by Phil Dunlap
DIABLO SMITH
And Other Tales of the Old West
By
Phil Dunlap
Smashwords Edition
Diablo Smith, and Other Tales of the Old West
Published by Western Trail Blazer
Copyright © 2014 Phil Dunlap
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Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
This is a work of fiction.
Though actual locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author except for the inclusion of actual historical facts. Similarities of characters or names used within to any person – past, present, or future – are coincidental except where actual historical characters are purposely interwoven.
Contents:
Diablo Smith
Long Shot
Raley’s Revenge
Never Trust a Widder
The First Deadly Sin
The Texas Vinegarroon
DIABLO SMITH
A leathered, bronze-skinned man sat solemnly in the shadows near the back wall of Skinny Tinley’s Saloon in Tucson, Arizona Territory. Except for a glass of half-drunk beer, the man was alone. No one walked up and asked him to sit in on their game; no one offered to buy him a drink; no one paid him any mind at all. He would appear to any fool who made it a point to be curious, a man without friends or acquaintances. A man without a country. On the contrary, he was a man whose country was in the hollow of his soul, in every blade of grass, every windblown and bent tree, every haunting howl of a far off wolf. He was the land, and it was him. He was reputed to be the best tracker within five hundred miles. And it came naturally.
But no one dared get too close for fear of … of what? Could it be the sixteen-inch stiletto strapped to his back that he could throw with such accuracy he could kill a running man at twenty yards? Or the .45 Colt nestled in his cross draw holster that he could pull, fire, and return to its place before an opponent could blink? Maybe it was the narrowed eyes that never blinked; yet saw every movement made by man or beast within a hundred yards? Or, could it be that it was rumored that a momma grizzly high up in the North Country had raised him? Yes, these and so many more embellishments of his reputation kept others at bay, as well as his being half Arapaho. He was either your best friend or your worst enemy, and he was called Diablo Smith.
As Smith sipped his beer, a short, stringy man with a flat-crowned hat and a vest with a gold chain dangling across the front came through the double-doors looking very self-important. A gust of wind swept a boot-full of dust in behind him. He stopped, looked around and came hurriedly over to the table at the back with only one man. He stopped short, took off his hat and wiped his hand across his broad mustache. His face was weathered from the sun.
“If you’re the one called Diablo Smith, I’d be obliged to have a word with you, sir.” He waited for a response.
Smith looked him up and down slowly, then nodded for the man to take a seat across from him. The man complied, nervously, being careful to keep his hands in plain sight. Smith’s reputation preceded him.
“Best be getting’ to it, then, before I fall asleep waitin’.” He lifted his beer to his lips and took a gulp. The man seemed nervous, unsure of himself.
“Uh, yeah. My name’s Joshua Kurtz. I’m a rancher a little east of here. I asked around and was told you’ were the best tracker in the territory. The liveryman said I’d likely find you here. I need help findin’ my wife.”
“Uh-huh. I haven’t been able to find myself a wife, so what makes you think I can find you one?”
“Oh, I already got one, or I did have one. She either run off or was kidnapped. I suspect the latter.”
“And just why do you figure she was snatched up and hauled away instead of just up an’ runnin’ ’crost country?”
“Lenore wouldn’t do a thing like that. She said plain enough on many an occasion that I was her man and she’d be by my side till the end.”
“Did you ever consider she figured it might just be the end?”
Joshua tightened his jaw and doubled up his fists as he grew impatient with Diablo’s stubborn reluctance to take him at his word. Diablo, on the other hand, was interested in seeing whether this man’s temper might get the better of him, a situation that could easily result in a run-away wife.
“You help me find her and we’ll ask her together. You in or not? I’ll pay you for your time.” Joshua took a deep breath, settled down and was suddenly as gentle as a kitten. He’d finally figured out what Diablo was up to. “I’d be obliged for your help.”
“I reckon I’m up for a little trackin’. What does the woman look like? You got a picture? You say her name’s Lenore?”
“ Yes, Lenore. And ’course I got a picture.” Joshua reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, framed tintype. He handed it to Smith, who smiled and whistled lowly.
“Got yourself a real looker, Mr. Kurtz. What’d she do before marryin’ you?”
“Why do you care?”
“Just curious why a fine lookin’ lady would take up with a scruffy old fart like you.” Diablo sipped again.
Kurtz snatched the tintype back with a frown, silently objecting to Smith’s leering comment. He placed it back in his pocket.
“That’s none of your damned business! When can we start?” he asked.
“We’ll have to start from your ranch. How far is it? And how long has she been gone?”
“Been a couple weeks. Ranch is two miles outside of town.”
“I take it you’ve already looked in all the places she might have run off, like a saloon, bordello, another rancher’s home sweet home.” Diablo got just what he’d expected. Kurtz exploded with a string of cussing and table pounding that would chase off a grizzly.
“Calm down, Kurtz. I’m just testin’ to see what you’re made of. Sounds like that temper could have been a reason for a pretty lady to hitch up her skirts and skedaddle.”
“That ain’t what happened! And I don’t like what you’re suggestin’.”
