The Devil's Badland: The Loner

by J. A. Johnstone

  Conrad knew, though, that appearances were deceptive. The way this man carried himself in the saddle with his hand never straying far from the butt of his gun, the muscular thickness of his right wrist, the cold, dark eyes…They all added up to the fact that he was a gunslinger. Conrad had grown to know the signs all too well.

  “That’s all right, Trace,” Whitfield snapped as he lifted a hand to motion the gunman back. “I can stomp my own snakes.”

  “Evidently not,” Conrad said. “You come visiting with a handful of hired guns at your back.”

  Whitfield’s already florid face flushed even more with anger. “Because I don’t want to wind up with a bullet in my back, like three of my riders did when a hundred head of my cattle disappeared!”

  “We didn’t steal your cattle, and we sure as hell didn’t shoot any o’ your men!” Hamish said.

  “What happened to them, then?”

  “The border’s not all that far away,” Conrad pointed out. “Bandidos could have crossed over, ambushed your men, stolen those cattle, and run them back across into Mexico without much trouble. That sort of thing happens all the time.”

  “It never happened around here until this greasy-sack outfit moved in,” Whitfield argued.

  “Because ye run roughshod over ever’body else in this part o’ the country until they’re all scared o’ ye,” Hamish said. “There’s a good reason folks call ye Devil Dave.”

  “By God, I won’t stand for that!” Whitfield’s hand started toward his gun.

  Before it could get there, Conrad’s Colt was out and leveled, his draw a flicker of movement hard for the eye to follow. At the same time, the man called Trace slapped leather as well. Everyone froze, with Conrad’s gun pointed at Whitfield and Trace’s revolver trained on Conrad.

  “Put it down, Browning,” Trace grated, “or you’re a dead man.”

  “Not before your boss is,” Conrad said without taking his eyes off Whitfield. His thumb looped over the Colt’s hammer was the only thing holding it back, and he knew Trace could see that.

  So could Whitfield. “For God’s sake, pouch that iron, Trace. That lunatic will kill me.”

  Trace hesitated for a second before lowering his gun. “You’re the boss, Mr. Whitfield,” he said, but Conrad heard the obvious reluctance in the man’s voice and saw it in his eyes as well. Trace was the sort of man who didn’t like to put his gun back in its holster until he had killed somebody.

  He did now, though, and Conrad lowered his gun.

  “Ye came for Dumont,” Hamish said. “His body’s in the barn. Take it, and welcome to it. Why don’t ye drag his horse away while you’re at it and save us the trouble?”

  Whitfield flipped a hand, motioning for his men to take care of retrieving Dumont’s body from the barn. “For what it’s worth, MacTavish,” he said, “I didn’t send those men over here last night with that dynamite. That was their idea.”

  James glanced over at Conrad with a smirk, as if to say, See? I told you so.

  “What about that business yesterday evenin’, just before dusk as the storm was movin’ in?” Hamish asked.

  Whitfield snorted in contempt. “Your boy caused that ruckus by opening fire with a shotgun. I’ve still got cows going missing, and I sent my men over to ask you if you’d seen anything unusual lately.”

  “Sent them over to accuse us of bein’ thieves, you mean!”

  Whitfield shrugged and said, “Seems to me that you reacted just like guilty men would have.”

  Conrad still held his gun at his side. He stepped out of the doorway as he said, “We’re not getting anywhere here. The MacTavishes have told you that they’re not guilty, Whitfield, and in the absence of proof, I think you’d be wise to accept their assurances.”

  Whitfield sneered at him. “What are you, some sort of lawyer? You talk like one.”

  “No, I’m not a lawyer. But I’ve been around plenty of them, and I know something about the law. What you’re doing amounts to nothing more than a campaign of terror against these people, and you’d be well-advised to stop it, otherwise the authorities will have to step in.”

  Trace chuckled. “I’d like to see that.”

  Whitfield shot him a narrow-eyed glance. “I’m a law-abiding man,” he told Conrad, “but I won’t be stolen from, and I won’t allow my men to be shot from ambush without doing something about it.”

