The Devil's Revolver

by V. S. McGrath

  They met up with Ling and Uncle and proceeded to the Gold Rose hotel. The lounge on the main floor had highly polished wood floors and tables covered with brocade tablecloths. Men in clean, fashionable suits with well-starched collars pored over sheaves of paper as they sipped coffee. Sophie sat at a table for two, sipping tea daintily. She waved at them, looking perfectly at home. Though no one spared the travelers a second glance, Hettie felt inadequate in her dirty shirt and trousers. She was grubby and probably stank from the weeks on the road.

  Behind Sophie, Jemma scanned the room with a fierce look, brandishing her Bible as if it were a bludgeon and glaring daggers at anyone who so much as glanced at her. She was the most effective chaperone Hettie had ever seen, though clearly Sophie was her own mistress and would readily accept the company of a tall, dark, dangerous stranger against Jemma’s better judgment.

  Walker introduced Ling and Jeremiah. Sophie acknowledged them with the barest of nods. She and Walker were going to “talk business,” she told them pertly—a clear dismissal. Walker eyed them and nodded imperceptibly.

  “We can’t afford anything they’ll be serving for dinner anyhow,” Uncle said gruffly as they left the stuffy dining room.

  They found a chophouse and for a few pennies got bowls of greasy stew made up of mostly potatoes and carrots. The softhearted cook took pity on Cymon and gave him a large soup bone, which the dog happily gnawed at Hettie’s feet.

  After dinner, they went back to the hotel, but a peek into the dining room told them Sophie and Walker weren’t done talking. Their heads were close together. Sophie’s giggles tinkled against the din.

  Hettie didn’t see what Sophie or Walker had to laugh about. Hadn’t he told her about Abby, locked away in some godforsaken dungeon? What was taking them so long?

  She barely noticed Jemma stalking toward them. “Miz Sophie invites you to enjoy dessert in the dining room.” She pointed at a table far away from the pair.

  “Well, that’s mighty kind of her,” Uncle said with a lopsided smile for Jemma. The maid barely acknowledged him and marched back to her post, watching her mistress unobtrusively from the sideboard.

  “I’m full from dinner,” Hettie said. The sour taste in her mouth couldn’t be tempered with any amount of dessert. “I’m going out for some fresh air.”

  Beneath the hotel’s overhang, she propped herself against the wall, watching the foot traffic and letting the cool evening calm her restless nerves. Cymon lay at her feet and gave an impatient sigh. How was all this sitting around helping Abby? The longer they delayed, the less chance they had of finding her.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. This had all been her idea, of course. She just hadn’t thought it would take so long. She had to be patient. She was not going to lose hope. She let out a long breath and reached out with her mind. I’m coming, Abby. Just hang on.

  Cymon raised his head and sat up, staring into the street. Three men in immaculate suits and bowler hats strode purposefully through the intersection, and the crowd parted for them. Their guns showed plainly on their hips. Another group of men joined them. The first group presented them with a thick sheaf of papers, and Hettie caught sight of a familiar silver eye badge glinting from one man’s breast pocket.

  Pinkertons! Hettie’s heart leaped as Cymon growled. She grabbed his collar and hastily pulled him back into the alley next to the hotel. They hurried through a side door that led into the kitchen and ignored the indignant shouts as they pushed through the service corridor and ran into the Gold Rose’s dining room.

  Sophie was still talking to Walker, one of her dainty hands resting on his forearm. Hettie drew up short, blew out an angry breath, and went to Uncle and Ling’s table instead. The two were mulling over cups of rich-smelling coffee. “The Pinks are here,” she told them, swallowing down the lump of panic. It tumbled into her gut, and she started trembling.

  Uncle sat up. “You’re sure?”

  “I just saw three men show papers to the local deputies. They let them keep their guns.”

  “It’s possible they’re here for someone else,” Ling said.

  “We can’t take any chances.” Uncle stood. “Horses are the priority. Then guns. Go get that slack-jawed Romeo.”

  When Ling didn’t immediately come back with Walker, Hettie craned her neck to see what the holdup was. Sophie was standing, one hand clamped tightly on Walker’s arm.

