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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