The Devil's Revolver

by V. S. McGrath

  “Kick anyone who gets near you,” she murmured. Jezebel stomped her hoof in reply.

  Inside the saloon, a few patrons as dusty and worn as everything else in this unfriendly town nursed their drinks in silence. Three men in the corner played cards as if they were doing it by rote rather than for entertainment. Hettie went straight to the bartender, a bearded man polishing the bar with little enthusiasm.

  “You have a room for the night?” she asked huskily, trying her best to disguise her voice.

  The man glanced up. Hettie tugged her hat lower over her bandaged face. With hope, he’d assume she’d been in some kind of scuffle and leave her alone. He scratched his nose. “Who’s asking?”

  “Paul Dickens.”

  The barkeep peered at her. “You on your own, son?”

  “I’ve got money. And Pa’s meeting me from Bakersfield. He’ll be along shortly.” Hettie had a feeling it was unwise to advertise that you were traveling alone around these parts.

  She paid for a room and a hot meal and to have Jezebel fed and stabled. It was pricey, considering what she was getting, but she didn’t haggle. While the barkeeper shouted for food, she took a table with her back to the wall so she could observe everyone coming and going.

  Sadly, none of these dirty, wretched-looking men appeared to be the sort who could help her find Abby. They might be desperate enough to accept her meager bounty, but she wasn’t about to trust just anyone with her sister’s well-being—or her money. Hawksville had once been a thriving mining community, but when the veins of copper and tin had all been dug up and the railway had bypassed the town, good folks up and left, seeking their next employment or a better future for their families elsewhere. Those who’d stayed seemed content to use the town as a place to drown their sorrows. Or maybe they were stuck here—it was hard to tell. Everyone looked about as dried up and worn out as a corn husk doll.

  A harried, red-faced woman served her a plate of beans, cold sausages, and bread. Hettie ate slowly, thinking only of her aches and anticipating a good night’s sleep. A flea-ridden bed would be better than sleeping alone out in the open.

  “Hey there, sugar.” Hettie startled as a bawdy girl sidled up to her. She was pretty enough, with strawberry blond hair and thin features. Her complexion was papery, though, as if she’d been in the sun too long, and open sores decorated her mouth. She barely had anything on—just her stays and stockings, and a moth-eaten shawl over that. Hettie couldn’t help but grimace. “Aren’t you a sweet thang? Awful young to be out here on your own, though.”

  Hettie pulled her hat lower and averted her eyes. Hopefully, the girl would get the hint and leave.

  “You goin’ to the fight tonight?” the woman asked. “’Cuz if you ain’t, I’m fixin’ for a little company.”

  “Fight?”

  “Boss Smythe holds boxing matches down in the warehouse. He’s got a prize for whoever knocks out his man, Camden Cobra. Ain’t all that interesting if you ask me.” She trailed a finger along Hettie’s shoulder. “I ain’t ever had anyone young and sweet as you. You dipped your wick in the wax yet?”

  Hettie jerked away. “My pa’ll be here any minute.” She tried to force as much warning into her tone, but it came out a squeak.

  The woman only smiled more broadly and leaned forward, displaying her ample bosom. “How about a Missy twofer special? I’ll do your pa, and you for half price. Hell, I’d give you a free one if it weren’t for hard times. I’m awful smitten by you, and I bet you could use a little comfort.” She caressed Hettie’s cheek, tracing a finger along the edge of the bandage. “Must’ve been quite a fight you won. I’d like to see what the other guy looks like.”

  Hettie’s face exploded in heat, and she moved out of the woman’s reach. “I’m not interested.”

  She sighed. “Real shame. We coulda had fun.” She got up slowly. “You change your mind, you ask for Missy.” She sashayed over to the next table, launching into the same sales pitch with the bearded man she’d draped herself across.

  Hettie got up. This was a stroke of luck. The warehouse sounded exactly like the kind of place she might find a man skilled enough to track down Abby. She would have to watch carefully, though, for someone with integrity—the last thing she wanted was to be robbed blind in this town.

  “If you’re headed to the fight, you’ll want to leave that behind.” The red-faced woman jerked her chin at Hettie’s rifle as she passed. “No guns allowed at Boss Smythe’s.”

