The Devil's Revolver

by V. S. McGrath

  No response. Hettie waited, straining to hear. Her lungs were about to burst when a pair or strong hands hauled her out of the water with a great splash. Hettie gasped as the maid shouted at her. “Miss, are you mad? What could you be thinking, scaring me like that?”

  “I … I…” She wiped the water out of her eyes. She wasn’t about to get into long explanations. “I’m sorry. I must have fallen asleep.”

  The woman gave her a pitying look. “Well, it’s no wonder, all this excitement. It’s not fit for a young woman to be riding all over the place with these rough types. Let’s get you out of there and into bed.”

  As soft as the down mattress was, Hettie couldn’t sleep. She knew for certain that Abby was alive and out there somewhere, waiting for her. She got up to look out the window. As she passed the vanity, her reflection startled a gasp from her.

  A woman with her father’s strong jaw and her mother’s dark eyes and high cheekbones stared back at her. Her short hair had grown some so it was a ragged mess around her ears. The plume-shaped scar stretching from her temple along her cheek still showed quite clearly. But her slightly upturned nose had straightened, her puffy cheeks were now more delicate apples. She turned her head this way and that, and then, in a moment of curiosity, went to the cheval mirror and inspected the rest of her body.

  Someone knocked on her door. She dropped the hem of her nightgown and quickly slipped into the robe hanging in the armoire before opening the door.

  “Sorry to disturb you.” Only the gruff voice betrayed the identity of the strange man before her. Walker stood in a clean white shirt and trousers, his square jaw shaven, his wet hair slicked back from his forehead. He smelled like soap and whiskey and leather. Hettie blinked up at him, not realizing until that moment just how dashing a figure he cut. Self-conscious, she clutched the neck of her nightgown closed. He glanced around surreptitiously. “May I speak to you privately?”

  Heat flushed through her cheeks. Ma would have had a conniption fit if she knew a man was alone with her in her room at this hour. Not that Hettie suspected he had any designs on her innocence, but whatever the reason, it seemed urgent. “Meet me downstairs in the drawing room in ten minutes. I’ll get dressed.”

  “Let’s make it the stables instead. I want to check on Lilith. You should check on Blackie, too. I hear they had a hell— pardon me, hard time getting him into the corral.”

  Hettie didn’t miss his slip of the tongue. She supposed being surrounded by such finery civilized a person. She donned the plain day dress the maid had left her, pulled on her boots, and hurried out.

  A few lamps lit the stables, turned down so the horses could sleep. Cymon lay curled up on a pile of hay by the door, an enormous bone sandwiched between his paws. He looked up briefly as Hettie scratched his big head, then settled back in, sighing contentedly as he snuggled the bone.

  She found Walker in the second aisle by one of the stalls, stroking Lilith’s neck. He turned his head, gaze landing squarely on her. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “The grooms gave her a thorough rubdown,” he said, and nodded down the aisle. “The others are in good shape, too.”

  “It’s very kind of Mrs. Favreau to host us.”

  He glanced around. Without warning, he grabbed her hand and dragged her into the shadow, pulling her against his chest.

  “What are you—”

  “Shh.” His lips grazed her neck. “I’m sorry, this is the only way we can speak freely. There are ears all over this house.”

  She fought against the sensation sizzling through her and tried to pry herself away, but Walker pulled her flush against his hard body. “Stop struggling.” His command came as a harsh, hot breath poured over her scarred temple. She stilled despite her pounding heart. Her fingers curled against his shirt. She closed her eyes, ashamed at the thrill coursing through her.

  “Hettie, if you want to find your sister, we should leave your uncle and Ling here. They’re slowing us down. Between you and me on Lilith and Blackie, we can cover a lot more distance.” His fingers tightened around her waist. “Once we find your sister, we’re going to need speed to get her somewhere safe.”

  “We can’t just leave. Patrice said she’d help us find Abby.”

  “What do you even know about her, Hettie? What makes you think you can trust her?”

