The Loner: The Devil’s Badland Read online

  A grimace tightened Conrad’s mouth. He had known that Whitfield was due to arrive today to pick up his daughter, but it was sheer coincidence that the MacTavishes had come to town on the same day, and practically the same time, at that. Coincidence, or pure bad luck. In this case, they might be one and the same.

  Conrad glanced at the cemetery. His job was to stay here and wait for the mysterious woman to show up again, he told himself. Surely no real trouble would break out between the MacTavishes and Whitfield’s bunch right there in the middle of the settlement.

  But he couldn’t be sure of that. He recalled how hotheaded James MacTavish was. It would be easy for Trace to goad the young man into a fight, if the gunfighter decided to do that. Conrad didn’t know if Trace was the one who had gunned down Charlie MacTavish, but it wouldn’t surprise him a bit to learn that was true. Nor would it surprise him if Trace had provoked the fight.

  Even if that wasn’t the case where Charlie was concerned, it could happen easily with James that day. Conrad knew he couldn’t stand by without trying to prevent it.

  With a sigh, he stood up, abandoning his post for the moment. He shrugged into his suit jacket and put his hat on. By the time he went downstairs, through the lobby, and out onto the porch, he saw that Margaret and Rory had gone into the store. James was still outside, lounging with a shoulder against one of the posts holding up the awning over the store’s porch.

  Conrad looked to his left and saw the Whitfield wagon approaching the hotel. Dave Whitfield heeled his horse into a trot and came on ahead of the wagon, followed by Trace.

  Whitfield stiffened in the saddle as he spotted Conrad standing there. At the same time, Trace said, “Boss,” and jerked his head toward James MacTavish on the porch of the general store. Whitfield hauled back on the reins and brought his horse to a skidding stop in front of the hotel as he moved his other hand toward the butt of the gun on his hip.

  “What the hell is this?” he demanded. “A trap?”

  “Take it easy, Whitfield,” Conrad snapped. “My being here has nothing to do with you.”

  Whitfield sneered. “You could’ve fooled me. I see one of those hotheaded MacTavish boys on one side of the street, and their hired gunman on the other. Looks to me like you’re just waiting to get us in a crossfire.”

  “If that’s what they plan, boss,” Trace said, “they’re about to be mighty sorry.”

  Conrad could tell that the gunman was just aching to slap leather. He shook his head and said, “You’ve still got it all wrong. I’m not working for the MacTavishes. I haven’t even seen them in the past two days, until now. It’s just a coincidence that they came to buy supplies at the same time you got here to pick up your daughter.”

  Whitfield’s slab of a jaw hardened even more. “What the hell do you know about my daughter?” he demanded harshly.

  Before Conrad could answer, the young woman herself put in an appearance, coming out of the hotel and saying in a bright voice, “Daddy, there you are! I thought I saw you riding into town from my window.” She stopped short. A frown appeared on her face. She noticed the dangerous feeling of tension in the air. “What’s wrong?”

  “Go back inside, honey,” Whitfield told her. “It’s about to get mighty noisy out here.”

  Chapter 7

  “Dad, what’s going on here?” Angeline asked with a worried frown.

  “Those damned MacTavishes and their hired gun are tryin’ to start a ruckus,” Whitfield answered. “Get back inside the hotel now!”

  Without taking his eyes off Trace, Conrad said, “That might be a good idea, Miss Whitfield.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Angeline insisted. “I don’t see any hired gunman, Dad.”

  Whitfield gestured with his left hand toward Conrad. “This fancy-dressed hombre right here.”

  Angeline laughed. “Are you joking? This is Conrad Browning. He’s no hired gun.”

  Whitfield’s frown deepened. “How do you know him? Has he been botherin’ you, honey?”

  “Not at all. In fact, he’s been a perfect gentleman…which is just what you’d expect from one of the wealthiest businessmen in the country.”

  When he heard that, Whitfield’s eyes widened. “What in blazes are you talkin’ about, girl?”

  “This man is Conrad Browning,” Angeline repeated. “He owns railroads and mines and banks. He’s not a gunman, and even if he was, he wouldn’t have any reason to hire out to a bunch of ragged squatters like the MacTavishes.”