  “I will not be ignored and deserted, Mr. Woodroffe. I thought our agreement was fair and sealed. Do you not honor your contracts?”

  He bent and said something Hettie couldn’t hear, but it became clear when Sophie shrieked, “You’re sorry? I’m the one who’s sorry! Sorry for believing you a gentleman—”

  “Your attention!” A man’s voice boomed. The noise level dropped abruptly, and Sophie’s voice carried clearly through the room.

  “—who considered me as more than a strumpet bed warmer!”

  All eyes went straight to the strumpet. Bright flags of color flamed on her cheeks. Hettie had to admire the way Sophie drew herself up, blond ringlets bouncing defiantly. “What are you all looking at?” she snapped.

  “They’re here!” the man shouted, drawing his pistol.

  In one swift movement, Walker grabbed Sophie around the waist and hauled her in front of him as more men piled into the room. The other diners scattered or dove for cover. The bounty hunter pressed a serrated steak knife against her throat. “Don’t anyone move!”

  Sophie held perfectly still, straining against her captor. Outrage quickly morphed to terror. “Let me go,” she pleaded hoarsely. “I’ll pay whatever you want.”

  Before Hettie could shout a warning, Jemma launched herself at Walker, the Bible flying aside to reveal a short blade aimed at his face. With uncanny speed, Ling intercepted her. He chopped the blade out of her hand, parried an outthrust leg, and caught her wrist, twisting her around in an awkward angle. She let out a long string of cuss words as they struggled, crashing from one table to the next. The room stood paralyzed by the ferocity of the battle. Finally, he locked an arm around her neck, squeezing and cutting off her air supply, and she went silent, slumping in his arms.

  “Jemma!” Sophie screamed.

  “She’s only unconscious.” The menace in Ling’s voice suggested that could change as he spun the limp maid to face forward, joining Walker in the hostage-taking.

  “Whoa, now, boys, no need to get dramatic. These gentlemen just want to talk to you,” the man with the sheriff’s badge coaxed. Five men trained their weapons on them. Apart from the silver eye badge, it was easy to tell which of the party were Pinks—they oozed a cold, slick quality, like snakes crawling through pitch. “Drop your weapons and let the ladies go. There’s nowhere you can flee to from here.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t oblige, sheriff,” Walker said, his voice calm and low. “You’re going to let us walk free to the Zoom tunnel, understand? I can’t be held accountable for my actions otherwise.”

  “Give it up, boys. This won’t end well for any of you.” The sheriff, well-aged but a little paunchy, hitched his thumbs in his gun belt. He hadn’t drawn his sidearm, which worried Hettie all the more. The man was far too calm. “You ain’t got no weapons ’cept that tiny lil’ butter knife. And your magic’s no good here. I have a dozen deputies surrounding the joint. All it takes is a nod from me, and you’ll be blown to smithereens.”

  “Are you crazy?” Sophie’s eyes bulged. “He has a knife to my throat. Do you have any idea who I am?” She didn’t give them a chance to answer. “I am Sophie Favreau, of the Louisiana Favreaus. My father is Atherton Homer Favreau, owner and president of Favreau Industries, and my grandmother is Patrice Favreau, Soothsayer of the South.”

  The dining room patrons stirred. Uncle nudged Hettie gently.

  “Girl,” he whispered, eyes focused on the Pinkertons. They hadn’t noticed them yet. “You got
a handle on your little devil?”

  At first she thought he meant Cymon, but the dog was silent at her side. A cold sweat broke on her upper lip when she realized he meant Diablo. Her breath shook, with each heartbeat reverberating through her like hammer falls on an anvil.

  In her mind, she pictured the rattlesnake perched atop the pile of stones in the desert. It slithered away as she brushed the rocks off and dug her claws into the sand.

  A sensation like a soap bubble popping in her palm, and then the gun was in her grip. She stooped with the weight as it wrenched her wrist down painfully.

  Walker, Ling, and their hostages edged toward the door to the kitchen. Sophie cried, “If I get hurt, you’ll all have my father to answer to!” Hettie had a feeling she was addressing the sheriff and his cohorts, too.

