The Devil's Revolver

by V. S. McGrath

  Hettie didn’t say anything. She was busy counting guns and the number of bullets each held. It seemed like thousands.

  “We’ve been here before, so let’s cut to the chase. Relinquish Diablo to me and I’ll let you live.”

  The Devil’s Revolver gave a plaintive shudder in her mind. Her palm felt as though it had welded itself to the gun’s butter-smooth grip. “I don’t think that’s likely to happen. You’ll kill me either way.”

  “Probably.” He shrugged. “But I’d rather we do this the easy way. We’ve expended a great deal of resources hunting you. I’d rather not have to deal with a gateway to hell opening up on top of that.” He pinned her with a sneering look. “If you prefer, though, we could take you back to Chicago. Lock you up in a cell guarded by men who haven’t seen a female prisoner as pretty as you in a long time.”

  Her hand flexed, finger twitching. She decided if she only got one shot off, it would be for him. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “You ought to be. I could make it so no one ever found you. I could make it so you never even existed. And I could prolong your misery for a very long time with no one the wiser. You and your friends have killed countless men in this … this desperado quest of yours. No court in the world would let you get away with it. The best you can hope for now is a quick death.”

  The man really did enjoy his dramatic speeches. He liked the sound of his own voice, she realized. She could use that. She lifted her chin high. “Why do you want Diablo anyhow?”

  “I don’t want Diablo. I simply work for an organization that works to meet our clients’ needs. As the resident expert on Diablo, I was assigned to the case.”

  “So you’re not thinking of maybe taking it for yourself?” she asked casually, and took a stab in the dark. “After all these years searching, it must get your goat that you’re this close but will never hold it in your own hands.” She scoffed, giving him a haughty look. “Obsession. That’s the word Jeremiah Bassett used. It’s why the government fired you, isn’t it?”

  “No one fired me,” he snapped. “I left them. They wouldn’t give me what I needed for the search.”

  “You’re not the only person after it, you know. And I’m betting some of those folks would be willing to pay you more than what your client’s offered. I bet someone’s already offered you a chunk of cash to bring Diablo to them rather than your client. If there even is one.”

  Stubbs pulled his gun and aimed it at her head. “You keep talking and I’ll put a hole in your neck you can speak from.”

  She’d hit the mark, blind as her shots had been. She kept pushing. “How much did they offer you? Using up Pinkerton resources to chase after one girl and a gun can’t exactly be good for business. C’mon, Stubbs. The cougars? That was you, right? And the grass trap, too. I don’t know a lot about magic, but I know you’d’ve needed a lot more than a few sorcerers to spread that wide a net.”

  “I said be quiet.”

  Hettie was on a roll now. “I wondered how you planned to get away once you had Diablo. Unless, of course, all of your men are in your pocket. He promise you any of the cut?” she asked loudly, casting her gaze around.

  The glances among the men were suspicious, furtive. Any of them could be in on the take, but perhaps not all of them. Hettie had banked on their innate paranoia to fertilize the seeds of doubt and distrust she was sowing.

  Stubbs’s eyes grew cold. He shouted, “Wilson, go for a drive and check on our friends on the train.”

  The car with the Gatling gun sped off, kicking up a stream of dirt as it cut across the field to intercept the train. Hettie’s stomach tied itself into knots. “The thing you don’t get, Miss Alabama, is that my men are incorruptible. We have a contract, forged by magic, that ensures our client gets what he wants, and in this case it’ll be by any means necessary.” Cold calm enveloped him. “I’m giving you to a count of five to hand over Diablo before Wilson opens up on all your friends and every living soul on that train.”

  “Are you insane? There are women and children aboard. You can’t—”

  “Of course I can. It’ll be a simple matter to make this look like a botched train robbery. We can pin the deaths on the four notorious criminals whose bodies we found nearby. Besides, train accidents happen all the time.”

  Hettie licked her dry lips, prepared to call his bluff. “You’re worse than the Crowe gang. And if your men listen to you, they’re no better.”

  “Wilson, are you in position?” Stubbs asked the air.

  “Yes, sir.” The reply came back loud and clear.

