Diablo

by Georgina Gentry

  Joe hesitated. “You sure that’s wise, boss?”

  “You questionin’ my judgment?”

  “No, sir,” the weasel-like wrangler shook his head. “I only thought—”

  “Let me do the thinkin’. Have you forgotten them damned farmers lynched Smitty and Wilson? You think them damned cattle-rustling nesters are trying to send me a personal message?”

  “I don’t know, boss.”

  “Well, I ain’t scared,” Hurd blustered. “But you start keeping a sharp lookout around the place. From now on, I’m gonna sleep with that damned dog tied at the foot of my bed.”

  Joe nodded. “That mean mutt ought to set off an alarm if anyone gets within a half mile of the place.”

  “You’re right about that. Tomorrow, we’ll hit the south end of the county with all them gunfighters. It shouldn’t take more than another week before the rest of them farmers are scared shitless and they pack up and move out.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  “Remember about makin’ them witnesses disappear. See you in the morning.” Hurd dismissed him and went out to unchain the big wolf mix. The dog snarled at him, and Hurd kicked it. “You hairy bastard, I’ll learn you to try to bite me. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll take you along and turn you loose on some of them farmers’ children. When they hear their kids screaming, they’ll forget about taking a stand.”

  He led the dog into his bedroom, tied it at the foot of his bed. He thought about feeding the dog, decided it would be more alert and dangerous if it were kept hungry.

  Then he went to the kitchen and made himself a cold roast beef sandwich, thinking about Sunny. What a woman. He sighed, picturing her. Yes, she deserved to be treated like a queen. He could already picture her in his kitchen, but especially in his bed, her pale long hair spread out across the pillows like gold silk. And he’d buy her sheer silk nightgowns so he could see her slim body when he looked at her. He closed his eyes, getting aroused as he thought about her scent and the softness of her skin. Yes, he’d ask Swen for his permission soon, and in the meantime, he’d get started on that fine new house.

  The old cook had gone to her cabin, and he was alone. Carefully, he checked all the locks on the doors and kicked at the snarling dog as he pulled off his clothes. He had a pistol under his pillow and twenty or so gunfighters camping out around his ranch. Anyone who tried to get in would either have to be loco or some kind of supernatural being.

  The images of Wilson and Smitty came to his mind, their mouths open, their eyes bulging in horror as they swung back and forth in the breeze. They were two of his toughest, most dependable men, and yet someone had gotten the drop on them and lynched them rather than shooting them. Was someone trying to send him a message?

  “Won’t do any good. If Injuns, wildfires, and blizzards couldn’t scare me, nothing can.” He blew out the lamp and crawled into bed. His pillow was smeared with the black dye from his hair. He wondered if Sunny suspected that he dyed it. Probably not. He was still a fine figure of a man, even if he was past forty.

  Who had lynched Wilson and Smitty? Those dumb nesters were cowards and stupid besides. Could it be Injuns? Naw, if they were going to take revenge for all he had done to the local tribes, they would have done it long ago. There were few of them left in this county anymore.

  Hurd reached to touch the loaded pistol under his pillow. He was one of the best shots in the state. Whoever took his prized rifle wouldn’t come back with Hurd in the house. If he did, Hurd would nail him because he had an ear for the slightest sound, and he’d like nothing better than blow a couple of dumb farmers to kingdom come. Besides he had the dog lying on the rug at the foot of his bed, and the part-wolf would growl if anyone got close and eat a hapless trespasser alive if one got into his bedroom. Thus satisfied with his precautions, Hurd closed his eyes and settled down for the night, dreaming happily of setting fire to more farmhouses and making love to the beautiful Sunny.

  Diablo watched the big ranch house from the little rise. When he saw the lights go out, he dismounted and tied up his horse. Then he sniffed the wind and listened for a moment. All the gunfighters were asleep in their blankets or drinking around their campfires. He waited until the moon went behind a cloud; then silent as a shadow in his moccasins, Diablo sneaked toward the ranch house. He had an object in his hand, an object any rancher would recognize. Without thinking, he reached up to touch his scarred face. He had waited a long, long time, but he would wait a little while longer. His need for vengeance was only overshadowed by his anger, a slow-burning anger that was as hot as a branding iron.

