Diablo (A Piccaddilly Publishing Western Book 6)

by Robbins, David

  “Vint!” Shannon exclaimed, and was off like a thoroughbred, fearful that other cowboys lurked nearby, just waiting their chance. “Forget these vermin!”

  Dogging the gambler was becoming a habit, Lee wryly reflected. They raced around the rear of the boardinghouse and back across the dusty street.

  In the shadow of the shack knelt Vint Evers. Rocking back and forth, Nelly clutched in his bloodstained hands, he raised his anguished face to the heavens and broke into choking sobs. “They shot her! Damn their souls, they shot her!”

  ~*~

  “It was awful, truly awful, all that shootin’ and all those explosions,” the grizzled prospector declared, lingering terror making him tremble hours after the event. Dirt caked his haggard face, and he tugged nervously at his bristly beard.

  “Tell us about it, man!” a homesteader prompted.

  A murmur of assent came from many in the throng that filled the Applejack to overflowing. Miners, farmers, and assorted townsfolk crowded closer to the mahogany bar.

  “Yeah, tell us!” a portly storekeeper said.

  Near the entrance, their backs to the wall as a precaution, were Lee Scurlock and Ike Shannon. “We should have done something,” the Tennessean lamented.

  “What could we have done?” rejoined the Irishman. “Outnumbered and outgunned, we would have thrown our lives away for nothing.” He patted his Greener. “And I told you before. I’m not going anywhere so long as Vint is in danger.”

  Lee was not entirely convinced. He recollected vividly the distant thunder they had heard earlier while biding their time outside of Doctor Franklyn’s office. Shortly after that the first bedraggled miners straggled in from the mountains, singly and in pairs, but growing in number as time wore on. They were as dazed and bewildered as the homesteaders had been, and with valid cause. The Regulators had struck again.

  “Get on with it, McPike, damn you!” someone yelled.

  The prospector nodded, fortified himself with another swig, then said, “All right! All right! Don’t be rushin’ me.” He gulped enough whiskey to drown a burro, wiped his glistening mouth with the back of his left hand, and smacked his lips. “Ahhhh. That’s much better.”

  “Did you actually see what happened to Old Abe?” a man hollered.

  “That I did,” McPike confirmed, “and I wish to hell I hadn’t. Old Abe was the salt of the earth.”

  “Tell us what happened, you idiot!” bellowed a gruff listener whose patience had been frayed.

  “Don’t be so tetchy!” McPike countered. A surge of angry forms convinced him that he had better comply, and he quickly went on. “I was pannin’ in the crick my claim is on, out west a ways from most of the other claims, when I heard all these critters comin’ up the mountain. Like the sound of a buffalo stampede, it was, with all that poundin’ and snortin’ and such. And then all these riders appeared, fifteen or twenty or more, their faces covered, and wavin’ pistols and rifles like they were on the warpath.”

  “Did they shoot at you?” someone called.

  “Don’t butt in,” McPike responded. “Can’t you see I’m tryin’ to think.”

  “In that case we’ll be here all day,” a fellow miner cracked.

  Hearty mirth resulted, and McPike scowled at the culprit. “I was struck dumb for a minute,” he resumed, “not knowin’ what was goin’ on, and then they were all around me, bumpin’ me with their horses and insultin’ me and tellin’ me to light a shuck for some other part of the country, or else.” He ran a hand through his sweat-matted hair.

  No one broke in this time.

  “I got all huffy and told them what they could do with their threats,” McPike detailed, “but they laughed and one of those fellers threw a lasso over me and the next thing I knew, by God, I’m bein’ dragged from my claim. Dragged right over rocks sharp enough to cut a man wide open. Dragged through brush that tore like thorns.”

  The crowd hung on his every word.

  “My ribs were fit to bust. I got the breath knocked out of me, and when I could sit up, I saw that I was all by my lonesome and those fellers were tearin’ down my tent and bustin’ my sluice.”

  “Regulators!” a farmer howled. “They had to be Regulators!”

  McPike nodded excitedly. “That’s what they called themselves, true enough. One jumped down, set somethin’ on the ground, lit a match, and bent low. Then they all rode out of there like they were tryin’ to outrace the wind.” McPike faltered, sorrow turning his tongue leaden.

