The Loner: Trail Of Blood (6 page)

Clancy got the team in motion and sent the carriage rolling through the cobblestoned streets. Conrad leaned back against the comfortable, cushioned seat.

They left Beacon Hill behind for a more working class neighborhood. The gas streetlights were fewer and farther between, and as a result, there were some dark stretches of road.

They were on one such stretch when several men on horseback suddenly rode up alongside the carriage. Conrad heard the hoofbeats pass and saw the dark shapes looming at the carriage windows. Instinct warned him, so he wasn’t completely surprised when Clancy called out, “Here now, you scoundrels! Leave those horses alone!”

“Shut up, old man, or I’ll put a bullet in ye! Now pull up, I tell you! Pull up!”

“Go to hell!” Clancy roared.

The sudden jolt of the coach picking up speed
threw Conrad back against the seat. Clancy yelled at the horses. His whip popped.

A gun blasted, followed by a groan from the burly Irishman. The carriage slewed to the side. Conrad knew Clancy must have been wounded and dropped the reins.

His hands went under the coat of his tuxedo and came out filled with the twin Colt Lightnings. As the carriage lurched to a halt, Conrad kicked the door open and leaped out. A couple men in long coats and derby hats had grabbed the team’s harness, one on either side, and forced the horses to stop against a curb. Two more riders dressed the same way brandished revolvers. The barrels swung toward Conrad as one of the men yelled, “Drop them little guns, Fancy Dan! This is just a holdup. We don’t want to kill you!”

“Unlucky for you I don’t feel the same way,” Conrad said as he tilted the barrels of the Lightnings up and blazed fire.

In the dimness of the street, Conrad couldn’t tell where he had hit them, but the cries of pain from both men told him his bullets had hit their marks. One of the men got a shot off, but the slug whined off a cobblestone.

The other two let go of the harness and tried to drag guns from under their coats. Wounded or not, Clancy left the carriage seat in a dive that sent him crashing into one of the men. The impact knocked the would-be thief out of the saddle.

The last man thought better of continuing the debacle. He wheeled his horse around and kicked it into a gallop. Conrad started to send a slug after
him, but stopped before he squeezed the trigger. If he missed, there was no telling where the bullet would wind up. Brownstones lined the street closely on both sides. A stray shot could hurt someone who didn’t deserve it.

The next instant, he leaped aside as one of the men he had wounded tried to ride him down. The horse’s body clipped Conrad’s shoulder with enough force to send him spinning off his feet. He landed next to a carriage wheel.

The two men fled on horseback in the other direction from their companion. Conrad held his fire as he stood up. The narrow streets of Boston were no place for a gunfight.

“A little help here, sir, if ye don’t mind!” Clancy had the man he had tackled on the ground, struggling with him. One of his hamlike fists rose, then fell, landing on the robber’s jaw with a sound like an ax splitting wood. “Ah, never mind, sir. The rascal seems to have gone to sleep.”

As Conrad hurried toward them he heard whistles shrilling in the distance. “That’s the police, isn’t it? Someone reported those shots.”

“Aye, that’d be the coppers. Do ye want to talk to them?”

“I’d just as soon we didn’t.”

“My thinkin’, exactly. Should we leave this’un here for ’em to find?”

An idea occurred to Conrad. “No, let’s put him in the carriage. I’d like to have a talk with him.”

From all appearances, the incident was just an attempted robbery that had gone very wrong for the would-be criminals. But Conrad had learned
not to trust appearances. He wanted to ask the robber a few questions when the man regained consciousness.

“Let me give you a hand,” he said to Clancy. “How bad are you hurt?”

“’Tis nothin’ to worry about, sir. A mere scratch on me arm.”

Conrad wasn’t so sure about that. Clancy seemed to be having trouble using his left arm as together they lifted the unconscious man and piled him into the carriage.

“Can you handle the reins?”

“Aye.”

“Do you know a place we can take this man where we won’t be disturbed?”

Clancy frowned and scratched his head before he put on the plug hat that had fallen off when he tackled the robber. “Aye, but just what did ye have in mind? I won’t be a party to cold-blooded murder.”

Conrad laughed, but the sound didn’t have much genuine humor in it. “If I wanted him dead, he’d already be dead.”

“Somehow I’m not doubtin’ that,” Clancy muttered.

“I just want to talk to him. Really.”