“Ain’t suggestin’ nothin’, yet. Let’s ride out to your ranch and see if there’s any sign of where she’s gone.”
Kurtz sat back in his chair and sighed, slumping like a rag doll.
“Best we start out in the mornin’ when the light’ll be better. By the time we get there the sun will be behind the cliffs off to the west. Trackin’ will be easier if we wait,” Kurtz said.
“All right. I’ll meet you at the livery at first light. That suit you?”
“Uh-huh.” Kurtz pushed out of the captain’s chair and ambled off toward the door. He looked back just once, with a frown, then turned and hurried out.
Diablo sauntered over to the bar. The bartender was wiping a glass. He looked up as the old gunslinger leaned on the oak top.
“You hear any of that, Skinny?”
“Every last word. My advice is to haul your ass out of here and don’t look back.”
“You sayin’ that nasty jackass is dangerous?”
“Don’t know how dangerous, but a skinflint and a damned liar, too.”
“Then you best tell me what you think I’m walkin’ into.”
The man sighed, stopped wiping the glass, and leaned both hands on the bartop.
“Diablo, you’re straightest shoot
er I’ve ever known. You’re tougher than any five men this anthill might throw at you. I’ve always thought of Joshua Kurtz as a liar and a cheapskate. I only hope his woman did get up the gumption to leave him; otherwise it was only a matter of time before either he killed her or she killed him. She’s his third wife, so I’ve been told. I’ve heard it said the other two disappeared and were never seen again. So, watch your back at all times.”
Diablo walked to the open door and stared out. He grunted as he stepped outside and started down the street. He walked to the livery and went inside. The liveryman was pitching hay down from a loft. Hearing footsteps on the gravel threshold, he said, “I’ll be right down, mister. Gimme a second.”
“No hurry. I just want to ask a couple of questions and take a look at a horse.”
“Oh, I got none for sale at the moment. Come back in a day or two. Maybe I can get my hands on somethin’ you’d be interested in.” When the old man climbed down the ladder, he realized it was Diablo Smith who’d stopped by.
“Oh, sorry Mr. Smith. I didn’t know it was you. Why do you need a horse? That roan you rode in on is a beauty. A fine piece of horseflesh. And well took care of, too.”
“No, I ain’t lookin’ to buy. I’d like to take a look at Mr. Kurtz’s horse. Which stall is it in?”
“Second stall on the right. Pitiful sight that one is. Kurtz shouldn’t be allowed to own a horse after the way he treats ’em.”
“He treat everything badly?”
“You can bet on it. That belly-crawlin’ snake would just as soon let a horse die as pay good money to take care of him.”
“You know anything about his wife?”
“Never met the lady. He never let her come to town. Probably afraid she’d meet up with a man who’d treat her right and run off with him.”
“Any man in particular?”
“No, none I can think off. Like I said, she didn’t come to town.”
Diablo ran his hands over Kurtz’s horse. The animal had been mistreated alright. It’s back was blistered from a saddle worn without a blanket and the shoes showed signs of never having been replaced and the hoof cleaned and cut back. Diablo was getting a picture of a man without regard for man or beast, or, in this case, woman.
He left the livery and stopped by the gunsmith’s shop. A man with glasses hanging on the end of a long nose looked up as he entered.
“G’day, mister. What can I do for you? Oh, it’s you, Mr. Smith. Didn’t recognize you at first.”
“Mr. Hurley, what do you know about a man named Kurtz?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. Only things I’ve heard, rumors mostly. Can’t put much stock in people’s whisperin’s.”
“What kind of things?”
“Only that he murdered his first two wives and the third ain’t likely to live long.”
“Did you meet either of his first two wives?”
“Naw. That was before he came here last year.”
“Haven’t been here long myself. But it is surprisin’ I haven’t heard of him before,” Diablo said.
“He’s downright private. Don’t get to town to socialize none. Kind of a hermit.”
“Do you know where he came from?”
“Heard he used to be a prison guard at Yuma Territorial Prison.”
“Thanks, Mr. Hurley,” Diablo said, and slipped back out the door. He headed for the hotel to get some sleep before his ride out in the morning with Kurtz, a ride he was increasingly skeptical of taking.
The fact that Kurtz had spent time guarding prisoners at Yuma Territorial Prison struck a cautionary cord with Smith. He’d known men who’d worked at that devilish hole and no one, not guard or prisoner, came away without mental scars.
On his way, he thought it prudent to stop at the sheriff’s office, a narrow little hole in the wall between the general store and the butcher shop. The only window was in the door, and the long room was dark and foreboding. He felt like he did the first time he set foot in a mine.
“Sheriff Granville, got a minute to chat about one of your erstwhile citizens?” Diablo said.
“Well, you’re keepin’ me from my nap, Diablo, but if you’ll make it quick, I reckon I can oblige.” Sheriff Granville was an unimposing man in stature with a deep voice and a head that could reflect moonlight. What little fuzz he had left curled over his ears. His nose looked to have been recently busted, some bruising was still evident. “Who’s the hombre?”