  He tiptoed up on the porch and turned the knob. The door was locked. So Kruger was getting cautious now that someone had been in his house and stolen his fancy rifle. Diablo went to a window and slid it open. Then, silent as his warrior father, he climbed inside and moved toward the bedroom. He knew the layout from the time he took the rifle. Diablo paused at the bedroom door and listened to the man inside snoring.

  Slowly he opened the door. Diablo had eyes like a wild thing himself, and he could see the silhouette of the dog lying on the rug and hear the rattle of the chain. The dog growled very softly and then seemed to catch Diablo’s scent and went silent, its bushy tail thumping the floor gently.

  Diablo smiled, a rare thing for him. This was going to be easy, almost as easy as torturing a fourteen-year-old half-breed kid.

  Hurd came awake suddenly, listening. Nothing. He must have had a bad dream. He sighed and lay back with a smile. The first faint rays of dawn were coming through his window, and he had a lot of work to do today. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, scratching himself and reaching for his boots. That’s when he saw the end of the chain and the collar lying on the rag rug. The dog was gone. “What the hell?”

  He looked around the room, blinked, and tried to focus his eyes on a shadowy object lying on the quilt at the foot of his bed. “What?”

  And then he recognized it. The object was a crude running iron, the kind rustlers used to change a brand. He was frozen in fear as he stared at it and then again at the chain at the foot of his bed. As impossible as it seemed, someone had come into his room, taken his vicious watchdog, and left a rusty old running iron on his bed. Kruger took a deep breath, grabbed for his pistol, and yelled for help.

  Chapter 6

  Kruger grabbed for his boots while screaming and cursing.

  Joe ran into the room. “What’s goin’ on, boss? I was in the kitchen havin’ a cup of coffee and—”

  “Damn it! Everyone asleep in this place?” Kruger swung at Joe with his boot.

  Joe stumbled backward, spilling his coffee. “What is it, boss? What is it?”

  “There!” Kruger gestured wildly toward the steel rod and the empty collar and chain. “Look, damn it! Someone came right into my bedroom and took my damned guard dog!”

  Joe walked over and picked the rusty object up off the bed and stared with big eyes. “A running iron? What’s that about?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Kruger grumbled as he pulled on his pants and sat back down on the edge of the bed to put on his boots. “It’s a damned insult, that’s what it is! Stealing my guard dog and leaving a rustler’s tool on the foot of my bed.”

  “It must be meant as a message,” Joe mused and laid the running iron on the mantle, dusted the rust from his hands. “If someone got that close, they could have just killed you.”

  “Of course it’s a message, you fool!” Kruger paused, thinking. “Didn’t hear a thing, and I’m a light sleeper from all those years fightin’ Injuns and rustlers. I didn’t figure a grasshopper could get in here and mosey around without waking me up. Yeah, it’s a message, all right.”

  Joe shuddered and looked around the room. “You don’t reckon it’s some of those evil spirits the Injuns are always talkin’ about?”

  “Ha! Injun spirits?” Kruger stood up and reached for his denim shirt. “More likely some of them damned nesters tryin’ to scare us off. Well, it won’t work
. They can’t spook me; I got the numbers on my side. We’ll start in today as soon as I grab a bite. You round up them gunslingers, and we’ll go to work on them farmers again. They may think they can scare me off hanging Wilson and Smitty and now, comin’ into my bedroom, but it won’t work. Today, we burn some more cabins and barns, and when I see that damned dog again, I’ll shoot it. Now get movin’!”

  “But what about Sheriff Angus and the troops?” Joe blurted.

  “To hell with them! This is my county, and I’ll run it my way!”

  Diablo sat before his campfire up in the hills, cooking bacon and smiling at the dog in the early dawn light. “Hey, Wolf, you’re gonna be a good friend. Here, have some bacon.” He tossed a slice to the black dog, and it wagged its tail and took the bite. Diablo paused and petted Wolf. “You’ll have a better life with me,” he promised.

