The Devil's Revolver

by V. S. McGrath

  “Sorry won’t find Abby,” she spat.

  If the marshal couldn’t help, she’d have to find someone who could.

  It was another week before Hettie was strong enough to walk from one end of the room to the other without her legs trembling. She was determined to get better. Every second she delayed carried Abby farther and farther away from her.

  Everyone in town had heard about her miraculous recovery. A few people came to visit, bringing small gifts of food and clothing along with their condolences. Hettie couldn’t help but think they’d only come to gawk at her. They all said how brave and strong she was, what a tragedy it was to lose her family and livelihood. They cried and said prayers, lit candles and promised her aid if she needed it. But none of their mealy words penetrated. She felt nothing for the life that had been violently taken from her. It was as if that old life were something she’d read in a book. Grief for her parents would not come, so she clung to the one thing she did feel strongly about: the deep-seated need to get out of that room and find her sister.

  By the end of the week, she was strong enough to endure the ride to the ranch. The hostler lent them a cart and a strong horse. Marshal McCowan wanted to send a man with her, probably as an olive branch to make up for his paltry efforts in finding Abby. But Uncle told him Hettie needed space to grieve.

  The cart jounced her hard as they took to the road at a brisk pace. It was a gray day, the summer heat subdued for the moment. Hettie’s right thigh ached horribly. She’d gotten lucky, Dr. Wells had said. The bullet had been easily removed, and the wound had healed cleanly. In some twisted way, she was grateful for the pain. The throbbing, burning, stabbing sensations told her she was alive—told her that she could feel something beyond emptiness.

  They crested the hill on the road leading to the ranch. Hettie thought she was seeing a strange twilight land sitting in the middle of a verdant field, but then she realized the smudges of black against gray were what was left of her home. The horse slowed and came to a dead stop at the edge of the property.

  Hettie clambered out of the cart, a quiver beginning low in her stomach. Bruise-colored shadows painted everything, and the world was eerily still. No birds sang. The sickly sweet perfume of rotting and overripe fruit drifted to her.

  “I had the house boarded up.” Jeremiah’s gruff voice broke the silence as he got down from the cart. “The Gunnersons’ men have been coming by on their patrols, keeping an eye on things…”

  His voice faded, drowned out by the rushing in her ears as she took in the destruction all around her. The collapsed, blackened skeleton of the barn creaked in the wind. The silo was nothing but a tall pile of charred timbers, crumbling mortar, and loose stones. Broken glass and singed straw littered the ground.

  She turned away from the sight and found herself staring at the woodpile. A dark red-brown stain had soaked into the ground there, and a metallic odor drifted up to her nose.

  The starburst scar flashed in her mind, along with Butch’s demonic grin. Nausea struck her, and she doubled over, dry heaving.

  “You ain’t ready for this,” Uncle said. “We should take you back.”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted after a few deep breaths. “It’s been too long. I need to see Ma and Pa proper.”

  She crossed the grounds to the cottonwood on the hill. Uncle followed at a distance. She was winded by the time she reached the crest.

  Simple wooden crosses adorned with garlands of dried flowers and herbs marked the places where her father and mother rested. The two new graves looked completely out of place next to Paul’s. Her father’s grave would be the one on the far left, her mother sandwiched between him and her son. There was room for three more to the right of Paul. She could see that someone had started turning up the earth next to his, but it had only been half dug, then hastily filled back in and tamped down.

  She knelt to touch the crosses. She thought she’d be racked with sobs by now. Instead, she came up against a hard wall of unfeeling, smooth and numb like a thick callus.

  She closed her eyes and tried to squeeze out a tear. She even pinched her arm, but the tears that came were only for the pain she’d inflicted on herself. Her cry of anguish morphed into rage, and she shot to her feet and paced, kicking the tree.

  Cry, you idiot. Your parents are dead. Cry!

  The wind sighed through the cottonwood’s branches.

  Hettie…

  “Abby?” She looked around frantically. Was her sister hiding somewhere? She took two steps and yelled her sister’s name into the wind. “Where are you?”

