The Devil's Revolver

by V. S. McGrath

  She didn’t answer him. She wasn’t about to tell a stranger she was having visions of her sister’s confinement, or that she’d heard Abby calling her name. He’d dismiss it as the ravings of a grief-stricken female. “In dreams, perhaps, or even visions?” he pressed. “Have you talked to her?”

  He was a powerful enough sorcerer that he seemed to know about things she couldn’t explain, so she relented. The worst he could do was laugh at her. “Twice now, in my sleep, I saw a stone room with cages. I suppose it could have just been a dream, but I could hear and smell everything as if I was there.”

  “Was your sister a potential?”

  “She was still too young to get tested. But sometimes she’d get all dreamy and tell us she was talking to her friends. Ma was sick when she was pregnant with her, and she was never well after Abby, either. Truth is, Abby’s never been altogether right in the head.” She felt a little guilty for describing her sister so perfunctorily. “She also said she can talk to our dead brother.”

  “So she could be gifted.” Walker rubbed his chin. “I won’t discount the possibility that your sister’s a necromancer, rare as it is. But she could be confusing him with someone else she’s talking to. I’ve heard that some people have the ability to speak to others far, far away with their minds.”

  “Is it like how you and Uncle and that Thomas Stubbs talked in Hawksville?”

  “That was just a voice projection spell. I’m talking about men who can project themselves straight across the country and appear in another person’s thoughts, or sometimes show the person they’re communicating with their location. It’s possible she was trying to tell you where she was.” Walker’s probing look lingered and made Hettie’s skin tingle. She forced herself to meet his eye. “I might be able to help you find Abby if you let me,” he said.

  Cautious optimism crept into her breast, but she wouldn’t let a few promises mislead her again. “How?”

  “I can look at your memories of this vision, study the images you’ve seen. These links leave impressions—like a trail of breadcrumbs. She found you all the way out here somehow, so she’ll have left a path. If I can retrace it, we can pinpoint her location.”

  She recoiled. “I’m not letting you in my head. You want Diablo. What’s to say you won’t plant some idea to make me hand it over?” She remembered Uncle’s manipulation and found herself mad all over again.

  Walker’s glacial gaze made her wince. “If I were that desperate, we wouldn’t be talking right now.”

  True enough, but she still couldn’t trust him. “Don’t take it personally, Mr. Woodroffe. I can’t afford to trust anyone. Uncle Jeremiah misled me about his intentions, Butch Crowe nearly did me in, the Pinks are out to kill me, and now you come along—”

  He moved lightning quick like a striking viper and pinched her chin, forcing her to look directly into his stormy eyes. Her breath hitched, and her heart pounded. “You listen to me, Miss Alabama. I’ve been nothing but gracious and decent to you. I saved your life back there. Do not compare me to those lowlife sons of—”

  His words were cut off as a snarling mass bowled into him. Hettie scrambled back as Walker rolled across the dirt, struggling with a slightly smaller figure. Cymon started barking but didn’t join in the fray.

  “Miss Hettie, run!”

  Walker rose up and slugged his assailant across the jaw, but the slimmer man clung ferociously, long limbs wrapped around his waist and neck.

  “Ling?”

  Jezebel’s familiar whinny confirmed the man’s identity. Hettie sat frozen for a heartbeat as the men struggled.

  “Ling, stop.” She stumbled to her feet just as the two men broke apart. Walker drew his gun. Hettie leaped between them. “Don’t shoot.” She turned to Ling. “It’s okay. Mr. Woodroffe saved me.”

  Walker grabbed her wrist and yanked her behind him. “You don’t know for sure who that is,” Walker growled. “Some Pinkerton agents use glamor magic to disguise themselves.”

  She snatched her hand out of his grip and glared. “Ling, how much money did I give you the day you left Newhaven?”

  “You didn’t give me anything. It was a loan, and one I will repay with blood if I must.”

  Good enough for her. “Stand down, Mr. Woodroffe. This is Ling Tsang. You’ve met before.”

