The Loner: Trail Of Blood (12 page)

Looking vaguely embarrassed by the show of any emotion, Arturo quickly left the dining car and headed back to the Pullman. Conrad took his time, lingering over the last of the wine. When he finally finished it off, he scrawled his name on the bill the waiter had left and stood up.

As he walked through the passenger cars, he was aware of the looks people were giving him. Some of the men appeared to be openly resentful
of his youth, his good looks, his obvious wealth. The women, on the other hand, were more circumspect in their glances, which were frankly approving. Some of the younger women even had bold invitation in their eyes as Conrad passed. Any time anyone, male or female, caught his eye, he smiled, nodded, and moved on.

He had finally moved far enough past Rebel’s death that he could be attracted to a woman again without feeling too guilty about it. The striking, redheaded bounty hunter Lace McCall had made him realize that.

But the matter of his missing children had come up, and he had shoved everything else to the back of his mind. He didn’t have time for anything except the quest to find his stolen son and daughter.

He would see Lace again one of these days, he promised himself as he stepped through the vestibule of the second passenger and onto its platform. One of these days …

The shape came out of the darkness and slammed into him with terrific force, knocking him sideways. The impact rammed his hip against the railing around the platform and his momentum nearly carried him over it. He caught a bare glimpse of the ground rushing past beneath him as the train rocked along at a mile-a-minute clip. His hand shot out and grabbed the railing.

He felt himself flip completely over in the air, heels over head, as he fell. Maintaining his grip on the rail he hung by one hand with his feet dangling mere inches above the roadbed. Grunting with the
effort, he reached up with his other hand and managed to clamp it onto the rail.

The shape of a man on the platform loomed over him, then laughed. “Did you think you could get away with what you did to me, Browning? Did you really?”

As Conrad gritted his teeth in the effort to hang on, he recognized Eddie Murtagh’s voice. He didn’t know where Murtagh had come from. He would have sworn the platform was empty when he’d stepped out of the passenger car’s vestibule.

“I don’t care about that Tarleton bitch or those little bastards of hers,” Murtagh went on. “It’s personal now. You came into Serrano’s and killed my friends. You tried to kill me. You will pay for that.”

Murtagh must have been on top of the car, Conrad thought. He had waited for his intended victim to come along and then swung down from the roof, kicking Conrad and nearly knocking him all the way off the train.

Through clenched teeth, Conrad said, “I made you … beg for your life … too. That’s what you … can’t swallow.”

“Go to hell,” Murtagh snapped. Light from somewhere glinted briefly on the blade of a big knife he held in his hand. “We’ll see how long you can hang on once I start sawing your fingers off.”

Conrad knew he couldn’t hang on. He was about to let go with one hand and reach under his coat for one of the revolvers in the shoulder harness, an awkward, risky move he probably couldn’t complete before that blade came chopping down into his fingers, when more light suddenly spilled
over the platform and a furious voice shouted, “Get away from him!”

Arturo lunged across the gap between cars from the platform of the Pullman. Murtagh whirled toward him and thrust out the heavy-bladed knife. Arturo grabbed the gang leader’s wrist with both hands and twisted, keeping Murtagh from sinking that cold steel into his belly. Murtagh cursed and crashed his left fist into Arturo’s face.

Conrad knew Arturo didn’t stand a chance against Murtagh and wouldn’t be able to hold him off for more than a few seconds.

Those few seconds were precious, giving Conrad time to pour all his strength into his arms and shoulders and heave himself up far enough that he could hook a leg over the railing. With a grunt of effort, he swung over the rail and sprawled onto the platform, putting him in a good position to grab Murtagh’s knees and pull the man’s legs out from under him just as he tore free of Arturo’s grip and slashed the knife at the servant’s face.

With a yell of surprise, Murtagh toppled over backward and the knife stroke missed. Conrad clambered up the man’s body, grabbed Murtagh’s wrist, and slammed his knife hand against the edge of the platform. Murtagh yelled again as his fingers opened involuntarily and the knife went flying away into the dark.

