But she couldn’t leave Ling to die.
She ran to the saloon, which was emptying out as news of the imminent lynching spread. Even if there was a sheriff or marshal in town, she knew no law could stop a mob this big, bored, and angry. She took the stairs two at a time and crashed into her room. She grabbed her bags and Winchester, and headed down to get Jezebel.
Looked like she wasn’t going to get to sleep in that bed after all.
Hettie followed the stragglers up the hill toward the far end of town, where a crudely fenced plot served as a cemetery. Tough scrub sprouted from the sandy dirt at the bases of the worn, cracked headstones and roughly hewn wooden crosses. A gnarled dead tree that’d been stripped of its bark lorded over the graveyard. Someone threw a rope over one of the high branches with practiced ease.
A knot of people hastened toward the tree. Ling hung limply between two men. Hettie’s grip tightened on the rifle across her lap.
“Can’t string him up yet, boys. Not when he’s still asleep.” Smythe stepped up and slapped Ling across the face several times. He pulled his pants down and urinated on him. Still, he didn’t wake. The crowd laughed and jeered, and Smythe grew even redder in the face.
Hettie prayed Ling stayed asleep until she could come up with a plan.
Jezebel chuffed and trotted toward the side of a building. Hettie had to grab the reins and yank her to a stop. “What are you doing?”
The mare pulled at her lead and kept walking toward a boarded-up store. She stopped by a stack of empty crates and tossed her head.
Hettie looked up. If she could get on the roof, she’d have a perfect vantage of the tree. She climbed the rickety stack and pulled herself over the lip of the roof. It creaked beneath her weight.
It was a good hundred feet to the tree, and the crowd had to number more than fifty men. When that rope tautened, would she be able to shoot it? She sure as hell wouldn’t be able to do much else before someone spotted her.
Ling’s chin bobbed. Smythe grabbed his cheeks and said something very close to his face.
“It ain’t gonna be quick,” Smythe declared to the crowd, who cheered raucously.
A sour lump formed in her throat and her stomach. Hettie had seen a lynching when she was very young. It’d happened in Newhaven, and there hadn’t been one since. A negro had been accused of raping a girl in town, and the marshal—not McCowan, but the old marshal—had been helpless to stop the girl’s father and five brothers from hauling him out of the cell to dispense their own justice. The way the man had kicked and flailed for that long, slow minute had given her nightmares for weeks.
The worst part was that it’d turned out to be a false story, concocted by a jealous suitor. No one had been charged after the fact.
Hettie made sure the rifle was fully loaded, then chambered a round. Assuming she could shoot the rope down, she’d ride Jezebel through the crowd and grab Ling. A few more shots over their heads might scare the mob out of the way before they realized she was just a crazy girl on a horse.
They dragged Ling toward the tree and cinched the noose tight around his neck, then tied his hands behind his back.
Smythe stood on a crumbling tombstone, firelight casting his bulbous white form in a hellish aura. “This is where judgment comes for the weak, the damned. It’s time we showed everyone the dangers of foreigners and their demonic magic!” The crowd cheered. “It’s time to cleanse our country of these devils and their godless trickery. Real power comes from only one source—the purest blood from the one true Savior!”
At the crowd’s roar, the four men hauled on the rope, and Ling was lifted first a few inches, then a foot, then five feet off the ground. He kicked and struggled, his face going red-purple.
Hettie’s heart hammered sluggishly. The Winchester had twelve rounds, but she’d only get a few of those shots off before people started noticing. She set her teeth. If she didn’t hit the rope and set Ling free, she would make sure he didn’t suffer longer than necessary.
She focused on the place where the rope was slung over the worn branch. Ling’s face was a dark puce color, but then, by some miracle of strength and contortion, he threaded his legs through the loop of his bound wrists. With his hands in front of him, he twisted and wriggled, prying his finger between the rope and his neck, giving him only momentary reprieve before the crowd shouted and rushed to end him.
Stop moving around so much, she implored silently.
