The Devil's Revolver

by V. S. McGrath

  “Hey, Butch! Lookee what I found!” A man with long, greasy dark hair had Grace by the wrists. Her lip was split, her dress torn at the shoulder and collar. Butch grinned, the starburst scar stretching across his cheek.

  “Well, well. Mrs. Jack Farham, I presume.”

  “It’s Mrs. John Alabama, you cowardly bastards. Let my children go!”

  Butch hummed appreciatively. “Feisty one, aren’t you? But then, you always did like fighters, didn’t you, Jack?”

  “What do you want?” Grace demanded.

  “It’s simple, really.” Butch put a foot up on the woodpile. “I’m looking for a lost treasure, madam. A revolver,” he said as if he were explaining his needs to a shopkeeper. “Ivory handle, with a barrel the shade of midnight. Really a fine piece of work. There is nothing like it anywhere else in the world. You couldn’t possibly miss it if it were, say, decorating your mantel.”

  Grace raised her chin. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

  He cocked his chin to the side and addressed the blond behind him. “Bill?”

  The young man closed his eyes, muttering an incantation. “She’s lying, Butch,” the young blond said after a moment, then let out a long breath.

  “Well, of course she is. Otherwise she wouldn’t let me do this.”

  He pointed the gun at Hettie and pulled the trigger. Hettie screeched as fire erupted in her thigh. She clutched the hot, sticky mess, moaning.

  “I’ll do the little one next if you don’t tell me where Diablo is.”

  “Stop! Just stop! John, please, just give it to them!” Grace cried.

  “It ain’t here.” John’s hold on the Colt shook, and his voice broke. “I’m sorry, Grace. It ain’t here.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” the blond confirmed darkly.

  Butch’s eyebrows lowered. “If it ain’t here,” he said slowly, “where has it gone?”

  “Far away. Probably where you’ll never find it.” Pa sounded calm. Resigned.

  Butch holstered his weapon and threw his hands into the air. “By all that is unholy— Jack, just tell me where the damned gun is!”

  “It went away. I don’t know where.”

  Bill nodded his affirmation. Butch planted his hands on his hips, paced back and forth in two short strides. “Well, well, well, well, well. I suppose that doesn’t leave me any other choice, does it?”

  In a blink, Butch drew his gun and shot her father in the shoulder. Ma screamed. The greasy-haired man grabbed her to keep her from going to him, roughly groping her breasts and giggling. Her antimolestation charm crackled.

  “Hedley.” Butch’s voice was stern.

  “C’mon, Butch, it’ll be fun. I’ll let y’all watch, and you can have her afterward.”

  “No, Hedley.”

  “She’s a squealer. I know it, Butch.” He buried his nose in her neck. “Squeal for me, pretty-pretty. Squeal!” His hand went down to her crotch, and she screeched, tearing at him like a wildcat.

  “Animal!” John snarled, swinging his revolver around.

  Another crack. Blood blossomed in the center of Pa’s chest. The big man in the ill-fitting bowler hat watched impassively as John Alabama dropped to his knees.

  Hettie’s cry was lost beneath her mother’s scream.

  Butch glared furiously over his shoulder at the big man, who sucked in his lip and holstered his smoking gun shamefacedly.

  “Hedley,” Butch bit out, his words vibrating with barely held patience, “step away from the woman.”

  The greasy-haired man grumbled, then pushed her away. Grace dove for her husband, sobbing, and pressed her hands to his wounds, clutching him.

  Butch sighed and took his hat off, baring a thin pate of dark hair. “Jack, you should know you can never escape the life you lived, never atone for the things you’ve done, especially to your brothers.”

  “I’m not your brother,” Pa ground out. Bloody spittle bubbled from his mouth. “And your petty revenge against me will never get you Diablo.”

  “No. I s’pose it won’t.” Butch shrugged, and a small smile appeared on his lips. “But it feels pretty damned good.”

  He drew and pulled the trigger. A bullet hole appeared between Grace’s eyes.

  Hettie’s mother fell down dead.

  Hettie screamed at the same time Pa howled. The fire raged.

