Killer Poker

Killer Poker - By J.A. Johnstone



Chapter 1





Conrad Browning knew he was asleep. That didn’t make the dream he was having any less of a nightmare.

In the dream, two children ran ahead of him. Their laughter had a taunting quality to it. He hurried after them, trying to catch up. He should have been able to do that easily, since they were only three or four years old, but somehow they stayed just out of his reach.

Then, still laughing, they looked back over their shoulders at him, as if to beckon him on.

He could see they had no faces, and horror washed through him. Where happy smiles and bright eyes should have been, he saw only smooth, empty, hideously blank flesh.

He came up out of sleep with a strangled yell. Cold sweat beaded on his face.

“Sir? Mr. Browning? Are you all right?”

Arturo’s familiar voice grounded Conrad and gave him something to hang on to. His chest heaved and his heart pounded madly inside it. He covered his face with his hands for a moment.

When he lowered them, he was able to say, “Yes, Arturo, it was just . . . just a bad dream.”

“I surmised as much, sir.”

Conrad drew in a deep breath. His pulse wasn’t racing quite so crazily, but a feeling of revulsion still gripped him.

A holstered Colt, with the attached shell belt wrapped around it, lay on the ground beside his bedroll. He was glad that instinct hadn’t made him grab the gun when the nightmare jolted him out of his sleep. He might have fired it without meaning to and hurt Arturo.

The tall, slender servant was sitting on a fallen cottonwood with a Winchester across his knees. A few feet away, the little creek where they had made camp gurgled along. A million stars shone in the black sky above them. It should have been a peaceful night . . .

But Conrad Browning was anything but at peace.

He ran his fingers through his close-cropped, sandy hair, then wiped the clammy beads off his face. He tried to tell himself he was sweating because the night was warm, but knew that wasn’t true.

And just because he was awake didn’t mean the nightmare was over.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Arturo asked.

Conrad shook his head. He pushed the tangled bedroll aside and stood up. “I’m awake, so I might as well go ahead and take over standing guard.”

“It’s still more than an hour until I was supposed to wake you.”

“Yeah, but like I said, I’m awake.” Conrad held out his hand for the rifle. “And this is a chance for you to get a little extra sleep.”

“Well . . .” Arturo considered the idea for a moment, then handed the Winchester to Conrad. “All right. I am a bit weary. Thank you, sir.”

“No thanks necessary,” Conrad assured him.

Arturo stood up and stretched. He was several inches taller than Conrad and fifty pounds lighter. His slender build made him look frail, but Conrad had discovered that Arturo Vincenzo was considerably tougher and stronger than he appeared. Technically, Arturo was his butler, valet, and traveling companion on their quest, but they were more like brothers in arms, having faced deadly danger together on numerous occasions.

The campfire had burned down to embers. Conrad didn’t bother stirring it up before he took Arturo’s place on the log.

Cottonwoods that were upright and healthy lined the creek banks. Their leaves rustled slightly in the night breezes. Conrad sat and listened intently, while Arturo stretched out to sleep.

The horses were picketed nearby. Conrad frowned as the animals began to shift around and stamp their hooves. Something had spooked them. A coyote, maybe, or even a wolf. He didn’t know what dangers might lurk on the plains of eastern Colorado.

Something was out there. His instincts told him that much, and he had learned to trust them.

“Hello, the camp!”

The voice came out of the darkness, but didn’t surprise Conrad. He had already decided they were about to have visitors, even though it was the middle of the night.

Arturo sat up and reached for the pistol next to his bedroll. Conrad came to his feet. There was no reason to think they were about to have trouble, but there was also no reason not to be careful.

Conrad heard the sound of several horses approaching the camp. He called, “That’s far enough. What do you want?”

The hoofbeats stopped. The man who had spoken before said, “We were ridin’ by not far off and heard somebody yell out. Everything all right here, friend?”

Conrad’s mouth tightened. It bothered him that somebody had heard his horrified cry. “Yes, we’re fine, but thank you for your concern.”