  The bounty hunter’s fingers flexed. Then he holstered the gun.

  Ling brushed himself off. The soles of his bare feet were cracked and dirty from the treacherous walk across the ground. The two men sized each other up as they had in Boss Smythe’s ring. Cymon stayed rooted, tail wagging.

  “Miss Hettie, are you … all right?” Ling eyed Walker narrowly, his mouth pinched in the corners. He was probably worried about her honor.

  “I’m fine,” she hurried to assure him. “This is Walker Woodroffe. He was the one who saved us in Hawksville.”

  “A fighter and a sorcerer,” Ling mused, and addressed Hettie. “When you didn’t come back, I went looking for you. Hawksville was left in quite a ruin. Half the town was on fire.”

  “Wasn’t me,” Walker said at Hettie’s accusing look. “I only cast that spell twice before I hightailed it outta there. Had to be Bassett and that Stubbs fella.”

  “Did you happen to see my Uncle in town?” Hettie pressed.

  Ling blinked. “Mr. Bassett? No. I thought you said he was drinking in a saloon somewhere?”

  Hettie’s web of lies was starting to tangle. She said quickly, “In Hawksville, yeah.”

  Ling didn’t question her further. She didn’t like lying to him, because of the three men she trusted him most. He’d had no idea what Diablo was and hadn’t wanted anything to do with it. And he’d expressed his wish to help find Abby, which was more than what either Uncle or Walker had offered. Guilt settled over her like another layer of grime.

  The bounty hunter dusted his hands and nodded at Hettie. “She’s got some bruised ribs. Think you can do anything for her?”

  Ling scowled at his commanding tone, and Walker’s dark eyebrow cocked up. “You’re a healer, aren’t you? I can feel the Qi coming off you, you know.”

  “I will heal her.” The way he said it told them he was doing it for her, not because he’d been ordered to.

  “Qi?” she asked.

  “It is the source of my power. The energy of the body and spirit.” He smoothed a palm over her side, soothing away the aches in her muscles and joints, and she sighed. She was beginning to like his touch a little too much.

  While Ling healed her, Walker walked in a wide perimeter around the campsite, weaving his fingers through the air, wrists jangling with talismans as he cast protective spells to shield them. Hettie wondered if he had forgotten to erect them earlier or whether Ling had somehow broken through the barrier and they had to be renewed.

  “What does he want?” Ling asked quietly as he probed her ribs.

  She considered not telling him about Diablo’s history, but she couldn’t hide the truth from everyone all at once. Briefly, she explained Woodfroffe’s mission and related her past encounters with the bounty hunter, starting with the day of the Robson boys’ shooting contest. Then she explained Diablo’s curse. Ling remained unperturbed when she told him she’d killed three men since they’d parted early that morning.

  “Is there anything you can do to reverse the curse?” Hettie asked hopefully.

  “Healing magic can’t reverse a geis like this. But I can’t claim to know all the secrets of the old masters.” Ling lowered his voice further. “Do you trust him?”

  “Not even a little. But he hasn’t killed me yet, so that’s something.”

  Walker rejoined them, glancing at Ling’s bare feet. “Pretty brave to be walking across rattlesnake country with no boots on. You’re either lucky or light on your feet.” He went to a pile on the ground, where he picked up a pair of boots and tossed them hi
s way. “Don’t complain if they don’t fit. I got ’em off one of the Pinks Miss Alabama shot.”

  Without another word, Walker distributed hard biscuits and passed around a canteen of water. She doubted poison was his weapon of choice, and ate ravenously and without complaint. A dank chill had seeped into her bones. She stayed crouched by the fire, soaking up as much of its warmth as she could.

  It was a long time before Ling said, “Thank you for saving my life. And Miss Hettie’s.”

  Walker stabbed at the fire. “Not me you need to be thanking. Miss Alabama’s the one who got you out of that noose.”

  “Yes.” He bowed his head. “Which is why I’ve pledged myself to serving and protecting her while she searches for her sister.”