  “Where’s who?” Uncle approached, eyes darting around.

  Her gaze flew in every direction, searching. What if all this time Abby had been here on the ranch? She looked toward the house.

  “I can hear her,” she exclaimed. “I can hear Abby.” She rushed down the hill and searched through the rubble for signs of life. She called Abby’s name over and over as she circled the house, checking all her favorite hiding spots, then finally pried off the boards over the front door with her bare hands and went inside.

  Everything within had been torn, smashed, and overturned. She was surprised the Crowe gang hadn’t torched the place. When she found no sign of her sister, she closed her eyes, straining.

  Hettie…

  She bolted out the door and ran to the creek, feet slipping on the wet grass. Abby’s voice seemed louder here, and Hettie stared around. “Abby! Where are you?”

  She heard whispers, indistinct and breathy. She splashed into the water and they grew even louder, but she still couldn’t make out what they were saying. “Abby!” Her breathing came out in ragged gasps. Abby was here. She was alive.

  Hettie followed the creek, sloshing through the knee-high water. The bed grew slippery, and she tripped and splashed into the freezing cold, head going under.

  It’s dark. Help me, Hettie…

  A pair of strong hands grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her up. She sputtered and coughed as the cold walloped her.

  Uncle dragged her out of the creek. “What in tarnation are you doing?”

  “It’s Abby.” She wiped water out of her eyes and pushed his hands off. “I can hear her.”

  “That’s it, we need to go back to the inn,” Uncle said.

  “No, I have to find her…” But her limbs had been sapped of strength, the iciness seeping into her bones. The bandages around her head were soaking wet, and rivulets of pink water ran off her fingertips.

  “It’s your grief talking,” Uncle said. “You were shot in the head, girlie. You’re hearing things.”

  She shook her head, trembling. No. She wasn’t crazy. She’d heard Abby. She was certain of it.

  The grasses stirred behind her, and they both froze. Uncle whipped out his revolver, but then a streak of dark brown leaped out. Hettie screamed as the mass bowled her over.

  “Cymon!” She threw her arms around the dog’s thick neck. His body shook with the violence of his wagging tail, and he was caked with mud and covered with scratches. He butted his head against her, whining and howling his joy.

  “Good dog.” At last, tears brimmed, and she buried her face against his shoulder. A sob broke from her lips as she scratched him behind the ears. He flopped down on the dirt beside her, wriggling and sighing.

  Uncle made her go back to the house and ordered her to change out of her wet clothes and pack what she wanted to take with her. Cymon ran in and out of the rooms, sniffing and giving low, questioning woofs. Once Hettie was dry and clean, she packed trousers and shirts, sweaters, boots and undergarments, then got Pa’s worn duster and slipped it on. It was too big for her, but it was the best coat for traveling and would keep the elements out. She breathed in the scent of tobacco and grass, rain and horses, and wrapped it more closely around herself.

  Uncle looked up as she came out, fully dressed. “Hel
p me find my rifle,” she said.

  His mouth firmed. “Why? What’re you planning?”

  She didn’t answer as she went room to room, Cymon trailing after her.

  They found her Winchester on the roof where she’d dropped it the night of the attack. Veins of orange rust had grown between the joints, and her ammunition had been left out in the elements. It was going to be a mess—it might not even work after she was through cleaning it—but having this vital piece of her old life filled the void, lent her strength.

  She’d need strength if she was going to find Abby.

  When they got back to town, Hettie visited Mr. Smitherman, her father’s lawyer. He sat down with her and detailed the value of her family’s remaining assets. She’d grown up sitting in the chair next to Pa when he went on their regular visits, so the old man didn’t condescend.

  What she was left with wasn’t enough for what she had in mind. “Sell the grazing property. Leave me the house and my family plot.”