  Conrad heard the scorn in her voice. It caused his estimation of her to drop a little more, even though he once might have felt the same way himself.

  James MacTavish started across the street toward the hotel. “I hear you over there, Whitfield, you damn blowhard!” he called. “If you’ve got something to say about the MacTavishes, you can damn well say it to our faces!”

  “Jack, deal with that dumbass,” Whitfield told Trace.

  The gunfighter’s gaze was still fastened on Conrad and he ignored Whitfield’s command. “Conrad Browning, eh?” Trace mused. “I thought the name was familiar when I heard it out at the MacTavish place the other day, and now I remember why. Frank Morgan’s son, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right,” Conrad said.

  “I always thought Morgan was overrated. Now he’s just a broken-down old has-been.”

  A thin smile stretched Conrad’s lips. “Maybe you can take that up with him yourself, one of these days. I’d like to see that.”

  Trace’s face darkened with anger. “Are you sayin’ I’d be scared to face off with Frank Morgan?”

  “No, I’m just saying I’d like to see it.”

  James had come to a stop about a dozen feet away. “Hey!” he said. “Whitfield, I was talkin’ to you.”

  Across the street, Margaret and Rory came out of the store, their arms full of packages wrapped in brown paper. The bundles in Margaret’s arms slipped free and fell at her feet as she caught sight of the confrontation going on in front of the hotel.

  “James!” she cried as she started toward her older brother. “James, come away from there!”

  James twisted around and slashed an arm at her. “Meggie, get back.”

  Trace went for his gun.

  Conrad knew in that split-second what was going to happen. Trace intended to kill James MacTavish and then claim that he’d thought James was drawing on him, saying that he had mistaken the intent of James’s motion. That would be enough to satisfy the law, at least there in New Mexico Territory. James’s death would be marked down as an accident, or at worst, a case of self-defense on Trace’s part.

  Conrad wasn’t going to let that happen, but he didn’t want a full-scale shootout to erupt, either. Too many innocent people were around who might get in the way of flying lead. Instead he leaped forward, shouting and waving his arms.

  That sudden commotion caused Whitfield’s horse to shy violently away from Conrad. Trace’s horse was right next to it and the two animals collided. Trace’s horse bucked and reared, throwing off the gunman’s aim just as Trace pulled the trigger. The revolver blasted, but the bullet shot harmlessly into the sky.

  By the time the horse’s hooves came back down to the dirt of the street, Conrad had his gun out and leveled at the gunfighter. “Drop it, Trace,” he said. From the corner of his eye, he saw the rancher moving and added, “Forget it, Whitfield.”

  Leaving his gun in its holster, Whitfield scowled and said, “See what I mean, Angel? I don’t care how much money this varmint has, he’s still a gunman.”

  “I see that,” Angeline said coldly as she looked at Conrad.

  Luckily, he didn’t really give a damn what she thought of him.

  “This is twice you’ve interfered with me, Browning,” Trace snarled. “There isn’t gonna be a third time.”

  “You haven’t dropped that gun,” Conrad reminded him.

  “And I’m not going to. You can just go ahead and shoot me, if that’s what you want.” When Co
nrad didn’t pull the trigger, Trace snorted in contempt and jammed his Colt back in its holster.

  “Are your things packed, Angeline?” Whitfield asked his daughter.

  “Yes, they are,” she told him.

  Whitfield turned to look at the driver of the wagon, who had brought the vehicle to a stop about ten feet away. “Brody, go up and get Miss Angeline’s things. Load them on the wagon and take her back to the ranch. The rest of the boys will go with you.”

  “Sure, boss.” The cowboy hurried to obey the orders.

  “What about you, Daddy?” Angeline asked. “Aren’t you coming back to the Circle D with me?”

  “I’ll be along later,” Whitfield told her. “Jack and I are going to stay here in town for a while.”

  Conrad understood what Whitfield was doing. The rancher didn’t want it to look like he and his pet gun-wolf were turning tail and running. Maybe Whitfield really had business here in Val Verde, but Conrad doubted it.