  “The little one won’t be so lucky, I’m afraid.” Butch rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost sympathetically toward Abby, who’d gone quiet and still. Her eyes were glazed and distant. “We’ve got plans for her.”

  Pa cradled his wife’s body across his lap. His wheezing breaths were slowing, getting more labored.

  Hettie pulled herself toward the woodpile. The ax was there. She could stop this. She had to stop this—

  “Whoops. Forgot about this one.”

  Hettie’s scalp pulled tight as she was lifted to her knees by her hair. She almost didn’t feel the pain as she turned her eyes toward Pa.

  He stared back at her, unblinking. Tears flowed down his cheeks. She would always remember that look: perfectly calm, as if this were the right thing to do, despite the pain. He looked so much like Paul.

  A hot, hard edge grazed her temple.

  She thought about her brother and mother and smiled at the thought of being with them. But then she remembered the man she’d killed, and in that instant knew she was bound elsewhere.

  Then Hettie smelled cordite and lilies and then nothing.

  She’s coming ’round.”

  They were words that Hettie knew, a language she understood, but the meaning wasn’t clear.

  The pain grew, unfurling like a tightly closed bud until it had fully blossomed into every inch of her being. Fire erupted in her limbs, her bowels. Her head throbbed as an intense rainbow of color flickered behind her eyelids. Blood pushed up through her until it swelled against her skull, threatening to pop the top of her head off.

  Something prodded her side, and she flinched from the touch. Feeling was such a strange sensation. She opened her mouth and experienced a new agony as her lips cracked and blood welled from the new gaps in her flesh.

  Was this the hell she’d earned for killing that man?

  “Easy.”

  Something cool touched her lips, filled her mouth. She swallowed.

  She tried to murmur her thanks—Ma had come to soothe her fever. She was sick, wasn’t she? Abby must’ve passed her illness along. That was why she felt like this. It must be past dawn by now—she had to get up to feed the horses. Jezebel was particular about her mealtimes, and Pa would be cross if she didn’t get around to it quick…

  “You are one lucky son of a bitch.”

  Her brother’s voice was so rough. He must be watching over her, the way Pa always said he would. She tried to smile, but her lips cracked again, and she winced.

  “Stop that, now. Ain’t nothing for you to be smiling about. You look like a lynched cat.”

  Sweet liquid trickled into the corner of her mouth, filling her with strength. “Miss Hettie, can you open your eyes?”

  She obeyed. Blurry shapes floated around her. Someone brought a lantern close. The world came back into slow, painful focus. Dr. Wells brandished a stethoscope.

  But then the doctor’s face was no longer his, and a shiny pink starburst of curdled flesh grinned back at her. The bleak, black eye of the gun barrel caressed her head…

  She cried out and knocked his hands away. Someone held her down, pressing her against the bed. She was so weak she couldn’t fight them. She felt the prick of a needle in her arm, and then blessed oblivion.

  She had no idea where she was or what time it was when she woke up next. The pain had dulled to an all-over ache, and though her mind seemed mostly alert, her body felt like lead.

  She tested her
limbs carefully, eyes still closed. A strange feeling around her ear made her touch the side of her head. It was bandaged heavily, and a rawness at her temple throbbed at the touch.

  “The fates smile upon you.” Hettie opened her eyes to see Patience Yellowhawk, a Cheyenne healer, smiling at her from the corner. Dr. Wells also stood by her bed, his face more serious. The room contained a couple of chairs, a washbasin, an armoire, and the bed she lay on. In one corner, Uncle sat propped against the wall, seemingly asleep.

  “You’re very lucky, Miss Alabama. We weren’t sure you’d make it,” the healer said.

  “Where…” Her paper-dry throat sent her into a coughing fit. Dr. Wells brought her a glass of water tinged with herbs and mint.

  “Rest. You’re in Newhaven, at the Gold Lion Inn. You’ve been through a lot. It’ll take time to regain your strength.”

  Images of fire and blood swept through her like a gale-force wind, battering her mind. She began to tremble. “Where is my family?”

  He darted a pitying look at the healer, who closed her eyes.