Hettie focused on her target and fired. Chips and sawdust flew from the branch. The mob ducked and scattered, shouts filling the air. She reloaded quickly and fired again. Men drew their pistols as they searched for their assailant.
A shot rang out, then another. A shower of splinters flew up from the shingled roof three feet away. She scrambled back, reloaded her gun, took aim at the rope.
Fire exploded on her right arm as a shot ripped through her shoulder. The rifle tumbled from her grip and clattered to the ground. She gripped the wound, blood oozing between her fingers. A bullet whizzed by her ear, and more pinged off the tin flashing as she scrambled and rolled out of the way.
Jezebel whinnied shrilly as Ling continued to kick at the air. Gritting her teeth, Hettie slid off the roof and tumbled onto the crates, then crashed to the ground. Pain exploded in her shoulder, but she pushed through it, scooped up her rifle, and climbed onto the mare, spurring her toward the tree.
Jezebel gained speed, muscles bunching as her strides lengthened. Hettie took aim, waiting for that breathless instant all of Jezebel’s hooves left the ground to squeeze the trigger. She just had to hit the branch where the rope was—
A shock wave slammed into her back, knocking the rifle from her hands. All around her, the world was thrown into a hellish blaze. People screamed as they beat the fire on their clothes. She gripped Jezebel’s mane as they charged through the mob. Men leaped out of their path. The mare barreled toward a wall of flame, and Hettie shouted, but they passed through without burning.
Jezebel planted herself between the crowd and Ling, who put his feet on her rump. Hettie used her hunting knife to slice the noose off. She hauled him onto the horse, and he looped his still-tied hands around her waist. “Hang on!” she yelled, and kicked Jezebel hard. The mare reared and let out an unearthly whinny, the inferno raging all around her.
As she wheeled about, Hettie caught Smythe’s beet-red face twisted in murderous rage.
They took off. Shots rang out. Hettie stayed low, Ling clutching her waist tight. Another wave of heatless fire washed over them, buffeting her with a blast of air, and men screamed.
Jezebel headed straight out of Hawksville and across the plains. It was a long time before she slowed to a canter, lungs heaving, her flanks damp with sweat.
In the shadow of a slope, Ling slid from the saddle and hacked dryly. Hettie cut the rope on his wrists and passed him her canteen, and he gulped down half its contents. She studied her surroundings. Jezebel had brought them to an area with long, lush grasses. There must be a water source nearby.
“I think we’re safe for now,” she said once she’d had a drink of water, washing the acrid tang of fear from her mouth. She was shaking, and her arm ached terribly, but the gunshot wound wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d thought it would be. She still needed to clean and bandage it, though.
“Thank you for saving me,” Ling rasped. “I owe you my life, stranger.”
She stared at him perplexed, then remembered her hair and bandage. She took off her hat. “It’s me, Mr. Tsang. Hettie Alabama.”
“Miss Hettie?” Ling’s eyes went huge. “What are you doing here? Where’s your father? Is he with you?”
“He … he was killed a few weeks back. Ma, too. And Abby is missing.” That peculiar emptiness echoed within her.
“Abby’s … missing?” Ling slumped to the ground, arms looped loosely around his knees. “I—I’m very sorry to h
ear that. Your parents were good people.” His grief fled as he noticed the blood soaking her sleeve, and he sat up. “You’ve been shot.”
“Several times, in fact.” She couldn’t help the dry laughter as she scratched at her bandaged head. “This is just a flesh wound.” A giddiness flooded her, and she grinned at the dark stains running down her arm. Some part of her celebrated the wound. She never would have guessed physical pain could be better than emotional numbness.
“I can help you,” he said, getting to his bare feet. He was still shirtless, as well, and his chest was streaked with sweat, dirt, and blood. Gently, he took her arm and started muttering a spell, but Hettie drew back sharply.
“It’s all right. I’m a healer,” Ling said.
Considering all the time he’d spent around her family, she thought it strange she didn’t know about his gift. He frowned at her hesitation.
