“Is it?” Lee wondered, but in the elation of the moment his comment was ignored.
“Judge Kramer disallowed Kemp’s claim that the hills to the south of the valley and the mountains to the north are part and parcel of the Bar K,” Delony detailed. “He noted that Kemp had never shown any interest in either prior to the arrival of the prospectors and the settlers.”
“What a wise man,” Ethel intoned.
“That’s not all,” her husband crowed. “The judge labeled as preposterous Kemp’s bid for exclusive water rights to the Diablo River and all its tributaries. He was willing to grant limited rights for grazing purposes, but he bluntly told the lawyers that Kemp could not hog all the water for himself.”
“How did Kemp’s attorneys take the decision?” Allison asked.
“How do you think? They were furious, although they tried not to show it. They vowed to appeal and the judge told them to go right ahead, but that no court was ever going to side with Kemp.”
Allison clapped her hands and spun in a circle. “We’ve won! We’ve won!”
“So much for Mr. Kemp!” Ethel agreed.
“Don’t be too sure,” Lee said, and this time they paid attention.
“What do you mean?” Allison said.
“Kemp won’t take this lying down. He’s not the type to waste months or years in a drawn-out court battle. I suspect that the only reason he has waited as long as he has to take stronger action is that he counted on winning legally early on. He wants the valley all to himself. He always has. So he’ll do whatever it takes to get rid of the nesters and the prospectors.”
Ethel stood. “What can he do? There are too many homesteaders and the like for him to drive them all out.”
“Are there?” Lee said. The last he heard, close to forty hands were on the Bar K payroll. A small army, and fully half were gun sharks.
Bob Delony frowned. “You’re downright depressing, Lee. Here I hurried back to break the good news, and you have me thinking that the worst is yet to come.”
Small talk ensued, until Allison clasped Lee’s hand and excused them so he could get to work. As they strolled down the hall, shoulders brushing, she said, “Do you really believe Allister will start a full-fledged war?”
“Don’t put anything past him. The man has a higher opinion of himself than anyone is entitled to.” Lee adjusted his hat. “What really has me worried are his cattle.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Evers brought up an interesting point the other day. When we were out at the Bar K, Kemp mentioned that he had moved all of his herds to the west end of the valley. Every single head.”
“So?”
“So it’s mighty queer for a rancher to congregate all his beef in one spot, especially when he has as many head as Kemp. Cattle should be scattered so they have plenty of room to graze and there’s less chance of a stampede.”
Allison saw the logic but not why the Tennessean was uneasy. “What purpose could Kemp have, then?”
“Vint reckons that Kemp wants the cattle out of the way, somewhere safe. It would be the smart thing to do if Kemp plans to go on the war trail.”
“With you caught in the thick of it,” Allison said, and suddenly wished she had not talked him out of being a gambler. She could not bear the thought of losing him so soon after they had found one another. Her grip on his hand tightened. “Please take care. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“That makes two of us.”
~*~
Lee ambled south along Diablo’s dusty streets. Because the town council had yet to provide a jail, the lawmen had moved into a run-down office south of Hell Street.
Every morning at nine the three of them met and talked over their plans for the day. Lee knew that he would be late—again. Even later today, because he had an important stop to make along the way.
On reaching Cedar Street, Lee spotted a group of five cowboys riding westward. Some of Kemp’s hands, he assumed, and hurried to a leather shop across the street. The gray-haired owner glanced up from a strip of leather he was punching holes in.
“Deputy! You’re mighty punctual.”
“Tell that to Marshal Evers,” Lee said, resting his elbows on the counter. “Is it ready?”
“As promised.” The old gent stooped before a low shelf. “I molded the leather to the shape of the Colt, just like you specified. I also trimmed the top so you have quick access to the hammer and the trigger.” Proudly holding up a brand-new holster, he added, “It’s the smooth basket-weave design you liked. Your coat will never snag when you draw. Now that you’re toting two irons, can I interest you in another gunbelt?”
“Excess baggage,” Lee said.