  “Five seconds, Miss Alabama, or I open fire. Five … four…”

  The car kept pace with the train. She couldn’t see any of her companions on the roof, though—had they slipped back inside? Were they saddling the horses? Did they even know of the danger driving alongside them?

  “Three…”

  We could take them all out, Diablo whispered. You can’t give me up.

  Eight horsemen. Stubbs, plus three men in the remaining car. Each carried at least one sidearm and one rifle or shotgun. That was a lot of bullets.

  “Two…” Stubbs pursed his lips, sweat sheening his brow. “Don’t be a fool, Miss Alabama. I will kill every last person on that train if you don’t give me what I want right now.”

  Abby, Diablo whispered. You can’t let go of me if you want your sister back. Her grip tightened.

  “Stop toying with me!” Spittle flew from Stubbs’s mouth. “I’ll do it!”

  Hettie stared into his face as it slowly turned dark purple, his eyes bulging. “Wilson. Open it up!”

  Wait!” Hettie screamed. Her heart gave a lurch as she tried to breathe past the lump in her throat. “I’ll give it up, okay? Leave the train alone. Don’t hurt anyone.”

  Stubbs exhaled shakily. A smug look slowly eased onto his sweating face. The other men shifted uneasily. “I knew you’d see reason. You’re not a bad person. Not like me.”

  She sucked in her lower lip, defeat and defiance warring inside her. “I’m going to put Diablo on the ground.”

  “I don’t think so. You could conjure it back the minute I reach for it. So what you’re going to do is hand it over to me directly. You’re going to tell that infernal piece I’m the boss, and then, if you’re lucky, I’ll take you back to Chicago to stand trial for murdering my agents.” He rolled his shoulders back. “Maybe the judge will be lenient, seeing as you’re obviously just a confused girl. We can tell him you’re grieving, that you don’t know what’s what anymore. He’ll probably commit you to an asylum instead of sending you to the gallows.” He said it as though he were reciting a lovely fairy tale.

  Hettie glanced at the thin stream of smoke drifting up from the train. “You promise not to hurt anyone?”

  “I can’t speak for what will happen when Jeremiah Bassett and the rest of that motley crew of yours stops at the next station. But for now…” He lifted a shoulder. “No reason to waste the bullets.”

  “Call your men back first.”

  He smiled. “Smart, aren’t you?” He lifted his chin. “Wilson, come on back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Diablo thrashed in her mind as she let her hands drift to her sides and reversed her grip on the revolver in her left hand. Slowly, she walked toward Stubbs, sliding the tips of her fingers into her pocket until she felt the hard edge of the round beacon stone. She fit her bloodied trigger finger into the depression and squeezed hard enough to make tears jump into her eyes.

  Stubbs reached out. “Well?”

  She stalled, swallowing. She’d hoped something would happen by now but remembered it’d taken a while before the remote Zoom tunnel opened in Newhaven when she’d first contacted the Pinkerton Agency.

  Maybe the talisman wasn’t a beacon after all. Maybe it was just a stone. Uncle could’ve been wrong. Or maybe he’d been lyin
g.

  The Pinkerton agents were inching closer, guns at the ready. Stubbs took a menacing step forward. “Give it to me.”

  She extended her hand, the weight of the gun almost feather-light, as if it were threatening to fly away rather than leave her grasp.

  “Tell Diablo it belongs to me now,” he demanded. “Give it to me.”

  You can’t. If you hand it over, they’ll kill you, and Abby will suffer.

  At least she’d saved Uncle and the others. They were safe aboard that train, and hopefully they were smart enough to get as far away as possible.

  She waited two more heartbeats before lowering her arm. “No.”

  Stubbs’s face paled. His eyes widened, and he stepped back.

  Hettie felt a cold prickle of ice over her neck. She turned. A dark, swirling vortex bloomed directly in front of her, faster than any of the Zoom tunnels she’d ever seen. It yawned wide, but instead of a doorway opening she felt a powerful draw on her flesh. Her dress rippled as a gale-force wind clawed at her. Her feet slid forward, even as she leaned back. She slid to her knees and clung to the earth, but she couldn’t escape the pull.

  Thomas Stubbs dove for her. He grabbed her wrists. “Hang on!”

