Diablo (A Piccaddilly Publishing Western Book 6)

by Robbins, David

  Tears moistened Lee’s neck. He closed his eyes and held her close, his breath catching in his throat. If she had not shown up when she did, he would be dead. That she would throw herself at a murderous brute like Gristy to save him was a marvel beyond words. It demonstrated, more than anything else could, the full depth of her love. He never wanted to let her go.

  “I was so worried when Mrs. Franklyn told me about the gunfight at Boot Hill,” Allison said. “And now this!”

  Lee lightly kissed her hair, swallowing hard. “This won’t ever happen again,” he vowed. “As soon as Vint is back on his feet, I’m hanging up my guns. For good.”

  Allison’s response was to smother him with hot, passionate kisses.

  Epilogue

  The town of Diablo died a lingering death. Diablo Valley withered and faded into a footnote on the pages of history. If it was remembered at all, it was due to the Diablo Valley War, as historians would one day dub the conflict.

  The military took over. A commission was set up to get to the bottom of the bloodshed. Headed by Major Whittaker, it showed a strong bias toward Allister Kemp.

  Because the homesteaders did not have legal title to the land they had farmed, those who stayed were denied permission to rebuild their homes.

  The miners fared little better. Most had filed claims, but many of the sites were buried under tons of rock and earth. The few who did go back up into the mountains reported that the creeks they had panned and relied on to operate their sluice boxes had all dried up.

  Disgusted and penniless, most of the ore hunters left to seek their fortunes elsewhere.

  The drying of the creeks mirrored the shrinking of the Diablo River. Over a three-month span, the once mighty waterway shriveled to a trickle and eventually stopped flowing altogether. Without water, Diablo could not endure. Six months after Kemp started his private little war, the town was an empty shell.

  Why did the river dry up? Two ideas were bandied about. Some blamed it on the blasting done by the Regulators. Everyone knew the river was fed by a source high in the mountains. Speculation ran rampant that the blasts had somehow affected the underground water table.

  The second train of thought blamed the death of the town on the Almighty. According to this version, Diablo had been a den of debauchery and sin to rival those of Sodom and Gomorrah, and the Lord had smitten it in his righteous wrath.

  Before the town died, several events of note took place.

  Two weeks after the Boot Hill gunfight, Ike Shannon was approached on Hell Street by three haggard men on horseback. Ike’s wound had been minor, and he had been back on his feet in no time, sharing duties with Lee.

  The first thing Ike noticed about the riders was that they had ridden a long distance. The second thing was the badge each wore. “Howdy, gents. Can I help you?”

  The lead rider removed his hat to mop a sweaty brow. Sunburned, leather tough, he wore a pearl-handled Colt that had seen a lot of use. “Are you the marshal?”

  “Deputy Shannon at your service. Vint Evers is the marshal here.”

  The man smiled. “Well, now, this is a piece of luck. I know Vint from way back. I was born and raised in Texas not ten miles from where he lived. We’re old friends.”

  “And who might you be?”

  “United States Marshal Coe.”

  Ike idly stared up the street and saw Lee Scurlock and Allison Hays enter a store. “What brings you to Diablo?” he asked.

  Coe leaned on his saddle horn. “I’m after an hombre who killed a deputy sheriff at Fort Sumner. We lost his trail on the Painted Desert. But he was driftin’ in this direction, so he might have passed through.”

  “This gent have a name?” Shannon asked, not all that interested until the lawman responded.

  “Scurlock. Lee Scurlock. He’s related to Doc Scurlock, the gunman. They’re brothers.”

  Ike glanced up the street again. Lee and Allison had not reappeared, but they might at any moment. “I’ve heard of Doc,” he admitted. “You say this Lee gunned down a deputy?”

  “Yep,” Coe said, and frowned. “It’s a dirty business.”

  “How’s that?”

  “There are plenty of witnesses who swear that Scurlock was forced into slappin’ leather. I reckon you’ve heard about the Lincoln County War?”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “Well, the Scurlocks rode with Billy the Kid for a spell. They accepted the amnesty and stopped fighting. But the deputy, who was related to one of the men Billy the Kid killed, braced Lee in a saloon. Called him every name in the book, then tried to slap him around. Scurlock pushed him away, and the deputy went for his gun.”

  “Sounds to me like the shooting was justified,” Ike said, trying hard to hide his nervousness. A figure appeared in the store’s entrance. It was Allison, and Lee was right behind her.

  Coe shrugged. “I’m just doing my job. Do you happen to know if Scurlock has passed through your town?”

  Shannon saw the young lovers step into the sunlight. All Coe had to do was turn and he would see them. “Tell you what. Why don’t I take you to see Vint? He’s laid up at the doc’s.” Without waiting for them to agree, Ike started down the street, away from the general store.

  “What happened to him?” Coe asked.

  “I’ll let Vint tell you all about it.”

  By a roundabout way Ike escorted the lawmen to the physician’s, then waited on the porch with the deputies for more than an hour. When Marshal Coe emerged, he walked straight to his weary horse and mounted.

  “Leaving so soon?” Ike asked.