The Tennessean unbuckled his own belt, attached the new holster, and strapped the gunbelt back on. The scabbard slanted, resting snug on his hip. Accepting the spare Colt he had lent to the craftsman, he slid it into the new holster, butt forward as he wore his Peacemaker.
After the spare had saved his life the night he was bushwhacked, Lee had decided that packing two guns was not as foolish as many claimed. Vint Evers did it. So did Jesse Bodine.
He wanted five or six extra shots he could rely on in a pinch, rather than wind up short and pay for it with his life. Reloading took precious time.
More than ever, Lee hankered to stay alive. Thanks to Allison, his prospects were rosier than they had been in a coon’s age.
Even as the thought flitted across his mind, Lee remembered the three men on his trail. His future could hardly qualify as rosy until that score had been settled.
“Is the scabbard to your liking, young fellow?”
Lee gripped the butt of the pistol that had once belonged to Nate Collins and slid it in and out a few times. The heavy revolver unlimbered in a twinkling, as if the inside of the holster were greased. “It’s perfect,” he declared.
After paying the bill, Lee made a beeline for the office. As he rounded a corner, he nearly collided with Vint Evers and Ike Shannon.
“So here you are, laddie!” the gambler said. “We were beginning to think you’d eloped with lovely Allison and we’d never see you again.”
“Just out of curiosity,” Vint said, “are you ever on time for anything? Or should I—”
The Texan broke off, staring up the street. Lee and Ike both turned.
Nelly Rosell was hastening northward a block away. She wore a cape and hood, the hood pulled low so that it partially hid her face. But there was no mistaking her profile.
Vint took several steps. This was the first time he had bumped into her outside of the saloon in weeks. Guilt flooded through him, but this time he bucked it. Instead of turning tail, he hollered, “Nelly! Hold up a minute!”
To their utter surprise, Nelly clutched at her bosom, glanced furtively at them, then bolted like a frightened mare, holding the hood even lower.
“What the devil?” Vint said. He supposed that he had it coming, what with the shabby manner in which he had acted. But he was determined to speak to her, so he jogged in pursuit, his spurs jangling.
“Oh, hell!” Ike Shannon said. Every time his friend saw the blonde lately, Vint wound up trying to drink himself into oblivion. Even worse, Vint went around moping half the time, which made him easy pickings for anyone inclined to core his skull with lead. “Come on!”
Lee ran at the gambler’s side to the intersection, then north to Hell Street. They were in time to see Nelly dash into the Applejack.
Vint drew up short at the entrance, torn between his burning desire to see Nelly again and fear of what she might have to say. He wouldn’t blame her if she scorned him, wouldn’t hold it against her if she cursed him for being the spineless coyote he was.
Ike Shannon and Lee arrived, the gambler seeking to spare the Texan more misery by saying, “It’s pretty plain she doesn’t want to have anything to do with you, Vint. Why don’t we make our rounds and forget about her?”
Vint almost agreed. His lips parted and he was on the verge of
walking off when remembrance of that delirious night spent in Nelly’s company spurred him into shoving the door wide and stalking into the smoke-filled room. A knot formed in his throat, another in his chest. He found it hard to breathe and tried to tell himself it was the smoke. But he knew damn well it wasn’t.
Vint was vaguely aware that Ike and Lee had followed him. He was scanning the Applejack for Nelly. She had to be there somewhere, but he saw no sign of her, which was doubly odd because at that time of the morning there weren’t more than two or three dozen people in the whole place.
Ike muttered under his breath. He had seen that look on Vint’s face before. A herd of stampeding wild horses could not keep the Texan from the dove’s side now. And here they were, in the den of their enemies. His partner’s timing was downright pitiful.
Lee felt a bit awkward being there. He imagined that Vint would rather see Nelly alone and was inclined to back on out and wait in the street. But Ike Shannon had practically pulled him inside, and he figured the gambler must know best.
As they stood there, Lee remarked, “Have either of you heard the news?”
“About you being fired and becoming a floor sweeper?” Shannon absently quipped.
“About the court case. Bob Delony just got back from Phoenix.”
Both of them turned, though Vint kept scouring the saloon. “What’s the news?” the Texan asked.
