Diablo (A Piccaddilly Publishing Western Book 6)

by Robbins, David

  “He beat Nelly!”

  “Yes, he did. And if anyone ever deserved to be planted, it’s Lowe. But I know you better than any man alive, Vint. I know you’d never live this down. You’d never forgive yourself. Your days as a lawman would be numbered. It would destroy everything you’ve worked so hard to build up.”

  “So?” Vint said, but the spark of rampage had died and his wide shoulders sagged.

  “So we’re pards. I can’t stand still while you throw your life away. Whether you agree or not, I’m doing what’s best for you.”

  Vint lowered the Colts, but he made it a point not to look at Frank Lowe. He was afraid the mere sight would inflame him again.

  “How is Nelly, by the way?” Lee asked.

  “What?” Vint responded, the question derailing his whole train of thought. “Oh, Franklyn says she’ll be up and about in a day or two. She came around an hour ago. The sawbones shooed me out so she could get some sleep.”

  “As soon as she’s able, we’re moving her to the Delonys’,” Lee said. “I’ve talked to Bob and Ethel, and they’re happy to have her.”

  Heartfelt gratitude choked the tall Texan.

  “Are you calm enough now to hear what Lowe has to say?” Ike asked.

  “I reckon.”

  Nervously, Frank Lowe came forward, but he did not fool anyone by standing slightly behind Ike Shannon. He finished with a surprising statement. “To prove myself, I’ll help you turn the tables on Allister Kemp.”

  “How?” Vint asked.

  “Simple. I happen to know where the Englishman will be at nine o’clock tonight. All you have to do is be there first, wait for him to show, and he’s yours.”

  “And you expect us to trust you?” Vint’s remark dripped cynicism.

  Lowe grinned. “What choice do you have?”

  ~*~

  Promptly at eight-thirty four grim figures emerged from the Applejack and walked northward along streets strangely quiet for once. Gone was the boisterous, rowdy, pulsing vigor that made Diablo so unique. In its place was a thickly somber atmosphere, reminding Lee of a wake. His hands rested on his pistols as he surveyed the false fronts and frame buildings.

  “I don’t see why I have to come along,” Frank Lowe complained for the tenth time. “I’ve already done my part. Kemp expects to meet me at nine on Boot Hill. You be there instead, and finish it.”

  Vint Evers was a few steps in the lead, his wary tread that of a sleek panther on the prowl. “Kemp will be lookin’ for you. If you’re not there, it might make him suspicious.”

  “In the dark he’ll never notice.”

  The lawman did not break stride. “You’re comin’, and that’s final.”

  Lee Scurlock inhaled the muggy twilight air. It was spooky, he mused, so many empty streets. Rumor had it a lot of homesteaders and miners were calling it quits, that by tomorrow night fully a third of them would have packed up what few belongings they still owned, and left.

  Will Dryer wanted to send a delegation to the territorial governor to plead for troops. While the idea had merit, other farmers and prospectors were against it. They did not want the federal government to get involved. As one pocket hunter put it, “Anytime they stick their noses in, everything goes to hell.”

  At Cedar Street a commotion caught their attention. A small crowd had gathered on the bank of the river.

  “What the deuce is that all about?” Ike Shannon wondered.

  “Let’s drift on down and find out,” Vint proposed. “We have a few minutes to spare.”

  A storekeeper spotted the lawmen when they were a block away. Dozens rushed to meet them, yells mingling in chorus: “Take a look at this, Marshal! Weirdest thing you ever did see! What do you make of it?”

  The cause was the Diablo River. Something was drastically wrong. The river was ten feet narrower and half as deep. The robust current had tapered to a creeping snail’s pace.

  “Well, dog my cats!” Vint Evers exclaimed, bewildered. During the height of the dry season the river was known to shrink some, but never like this.

  “Is it drying up, you reckon?” Shannon asked.

  Lee Scurlock had no answer. It was unnatural. For some reason it filled him with vague foreboding. Nor was he the only one.

  “This is an omen,” an onlooker declared. “A bad sign of things to come.”

  Frank Lowe laughed. “What a bunch of yaks! By tomorrow morning the river will be its normal self.”

