J.A. Johnstone - The Loner - Crossfire

Conrad and Frank kept a close watch all around them as they waited for night to fall. It was possible another guard might come to change places with the man Frank had knocked out and tied up. No one else showed up, though, so Conrad suspected the shift change had taken place not long before he and Frank had sprung their trap on the luckless gunman.

They were up high enough on the western slope of the mountain that the sea was visible in the distance. Finally the sun sank into the Pacific, turning everything green and gold for a brief moment of beauty and tranquility.

That couldn’t last. It would be a night of blood and death, Conrad sensed. But as long as his children wound up safe, that was all that really mattered.

He checked his Colt and slid the revolver back in its holster, then did likewise with the .38. Frank did the same thing. They left their Winchesters with the horses. Whatever happened in the lodge would be close work.

“I didn’t see any badges or uniforms on those men standing guard,” Conrad said. “I think we can assume they’re all hired guns working for Lannigan.”

Frank nodded in agreement. “There’s bound to be a trail leading a long way around. That’ll be how the guards get up here. Once things have settled down, one of us can come back up and get the horses. Then we’ll ride out on that road we spotted leading through the trees to the lodge.”

Conrad nodded. His father was assuming both of them would live through what was about to happen, and he hoped that turned out to be the case. But if it didn’t ...

“Frank, if I don’t make it out of here—”

Frank held up a hand to stop him. “I’ll see that those youngsters are taken care of. You don’t even have to ask.”

“I know.”

“Same goes for me.” Frank chuckled. “Just don’t tell them too many wild stories about their gunslinging granddad.”

“I’ll keep ’em away from those dime novels,” Conrad said with a laugh of his own.

Frank’s tone was a lot more serious as he went on. “We may have to kill Lannigan and the rest of those varmints. I reckon you can live with that, though, the way you went after the men responsible for Rebel’s death.”

“Yeah. This is the last hand, Frank. Pamela’s down to her last card.”

“You realize you’re talking about gambling with a dead woman.”

“That’s the way it’s been all along. Pamela’s twisted game. I just didn’t realize it soon enough.”

“If we get those kids back safe and sound, it’s soon enough.”

Conrad couldn’t argue with that. He went to the edge of the bluff, which was steep but rugged enough a man could climb down it if he was careful, even in the dark. Brush grew here and there, which helped provide handholds.

The bluff was about fifty feet high. Conrad and Frank took their time descending it. They didn’t want to dislodge any rocks and send them clattering down the slope to warn the guards. Stealth was more important than speed. They had all night to make their approach to the lodge.

When they reached the bottom at last, Conrad put his mouth next to Frank’s ear and whispered, “We’ll take the guards who are patrolling first. You go left, I’ll go right.”

“Got it,” Frank whispered back. He had been good about letting the younger, less experienced man call the shots, Conrad thought. At the same time, he knew if he was about to do anything really stupid, Frank would stop him.

Maybe it was just a matter of great minds thinking alike, Conrad told himself with a faint smile as he catfooted through the darkness.

As he made his way through the trees toward the lodge, he paused every few feet to listen. After several minutes he heard the soft rustle of feet on pine needles. Standing stock-still, he waited until he was sure which direction the roaming guard was moving, then he slipped to the side so his path would intercept that of the gunman.

Drawing his Bowie knife from its sheath, Conrad stopped and pressed his back against the trunk of a tree. A moment later the guard walked past him, unaware that he was there.

That was bad luck for the guard. Conrad struck without warning, looping his left arm around the man’s neck and jerking him backward. At the same time he drove the big knife into the guard’s back. The deadly keen blade slid easily through flesh, slipped between the ribs, and into the guard’s heart. Conrad’s arm was clamped across the man’s throat like a bar of iron. No sound could escape from the dying man’s mouth. He crossed the divide in silence except for the thud of his shotgun hitting the ground when he dropped it, and that was muffled by the carpet of pine needles.

Once again he had killed a man in cold blood, Conrad thought as he lowered the limp corpse to the ground. A part of him regretted it, but the steel at his core knew it was necessary. Lannigan’s hired gun would have killed him without blinking, blasting him to bits with that shotgun.

He damned Pamela Tarleton for setting the tragic events in motion. He damned her for making him the man he was. Then he grimaced and wiped the blade on the dead man’s shirt. Pamela might bear some of the responsibility, but not all of it. Not by a long shot.

He supposed there had always been a killer inside him. He just hadn’t known it, and it had taken a great tragedy to bring that killer out. Once it was over ... once his children were with him ... he had to put that part of himself away. He had to bury Kid Morgan once and for all.

Conrad shook off his reverie and moved toward the house. Frank should have taken care of the other roaming sentry, and they had to deal with the men guarding the door.

Trees around the back of the house had been cleared away for a distance of thirty or forty feet, and a couple lanterns hanging on each side of the door cast a yellow half circle of light over that area. Conrad couldn’t get close enough to strike with the Bowie without being spotted, and he doubted his ability to throw the knife with enough power and accuracy to kill one of the guards. Even if he did, that would leave another guard to sound the alarm.

Suddenly, from the woods a man called, “Hey, Toby! Lunsford! Get out here! I caught somebody tryin’ to sneak up on the place!”

That was the other patrolling guard, Conrad realized as a shock went through him.

From the sound of it, he had taken Frank prisoner.

Chapter 30

The guards by the door reacted instantly, running toward the trees, shotguns at the ready. Conrad moved fast, too, circling swiftly through the pines toward them. He had to help Frank, and it was a chance to deal with those two guards without having to approach them across the open ground.

The hired guns ran into the trees. Conrad heard one of them exclaim, “What the hell!” Then a heavy thump sounded just ahead of him. He darted around a tree and saw one of the guards trying to swing his scattergun around to aim it at a shadowy figure. Knowing the guard was an enemy, Conrad lifted his knife and brought the brass ball on the end of the handle down hard against the back of the guard’s head.

The man grunted in pain and stumbled forward as the shotgun’s twin barrels drooped toward the ground. The shadowy figure leaped forward, grabbed the barrels, and forced the muzzles into the dirt. His other fist smashed into the guard’s face and knocked him loose from the weapon. The guard toppled to the ground, out cold.

“Good teamwork,” Frank said.

Conrad frowned in surprise at his father. “I thought you’d been captured!”

“Yeah, well, that’s what I wanted those fellas by the house to think. The idea came to me when I jumped the one who was patrolling out here. Instead of killing him, I put my Bowie to his throat and made him call out to those two and lure them out here. I walloped one with my gun. I thought maybe you’d show up to give me a hand, and sure enough—”