Read Online The Devil's Badland: The Loner by J. A. Johnstone - Free Book Online Page B

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 Conrad 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