  Mr. Smitherman frowned. “Are you sure about that, Miss Hettie? You’ve been through an awful shock…”

  “I need the money right now, Mr. Smitherman. I appreciate that you’re trying to help, but I intend to find my sister, and I’ll need the funds. Meanwhile, I’ll need the whole of Pa’s savings withdrawn in cash.”

  The lawyer hesitated but didn’t argue. He walked with her to the bank and spoke to the manager, who argued that a young woman on her own—and especially one grieving for her family—should keep her money where it could be managed properly.

  “I’m not interested in what you have to say about my ability to manage my own funds, Mr. Phipps,” Hettie argued, cold steel in her voice. “Unless you’re telling me that the bank doesn’t have the cash to serve my request.”

  Mr. Smitherman smiled wryly as the manager sputtered and hurried to make the withdrawal. They watched the manager’s lightning-fast fingers count out the bills.

  “I’ve seen that look in the eyes of men before,” Mr. Smitherman said to her.

  She took the bills and recounted them, then started bundling them into her pockets and her boot. “I intend to hire someone who will bring my sister home.” No sense in lying to him.

  Mr. Phipps and Mr. Smitherman exchanged looks. “With all due respect, are you sure about this? That’s a lot of money to be carrying around. And you without an escort…”

  “I trust you and your employees won’t be foolish enough to spread rumors about my temporary wealth,” she said pointedly.

  The manager flinched. “Of course not.”

  Mr. Smitherman spoke up. “If you need a security escort or a private investigator, the Pinkerton Agency is full of reliable, trustworthy men.”

  “That’s true,” Mr. Phipps added. “They helped my second cousin find his wife after she up and left him.” He sniffed.

  Hettie had heard about the Pinkerton Agency. Some said they employed more sorcerers than the Division did. If that was so, they could probably track down Butch and his men.

  At the hotel, she wrote a long letter relating her sad tale and sent it off by express mail to the Pinkerton Agency headquarters in Chicago. While she waited for a response, she settled her affairs with the lawyer. The grazing land was snatched up at a decent price, as were the remaining cattle.

  Maybe it was a reckless move financially, but she couldn’t run a ranch on her own. Whatever dreams she’d had of taking over for Pa had literally gone up in smoke. She wasn’t sure she could ever go back to that place now that it had been desecrated. If she did, it would either be to bury Abby … or join her family in the earth.

  Ten long, miserable days went by. She never told Uncle about the letter she’d sent—he was too busy drowning his sorrows in the saloon. She’d nearly given up hearing back until finally, a thick envelop with a bright foil flourish stamped with the letter P arrived. She tore the envelope open, and a small, flat stone etched with markings fell out of the pouch. She read the enclosed letter.

  Dear Miss Hettie Alabama,

  My sincerest condolences regarding your loss. It is always unbearably tragic when we hear about the deaths of good and innocent folk at the hands of uncivilized brutes. We here at the Pinkerton Agency will do whatever we can to track down these bandits and bring them to justice. While we normally charge a finder’s fee for missing persons, I am making an exception due to the outrageous nature of this terrible crime. I am giving you my full, personal support, pro bono, in this mission.

  We will be dispatching an agent right away via remote Zoom tunnel. Attached, you’ll find an amulet beacon that will link the two ends of the tunnel. A drop of your blood pressed into the center will notify us that you are ready to receive us. Time is of the essence: please use the amulet as soon as you receive this letter.

  Sincerely,

  Detective Thomas Stubbs

  Hettie broke into a smile for the first time since she’d awoken from death. She couldn’t believe her good fortune. Sending people through remote Zoom tunnels was expensive and dangerous for the sorcerers who controlled the portals. She couldn’t believe the Pinkerton Agency’s generosity. She quickly found a pin and pricked her finger, then pressed the bead of bright red blood into the center of the amulet. A fizzle went through her veins.

  Her heart beat hard. Soon, they’d find Abby and put the Crowe gang behind bars.

  The heavy thud of boots clomped up the stairs, and Uncle burst through the door. His eyes were cloudy, his nose red. He muttered, “I need to sleep.”