  Hettie grabbed onto his forearms, letting go of Diablo, but the moment she did the Pinkerton agent’s eyes gleamed in triumph, and he snatched his arm out of hers and grabbed the revolver. He cried out as his glove evaporated in a puff of ash, and his flesh sizzled and bubbled horribly as if he’d plunged his hand into molten lava.

  He let go of Hettie’s other hand. She screamed as the vortex dragged her in.

  A freezing cold tunnel of darkness engulfed her, and her guts seemed to float freely inside her chest. It felt as though she were plummeting endlessly through a clear, crisp winter night sky.

  She smashed shoulder-first into the ground, the dirt gritty and damp against her cheek. Her head spun. She couldn’t see much, but she knew she was indoors in a cavernous space. The air was fuggy with the smell of sweat and damp fur, weak whiskey and piss. And she was surrounded by people.

  “Hell, where’s Hedley?”

  Her blood froze. She knew that voice. She tried to lift her head, but then someone grabbed her roughly and yanked her into a sitting position.

  “Butch, it’s her.” A man held a lamp too close. Sour sweat assailed her nostrils, and she nearly gagged as a grimy hand pinched her chin and turned her head to one side. “See the scar? She looks just like Jack, don’t she?”

  “So it’s true.” Butch Crowe’s voice was close, but she still couldn’t see him. Her vision seemed to be dancing in and out of darkness, darting side to side as if her eyeballs spun inside the sockets. “Huh. I thought I killed you that night.”

  She tasted bile. If she could aim, she would have thrown up on the man’s boots, but instead she smiled and said, “You did. But the devil sent me back. I killed Teddy, and Hedley, too. Now I’ve come for you, Butch Crowe.”

  Had those words really come out of her mouth? She laughed then, all the while thinking perhaps she’d finally gone mad. Fear and that ride through the void had pushed her to the brink. Now she was a sheep in a den of wolves, bleating for her own comfort.

  Someone groaned at Hettie’s feet. She glanced over and was surprised to find Thomas Stubbs sprawled out on the floor.

  “Who’s this?” Butch asked.

  Hettie shrugged. “Who knows? Some idiot got too close.”

  “Really.” Butch drew a wicked bowie knife and skinned it up the front of the man’s jacket, removing all the buttons from the front placket in one go. He reached into the inner pocket roughly and removed the silver Pinkerton eye badge. “Interesting friends you’re keeping here. Pinkerton, eh?”

  The men around her muttered and uttered catcalls. Hettie’s vision cleared enough for her to see she was in a very large cave. Greasy yellow firelight threw inhuman-looking shadows against the walls. The skitter of claws over stone and low, menacing growls echoed throughout. She shuddered.

  “Can’t say I’m a fan of the Pinks.” Butch spat as Thomas Stubbs was pulled to his feet. “In fact, I can rightly say I hate Pinkertons. A Pinkerton shot my daddy, you know. But he died a long, slow death because you fools don’t know how to use a gun proper.” He drew his sidearm and pointed it between Stubbs’s eyes. “How about I give you a lesson?”

  “I came here for my sister,” Hettie declared loudly, trying to draw the men’s attention. “I’ve brought Diablo. Bring her to me, and you can have it.”

  Butch paused and holstered his gun. He looked her over. His starburst scar stretched as his lips lifted. “I don’t see anything on you. But then, maybe you’re hiding it under your skirt.”

  She held out her hand and called Diablo to her. The gun appeared, muzzle aimed at Butch’s cold heart. Her finger twitched as she remembered how this man had destroyed everything that had ever mattered to her, and she fought to keep the gun aloft.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” someone exclaimed. “Even your pa couldn’t conjure Diablo like that.”

  “Shut up,” Butch barked. “My daddy was the best Elias Blackthorn ever. That gun rightly belongs to me, and when I have it, I’ll show you all who the real boss is.”

  “You’re not getting anything until I see my sister,” Hettie said. The revolver strained her wrist. She could practically sense its giddiness. She was among men she had no feelings for, men she would prefer to see wiped off the face of the earth. And Diablo was eager to please.

