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

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