  Hettie huffed. She hid the Winchester in her room and locked the door.

  The large square building at the end of the main thoroughfare sat in a big empty yard and had two levels and giant sliding doors on either side. Oily light spilled out, along with the shouts of men and the smells of stale beer, tobacco, and unwashed bodies.

  Past the wall of muscle and bulge crammed tight against a fenced-in ring, two opponents in the center faced off. It was hot and fuggy in the warehouse. A quick glance around at the audience told her none of these hardscrabble men were up to the task of finding her sister. The man Hettie needed would be in the fight, not watching it.

  Hettie pushed through the crowd and ducked between bodies, seeking out a good vantage point. She climbed the stairs jammed with men and wormed her way into a spot by a post on the upper level.

  The two pugilists in the dirt-floor ring were large, muscled men, stripped down to their trousers. One man’s bright orange beard was stained with blood. Hettie studied him with the discerning eye of a cattle buyer. He looked plenty tough, and probably full of grit. He moved gracefully, conserving his strength as he faced his opponent.

  The other man dripped sweat. A dark wave of damp hair curled around his neck. His back was covered in bruises and scars, and blood flowed freely from a cut above his eye. He swayed slightly, obviously hurt and winded. Hettie frowned. She’d need someone with a lot more staying power than this poor fella.

  The dark-haired man circled the ring until she could see his face. With a jolt, she realized it was Walker Woodroffe, the man who’d scared her father and Uncle so thoroughly they’d packed up and left town in the middle of the night. She gripped the post and slid a little lower.

  The red-bearded man dove toward Walker. He danced away and raised his fists, wavering where he stood. The crowd booed.

  “C’mon, now, lad, you can’t run from me all night. Yer sure t’get yer licks sooner or later. I promise t’won’t hurt much.” Redbeard opened his arms wide. Clumsily, Woodroffe fell for it, sliding in too slowly with a right hook that the other man easily dodged. He feinted, ducked a jab, then slammed a fist into the side of Woodroffe’s head.

  The crowd cheered as he fell to the ground. He scrambled unsteadily to his feet.

  “I know you’re better’n that,” Redbeard taunted.

  Walker rushed him recklessly. Redbeard sidestepped him and landed a blow that flattened him onto his front. Hettie gasped. He lay so still.

  The crowd roared as Redbeard soaked in their applause. He stepped over his dark-haired opponent, feet planted either side of his hips, and reached down to grab his hair and yank him up. “Now, then, boyo—”

  Walker swept his legs up beneath him, curling, pulling the man down as he grabbed his wrist, kicked the man’s feet out from under him, then twisted and threw his weight directly on top of Redbeard. Like a snake, Walker coiled himself around him, pulling his arm up in an unnatural position that seemed to be pulling it out of his shoulder socket.

  The crowd cried out as Redbeard screamed. He slapped the ground repeatedly in surrender.

  Walker released him. At the edge of the ring, men congratulated him, poured water over his sopping head, and toweled him off. Money flew from hand to hand amid grumbles and whoops. A pair of men led Redbeard limping out of the ring.

  A bloated man in a sweat-stained Southern-styled white suit entered the ring. His thin pate of blond hair wa
s slicked back from his pudgy red face. He held a fat unlit cigar in his hand. An onyx stone the size of an egg glittered darkly from his index finger. Looking at him, Hettie couldn’t help but think of an overcooked ham hock.

  “The winner of this match—Camden Cobra!” He held up Walker’s arm. The bounty hunter gave a halfhearted wave, panting. The crowd roared its approval—even the ones who’d lost a substantial bet cheered.

  “That makes it Cobra’s, what, eleventh fight this week?” the man next to Hettie addressed his companion. She listened surreptitiously. The smaller man with the ten-gallon hat chewed a piece of leathery looking jerky and nodded. “He can’t possibly go another round.”

  “He’s got to be using magic or something,” the Hat said around his mouthful of jerky. “I’d say the whole thing is rigged, except for Boss Smythe’s circle.” He nodded at the man in the white suit.