Murtagh brought a knee up sharply, aiming to bury it in Conrad’s groin. Conrad twisted aside and took the blow on his thigh. His left hand caught hold of Murtagh’s throat. His right balled
into a fist that he brought down with stunning force into Murtagh’s face.

The blow wasn’t strong enough to knock all the fight out of the man. He brought the heel of his hand up under Conrad’s chin, forcing his head back and making him loosen his grip on Murtagh’s throat.

Proving as hard to hang on to as he had in their previous battle, Murtagh writhed away and aimed a kick at Conrad’s head. The kick landed on his left shoulder making Conrad’s arm go numb. He struggled to get up while Murtagh scrambled nimbly to his feet.

Before Murtagh could do anything else, Arturo went after him, swinging wild punches.

“Arturo, no!” Conrad yelled. The servant was no match for a brawler like Murtagh, who proved that by easily blocking the valet’s blows and throwing a punch of his own that rocked Arturo’s head back. Stumbling backward, he cried out in horror and toppled off the platform, falling into the gap between the cars.

“No!” Conrad bellowed again as he surged up. Curling his right hand in a fist, he hammered a punch into Murtagh’s face, then another and another, driving Murtagh toward the railing at the side of the platform. Conrad bulled into him, using his superior size and strength to pin Murtagh against the railing. The numbness in his left arm was wearing off so he locked both hands around Murtagh’s throat, forcing the man farther and farther back, bending him over the railing in a way the human spine wasn’t meant to bend. Murtagh
punched and kicked and gouged, but Conrad shrugged it all off and never loosened his grip. Murtagh’s wide, terrified eyes stared up at him out of a sweat-slick face.

Even over the loud rumble of the train’s wheels on the rails, he heard the sharp crack of Eddie Murtagh’s back breaking.

Conrad let go of his neck. Murtagh screamed once, a hoarse scream that died away in a whimpering moan. Conrad bent, took hold of Murtagh’s useless legs, and lifted. Murtagh screamed again as he realized he was going over the railing.

Conrad flipped him up, over, and away. Murtagh was gone in the blink of an eye.

It was only when Conrad swayed forward and gripped the rail that he saw the train was passing over a trestle, high above a river. Conrad began to laugh hollowly. The fall would have killed Murtagh, even without the broken back.

Three sharp, unexpected slaps caught Conrad’s attention. As he swung toward the sound, he heard Arturo’s weak voice calling, “Mr. Browning?” A hand reached over the back of the platform and slapped the boards three more times. “Mr. Browning?”

Unable to believe what he was seeing and hearing, Conrad leaped forward and leaned down to grab the wrist just as Arturo was about to knock on the platform again. Arturo’s other hand had hold of the coupling between the cars, and both of the servant’s legs were wrapped around an iron rod projecting from the apparatus.

Conrad hauled up on Arturo’s wrist and then grabbed his coat. He lifted Arturo onto the platform and threw his arms around him in a hug. “I thought that bastard Murtagh had killed you!”

“Yes, well, it wasn’t for lack of trying.” Arturo was trembling all over from the strain of having to hang on for dear life as the roadbed rushed past right below him.

“Come on, let’s get you back to the compartment.”

Behind Conrad, the door into the passenger car opened and the conductor strolled out, too late for all the excitement he was blissfully unaware of. “Mr. Browning!” he said when he recognized Conrad. “Something wrong?”

“Yes, my friend here isn’t feeling well,” Conrad explained as he put an arm around Arturo’s shoulders. “I was helping him get some fresh air.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can to do help?”

Arturo said, “No, thank you, I’ll be fine. Perhaps if I lie down for a short time …”

“Lemme give you a hand there, Mr. Browning,” the conductor offered.

Between them, they got Arturo into the Pullman compartment, where he stretched out on one of the short divans that pulled out into a berth. The conductor said, “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do help.”

Conrad nodded. “I certainly will.”

When the man was gone, Conrad sat down on the opposite berth and asked, “How did you
happen to come out there just in time to save my life?”

“I thought you would be back here sooner,” Arturo explained. “I just stepped out to see if you were coming.”

“Another few seconds and I would have been a dead man. Thanks, Arturo. I’m obliged to you.”

“Nonsense, sir. It’s my job to assist you in any way possible.”

