The Devil's Badland: The Loner Page 7

  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—”

  “Did she come inside?” Conrad broke in.

  “Who?”

  “The woman in the shawl!”

  Father Francisco shook his head. “I haven’t seen her. Was she here?”

  Conrad hurried on to the cemetery gate, pausing just inside it. He looked around. He could see the entire graveyard from there. There was no place the woman could be hiding from him. He let out a groan of despair.

  “She was here,” he told Father Francisco, “but she’s gone now.”

  And with her, he thought, possibly everything he needed to know.

  Chapter 8

  Margaret MacTavish came out of the store to meet Conrad as he trudged back toward the hotel.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Browning?” she asked. “You weren’t hurt in that fight?”

  “I’m fine,” Conrad told her. Just disappointed, he thought, but he didn’t say that. He didn’t want to have to explain everything to Margaret.

  “You really don’t need to keep on standing up to Mr. Whitfield for us. He’s a bad man to have for an enemy.”

  “So am I,” Conrad said. More than a dozen men could attest to that.

  He glanced toward the hotel. A couple of Whitfield’s men were loading Angeline’s bags into the wagon. Angeline herself had climbed onto the seat next to the driver. Her eyes flicked toward Conrad, then darted away. Her chin lifted in a haughty manner. He knew she intended the gesture to show him just how much contempt she felt for him.

  Conrad turned back to Margaret and said quietly, “Keep your eyes open while you’re on your way back to the ranch. I don’t think Whitfield’s liable to start any more trouble while he has his daughter with him, but you never know.”

  Margaret nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Browning. Stop by the next time you ride in our direction. You know you’ll always be welcome.”

  The way she blushed when she said that made Conrad wonder if she was just being polite by issuing the invitation, or if she really wanted to see him again. He nodded and said, “All right. Thanks.” That didn’t commit him to anything.

  A still soaking wet Jack Trace sat on the edge of the hotel porch as Conrad approached. His head drooped forward. His dark hair hung over his eyes. He looked up at Conrad through the lank strands. Conrad had never seen more murderous hate in any man’s gaze.

  Whitfield stood beside Trace. He had picked up the gunfighter’s Colt and still held it. “I’ll give this back to you when we get out of town,” he said. “There’s been enough trouble for one day.”

  “Not enough,” Trace rasped as he looked at Conrad. “Not near enough.”

  Conrad walked past them without seeming to pay any attention to them, although he was actually watching them from the corner of his eye in case either man made a play. Whitfield seemed to have his anger under control now. There was too great a chance that Angeline might be hurt if he let things get out of hand.

  A bitter taste filled Conrad’s mouth as he went into the hotel. Why had the mystery woman chosen that particular moment to visit Rebel’s grave? If it had been any other time, Conrad could have confronted her and maybe gotten some answers.

  But no, it had to be at the same time trouble threatened to break out between the MacTavishes and Whitfield and his men. Once again, despite his best intentions, circumstances had forced Conrad to involve himself in somebody else’s problems.

  If he was going to avenge Rebel, he told himself, he was going to have to learn to walk away from all other trouble.

  The drawback was that Rebel wouldn’t want him to walk away. She believed in helping people. She would have been disappointed in him, Conrad realized, if he ignored the dangers threatening the MacTavishes.

  “Damn it, Rebel,” Conrad muttered under his breath. He glanced over and saw Rowlett watching him from behind the desk. The hotelkeeper wore a puzzled look on his face. To him, it appeared that Conrad was talking to himself.

  Maybe that was it, he thought. Maybe he’d gone loco. Maybe he had imagined the mystery woman in the shawl.

  But Father Francisco had seen her, too, Conrad reminded himself. If he was losing his mind, then so was the priest.

  “Can I, uh, do anything for you, Mr. Browning?” Rowlett asked as Conrad paused wearily at the foot of the stairs.

  “I don’t think so,” Conrad replied with a shake of his head. “Not unless you know something about a woman in a shawl who visits the cemetery.”