“You don’t trust me.” He sighed.
“No, it’s not that,” she hurried to say. “I just thought … Doesn’t it take a lot out of you?” Despite all she knew about Ling, she wasn’t sure she trusted Eastern magic. Most people plied their spelltrade through conduits like herbs, talismans, potions, and of course blood, giving their spells and power a tether to the real world. But those who practiced ether magic supposedly drew magic directly from the source and channeled it unfiltered through themselves. She couldn’t fathom having unearthly, unfettered power going into her body like that.
Ling said, “If you leave this wound as it is, a lot more will be taken out of you.”
She backed away from him. “Let’s just bandage it up for now, okay? It’s not that serious. You can do your thing when we’ve both had some rest and food.”
They tore strips from one of Hettie’s petticoats for bandages, and Ling attended to the wound. Then they took turns cleaning up in the icy-cold stream Jezebel had sniffed out. By the time Hettie was clean, pain throbbed through her whole body. Just one more ache to add to the collection, she thought, rubbing at her thigh.
“Here.” She dug through her pack and found a shirt for Ling. It’d been one of Pa’s.
“How did it happen?” Ling asked quietly as he helped Hettie rub Jezebel down. “Your parents’ deaths, I mean.”
The starburst scar flashed through her mind. She told him briefly, haltingly, about that night, and how Uncle had saved her, but didn’t say anything about Diablo. She decided it was safer to keep some things to herself. Ling took it in, expression unreadable.
“Where is Mr. Bassett now?” he asked.
Considering how she’d left him, she decided it would be prudent to keep that part of the story from Ling, too. “Probably at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. He didn’t think it was worth looking for Abby.”
“You’re trying to find her.”
She nodded. “I wanted to hire someone in Hawksville to track down the Crowe gang. Then I recognized one of the men who was at the ranch that night at the warehouse—he’s one of Boss Smythe’s hired muscle, a man named Teddy. And that Camden Cobra fella’s really named Walker Woodroffe. At least, I think he is. He came looking for Pa that day, too. I think those two are in cahoots. I was going to follow them, but…” She trailed off. She didn’t want to make it sound as though saving Ling’s life had kept her from her purpose. “Well, I’m sure they’re still in town. I just have to figure out how I can go back to Hawksville…” Her words trailed off and whipped around, searching, hoping she was wrong. She moaned.
“What’s the matter?”
“I dropped my rifle back in town.” Her immediate worry should have been that someone would find traces of blood or sweat or something on it and use a spell to track her. But she was more devastated by the fact that she’d likely never get her precious rifle back.
Ling’s brow furrowed. “This is unfortunate.”
“Any chance you know a spell to keep critters away while we sleep?”
“My specialty’s in healing.”
She paused. “So … that wave of fire back in town wasn’t yours?”
“I don’t have that kind of skill. It would take a high-level sorcerer to cast an illusion spell that widespread in a magical-drought town like Hawksville. And I was too preoccupied to do that.” He pointed at the raw red marks ringing his neck.
She scanned the field for danger. “Well, if anyone from town finds us, we’re going to need weapons.”
“I doubt we’ll need to worry tonight. Everyone will be too tired to pursue us. It’s been my experience that mobs generally disperse once their fervor has been spent.”
They started a small fire. The night would be too cold without it and only one blanket between them. Hettie asked, “How’d you end up in Hawksville?”
“I’d been on the road for a few days and wanted to see if any bounties had been put on me, and find out if it was safe to go back to Newhaven. I came upon a man in distress on the road, and when I stopped to help him he made off with my horse and most of my belongings. Luckily for me, I had my money on my person. I walked the rest of the way to town and have been stuck here since.”
A brisk wind cut through her clothes, and she shivered. Ling couldn’t be comfortable in just that shirt, so she scrounged in her bag in search of another layer to add. Her fingers came away wet. Blood. She checked herself but found no wound from which it had come. She emptied the bag onto the ground. The box containing Diablo landed in the dirt with a heavy thud. Uncle’s bloody handprint still hadn’t dried. Her stomach turned.
