The Devil's Revolver Page 2

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming,” Tate, the elder of the Robson brothers, bellowed. “We’re going to start shortly, but I want to make the rules clear. First: magical charms, spells, talismans, potions, lotions, creams, unguents, or any other non-mundane aids are prohibited. We’ll ask that you strip off all jewelry and empty your pockets before entering the range.”

  “Might as well ask us to strip down to our skivvies!” someone shouted, and the crowd laughed. It was only a half joke, though; some people actually sewed talismans into their clothes.

  “All we ask for are your charms, though I’d suggest you remove any more … er … private items before you step up. Winston Bluefeather will ensure you’re being honest, and will safekeep your belongings.” He gestured to the man at his right, a sorcerer in a charcoal-gray Western suit. Eagle feathers and bright blue beads were woven into his hair. Hettie could almost feel the magic shimmering around him.

  “This is a contest of pure human skill, ladies and gentlemen.” Tate pointed to seven cans balanced on the far fence that bordered the tannery. “Over yonder are the targets. Each contestant will be given three guns, each with four bullets. You must knock down as many as possible with the ammunition and weapons provided. More than five qualifies to win. In the event of a tie, the contestants will have a quick-draw sudden death shootout. The prize money is a tidy twenty-five dollars.”

  Hettie inhaled sharply. Minus Will’s cut, that would be almost enough to get the potion for Abby. She could work off the rest for Mr. Hooper, or maybe pay him in game. He did love quail.

  Tate’s brother, James, opened three gun cases with a flourish. The crowd murmured.

  Hettie frowned.

  “What’s wrong?” Will asked at her side.

  “I’m no good with a Colt,” she whispered harshly.

  Will’s gaze bounced between the revolver and her. “How’s that possible? Your pa has one just like it. What kind of rancher are you that you don’t use a six-shooter?”

  “I said I’m no good with it, not that I can’t use it.” She wondered if the Robsons would let her use her own weapon. Not likely, since the wood stock of the Winchester had been magicked so it’d never warp. “I don’t get a lot of practice with Pa’s gun.”

  Will wrung his hands, then patted her shoulder gingerly. “You can do it, Hettie. I believe in you.” It wasn’t a ringing endorsement, but Hettie was in too deep now to back out.

  She joined the contestants. James asked, “You got your entry fee, son?”

  She toyed with the idea of playing the charade through. She was forever being mistaken for a boy in Paul’s clothes. Instead, she pulled off her hat, letting the long, dark, thick braid tucked beneath slide past her shoulders like a heavy coil of rope. James flinched as if it were a dead snake.

  “Don’t you know who that is?” Tate chuckled, joining them. “That’s John Alabama’s little girl.”

  “Hettie?” James peered at her, sobering. “Good heavens, you look just like your brother, God rest his soul.”

  “If she’s as good a shot as her pa, then we’ve got ourselves a real competition.” Tate ushered her into the lineup. “Pardon me, gentlemen, but as the expression goes, ladies first.”

  “That’s all right, Tate. Give the fellas a sporting chance. I insist.” She wanted to see how everyone else handled the weapons.

  He shrugged and let her take her place in the lineup next to Ling Tsang, who smiled down at her. He occasionally worked odd jobs on the ranch and tended the herd with Uncle. Pa couldn’t afford to have him around full-time, but whenever he needed help he’d hire Ling and even let him sleep in the barn when he didn’t have anywhere else to go. “Hello, Ling. Haven’t seen you around much.”

  “Miss Hettie,” he greeted, tugging on the brim of his hat. Tall and lean, with high cheekbones and hair cut short and neat without the braided queue most of his countrymen wore, Ling was quite handsome, in Hettie’s opinion. “I’ve been busy on a couple of other ranches, but if your father ever needs me, I’ll come. I hope you don’t find it impertinent that I compete against you.”

  Ling’s English and manners were better than most folks’. She wondered if that was the reason the other Chinese in town avoided him. She’d always thought he could do better in a big city, but he’d told her he “preferred the air and scenery” in Montana.

