The Devil's Revolver Page 3

  Hettie squared herself off, palms damp. The crowd shifted as the sun beat down on them, the heat stirring tremulous little waves across the tufty grass between her and the fence. Her mouth went dry.

  “On go,” Tate shouted.

  “Ready!”

  Hettie planted her feet.

  “Set!”

  Her fingers twitched.

  “Go!”

  She slapped her hand on the grip and tugged, but the long barrel snagged as she drew, wasting a precious moment. She squared herself and took aim.

  She heard the bang bang bang of her opponent’s weapon as she exhaled. Her father’s lessons whispered through her. No sense firing fast unless you aim to miss.

  She squeezed the trigger.

  The can jumped, spinning midair.

  Will whooped, and a cheer rose from the crowd.

  “Hettie Alabama wins!”

  Someone slung an arm around her shoulder as she was handed a small, heavy satchel of coins. Big, liberal hands attached to big, grinning faces pounded her back in congratulations.

  “I never shoulda doubted you,” Will crooned as she counted out a handful of coins.

  “Yeah, well … don’t spend it all at once.” She kept looking back at the rail, judging the distance, checking the wind. She’d missed. She knew she had. So how had that can come down?

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the stranger watching her. With a tip of his hat and a crooked smile, he turned and walked in the opposite direction.

  The crowd dispersed. Will trailed after Sophie and her cabal. It was only with a tinge of bitterness that Hettie turned her back on them. She couldn’t have possibly expected him to stick around and celebrate with her when he could be with someone like Sophie.

  Of course, Hettie didn’t need to be popular like Sophie. The weight of her winnings reassured her of that.

  Poor, deluded Will, she thought with a wry twist of her lips. There weren’t enough ribbons in the world to tie a highfalutin’ girl like Sophie Favreau to a lowly blacksmith’s son.

  Hettie tucked her prize away and slung her Winchester across her back, a skip in her step. She was late meeting Pa, but she wanted to get to Mr. Hooper’s to order the potion for Abby and Ma, so she took a shortcut behind the buildings on the main thoroughfare. Pa wasn’t going to be happy she’d disobeyed him, but it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

  As she drew closer to the laundry, she heard gruff voices and cruel laughter.

  “Think you can get away with cheatin’ us, huh?” She recognized the burly tough’s voice and peered around the corner. The man who’d shot down five cans, along with two other men, a blond and a redhead, had Ling backed against the side of the building. “I don’t like Eastern magics. My brother died at a Celestial soothsayers’. The old crone stole his soul.”

  Ling raised his chin. “Unlikely. Your brother probably died of opium use.”

  The man slugged him across the jaw. Hettie’s nails dug into the wood siding as anger and fear collided inside her.

  “You think you’re better than us, don’t you? Where’d you get these fancy clothes?” He fingered the lapel of Ling’s Western shirt and vest. “No Chinaman could afford these. Bet you stole them.” He slammed him against the wall, pulled out a knife, and held it to Ling’s throat. “I say we strip them off and skin him.”

  Hettie pressed her back against the side of the building, heart thundering. She didn’t have time to call the marshal for help. Nerves balling in her gut, she unslung her Winchester and chambered a round all in one smooth motion. “I think y’all should step back now,” Hettie announced, voice quavering as she rounded the corner and put the men in her sights.

  The burly tough with the dark beard turned. He let go of Ling’s collar. “Well, well, if it isn’t the chit who stole the prize.” He advanced toward her.

  She ground her heels into the dirt. The tips of her fingers felt cold. “That’s far enough, unless you want a bullet in the gut.”

  “Look at you, playing a big boy. You’re ugly enough to be one, that’s for sure.” The other men snickered. Hettie tightened her shaking grip around the rifle. The man spread his arms and walked slowly toward her. “Well, go on, then. Shoot me. You want to prove to everyone you’re special? Go ahead.” He was barely five feet away now. Whiskey wafted from between tobacco-stained teeth. “You think the marshal will have pity on you ’cuz yer a girl? Killing an unarmed man’s a hanging offense.”