  “I just do.” Her instincts told her this was someone she could believe. “She’s the only person who’s been up-front with me since the moment I met her.”

  “That’s because she has nothing to lose. She has all the power here, don’t you see? People like her don’t do things for nothing. She wants something from you.”

  And so did Walker, she reminded herself. She pushed him off. “All she wants is for me to find out what’s causing the soothsayers’ blackout.”

  The bounty hunter planted his hands on his hips. “She didn’t make her fortune by keeping contract terms simple. Soothsayers always have the advantage, Hettie. They know what’s going to happen.”

  “If this blackout is real, then she doesn’t know. Besides,” she added, “if we leave, Uncle will just track us down again. I don’t think he’ll let me out of his sight.”

  “And Ling?” He took a step closer. “What’s he to you?”

  She stared. “He wants to pay off his debt.” Walker’s skeptical look made her fold her arms across her front and take a step back. “He wants to help Abby.”

  He snorted. “If that’s what you think.”

  Hettie studied him closely. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous of him.”

  He glowered, then kicked the tip of his boot against a stall, dislodging a bit of muck. “You know your uncle doesn’t care if your sister is alive or dead, right?”

  Having it spelled out for her in such black-and-white terms made her flinch. “He’s got his own agenda,” Walker continued. “He wants to get you and Diablo away from everything. He’d probably hide you both in a box and bury you in the ground if he had a chance.”

  A small part of her wished he had. But despite everything, and knowing now her sister was alive, she couldn’t let go of such a valuable ally. “I’m not leaving him behind again. He knows things about the Crowe gang and Diablo, and about the Pinkertons. And he’s a powerful sorcerer.”

  “You can’t trust him after what you learned tonight. The moment he’s decided he’s had enough of you chasing after your sister, who knows what he’ll do?”

  “And what about you? What about when you’ve decided you’ve had enough?”

  His nostrils flared. “We made a deal. I honor my contracts.”

  “And your word should mean something to me?” She turned away, but he planted a palm on either side of her head, trapping her against the stall. She could see the silver flecks in his narrowed blue eyes as he closed in on her. She glared back, squelching the urge to get closer and breathe his scent.

  “You’ve got to trust someone,” he said. “If you want to save your sister, you need an ally. Someone who understands what you’re going through.”

  “I don’t see how you could possibly understand my situation.”

  “I understand more than you’ll ever know.” She barely heard his words, but something about them struck a chord in her. She brushed away the feeling and ducked out of the circle of his arms, marching out of his reach. Walker might have enough magic to keep them both safe, but right now, with the four of them, they had a posse. They were going up against one of the most ruthless gangs in the West. More men was definitely better than fewer. “You want me to leave the others behind so that you can take Diablo for yourself.”

  “I won’t lie and tell you it hadn’t crossed my mind. If I could’ve taken it from you, I would have. Every time you use it to kill … I hate watching you scream like that.” He let out a labored breath, as if it was a trial to admit.

  And what was that supposed
to mean? She must make quite a racket. “It’s hurting less and less. I think it is. I’m getting used to it.”

  “You’re not supposed to get used to something like that.” His expression softened, and he searched her face. “Does it still hurt?” He brushed big, blunt fingertips over her scar.

  She shivered. “N-no. Not anymore.”

  “That’s good.” He glanced at Blackie, who watched them steadily. “We could leave tonight.” His voice was low and urgent once more, luring her closer. “We can pack our things, take the horses and go before anyone even knows. Just you and me. Cymon could come along, too. He’s good in a scrape.”

  Hettie’s lips moved, but no words came. She tried to shake her head, but her chin only nodded, as if…

  “What are you two doing out here?”

  They turned together. Ling glared at them, arms folded over his chest. Who knew how long he’d been standing there? Hettie stepped away from Walker quickly, cheeks burning, unable to meet Ling’s eye.

  The bounty hunter hitched his thumbs in his belt and inserted himself between her and the healer. “I was just making sure Miss Alabama was safe out here. She wanted to check on Blackie.”