“Rancher name of Kurtz. You know him?”
“Everybody knows that jackass. What’s he want with you?”
“Wants me to track down his wayward wife.”
“Try the first whorehouse you come to. You’ll likely find her there, and she’d be better off than bein’ married to him. At least she won’t be gettin’ beat-on regular.”
“Know anythin’ about his previous wives? Ever meet one of ‘em?”
“Nope. Heard plenty, but just rumors and I don’t put much stock in the idle ramblin’s of womenfolk.”
“So, you never met his current wife?”
“Oh, yeah. I rode out that way several times on my way out to the ranch of a friend. Stopped by to water my mount. Sure was a blisterin’ day the last time. Shoulda knowed better than even start off on a day like that. He wasn’t around. When I saw her in the doorway, she invited me in for coffee. I wish you luck findin’ her. She’s a purty little thing.”
“Know how he met her?”
“Probably in a whorehouse down south. He always did take a fancy to that type of filly. I think he figured he could reform them. Good luck with that kind of thinkin’.”
“Thanks, sheriff.” Diablo said, as he strode out of the cramped office and one-cell jail.
***
The next morning, just as the sun was creeping over the hills to the East, Diablo was saddled and ready to go. He’d already stopped by the hotel restaurant and had three cups of coffee, bacon, eggs, and half a loaf of fresh bread. He sat atop his roan for several minutes before he spotted Kurtz stumbling down the street, pulling up his galluses, his hat cocked strangely on his head. The man stomped into the livery and returned a short time later with his horse in tow. He climbed into the saddle and yanked the reins to head the horse in the direction of his ranch.
“Let’s get a move on, Smith. I ain’t got all day.”
“Yessir, Mr. Kurtz, sorry to be holdin’ you up.” Diablo gave him a slow-eyed smirk.
Kurtz didn’t react to Diablo’s sarcasm.
They rode for nearly an hour when Kurtz stopped and pointed to a pair of hills in the distance. “My place is just the other side of those two humps. Not far. Maybe another hour or so.”
When they reached the crest of the farthest hill, Diablo reined in and stared across a landscape unlikely to recommend it to anyone but a collector of cacti. He saw no horses, no cattle, and damned little grass. A poor excuse for a ranch, he thought. How does he make money?
Kurtz had ridden on ahead toward the ranch house. A barn and two other ramshackle outbuildings completed what Kurtz referred to as his ranch.
When they rode up to the picket fence that surrounded a small nearly grassless yard, Kurtz dismounted. The fence needed paint, as did the house.
“C’mon inside. Let you look around. Get a sense for the kind of a woman I married.”
Diablo nodded and followed him inside. The place looked like it hadn’t been swept or dusted for awhile. Kurtz said his wife had only been gone for a couple weeks. His curiosity peaked, Diablo walked to what he figured was their bedroom, parted a curtain, and peeked in.
“You don’t need to go getting’ nosy, Mr. Smith. Just tell me what you’re lookin’ for and I’ll show you whatever you figure will lead us to Lenore.”
“Look, Mr. Kurtz, you hired me to find your wife. The more I know about her, the faster I get her back. If you’re goin’ to keep gettin’ in my way, you can find someone else to go traipsin’ off on some damned wild goose chase. Now do I get a look at her room or not?” Diab
lo growled, his patience sorely being tested.
Kurtz swallowed hard and shrunk back. He waived him through the doorway.
Diablo parted the curtains to the bedroom. He went first to the wardrobe and opened the door. Inside was just what he figured to find, nothing feminine. Only coveralls and shirts hung from the pegs in back. He looked through drawers and on the small dressing table. It appeared all of Lenora’s belongings had disappeared along with her. The question that remained was: why did she leave and where did she go? A kidnapper wouldn’t have bothered to take everything she owned, especially if a ransom was going to be demanded. If a kidnapper expected to bring her back after receiving cash for her, he sure wouldn’t pack up all her belongings for a two-way trip. And if he planned to kill her, she sure as hell wouldn’t need all her earthly comforts.
When Diablo came out of the bedroom, he glanced around the larger room that served as kitchen, dining room, living area. He opened a cupboard door and found pots and pans and a few dishes, cups and silverware. If she left of her own accord, she didn’t want to be burdened with heavy cooking utensils.
Smith then walked outside. He stepped off the creaky, splintered planks of the porch and headed for the barn. Inside he saw a buckboard and three stalls. In the corral out back was a mule slurping water from a scummy trough.
“Your wife have a horse?”
“’Course she did.”
“Where is it?”
“Gone. I figured the kidnappers musta took it. That adds horse stealin’ to the charge, don’t it?”
***
For the next several hours, Diablo pored over the out buildings and the house, itself. He had no idea what he was looking for. He figured he’d know it if he saw it, or didn’t see it. What he didn’t see bothered him the most. In the barn, only two stalls were being regularly used. The third, presumably his wife’s, hadn’t been host to an equine occupant for months. If the wife had only been gone for a couple weeks, what had happened to her horse before that? His suspicions of Kurtz’s honesty were being sorely tested.