  “We’ll see about that.” Butch pointed his gun at Hettie. She met his gimlet eye, strangely calm. She’d come this far to rescue Abby—it seemed absurd to think she’d ever get any farther, and yet everything inside her challenged the Crowe gang’s leader to pull that trigger, to test the limits of his courage.

  Opening a gate to hell with her death wouldn’t be that bad if it meant taking all these outlaws with her.

  Do it, Diablo taunted from behind her eyes, and she smiled to herself.

  “Butch.”

  The dulcet voice drifted down from high above, breaking her out of her cool possession. All the men looked up.

  Her skin crawled like a swarming anthill as a lean figure glided down a set of roughly hewn steps cut into the rock. His complexion was so fair it glowed. His straw-blond hair fell in gentle waves over his shoulders. He wore a loose-fitting white shirt, black pants, and high boots. He looked more like a swashbuckler from the penny dreadfuls than any gentleman or cowpoke she’d ever seen.

  “Hello, Hettie,” he said in that deadly soft voice when he reached the bottom stair. “I see you received my invitation.”

  “Zavi.” He seemed more dreamlike in the flesh than he did in her vision. She swallowed thickly. “Where’s Abby?”

  He inclined his chin toward Butch. “Crowe, put your gun away. It’s impolite to threaten our guest.”

  Coarse, criminal men who’d likely never seen the inside of a Bible removed their hats and bent their heads, avoiding the warlock’s uncanny gaze as Zavi passed. Butch, however, stared the warlock dead in the face, unable to soften his sacrilegious glower.

  Zavi’s wet, bloodred lips stretched into a baleful smile as he assessed her, tar-black eyes shining. “Your sister is in her room, resting. She’s quite tired, you know. Opening remote Zoom tunnels takes a lot out of a person.”

  Hettie stared. “What are you talking about?”

  “Of course, you didn’t know, did you?” He shook his head. “She was the one who opened the remote Zoom just now. You’ll have to forgive her if you had a rough ride—the spells are still a bit new to her, but she’s an excellent student. While she’s resting, you’ll be my guest here.”

  She raised Diablo, her blood boiling through her veins. “I’ll not be your anything. Bring me to Abby right now or I’ll blow your head off.”

  Zavi raised a dark blond eyebrow.
“Such dramatics.” He tossed his hair imperiously. “If it’ll make you feel better, then by all means, go ahead and shoot.”

  Hettie didn’t hesitate. Green light exploded from the muzzle, and her amber cocoon of time closed around her as the world was dipped in syrup. Zavi stood barely ten feet away, but just as Diablo’s firepower crept across that narrow space between them, he stepped into the discharge, arms outstretched to receive the blast.

  The fire burst soaked into his shirt, suffusing his chest. Energy rippled across his skin. He smiled as his body lit up from the inside, as if he were a walking human lantern. The light subsided slowly. He sent Hettie a mild look. “Feel better now?”

  The world around them remained suspended in gold, the men’s shock rounding their cracked lips and bleary eyes. “H-how…?”

  He turned and beckoned. “Come along. We don’t need to discuss things in this drafty hall.” He walked ahead, plowing through the amber world unimpeded.

  Hettie hesitated. She looked down at the weapon in her hand and pocketed it. It wasn’t going to help her now. She considered not following the warlock just to be difficult, but doubted that would achieve anything. She took a hesitant step forward. Surprisingly, her bubble of time moved with her, and she carefully wove around Butch and the other men.

  Zavi didn’t bother looking back as he made his way up the stairs. She followed him into a wide, twisting passageway. Oil lanterns lit the tunnels. The floor was worn smooth with two parallel ruts at the outer edges—cart tracks, she realized. This passage had been used frequently in the past. It could have been a mine, she supposed, but most mines had rails with cars to bring ore to the surface. These passages were much wider and too clean. As if they had been designed to accommodate people.

  Hedley hadn’t been lying, then. In school, they’d studied the locations of all the natural Zoom tunnels, but over time a few had destabilized and stopped working altogether. This had to be Sonora station, which had stopped functioning before the war broke out. The enormous cavern she’d appeared in would have been large enough to serve as a Zoom tunnel station. It meant this place was, or at least had once been, a focal node of magic, like the one Blackie had led them to. Maybe that was why Zavi had chosen it for his hideout.