  No one disputed him, but Lee saw the glances thrown at Lowe when the saloon owner wasn’t looking. As they trekked back up the street, strung out in a row so they could watch both sides and adjoining roofs, Lee commented, “Seasonal rivers and creeks dry up all the time, but the Diablo is year-round. Mighty queer.”

  “How can you go on about the stupid river at a time like this?” Frank Lowe groused.

  Vint Evers was tired of the turncoat’s constant carping. “Seems to me you’re a mite spooked,” he said.

  “Can you blame me? I could get myself killed helping you out. If something goes wrong, Kemp will have me strung up by my thumbs and flayed alive.”

  “Now, that would be a pity,” Vint said with a smirk. The temporary truce grated on his nerves. His deepest desire was to punish those responsible for Nelly’s being shot, and Lowe was near the top of the list.

  The man did not know how to shut up. “I want the truth, Evers. Do you still aim to come gunning for me after you’ve corralled Kemp?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  “That’s hardly fair.”

  The lawman regarded the dapper polecat coolly. “Count your blessin’s. So long as you’re still breathin’, you don’t have anything to complain about.”

  Lee took perverse delight in the glum expression Frank Lowe wore. It served the man right. He scrutinized the buildings ahead, especially shadowy doors and murky windows where gunmen might lurk.

  In front of a general store a farmer and his family were busy loading supplies into a wagon. They would be one of the first to leave in the morning.

  At the next intersection Vint bore to the right, deliberately staying in the middle of the street. “Let me hear your story again, Lowe,” he said, more to annoy their unhappy ally than from any lack of memory.

  “I’ve already gone through it twice.”

  “Then what’s one more?” Ike Shannon prompted.

  Lowe sighed. “Kemp sent word he wants to meet me at Boot Hill. The cowboy who relayed the message did not know why. It probably has something to do with our business holdings.”

  “Why didn’t Kemp just ask you to ride out to his ranch?” Vint asked. “Why would he put himself at risk by coming into town?”

  “What risk?” Lowe countered. “He’ll have Bodine and some of his hands along, and they’re loyal to the brand. As for your other question, he never had me out to his ranch before, so why should he start now?”

  More quiet blocks fell behind them. Ike Shannon sidled over to the Texan. “What are your intentions if Kemp does show?”

  “We’ll try to take him alive and place him under arrest.”

  The gambler leaned closer. The brim of the lawman’s hat concealed the upper half of his face. Ike had no clue whether Evers was being sincere. “You’re not fixing to kill him?”

  “Why do you sound surprised? You’re the one who doesn’t want me to cross the line.” Vint tapped his badge. “I’m a lawman, Ike. It’s what I do best. It’s what I’ve always done, and what I’ll do until the day I drop. And so long as I am, I must honor the law I serve. You reminded me of that fact.”

  “What are pards for?”

  Vint smiled wryly. “You have more confidence in me than I do.” He paused. “As for you, Lee, you did me a favor, too. I’d about decided that wearin’ a badge wasn’t worth the price I had to pay. That I was wastin’ my life fightin’ other people’s fights. Then we helped those homesteaders, and I saw that we do make a difference.”

  A wistful longing to ha
ve his brother there at that exact moment stirred Lee deeply. Doc would be extremely proud. His being a deputy might lessen Doc’s disappointment over the killing in Fort Sumner. Which reminded him—it wouldn’t be long before the men who were hunting him showed up in Diablo. If he was smart, he’d get out of there before they did. But how could he just ride off? He had Allison to think of.

  Fewer and fewer buildings lined the streets. Twilight had given way to night, and a myriad of stars glowed on high. A stiff breeze from the northwest rustled the trees, the grass, and the dust. Inky patches alternated with areas of lighter shadow.

  Rearing up out of the earth like a primeval beast, Boot Hill loomed ahead. Starkly silhouetted against the background of heavenly lights, it resembled a monstrous squat toad about to pounce. Scraggy trees dotted the slope like a legion of spindly scarecrows. Everywhere were graves, mound after mound of raw earth. Many were unmarked, many more bore crude crosses, a few boasted headstones. A few reddish boulders added a touch of color.

  In every last boomtown west of the Mississippi, in every cowtown on the Plains, was a special graveyard usually near the town limits. Buried there were the social outcasts, the countless unfortunates who died penniless or whose relatives were unknown.