In brief, Lee related the details, and noticed Evers’s lips compress tightly when he was done.
“The prospectors and sodbusters will be whoopin’ for joy, but Kemp will be furious,” Vint said. “I reckon he won’t hold back now. He sees himself as lord and master of this here valley, and if he can’t evict those he doesn’t want here legal-like, he’ll do like he did with the Indians.”
“My thinking exactly,” Lee drawled.
Ike saw the Texan’s eyes widen slightly, and he pivoted in the same direction.
“What in tarnation?” Vint said.
They had found Nelly Rosell. She stood in a far corner, in a shadowed nook at the end of the polished bar, standing with her back to the noisy room and her hood over her head. It was almost as if she was trying to hide from them.
“Maybe we should take the hint and leave,” Ike advised. “She doesn’t want anything to do with us.”
“I’ll have to hear that from her own lips,” Vint said, and headed toward the corner.
Snorting like a bull, Shannon shadowed him, beckoning the Tennessean.
Lee reluctantly tagged along. Whatever Vint and Nelly had to say to each other was their own affair. Some of the customers were staring, and that made him even more self-conscious. He didn’t know how the Texan could tolerate the situation. If Allison were in Nelly’s shoes, he’d go loco.
“Nelly?” Vint said, slowing near the bar.
“Go away,” the blonde said timidly, her voice quavering, her head bent.
Vint stopped. “I’d like a few words with you,” he said gently. “Please.”
“It’s best if you just leave,” Nelly said.
Something in her tone—a forlorn tremor that hinted at abject despair and suffering—tore at Vint’s heartstrings. He had to speak his piece quickly, while he still had the nerve. Taking a step, he laid a hand on her shoulder to turn her around. She resisted, and he had to use both hands. As she rotated, the hood fell free, revealing her face.
A pantherish shriek of sheer rage ripped from the Texan’s throat.
Chapter Nineteen
“My God!” Ike Shannon blurted.
Lee Scurlock winced in sympathy for Nelly Rosell, whose face had been battered almost to a black-and-blue pulp. Her discolored left eye was swollen shut, her lips puffy and cracked. One cheek had been split and a nasty gash marred her left brow. Only her right eye had been left untouched, and from it gleamed cold fear as she gazed at the lanky Texan—fear that Lee suspected was more for the lawman’s sake than her own.
A terrible change had come over Vint Evers. He stood ramrod straight, his whipcord body transformed into living steel. The muscles in his neck bulged, and the veins stood out as if on the verge of exploding. Hellish flames burned in his narrowed eyes, and his mouth was a ghastly slash of suppressed fury.
The Applejack had gone deathly silent. No one spoke. No one seemed to even breathe.
Nelly broke the spell. She had dreaded this would happen, and had done her best to avoid it. Clutching at her lover’s shirt, she pleaded, “Please! Don’t do anything you’ll regret! I’m not worth it!”
Slowly, tenderly, Vint Evers pried her fingers off. Then, with a studied casual air that was all the more chilling because of the awful scarlet flush that crept up his neck and the thunder that loomed imminent on his brow, he faced the bartender, who had turned to ice in the act of polishing a glass. “Where is Frank Lowe?”
The words crackled. They ripped the air like fangs, startling the barkeep into dropping the glass and recoiling. “I don’t know!”
The Texan lunged, seizing the barman and hauling him over the bar. With a brutal shove he hurled the man to the floor, then loomed over him, his face a mask of doom. “Where is Frank Lowe?” he repeated.
Cringing in terror, the bartender tried to crawl away. “Honest, Marshal, I don’t have any idea! He hasn’t been in yet today!”
Vint cocked a fist, but suddenly Ike Shannon sprang, grabbing his arm. “Don’t!” Ike cried. “Think of what you’re doing! You’re the law here. You can’t—”
With a swipe of an arm, the Texan flung the gambler from him. Ike began to intervene again, but the lawman pointed a finger at his chest, just pointed and shook his head. The meaning was crystal clear.
Vint Evers whirled. Every person present either blinked or swallowed or jerked back. It was almost as if they could feel the pounding waves of seething violence being radiated by the wrathful apparition who stalked to the center of the room, raised both arms to the ceiling, and roared, “Lowe! Show yourself!”
