The bodies were taken away on a flatbed cart, and Walker trailed after the lawmen to collect his bounty. He tipped his hat to John and gave Hettie a discreet wink as he departed.
On the journey home, Hettie worried Pa was cross with her, but if he was, he didn’t say anything about it. Their supplies rattled in the cart like bones in a casket. The wheel might be fixed, but the road was as pitted as ever. Her thoughts were almost as restless as she stewed over those men, alive one minute, dead the next.
If a bounty hunter had been after them, that meant they’d been wanted criminals. But it hadn’t been just the two of them … That nameless redhead had run into the hills, and now it dawned on her that a wounded man would not have headed in that direction unless he knew there was someone out there to help him.
What if he came back to avenge his friends’ deaths … and had more friends to help him?
She chewed on the inside of her cheek. More likely the man was buzzard food. Or maybe Mr. Woodroffe had seen him and was in hot pursuit now.
Something streaked across the hills in her peripheral vision. She grabbed the Winchester, startling Pa.
“Hettie?”
She stared into the distance. Nothing. Her anxiety was starting to play tricks with her mind. She settled back down, and her father sent her a worried sidelong look. “Close your eyes for a while. We’ll be all right.”
She didn’t want to leave him alone, but as her limbs grew heavy, she rested her head against Pa’s hard shoulder and fell into a fitful, dreamless doze.
When they got home, Ma was setting the table for dinner. Uncle was already seated across from Abby. He looked up and did a double take. “Tarnation, girl, who’d you lose a fight to?”
“I tripped and smashed my nose on a fence rail.” It was a struggle to look embarrassed when inside, she felt sick to her stomach.
“What happened to your hair?” Ma ran her fingers through the raggedy, cropped mess and looked her daughter over fretfully. “Did you trip and fall on that, too?”
“It’s all the rage in Europe,” Hettie explained quickly. “The French girls make it short and wavy.” She tossed her head the way she’d often seen Sophie do it and plastered on a smile. “I got Sarah Bella Thompson to cut it for me.”
“With what? A dull ax?” Grace blew out a breath. She glared up at her husband. “Why didn’t you take her to see Dr. Wells? Look at her face!”
John was saved from answering when Abby said, “Paul.”
Silence fell as everyone turned. The girl sat stirring the contents of her bowl, making strange circular patterns in her stew. Grace’s voice was a bare whisper. “What did you say, Abby?”
“Hettie looks just like Paul.” She said it as if it were the answer to a simple arithmetic problem.
“You … you remember what he looked like?” Her sister had barely been five when their brother was murdered.
Abby pointed out the window toward Paul’s grave on the hill. “We talk sometimes. Over there.”
Hettie felt as though someone had poured cold water down her spine. Her mother covered her mouth, and Pa’s face grew stony. There was no way … Abby was too young…
Uncle met each of their gazes and slowly asked, “Paul tell you anything else?”
The girl tilted her head. “He misses riding with Hettie.”
The smell of cordite lingering on her clothes and the taste of blood in her mouth suddenly made the memory of Paul’s death—and the day’s horrors—too fresh. Hettie stood abruptly. “Excuse me. I … I’m not hungry.”
She hurried out onto the front porch and doubled over, retching, but her stomach was empty, so nothing came up. She breathed deep, pushing back the tears burning her eyes. The last of the sun’s rays did little to dispel the chill as the memory of the day her brother was killed surfaced.
Paul had been thirteen, Hettie only eleven. She’d been sitting in the saddle in front of Paul, riding the fence line, when a derelict stranger had jumped out of the grass and seized the horse’s reins. He’d dragged Paul off the saddle and stabbed her brother in the side. Then he’d yanked her off, throwing her to the ground. She remembered clearly how his wild eyes were like a starving coyote’s. He’d made to silence her with his wicked knife, but Paul had tackled him—
She felt the hot stickiness on her fingers, tasted the salty, bitter tang that seeped into her mouth as she bit her tongue to keep from crying. Hettie’s last memories of Paul were of him curled around her, trying to comfort her. He’d never complained once about his injuries, even as his lifeblood soaked her dress.