  Anonymous drifters, sodden drunks, wild cowboys, and deadly gunmen, dying in droves, buried with no markers or anyone to mourn them. Nameless victims of their own greed or lust or pride, they were the forgotten men.

  Often, when a boomtown failed, when the gold or silver played out or the cattle started using an alternate trail, the dead were completely abandoned. The earthen mounds were worn by erosion, the crude crosses faded and cracked, and nature reclaimed the swatch of dirt man dared disturb.

  Lee wiped his forehead as they neared the gloomy slope. Arizona in July was a scorcher; the heat had lingered. Or were his own nerves to blame?

  Vint Evers halted at the base of the hill. “I reckon this is far enough,” he announced. They had to fan out. Once their trap was sprung, it would be his job to make sure that Kemp did not escape.

  “There aren’t many places to hide,” Ike Shannon observed. The lay of the land did not suit him. Should the Bar K outfit show up in force, the cowboys would ride right over them.

  Frank Lowe, for once, agreed with the gambler. “You can’t stop here,” he stated.

  “Why not?” Vint asked.

  Lowe pointed at a small bald clearing at the very top. “Kemp wants to meet me up yonder. All of you will be too far away to protect me if you stay down at the bottom.” He opened his jacket to emphasize that he was not armed. “Remember, Evers, you wouldn’t let me tote a six-shooter.”

  Lee shifted to scour their vicinity. Thanks to the pale starlight, he could see well enough to satisfy himself that gunmen were not sneaking up on them.

  Vint gestured for Lowe to precede him. “Lead the way, then, mister. I’ll be right behind you.” To the gambler and the Tennessean he said, “Find a spot to lay low until Kemp gets here.”

  “Like hell,” the Irishman said. “Where you go, pard, we go.”

  The Texan knew it would be futile to object. Lowe led them on up the slope, as nervous as a mouse in a barn full of cats. Dry grass crunched underfoot, spurs jingled softly.

  Grave after grave lined their climb. Lee tried not to think of the grisly skeletons and decomposing bodies that surrounded them. Even so, the short hairs at the nape of his neck prickled.

  It was childish, Lee told himself. Here he was, a grown man, scared to be in a cemetery after dark. Next thing he knew, he’d need Allison to tuck him into bed at night and hold his hand until he fell asleep.

  Halfway up, Frank Lowe stopped. Apprehension had made him a nervous wreck. “Look, I’ve done my share,” he said to Evers. “Let me go while I still can. Kemp will have me shot out of sheer spite if there’s gunplay.”

  “How many times must I tell you?” Vint responded. “Tramp on up there and stand in the open where Kemp can see you from afar. Then leave the rest to us.”

  Sulking, Lowe complied.

  Vint indicated gravestones on either side. “The two of you lay low. I’ll keep watch on our bantam rooster until the lead commences to fly.”

  “We’ll stick with you,” Ike said.

  “No.” This time the Texan’s tone made it plain that he would not abide another dispute. “By spreadin’ out, we can catch ’em between us. Give yourselves breathin’ space and everything will be fine.”

  Lee watched the lanky lawman climb higher. A string of whispered profanity came from the irate gambler. Edging toward a marker on the left, he unconsciously loosened both revolvers. “We’d better do as he says.”

  “You can if you want,” Ike said. “But I don’t trust that pimp. Vint trusts him even less. So what’s he trying to prove by leaving us behind?” He continued to ascend.

  So did Lee, but more slowly. It was the worst possible time to buck the marshal, and he’d rather do as they were told. Though he did wonder. Why had Evers gone on alone? Did the Texan smell a trap and intend to walk into it alone?

  Shannon peered into the black patches that bordered the nearest graves, alert for movement.

  Lee did the same, feeling as if he were a steel spring about to uncoil. Frank Lowe and the marshal were now fifteen feet from the crescent rim. Suddenly the lawman stopped.

  Eleven men had risen from concealment on the other side of the hill’s crown, eleven smirking Bar K hands, all with six-guns adorning their hips. In the center reared Jesse Bodine, alight with triumph. Bodine looked down on the Texan like a wolf about to pounce on prey.

  “Evenin’, Evers.”

  “Bodine,” Vint said calmly enough, then regarded the cowboys with cool indifference. “See you brought a few of your friends along.”

