Diablo

by Georgina Gentry

“Oh, hell, you still thinking about that? Them cowboys was stealing my beef.”

  “They was maybe just hungry,” Swen replied, “and the Injun kid didn’t deserve what he got.”

  “We was all drunk,” Kruger shrugged, “but I’d do it again, and I reckon so would Joe and Wilson. To hang on to what’s yours, you have to set some limits.”

  “Over a few cows,” Swen sighed, “over a few damn cows.”

  “Oh, stop your whining.” Kruger snapped. “It’s over and done with. For the last time, you going with us tonight?”

  “I think I’m finally getting the courage to say no to you after all this time.”

  “Then damn your cowardly hide,” Kruger swore and untied his horse. “I been looking out for you all these years, Swen, but I’m not sure I will anymore. You’re too weak for this rough country.” He mounted up, spurred his sorrel horse savagely, and rode away, already regretting his temper. He would have to try a different tactic, or Swen would never let him marry Sunny. The old Dane was in debt up to his ears, Hurd had seen to that, rustling some of Swen’s cattle every year so the old man could never quite make a profit. He’d have to tighten the screws so that Swen couldn’t say no to accepting him as a future son-in-law.

  Diablo had built himself a small camp in the foothills of the Bighorns, and now he watched the moon against the black velvet of the night. After an hour, a faint orange glow began in the distance and spread along the silhouette of the range line. The smell of smoke drifted to his nose, and he frowned. The gunfighters must be setting fire to the nesters’ barns. As one man against more than fifty, there wasn’t anything Diablo could do about that, although he was tempted to try. He reminded himself again that he had waited fifteen years and come a long, long distance for only one reason, and saving barns was not part of that reason. Still he felt sorry for the homesteaders. Once a barn was fired, there was no way to put it out, with the prairie wind blowing. The modest cabins would be next.

  He mounted up and rode toward the biggest fire on the horizon. He came within sight and saw a mass of riders galloping away. He started to follow them, and then he heard a scream from the house and reined in.

  “Come on, men.” Kruger gestured as he led them away at a gallop.

  The other men guffawed and followed him. “That Wilson, he’s got an eye for the women, all right.”

  “We should stay and help him,” Joe laughed.

  Kruger cursed. “We got more barns to burn; there ain’t no time for women right now.”

  Joe shouted, “Where’s Swen?”

  “Where do you think he is? He ain’t comin’, the coward!” Kruger swore as they rode away.

  Diablo watched the riders top the horizon and then disappear into the night. He rode closer to the burning barn. A dead man lay sprawled in the barnyard. Diablo dismounted and checked. The young farmer was dead, riddled by a dozen bullets, probably shot down as he attempted to protect his barn.

  From the house, the woman screamed again, and as Diablo turned, she ran out of the house, half naked, holding her torn, faded dress around her. Wilson was right behind her, the flames from the burning barn lighting the old knife scar on his face.

  Neither of them seemed to see Diablo. The young woman was a beauty, her dark hair streaming out behind her as she ran barefooted across the grass.

  “Hey, honey, let’s do it!” Wilson yelled and ran faster, gaining on her. “You never had a man as good as me before!”

  She sobbed uncontrollably as she fled, and then she seemed to see the dead man sprawled in the barnyard and ran to him, fell down next to him, trying to take him in her arms.

  Her dress fell down exposing beautiful full breasts, now smeared with the dead man’s blood.

  “Here, honey, don’t cry for him,” Wilson sneered and grabbed her, pulling her to him as he groped her breasts. “You got a better man here.”

  She fought him, but she was no match for the big man.

  Diablo winced, thinking of his own mother, and then he rode up behind the pair and threw a loop over Wilson’s shoulders and tightened it, dragging him away from the hysterical girl.

  “What the hell?” Wilson battled the noose.

  “Get on your horse!” Diablo ordered.

  The girl had run back to the prone body of her husband, sobbing uncontrollably, not even seeming to see Diablo or realize what was happening.

  Wilson stared at him. “Ain’t you one of us?”

  Diablo shook his head and smiled very slowly. “It’s time you got your reward, Wilson.”

