Diablo (A Piccaddilly Publishing Western Book 6) Read online

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  From all over they had come, flocking to Diablo in droves. Prospectors, miners, promoters, gamblers, confidence artists, fallen doves, gunmen, thieves, vagrants, and even a few homesteaders could be found milling in pursuit of their private passions at any hour of the day or night.

  They hailed from the ranges of Wyoming and Nebraska, from the rugged vastness of Montana, from Texas and New Mexico and Kansas, from the fertile farmlands of Illinois and Iowa and points east as well. From wherever men and women were down on their luck and heard about the bonanza to be reaped in the silver-laden mountains or the sin-strewn streets.

  In that respect Diablo was no different from all the previous boomtowns, but those in the know, those who had been to other boomtowns, were unanimous in their belief that Diablo was the very worst.

  DIABLO

  By David Robbins

  First published by Leisure Books in 1997

  Copyright © 1997, 2016 by David Robbins

  First Smashwords Edition: August 2016

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges * Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  To Judy, Joshua, and Shane

  Chapter One

  The rider appeared on a ridge five hundred yards northeast of the relay station. His lean frame sat slumped in the saddle; his horse hung its head in exhaustion. Clearly, both had been stretched to the limit of their endurance by the ordeal of crossing the parched, blistering landscape.

  Salazar spotted the stranger first. Busy getting the team ready for the arrival of the stage, he idly glanced at the ridge, and froze. His first thought was that it must be an Indian, since only an Indian would dare cross the desert alone. Fear gushed up inside of him like water spouting from a geyser.

  Many years ago, when he was a boy, Salazar had seen what was left of his favorite uncle after the Apaches got through with him. Ever since, he had been deathly afraid of all Indians. Even being around peaceful ones, like the Pimas and Maricopas, gave him a queasy feeling.

  Squinting in the bright morning sunlight, Salazar used his left hand to screen his eyes and studied the horseman’s silhouette. He was relieved to see that the rider must be white or Mexican.

  The door to the station opened and out tramped Clarence Wynn, the owner, a rooster of a man notorious for his short fuse and his ability to use nine cusswords in a ten-word sentence.

  Not one to live by the rules and laws set down by others, Wynn had established the relay station twelve years ago as a means of eking out a living with little intrusion on his cherished privacy. Except for when the stage arrived, his time was his own. As he damn well liked it.

  “Salazar!” Wynn barked. “You got them horses ready yet?”

  Ordinarily prompt to reply to avoid a tongue-lashing, Salazar was climbing to the top corral rail for a better view of the distant rider, who had not moved.

  “Did you hear me, you lazy no-account?” Wynn demanded, advancing. His stringy form was clad in brown pants and a green shirt, both spattered with greasy food stains.

  Salazar glanced at his employer, resisting an urge to question the identity of Wynn’s mother. Wynn was a bastardo, he reflected, but the man paid well, and Salazar needed the money. His wife and five children were counting on him to save enough to cover the expense of moving in the spring to Pueblo, Colorado, where they had close relatives—and there were no hostile Indians.

  Pointing at the ridge, Salazar said, “We have a visitor. Should I get the rifle, señor?”

  Wynn halted several yards from the corral and turned to scan the horizon. His brown eyes widened when he spied the horseman. “Damn.”

  “Trouble, you think?” Salazar asked.

  Wynn scratched the stubble on his chin, his devious mind pondering the possibilities. “Ain’t no red devil,” he deduced aloud. “Can’t be no greenhorn, either. No blamed tenderfoot could make it across the Painted Desert.” He paused. “Might be a long rider. Yep, I reckon you’d best fetch Old Bess for me.”

  It never ceased to amuse Salazar that white men gave their rifles names. Guns were guns, nothing more. Why, they might as well bestow names on chamber pots! Jumping to the ground, he noted, “The stage will be here soon. Do you think he plans to rob it?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Wynn grumbled. “Go get Bess, pronto.”