  “Not at all. I look forward to whomping you and every other man here.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  She got a good look at the weapons as she passed the table. In the first case lay a double-barreled shotgun. It was the kind of thing a man would use to take down a bear, and complete overkill for this contest. Maybe that was the point, throwing the contestants off by thinking that power meant accuracy. Pa had made sure she’d learned that lesson second. The first was never to point a gun at a man unless you meant to kill him.

  The second case held a Winchester repeater, a finely crafted rifle with gold inlay on the stock and a filigreed brass receiver. A less-seasoned marksman might have mistaken the dazzling showpiece for a well-used, well-cared-for weapon.

  The Colt revolver in the last case was battered and dull. James loaded the .45 bullets efficiently, spun the wheel, and handed it to the first contestant, Francis Fawker from the livery. He walked to a spot marked by two sticks and spent a long time steadying his aim. He cocked the gun and pulled the trigger. The sound was more of a pop than a bang. He fired off all four shots but didn’t hit a thing.

  He went for the fancy Winchester next. It looked out of place against Francis’s stained and patched shirt, but he held it snug against his shoulder and let loose four booming shots. He knocked down one can to some mild applause.

  He hit nothing with the shotgun. Hettie could see it was going to be a struggle for her to use it—the kickback rocked the man on his heels.

  The targets were reset while the next contestant stripped off his talismans. He knocked down two cans with the Winchester, but nothing else. Six contestants later, only one man had managed to knock down five of the seven cans.

  Then Ling went up. He picked up the Winchester, weighed it, put it back. He picked up the revolver, spun the wheel, put it back.

  He grabbed the shotgun. His smile broadened as he leveled it at the fence. A few people clucked and whistled to spook him—they hadn’t done so for any of the other contestants. When that shotgun roared, two cans fell at once, silencing everyone. He aimed half an inch to the right and fired again. Another two cans fell. He did it twice more, leaving only one can standing.

  “He’s a dirty cheater!” the large man with dark hair and beady eyes who’d knocked down five cans shouted. “I didn’t even hear those shots hit!”

  Tate turned to Winston. “Bluefeather, do you concur?”

  “No magic here,” the sorcerer said.

  “What about all that mystic Eastern junk, huh? He could be using ether magic on us!”

  Ling spun around, shotgun pointed at the ground. “I don’t need magic to win this contest. But if you think I’m cheating, I’ll bow out right now and we can settle this like real men.”

  “Whoa, partner, there’s no need for that.” Tate steered him back toward the targets. “This is just a friendly competition. C’mon. Why don’t you finish this? Show them what you’re made of.”

  Ling gazed around, absorbing the suspicion cast his way. “The sparkle of the challenge has dulled.” He stalked out, leaving awkward silence in his wake.

  Hettie watched him go, feeling sore for Ling. He would’ve won—it was hardly fair that a bunch of jealous blowhards could drive him off. She glared at the knot of accusers, whose narrowed eyes followed Ling out.

  “You’re up next, Miss Alabama,” James said. “Your talismans?”

  She removed the protective necklace her parents had paid quite a lot for, feeling naked without it. She’d been gifted the c
harm when her menses had come and had been warned never to remove it, especially around men, but rules were rules, and she didn’t want to be caught out and humiliated in front of the crowd by refusing to take it off. Chin high, she dropped it into Winston’s bowl, along with the meager contents of her pockets, and handed her own rifle over.

  The sorcerer muttered a spell and waved his hand over the vessel, then gave her a probing look, as if he were seeking something at the bottom of a pond. A strange feeling rippled through her. He nodded silently at Tate, who gestured for her to proceed.

  “You think that tomboy’ll hit anything?” She heard someone snicker.