  Ling’s fixed expression didn’t waver. “Both of you should get some sleep.” He eyed Hettie. “You’re no good to Miss Abby if you get sick.”

  She hastened back toward the stable, heartbeat skittering as she tried to even out her breathing. Only when she reached the doorway did she realize the two men were not behind her, and she glanced back.

  Ling stood toe to toe with the bounty hunter, radiating menace like an ornery goat facing down a placid bull. They spoke in low tones. Ling said something that made Walker jerk back. The bounty hunter gestured sharply and loomed over the healer, but Ling didn’t budge. They stood locked like that for a moment longer, muscles tense, then broke apart and headed toward her.

  “Get to bed, Miss Hettie,” Ling commanded sharply, sounding for all the world like her father. “You don’t need to worry about the horses. They’ll all be safe here tonight.”

  At the breakfast table the next morning, it was clear no one had slept well despite the amenities. Sophie joined them, looking radiant as ever in a lavender dress, her hair dripping with silk ribbons. A bath and a beard trimming had done little to improve Uncle’s haggard, haunted look as he sipped his coffee—apparently, the dirt and grime had been hiding his mottled complexion and sickly air. Ling watched Walker furtively, his gaze flickering speculatively to Hettie and narrowing with disapproval. The bounty hunter ignored them all and conversed with their hosts.

  Sophie looked none the worse for wear since her ordeal in Hawksville, and didn’t seem to care that her kidnappers now broke bread with her elderly grandmother. She talked animatedly to Walker, and the bounty hunter listened raptly. He didn’t have a choice—Sophie didn’t let him get a word in edgewise. Marcus stood within earshot, keeping a close eye on the diners, his weathered face crinkled as if he’d smelled something bad. Jemma was nowhere to be seen.

  After breakfast, they all gathered in the yellow salon the men had occupied the previous evening. Sophie took Walker’s arm, and he escorted her in as if he were some debonair gentleman. Hettie might even believe it, considering how handsome the bounty hunter looked in a freshly pressed vest, crisp white shirt, and trousers.

  “I said I’d offer you help in your search.” Patrice approached Hettie on silent wheels. “I’d like to try connecting to Abby through you. If I can reach her, you can talk to her directly, and she might be able to tell you where she is.”

  “You can do that?”

  “I spoke with Mr. Tsang about it this morning, and he has a theory.” She nodded at the healer.

  “If Miss Abby has actually managed to connect with Miss Hettie, she’ll have left a dream path. Usually, such trails are too weak to trace back”—Ling nodded toward Walker—“but Mrs. Favreau has also touched Abby’s mind. I believe that if Mrs. Favreau plumbs Hettie’s memories for more details, the combination of both their experiences will be enough to retrace the dream path all the way back to Abby’s exact location.”

  “Like putting together pieces of a ripped-up map,” Sophie murmured. “That is quite ingenious, Grandmère, but are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “I’ll be fine, child. Hettie will be doing most of the work, anyhow. If she agrees to this, of course.”

  Walker had offered to do something similar—plumb her mind for clues. She hadn’t trusted him because he had his own agenda. He still did. But could she trust Patrice not to manipulate her the way Uncle had?

  Then again, Patrice could have harmed her anytime since her arrival, but she hadn’t. Hettie consented with a nod.

  “I warn you,” Patrice said, “what you see and feel might seem real, but it’s not. It’s important you remember that so your mind doesn’t get lost on the path.”

  The soothsayer’s wrinkled hands clasped hers. She closed her eyes. The old woman chanted in what sounded like French. It seemed to take a long time, but as she relaxed into her seat, the words blended together. Behind her eyelids, the darkness swirled, then became a rush of light, and suddenly she was flying, straight out of her seat and through the gilded ceiling, into the sky, darting through thick cloud cover straight as an arrow. The horizon stretched to forever, lit by the brilliant globe of the sun, kissing the curve of the world between the earth and the stars.