  “Doc. Miss Yellowhawk.” Jeremiah Bassett sat forward, tilting his hat off his face. Dark shadows hung beneath his red-rimmed eyes. “Would you mind giving us some privacy?”

  They left. The scrape of a chair across the floorboards was like a scream in Hettie’s ears, and she winced. Uncle picked up the chair and set it down next to her. His chapped hands folded over his knee, and he bent his head. “Your ma and pa…” His throat convulsed.

  She knew then. Knew it the way you knew the fire in the stove had gone out as cold air seeped into your home. “Where’d you put them?” she asked quietly.

  “Next to Paul. Under the cottonwood.”

  The void that opened up inside her threatened to swallow her whole, but curiously absent was pain. No tears came. Maybe she was hurting too much all over to feel one more hurt. “What about Abby?”

  “No sign of her anywhere. They ransacked the house, took the horses. The barn burned to the ground. Silo, too.”

  The nightmare flashed behind her closed eyes, rang in her ears. “It was a man named Butch Crowe,” she said. “He had a scar across his face.”

  Uncle leaned forward, intent. “You see who else was there?”

  “There was a big guy with a bowler hat. Another one with dark hair they called Hedley. And a young blond fella named Bill. Butch said he was Shadow Frank’s brother. I think he was a truthteller, or some kind of sorcerer.”

  “Did you see Walker Woodroffe with them?”

  “The bounty hunter?”

  “He could’ve lied to us about that. He doesn’t strike me as being totally honest.”

  She closed her eyes, rifling through her memory, trying to sort out the bandits’ faces. “No. I didn’t see him.”

  “Doesn’t mean he wasn’t there,” Uncle murmured.

  “They wanted something. A revolver.” Ivory handle, with a barrel the shade of midnight. She closed her eyes, dizzy, but the memories were pushing through her brain like a line of train cars backing into each other, sending her mind hurtling over a cliff. “The gun is Diablo, isn’t it? It was in that box you took with you.”

  The steady look in his eye gave her his answer.

  “But why did they want it? What’s it for?”

  “Stop asking questions. The less you know, the better.”

  “They killed my parents for that gun. You owe it to me to tell me.”

  “No, I owe it to your father to keep you safe.” He folded his arms over his chest. “So stop asking me questions, otherwise I’ll put a curse on you to keep your mouth permanently shut.”

  She glowered but refused to let the matter go. “Butch is the head of the Crowe gang, ain’t he? He knew Pa. Called him brother. Was Pa in their gang? Were you in that gang, too?”

  “No,” he snapped, disgusted. Uncle scrubbed his bristled jaw and heaved a sigh. “You should rest. We yanked you back from the brink of death. It cost me a pretty penny, and it cost you even more, so don’t go wasting my money by getting sick and dying on me.”

  Was that all he cared about? “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Six days.”

  “Six days?” Who’d been feeding the chickens? Who was making sure the horses were ready for auction? But then she realized all that was gone. Everything she knew was gone…

  Protect your sister and mother. Don’t let anything happen to them.

  “Abby could still be out there, couldn’t she?” she asked, clinging to hope. “They didn’t kill her. They said … something about plans for her. They must’ve taken her somewhere. Where would they take her?”

  “Don’t work yourself up.” He forced her to lie back. “Abby’s gone, y’hear? So don’t get any ideas in your fool head that you can save her.”

  “She’s gotta be out there somewhere. Has the marshal been looking?”

  “Of course he has. But the trail went stone-cold four days ago.”

  “That’s because they’re Weres. Some of them, anyhow. I saw at least one of them shift. They didn’t come in on horses, either. They must have changed into wolves to escape.”

  “Shape-shifting?” Uncle’s brow scrunched in consternation. “Butch never had that kind of magic before.” Hettie was beginning to wonder how Jeremiah Bassett knew the gang so well if he hadn’t been a member. He grunted. “If they did shift, they couldn’t have taken Abby with them. They would have left her behind—”

  “You don’t know that. Maybe they took her to a wagon and drove off. Maybe they left their horses somewhere else. Maybe they took a remote Zoom tunnel.” Hettie pushed herself into a sitting position, determined. “I want to speak to Marshal McCowan.”