  “With that face, she’s more likely to scare the cans off the fence.” The laughter from the sidelines wormed its way between Hettie’s ears. She’d heard it all before. She’d inherited none of her mother’s delicate looks. She had her father’s broad, strong nose, though it seemed to be permanently upturned like a bat’s. Her cheeks were freckled and puffy, and her dull brown eyes were too close together. Not that looks mattered when it came to breaking horses or herding cattle. Part of her wished she could show those townies just how good a shot she was and take off the tips of their ears, but that dandified lot wasn’t worth wasting bullets on.

  She inspected each gun as Ling had. “Do I have to use all the shots in each gun at once?”

  “No rules about that. You fire these guns however you want.”

  She picked up the shotgun first. “What’s this loaded with?”

  “Buckshot.”

  She squinted at the targets. “Those cans filled with something?”

  Tate’s lips twisted into a grim smile. “You’ve been the only one to ask. Yes, in fact, they’re each half full of sand. It’s just to keep them from blowing off the fence, you understand. You’ve seen them fall, so you know it’s still a fair contest.”

  Perhaps he thought it was fair, but it changed the game significantly.

  Hettie judged the distance to the fence at about fifty yards and sucked in a lip. Shotguns weren’t great at distance, since the pellets scattered. But at the line, she could see how Ling had knocked down two sand-filled cans at once three times in a row: the graying split rail had fresh gouges in the wood. Ling had aimed for the railing to shake those cans off.

  Hettie tucked the butt of the gun snugly into her shoulder. Ignoring the catcalls from the sidelines, she focused on the same spot Ling had.

  She exhaled as she squeezed the trigger and let her body absorb the recoil, rocking back on her wide stance. The first two cans jumped off the rail.

  She handed the shotgun back, noting the silence that had fallen. “Winchester, please.”

  A befuddled look on his face, James passed her the rifle. She had a feel for the shotgun now; she needed to know what the others were like so she wouldn’t waste her bullets. She aimed for the can at the far right end. The first shot missed. The second made the can hop but not fall. Sand poured from the bullet hole, glinting gold in the sunlight.

  She put the rifle down. “Revolver.”

  James handed it to her. The thing was heavy and felt alien in her hands. A rifle was an extension of her body—she could put her weight behind it. But the Colt .45 handgun with its overlong barrel felt awkward in her small-seeming hands. She knew the recoil would strain her wrists.

  She wrapped both hands around the grip and sighted down the barrel. She aimed for one of the middle of the five remaining cans.

  Sending up a prayer, she squeezed the trigger.

  Blam! The revolver threw her locked hands up so high she nearly punched herself. The crowd hooted in laughter. “Give up, girlie!” someone shouted.

  “Winchester,” she gritted, handing the revolver back. This contest wasn’t done yet.

  She knocked down the far left can with the Winchester’s remaining two bullets. But even with three shells in the shotgun, she only knocked down one more can. That left three cans and three bullets in the revolver.

  She picked up the revolver again. The grip felt too big, the balance all wrong.

  “You gonna shoot or what?” someone yelled. “Hurry up already!”

  She breathed deep, squaring her shoulders and hips, letting the jeers fade. The rustle of the leaves shushed. The air stilled.

  She squeezed the trigger. Down came the first can. She shifted her aim, squeezed again. Down went the second.

  One bullet. One can.

  She narrowed her eyes until the space around the can was fuzzy and pulled the trigger.

  The can remained stubbornly on the fence.

  A roar of disappointment spilled into her head.

  “That was fantastic!” Will exclaimed. “No one’ll beat that score.”

  She glowered at the lone can on the rail. The thing must be nailed to the fence.

  Two men remained in the lineup. Old George Sanders didn’t hit a single target, but the stranger who stepped up last made the short hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

  He was tall and broad and dressed almost entirely in black, his white shirt a sharp contrast against his funereal garb. Seeing all those heavy layers of black—including a heavy black duster—glistening in the June heat made Hettie sweat.

  He glanced at her from beneath the shadowed brim of his hat. His startling blue gaze sent a stinging dart of cold fire through her.

  “Your charms,” Tate prompted, breaking his unblinking stare.

  The stranger slowly extracted a number of stones and bits of rope and hair from various pockets and turned. “There’s still more,” Winston prompted, and the man in black stopped.