  “And then what?” growled a callous soul.

  “They blew my claim all to hell,” McPike said. “The dirt and stones poured down on me like rain. I went over after the dust cleared, but all my gear had been blown sky-high or buried under tons of earth.” He quenched his sadness with more red-eye. “Then those devils rode eastward, goin’ from claim to claim, never missin’ a one, firin’ and cussin’ and scarin’ most of the boys out of their wits. Those that fought back had the stuffin’ kicked out of them or were lassoed and drug until they half bled to death.”

  A more articulate miner took up the tale. “They blew up every last claim! It sounded like artillery, one explosion right after the other. Rock slide after rock slide they started, and they didn’t give a damn.”

  Lee could envision the nightmare: the Bar K riders sweeping from site to site, the confused, frantic pocket hunters putting up a token resistance, easy pickings for the Regulators in the uproar, so stunned that they never thought to band together and fight back.

  Although the prospectors and their ilk were a rugged, resolute lot, they weren’t gunslingers. And although they were often fanatical about their precious ore, the sparkle and allure of wealth paled in comparison to saving their own hides.

  “I didn’t know what to do,” McPike continued. “I walked around half numb until I saw Old Abe’s mine ahead. Them riders were swarmin’ over it like bees around a hive. But they couldn’t run Abe Howard off!”

  “Did they gun him down?” a man asked, and the throng held its collective breath.

  “No,” McPike answered. “Abe had barricaded himself in his office. He shot a couple of those no-accounts when they tried to break down the door. That’s when three or four of them snuck around to the side and planted some kegs next to the wall. I figured out what they were up to and shouted to Old Abe, but I doubt he could hear me for all the gunfire.”

  “Dear Lord!” a woman said. “You can’t mean ...”

  “Afraid I can,” McPike said. “I was maybe seventy yards away, yet I felt it when the mine went up. The ground shook under me so bad I could hardly stand. What was left of Abe’s buildings came down in splinters, those bastards used so much powder.” He took a breath. “Old Abe was blown to smithereens.”

  A hush descended, anger and revulsion marking every person.

  Lee was mystified. So far Kemp had carefully avoided killing anyone. Had Old Abe’s death been a mistake? Or was it a part of the cattle baron’s grand scheme? After all, killing Jim Hays had been deliberate, and Hays and Howard were two of Kemp’s most vocal critics.

  Will Dryer, the head of the homesteaders, was a brave enough man, but with Hays and Howard gone, Dryer would be like a gnat trying to topple a grizzly. Just as Kemp, in all likelihood, had planned.

  A miner climbed onto the bar. “Listen! There’s more than enough of us here to teach those Regulators a lesson. I say we mount up and go after them.”

  “I say you’re loco,” replied another. “Didn’t you listen to the marshal? We’re not gun hands.”

  “Where is that Texan?” someone demanded. “Why ain’t he doing something?”

  “Haven’t your heard?” the bartender, always a fount of gossip, responded. “His filly was shot. She’ll live, they say, but Evers is over to the doc’s, and he’s not budging until she comes around.”

  “Wonderful! We’re being blown to bits right and left, and our illustrious lawman can’t tear himself away from some stupid whore!”

  The remark w
as uncalled for, and Lee was prepared to say as much when a hand tapped his left elbow and he glanced around, startled to discover none other than Frank Lowe right beside him, alone.

  “We need to talk, Scurlock,” Lowe said.

  Before Lee could respond, an enraged bellow tore from the throat of Ike Shannon, who shot past like a human bull gone amok. Grabbing the front of Frank Lowe’s white shirt, Shannon slammed the short saloon owner against the wall.

  Judging by Lowe’s dumbfounded expression, he’d had no idea the Irishman was there. Entering, he had seen Lee near the door and gone over, neglecting to look around first.

  Shannon was aglow with raw bloodlust. Shoving the shotgun into Lowe’s gut, he propelled Lowe toward the doors. Lee went along, shaking his head at several onlookers who looked as if they were about to interfere.

  Outside, the gambler pushed Lowe around a corner into a narrow alley between the Applejack and a dance hall. Uttering lusty oaths, Shannon shoved the other man against the wall.