Conrad laughed. “It’s not your job to take on cold-blooded killers, but you jumped right in anyway.”

“Was that Mr. Murtagh?”

“It was,” Conrad said with a nod.

“What … what happened to him?”

“He won’t bother us anymore,” Conrad said, thinking about Murtagh’s broken back and the long fall from that trestle.

The train rolled on, heading west into the night.

The bustling city of Kansas City, Missouri sat on the border between the states of Missouri and Kansas, but it was a border town in other ways, too. For years Westport Landing, one of the frontier communities that had developed into Kansas City, had been a major jumping-off place for the wagon trains carrying immigrants to the West. Later, as civilization extended itself past the Missouri River, Kansas City had become the primary market for grain grown in the vast, flat farmland surrounding the city. But it was also a cowtown, as the railroads brought shipments of cattle from the empire-sized ranches of Texas and elsewhere. Huge stockyards covered much of the area known as West Bottoms, just west of downtown, and you were just as likely to see cowboys walking down the street, spurs jingling, as you were to bump into sober-suited businessmen. Kansas City was the true boundary between east and west, Conrad
thought as he stepped down from the train in Union Station, followed by Arturo.

The servant hurried off to supervise the unloading of their luggage. Conrad set off across the crowded platform toward the stationmaster’s office. He had sent a telegram to the stationmaster from back up the line, advising the man when to expect him.

The woman who sat at the desk in the outer office recognized his name. She stood up and smiled at him. “Please sit down, Mr. Browning. I’ll let Mr. Crowley know you’re here.”

Conrad noticed she was quite attractive, with upswept brown hair and a fine figure that the high-necked, long-sleeved dress she wore failed to conceal. Evidently, more and more women were working in business offices.

The secretary came back a moment later and motioned for him to go through the door to the inner office. “Mr. Crowley will see you now,” she murmured.

Conrad went in and shook hands with a tough-looking, gray-haired man. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Browning,” Crowley said.

“We’ve met before?” Conrad asked with a faint frown.

“Not exactly. I used to be a conductor, and your mother rode on my trains several times. You were with her, but you were only a boy so I don’t expect you to remember.”

Conrad smiled. “My mother traveled a lot. She had so many different business interests, and she
liked to keep up with all of them, as personally as she could.”

“I imagine you’re the same way.” Crowley gestured toward a leather armchair in front of the desk. “Have a seat. Would you like a cigar or a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

When both men were settled in their chairs, Crowley went on. “What can I do for you, Mr. Browning? Your wire said something about the records from three years ago …”

“I’m looking for two women who would have been traveling with a pair of infants. Twins. I’d like to find out where they went when they left Kansas City.”

The stationmaster’s forehead creased. “Two women and two children. That’s all you know? And this was three years ago?” With a vaguely uncomfortable look, Crowley moved some papers on his desk. “You realize, of course, Mr. Browning, that thousands and thousands of passengers have come through this station since then?”

Conrad suppressed the surge of irritation he felt. “Of course. But I can narrow it down to a fairly short period of time, and surely there are records of how many tickets were sold and what the destinations were.”

Crowley sighed. “Mr. Browning, what you ask is impossible. Yes, there are records of how many tickets were sold, but there’s no way to tell which passengers bought which tickets. All we have are totals.”

Conrad’s heart sank. He leaned his elbows on
his knees and hung his head. The news was bitterly disappointing. As he mulled over the stationmas-ter’s words, it occurred to him perhaps there was another way—a longer shot even, than checking the railroad’s records—but it might provide at least
some
information.

He straightened in the chair. “Do you have someone who’s worked here for several years? Someone who would have been here three years ago during the period I’m interested in?”

“Yes, of course. A number of our employees have been here for a long time.”

“If I could talk to them, ask them some questions …”

“Do you really think that would do any good?” Crowley asked. “Mr. Browning, with all due respect, so many people go through here I doubt if any of the employees would remember someone from last week, let alone three years ago.”

“They might remember one of the women I’m looking for.” With Pamela’s beauty and the way she carried herself like some sort of royalty, with all the attendant arrogance and abrasiveness, she was hard to forget. Or so Conrad hoped.