  Coe nodded, to the surprise of the deputies. “We have no reason to stay. Lee Scurlock died in a gunfight with a man named Nate Collins. I have to get back and file my report so the manhunt will be called off.”

  “But, Marshal,” one of the deputies said, “after coming all this way, what will it hurt to stay the night?”

  “It’s been ages since we had a bath and a decent meal,” added the other.

  “Sorry, boys,” Coe said. “We’ll stop at that relay station east of here.” Touching his hat brim, he said, “Adios,” and, flanked by his mystified deputies, departed.

  That night Shannon told Lee of Coe’s visit, and Lee promptly went to visit Vint Evers. Ike did not know what was said, but when the Tennessean walked out, his face shone with gratitude.

  It was two weeks later that the last killing in Diablo took place. Frank Lowe had turned up shortly after the troops arrived. He closed his saloon and was arranging to travel to Tombstone to open another.

  On the night before Lowe was to leave, he was strolling down Hell Street when someone in an alley he was passing called his name. Bystanders saw him turn, then scream. Some of them were sprayed with gore when his head was blown to ribbons by a shotgun blast. The culprit eluded capture.

  The last wedding in Diablo was a double affair. On October 1, 1880, at the Delony home, the minister united Allison Campbell Hays and Lee Tucker Scurlock, and Nelly Amber Rosell and Vinton Darby Evers, in the holy state of matrimony.

  Both couples lingered in Diablo until the town was nearly empty. They were on one of the last stage runs out, along with Ike Shannon. In Wichita, Kansas, they parted company, the women hugging and crying and promising to write every month.

  Vint Evers took Nelly to Colorado, where they started a thriving ranch. Nine months after their house was built, Nelly gave birth to a robust boy, the first of four children they would rear during the decades they were together.

  Ike Shannon gambled for several years, drifting from boomtown to boomtown. Ultimately, he made his way to California, where he settled in Los Angeles. In his seventies he became a technical adviser on the sets of Western movies, lending realism to Hollywood fantasies.

  But the Irishman journeyed to California long after the final act in the Diablo drama was played out.

  At the time Lee heard the news, he lived on his own spread in western Montana, a week’s ride out of Missoula. Allison had given bir
th to a baby girl four months earlier. On a cold, blustery winter’s night, as he sat rocking their daughter to sleep in front of the fireplace, Allison read to him from a newspaper he had picked up on his last trip into town.

  “Now, this is interesting. A new boot and shoe store has opened. It says here that they carry the finest assortment for women this side of the Rockies.”

  “That’s nice,” Lee said dreamily. Lulled by the warmth and the tender feel of the infant on his chest, he was ready to doze off himself.

  “Goodness gracious!” Allison exclaimed. “A can of tomatoes is going for a dollar and twenty cents! That’s outrageous!”

  “Canned goods are always pricey this time of year,” Lee reminded her.

  “You sound tired. Maybe we should turn in early tonight.”

  “Good idea.” Lee sat up, fondly admiring his daughter’s cherubic features. “Beth is in dreamland already.” As he went to rise, his wife gasped as if stricken and pressed a hand to her throat.

  “Dear Lord!” she blurted, the strongest oath she ever used.

  “What?” Lee said anxiously, not knowing what to make of her dismay.

  “There’s a story here about Allister Kemp.”

  Lee stiffened. The last he’d heard, the Englishman had been forced to sell his stock and relocate after Diablo Valley turned into a dust bowl. Word was that Kemp settled in southern Wyoming and was heavily involved in local politics. Rumor had it that he might run for the U.S. Senate. “What about him?”

  “I’ll read it to you,” Allison offered, and cleared her throat. “Murder most foul. A prominent Wyoming rancher has been slain by an unknown assassin. Fifty-six-year-old Allister Kemp, who moved to this country at an early age from England, was shot from ambush four nights ago on his ranch west of Cheyenne. A dozen ranch hands were with him at the time, but none were harmed.”

  “Does it say how it happened?”

  “I’m coming to that,” Allison said, and resumed reading. “The Laramie County Sheriff’s Office reports that Kemp was on his way to Cheyenne when the shooting occurred. His assassin apparently was hidden on a ridge over a thousand yards to the north and killed Kemp with one shot to the head.” She paused, glancing up. “A thousand yards? Is that possible? Can any rifle shoot that far?”

  “An old Sharps Big Fifty could.”

  “Aren’t they the guns used by buffalo hunters?”

  “Mostly. What else does the paper say?”

  “Kemp’s hands attempted to track the assassin, but they lost the trail in a snowstorm. The Laramie County Sheriff’s Office is still investigating. So far they have no solid leads.” Allison finished and turned. “I know we shouldn’t sit in judgment on others, but that awful man got exactly what he deserved.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “I wonder who could have done it.”

  Lee Scurlock did not reply. Carrying Beth as if she were a fragile egg, he rose to take her to her crib. And as he walked from the room, his face curled in a broad smile.

  The End Of

  A Piccadilly Publishing Western

  By David Robbins

  But the adventure doesn’t end here …

  Join us for more first-class, action-packed books.

  Regular updates feature on our website and blog

  The Adventures continue…

  Issuing new and classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  More on Piccadilly Publishing Westerns