  Salazar hurried toward the station. He could tell that his employer was in one of those moods.

  Clarence Wynn pulled his hat brim low against the sun. What was that hombre doing up yonder? he wondered. Checking the lay of the land? A smart man, or an outlaw, always rode on the high side until satisfied the coast was clear.

  Wynn was inclined to the opinion that the horseman was the former. Outlaws, like wolves and coyotes, tended to run in packs.

  If the rider had, indeed, crossed the brain-baking stretch of godforsaken hell the Spaniards had named El Desierto Pintado, then either he was amazingly lucky, or the man knew how to live off the land the way an Apache or Navajo would.

  Wynn’s gaze strayed to the ribbon of road winding from his station in the direction of the ridge. Two hundred yards from the base of the rise, the road angled abruptly to the southeast. In thirty-one miles it would angle again, to the east, eventually meandering all the way to Gallup in the neighboring Territory of New Mexico.

  Founded just one year ago, in 1879, Gallup served as the jumping-off place for those souls brave or foolhardy enough to confront the dangers of the Arizona Territory: the scorching desert, hostile Indians, and more cutthroats and hardcases than a person could shake a stick at, all greedy for their share of the wealth to be found in Arizona’s booming mining towns.

  Despite the risks, Wynn preferred Arizona over New Mexico for the simple fact that there were fewer people, and fewer people always meant greater freedom. If a man wanted to get falling-down drunk and raise a ruckus, he could do so without the neighbors raising a stink or complaining to the law.

  Salazar emerged from the station holding Wynn’s Winchester. “He’s coming, señor. What should we do?”

  “You finish gettin’ the team ready,” Wynn directed, looking at the ridge. Sure enough, the rider was descending. “I’ll keep an eye on our visitor.”

  “As you wish,” Salazar responded, his tone showing that he doubted the wisdom of staying in the open.

  Wynn took the .44-40 and ambled to the northeast corner of the station where he commanded an unobstructed view of the horseman’s approach. Leaning against the wall, he cradled Bess and pursed his thin lips.

  Maybe he was getting all worked up over nothing. A fair number of solitary riders had stopped at the relay station over the years. But every one, as near as he could recollect, had followed the road, had stuck to that rutted, serpentine track as if their lives depended on it—which they did. Anyone who strayed into the desert risked becoming lost, and once adrift in that arid wasteland, death was almost inevitable, whether from thirst, snakebite, or Indians.

  Small swirls of dust rose from under the hooves of the rider’s mount. The man had spotted Wynn and slowed.

  Wynn glanced arou
nd. Salazar was leading one of the team to a water trough located five yards from the station door, near the hitch post. That made no sense, since there was another trough by the corral. Then Wynn realized that Salazar wanted to keep an eye on the stranger, too, just in case, and Wynn grinned. The station hand was smarter than he had given him credit for being.

  Nobody, Wynn mused wryly, had ever died from too much caution, although too little had planted more men in graves than smallpox.

  The stranger had angled onto the road to cover the last fifty yards.

  “You let me do the talkin’,” Wynn said.

  “If he tries anything, I will get your pistola from behind the counter.”

  “Just don’t shoot yourself in the foot. It’s got a hair trigger.”

  Both horse and rider were now close enough for Wynn to note details. The man was tall and well-built and had black hair worn long, down to his broad shoulders. A mustache framed his upper lip. On his square chin was a week’s worth of growth. Atop his head perched a wide-brimmed black hat, its dusty condition matching that of the man’s sweat-soaked white shirt and gray trousers. In a holster on his left hip, butt forward, nestled an ivory-handled revolver.

  The trademark of a gun hand.

  But not everyone who preferred a fancy six-shooter was a gunman, Wynn reminded himself. A lot of cowboys and miners went in for elaborate hog-legs with nickel plating, artistic engraving, and expensive grips. Why, the man responsible for founding Tombstone, a prospector by the name of Ed Schiefflin, liked to strap on a pair of Smith & Wessons with ivory grips. Yet he was a peaceable sort and had never shot anyone.