“What’s that?” Ling asked.
“A … gift from my uncle.” Then she remembered. “There’s a handgun inside, but I haven’t been able to open the box.”
“May I see?”
She was strangely reluctant to hand it over. “It’s … dirty.”
He grimaced at the stains left on his fingers. Holding the box with the corners digging into his palms, he gingerly turned the block. “It’s sealed with powerful blood magic.”
“Blood magic?” She nearly choked. “But … Uncle’s not a Kukulos warlock.”
“Blood magic isn’t exclusive to the Kukulos. Someone else could have put a spell on this box, too.” He inspected it. “I’ve encountered things like this before. Books and safes that can only be opened with a drop of the owner’s blood. Even houses and doors can be locked with blood if the sorcerer is powerful enough.” He passed the box back to her. “If this was a gift from your uncle, then it was meant for you alone to open.”
She loosened the bandage around her arm and dipped a finger beneath the dressing. Her finger came away sticky. She touched the top of the box. At first, nothing happened, but then a seam formed along the sides. The surface of the wood curdled. The box grew hot, and she dropped it. Ling took a step back, raising a hand as if ready to catch the box should it leap into his face.
With a sigh, the box stopped its transformation. She nudged it with a toe toward the fire to get a better look.
A fine latticework of figures covered the sides—tiny demons dancing around the fires of hell. A ghastly death’s skull grinned up at her from the lid.
“Mr. Bassett has … interesting tastes,” Ling said slowly.
She picked up the box and slowly lifted the lid. She felt as though she were opening an aeons-old tomb. Quiet awe tinged with dread filled her. Nestled in black velvet was a shiny revolver. The grip was made of buttery white ivory, smooth with a pearly sheen. The barrel and cylinder were shiny black metal, polished to such a gloss it was as if her gaze slipped right off the surface. The trigger was flat and smooth, with the exception of a small, bright red, needle-sharp thorn near the top. She grazed the tip and shivered at the thought of impaling her finger on that little pricker.
“That gun is enchanted with powerful magic,” Ling said warily. “Are you sure this was a gift?”
“What can you tell me about it?” She held it out to him. If this was
the legendary Diablo, then surely someone would recognize it.
He glanced from her to the revolver and licked his lips. “Miss Hettie, with all due respect, I don’t want to touch that thing, and you shouldn’t, either.”
“It’s just a gun.” She swallowed thickly. Just a gun … or else it was the Devil’s Revolver, a powerful magical weapon that had once been wielded by an immortal outlaw.
She had a sudden memory of the children playing Blackthorn Rogues in the streets of Newhaven. The words from that old rhyme rose in her mind, dripping with new meaning.
Round and round the circle whirls
Red blood flows through boys and girls
Who so e’er the black thorn pricks
Is the one Diablo picks.
Hettie stared at her bloodied hand. If any of the stories were true, the gun would only allow her to use it if she made a sacrifice of blood.
The stories also said it would make her the next Elias Blackthorn …
She shook her head. It was just a story, and she was no demonic outlaw. A mob was on their heels, and who knew what else lurked out on these plains? The metal gleamed seductively, winking in the firelight, drawing her in. She could almost feel its weight in her hand and the security it would provide…
Don’t be a ninny, she told herself. She was alone in the wilderness and without a weapon. She needed that gun.
She reached down and picked it up off the velvet.
Something zipped through her blood—an arrow of heat that went all the way to her toes. She closed her eyes, feeling lightheaded.
“Miss Hettie?”
She let out a long breath. The sensation dissipated. “I’m all right.” She inspected the handgun. Despite the weight of the box, the weapon was much lighter than she’d anticipated. She spun the empty wheel. “I think…” She reached into her bag and brought out a box of cartridges for her Winchester. They loaded easily. She snapped the wheel closed and sighted down its length. “That’s handy. I won’t even need to buy bullets.”
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