The Devil's Revolver Page 5

  “Move it where? It’s been safe for more than twenty years. If we unearth it now—”

  “If we don’t, Woodroffe’s going to find it. Diablo ain’t safe here.”

  Her skin broke out in goose bumps. She knew Diablo meant devil in Spanish, but she knew the word better from fireside stories Pa told about Elias Blackthorn, the outlaw gunslinger who couldn’t die. Diablo was the demon he’d traded his soul for, a monstrous familiar who did his bidding. A powerful sorcerer had tricked the demon and stolen him from Blackthorn. But because the outlaw no longer had a soul, he was terrified of where he would go if he died. Hell had no place for him, and heaven surely wouldn’t. So he refused to die. Through black magic and by eating the souls of naughty children, Elias Blackthorn and his gang continued to roam the land, hunting for the sorcerer and his demon familiar, Diablo.

  But it was just a story, a silly game children played to prove they weren’t afraid of the boogeyman. Surely Uncle wasn’t saying the man and his legend were real?

  Hettie heard scuffling, followed by the scrape of something heavy across the floor. “Gimme that crowbar.” The crack of wood made Hettie chance a peek. John and Jeremiah were bent over a hole where the old man’s bed had been. The boards shone with old markings—dried blood and white paint that, if she put the planks back down, would have made up the lines of a protection spell.

  They dug into the dirt below with their bare hands, then pulled out a box about the size of a loaf of bread from the cavity. “Maybe I should open it,” John said, a note of resignation and dread heavy in his voice.

  “No. Not yet. The box is the last line of defense. I’m taking this out of here.” Uncle shoved it into a gunnysack. “Take Grace and your girls somewhere safe. Hide out for a while. I’ll come and find you when I know that Walker Woodroffe is out of the picture.”

  “Dammit, old man, I can’t uproot my family. Abby’s sick. And besides, Grace’ll kill me.”

  “There are worse things than a woman’s scorn, John.”

  “The girls don’t know. How am I supposed to explain it to them?”

  “Don’t. The less they know, the better. We have to start over.”

  Go? Start over? What were they talking about? Hettie’s heart hammered.

  Uncle and Pa were out the door and rounding the cabin before she could get out of sight. “Hettie.” Her father’s voice slid from anger to concern. “What are you doing out here?”

  She squared her shoulders indignantly. “I was listening in, that’s what. What’s going on, Pa?” She eyed the sack clutched in Uncle’s fist. “Is that Diablo?” She couldn’t imagine a demon being contained within a box in the earth. “Why are you making us move? Why are you afraid of Walker Woodroffe?”

  Uncle hitched up his pants, shrugging his shoulders as if hunching against a storm. “We don’t have time to explain every little detail to you. Just listen to your father and do as he says.”

  “Get going, Jeremiah.” John looked weary. “Take the gray gelding. He’s the fastest.”

  “But we were going to sell him at auction!”

  “Hettie, it’s very important you listen to me.” He glanced once more over his shoulder. With a definitive nod, Uncle turned and hurried toward the corral. John’s big, scarred hands settled over her shoulders heavily. “I’m relying on you to take care of your mother and sister. You watch over them, no matter what happens to me or Uncle.”

  His grip tightened. He was trembling. “You’re scaring me, Pa.”

  “I’m sorry. Hettie … There are things I’ve done I’m not proud of. Just know that I love you, and I had to do it for you and Abby and your ma. There isn’t time to tell you everything right now.” He ushered her toward the house. “We need to get going.”

  Ma was setting the table when they entered the house. “Dinner’s ready,” she said, but her smile faded when she caught her husband’s bleak expression. The light went out of her eyes, and she gently set down the soup tureen. “It’s finally happened, hasn’t it?”

  John’s face was like stone. “Pack your things, Grace. Only the essentials.”

  “We can’t move Abby,” she said, voice rising in panic. “Not now. Pneumonia, John. She could die.”

  He was already moving toward the trunk where he kept his ammunition. “We’ll take the wagon. Gather all the blankets you can. We’ll make her a bed and shelter her from the wind.”