  Wilson seemed uncertain. He mounted up on his skittish palomino horse and tried to loosen the rope around him. “Reward? What reward? What the hell do you think—”

  “Just ride,” Diablo said. “You got a lot to answer for.”

  Wilson looked confused. “Now look here, Kruger said I could have her as long as I didn’t take long—”

  “Kruger ain’t in charge now,” Diablo snapped. “Now get riding.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “Revenge,” Diablo said and turned his scarred face so that Wilson could see it in the glowing light of the fiery barn. “You know me?”

  “Hell, no,” Wilson shook his head. “You loco?”

  “Think back fifteen years,” Diablo muttered. “Think about a lynching and torturing a half-breed kid.”

  Wilson’s knife-scarred face turned pale, and sweat broke out under his beady eyes. “Kruger, he told us to do it.”

  “You enjoyed every minute of it. I remember how you laughed as you flipped me over on my belly.”

  “We was just havin’ a little fun since there was no girls available in town. And anyway, we was all drunk.”

  “No excuse,” Diablo said and pulled the rope tighter.

  “Kruger ain’t gonna like this,” Wilson blustered.

  “He doesn’t get any say in this. Now ride.”

  There was nothing Diablo could do to aid the woman, he thought with regret. Maybe she had family who would help her bury her man. At least Diablo had saved her from one horrid experience. Diablo remembered, shuddered, and nudged his horse forward. Some things a man can’t forgive or forget, and being drunk was no excuse for the unspeakable things the men had done to him that long-ago night.

  It was almost dawn as Kruger and Joe rode into the barnyard at the ranch.

  “Good night’s work,” Kruger grinned.

  “Yeah, we set fire to half the barns in the county.”

  “I don’t see Wilson’s horse,” Kruger dismounted. “Surely he can’t still be humpin’ that farmer’s wife.”

  Joe snorted as he swung down from his white mare. “You don’t know Wilson. He could go all night, and he especially likes the ones that fight and claw.”

  “Well, that’s one of the rewards of this raid. You see a woman you like, Joe, you take her.” He dismounted.

  Joe grinned. “I got an eye for old man Sorrenson’s daughter, and he ain’t helpin’ us none.”

  Kruger saw red rage as he grabbed the other by the throat. “You bastard, you pass the word that nobody’s to touch Sunny, you hear me?”

  Joe managed to free himself from the other’s grip and coughed, stumbled backward. “Boss, I didn’t mean nothing—”

  “I’m going to marry that girl, you hear me? Nobody’s to bother the Sorrensons’ place.”

  “Sure, boss, sure.” Joe felt his neck and coughed again.

  “Now let’s put our horses in the barn and get some sleep; it’s nearly daybreak. We’ll rest up through the day.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Joe led his horse into the barn, followed by Kruger.

  The coming daylight silhouetted a bundle hanging from the barn rafters.

  Kruger said. “What the hell?”

  Joe took one look, and the bile rose up in his throat as the limp form swung around, revealing, in the pink light of dawn, the terrified, knife-scarred face and wide-open eyes of Wilson, staring down at him from the swaying rope. “Oh, my God.”

&nbs
p; Wilson would never rape another woman or fire another barn. He hung from the rafter, and the rope made a squeaking sound as his weight pulled and strained at it.

  “Goddamn!” Kruger said, and for once in his life, he was really frightened. “Goddamn! What’s gone wrong that all my men are gettin’ lynched?”

  Chapter 4

  That night and the day after, Sunny had watched the sky light up all pink and red and smelled smoke on the wind. They walked out on the front porch the next morning.

  “Dad, what’s happening?”

  Swen looked troubled, shrugged.

  “It’s the Stock Growers Association behind this, isn’t it?”

  Swen didn’t answer.

  “Dad, don’t you think we ought to go into town and tell the sheriff ?”

  “I’m sure he knows what’s going on.” He sat down in a porch swing and sighed.

  She had never questioned her father’s judgment before, and now she hesitated. “What do you mean? Won’t he help?”