“All right. Best keep them guns handy in case he wakes up while we’re goin’.” The big Irishman paused. “You’re the first tuxedo-wearin’ gentleman I’ve hauled around who carries a couple o’ six-guns. I don’t know ye, sir, but I got the feelin’ you ain’t much like the other swells in Boston.”

Conrad’s chuckle was real, as he said, “Let’s go, if you’re sure you’re all right.”

“Aye. Them coppers’ll be here in a minute.”

The carriage got underway, leaving the scene of the attempted holdup. Conrad holstered one of the Lightnings but kept the other gun in his hand, covering the man who slumped on the carriage’s front, backward-facing seat.

It was a good thing he had Clancy along to find their way out of the warren of narrow streets and alleys through which the vehicle rolled, Conrad thought. He had grown up in Boston, but wasn’t sure exactly where they were, not having spent much time in those neighborhoods as a boy and a young man.

Clancy finally drew up at the closed double doors of a big, barnlike structure. “Gallagher!” he called. “Gallagher, ’tis me, Clancy. Let us in, that’s a good lad.”

A smaller door next to the big doors opened a little, leaving a crack big enough for the twin barrels of a shotgun to thrust through it. “Clancy? What’re ye doin’ here in the middle of the night? You’re drunk, right?”

“Nary a drop has passed me lips this evenin’,” Clancy insisted. “I’ve had a spot of trouble and could use your assistance.” He paused. “It’ll be worth your while.”

“Well, why didn’t ye say so? Hold on.”

The shotgun disappeared, the narrow door closed, and a moment later the big ones began to swing open with a creaking of hinges.

Inside the carriage, the robber stirred. He grated a curse as he started to sit up.

“Take it easy.” Conrad pointed the Lightning at the man. If he’d had a single-action revolver, he would have cocked it, to reinforce the threat behind the order. Since it was too dark to see much inside the vehicle, he added, “I’ve got a .38 aimed at you. At this range it’ll blow a nice-sized hole in you if you try anything.”

“What the hell?” the man whined. “Who’re you?”

“The man you tried to rob,” Conrad said coldly.

The carriage rolled into the barn, and the big doors closed with a firm slam behind it.

“Mister, take it easy,” the man said with fear edging into his voice. “We didn’t mean to hurt you. We just wanted your wallet.”

Outside the carriage, someone struck a match and held it to a lantern’s wick. As the glow washed outward, some of it spilled through the carriage window and showed Conrad the scared, ratlike face of his prisoner. Clancy opened the door.

Conrad gestured slightly with the Colt’s barrel and ordered, “Get out.”

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’. Just don’t shoot.” The man climbed out.

Conrad followed, assuming the small, wiry man holding the lantern was Gallagher. The light revealed the bloodstain on the left sleeve of Clancy’s coat.

“You need to get that wound tended to,” Conrad said with sudden concern. “It looks like more than a scratch to me. We’ll find a doctor—”

“Who’ll tell the coppers about me comin’ to him with a bullet hole in me arm.” Clancy shook his head. “No need to do that, sir. Gallagher here can clean and patch up a wound as good as any sawbones. We got plenty of experience at such chores, fightin’ the Rebs from Chickamauga to Richmond.”

“Aye,” Gallagher agreed. He had a small brush of a gray mustache on his upper lip.

“All right, if you’re sure.” Conrad looked around. The barn had several stalls on each side of the center aisle. He spotted a short, three-legged stool and told the prisoner, “Go over there and sit down.”

“What’re you gonna do to me?” the man asked in a surly voice as he did what Conrad told him.

“Nothing, as long as you give me straight answers.” Conrad held the .38 revolver straight out in front of him, pointing at the prisoner’s forehead. “But if you lie to me, I’ll blow your brains out.”

The man’s eyes widened, his face took on a frightened pallor, and his prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“So tell me, did someone hire you to kill me tonight?”

In the tense silence that followed the question, Clancy cleared his throat. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but I said I wouldn’t be a party to cold-blooded murder.”

“Killing a rat isn’t murder,” Conrad said, his eyes never leaving the prisoner’s terrified face. “Well, how about it? The truth, now. This is a double-action revolver, and it doesn’t take much pressure on the trigger to make it go off.”

The robber lifted trembling hands. “Please, Mr. Browning, don’t kill me. It was just a robbery, I swear. We seen the coach and knew whoever was inside it was likely to have some money and jewels on them.”