  “I don’t blame you, but you’re on the wrong track here.”

  “We’ll see,” Whitfield said as a couple of his men came out of the barn, leading a horse with Dumont’s body draped over the saddle and lashed into place. The two men would have to ride double on the way back to the Circle D.

  Two more of the men tied ropes to the legs of the dead horse and lashed them around their saddle-horns. They began to drag it off, following the men who had taken charge of Dumont’s body.

  That left Whitfield and Trace sitting there for a moment, glaring at the MacTavishes and Browning. Whitfield turned away first with an angry mutter. Trace lingered a couple of seconds longer, his eyes intent on Conrad.

  They had taken each other’s measure with those draws, Conrad thought. Each of them now knew that the other was fast. They couldn’t be sure how fast, though, unless they actually faced each other in a showdown. Conrad could see in Trace’s eyes that the little gunman believed that day was coming.

  All Conrad could do was bite back a disgusted curse. The disgust was directed against himself. Against all his better judgment, he had just involved himself hip-deep in the troubles of the MacTavishes. He had made enemies out of Whitfield and Trace, and they weren’t the sort of men to forget a confrontation like that. Sooner or later, he’d be forced to deal with them. The added complication wasn’t what he needed right then.

  On the other hand, he realized suddenly, news spread fast, even in sparsely settled country like this. It wouldn’t be long before everybody in this part of New Mexico knew that a man named Conrad Browning had ridden in and sided with the MacTavishes in their struggle against Devil Dave Whitfield.

  His first goal had been to resurrect Conrad Browning from the dead. He figured he was well on his way to doing that.

  Chapter 5

  Rory brought out the buggy with the black hitched to it and the buckskin tied on behind, as they had been when Conrad arrived. He had his rifle in one hand, the black’s reins in the other. Conrad had guessed right about the boy having the Winchester ready in case of trouble.

  “Here you go, Mr. Browning,” Rory said as he handed over the reins. “It was a pleasure takin’ care of these fine horses for you.”

  Conrad smiled. “It looks like you did a good job, too.” He took a coin from his pocket and handed it to Rory. “Thanks.”

  “That’s not necessary, Mr. Browning,” Hamish said. “Scots are a thrifty folk, as ye no doubt know, but that don’t mean ye have to pay us for our hospitality.”

  “It’s not much—” Conrad began, but Rory interrupted him.

  “Not much, the man says! ’Tis a double eagle, Pa!”

  From the excitement in Rory’s voice, the family didn’t see twenty-dollar gold pieces all that often. Hamish started to protest again, but Margaret, who had emerged from the dugout once Whitfield and his men were gone, took the coin from Rory and said, “This will come in mighty handy the next time we go to Val Verde to buy supplies, Pa, and you know it. We’re cash poor right now.” She turned to Conrad. “Thank you, Mr. Browning. As much as you’ve already done for us, I hate to take this, too…but I will.”

  “And you’re welcome to it,” Conrad told her with a smile. He climbed up into the buggy. “Good luck to you,” he said, nodding to the MacTavishes as he flapped the lines against the black’s back and got the big horse moving.

  Conrad didn’t look behind him as the buggy rolled away from the MacTavish ranch. He hoped that the family’s troubles were over, but he knew better. Dave Whitfield was used to getting his own way around there, and with that gunman Trace to back him up
and goad him on, Whitfield would continue acting like it was still open range days, when the only law that counted was what a man packed in his holster.

  The storm the night before had left the ground fairly muddy, with puddles of water standing here and there, but this was a region that didn’t see rain all that often, so the thirsty earth quickly sucked up most of the moisture. The sun was out, too, helping to dry the mud. Conrad was able to drive around the worst of the muck as he headed south toward Val Verde.

  The name meant “Green Valley”, and it was appropriate because the settlement was nestled in a small valley watered by a creek. Cottonwoods lined the banks of the stream, and the grass was thicker along it. In this semi-arid landscape, even a little vegetation was enough to qualify as an oasis.