  He didn’t look at her. “Would you go up against real gunmen with a handful of inexperienced deputies and a few farmers?”

  “But surely burning barns and running off cattle isn’t right.”

  Swen hesitated, fiddled with his pipe. “Honey, you’ve got to look at this from the cattlemen’s point of view. They’ve fought Indians, blizzards, and rustlers all these years to hang on to what they’ve got, and now farmers are pouring into Wyoming and plowing up the dirt. This is a hostile land, Sunny, and sometimes you have to fight to hang on to what’s yours.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you; that sounds like Hurd Kruger. And anyway you aren’t taking part.” She sat down across from him, took his hand.

  He stuck his pipe between his teeth. “I don’t know if I’ve got ethics or if I’m just a coward.”

  “Dad, how can you say that? You know this isn’t right. Who are all those strangers that came in on that train?”

  “They’re Texas gunfighters, the cream of the crop. The Stock Growers Association has made up a pot of one hundred thousand dollars to run all the homesteaders out of Johnson County. You know Hurd has a wife and son buried out here on these plains. Some of the other ranchers have buried families too, and they intend to hold on to what’s theirs. They figure they’ve paid for the land in blood. They resent the farmers and the small ranchers moving in and fencing off grazing.

  “So you’re saying the end justifies the means?”

  “I don’t know what I believe anymore, Sunny. I’ve been so alone since your mother died.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  “You got nothing to be sorry about, honey. You’re a good daughter.”

  “I—I try not to cause you any trouble,” she said. “I figure I owe you that.”

  “You don’t owe me anything, Sunny. I’m not much of a business man, I guess. We probably should have pulled up stakes and left Wyoming a long time ago.” He seemed lost in thought, and Sunny wondered if he were thinking of her mother.

  “I’m sorry I even brought this up, Dad. I suppose it’s not my business.”

  “No, you’ve made me see the light. I think I’ll go into town to see if the sheriff can do anything to rein this in before the county has no law at all. Maybe I should go ahead and send you to your aunt.”

  “Oh, Dad, I can’t leave you—not at a time like this. Can I go to town with you?”

  She saw him hesitate. “By jingo, with the way things are going, I’m afraid to leave you alone.”

  She smiled. “I’ll get my sunbonnet, and you hitch up the buggy.”

  When they drove into Krugerville, Sunny saw three wagons piled high with household goods tied to hitching posts.

  “Looks like it’s started,” Swen muttered.

  “What, Dad?”

  “Never mind, honey.” He patted her hand. “You wait here, and I’ll go talk to the sheriff.”

  He swung down from the buggy and walked along the wooden sidewalk to the sheriff’s office, went inside.

  Sunny waited dutifully for a while; then curiosity got the better of her. She got down from the buggy and walked over to one of the wagons, where a tired, worn woman sat on the seat nursing a baby.

  “Hello, I’m Sunny Sorrenson.”

  “You’re one of the cattlemen’s clan,” the woman said, glaring at her.

  Sunny had never felt such shame before. “Are you just coming to town to shop?”

  The woman shook her head, adjusted the whimpering baby at her breast. “We’re leaving, just like most of the others. But then you’d know that, since you’re part of the ranch bunch.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking—”

  “What do you want?” A thin, tired man came up to the wagon. “Here to gloat?” He swung up on the seat.

  “I beg your pardon?” Sunny blinked.

  “You cattle people have beat us all right, murdering and raping, burning our barns.” He turned to the wagon behind him and yelled, “Let’s go, Ned.”

  Sunny stepped back, and the man slapped the reins against his team of thin mules. The two wagons started up, driving slowly out of town as Sunny watched.

  With a sigh, she turned back toward her buggy and saw that gunfighter, the one with the scarred face, walk out of the general store as her Dad came out of the sheriff’s office and bumped into him. Her father started, and his face went white. She couldn’t hear what was being said, but it was a brief encounter.

  Diablo had come into town for supplies. He hadn’t expected to bump into Swen coming along the sidewalk.

  Swen paled and hesitated. “You—you came back after all these years.”

  “Didn’t you know I would?” He stared down at the older man.