  “Noble of you.” Woodroffe took out a knife from his boot along with a whetstone from his pocket and gave the short, sharp blade a few quick, precise strokes. “But what’s in it for you really?”

  “Not all of us are out to make a profit.” Ling’s eyes glinted like two onyx stones. “My honor means more than any bounty ever could.”

  Walker scoffed. “Honor doesn’t put food in your belly or keep a roof over your head. She offer you a reward to help find her sister?”

  “I don’t need her money,” Ling asserted. “Her family provided me with more than I can ever repay.”

  “Sure.” Walker slid the knife back in his boot and rolled out a gun-cleaning kit. He carefully began disassembling his weapons. “So, Miss Alabama, before we were so rudely interrupted by your champion”—he flicked a look toward Ling—“how exactly do you plan to track down your sister?”

  The biscuit stuck in her throat. “She went south, so that’s where I’ll go.”

  “And what? Storm the Crowe gang’s hideout? A girl and a Chinaman with a spark of healing magic and one enchanted six-gun between them hardly stands a chance against that bunch, much less the Pinkertons who’re after you.”

  She crossed her arms. “If you’re so concerned about my safety, you should return my gun.”

  “No, I don’t think that’s going to happen. Besides, it’d be safer out of your hands. A farm girl like you shouldn’t worry her pretty little head about it. Just let me deal with it.”

  Hettie ground her teeth together. “That gun is mine. My father and mother died protecting it. You have no right to keep it from me.”

  Walker paused, peering over the wheel. “If you fire it again, the Pinkerton Agency will be on you in minutes. Diablo gives off a very powerful signature, like a stone dropping in a still pond. They have a team of remote Zoom tunnel conductors at their disposal, which means they’ll find you wherever you are within minutes of pulling that trigger.”

  “They’re already looking for me. They’re probably trying to track me down right now.” She grew nervous. She hadn’t noticed its effects before, but now, without Uncle’s anti-Eye charm, she felt exposed. “If I don’t have a weapon to protect myself with, I’ll be dead for sure.”

  Walker met her stare coolly. “I’m not giving it back to you.”

  Hettie clenched her fists. A tremor started in her trigger finger. She curved her hand, picturing Diablo’s grip digging into her palm.

  The weight became real and solid. She swung her arm up and pointed the gun at Walker.

  “You conjured it!” Ling jerked back in surprise.

  Hettie’s hand trembled. Her finger spasmed over the trigger guard. Heart thumping, she lowered the weapon.

  “So it’s true.” Walker buffed the barrel of his gun, glancing up only briefly. “I had to be certain you were actually bonded,” he said. “I put Diablo under a hide spell with a few safety wards. You broke through them like they were nothing.”

  She stared at the ivory grip, sticky with blood that should have dried by now. It felt as though her hands would never be clean. “I don’t know if you realize just how dangerous that is,” Walker went on. “With a thought, that weapon is primed and loaded and aimed to kill. It doesn’t even need to be in your hand. You get angry or frightened, and it could be there, and you could be shooting someone you loved in the face without realizing you’d done it.”

  “That won’t happen.” Hettie shoved it hastily into her pocket and wiped her hands on her soiled skirt. Her one good dress was thoroughly ruined now, she thought, and wondered at the strange trail of her thoughts. Her clothes hardly mattered considering what she faced.

  “You don’t know that. You don’t know anything about that weapon, and your ignorance, more than anything else, is what’ll do you the most harm.” Walker loaded the freshly cleaned revolver and snapped the wheel back in place. “The way I see it, if you give me the Diablo now, I can take it back to Punta and it’ll all be over. No one will chase you, no one will try to kill you. And then I can come back and help you find your sister.”

  “You say that as though your word means something,” Ling said. “What would be in it for you? You’re just a mercenary for hire.”

  Hearing his words parroted back to him, Walker sent Ling a dark look. “When I make a promise, I keep my word.”

  That didn’t exactly reassure Hettie, but there was something in his steely demeanor that told her he was a man who wouldn’t renege on a deal. “The only time I’ll be giving up Diablo is when I get my sister back,” she said.