  “We caught you nappin’, huh?” Bodine gloated.

  “My eyes were wide open.”

  “Then why did you march on up here?” Jesse Bodine asked. “Surely you weren’t thinkin’ there would only be one or two of us?”

  Vint ignored the question. “Kemp sure is workin’ you boys to death. What with scarin’ off the homesteaders, blowin’ up the silver claims, and dammin’ the river—”

  “Doin’ what?” Bodine said, perplexed. “We ain’t touched the river. I saw it was low on the way over, but we had nothin’ to do with that.”

  “Did you have anything to do with Old Abe being blown to Kingdom Come?”

  “Of course not. Some of the boys got carried away when the old geezer shot their pards.”

  Vint Evers looked past the cowboys. “Where’s your boss, Jesse? He’s supposed to meet Lowe here.”

  The statement produced amusement, even laughter, among the Bar K riders. Bodine chuckled and looped his thumbs in his gunbelt. “Is he, now?”

  “So I was told.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” Bodine said, then winked at Frank Lowe, who walked to the pinnacle and placed himself at Bodine’s elbow.

  Lee Scurlock halted, fuming. Allister Kemp had used Lowe to lure them to Boot Hill. The townsfolk never came to the cemetery at night, so Kemp could have them disposed of without interference or witnesses. Once they were out of the way, there would be no one left in Diablo who had the grit to stand up to the Englishman.

  Frank Lowe was upset. He gestured at Vint, Ike, and Lee. “Quit your gabbin’ and dispose of these idiots like you were supposed to,” he growled.

  “What’s your rush?” Bodine responded.

  “This isn’t no turkey shoot,” Lowe said testily.

  “And you’re not the man I work for,” Bodine said just as hotly.

  Lowe did not back down. Stabbing a finger at the massive gunman, he said, “Why haven’t you done as you were ordered? What in God’s name are you waiting for?”

  Bodine plainly disliked his dapper ally. In his anger he seemed to forget about the three men below; his own finger jabbed Lowe in the chest so hard that Lowe nearly fell. “Leave my job to me, mister.”r />
  “Then do it!” Lowe demanded shrilly. “Kemp ordered you to pick them off before they knew what hit them, but you let them waltz clear on up the hill. That’s not doing your job, in my book.”

  Jesse Bodine straightened. “I’m not a yellow bushwhacker like some I could name,” he said. “I don’t gun men down from ambush.”

  “Then you’re the biggest jackass who—”

  The sound of Bodine’s open hand connecting with Frank Lowe’s cheek was like the crack of a whip. Lowe staggered and dropped to one knee, stunned.

  “Are you heeled, you miserable pipsqueak?” Bodine said, his hands hovering above the butts of his .44s.

  Wrath brought Frank Lowe to his feet, and had he been armed he would have torn into Bodine like a terrier into a mastiff. Making a visible effort to control himself, he said, “Kemp will hear about this.”

  “Who the hell cares?” Bodine said. “I don’t answer to him for every little thing I do.” The big gunman nodded at the lawmen. “As for them, I’ll do what Kemp wants, but I’ll do it my way. You might be the kind of low-down skulkin’ bastard who would back-shoot his own mother, but I’m not.”

  Frank Lowe had nothing more to say. Fists clenched, he started to back off.

  “That’s right,” Bodine said. “Why don’t you mosey along and go play with your painted ladies? Leave the real work for those of us with backbone.”

  The instant that Lowe disappeared, a heightened air of tension crackled invisibly on Boot Hill. Slowly, almost ponderously, Jesse Bodine turned to Vint Evers. “Now, where were we?”

  Vint shifted to the right a step so he was directly in line with the other Texan. “You were about to ride out of the valley and never come back.”

  Bodine laughed heartily. “Were we, now? I reckon I must have forgot.”

  “There’s no need for this,” Vint tried one last time.

  When Jesse Bodine responded, the mockery was gone. “I’d like to oblige, Evers. I truly would. But Kemp is offerin’ a thousand dollars to the hombre who cuts you down, and that’s going to be me.”

  “Since when do men like us stoop to killin’ for money?”

  Bodine was troubled, and it showed. “I’ve never had a thousand dollars at one time in my whole life. And there’s this small spread up in Wyoming I’ve had my heart set on.”