  “I—I thought you were probably dead.”

  “I forced myself to live. Dead men can’t take revenge.”

  “I am so sorry,” the old Dane said, “So very sorry. If we hadn’t all been drunk—”

  “You don’t need to be sorry,” Diablo snapped.

  “I have been for fifteen years.” He didn’t look at Diablo; he looked at the wooden sidewalk. “I’m ashamed I didn’t stop it.”

  “You tried.”

  “Maybe not hard enough.” Swen looked up at him. “I want you to know I ain’t had a drink since that night.”

  “That don’t bring my friends back to life or fix this.” Diablo gestured toward his scarred face.

  “I can’t undo it, but I want you to know it’s always haunted me. I’ve wished a million times I could undo what happened that day.”

  “So have I.” Diablo watched the pretty girl visiting with some of the nesters that were being run out of town. Then he brushed on past the older man and went into the Longhorn Saloon.

  Who was that man Dad was talking to? Then she remembered the big frame and the black clothes of the half-breed she had seen at the train station and how she had shuddered at his scarred, horrible face. She wondered what they had to discuss. Then she watched the man in black move silently down the wooden sidewalk and disappear into the saloon while her father strode down the street to the livery stable.

  She walked back to her buggy. It was warm sitting here waiting for Dad. She turned her head and watched the homesteaders’ wagons disappear slowly up the dusty road.

  Maybe she ought to say something to Hurd Kruger about all this. After all, he was president of the Stock Growers Association. She shook her head. Her father wouldn’t approve of her sticking her nose into men’s business, and anyway, Uncle Hurd would tell her not to “worry her pretty little head about it.”

  After a few minutes, she grew fidgety and remembered that she needed some thread. Dad had told her to stay with the buggy, but surely he wouldn’t mind if she went into the general store a few minutes while she waited. She got out of the buggy and walked into the old store. The dim light after the bright sunshine made her blink, and she took a deep breath of the spices and pickle barrels before she smiled at bald old Mr. Blake. “Good day, si
r.”

  “Why, hello, Miss Sunny. What you doing in town?”

  “Dad had some business, and I just remembered I was out of thread.”

  The old man rubbed his hands together. “What color you need?”

  “White.”

  He went over to a shelf, looking up and down the spools. “Lot of traffic in town today.”

  She nodded. “I talked to one of them. Settlers pulling out of the county. Reckon that’ll hurt your business?”

  He frowned as he came back to the counter with the spool of thread. “Not really. Them farmers ain’t got a dime between ’em. Don’t blame the ranchers for chasing them out.

  Johnny-come-latelies wanting to fence off good grazing land after the ranchers made it easy for them by civilizing this country.”

  “But do you think they should have brought in all those Texas gunfighters?”

  The storekeeper shrugged. “That ain’t for me to say, miss. You know Hurd Kruger purty near runs things hereabout, him bein’ the biggest rancher and the president of the Stock Growers Association.”

  She didn’t know what to say. She’d been taught that a lady never voices an opinion or argues with a man. She took the spool of thread. “Put this on my bill, Mr. Blake.”

  “Sure thing.” He turned back to filling his shelves, and Sunny took the spool of thread and went out the side door, intending to walk down to the livery stable. She ran head on into the scarred gunfighter who had just stepped out the saloon’s side door.

  Without thinking, she took a deep breath and cringed back against the wall.

  The gunfighter seemed startled and turned his face away from her.

  She looked up at him, saw the surprise in his dark eyes, and felt the hard muscle of him before she backed away. She realized abruptly that she was alone with this cold-blooded killer in this deserted side street and she whirled and ran, losing her sunbonnet in the process.

  Diablo watched her run, her pale hair glinting in the sunlight. There was something about her that stirred him in a way no woman ever had. Oh, a few times when he was drunk and overcome with need, he had paid some ugly whore to lie down, close her eyes, and take him on, but she had always demanded money in advance and he had been ashamed and humiliated that he’d stooped to such a low. Now he stood watching the girl’s soft curves and the glimpse of her trim ankles under the blue calico as she hurried toward the buggy.