  Grace pursed her bloodless lips. “It’s that bad?”

  John nodded.

  Hettie watched her mother speed up the stairs, bewildered. Ma knew. She knew about Pa, about whatever was going on. She stared at her father, wondering who this hard-faced man was.

  John opened the trunk, pulling out two heavy blankets and handing them to Hettie. He reached in and extracted the false bottom. From the secret compartment, he drew a battered leather bandolier and a box of shotgun cartridges and bullets. With startling efficiency, he loaded his Colt, then slung the bandolier across his chest with practiced ease. “Hettie, pack light for the road. Bring your gun and all the ammunition you can find, then meet me in the barn. Get leads for the other mustangs in the corral while I harness Jezebel. We don’t have time to saddle all of them.”

  “But where are we going?”

  “Away from the ranch.” He started loading the shotgun he hunted wolves with. “We can’t go to town, though. It’ll draw too much attention. We’ll need to find someplace where Abby can get better, then work things out.”

  Her hands shook and she felt weak, but Hettie scrambled to do as she was told, waiting for the moment Pa would turn around and tell her this was all a prank. It felt like some horrible nightmare she couldn’t wake from. She found she was holding her breath, but there was a strangely familiar comfort in simply doing as she was told. With no other information to go on, she could only trust Pa’s word.

  She grabbed her Winchester and loaded a canvas shoulder bag with ammunition and a change of clothes, as well as the few coins she had socked away. She took a last, longing glance around her room, wondering what she was forgetting that she’d regret leaving behind.

  She passed her sister’s room, where Ma was bundling up Abby. She moaned and gave weak sobs of protest. “Hush, Abby, I know you’re tired. Just try to sleep, and we’ll be out of here and safe in no time…” The whispers were desperate, but the thread of steel in her mother’s voice told Hettie she would not tolerate defiance.

  In the corral, the two mustangs sensed Hettie’s nervousness and shied when she approached with their leads. Uncle must have really stirred them up when he’d collected the gray gelding. “It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you,” Hettie said, reaching out imploringly. She struggled to calm down. Horses were very sensitive to her emotions. “We’re all leaving the ranch,” she told them evenly, “so you won’t be going to market for now, okay?”

  The horses stood still, allowing Hettie to tie the leads on and tug them out of the fenced-in area. They followed her to the barn, where Pa was loading blankets and saddles into the wagon. Jezebel chuffed her own anxious confusion, dancing restlessly.

  “Sorry, girl, no time to explain.” Pa gave her a light smack on the flank, and she glared at him indignantly. “Don’t fight me on this. Get to the front of the house.”

  With a snort, she strained forward. Old she might be, but she was magicked to be smart and strong. In minutes, they were at the porch. Ma hustled out with a basket of provisions.

  Hettie spread the blankets out in an effort to make a sheltering nest for Abby.

  “No.”

  She looked up. “Pa?”

  He was staring hard into the shadows of the hills. The sun was nearly gone, leaving the barest sliver behind the distant mountains.

  “Go back inside,” he said quietly.

  “Pa—”

  “Do it. Lock the doors and windows and barricade them. Stay with
your mother and Abby and don’t come out, whatever you do.” His voice was low and deadly. He hopped down from the wagon seat and unslung the shotgun from his shoulder.

  Hettie could see nothing in the dark purples and blues of the land around them, but then something flickered in the gloom. Shapes darting through the scrub, fast as foxes, stealing in like leaves on the wind.

  Hettie settled her Winchester in her grip, mustering her courage. “I’m not leaving you out here alone, Pa.”

  “Just do as I say,” he barked, turning his fiercely blazing eyes upon her. “You have to do this for me, Hettie, y’hear? Protect your sister and mother. Don’t let anything happen to them.”

  She snapped her jaw shut. Nodded once.

  “John…”

  “It’ll be okay, Grace,” he said softly. “I promise.” He hauled her into his arms and kissed her. “I love you.” He let go and turned, hastening toward the oncoming figures.