  “Uncle, look.” She brought him the letter and amulet. “An agent is coming. He’s going to help me find Abby.”

  “A what now?” He blinked down at the letter.

  “I wrote the Pinkerton Agency and offered them money to bring Abby home. I know it wasn’t a lot, but they’re going to do it for free—”

  “Pinkerton?” Jeremiah glared down at her. “You wrote to that bunch of amoral black hats?”

  “Everyone’s vouched for them—” But she didn’t get any further as Uncle grabbed his hat off his head and started slapping her with it.

  “You stupid, foolish cow!” He chased her to the other end of the room, stumbling and tripping over furniture. “Don’t you know what that outfit is?”

  “Quit it!” She grabbed his hat and flung it across the room. “They’re private investigators and soldiers. We’re going to need all the help we can get if we’re going to find Abby. What’s so wrong about them?”

  “What did you tell them? All of it, girl, quickly. What did you write them about?”

  “I told them about Pa and Ma and Abby. I told them I survived and that Butch Crowe might have my sister.”

  “And did you say anything about Diablo?”

  “Of course not. I don’t want them to think Pa was some kind of outlaw.”

  “Well, that’s something,” he muttered.

  “I don’t see what all the fuss is about, unless you’re a wanted criminal.” She eyed him and waited for him to give away his secret, but even inebriated, his grizzled features revealed nothing. “Anyways, they’ll be here soon.”

  “What do you mean soon?”

  She held out the amulet. “They’re sending the agent by remote Zoom tunnel.”

  Uncle wheeled around and hauled out her empty bags from under the bed. “Pack. Now.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re drunk. Go lie down.”

  “Don’t you read the newspaper? The Pinks are nothing but a bunch of thugs for hire. They’re no better than the Crowe gang, only they have a license to operate.” Jeremiah got right into her face. The whiskey on his breath was strong, but his eyes were focused and lit with menace. “Listen to me. When that agent gets here, he’ll suck every last truth out of you, and when he finds out we had Diablo, he’ll kill us.” He snatched the amulet out of
her hand, held it before him, and started muttering in a language she didn’t recognize. Slowly, the light gray stone turned dark, and the drying drop of blood reformed into a wet blob that he wiped off with his sleeve. “That’s not going to buy us a lot of time.”

  She stared wide-eyed. “How did you do that?”

  He didn’t answer as he stuffed clothes into her bag. He drew his revolver and checked it. “Get your money and your gun.”

  “Why—”

  “Will you stop asking questions and just obey me for once?” He snapped the wheel of his revolver back. “Just think for a minute, you half-witted ninny. Why would the Pinkerton Agency send someone all the way out here to investigate a missing child using a remote Zoom tunnel, much less do it for free? You had to have tipped them off somehow. Crowe and his gang are growing larger and more dangerous by the week. The Pinks will wonder why they’d target your family. They’ll search the area, and they’ll find traces of strong magics. They’ll know I was there. They’ll know your pa was there. And they’ll go after you until you can give them Diablo.” He holstered his weapon. “I can’t let them have it, you hear? And I’d let your ma and pa die a thousand times over to make sure they don’t get it.”

  Her lungs shrank, and her heart turned to lead. She watched, rapt, as he yanked out a long bit of braided twine from around the windowsill, then searched the armoire, removing some smooth river stones and tiny bones. From beneath a loose floorboard under the chamber pot, he pulled out a hank of hair and used it to sweep the top of the door frame off. A bunch of ceramic and glass beads rained down.

  “What is all that?” she asked.

  “Protection.” He collected them hastily and stuffed them into his already bulging pockets.

  All the time she’d lain in bed, she hadn’t noticed a single one of those talismans. When had Uncle accumulated so many wards? How could he even afford them? Slowly, a hazy picture was forming in her mind, but she still had no idea of what—or who—she was looking at. “You and Pa wanted that box off the ranch after Mr. Woodroffe came.” She’d seen how his arrival had scared Uncle sober. “But I thought you told Pa he wasn’t a Pinkerton agent.”