She clutched herself around the middle. She’d never forget Paul’s last words. You gotta take care of Abby now, Hettie.
She’d done her best. But he would’ve been able to take care of Abby better than Hettie ever had. He would’ve known how to handle her trances and wandering.
He’d know what to do if she said she was talking to the dead.
Cymon trotted up to her and butted his head against her hip, whining. The big, muscly mutt was more jaw than brain, and he smelled terrible, but he always seemed to know when she needed comfort. She smiled a watery smile. “Hey, boy. You haven’t been talking to Paul lately, have you?” He stared up at her with unquestioning devotion. “Nah, I guess not.” She scratched his ears affectionately. “But then, if you were a necromancer, the elders would come and take you away.”
When children reached the age of change, they were brought before the elders, local representatives of the Division of Sorcery, and tested for magical abilities. Those who displayed any talent were sent off to the Division Academy to learn spellcraft and sorcery. Hettie couldn’t imagine how Abby would fare without her family. She could barely dress herself. But if they didn’t report her abilities, the Division could send truancy agents and drag them all to jail.
It used to be less stringent. Pa had never gone to the Academy. But in the past few years, the government had made attendance mandatory for all gifted, white, negro, Celestial and Indian. All sorcerers had to be reported and registered. The Division said it was to preserve the dwindling number of gifted being born; they said the gifted were destined for better lives. But there were stories about what happened at the Academy. Nightmarish tales of students pushed to their breaking points. Students pitted against each other to test their abilities. Hettie would never allow Abby to end up there.
“If you do see any folks coming for Abby, you’ll stop ’em cold, right?” Cy wagged his tail. She picked up a stick and threw it. Cy bolted after it, snatched it up off the ground, and streaked away into the tall, dry grasses. She sighed. He never was any good at fetch.
She was sore all over from the day’s events, but she needed to occupy her mind and hands. Pa had hung up his gun belt on the hook on the porch. She took her father’s revolver to the back lot, set up a few empty tins on the fence by the edge of the property, and loaded the Colt.
She raised the revolver and steadied herself. The crack of the gun sent a cloud of starlings into the air. They swirled like smoke through a fiery-orange sky. She looked back down to find she hadn’t hit a single target.
“You plantin’ bullet trees in the hill or something?” Uncle Jeremiah strolled over, hands in his pockets.
“Something like that.” The Colt jumped in her grip as she fired, and she clenched her teeth.
Uncle chuckled. “Never seen anyone try to strangle their handgun before. You’re locking your elbows too much, and you’re pointed too high.” He took the Colt from her. “Arms low, elbows slightly bent. You want to be strong here”—he pounded on his chest just in front of his armpits—“and here.” He cuffed a wrist with his palm. “Sight along the barrel. Breathe. Squeeze the trigger.” He did so in rapid succession and knocked three cans off the rail.
Hettie stared. “Did you learn that from Pa?”
“I learned it from him,” John said, walking towar
d them. “What are you doing out here, Hettie? Your ma’s worried about you, and it’s getting dark.”
“Sorry. Just practicing.” She indicated the revolver grimly. His lips firmed, and he nodded.
“You should learn how to do this one-handed.” John reloaded the Colt for her. “There’ll be times you won’t be able to square yourself off all proper.” He jammed the Colt into his holster and faced the target casually. In a blink, he’d drawn and fired twice, knocking a tin can off the rail and hitting it midair as it dropped. He held out the gun grip first. “Your turn.”
Hettie put the Colt in her holster. She placed her feet apart, her body turned at about sixty degrees to the fence, then drew the too-heavy gun and fired. Her wrist jerked painfully. She hit nothing.
Uncle harrumphed. “You need a smaller gun.”
“I need bigger hands.” Hettie flexed her fingers.