  Hettie’s heart pounded in her throat as she and Ma rushed around the house, pushing furniture in front of all the points of entry. Her mother was breathing hard, trying to hold back tears, it seemed. Hettie wasn’t sure she wanted to know what was happening anymore—she was already so scared, her fingers had gone numb. She focused on Pa’s words. They gave her purpose, made sense in this confusing new reality.

  Protect your sister and mother. Don’t let anything happen to them.

  She ushered Ma into Abby’s room. Her sister lay half out of bed, the blankets kicked off. Her head lolled as she tried to sit up. “The wolves in the fire. I can hear them coming…”

  “It’s all right, darling, just go back to sleep.” Grace smiled tremulously and smoothed her hair away. She glanced at Hettie, doubt in every line of her suddenly aged face.

  Hettie looked at her rifle. It wouldn’t do anyone any good trapped in here. “Lock the door and push the dresser in front of it,” she ordered her as she checked the load on her weapon.

  “Where are you going? Hettie, come back!”

  She closed the bedroom door behind her and climbed onto the roof through her own bedroom window. She settled on the cedar-shingled peak and surveyed the ranch’s perimeter, searching for any sign of her father.

  The moon was a big, low ball on the horizon, casting wan, silvery light upon the land. She let her eyes adjust. Something slid through the shadows within the perimeter of the fences. Her father was nowhere to be seen. A quick glance down and she saw Jezebel had been unhitched, though the mustangs remained tied to the back of the wagon, shifting restlessly.

  Hettie shouldered the Winchester and picked her targets. She counted six shadows shambling toward the silo and barn. She stared hard, keeping her rifle at the ready, but she didn’t fire in case Pa was one of those shadowy shapes.

  The movement stopped. An unearthly hoot broke the tense silence, followed by a shrill bird call. Then a shout.

  A blast of heat and light slammed into her. It felt like someone had punched her in the face. She fell flat on her back as a wave of fire and dust sprayed across her. Her ears rang. She dug her nails into the shingles to keep herself from sliding off the roof. Her vision wavered, the world a blur of halos. The night was suddenly brighter, hotter—

  She yelped, and her vision snapped into focus. The silo was on fire!

  Flames raced up the sides of the tower, casting the world in blinding orange-yellow light. Another shout. It seemed like time slowed when the second blast knocked Hettie off the roof. She tumbled onto the veranda awning and crashed to the hard planks. A sharp, stabbing pain lanced through her left arm, and she cried out breathlessly, trying to find her wits through the fog in her head.

  She turned over. Now the barn was on fire, a cacophony of sound and light and heat blasting Hettie. The pigs in the adjacent pen screeched, and the chickens bawled within the henhouse. The mustangs tied to the wagon screamed and reared, yanking on the cart, trying to get away. Hettie pushed to her feet, cradling her left arm, and started toward the barn.

  She had to free the livestock. If they were killed, that was the end of—

  A broad shadow loomed up in front of her. A monstrously scarred face peered down and grinned like a death’s head. “Well, what do we have here?”

  The world burst into a whirl of stars as the man slammed his fist into her face. She toppled to the ground, tasting blood and dust.

  “Lookee here, boys! Seems Jack had himself a litter!” the man hooted. She heard some shouts in response. Boots pounded against the veranda.

  No! Ma! Abby!

  She scrabbled for a weapon—anything—and found a fist-sized rock. She lunged to her feet and headed straight for the man, but he grabbed her wrist and socked her again hard, this time in the stomach.

  “Mangy little runt,” he growled, then kicked her in the knee. Pain splintered through her leg. She collapsed and got another boot to the chest. The blow caved her lungs.

  “You wanna fight back?” The man’s face glowed demonically in the light of the raging barn fire. The pale starburst scar sprawling from his left temple and down his cheek reminded her of a lake with dozens of little rivers flowing away from it.

  He grabbed her ankle and dragged her across the dirt to the woodpile. Pain burned through her whole body, and she struggled to breathe as she rolled to one side. She looked up just in time to see a large wolflike creature bounding toward the rest of the group. As it slowed, its body unfurled, and it staggered onto its hind legs until the wolf had been replaced by a naked man.

