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

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—”
    “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