  “We need to talk!” Frank Lowe found his voice at last. He squirmed and reached to grip Shannon’s wrist, freezing when the gambler thumbed back the hammers on the scattergun.

  “All you need is a pine box, bastard!”

  Lowe wriggled like a snake about to have its head staved in. “Wait! Wait!” he pleaded. “You’ve got to hear me out! It’s important!”

  “You miserable son of a bitch!” Shannon snarled. “Stand straight and take your medicine like a man. We have nothing to talk about, not after what you did to Vint’s woman.”

  “That’s wasn’t my doing!”

  “Liar!” Shannon roared, his arm tensing. He drove the shotgun into Lowe’s stomach with such force that Lowe turned a sickly green and doubled over, sputtering, spittle dribbling from his mouth.

  “I’m going to enjoy this,” Ike Shannon said, taking a step back and leveling the Greener.

  Frank Lowe cast a silent appeal at the southerner, but if he was expecting the Tennessean to intervene, one look was enough to convince him that he would get no sympathy from that quarter. Sucking in air, he blurted two words, the only two that could have saved his life: “Allister Kemp!”

  Shannon paused, raising his chin. “What about him?”

  “He made me beat Nelly!”

  “You lying sack of—”

  “It true!” Lowe said shrilly. “Honest! Jesse Bodine and him came to my place late that night and Kemp told me to beat her silly or I’d answer to Bodine.”

  Doubt and suspicion smoldered in Ike’s breast. “What kind of rotten game are you playing now? Why would Allister Kemp want Nelly Rosell harmed?”

  “To get at Evers.”

  It was plausible, and it gave Ike further pause. “Talk, you four-flusher, and it had better be good.”

  Lowe nodded slowly, catching his breath, his arms pressed to his midriff. “All I ask is that you listen to what I’ve got to say. Then, if you still want to shoot me, be my guest.”

  “I’ll give you one minute,” Shannon said. “Convince me by then and you get to live.”

  Paling, the saloon owner talked quickly. “Kemp has gone plumb loco. He intends to drive the homesteaders and the prospectors out of Diablo Valley, and he doesn’t give a damn whether the town is still here or not when he’s all through.”

  “Tell us something we don’t know,” Ike said.

  “The Englishman’s crazy, I tell you! Stark raving mad. He’s posted a bounty on Evers and Scurlock—”

  Shannon cut him short. “We know that too.” The shotgun gleamed as he pointed it at Lowe’s face. “You have about thirty seconds left, mister.”

  Lowe licked his thin lips, staring in open fear at the twin barrels. “Do you also know why Kemp posted bounties on the Texan and the Reb, but not on you?”

  Despite himself, Shannon became interested. “I’ve been wondering about that,” he admitted.

  “Kemp wants your friend Evers dead because he figures that Evers and Old Abe were in cahoots.”

  It was Lee who responded. “That’s loco. Old Abe didn’t trust Vint Evers any more than he did Kemp.”

  “Really?” Lowe snickered. “Well, Kemp saw it the other way. He figured that since Abe and Will Dryer voted to appoint Evers town marshal, they had to be working together.”

  “What else could they do, with Bodine the only other candidate?” Lee said. The revelation disturbed him more than he let on. Old Abe had detested the Texan, had even believed Evers would be partial to Kemp. And all the while, the Englishman thought the reverse. Both condemned the lawman without cause. Ironically, Vint’s only interest had been in enforcing the laws enacted by the town council to the best of his ability.

  “As for Nelly,” Lowe said to the gambler, “Kemp wanted to prod your pard into being careless. He hoped that it would drive Evers over the edge, maybe turn everyone against him.”

  As devious as Allister Kemp had proven to be, Shannon had to admit that the plan sounded like something Kemp would cook up. “But he put you in the line of fire,” he noted skeptically.

  “Do you think he cares?” Lowe snapped. “That damn Englishman doesn’t give a hoot about me, or about anyone other than himself. We’re like the pieces in that game he likes to play, chess. He moves us around as he sees fit.” Pausing, Lowe glanced at Lee. “Actually, there is one other person he’s fond of. That filly of yours.”