  Rowlett shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Browning. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m not sure I do, either,” Conrad said. He gripped the banister and wearily climbed the stairs to his room.

  A short time later, after resuming his post at the window, he saw the MacTavishes leaving town, their wagon rolling north with Margaret at the reins, Rory beside her with his rifle across his knees, and James riding alongside. About ten minutes after that, accompanied by the ranch hands serving as outriders, the Whitfield wagon left, carrying Angeline and her bags to the Circle D. Dave Whitfield and Jack Trace remained in town. Conrad hoped that Whitfield could keep the gunman under control and wouldn’t let him go after the MacTavishes.

  As for himself, it was his habit to keep his eyes open and watch out for ambushes, but he didn’t really think he had to worry about Trace bushwhacking him. Trace was the sort to come at an enemy head-on, so that he could prove he was faster. His arrogance demanded that.

  By nightfall, Conrad hadn’t seen the woman in the shawl again. His lips had swelled where Trace hit him, and the contusion over his eye was bruised and sore, giving him a headache. With a sigh, he left his place at the window and went downstairs to have supper, even though he didn’t feel much like eating.

  While he was sitting at the table, trying to ignore the pain from his swollen mouth, Father Francisco hurried into the dining room. The priest glanced around. Conrad thought he looked uncomfortable, as if he didn’t like being away from the church.

  Father Francisco’s eyes stopped on Conrad, who felt his heart lurch suddenly. If the priest was looking for him, there had to be a good reason. Conrad hoped it had something to do with the woman at the cemetery.

  Father Francisco came across the room and stopped beside the table where Conrad sat. “I found this in the church a short time ago,” he said as he held out an envelope.

  Conrad’s eyes widened—which caused a fresh jolt of pain to shoot through the bruised place on his forehead—as he saw his name written on the envelope. The letters were in what appeared to be a woman’s handwriting.

  The envelope wasn’t sealed. He opened it and took out the paper inside, unfolding it and spreading it out on the table next to his plate. The message was simple and unsigned.

  I saw you today. If you want the truth, come to the cemetery.

  Conrad looked up at Father Francisco. “You didn’t see who left this?”

  “No. I don’t mean to pry in your affairs, Mr. Browning, but I couldn’t help but read the note when you spread it out like that. I didn’t see anyone in the cemetery when I came up here.”

  Conrad came to his feet. “That doesn’t matter.” He slipped the paper back in the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket. “I have to go down there.”

  Father Francisco put out a hand. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he said. “You don’t know who sent this note, or why.”

  “Like you said, Father,” Conrad smiled, “the cemetery’s always open. I don’t think you can stop me.”

  The priest’s lips tightened for a second. Then he shrugged. “You’re right, of course. But I’m coming with you.”

  “Now that might not be a
good idea.”

  “You can’t stop me, Mr. Browning.”

  “No,” Conrad admitted as he picked up his hat. “I don’t suppose I can.”

  The two men left the hotel. Conrad didn’t give a second thought to the food he hadn’t finished. He didn’t really have much of an appetite these days, anyway. He just ate to keep going.

  Bright light and tinny piano music came from a saloon down the street, and the general store was still open. Other than that, Val Verde was quiet and peaceful, pretty much shut down for the night. Conrad looked toward the church. He couldn’t see much of the cemetery. Darkness hid it.

  In a soft, nervous voice, Father Francisco said, “You know this could be a trap, don’t you?”

  “I know,” Conrad said. “That’s why I didn’t think you should come with me, Father.”

  “Anyone who would use hallowed ground for such a purpose…” The priest’s voice trailed off, as if he couldn’t conceive of such a thing.

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that some people will do…anything.”

  Like murder a beautiful young woman who never harmed anyone in her life.