  The settlement had started out as a wide place in the trail, a trading post and way station on the Butterfield stagecoach line. It hadn’t been much more than that until the Southern Pacific Railroad came through years later and caused it to grow. It still wasn’t a big town, by any stretch of the imagination, but it had developed into a fair-sized community, with a main street that ran for several blocks, paralleling the train tracks.

  South of the steel rails were the saloons, gambling dens, and whorehouses, while the respectable folks lived north of the tracks. Also north of the tracks, on the edge of the settlement, was the local mission, and behind the big stone-and-adobe building with its bell tower was the graveyard.

  Conrad had been to Val Verde before, several years earlier when he and Frank were passing through this area on the way to the railroad spur that Conrad was building at the time. He recognized the mission’s bell tower when he saw it rising in the distance, and he felt a catch in his throat as he thought about the cemetery that it overlooked.

  His wife was buried in that cemetery, he thought. The remains of the beautiful, charming, vibrant young woman who had been Rebel Callahan Browning would lie there for all eternity, cold and lifeless.

  Conrad didn’t allow himself to think too much about that. He was here for a reason, but it wasn’t to mourn his wife. He had already done that and would continue to do so, probably for the rest of his life.

  He was here to avenge her.

  He drove straight to the Val Verde Hotel, which was a block away from the train station. Leaving the buggy tied up at the hitch rail in front of the two-story adobe building, he went inside. The day had grown warm, but the lobby was pleasantly cool because of the thick walls.

  Conrad crossed the room to the desk, noting as he did so that two men in suits, probably traveling salesmen, sat reading newspapers by the front window. A middle-aged woman herded along a brood of children out of the dining room. A younger woman in a stylish traveling outfit stood at the desk, talking to the clerk. She turned away as Conrad came up and gave him a smile in passing. He returned it politely, noting that she was attractive, with honey-blond hair piled in an elaborate arrangement of curls under a fashionable bottle-green hat. He felt her looking back and scrutinizing him as she walked away.

  The clerk, a round-faced man with thinning brown hair, smiled as well and asked, “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I need a room,” Conrad said.

  “Of course. For how long?”

  Conrad shook his head. “That’s hard to say. I expect to be here a few days.”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Pardon me?” Conrad asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Is it business or pleasure that brings you to Val Verde?”

  “Oh. Business, you’d have to say.” It certainly wasn’t pleasure—although a person might think he would get some pleasure, or at least a little satisfaction, out of killing the son of a bitch responsible for his wife’s death.

  Conrad had learned through bitter experience, though, that there was nothing pleasurable or satisfying about it. He had killed more than a dozen men who’d had a hand in what happened to Rebel, and their deaths hadn’t eased the hurt inside him at all.

  Maybe when it was finally over and done with, he thought. Maybe…

  “Well, then, I hope it’s a successful stay for you,” the clerk said, bringing Conrad out of his momentary reverie. “If you’ll just sign here…” He turned the register book so that it faced Conrad and pushed pen and inkwell forward with the other hand.

  Conrad scrawled his name in the book, adding “Carson City, Nevada” after it in the place for his residence. The name on the line above was Angeline Whitfield. That caught his attention, but he didn’t show it.

  The clerk must have been pretty experienced at reading upside down. His eyes widened as he said, “Conrad Browning?”

  Conrad looked up at him coolly. “That’s right. You’ve heard of me?”

  “I keep up with the financial news as best I can in this backwater town,” the man said. “Of course I’ve heard of you, Mr. Browning. You’re one of the country’s leading financiers and industrialists. But I thought…”

  Conrad smiled as the man’s voice trailed away. “That I was dead?” he asked.

  “Well…yes, sir, that’s right. It was reported that you died in a fire in Carson City.”

  “Those reports were premature,” Conrad said. “I’m alive and well, as you can see for yourself.”

  “But what are you doing in Val Verde? Are you going to build another railroad spur, or—Oh, Lord, I forgot all about—I mean, I’m so sorry…I…”

  “It’s all right,” Conrad told him. “Yes, I’m here to visit my wife’s grave, among other things. I’d appreciate being left in peace to do so.”