“Wouldn’t happen to have some coffee left in the pot, would you? We’ve been ridin’ all night.”

Though he hadn’t been raised in the West, it was where Conrad made his home, and Western hospitality demanded that visitors be welcomed. “Come on in,” he told them, adding quietly, “Arturo, stir the fire up.” His voice dropped even more. “And keep your pistol handy, just in case.”

Three dark shapes bulked up out of the night, turning into three men on horseback as they came closer. Conrad didn’t point the Winchester at them, but he kept the rifle aimed in their general direction.

Little flames began to dance as Arturo stirred the campfire back to life. The light they cast showed three hard-faced, unshaven men who looked tired as they reined their lathered mounts to a halt. They had been riding hard and fast.

“All right to light and set?” the spokesman asked.

Conrad nodded. “Go ahead. Any coffee left in the pot, Arturo?”

“Some,” Arturo replied. “I’m not sure it’s fit to drink by this point, however.”

The man who seemed to be the leader of the trio grinned as he swung down from the saddle. “It’ll do fine by us. We’re much obliged.”

Just because they looked like hardcases didn’t mean they were, Conrad thought. They could be drifting cowhands or even ranchers. There were some vast spreads on the Colorado plains, and some cattle barons didn’t believe in putting on airs.

On the other hand, they could just as easily be owlhoots on the run from the law. Considering the low-slung guns they wore, that was probably more likely.

Arturo set the coffee pot at the edge of the fire. “We should let that warm up a bit. That can only improve what’s left.”

One of the strangers took the reins of the horses from the other two men, leaving them with both hands free. Conrad made a note of that fact.

He knew the leader was studying him and Arturo. The man didn’t seem too impressed with what he saw. Arturo wasn’t the least bit threatening in his appearance, and Conrad was just a young man, fairly tall and well built, but in nondescript black trousers and a white shirt open at the throat, he wasn’t anything special.

The man looked over at their horses. The big, blaze-faced black gelding Conrad rode was a fine animal, and the four horses making up the team that pulled Arturo’s buckboard were pretty good, too. The pack mule didn’t really count.

“You know, if you fellas are interested, maybe we could work a trade.”

“What sort of trade?” Conrad asked, although he was certain he already knew the answer to that question.

“Our horses are about played out, and we really need to keep movin’ as soon as we’ve had a cup of coffee. How about we swap you our mounts for three of your animals?”

Conrad shook his head. “Sorry. We’re used to these animals. We’d like to keep them.”

Anger flashed in the man’s eyes, but he kept a grin on his face. He looked at Arturo and said, “Is that the way you feel about it, amigo?”

Arturo was still hunkered by the coffee pot. “Whatever Mr. Browning says is fine with me,” he replied.

“Your boss, is he?”

“My employer.”

Conrad said, “That’s none of your business.”

The man held up his left hand, palm out. “Oh, now, no offense meant, friend. Just makin’ conversation. You sure we can’t interest you in swappin’ horses?”

“I’m certain,” Conrad said.

The man who wasn’t holding the horses spoke up. “Ah, hell, Kingston, why all this p-ssyfootin’ around?”

“Take it easy,” the leader shot back. “How’s that coffee comin’ along there, Arturo?”

“It should be getting warm now.” Using a piece of thick leather to protect his hand, Arturo grasped the pot’s handle and picked it up. “If you have cups—”

“Just hold on,” the man called Kingston said. “We need to finish our business first.”

“We don’t have any business to finish,” Conrad said. “Drink your coffee and move on.”

“Well, now you don’t sound friendly at all. Where are you headed? Denver?”

“That’s right.”

Kingston shook his head. “That’s gonna be a long walk.”

“We don’t plan on walking.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to, because we’re taking your horses, and we’re not leaving ours, either. With that many spare mounts, we can outdistance that posse without any trouble. You and Arturo there can either hoof it, or you can stay right here permanent-like.” Kingston started to move his hand toward the butt of his gun. “The choice is—”

Conrad shot him in the face.