Free The Devil's Badland: The Loner by J. A. Johnstone Page A

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 cemetery 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