Pa rubbed his chin. “Maybe we’ll look into getting you a Derringer or some smaller caliber pistol. Of course, I’d rather you were chasing boys than learning how to outdraw tin cans.”
“I’d rather have a gun than a husband,” she muttered, cheeks burning.
Uncle tut-tutted. “Guns won’t keep you warm at night, missy.”
“I don’t need a man,” she snapped, furious. “I’m better off on my own.”
“Now, Hettie, don’t say that. You’re going to break some foolish boy’s heart with that spinster’s attitude.”
The two men chuckled, and she clenched her teeth. She yanked off the belt and stomped toward the house.
“Aw, Hettie, don’t be mad. We’re just kidding!”
She ran up the stairs and flopped onto her bed. Silent tears soaked into her pillow. She’d killed a man today. Pa had killed a second. They’d lied to a lawman, Ling was on the run, and her helpless sister could be snatched away from the family any day by the Division of Sorcery.
How could Pa joke around and pretend as if their world wasn’t on the cusp of falling apart?
Two days later, Abby wandered off again. Hettie searched the usual places, but when she didn’t find Abby, she grew uneasy. She hurried down to the creek and found her sister almost fully submerged, lying on the rocky bed so only her face came above the water, whispering nonsense to the sky.
Hettie screamed for help as she dragged her sister out of the freezing-cold water. Pa came running, and he carried them both to the house in his strong arms. By evening Abby had a high fever. Uncle raced to fetch the doctor. When Dr. Wells arrived, Abby was delirious, muttering gibberish and heaving great, wheezing coughs.
“It could be pneumonia,” the doctor said gravely, and Grace gasped. “Whatever you do, don’t let her leave the house until this has passed.”
Ma stayed with Abby day and night. Hettie took over many of the household duties on top of her own chores. The days fell into a pattern of nonstop cooking, cleaning, washing, and farm work. She got so busy, she’d all but forgotten the horrific events in town.
It was while Hettie was cleaning out the stables and worrying about how the bread she’d left to rise would turn out that she was vividly reminded of that terrible day. “Excuse me, son, can you tell me where to find Mr. John Alabama?”
She froze. She recognized that low drawl.
Walker Woodroffe’s tall, broad frame filled the doorway and blocked out the sun. The brim of his hat shaded most of his features, but there was no hiding his clear, ice-blue eyes. He tipped his hat up, grinning slowly. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Alabama. I didn’t recognize you.” He looked her over and arched an eye. “You make a handsome fella.”
Her cheeks flushed. Before she could snap back at him, Uncle appeared at the other end of the barn. “Eh? Who’s this now?”
“Walker Woodroffe.” The bounty hunter extended a hand. “I’m a … friend of John Alabama’s.”
“John ain’t got many friends I don’t know about.” He planted his fists on his hips. “State your business.”
“Uncle, don’t be rude.” Hettie didn’t want him making the bounty hunter mad or giving him any reason to be less than civil. He could have told the marshal the truth about what happened, and then who knew where she and Pa would be now. “I met Mr. Woodroffe last week in town.”
“He’s your uncle? Ah, yes. I see where you get your looks from, Miss Alabama.”
“We’re not blood kin,” Uncle snapped. “I’m a friend of John Alabama’s, too, and I know his business better than most, so tell me again, stranger, what’s a sorcerer of your caliber doing traipsing around our little ranch?”
Hettie’s gaze bounced from the bounty hunter to the old man. The barest of smiles curved Walker’s lips. “Mr. Alabama invited me to stay awhile to thank me for helping his daughter.”
Uncle glanced down at her suspiciously. “What’d he do for you?”
“She was set upon by a gang of thugs,” Walker answered for her. “I helped extricate her.”
That was stretching the truth, but Ling’s curse held firm. She couldn’t correct him.
“If you don’t mind, I need to speak with your father urgently.” Walker directed his comments to Hettie.
Uncle cut in, “You just missed him. He’s gone to Hawksville. He’ll not be back for a few days.”
