J.A. Johnstone: The Loner: Crossfire

Arturo broke into his thoughts. “You’re brooding about Miss Tarleton and the children again, aren’t you, sir?”

Conrad sighed. “Sorry. I should be more worried about you right now.”

“Nonsense,” Arturo responded without hesitation. “I’m feeling much better, and Dr. Taggart says my condition is improving on a daily basis. In fact, he told me there’s no reason for you to remain here for the duration of my recuperative period. You can proceed to San Francisco any time you wish.”

Conrad smiled. “Are you sure Dr. Taggart said that, or is that you talking?”

“It’s true that I don’t wish to delay you”—Arturo rolled his eyes—“and Lord knows the evidence indicates you have a difficult time taking care of yourself without me around.”

“That’s true,” Conrad said, thinking of all the times Arturo had helped save his life.

“But you can ask the doctor for yourself if you’d like,” Arturo went on. “He and the nurses are perfectly capable of looking after me, and since all the financial arrangements have already been made with Mr. Turnbuckle”—Arturo shrugged—“there’s really no reason for you to stay, is there?”

“I suppose there’s not,” Conrad agreed. “Other than the fact that I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll be well enough to travel in another week or ten days, according to the doctor. At that time, I’ll come straightaway to San Francisco and contact Mr. Turnbuckle. You’ll keep him apprised of your current activities and whereabouts?”

“I’m sure I will.”

“Well, there you go. Good-bye. Have a good trip to ‘Frisco’.”

“I’ve heard the people who live there don’t like that name,” Conrad said with a smile.

“Perhaps not, but we don’t live there, do we?”

Grinning, Conrad shook his head. “Nope.” He put his hat on. “All right, I won’t argue with you. I’ll head for the train station right now and see when the next westbound is due.” He put out his hand. “Thanks for everything, Arturo. I’m sorry you may miss out on the end of this.”

“As long as your quest is successful, sir, that’s all I care about.” Arturo shook Conrad’s hand.

“I’m going to find the doctor and talk to him before I go, just to make sure he thinks it’s all right.”

“I would expect nothing less from you, sir.”

Dr. Liam Taggart, a middle-aged man with the sad face of a hound, nodded and agreed with Arturo’s suggestion when Conrad talked to him a few minutes later. “Mr. Vincenzo’s recovery is coming along splendidly. We’ll take good care of him. You can go on about your business without worrying, Mr. Browning.”

“I’m glad to hear that. If you need anything, Doctor, don’t hesitate to wire my attorneys in San Francisco. They’ll handle everything.”

Taggart nodded. “Of course.”

Conrad left the hospital. It was a beautiful day. The air was crystal-clear, and the mountains near Carson City seemed close enough to reach out and touch. As he gazed at the splendor around him, he avoided a certain area. He didn’t want to look at, or think about, Black Rock Canyon, the place where Rebel had died. Unfortunately, once those dark thoughts entered his head, it was almost impossible to banish them.

The sudden roar of a shot and the sound of a bullet whipping past his ear did the job.

Chapter 2

Instinct took over, as it always did when danger threatened. Conrad’s hand stabbed toward the Colt on his hip as he whirled.

His keen eyes instantly spotted two men with guns about twenty feet from him. They stood next to a parked wagon, evidently intending to use it for cover if they needed to. Smoke curled from the revolver held by one man, and the other would-be assassin was lining up his shot.

Conrad crouched and fired as the second man squeezed off a round. The two reports blended together into one blast. The gunman’s aim was a little high and Conrad heard the slug whine over his head.

Conrad’s bullet slammed into the gunman’s left shoulder. The impact was enough to make him cry out in pain and spin to the pavement as he dropped his gun and clutched at his bulletshattered shoulder.

The first man fired again, but he was on the move. His shot went wild and missed Conrad by several feet. Someone screamed behind him and he knew the stray bullet must have found an unintended target.

As the gunman darted around the horses hitched to the wagon, Conrad held his fire. He didn’t want to hit any of the animals.

The man he had wounded was groping for the gun he’d dropped a few seconds earlier. Conrad kicked the revolver as he dashed toward the wagon and sent the gun spinning along the street, well out of reach. The wounded man groaned and slumped on the pavement again as he appeared to pass out from the shock of his injury.

Conrad knew the man he had shot ought to survive. It was unlikely he would bleed to death since he was practically on the front steps of the hospital. Wanting at least one of the bushwhackers alive to question, Conrad ran after the one who had disappeared into the mouth of the alley across the street, between a saloon and a hardware store.

All along the street, people were yelling and scattering, getting out of the line of fire. He pressed his back to the front wall of the saloon next to the alley and listened.

He didn’t hear running footsteps, but was pretty sure he heard harsh breathing coming from deeper in the alley. The man was waiting for him. As soon as he showed himself, he’d be silhouetted in the mouth of the alley and the gunman would open fire.

Instead of waltzing right into that trap, Conrad slapped aside the batwings and hurried into the saloon. People gawked at him and got out of his way as he headed toward the stairs at the back of the room. A bartender with a bungstarter gripped firmly in his hand moved to block Conrad’s path. “Hey, mister, what do you think you’re—”

He stopped short and stepped back from the cold-eyed glance Conrad gave him.

Taking the stairs three at a time, Conrad got to the second floor landing in a hurry. Turning to the right, beside the alley where the bushwhacker was hidden, he jerked open the closest door and found the shabby bedroom inside empty. He went to the open window and peered out cautiously.

He saw what he wanted to see. About a dozen feet from the street, the gunman crouched behind a rain barrel, watching the mouth of the alley. His gun was leveled over the top of the barrel, and all his attention was focused in that direction as he waited for Conrad to appear.

It would have been easy for Conrad to gun him down from the window. But when you shot somebody, there was always a risk you would kill them. He didn’t want that. He wanted the man to talk and reveal who had hired him to murder Conrad Browning.

As if the answer would come as any surprise ...

The window in the next room was almost directly above the place where the gunman was hidden. Conrad hurried there and opened the door. He wasn’t lucky enough to find the room unoccupied. A redheaded woman clutched the sheet on the bed to her naked bosom, which was ample enough that it wasn’t easily covered. Beside the bed, a fat, pale, hairy gent was struggling frantically to get back into his clothes.

Conrad saw the anger on her face and knew she was about to yell at him. He held the index finger of his left hand to his mouth in a shushing gesture and showed her the gun in his right hand. Her eyes, as well as her mouth, opened wide, but the only sound that came from her was a frightened little squeak.

Half dressed, the redhead’s customer rushed past Conrad and out the door, obviously determined to get as far away as fast as he could.

Conrad moved silently toward the open window and looked out. The bushwhacker was still below in the alley, crouched behind the barrel.