  “Don’t tell me you trust that snake-oil peddler,” the first man spat. “He’s got just about enough magic to keep a fly out of the way. Probably borrowed magic, at that. Weak juice, too. No, he’s definitely got this whole thing rigged. I’m just waiting for that Cobra to slip up and show his hand. No way a mundane could last all this time. It’s gotta be magicked.”

  “Cobra will be back in fifteen minutes to face his next opponent,” Boss Smythe said. “If you’re of a mind to face Cobra, see my man. The pot’s up to two hundred dollars.” He ushered Walker “Cobra” Woodroffe out of the ring and up the stairs.

  Walker was headed straight for her. With the landing jammed with men eager to pat Cobra on the back and congratulate him, she had nowhere to hide.

  She turned her face to the crowd below. It was too high to jump. She sat paralyzed and prayed he didn’t see her.

  His big bare feet clomped past. They went to a door at the end of the walkway. She didn’t look up until she heard three sharp raps. The door opened.

  The blood left her face, and her lungs seized.

  She recognized those dull, piggy features. The flaccid lips and thin eyebrows did nothing to help break up the flat expanse of his wide brow. An ill-fitting bowler hat perched upon his head like a sentry, and his belligerent expression suited his babyish countenance about as well as his stained, threadbare waistcoat.

  The last time she’d seen this man, he’d shot her father in the chest.

  Hettie swallowed tightly. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Walker Woodroffe had come to the ranch only hours before the Crowe gang. He and Bowler Hat must know each other somehow.

  She breathed deep, trying to still the banging of her heart. She needed more information. Bowler Hat could lead her to Abby and the rest of the Crowe gang.

  She sidled up to the door and pressed an ear against it. She couldn’t hear a thing with all the noise from the men lingering within the warehouse. She peeked through the dirty office windows.

  Walker sat forward in a chair too small for his broad frame, ladling water from a bucket over his head, shoulders, and back. Boss Smythe, the man in the white suit, paced back and forth, gesturing wildly. She still couldn’t make out what he said.

  Bowler Hat stood at the other end of the room, his puffy face pouting.

  Hettie hurried outside. It was a matter of seconds to find a ladder that led up to the corrugated metal roof. Carefully, she tiptoed across the edge, out of sight of the open window and the street, and listened hard.

  “…go on.” Boss Smythe’s voice was harsh and nasal. “One more night, at the very least.”

  “If you wanted a fighting machine, you’d bring one in from the east.” Walker’s voice was low and remote. “I can’t go another round. Not tonight. Put someone else in.”

  “They came here to see the Cobra strike! You don’t want to disappoint them, do you?”

  “That Irishman nearly did him in, Boss.” That soft but gruff voice had to be Bowler Hat’s. “Cam can fight better if he gets a break. You’ve already pushed him—”

  “I don’t pay you to talk or think, Teddy,” Smythe snapped.

  Teddy remained silent as Boss Smythe went on.

  “The next fight’ll be easy. Three rounds with a Chinaman. Little fella. Don’t think he’ll last ten seconds with you.” He chuckled softly, but it wasn’t a kind laugh.

  “And that’s supposed to be entertaining?” Walker scoffed.

  “So give the fellas a show. Make the suffering last. Pound him till he stops moving and show that slanty-eyed monkey his place. Then you can have the rest of the night off.”

  Walker responded quietly, “And my cut?”

  “You’ll get it tomorrow. This is the longest run we’ve ever had, and the payout’s been good. You’ll get your share, don’t you worry. Now how about we give the fellas a show, huh? Nothing like a good old-fashioned whupping to get them to empty their pockets. Go clean yourself up. I’m going to check on your competition.”

  The door creaked open and slammed shut. Hettie heard more water splashing. “Boss don’t know a thing about fighting, and he sure as hell don’t know about Chinamen,” Teddy grumbled. “I hear there are men who can punch through stone walls where they’re from. You’ll be smart not to underestimate this next one.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Walker said.

  “Just be careful.”

  The door opened and closed once more. When she looked in, the room was empty.