  “Not sure if you want to hold what I’ve got,” he murmured, his lips hitching up at one corner.

  “Rules are rules.” Tate grinned toothily.

  The stranger looked around him slowly, his gaze almost palpable as it swept the crowd. Hettie felt it brush over her, and her skin broke out in goose pimples.

  “Think you’ll be able to handle this, Chief?” The stranger shucked his duster and slung it over the sorcerer’s shoulders. Winston stumbled as if the coat weighed half a ton. Maybe it did, in magical terms.

  The stranger rolled his shoulders. The stained white cuffs of his shirt peeked from beneath the well-worn black suit. He strolled up to the table and dragged his blunt fingertips across the three gun cases, his expression thoughtful.

  “What do you think his deal is?” Will whispered in awe. “You think he’s a Kukulos warlock?”

  Hettie doubted it. Kukulos warlocks used blood magic—they didn’t need to wear heavy mantle coats with all kinds of charms and talismans sewn into them. Their conduit was blood, which meant the smallest open wound was enough to deploy a spell. If the stranger were using magic, though, Winston would catch him.

  She was about to explain her theory when the man snatched up all three weapons, tucking the Colt in the front of his pants. He slung the shotgun across his back and started toward the markers, but long before he reached them he brought the Winchester up and started firing, still walking.

  He emptied the rifle in rapid succession and knocked down three cans, tossed the weapon carelessly aside, and brought up the shotgun. Down went two more cans. He was still walking toward the markers when he lifted the Colt and squeezed the trigger. The sixth can dove off the rail as if it had been scared away. He narrowed his eyes as his next two shots missed and his feet halted at the marker.

  Hettie chewed her lip. The stranger tilted his head, and his eye caught hers.

  He raised the gun and fired his last bullet straight into the sky.

  The stunned silence erupted in a confused babble, but Hettie hardly heard it. The stranger was smiling at her.

  Sudden death!” James hollered.

  Tate ushered Hettie toward the marker where the stranger waited. She dragged her feet. She didn’t want to get any closer to the man in black.
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br />   “Fine shooting there,” Tate said to the stranger, sounding a touch suspicious. “You seem like a good man to have in a spat.”

  “I’ve been told otherwise.” His eyes remained fixed on Hettie. She tried to meet his blue-eyed gaze but ended up staring at his scuffed leather belt and then lower to the dusty tips of his boots. Heat crawled up her neck, and her shirt stuck to her sweating skin.

  James handed a loaded Colt to Hettie grip-first. “You know how to quick draw?” Tate asked worriedly. “I don’t want your pa coming at me if you shoot yourself in the foot.”

  “I can draw and shoot fine,” she said, though obviously not as well as this stranger. She glanced at him once more. He was still giving her that long, probing look.

  “Ain’t polite to stare at a lady,” she snapped.

  His grin broadened. “I beg your pardon, miss.” He tipped his hat. “I don’t come across many pretty girls like you in my line of work.”

  Hettie’s cheeks flamed. The nerve! He didn’t need to mock her any more than he already had. She snapped her attention toward Tate.

  “Rules are simple,” he said. “You’ve got six bullets each. Draw when we say go, and knock down your respective cans.” He indicated the fence, which now sported two cans. “First one to knock theirs down wins.”

  Hettie grimaced as she checked the Colt. She gave the wheel a spin and snapped it back into place. “I don’t have a holster,” she said.

  The Robson boys scrambled for a belt and holster for Hettie. Since she preferred her rifle, she’d never needed to wear one. Tate brought her one straight off the hips of scrawny old Solomon McKay. Hettie strapped it on and holstered the weapon.

  “You might want to loosen that,” the stranger drawled. “Let it hang lower, closer to your thigh.” His gaze dragged down the length of her body. The way he said it made it sound indecent, and her face heated further.

  “I can adjust my own clothing, thank you.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of putting you at a disadvantage is all.” He flashed even, white teeth.