  He settled down to eat the fried eggs and bacon, sharing with the dog as he watched the sun come up. Kruger should be up by now, and he’d be mad as hell and maybe a little shaken that someone had been in his bedroom, close enough to kill him.

  He poured himself a tin cup of coffee, thinking aloud. “Yeah, you bastard, I could have shot you or cut your throat, but that would have been too easy. I want you to suffer. I want you to be scared loco, and I’ll take or destroy everything you ever cared about before I finally kill you.”

  He sipped his coffee and thought. What else did Kruger value? That fine-blooded black stallion, his ranch, and that beautiful girl, probably his daughter. Yes, Diablo had plans for those, too, before he finally killed Kruger. He had spent fifteen years waiting and planning for this revenge, and he wanted to enjoy every minute of it. His whole life had centered on nothing else. For a moment, he wondered what he would do with his time when he finally finished here. Certainly there was nothing else in his life. Being a gunfighter was an empty, lonely existence, drifting from one town to the next.

  “You ugly bastard,” he muttered to himself, “you can’t have any other kind of life—no wife, no kids. Women scream and shudder at the sight of your scarred, twisted face.”

  That made him think of Kruger again. Whoever said revenge is sweet certainly knew what he was talking about. He wondered if Kruger had any idea why the running iron had been left on his bed. Did he even remember what he and the others had done that long ago day?

  The girl. What was her name? Sunny, yes, it suited her. Diablo pictured the shy beauty in his mind and sighed. He couldn’t keep his mind off her, her full mouth, her soft skin. What was the worst thing he could do to the girl to upset Kruger? No, not kill her—Diablo could never kill a woman. Rape and dishonor, that was it. Diablo cringed and patted the dog. No, he didn’t think he could do that— not after what had happened to his white mother, what had happened to him.

  Though he didn’t want to admit it to himself, the thought of holding the girl in his arms, taking her, making her his completely, made him breathe heavier. But he wanted her to desire him, not to be forced. He laughed without mirth. Fat chance of that happening, with him looking like something out of a nightmare.

  As the sun rose, he watched the horizon and soon saw smoke. The raiders must be burning another barn. Poor bastards. Diablo wished he could do something to help them, but one man against an army of gunfighters didn’t stand a chance. Besides, he had only come to Wyoming for one reason. When Kruger was dead, the range war would collapse, and the farmers and big ranchers would have to find a way to live together in peace. There was no stopping progress, and the days of the giant ranchers were numbered.

  He thought of the old man, Swen Sorrenson. He had been there, too, and drunk as the rest of them, but . . . Diablo winced, not wanting to remember that night. He still had nightmares about it just as he did about his days as a Santee Sioux slave.

  He wanted to talk to the old man. Kicking dirt over his fire, he saddled up, and the dog trailed alongside him as he took a back trail to the Sorrenson’s ranch. He tied up his horse in the brush and approached the cabin cautiously. There didn’t seem to be anyone around. They were either all at the barn or out rounding up cattle. Diablo had noted no one from this ranch seemed to be involved in burning and looting the farmers.

  He crept up to the cabin as quietly as his Sioux warrior father and peered into the window. It was a homey cabin with calico curtains at the window, a homemade braided rug on the scrubbed floor, and a fresh pie on the table. Out of curiosity, Diablo pushed up the window and stepped inside. The place smelled of cinnamon and coffee. His eyes watered a little. This was just the kind of warm, homey place he’d always dreamed of for himself with a wife and children. “Don’t be a fool,” he whispered to himself, “you’re a gunfighter, a killer. You’ll never be able to live like a regular rancher. Besides with your hideous face, what woman would have you?”

  He looked around and saw his reflection in a parlor mirror, winced, and turned away. Then by an old, scarred desk, he paused. On it was a small photo in a gold frame, and the girl in the photo was Sunny. Confused and puzzled, he picked up the photo and stared at the beauty. Now what was a photo of Sunny doing in old Swen’s house? Had he been wrong about the relationships?