  Walker sat back, hands resting on his knees. “Tell me why you think your sister can be found.”

  “Before he … Before I killed him”—she forced herself to say—“Teddy said something about my sister being taken south to the Mexican border. He said they went by remote Zoom tunnel to a hideout or something.”

  “The border stretches two thousand miles. You’re not exactly narrowing down the search any.”

  “Why would the Crowe gang take Miss Abby south?” Ling asked.

  “The border towns are havens for illegals and cross-border smugglers,” Walker said. “I’ve heard stories of children being sold on both sides of the border as slaves or child brides … or as blood sacrifices.”

  Hettie thought about her dreams of the stone room with the cages and shuddered. She didn’t want to think about what Abby would be used for.

  “Whatever it is you saw in your vision, it would help if I could see it, too,” Walker insisted.

  “You’ve had visions?” Ling asked.

  Hettie told him about her dreams.

  “Her sister might be projecting,” Walker explained.

  Ling considered her a long moment. “If you trust me, I can attempt to rebuild your memory so you can give us clearer details about what you saw. If you can tell us about the surroundings—the vegetation and geography—perhaps Mr. Woodroffe will have a better idea of where to look.”

  Hettie looked between the two men. She didn’t relish the idea of anyone poking through her thoughts, but without something more to go on she would have a hard time finding Abby. She nodded at Ling. “All right. Just promise you won’t go messing around with anything in there.” She didn’t need to look at Walker’s face to know he wasn’t happy she’d picked Ling over him for this ritual.

  Ling sat cross-legged in front of her and placed his palms on either side of her head, lightly brushing her temples. “Think about Abby and the last time you saw her.”

  She closed her eyes and thought about that night at the ranch, the fire raging through the barn and silo, Abby’s piercing scream. Warmth trickled through her, like tepid bathwater running across her skin. The stone room slowly formed in her mind’s eye, as if arising from a fog, hazy and dreamlike. All she saw were empty, shadowy cages. She didn’t smell the putrid air or feel the cold stone as before. It was a lifeless image, frozen in time.

  “I see the room,” she said.

  “Are there any windows?” Ling prompted.

  She looked about. “No.”

  “What do you see?”

  “There are fourt
een cages. I can’t see what’s inside them now, but the last time I saw this place, there were children. There’s a wood door on the far wall. And a drain in the floor, with a big grate on top.”

  “You said there are no windows. How can you see?”

  She looked up. An oil lamp cast its eerie, unwavering glow around the dungeon. “There’s a lantern by the door.”

  “Pick up the lantern.”

  She reached out tentatively. The thing wasn’t exactly solid, but the fixture moved with her, casting its light now in strange, shifting patterns, like sunlight rippling through little waves in a shallow stream.

  “Look at the ground carefully. What do you see?”

  “It’s damp.” She swallowed thickly. “There’s blood.”

  “What else?”

  “A bit of straw.”

  “What about dirt? Sand?”

  She squinted. “Sand. Yes, there’s a lot of sand in the corners.” She looked at the grouting between the roughly hewn stones. “It’s on the walls, too.”

  “What color is it?”

  She peered, reached out to the little piles, but they didn’t stir at her probing. “Reddish.”

  “They’re in the desert.” Walker’s voice sent ripples through the vision. The lantern dimmed until she could no longer see the room. “My guess is Arizona.”

  Hettie opened her eyes, slightly disoriented, blinking away the dazzling firelight. “That narrows it down, doesn’t it?”

  “Not by much, but it’s a start.”

  Hope flared bright in Hettie, brighter than it had since she’d woken. “Mr. Woodroffe, I’ll make you a deal. You’re a trained bounty hunter—bring my sister to me alive and I’ll give you Diablo.”

  To her surprise, he shook his head. “It’s one thing to go after criminals and men on the run. But facing the Crowe gang in their stronghold while they have some powerful and mysterious sorcerer in their employ?” He gave a dismissive wave. “That’s a whole other kettle of fish. Besides, there’s no guarantee your sister is alive or will stay alive once I find her.”