  Hettie dithered. Without her rifle, she had no leverage over Teddy, and she doubted she could offer anyone in the building enough to help her take him down. But she couldn’t let Teddy out of her sight either. She slipped back down the ladder and rejoined the throng inside.

  Teddy stood by the door to the office, his gaze fixed on the match in progress. She noted the shotgun in his hand and the gun at his hip. She could only hope he wouldn’t be carrying both with him when she confronted him. She didn’t spot any other Crowe gang members … but she wasn’t about to make her presence known before she could say for sure.

  She found a spot where she could keep an eye on Teddy close to the door, where the press of people wasn’t quite so thick. She couldn’t see much of the ring from here, though, only the occasional flash of Woodroffe’s dark head.

  The audience booed. They were getting bored. They wanted to see blood, and no one was obliging. The man who’d been blocking her view stepped away, and suddenly Hettie could see everything. Her heart shot up into her throat.

  Shoeless and shirtless, Ling Tsang stood poised, legs spread, knees bent, arms weaving a slow snakelike pattern in front of him. A look of cool concentration kept his expression neutral, his dark eyes on his opponent, who assessed him with the same calculated calm as they circled. The air around them seemed to vibrate.

  “Chicken!” someone yelled, and an apple core bounced off Ling’s chest.

  Hettie couldn’t believe the hand fate was dealing her tonight. If she were more superstitious, she’d say this was a sign. What it was trying to tell her, she had no clue. All she knew was that Ling was in danger, but if she wasn’t careful either Woodroffe or Teddy would spot her, and she’d be caught in the open.

  She should go back to the Dove and get her gun. Wait Teddy out, see where Walker stood. But then Woodroffe suddenly lunged. Ling twisted at the last minute and in a gravity-defying move kicked up and slammed a heel down on the bounty hunter’s shoulder. Walker lurched and crashed against the ropes. The crowd cheered him on, and pushed him back into the fray. Ling met him with renewed caution, prowling. Hettie couldn’t tear her eyes away. The air buzzed with something foul and dangerous, and she worried for Ling’s health and safety.

  He feinted, left and right. Walker had learned his lesson and wasn’t so hasty to attack again. He shifted his stance; now he nearly mirrored Ling.

  The Celestial became a blur of movement. Walker barely dodged a high kick to his head, blocking a series of lightning-fast punches, but a heel to his abdo
men thrust him backward, and he doubled over.

  Ling kneed him in the face, smashing his nose, landed two devastating blows to the sides of his head, and then kicked him across the ring.

  Walker fell flat on his back. He didn’t move.

  Hettie covered her mouth to suppress her cheers. The crowd’s cries of disbelief and astonishment rose. They grew angry, their shouts and boos boiling to a crescendo.

  Smythe and Teddy pushed their way into the ring to check on the Cobra. He was out cold.

  Smythe glared down at the leanly muscled Ling and then back at his champion. Hettie got a bad feeling. A really bad feeling.

  “Well, well,” he gritted, complexion purpling. “Seems you’ve knocked out Camden Cobra.”

  “The poster said there was a cash prize for whoever could.” Ling’s voice was a thread of steel. Acid ate at Hettie’s stomach—the crowd didn’t look pleased by this turn of events, even if it had won some of them a fat wad of bills.

  “They had to knock him out fairly, without the use of magics.” Smythe’s imperceptible nod summoned two men into the ring. They grabbed Ling by the arms. He struggled as Smythe patted him down. All he had on were pants. There was no way he could hide a talisman on him—

  “Aha!” Smythe pulled a string of jade beads seemingly from Ling’s pocket, but she saw how he’d slipped them from his own sleeve. The snake! The crowd booed.

  Smythe held the beads up in the air like a trophy. “Eastern magic! I knew it! What do we do with cheaters, boys?”

  “Run him out of town!”

  “Cut off his fingers!”

  “String ’im up!”

  Ling struggled against his captors. He was yelling something, but then one of the men restraining him cuffed him in the back of the head and he went limp. They dragged him away, and the crowd swallowed him up. Teddy remained behind, still trying to rouse Walker from his daze.

  Hettie hesitated. She couldn’t let Teddy out of her sight. He was her only lead to the rest of the Crowe gang…