  “Of course, sir! I’ll see to it that you’re not disturbed. No one will even know you’re here.”

  Conrad didn’t believe that for a second. The clerk had the look of a natural-born gossip, and he figured that the man would be scurrying around town within minutes to spread the word that not only was Conrad Browning still alive, but also that he was there in town to pay his respects at his late wife’s grave.

  That was exactly what Conrad wanted.

  “Where’s the closest livery stable?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer. He had seen the barn for himself as he drove in.

  “It’s right down the street,” the clerk replied. “Would you like for me to have someone take your horses down there and have them seen to?”

  “That would be excellent,” Conrad said with a nod. The sort of man he had once been would expect others to handle such menial chores for him. “I have a carpetbag in my buggy, too.”

  “I’ll have it brought up to your room. I’ll tend to this right away.” The clerk took a key off the rack behind him and held it out. “Room Twelve. It’s the best in the house.”

  “Thank you.” Conrad took the key. He started to turn away from the desk, then paused. “The young lady who was here just before me…”

  “Miss Whitfield, sir.” The clerk supplied the information without hesitation. “The daughter of one of the local ranchers. She’s come for a visit with him.” The man smiled. “A very lovely young woman.”

  Conrad nodded. “Indeed.”

  Well, that was interesting, he thought as he climbed the stairs. Devil Dave had a daughter who obviously didn’t live with him.

  At least, it would have been interesting if it was any of his business—which it wasn’t.

  The hotel room was nice, at least for Val Verde. It didn’t compare to the finest that Boston or San Francisco had to offer, of course. The bed was a sturdy four-poster, and there was a thickly woven Navajo rug on the floor. Conrad freshened up using the basin of water that sat on the dresser. While he was drying his face, a soft knock sounded on the door.

  He put his hand on the butt of his gun as he went over and called, “Who is it?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he took a quick step to his left and drew the Colt. If it was an ambush and whoever was in the hall planned on pumping a double load of buckshot through the wall or the door, the odds were on Conrad’s side that the would-be killer would miss. Of cour
se, there was still a one in three chance that he’d be stepping right into the blast…

  “Got your bag here, Mr. Browning,” a man’s voice said.

  Conrad twisted the knob and opened the door. An elderly black man with only a few wisps of white hair left on his head stood there with the carpetbag in his right hand. He had Conrad’s Winchester in his left hand.

  “I brung your rifle, too,” the man said. “Didn’t figure you’d need it here in town, but didn’t seem like you’d want to leave it at the stable with your buggy and horses and saddle, neither.”

  Conrad nodded and stepped back. He holstered his gun, noting as he did so that the man hadn’t seemed too surprised to see him holding the Colt.

  “Just put them on the bed,” he said with a casual wave of his left hand toward the four-poster. “Are you the one who took the buggy down to the stable?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.” The man placed the carpetbag and rifle on the bed as Conrad had indicated. “Name’s Linus.”

  “Well, thank you, Linus.” The man wore a suit coat and string tie over a white shirt. Conrad went on, “I take it you work here at the hotel?”

  “Yes, sir. General factotum to Mr. Rowlett, who owns the place. That was him down at the desk when you checked in. Factotum means—”

  “I know what it means,” Conrad said. “A man of many jobs.” He smiled. “I sort of fit that description myself.”

  “Yes, sir, I heard about you. You got mines and banks and railroads to run. Matter of fact, I used to work for you myself.”

  “You did?” Conrad asked.

  “Yes, sir. I was a brakeman on that spur line you built over west of here, until I got too stove up to handle the job. Then I worked as a porter for a while. Finally decided I wanted to settle down in one place, though, which a fella can’t hardly do if he works on the rails.”

  “No, that’s true,” Conrad admitted with a nod. “Well, it’s good to meet you, Linus.” He handed the old man a silver dollar. “Thank you for bringing my things from the stable. I assume that if I need anything else…?”