  They reached the gate, and suddenly, without any warning, Father Francisco stepped ahead of Conrad and called, “Hello? Is anyone—”

  Conrad opened his mouth to warn the priest to be careful, but he was too late. Gun flame stabbed through the shadows as a shot blasted. Father Francisco grunted in pain and rocked back under the impact of a slug.

  Conrad didn’t know how bad the priest was hit. Lunging forward, he hit Father Francisco with his left shoulder and knocked him to the ground to get him out of the line of fire. Conrad’s right hand palmed out the Colt on his hip and brought it up. He triggered twice, aiming at the spot where he had seen the muzzle flash.

  Whoever was out there in the darkness returned the fire. The slugs ripped through the air near Conrad’s head. “Stay down, Father!” Conrad called as he angled to his right, toward one of the cottonwoods. “Get behind a headstone and stay there!”

  He didn’t believe for a second that Father Francisco was the bushwhacker’s intended target. That first shot had been aimed at him, and Father Francisco was just unlucky enough to have stepped into the way of the bullet at exactly the wrong time. He hoped the priest wasn’t hurt too badly.

  Conrad pressed his back against the trunk of the cottonwood. A bullet rustled through the tree’s branches. The trunk wasn’t thick enough to shield him completely from the bushwhacker’s fire, so he couldn’t stay there. Crouching low, he came out from behind the cottonwood and fired twice in the direction of the hidden gunman. At the same time, he launched himself in a dive that carried him behind one of the nearby gravestones.

  A bullet chipped granite from the stone and showered dust on him. He regretted that the attempt on his life was inflicting damage on a marker commemorating someone who had passed on, but it couldn’t be helped.

  Conrad heard a man’s voice rasp, “Get around behind him!” So there were at least two of them, he thought grimly. The voice didn’t sound like that of either Dave Whitfield or Jack Trace. What other enemies did he have in Val Verde?

  The man responsible for Rebel’s kidnapping, maybe?

  The woman in the shawl had been bait. That bitter realization filled Conrad’s mind. His enemy had figured out that he was still alive and had used the woman to set a trap for him. Whoever it was had known that Conrad wouldn’t be able to ignore the mysterious woman who left flowers on Rebel’s grave. He would have to know who she was…and so he would walk right into an ambush to find out. The woman had probably been hired for the job and hadn’t even known Rebel.

  The best way to find out the truth was to capture one of the ambushers and make him talk. Conrad lay there behind the gravestone, listening intently. After a moment, he heard a whisper of sound to his left. The man coming at him from that direction had brushed against one of the headstones.

  Conrad rolled as muzzle flame once again gouted redly in the night, but he rolled toward the would-be killer, rather than away from him. He came up on his hands and knees, staying low as he drove forward. Another shot blasted, right above him as he crashed into a pair of legs.

  The bushwhacker yelled in surprise and alarm as Conrad knocked him down. Conrad lashed out with the gun in his hand, trying to hit the man in the head and knock him out. Instead, the man flailed around with his gun, and the barrel struck Conrad across the throat. For a second, his windpipe was paralyzed, and no air could get through. He was left gagging and gasping.

  “Hogan! Hogan, he jumped me!”

  Conrad had no idea who Hogan was. The name meant nothing to him. But before he had time to try to figure it out, a woman screamed somewhere close by.

  “Careful, damn it! She’s gettin’ away!”

  That was the same man who’d given the order to circle around Conrad. Hogan, Conrad thought as he was finally able to drag some air back into his lungs.

  “Stop her! She’s got a gun!”

  The man Conrad had tackled hit him in the belly, then shoved him away. Conrad rolled onto his side. He heard the man scrambling up and running among the tombstones. More shots rang out. A man yelled in pain.

  “Let’s get out of here!” That was Hogan again. “The plan’s ruined!”

  Conrad pushed himself to his feet and fired toward the sound of the shouts. A gun cracked to his right, but the shot didn’t seem to be aimed at him. The woman? Hogan had said that she’d gotten her hands on a gun.