  “Can we shoot her first?” one of the Pinkerton agents deadpanned. “It’ll shut her up and get her out of the way.”

  “Too much paperwork,” the lead agent replied blandly. “Shoot her legs.”

  The sheriff started to protest as the man took aim. Hettie saw what would happen in the next breath; it was like a cloud of red swimming through her syrup world on a silvery, ghostly vision. Two big holes exploded in Sophie’s legs, and she crumpled to the ground, screaming. A bullet pierced Jemma’s heart—she sagged to the ground, dragging Ling with her. The healer rocked back as a bullet hole appeared between his eyes. And Walker, unable to stop it, would get a bellyful of lead before he could say a single word in protest.

  She saw it clearly as if it were happening. “No!” Fire raced into her chest. She leveled the gun and squeezed the trigger.

  Diablo splintered in her hands as she fixed her sights on the three Pinkerton agents—the men who’d killed her friends. The green flash of light fractured, sliced across the room, and smashed through each of the three men’s bodies, sending up a brilliant spray of blood.

  Hettie fell to the ground screaming. Agony coiled tight inside her, burned through her muscles, and seared her skin. She begged for death in that instant—wondered if maybe she was already dead and enduring the torments of hell itself. But then the pain let up, the fists around her lungs loosening as her scream faded to a hoarse whimper.

  Her breaths came out harsh and hot from her raw throat. She thought smoke would pour out of her mouth. Tears streamed from her eyes, but they didn’t hide the dark stains on the walls behind where the Pinkertons had stood. She looked to where Walker and Ling lay … except they were still standing, clutching Jemma and Sophie, staring at Hettie in horror. The other customers made vague moaning sounds, vomited or quietly sobbed.

  She stared at the bloodstained weapon in her hand. Her trigger finger dripped blood steadily onto the fine carpet.

  The sheriff fumbled for his weapon. “Holy mother of…” His deputies had their guns pointed at Hettie. She stared back at them, seeing not men but targets. Diablo hummed in her grip.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she uttered, her throat tight. The room reeked of fear and the fetid stench of death and rich, regurgitated food. Sweat dripped from her forehead as she shakily pushed to her feet. She addressed the sheriff and raised Diablo. “We’re getting out of here, and God help you and this whole damned town if you try to stop us.”

  With a trembling hand, the sheriff signaled to his men, and they lowered their weapons.

  The four of them, plus Cymon, their horses, and their two hostages, proceeded through the eerily quiet road to the Zoom tunnel station. It’d taken nearly half an hour to clear the street of all traffic. The sheriff’s men stayed out of sight, but Uncle and the others kept a keen eye on the windows.

  For good measure, Hettie aimed Diablo at an abandoned cart and fired. The innocent vehicle exploded in a shower of splinters, glowing briefly with unnatural green fire before settling into more mundane orange-yellow flames that gobbled up the cart and sent thick plumes of smoke into the darkening sky.

  “That’s what’ll happen to anyone who tries anything,” she shouted into the empty street, voice quavering. Stubbs and the Pinkertons knew all she wanted was to find Abby and end this: the lives of all those agents she’d killed was on them. “If you try to stop me, I’ll level the whole town.”

  “That seems dramatic,” Uncle muttered.

  “There’s no need for any more violence,” Sophie pleaded. “I’ll come willingly. I swear. At least let Jemma go.” Jemma had stirred some and was sluggishly tripping along in front of Ling. She snarled the occasional curse but was otherwise compliant.

  Hettie ignored Sophie’s request. She had other things to worry about.

  They went unchallenged on the short walk to the station. She sensed rather than saw the sheriff and his men following at a distance.

  “Will the Pinkertons open a remote Zoom tunnel here?” she asked Uncle.

  “No. The null spell keeps that from happening. They’d have to arrive well outside of town limits.”

  “I don’t know that going into a building with only one way in and out is such a good idea,” Walker said, knife held limply at Sophie’s throat. With Diablo in Hettie’s grip, it hardly seemed necessary.

  “They won’t fire.” Uncle kept his eyes trained on their pursuers. He held the leads of the four horses, with Cymon bringing up the rear as if he could corral them like sheep. “They’ll risk damaging the Zoom aperture if they have a firefight in the station. All that flying lead ain’t good for it, and Barney’s Rock can’t lose its only source of income.”