  When she hesitated, the man lunged and grabbed the rifle barrel, slamming the butt into her nose with a sickening crunch. Hot blood spurted in her mouth. A fist slammed into the side of her face, and stars burst behind her eyelids. She landed in the dirt, and her Winchester clattered to the ground. He grabbed her collar, and the antimolestation talisman around her neck glowed hot and sparked. He yelped and let go.

  “You little whore,” he growled, clutching his hand. “I’m going to rip that abomination off your neck right before I tear your tiny tits off.”

  A clod of earth struck him in the back of the head, raining dirt over them both.

  “Run, Miss Hettie!” Ling tackled the blond man who’d drawn his sidearm. He swung him around as he squeezed the trigger. The gun popped, and the redhead collapsed, moaning and gripping his side. Ling kicked the gun out of the blond’s grip and smashed an elbow into his face. They fell to the ground in a pile of limbs, wrestling for dominance.

  Hettie scrambled for her rifle, but the burly man kicked her shoulder and sent her sprawling. He seized her by the ankle and dragged her several feet across the ground. The talisman fizzed and crackled, and she screamed.

  “You keep on just like that,” the man said, yanking the charm off her neck. It fizzled in his fist. “I like strugglers.” He grabbed her braid and pulled so hard, tears sprang in her eyes. A flash of metal— The tension on her scalp suddenly went slack, and she landed in the dust. Above her, the man dangled her long braid.

  “Now you’re a real boy.” She tried to scramble away from his oily grin, but he caught her ankle once more and dragged her toward him.

  Hettie screamed again and kicked, but with all the bustle and noise in town, no one would hear the ruckus behind the laundry. As he bent over her, she stabbed her thumbs into his eyes and raked her short nails across his face. He howled. She dove for the downed redhead and pulled his revolver out of his holster, swinging it around and pointing it at the burly man. She pulled the trigger.

  A bullet hole appeared between his eyes. It was an almost comical moment as he stood there, mouth rounded in an O. His massive body toppled into the dust.

  Ling drove a fist into the blond man’s solar plexus, spun and slammed a heel in a downward kick across his shoulder. He went down face first into the dirt. Ling limped toward her, picking up the blond’s revolver. “Are you all right, Miss Hettie?”

  “I-I’m fine.” She was vaguely aware that Ling had sat her on a crate and pressed a handkerchief to her bloodied nose. His own lip was split and swollen, his scraped cheek puffy. His probing look sent a tingle over her skin. He lifted the stanch gently—the bleeding had stopped. The pain wasn’t so bad, either, though that might have been shock.

  He heaved a sigh. “You shouldn’t have gotten involved.” He stooped over the corpse and searched the dead man’s pockets.

  His words stirred her from her cold funk. “What was I supposed to do? Let them kill you?”

  “I can take care of myself.” He divested the corpse of a handful of coins and bank notes and his hunting knife.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Leaving.” He nodded toward the hills, where she spotted the injured redhead hobbling across the scrub-covered plain. “He’ll be back, either with more men or with the marshal. I don’t intend to die today.”

  “They attacked you. You were only trying to defend yourself and me. W
e just need to talk to the marshal. I’ll explain everything—”

  “Mobs don’t always take the law’s side. The fact of the matter is, a white man’s dead, and a Chinaman killed him.” His jaw firmed. “I’ll take my chances out there.”

  “But you didn’t do anything wrong,” she exclaimed. “You saved my life.”

  His expression closed. “If the matter gets resolved in a few weeks, I’ll return. Promise me you won’t tell anyone. Not even your family. I don’t want them involved.” He held out his hand. “Promise me, Hettie. Please.”

  She didn’t understand, but she respected his wishes. Reluctantly, she clasped his hand. “I promise.”

  A prickling sensation skittered up her arm and settled in her chest. Her eyes widened. So it was true. Eastern magic didn’t require a talisman or any kind of conduit.

  Ling turned to go. “Wait.” She fished the prize money out of her pocket, savoring its weight for a precious second. She sighed. “This belongs to you rightfully. I wouldn’t have won the contest if you hadn’t clued me in to that shaky rail.” No sense in keeping what she hadn’t really earned. With the winnings went any hope of getting the potion, but she knew deep down it was the right thing to do. Regret cost a great deal more than a sack of silver dollars, and right now, Ling needed the money more.