  Weres. Her blood turned to ice. Shape-shifting was not only against the law, but taboo, and forbidden in nearly every magical tradition. These men weren’t just thugs—they were abominations.

  A shriek rent the air, tearing at Hettie’s senses. Abby! She struggled to sit up but found herself staring into the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun.

  “Don’t.” She stared blearily into the pale green eyes of a young, blond-haired man with a drooping mustache. She heard Abby’s scream again, and when she flinched, the blond smashed the butt of his weapon against her temple.

  The boom of a shotgun came almost at the same time she saw Cymon streak out of the darkness like a flash of dark brown lightning. The dog lunged for one of the men, who yelped and fell to the ground, writhing and punching wildly as Cy worked his massive jaws around the man’s throat. Blood spurted, and he shook him hard once before leaping away, barely dodging the shots that hit the now-still bloody body.

  Another boom was followed by the crack of Pa’s Colt. A body dropped to the ground beside her, a bullet hole between his eyes, and she instantly recognized the redhead from town. A large black wolf growled and lunged at Cymon, and the two beasts clashed and snarled through the dust. Jezebel’s demonic whinny heralded her father’s arrival, her thunderous hoofbeats echoing in Hettie’s bones.

  Someone grabbed her by her shirt collar and yanked her up to her knees. “Hold it right there, Jack.” The hot barrel of a gun seared her skin as it ground into her jaw. “I got something that might be yours.”

  The barn fire clearly outlined Pa’s broad silhouette, terror blazing in his eyes despite his cool demeanor. He sat astride the big gray-white mare, shotgun in one hand, his sidearm raised and pointed at her captor’s head. Jezebel’s nostrils flared, the whites of her eyes showing. Sparks filled the sky as the roof of the barn collapsed with a whoosh and a crackle. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of burning meat.

  Hettie heard Cymon yelp and whine.

  “Your boy’s the spitting image of you,” the man holding her said.

  John Alabama slipped off Jezebel, and she trotted away quickly. His grip flexed around his weapon. “Let ’im go, Butch.”

  “So you do remember me.” He smiled faintly, though no humor reached his eyes.

  “I remember.” He said it as if they were discussing the weather. “How’d you find me?”

  He shook
his head and chuckled lowly. “My, but you’ve gotten sloppy. You killed Frank and Zeke, but you let Harry get away. Poor son of a bitch.” He glanced over at the redhead. “He was so excited when he told me he saw you. Told me you took out Shadow Frank like a pro. Two bullets in the face. That always was your style. By the by, have you met Bill?” He nodded to the blond behind him. Hate filled his eyes. “He’s Frank’s little brother.”

  John Alabama didn’t acknowledge the man. “What do you want, Butch?”

  “You know what I came for.”

  “Diablo’s long gone. Lost it when I hit my head and lost all my memories. Even if I knew where it was, I wouldn’t tell you. That thing is a piece of evil.”

  Butch glowered and twisted Hettie’s collar so tight she couldn’t breathe. “Tell me where Diablo is or else your boy’s brains are gonna be painting the ground.” He cocked the gun. “Where is it?”

  “Not here.”

  The blood-curdling scream from the house had everyone turning. A large man with a wide brow and an ill-fitting bowler hat had Abby wrapped in bedsheets and slung over his shoulder. He dumped her on the ground and stepped away as she struggled weakly in the tangle of linen. Butch dropped Hettie and walked toward Abby, gun trained on her head. “How about now, Jack? You remember anything now?”

  “Daddy…” Abby sobbed.

  “Leave them alone!” John shouted. “They ain’t done nothin’ to you.”

  “Everyone done something to me, Jack. That’s the thing about life. No matter how well you behave, how good you treat others, you’ll still get screwed over in the end. You know that better than anyone, don’t you?”

  “Pa…” Abby started to get up, and Butch slapped her.

  John cocked his gun. “You lay a hand on my child again and I will blow it off, Butch Crowe.” He was breathing hard, seething through gritted teeth.