  “Doesn’t mean they won’t try.”

  The platform was little more than a wooden stage in a large room, like a railway station except without tracks. The stage faced a stone wall upon which many talismans were tacked, ringed by a series of runes. In the center of the platform sat a squat pyramid-shaped stone that came up to Hettie’s knees. Yellow warning lines were drawn around it. Like the streets, the station had been emptied to accommodate the hostage-takers.

  As they ascended the platform, the sheriff and three of his men entered the great hall. The conductor was ushered out of his cozy station office, irate at having his supper hour interrupted. At the sight of the fugitives and their hostages, however, he sobered.

  “Bring us our weapons, sheriff,” Hettie said. “Nice and slow.”

  “See here, Miss Alabama.” She flinched at the use of her name. The Pinks must have told him about her. “There’s no need to threaten those ladies. No need for you to be with this band of ruffians, neither. Why don’t you let them go and hand over your gun?”

  Diablo hummed in her hand, nudging her aim toward the man’s midriff. How easy it would be to blow a hole through him to show him who the real ruffian among them was. “I think, sheriff, that you take me for a simpering idiot.”

  He held up his hands. “At least consider a trade. Miss Favreau for me.”

  “No deal,” she called back before any of the others could answer. “You strike me as the heroic type, sheriff. And I won’t let you martyr yourself.”

  His gaze darkened. “The law won’t spare you from the noose on account of your sex, you know. You’re going to regret this, young lady.”

  “Maybe.” She didn’t. Not a bit. Even those Pinkertons … She thought of the stain on the walls and felt nothing. A picture of Abby’s smiling face came to mind. Her sister was all that mattered. And if she had to kill every last man standing between them, she would.

  Two deputies brought the metal storage boxes containing their weapons and charms, and they unlocked and dropped them at the edge of the platform. Uncle picked up the gun belts and slung them over his shoulder, then stuffed all the talismans into a sack. Neither Ling nor Walker relinquished their hostages.

  “The Zoom tunnel to New Orleans will open in one minute,” the conductor informed them nervously. It was an unscheduled Zoom—which meant that the conductor on the other side had been telegraphed and given notice to open the a
perture, as well.

  “I’ve shown you a lot of goodwill,” the sheriff said. “How about returning the favor? Let the ladies go. They don’t need to be involved any longer.”

  “We have to take them with us,” Walker muttered to her, switching his steak knife for a gun. Sophie whimpered. “The law might be waiting on the other side for all we know.”

  “Thirty seconds,” the conductor said shakily, fingering his pocket watch in sweaty hands.

  “Don’t worry about us, sheriff,” Sophie said evenly. She met Hettie’s eye then and gave her a smug smile that made Hettie’s doubts flood in. “Grandmère knew this would happen.”

  “Step up, step up!” the conductor boomed, automatically sliding into his role despite the gravity of the situation. He snapped his pocket watch closed and picked up a long staff set with a giant hunk of quartz bound with snakeskins and feathers. “Nine-thirty-five Zoom to New Orleans arriving!” He swung the staff up in a wide arc.

  The far wall darkened as a vortex formed at its center. Cold wind blew out from the black hole, and when it was big enough to fit a fist through the stationmaster plunged the staff into the pyramid receptacle, completing the connection.

  The black hole burst into a brilliant spectrum of light, forming a prismatic pathway between the aperture and the staff. The Zoom tunnel irised open, blasting them with frigid air that made the hairs in Hettie’s nostrils freeze. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she could see straight through to the other side, where another station platform waited.

  “Take the horses through,” she ordered them. “I’ll be right behind you.” She kept her gun pointed at the sheriff.

  “This ain’t over,” he said quietly. “You’re crossing state lines using a hijacked Zoom tunnel with hostages in tow. That’s all on top of the three men you just killed.”

  “It’s up to you to make sure that body count doesn’t rise, sheriff,” Hettie said.

  He frowned deeply. “Does it make you feel good? To know you ended them, left their widows and children without a provider?”