  “It’s the middle of the night, Hettie. The marshal’s probably asleep now, and you should be, too, if you know what’s good for you.”

  She locked gazes with him. “I’m not sleeping till I speak with the marshal.”

  He pinched the flesh between his eyes. “Stubborn little … If I promise to have him come see you tomorrow, will you at least pretend you’ll lie there and sleep the night away?”

  She reluctantly agreed. When she did drift off, though, Butch Crowe’s scarred face leered down at her. She snapped herself awake, jerking and making every muscle groan. For the rest of the night, she couldn’t shake off the phantom brush of the gun barrel against her throbbing temple, couldn’t stop smelling cordite and lilies.

  Marshal McCowan came to see her the next morning. She was still too weak to dress, so she kept the blankets tucked high up beneath her chin and received him in her room. Miss Yellowhawk waited in the hall. She’d been a good nurse, neither forcing conversation on Hettie nor trying to comfort her. But she’d been tight-lipped about what had happened after Hettie had been found shot in the head.

  “Miss Alabama,” the marshal greeted somberly, sweeping his hat off his head and easing into a chair. “I’m glad to see you awake. I’m very sorry for your loss.” She couldn’t help but notice how wary he was, how he kept a good arm’s length away from her. She wasn’t too surprised—not many came back from a gunshot to the head. Perhaps he thought she’d been reanimated as a walking undead.

  “It’s not all lost yet.” She took a deep breath. “I want you to tell me about what you’ve done to search for my sister and the men who murdered my parents.”

  He wiped a hand across his mouth. Maybe she was being a little too direct, but every minute she wasted was another minute Abby wasn’t home. “We fanned out as far Kilraven’s Peak to the north, Faraday’s Gorge to the west. I had my best trackers on them, but it seems they just vanished.”

  Those boundaries didn’t sound nearly far enough. She was about to tell him so, but the marshal interrupted her thoughts. “Maybe we should talk about what you saw that night. You’re the only eyewitness we have. Whatever you can remember might help us.”
<
br />   She hesitated. If she told him about her father’s supposed connection to the gang, the marshal might reconsider helping her find Abby. That meant she couldn’t say anything about Diablo, either. Any connection between her father and the Crowe gang could be used against her.

  “I know it’s hard to relive.” McCowan’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Just start at the beginning. When did you first see these men?”

  She focused her story on Abby’s abduction. She described Butch Crowe and the others, told him about their shape-shifting abilities. McCowan frowned deeply. “The Crowes have never had that kind of talent. And it takes a special kind of sorcerer to imbue others with Were powers. Sounds to me like they’ve got a Kukulos warlock on their side.”

  It made twisted sense for the Crowe gang to align themselves with a warlock. Blood magic was only used by the most unscrupulous, selfish, greedy, and vain of all sorcerers. The Kukulos believed in the superiority of their form of sorcery over all other magics and worked to convert sorcerers to their cause and eradicate other traditions. They were known for all kinds of atrocities, from transmogrifying people into animals to drinking the blood of children to sustain their power.

  If her sister was being taken to this warlock to be used in some evil ritual, they needed to find her fast. “What’s it going to take to find Abby?”

  Marshal McCowan scrubbed his jaw. “To be frank, Miss Alabama, the trail’s gone cold, and we’re stretched too thin to continue the search. The sheriff’s office simply doesn’t have the resources. We’ve got our hands full just watching Newhaven and the ranches around us.”

  And where had the patrol been the night of her family’s massacre? She tamped down the anger boiling inside her. “Abby’s still out there, marshal.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Hettie. We’re keeping an eye out, but … I just can’t spare anyone for a recovery mission.”

  Recovery. As in, bringing a body home. She squeezed her eyes closed, listening to the throb of her pulse, the air whistling through her clenched teeth.

  No. If Abby were dead, she’d know it.

  McCowan stood slowly, pushing his hat back on. “I’m sorry again, Miss Alabama.”