  “I wish you’d come with us,” Angeline said.

  “Just do as I told you.” Whitfield’s voice was sharp, and Conrad saw the sudden flare of hurt in Angeline’s eyes.

  She firmed her jaw and lifted her chin, though, and said, “Of course, Father. I’ll just get a few of my personal things that Brody doesn’t need to be messing with.”

  She stalked back into the hotel.

  Since Jack Trace had holstered his gun, Conrad did likewise, but he kept an eye on Trace as he walked over to James and Margaret. Margaret had hold of her brother’s arm and was urging him to come with her, back to the general store.

  “We already have everything we need, James,” she said. “Mr. Hamilton had our usual order all packaged up ready for us. If you’ll go settle up with him, we can be on our way back to the ranch.”

  “You know there’s not gonna be any settling up,” James said, his voice bitter. “All I can do is ask Hamilton to add the supplies to our bill.”

  “Ah, but you’ve forgotten about this,” Margaret said as she slipped a twenty-dollar gold piece from the pocket of her dress. Conrad knew it was the double eagle he had given Rory a few days earlier. “We can pay him for what we’re getting today, and some on account.”

  James grunted. “Yeah, I reckon you’re right.” He glared at Conrad. “You didn’t have to interfere again, Browning. I would’ve been all right.”

  “You’d have been dead is what you would have been,” Conrad said. His voice was flat and hard. “Trace would have killed you without any trouble.”

  James jerked his arm loose from Margaret’s grip and took a step toward Conrad. “What makes you think that?”

  Conrad stood his ground and said, “Because it’s his job to kill reckless hotheads like you.”

  For a second, he thought James was going to take a swing at him. But Margaret grabbed James’s arm again, this time with both hands, and pulled him back. “That’s enough,” she said. “Come on, James.”

  He looked at her. “You shouldn’t boss me around. I’m older than you, you know.”

  “Then act like it.”

  James didn’t have an answer for that. He glared at everybody, then allowed Margaret to tug him back toward the general store.

  From behind Conrad, Dave Whitfield asked, “Are you really a rich man, Browning, like my daughter claims?”

  Conrad turned and shrugged. “Some people would say so.”

  “Then why the hell are you gettin’ mixed up with trash like the MacTavishes? You could probably buy and sell the whole lot of ’em a dozen times over.”

  “No,” Conrad said with a shake of his head. “I could buy and sell you a dozen times over, Whitfield…not that I’d want to.”

  With that, Conrad started back toward the hotel, ignoring the angry glower on Whitfield’s face.

  He had just stepped onto the porch when he noticed something that froze him in his tracks. He saw a woman walking past the church, a woman in a long dress, wearing a shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders so that he couldn’t see her face or even tell what color her hair was. He stood there watching her, waiting to see what she was going to do.

  When she reached the corner of the building, she turned onto the little path that ran alongside it to the graveyard.

  Conrad’s breath caught in his throat. His heart seemed to shudder to a halt in his chest and lie there like a lump, no longer beating. He heard a roaring in his ears.

  That’s her, he thought. Even though she wasn’t carrying any flowers for Rebel’s grave this time, he felt certain that was the woman who had visited the cemetery before and left the bouquet.

  “Browning.” Trace’s voice was an insistent drone behind him. “Browning, this isn’t over. There’ll be another time, mark my words, and it’s gonna be different then.”

  “Whatever you say, Trace,” Conrad responded without looking around. He started walking toward the church and the graveyard.

  “Hey!” Trace called. “Hey, don’t you walk away from me, you bastard! You hear me, Browning?”

  Conrad heard him. He just didn’t care. He walked faster.

  “You son of a—” Trace’s curse stopped short, and then Conrad suddenly heard hoofbeats pounding behind him, practically on top of him.

  Instinct made him wheel around in time to see Trace about to ride him down. Rage contorted the gunman’s face. Conrad twisted aside, barely avoiding the charging horse. He reached up and grabbed Trace’s cowhide vest as the horse lunged past him.

  With a grunt of effort, Conrad heaved on the vest. Trace let out a startled yell as Conrad pulled him from the saddle. He crashed to the ground. Luckily for him, his feet had slipped out of the stirrups. Otherwise, the horse would now be dragging him along the street.