  She didn’t see herself or Patrice, but she knew the soothsayer was there with her, still holding her hands, and she clung to that sensation as she was pulled along an invisible line like a fish being reeled in. The ground rushed past beneath her. They soared across the countryside, pointed west. Dark greens changed to fields of gold grass that thinned, giving way to gray and red rock and endless stretches of coarse sand and tough weeds.

  “What do you see?” Patrice’s calm voice came from a distance. Hettie peered around.

  “The sand here is reddish. There’s lots of hills. It’s rocky, too. Not a lot of green. Little shrubs everywhere, and some cactus, but not much else.”

  “Do you see the Wall?”

  Hettie squinted, but her vision didn’t improve. “No. I must be pretty far north … Wait.” A dark line appeared due south. “I think I see it now.”

  She’d known the Wall was big, but she hadn’t realized just how intimidating it was. Some of the most powerful sorcerers in Mexico had raised the earth and moved mountains to construct the monument after the Mexican-American War. But there was something about the rapidly approaching perimeter apart from its massive size that frightened Hettie. The Wall was pure black, standing a hundred feet high. It wasn’t a straight, flat wall made of a line of bricks, but a steep pile with plateaus and gantries cut into its facade. The monolithic landmark made her cringe inwardly.

  She plummeted, and her heart flew into her stomach. She screamed, but before her brains were dashed across the ground her body jerked up so that she soared parallel to the road at shoulder height.

  “You can’t be hurt here, Hettie,” Patrice assured her. “We’re starting to see the path that Abby remembers. She traveled this route, and she used this same trail to find you in her mind’s eye.”

  Hettie fought to pull herself higher as the path zoomed sharply to the east. The Wall cast a long, dark shadow as black as the stone itself.

  A cluster of ramshackle buildings came into view. It looked like a mining camp, with a few lean-tos and several collapsed and ruined tents. Boxes and crates and broken wagons littered the area, along with the bleached bones of a few horses and cattle. But there were no people around. Or birds or insects. Nothing alive. Was that because this was still just a vision?

  She plunged toward a rocky hill where the gaping maw of a cave swallowed her in darkness. Hettie broke into a sweat. She didn’t normally have problems with tight, dark spaces, but this place felt … wrong. The cavern narrowed, twistin
g and turning in near pitch-black. She breathed deep, squeezing Patrice’s hands.

  The floor leveled out. The walls here were smooth, the corners gently rounded. The whole place had been shaped by human hands. She passed innumerable forks and intersections. Hettie tried to keep track of where she went, but it got darker, more oppressive. The air in her lungs became close and dank, and she struggled for breath.

  “What is it?” Walker’s voice reminded her she wasn’t really here.

  “We’re deep underground. It’s a maze down here…” Something cool slid over her skin, and she recoiled. “I don’t like it.”

  “Do you see Abby?”

  “No.”

  Her spine jarred as she was yanked roughly into a room. The walls were lined with cages, the stone gray and damp. The door slammed shut with a resounding boom.

  Abby stood in the center of the room. She wore a plain brown cotton smock dress, but no shoes. Her bronze-gold hair hung in a soft waterfall around her shoulders. Her expression was dreamy and distant.

  And she wasn’t alone.

  The man standing behind Abby had one slender hand resting on her shoulder. As smooth and flawless as his features were, Hettie sensed he was older than he appeared. His blond curls made a soft halo around an angular face. His skin was so fine and thin she could see the blood pumping through the blue veins standing out on his neck.

  His all-black eyes shone with satisfaction, and his red lips curved up. “Hello, Hettie.”

  His mellifluous voice sent shivers along her spine. She ground her teeth together to suppress her trembling. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a friend of your sister’s. You can call me Zavi. Abigail, won’t you say hello?”

  Abby lifted a limp hand. Something was terribly wrong. Her eyes were vacant, lifeless. She wasn’t looking at Hettie at all.

  “This … this isn’t real.” Hettie squeezed her eyes closed, trying to remember what Patrice had said. “This can’t be happening. We’re traveling on a memory, retracing Abby’s steps…”