  Icy fingers clawed at Lee’s innards. “Allison Hays?”

  Lowe nodded. “I guess he had big plans for her, and he became rattler mean when you came along and took her away from him.”

  “She was never his to begin with,” Lee said.

  “I know that, and you know that, but try telling it to him.” Lowe shook as if cold. “Kemp is so far gone, he’s not in his right mind. He put a bounty on you, Scurlock, because he wants you out of the way so he can move in on your girl.”

  “And me?” Ike asked.

  “He told me that you’re not worth the bother of a bounty,” Lowe replied. “He called you an overrated nuisance.”

  “He did, did he?”

  Some of Lowe’s smug assurance had returned. Holding his arms out from his sides, he said, “Look, I took my life into my hands coming to see you. If Kemp finds out, I’m a dead man. So why don’t you lower that scattergun before it accidentally goes off.”

  Shannon did no such thing. “Why are you being so helpful all of a sudden?”

  “Because I want out of this mess in one piece. Kemp doesn’t have any interest in the silver up in those mountains. It doesn’t matter to him that the homesteaders south of here aren’t really trespassing on his range. All that he thinks about is driving everyone, and I mean everyone, from his valley.”

  Lowe swore. “Hell, he’s even turned on me, and I was supposed to be his business partner, to run the Applejack and our other ventures. But it turns out he doesn’t care one whit about them, either.” His jaw muscles twitched. “If that jackass drives all the homesteaders and the miners out, this town will turn into a ghost. I’ll be flat broke in no time.”

  Lee stroked his chin. Lowe appeared to be sincere, and he was inclined to take the man at his word. Allister Kemp certainly had no need to accumulate more wealth. The baron was set for life. And if Kemp truly did see the valley as his and his alone, Lowe’s story explained everything.

  Ike Shannon was still not satisfied. “Why’d you come to us?”

  “I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder the rest of my life. I want to set things right with Evers and you. I know the Texan won’t rest until he’s hunted me down and paid me back. I want to make amends.”

  Reluctantly, Ike lowered the shotgun. Lowe made sense, but it irked him to have to be civil when he’d rather shove the scattergun down Lowe’s throat and squeeze both triggers.

  Lee saw a chance to glean more information. “How many Regulators does Kemp have riding for him? What does he plan to do now that he’s driven the miners out?”

  Frank Lowe began to speak, then froze, g
awking at the alley entrance, immobilized by shock. He started as if he had seen a ghost and backed up, his hands outspread as if to ward off a blow or a bullet.

  Lee and Shannon whirled.

  Death stalked Diablo. Death with seething gray eyes, hatred chiseled in his sunburned features. Death with black curls ringing his ears, and a black sombrero pulled low. His hands were a heartbeat from the smooth ivory butts of his pistols. “Stand aside,” Vint Evers said, his tone the peal of doom for the man trying to wither into the wall.

  Lee did as the Texan wanted. But the Irishman stood firm, moving between the lawman and the saloon owner.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Vint Evers said.

  “I’m not budging,” the gambler responded.

  Ordinarily the Texan might have asked why. Now he yelled violently, “Out of the way, Ike!”

  “I can’t allow you to kill him.”

  Vint Evers quivered with the intensity of his hatred. His elbows crooked. “You can’t stop me!” he raged, and his lethal hands swooped down.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sunlight sparkled on the gleaming Colts as they sprang clear. Two hammers were thumbed back, two fingers curled around hair triggers. The barrels were pointed at Ike Shannon, who stood his ground without flinching, without fear. “Would you kill me to get at him?”

  Conflicting emotions racked Vint Evers. He had never wanted to shoot anyone as much as he wanted to shoot Frank Lowe. A tiny voice screamed in his brain, Kill! But he held his fire, baffled and hurt. “Are you sidin’ with this lowlife?”

  “You know different,” Ike said.

  “Then what in the hell has gotten into you?”

  Unease gnawed at Lee Scurlock. He felt that he should do something, but he also felt that he had no business meddling. This was between the gambler and the lawman and no one else.

  Ike advanced to place a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “If I let you fill him with holes, you’ll step over that line you’re always talking about. The line that separates lawmen from outlaws, citizens from cutthroats.”