  Conrad stumbled over to a tree, leaned on the trunk. He heard a swift, sudden rataplan of hoofbeats in the darkness. The bushwhackers had had horses hidden behind the cemetery and they were lighting a shuck out of there. Their ambush had been unsuccessful. He had put up more of a fight than they expected, he supposed.

  Trying not to breathe too heavily in case any of the gunmen were still lurking in the shadows, Conrad waited a moment longer to let the pounding of blood in his head subside. His throat ached, but he was able to get air through his windpipe again without any trouble. He straightened and called, “Miss? Miss, are you here?”

  From what he had overheard, the woman had been a prisoner. They had been forcing her to help them, not paying her. If he could find her, Conrad thought, she would probably be willing to help him. He wanted her to tell him everything she knew about the men who had set this trap.

  She didn’t respond, though. Some yells came from the direction of the hotel and the saloon, where men had heard the shooting and were coming to see what the ruckus was about. But the graveyard itself was as quiet as…well, a grave, Conrad thought.

  Except for a sudden groan of pain. Father Francisco. Conrad hadn’t forgotten about the priest, but there hadn’t been a chance until then to check on him.

  Conrad turned and hurried through the cemetery toward the gate. He hoped the priest had been able to get behind cover and hadn’t been hit by any of the other bullets flying around.

  “Father, where are you?”

  “O-Over here…”

  Conrad followed the weak voice and found Father Francisco sitting up with his back against the back of a gravestone. He knelt beside the priest and asked, “How bad are you hit?”

  “In the arm…it hurts like the devil…” Father Francisco gave a hollow laugh. “So to speak.”

  Conrad felt relieved. An arm wound could be very painful, but chances were that it wasn’t life threatening as long as the bullet hadn’t nicked a vein.

  “How bad are you bleeding?”

  “A lot…seems like a lot…to me, anyway.”

  Conrad holstered his gun and slipped his arm around the priest. “Let’s get you into the church so a doctor can take a look at that wound.” He saw people from the settlement approaching the cemetery gate as he lifted Father Francisco to his feet. “We’ll have plenty of help in a just a min—”

  “Conrad?”

  The woman’s voice came from behind him. A shock went through Conrad as he recognized it. Sur
prise made him turn, taking the wounded priest with him.

  She stepped out of the shadows, stopping a few feet away. The shawl was still wrapped around her head, but she lifted her hands and eased it down so that it slipped to her shoulders and revealed her face. He couldn’t see her well in the dim light, but he knew the face anyway. Once he had known it very well indeed.

  “Pamela?” he said. “Pamela, is it really you?”

  “It is, Conrad,” she said. “I…I thought you were dead. I thought I’d never see you again.”

  Father Francisco said, “You know this woman…Mr. Browning?”

  “Yes, I know her,” he told the priest. “At one time I was engaged to marry her.”

  Chapter 9

  Shocked down to his bones by Pamela Tarleton’s reappearance in his life, Conrad still had a wounded man to take care of. He turned and called to the townspeople approaching the cemetery gate, “Someone fetch the doctor! Father Francisco has been shot!”

  That raised even more of a commotion. A couple of men ran off down the street, hopefully to summon the local sawbones. The rest rushed into the graveyard and clustered around Conrad and the priest.

  Conrad glanced over his shoulder at Pamela. He was a little surprised to see that she was still standing there. He thought she might have vanished like a will-o’-the-wisp; like a phantom who had never really been there, just a figment of his imagination.

  Several men offered to help Father Francisco. A couple of them stepped forward and slung their arms around him. Another man put his hand on the butt of his gun. He glared ominously at Conrad as he asked, “Did you shoot him, mister?”

  Before Conrad could answer, Father Francisco spoke up. “No, no, not at all. Mr. Browning had nothing to do with my injury.”

  That wasn’t strictly true, Conrad thought. The priest wouldn’t have been shot if he hadn’t been with Conrad, answering the summons contained in that note.