Conrad’s nostrils flared as he drew in a deep breath. The self-declared robber had just made a critical mistake without being aware of it.

“Coming from vermin like you, I might be inclined to believe your story … if you hadn’t just
called me by name. How did you know that unless someone
sent
you after me?”

The man’s eyes bulged with the realization of what he had done. He tried to recover, stammering, “I-I heard the driver say your name—”

“He didn’t,” Conrad cut in. “You were
told
who I am. The question is, who did the telling?” He moved a step closer. “Are you going to answer me, or am I going to—”

He didn’t get the chance to complete the threat he wouldn’t have carried out anyway. At least, he didn’t think he would have pulled the trigger and killed the man in cold blood.

Sheer desperation sent the man falling over backward as he upset the stool and kicked at Conrad’s gun hand. The toe of his shoe struck Conrad’s wrist and sent the revolver flying.

Conrad bit back a curse and leaped after the man, who twisted around onto his hands and knees as he hit the floor. He headed for the doors, trying to scramble away. Fear had the ratlike little gunman moving fast.

“I’ll cut him off,” Clancy bellowed as he broke into a run. The Irishman was so big it was more of a lumbering trot.

Conrad’s right hand throbbed from the kick. Reaching across with his left he drew the other Lightning.

Clancy had almost caught up with the escaping prisoner. He reached down to grab the man, saying, “C’mere, ye little—”

The man snatched up a pitchfork leaning against a post and whirled around to slash at Clancy with
the razor-sharp tines. He let out a startled yell and jerked back just in time to avoid having his belly ripped open. One of the tines tore his coat.

Clancy was in the line of fire as Conrad tried to draw a bead on the robber and knock a leg out from under him with a well-placed shot. Conrad couldn’t risk firing.

The hijacker jabbed the fork at Clancy again, forcing the Irishman to give ground. “Leave me alone, you big damn lummox!” the man yelled.

“Clancy, get down!” Conrad called.

The robber or would-be assassin or whatever he was slashed back and forth with the pitchfork. As Clancy backed up, he stumbled and his balance deserted him. He fell heavily to the hard-packed dirt floor. The man lifted the pitchfork, ready to plunge the tines into Clancy’s body.

Conrad drilled the thief’s right thigh with a slug from the .38.

Yelping in pain the man dropped the pitchfork as his wounded leg gave out and folded up underneath him.

Then he screamed as he fell on the pitchfork and the tines speared deep into his body.

“Son of a bitch!” Conrad leaped forward. He still wanted to question the man. Cold steel buried in the man’s gut. Blood was already welling around the tines as the man lay on his side, curled up around them in agony.

Conrad didn’t try to move him. Kneeling beside the man he said, “Who sent you after me? Who?”

The man gave a gurgling groan. He turned his
head enough to look up at Conrad, who saw the pain and hate in the man’s beady eyes.

“You can … go to hell …” the man gasped. Cords stood out prominently in his throat and he bared his teeth in a grotesque grimace as a fresh spasm of pain wracked him. His expression smoothed out abruptly. A long, rattling sigh came from him.

Conrad had seen and heard those signs too often in the past. Life began to fade from the man’s eyes as Conrad grabbed his shoulder and shook him. “Damn it, who hired you? Who sent you after me?”

“I don’t think he’s gonna answer ye, sir,” Clancy said from behind him.

“I know it,” Conrad said bitterly. He stood up. “He’s gone.” He turned to look at Clancy. “He didn’t get you with that pitchfork, did he?”

“No, but it wasn’t for lack of tryin’, the little scut.”

Gallagher came over to join them. “Now that I take a better look at the fella, I think I recognize him.”

“Do you know his name?” Conrad asked.

“Albie, Alfie, somethin’ like that.” Gallagher shook his head. “It don’t really matter. What’s important is that I know who he works for. He hangs around with Eddie Murtagh at a tavern not far from here. Hung around, I guess I could say, because he ain’t gonna be doin’ it no more.”

“Who’s Eddie Murtagh?”

“A bad man,” Clancy answered with a solemn frown. “He’d throw his own ma down a flight o’ stairs if ye paid him enough to do it.”

“That sounds like the sort of man you’d hire to get rid of somebody you wanted gotten rid of.”

Clancy said, “You sure
ain’t
like any of the other society swells I ever saw.”