The proprietor did not appear. No answer was forthcoming. Lee glimpsed Nelly, about to rush toward the Texan, and grasped her firmly but gently.
“Please!” Nelly begged. “He’ll throw it all away on account of me!”
“She’s right,” Ike Shannon said. “No town will ever hire him again if he commits a cold-blooded murder.”
Vint Evers was about to turn back when a beefy man playing cards caught his eye. It was one of the gunmen in Frank Lowe’s personal employ, one of the bodyguards Lowe never went anywhere without. Like a cougar stalking prey, the Texan glided to the table. “Where’s your boss?”
The gunman’s blood had drained from his fleshy face. He licked his thick lips and had to cough before he could speak. “I haven’t seen him today—”
Metal blurred, thudding on flesh and bone. The gunman was knocked backward, crashing to the floor on top of the chair. Blood poured from his split head as he struggled to sit up.
The Texan had streaked his right-hand Colt out and pistol-whipped the heavyset underling in the blink of an eye. Now, straddling him, Vint Evers raised the Colt for another blow. “Where’s your boss?”
“Honest, I have no idea!” squealed the tough. “He gave me the morning off. I’m supposed to meet him here later this afternoon.”
Vint hesitated. He had no doubt the man was being sincere; the gunman was too scared to lie. Shoving his Colt back into its holster, he bent and unbuckled the man’s gunbelt, then tossed it aside. “Get out of Diablo. If I ever set eyes on you again, you’re dead.”
Visibly quaking, the man crawled backward, rising when he was in the clear. “I’m not about to buck you, Evers. I’ll do as you say, but I don’t rightly think it’s fair. I had no hand in what happened to your filly. Hell, I didn’t even know until just now.”
Evers pointed again. Gulping, the gunman sped from the saloon, and there wasn’t a man there who would accuse him of being yellow. Hair-trigger death stalked the Applejack, and they all knew it.
The Texan spun. Briskly he st
rode to one of the rear doors and threw it open to vanish within. Furniture crashed. More doors slammed.
Ike Shannon growled deep in his chest and smacked the bar. “Damn him! He’s playing right into Lowe’s hands.”
Lee still held Nelly. “How do you figure?” he asked. The way he saw it, Frank Lowe had made the mistake of his life. Most people could only be pushed so far. Sooner or later, if a man was a man, he would make his stand.
“Don’t you see?” Ike Shannon said. “Lowe knew how Vint would react. Only an idiot would prod Vint into a fight, and Lowe’s no idiot. He must have an ulterior motive.”
“But what could it be?” Lee wondered.
“I don’t know, and that’s what worries me.”
Nelly sniffled, listening to the smash of glass, to the man she adored bellowing for Lowe to show himself. “You must be right, Ike,” she said. “Lowe showed up at my room last night, which he hasn’t done in a long time. He said that he needed to talk, that it was important, and when I let him in, he began slapping me around for no reason. I fought back, so he slugged me.”
“The bastard!” Ike snarled, his mind in a whirl. It was crucial that he find out what Lowe was up to before Vint’s entire career was ruined by searing flames of jealous rage.
Just then another back door opened and out stormed the Texan. He glared about him like a beast at bay, thirsting for the blood of his enemy. “Tell him!” he raged at the cowed patrons. “Tell Frank Lowe that I’m going to find him if I have to tear this town apart board by board!”
In the awful quiet that ensued, the rasp of the front doors opening caused half the men there to jump.
Framed in the doorway was a man in his fifties dressed in the typical homespun garb of the homesteaders. Crumpled hat in hand, dust and tears streaking his cheeks, he hollered, “Marshal Evers! Come quick! We need your help!”
Vint Evers took a few halting steps. Caught in the grip of a private tempest, his emotions boiling white-hot, he had to beat back the swirling tide of vengeance to focus. “What’s that?” he blurted.
“Up in the hills!” the nester said, wringing his hat. “Masked riders are destroyin’ our homes!”
Diablo (A Piccaddilly Publishing Western Book 6) Page 21