“I’m afraid my business can’t wait. You say he just left?”
“Few hours ago, I guess.” Uncle scratched his chin.
“Perhaps I can catch up to him on the road.” The man in black nodded. “Thank you, both.”
“Safe journey.” Uncle watched him make his way out. The tension in the barn didn’t ease until the bounty hunter’s mount’s hoofbeats faded. Hettie unclenched her fingers from around the pitchfork handle.
“Why’d you send him away? Pa’s just visiting the Gunnersons. If you think—”
“I think, missy, that you better start telling the truth. Who is that, really?”
Hettie glared back. Uncle glowered and jammed his hands in his pockets. “Who is he?” he asked again.
Hettie felt her lips loosen and her throat squeeze. “Walker Woodroffe. A bounty hunter.”
His eyes narrowed. “How did you meet him?”
“He found me after I shot the man who attacked me and—” Ling’s spell seized her like an earthquake rumbling through her chest and kept her from speaking. It shook her with such violence that she had to clench her teeth to keep from having her head flap off. Uncle cursed and pulled a leather thong from his pocket. He draped it over her shoulders, held one end, and murmured an incantation. The shaking eased, and as he withdrew the length of leather, she felt the spell slough away like a veil being lifted off her head.
“Mighty strong magics for someone to be using on the likes of you.” Uncle stuffed the thong back in his pocket and kept his hands there. “Now tell me who put that spell on you.”
“Ling Tsang.” Her mouth still had a mind of its own. She fought against the urge to tell him anything—it felt as if she was betraying Ling—but the words wouldn’t stop.
“Ling? That hinky Chinaman?” Uncle had always been cool toward the ranch hand. “What does he have to do with this?”
The story tumbled out of her without pause. The words rushed out on a tongue that didn’t trip, and she had no idea she was saying them until they reached her own ears.
When her words and breath finally ran out, he took his hands out of his pockets. “So your father was lying to me.” Uncle rubbed his bristles. “He told me that Walker fella shot Shadow Frank.”
Shadow Frank? She’d seen his name listed on a wanted poster outside of the marshal’s office. The blond was a member of the infamous Crowe gang. Was that why Pa had shot him?
“When did you learn to break promise spells? And use truthtelling spells?” she asked. Uncle had never done much more than set up a few protection wards around the ranch.
“It don’t conce
rn you.” He paced in the aisle between the stalls, jaw grinding. “Finish cleaning the barn. Give the horses extra feed, and make sure all their tack is at hand. If that Walker Woodroffe comes back, don’t let him near the house. Keep him out here and away from your ma and Abby. I need to talk to your pa.”
Hettie reluctantly did as Uncle said, but only after he’d shut down all her inquiries. An hour later, she was gathering firewood when her father rode in on Jezebel. Uncle intercepted him, talking rapidly as they headed toward his cabin on the edge of the ranch.
Hettie followed, careful to stay out of sight. Something was going on, and she hated being kept in the dark. From a distance, the low log and sod cabin looked like little more than a hummock, almost blending in with the rest of the land. The two men went in the front door, and Hettie tiptoed around to the small window.
“…looking for. But he sure as hell wasn’t here on a social call. The man was bristling with so many antifraud charms, I could barely say a word of a lie before I felt them clamping down on me.”
“You shouldn’t have sent him away. We could’ve taken care of him.”
An ice-cold finger trailed down Hettie’s spine. “When he comes back, he’ll know something isn’t right.” A loaded pause dropped into the silence. “You think he’s a Pinkerton agent?”
“The Pinks wouldn’t beat around the bush if they knew. They’d’ve come full force. Woodroffe is something else. A man carrying that much magic isn’t chasing down criminals for kicks. He’s got to be after…” His voice dropped off to an angry whisper. Hettie couldn’t hear over the pounding of her heart. She slid closer and heard Uncle say, “We gotta move it.”
The Devil's Revolver Page 4