  In the distance, he thought he heard the sound of a horse’s hooves approaching. He grabbed the framed photo and went back out the window, leaving it partly open behind him. He looked at the photo one more time before putting the small gold frame in his shirt pocket. He realized now the approaching horse was coming from the other side of the ranch house, and he crouched down to watch. The dog whimpered, and Diablo patted him and shushed him to silence.

  When he peeked around the corner, he saw the old man dismounting and tying his horse to the hitching rail before he went inside the house. Diablo gestured for the dog to be quiet, and it wagged its tail and obeyed.

  Old Swen went to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee. Diablo watched him, trying to decide what to do. This was probably not a good time to approach him; his cowhands might return at any time. As Diablo tried to make a decision, he heard another horse approaching.

  The dog raised its head and growled.

  “Be quiet, Wolf,” Diablo commanded. “You’ll give us away.”

  The dog obeyed, and Diablo peered around the corner and saw Kruger dismounting and tying up his sorrel gelding. The old man came to the door. “Oh, hello, Hurd. You not burning barns today?”

  “Enough of your sarcasm,” Kruger snapped and looked around. “Where’s Sunny?”

  The old man shrugged. “Over at Mrs. Brown’s. She’s gone into labor, and you know Sunny’s such a help.”

  “Good. I’d just as soon she wasn’t around to hear what I got to say.” He lit a cigar and blew out the match.

  “Someone got into my place last night.”

  “What you mean? With all them guards you got?”

  Kruger’s hands shook. “I tell you, someone was in my room, close enough to kill me.”

  “Well, evidently, he didn’t. You’re here, ain’t you?”

  “That’s what’s so strange about it.” Kruger sat down in a chair with his back to the window. “Whoever it was took my dog.”

  “As mean as that dog was? I can’t believe that.” Swen poured him a mug of coffee.

  “Believe it,” Kruger snapped and sipped his coffee.

  “Worse yet, he left something on my bed, maybe as a warning.”

  “What was it?” The old man sat down across from him.

  “A rusty running iron.”

  There was a long pause.

  “A running iron?” The older man scratched his white head. “That don’t make no sense.”

  “An old, rusty running iron. I figure it’s an insult or a dare from those damned nesters.”

  The old man shook his head. “Still don’t make no sense.”

  “Don’t know who else it could be.”

  A strange look crossed the old man’s face. “Oh, my God.”

  “What?” Kruger asked.

  “Never mind. It was just a
thought.”

  “Tell me.” Kruger looked annoyed.

  “Naw, it was a stupid idea anyway.”

  Kruger turned his head, and his profile really looked annoyed. “You might be the next one, Swen. Maybe you should move over to my place.”

  Swen shook his head. “We’ll be fine here. I probably ought to tell you who I ran into in town. You aren’t going to believe this.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” The other seemed to dismiss him with a wave of his hand. “This probably ain’t the time to bring it up, Swen, but the way things are goin’, we’ll have these nesters cleaned out soon and I’ll buy up their ranches and have the biggest cattle empire in the county, maybe even in the state.”

  Swen frowned. “You know I don’t approve.”

  “It’s time we got something straight about Sunny’s future,” Kruger said and puffed his cigar.

  “I got her future planned,” Swen said. “Soon, I’ll be sending her back east to Boston to live with her aunt and go to college.”

  “You can’t afford to do that,” Kruger scoffed. “You’re barely makin’ it now. If I hadn’t been helpin’ you along, you’d have already had to sell out.”

  “Sure, but I got that dun mare and her fine filly I can sell, and a little money put away,” Swen said and puffed his pipe.

  Outside, Wolf’s ear pricked up, and Diablo tensed, listening. In the distance, he heard the thunder of approaching hoofbeats. He peeked around the corner. A bunch of Kruger’s men were coming strong, but Diablo couldn’t tear himself away from his listening post, even though he knew every second he stayed put him in more danger.

  Inside, Swen said, “Yes, she’s going to Boston. I hid a little away for it.”

  “You might ask Sunny how she feels,” Kruger sipped his coffee. “She might like being married to the biggest rancher in the county. I’m planning on buildin’ a big fine home on that hill overlookin’ the ranch, and I’ll be able to buy her anything she wants. You’ll have a comfortable old age.”