  He wavered for only a second, then took the money. “This is just a loan. I’ll pay you back.” She watched as Ling and the money and all her hopes for it hurried away, melting into the flow of people on the main strip.

  “Well, that seemed unnecessary.” The deep voice sent prickles across Hettie’s skin, and she shot to her feet. The stranger from the shootout strolled casually over and studied the body lying in the dust.

  “You saw what happened,” she concluded, her voice shaky. “You saw, and you did nothing?” She glanced at his holstered sidearm.

  “I didn’t know what I was seeing, and I don’t go pulling guns on people and taking sides without figuring out what’s going on first. For someone as cautious a shot as you, I figured you’d have used your brain a little more.” He gave her a once-over. “You handled yourself all right, though.”

  All right? She’d been molested, had her nose broken, had her hair—

  Her hair! She grabbed at the back of her neck, hoping she’d been mistaken, but her fingers met the stiff, bluntly cropped hairs at her nape. She searched the ground for her braid and scooped it up, careful to gather every last hair. The thing was like a tough, dried root in her hand. Her heart sank, and her throat closed. It was ridiculous to cry over her hair when she’d just nearly escaped death, but…

  “It’ll grow back,” the man said. “It wasn’t adding to your looks, anyhow.”

  Hatred boiled through her. What kind of gentleman mocked a lady in distress? “Who are you?” she demanded as he bent over the blond lying facedown on the ground. He pressed his fingers to the man’s neck.

  “Still alive. That’s good.” He pulled a leather thong from his belt and began trussing him up, murmuring an incantation as he did so. “Too bad about Zeke there.” He nodded at the corpse. “But he’ll still fetch a reward.”

  Understanding dawned. “You’re a bounty hunter.”

  He flicked her the barest of affirming glances. He wasn’t as old as she’d first thought, though his face was weathered. His eyes were a cold, pale blue, his features square and hard.

  “But if you saw everything…” Ling’s spell clamped down on her hard, cutting off her words. It seemed it would be a secret, no matter who saw what.

  “I didn’t see everything,” the stranger returned nonchalantly. “And I can’t rightly vouch for a man who robbed the men he attacked and took off.”

  She wanted to shout, He didn’t attack them! But the promise spell Ling had put on her made her tongue and throat seize. She blew a breath through her nostrils and carefully rethought what she wanted to say. “I just happened to be by—”

  “With a fully loaded Winchester. Does the marshal know you’re loaded for bear?” He picked up her rifle and handed it to her.

  “He lets me hang on to it for just this kind of thing.”

  “So the marshal’s deputizing little girls now. Must be getting desperate.”

  She stuck her jaw out. She didn’t need to explain herself, or the reasons why Marshal McCowan let her hang on to her weapon.

  “Tell me, Miss…?”

  “Alabama. Hettie Alabama.”

  “Walker Woodroffe.” He tipped up his hat, revealing a swath of dark hair. “Tell me, Miss Alabama, why is a delicate flower such as yourself slinging a Winchester around like a parasol and entering shooting contests?”

  “I think the better question to ask is why you set me up to win.”

  “Seemed you could’ve used a little help.” His lips hitched up in one corner, showing just the barest hint of white teeth. He couldn’t have even salved her ego and denied it.

  Her fingers curled. “I would’ve won if you hadn’t showed up.”

  “But I did show up. Six out of seven ain’t bad, but in the real world”—his voice dropped to a husky growl—“six out of seven means one man left to shoot you dead.”

  Before she could come up with a retort, someone called her name.

  “Hettie!” Her father pounded toward her. “I heard shots, and I felt your talisman go off…” His words faded when he saw the blood pooling around the dead man at her feet. John Alabama’s gaze went from the stranger poised above him to his daughter’s bloodied face, and his features grew dark. “What’s going on?” His stance shifted toward the stranger, one hand on his Colt.

  “He tried to hurt me…” She gestured vaguely at the corpse. Only then did she realize she was still holding the gun she’d shot him with. A sick feeling swamped her, and the edges of her vision blurred.

  “Give that here.” He snatched the revolver from her and shoved it into his belt.

