J.A. Johnstone - The Loner - Crossfire

“Then you must be a gunfighter,” Jamie said. “You’re wearing a gun.”

“Plenty of folks who aren’t gunfighters wear guns,” Frank told him.

“Yeah, but you look like somebody who’d be in a dime novel.”

As a matter of fact, a number of those lurid, yellow-backed tomes had been written about Frank, or at least about somebody the authors called Frank Morgan. He had always thought the character they depicted in their yarns had little resemblance to him. But then, people didn’t read those stories because they were realistic, he reminded himself. They read them to be entertained.

“Aren’t you a little young to be reading dime novels?” he asked the boy.

“I try to keep them away from him,” the woman said, “but his father reads them, and of course Jamie gets his hands on them, too. He’s been reading ever since he was four. He’s very smart for his age.”

“Yes, ma’am, I can tell that from talking to him. Listen, Jamie, I like to read, too. Always have a book or two in my saddlebags when I’m out on the trail. If you haven’t already read it, you should try a book called Treasure Island , by a fella named Robert Louis Stevenson. I’ll bet you’d like it. Got pirates and such-like in it.”

Wide-eyed, Jamie turned his head to look up at his mother. “Pirates! That sounds great! Can I read it?”

“I’ll see if I can find a copy for you,” she promised. She looked up at Frank. “Thank you.”

He touched a finger to the brim of his Stetson. “Glad to be of help.” The cable car was coming up on the street where he needed to get off. “Good day to you and your boy, ma’am.”

Frank dropped off the car as it slowed. Grant Street led off to his left. The Golden Gate Saloon was only a few blocks away.

That meant he might be only a few blocks away from answering the questions that plagued him.

Where was his son?

And what had happened to his grandchildren?

Conrad stood up and moved toward the sound of the approaching footsteps. He barked his left shin on something and reached down to discover he had run into another crate. He made his way around it and continued moving forward with his hands outstretched in front of him.

A moment later he touched a wall. He guessed it was the bulkhead that closed off the compartment. Running his fingers along it, he found a door. On the other side of that door, the footsteps came closer.

Not only that, but dim yellow lines appeared along the edges of the door. Whoever was coming had brought along a lantern.

Conrad pressed his back against the bulkhead, not knowing if the door would open toward him or away from him. If he was behind the door when it opened, that might give him a chance to jump the visitor. He’d have to be careful not to break the lantern and start a fire—

Or maybe that would be the best thing to do, he realized. If the ship was burning, the crew probably would be too busy to pay much attention to him. As the footsteps came to a stop outside the door, Conrad set himself, his muscles tense and ready for action.

A key rattled in a lock. Conrad took a deep breath and held it. With a creak of hinges, the door came open and light spilled into the room.

He winced from the glare, his eyes narrowing instinctively. There was nothing wrong with his ears, though, so he heard the man on the other side of the door mutter in surprise, “What the hell!”

The man stepped into the room, lantern held high in one hand, a heavy old revolver in the other. In the second before Conrad struck, he saw that the man wore the tight shirt and white duck pants of a sailor. Then he clubbed his hands together and brought them smashing down on the back of the man’s neck.

The sailor staggered forward, but didn’t collapse or drop the lantern or gun. He swung around and slashed blindly with the revolver, forcing Conrad to leap back or get brained by the gun. Cursing, the man pointed the weapon at him, but Conrad charged anyway, diving under the revolver and tackling the sailor around the waist.

The man went over backward, and the lantern flew from his hand and came down with a crash of breaking glass. Flames shot up as the kerosene spilled from the shattered reservoir and caught fire.

Conrad hammered punches into the sailor’s body. He knew the smell of smoke would bring more of his captors on the run, and he wanted that gun in his hand before they arrived. He closed his fingers around it and tried to wrench it out of the sailor’s grip, but the man held on to it stubbornly.

Lowering his head, the sailor butted it into Conrad’s face. Conrad turned his head in time to take the blow on his jaw and cheek rather than his nose, which would have been pulped and flattened if the head-butt had landed where it was aimed. The impact jolted him enough to set off more explosions inside his skull.

He drove a knee into the sailor’s belly, finally causing the man’s grip on the revolver to loosen. Conrad jerked it free and tried to climb to his feet, but he heard the pounding of swift footsteps and knew he might be too late. By the light of the fire that was spreading through the hold, he saw several more men rushing down a companionway toward the open door.

Before he was able to get the gun turned around so his finger could find the trigger, one of the newcomers charged into the room and swung a club. The thick bludgeon cracked across Conrad’s forearm and sent the gun flying out of his hand. The man swung the club in a backhanded blow at Conrad’s head. He ducked under it and hammered a punch to the man’s solar plexus. The sailor grunted in pain but still managed to flail at Conrad’s head with the club.

“Stop it!” one of the other men yelled. “That belayin’ pin’ll crush his skull, and the cap’n don’t want him dead!”

The knowledge that they weren’t supposed to kill him gave Conrad renewed hope. His captors had to hold back, but he didn’t. He grappled with the man who had the belaying pin, sinking his knee into the man’s groin. The belaying pin came loose.

Picking it up, Conrad launched into the other men, swinging the club right and left. One of the men yelled, “Grab him!” and another shouted, “We gotta get that fire out!”

Conrad landed a blow with the club and sent a man reeling out of his path. More running footsteps pounded, and he knew reinforcements were arriving for the sailors. The odds against him were rising by the second.

He kept battling anyway, knocking another man down with the belaying pin and fighting his way into the companionway. Men were all around him, and he was tackled from behind, dragged down, and hammered with fists. His already battered body barely felt the impacts. Acrid smoke drifted into his nose and mouth, stinging them and making him cough.

Several men held him down. Their weight pinned him securely to the deck. He still had hold of the belaying pin, but somebody stepped on his hand and made him let go of it. As he lay there struggling for breath, he heard a man say, “The fire’s out, thank God. He could have burned us right down to the waterline!”

Knowing his escape attempt had failed made a bitter, sour taste well up under Conrad’s tongue. He might not get another chance.

A moment later a voice obviously accustomed to command barked, “Get him on his feet.”

Strong hands gripped his arms and hauled him upright. Somebody had brought another lantern. Its smoky light washed over Conrad as he stood in the grasp of two sailors. Several more surrounded him, ready to pummel him into submission if he tried to put up a fight again.

The man who stood in front of him wore a blue jacket and had a captain’s cap tilted back on his bald head. His nose had been broken at least once in the past, and his eyes had a permanent squint. He was short but powerfully built.