuckle finally reached the hotel long after midnight. They had spent a couple hours at police headquarters, being questioned separately and together by several different detectives on the San Francisco force. The detectives were suspicious, and Conrad knew they didn’t fully believe Turnbuckle’s story about how the attack must have been an attempted robbery.

On the other hand, the carriage had been an expensive one before it was wrecked, Turnbuckle was a well-to-do attorney, and Conrad was a highly successful businessman. It was possible they had been tempting targets for a gang of thieves.

Conrad knew it wasn’t actually what had happened, of course, but he didn’t admit that to the police. He had sensed all along that bringing the authorities in on his search for his missing children would be a mistake. To Pamela’s warped mind, the whole thing had been a game, and instinct told him if he didn’t play by her rules, he would regret it.

The police were taking the incident seriously.

Nine men were dead: the six bodyguards Turnbuckle had hired, and two strangers, who must have been members of the gang, and the driver. If the detectives knew the names of those men and who they associated with, they weren’t sharing that information with Conrad and Turnbuckle.

When the two of them were told they were free to go at last, Turnbuckle accompanied Conrad to the hotel. Conrad’s bags, which had been brought separately to the hotel, had arrived safely.

When they reached Conrad’s suite, they found a bottle of brandy waiting for them, ordered earlier by Turnbuckle. Conrad poured drinks, then told the lawyer, “I want you to see to it that the families of the bodyguards who were killed tonight are taken care of. I’ll pay for all the funeral expenses, and the families shouldn’t be hurting for money for a while, either.”

Turnbuckle nodded. “I’ll make sure of it. I would have, anyway, even if you hadn’t said anything. They were working for me, on your behalf.”

“Exactly.” Conrad sipped the brandy. “Do you have any sources of information inside the police department?”

“Perhaps,” Turnbuckle replied with a lawyer’s habitual non-committal caution.

“Maybe you can find out the identities of those gunmen who were killed. Knowing who they were and where they spent their time, might lead us to whoever hired them.”

“The same thought crossed my mind. I’ll have our investigators look into that, as well as continuing the search for the Golden Gate and D.L.”

“All right,” Conrad said. “If I think of anything else, I’ll be in touch.”

“And if we find out anything, I’ll let you know immediately.”

“Claudius ... I’m sorry my troubles have put you in danger again.” Several months earlier, Turnbuckle had been wounded by a gunman hired by one of Conrad’s enemies, as part of the ongoing plot against him.

Turnbuckle waved a hand. “Think nothing of it. Since we’ve started representing the interests of you and your father, there’s been more excitement in my life than ever before.”

“Not necessarily the sort of excitement you might want, though,” Conrad pointed out.

“Speaking of your father,” Turnbuckle said, “have you thought about getting in touch with him to see if he could help you with your search?”

Conrad frowned. “You know where Frank is?”

“Well, not exactly. I could probably locate him, though, if I set out to do so. The last I heard, he was in Alaska.”

“Alaska?” Conrad repeated with a smile. “That sounds like Frank. Always wandering.”

“They don’t call him The Drifter for nothing.” Turnbuckle paused. “What about it? Do you want me to try to find him?”

Conrad shook his head. “No, this is my problem, not Frank’s.”

“He’s always been glad to help before. And those children are his grandson and granddaughter, after all.”

Conrad tossed back the rest of his drink and set the empty snifter on an expensive, hand-carved sideboard. “No.”

“Very well. It’s up to you, certainly.” Turnbuckle finished his drink. “I should be going and let you get some rest. I’m glad we both survived the night.”

Conrad nodded. Surviving was generally a good thing ... although there had been a time when he wished more than anything in the world that he had died along with Rebel, so he wouldn’t have to live without her.

Once Turnbuckle was gone, Conrad stripped off the clothes that stunk of stale beer and tossed them on the floor. The hotel staff could clean them or burn them or whatever they wanted to do. He washed up, then fell onto the soft, luxurious four-poster bed in the elaborately decorated bedroom.

Despite his weariness, sleep didn’t come easily to him. He thought about everything that had happened, and something occurred to him. He got up and padded over to the clothes he had discarded. From a pocket in the trousers he took the little object he had picked up from the street next to the beer wagon.

It was round, about the size and shape of a silver dollar, but it was lighter because it wasn’t made from metal but rather carved from what appeared to be ivory. The thing reminded Conrad of a poker chip, but it was bigger than most poker chips he’d seen, and it had a picture carved in relief on it. It might be an identification token, he decided as he turned it to get a better look in the light from the gas lamp he had turned on. Something a man might flash to gain entrance to a place, or to identify himself to others who might not know him otherwise.

He realized almost instantly the scene depicted on the item was a familiar one. Two points of land extended toward each other, with a wide stretch of water between them. Conrad had been to that place on numerous occasions, and he had ridden a ferry from one side of that strait to the other. His heart began to beat faster as he took in the implication of what he held in his hand.

He was looking at a representation of the Golden Gate.