  Trace rolled over in the little cloud of dust caused by his hard landing. He reached for his gun as he started to surge to his feet. The Colt was only halfway out of its holster, though, when Conrad’s fist smashed into Trace’s jaw and laid him out flat on the dirt again. The gun slipped from the holster and landed in the dust. Conrad kicked it out of Trace’s reach.

  The fight had taken less than a minute. When Conrad turned toward the graveyard, he saw that the woman was still there, just reaching the gate and evidently paying no attention to the commotion going on down the street. He started toward her again.

  He had taken only a couple of steps when Trace yelled, “You son of a bitch!” and tackled him from behind. Conrad’s knees buckled under the impact. His legs went out from under him. Trace landed on top of him, laced his fingers together, and clubbed his hands down on the back of Conrad’s neck.

  The blow drove Conrad’s face into the dirt. For a second or two, a black curtain seemed to drop over his brain. Red streamers shot through the darkness.

  Then consciousness returned, driving away the stupor that had threatened to overwhelm him. He brought his right elbow back sharply, jabbing it into Trace’s midsection. Trace gasped in pain. Some of the weight left Conrad’s back. He bucked up off the ground, throwing Trace to the side.

  Trace didn’t stay down long. He scrambled to his feet again as Conrad glanced toward the cemetery. The woman had gone inside. She walked slowly toward Rebel’s grave.

  Conrad heard Trace panting right behind him and twisted around as the gunman threw a punch at his head. The blow grazed Conrad’s ear. It was painful but didn’t do any real damage. Trace wasn’t very big, but he fought with a crazed intensity that made him dangerous. He threw a hard punch for a smaller man. Conrad blocked a couple of them, then shot home a powerful right jab into the middle of Trace’s face.

  The punch rocked Trace back but didn’t put him down. He came at Conrad again. Trace threw so many punches that Conrad couldn’t block all of them. A couple of the blows made it through and stung badly. One landed on the corner of Conrad’s mouth, the other just above his left eye.

  He couldn’t spend all day waltzing around like this with Trace. The answers to everything he needed to know might be waiting there in the cemet
ery at this very moment.

  With a furious roar, Conrad lowered his head and bulled forward, ducking under the gunman’s flailing punches. His arms went around Trace’s waist. He kept moving forward as Trace’s feet came off the ground. Conrad didn’t let up on the bear hug as he drove Trace backward. He ignored the few blows that Trace landed on his back.

  Conrad knew there was a water trough behind the gunman. He dumped Trace into it, throwing him down with enough force so that he hit the water hard. As Trace came up sputtering, Conrad planted a hand in the middle of his face and shoved him back down. Trace began to struggle frantically, but he was getting weaker.

  A shot blasted. “Let him up!” Dave Whitfield shouted. “Let him up, Browning, or by God, I’ll kill you!”

  Panting and snarling, Conrad looked back over his shoulder and saw the rancher lowering the six-gun he had just used to fire into the air. The barrel swung in line with him. Conrad knew Whitfield meant the threat. Instead of holding Trace under the water, Conrad took hold of his shirt and hauled him up and out. He dropped Trace beside the trough. Trace lay there only half-conscious, gasping for air and moving his mouth like a fish out of water.

  “Next time he gets in my way, I’ll kill him,” he told Whitfield. Behind the rancher, the Circle D hands watched in open-mouthed awe. Angeline stood on the porch, her face pale and drawn. Across the street, the three MacTavishes looked on as well, with worry etched on their faces.

  Conrad saw all that, but only in passing as he turned once more toward the cemetery. He didn’t see the woman in the shawl. His heart sank as he realized that the cemetery appeared to be empty.

  He broke into a stumbling run toward the graveyard anyway. Maybe she was behind a tree, or kneeling behind a headstone so that he couldn’t see her. Maybe she had gone into the church.

  Father Francisco emerged from the big adobe building as Conrad approached. With a look of disapproval on his thin face, the priest said, “I saw you brawling just now in the street, Mr. Browning—”