  “It’s true, sir. Your daughter was accosted by this one, and she smartly shot the lout. He cut her hair, see?” He pointed at the braid in Hettie’s grip, clutched within Ling’s blood-soaked handkerchief. “Best get rid of it quick. Can’t have pieces of your girl floating around town for anyone to curse.”

  “Indeed.” Pa took the thick rope of hair from her, along with the bloodied handkerchief, then lit a match and set fire to them. He waited until the whole braid smoked before dropping it on the ground, pointing and uttering a single word that ignited a brilliant flame. Hettie’s hair and blood were incinerated instantly. Her father kicked the ashes until they scattered in the wind, and Hettie’s desolation deepened.

  He picked up the broken antimolestation charm from the ground. Fury stamped hard, tight lines into his face. “I’m gonna kill old Henley for selling me this piece of…” He wiped a hand over his mouth.

  “Ain’t many who can make talisman magic stick as good as it used to,” Walker commented grimly. “I’m surprised it worked at all. Your daughter’s mighty brave, that’s for sure.”

  Pa turned his full attention on Hettie and wrapped his arms around her. She leaned into his strength, willing herself not to cry. Her fingers and toes were icy-cold. A tremor began in her stomach, making her whole body quake. “Where else are you hurt?”

  “I’m all right. He tried—” She choked on the words. She felt as though a wad of cotton was crawling down her throat. Ling’s curse at work. She revised her statement to exclude Ling’s presence. “He tried to get fresh. I stopped him.”

  A storm boiled into John Alabama’s features. Pa got to his feet as the blond man stirred and groaned. Walker stood over his bounty. “You chose a bad time to wake up, Frank,” he said almost cheerfully. “Shoulda kept your eyes closed until we reached the marshal’s office. Now you gotta face this young lady’s papa.” He planted his boot against the man’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back.

  Frank coughed and moa
ned, then blinked slowly as John Alabama glared down at him. His eyes went huge.

  “No—”

  In a flash, John drew his gun and shot the blond man twice in the face.

  Hettie didn’t have the breath to scream. Blood poured from the red, pulpy cavity into the dust beneath him. Her father’s hands trembled. Walker stood perfectly still, gripping his holstered sidearm, staring wide-eyed at John with barely veiled contempt.

  It was a long time before Hettie could move. She felt outside of herself, staring at the man who was her father, his black-booted feet planted wide, his wide-brimmed hat casting a broad shadow over his shoulders. She’d never seen that seething anguish and hatred carving his face. “Pa…?”

  Her voice seemed to bring him back from whatever hell he’d been visiting in his mind. “I’m sorry … so sorry you had to see that, Hettie. I—” He caught Walker’s dark look. “He was a bounty, wasn’t he?” He took off his hat. His thick, dark hair was slicked with sweat.

  “He’ll only be worth half as much now.” Walker gave a disgruntled snort. “Of course, if it were my daughter, I might’ve done the same.”

  Hettie worried her lower lip. She doubted Marshal McCowan would see it that way. The man had been unarmed, hands tied, on the ground. It hadn’t been justice. It’d been an execution.

  Pa had just killed a man. And so had she.

  “I’m … very sorry.” John tugged at his mustache. “I lost my head.” He grimaced at his poor choice of words. “I don’t have much to offer in compensation, but please, accept my invitation to stay at our ranch. We’ve got a nice clean stable and plenty of blankets. And my wife is an excellent cook.”

  Assuming they weren’t hauled off to jail. Walker tilted his chin to the side and considered a moment. “I have a little business to attend to first in town, but I’ll take you up on your offer. You can expect to see me soon, Mr. Alabama.”

  He flashed his teeth again, and Hettie couldn’t help thinking about wolves.

  When the marshal’s men arrived, Pa gave them an abbreviated version of the events, and Walker corroborated his story. She was shocked when Marshal McCowan accepted that the shooting had been in self-defense and didn’t press any charges. Walker had seen most of what happened, but he hadn’t said anything about Ling. And no one asked Hettie any questions—instead, she was led away from the gruesome scene to sit in the shade of the nearby saloon, where the innkeeper brought her a cup of hot coffee and smelling salts in case she fainted. That the marshal had been so lax in his investigation, so accepting of the word of three people … it didn’t seem right. But it was what it was.