  It was the times, Wynn reflected. In that day and age, many a man added a touch of vanity to his belt hardware.

  Wynn straightened to move away from the corner, adopting a reasonably pleasant expression since he didn’t care to rile the stranger. Some long riders were downright touchy over trifles. Being too quick with the tongue or too surly without cause was enough to bring out the worst in them.

  Stopping, Wynn waited until the horseman was ten yards off before calling out, “Howdy, stranger! Welcome to my station.”

  The man reined up. Piercing blue eyes raked Wynn from head to toe, shifted to Salazar, and finally went to the faded sign suspended above the open front door. “Wynn’s Stage Stop,” he read aloud in a low, deep voice. “I’d be obliged for a drink for me and my horse. We’re thirsty enough to drain a river.”

  “Help yourself,” Wynn offered. He trailed the longhair to the trough, admiring the man’s sturdy roan, and catalogued his impressions. The man’s accent was likely southern, his manner polite enough to show he wasn’t a run-of-the-mill hardcase.

  Salazar displayed remarkable agility in moving the team horse aside so the rider could get to the water. “Hello, señor,” he said.

  Wynn heard the stranger address the station hand in a string of perfect Spanish. He had never learned the language, himself, even though half the folks in Arizona spoke it. Too much bother.

  Surprise flitting across his features, Salazar grinned and nodded. “Yes, señor. To a man who has crossed the desert, water is more precious than all the gold in the world.”

  The rider dismounted slowly, then arched his spine to relieve the stiffness.

  “You must have been in the saddle a long time,” Wynn commented.

  “A long time,” the stranger agreed, letting the roan drink first, his left hand holding the reins, his right close to his fancy pistol.

  Wynn carefully skirted the hind end of the roan, noticing a black frock coat draped over the man’s saddlebags and tied down with strips of leather. Gamblers were partial to frock coats; the garment served as the emblem of their fraternity. But a typical gambler would no more tackle the Painted Desert than he would a cornered rattler.

  “Any chance of having you rustle up some grub?” the man asked in that distinct southern drawl.

  “There’s a stage due in soon,” Wynn said. “If you don’t mind waitin’ a short spell, you’re more than welcome to eat with the passengers.”

  “Sounds good.”

  As surreptitiously as he could, Wynn studied the stranger’s belt gun, recognizing the model as a short-barreled Colt Peacemaker. They were tremendously popular on the frontier. Nickel plating made the gun gleam when struck by the sun. The caliber was most likely .44-40 or .45. Anyone who knew the business of killing wanted a certain man-stopper.

  “I’ll tend to your horse, señor,” Salazar said.

  “Thanks just the same, but I’ll do it,” replied the stranger, finally bending to cup water to his lips.

  Wynn strolled to the doorway, pausing to watch the horseman go about the business of unsaddling. Long ago he had learned to judge the character of a man by how the man treated his horse. Greenhorns always betrayed their ignorance by treating their animals as if they were made of fine china. This stranger impressed him. The man removed his Texas-style rig in no time flat, everything done just right with an economy of movement that spoke of long experience.

  Salazar was also watching. Like Wynn, he was impressed. Nodding at the roan, he remarked, “You have a fine animal, señor.”

  “Never owned better.”

  “I have worked around horses all my life,” Salazar revealed. “I have a knack, as some might say. The secret is to be gentle with them. A horse will do—”

  Wynn suddenly straightened, thinking of the time. “Quit your jawin’, dammit. That stage is due, remember? Finish with the team before it gets here.”

  “Si, señor,” Salazar answered. With a nod at the rider, he sheepishly led the team horse toward the corral. It was not like him to open up to a stranger, especially a gringo, but there had been genuine friendliness in the man’s eyes.

  Clarence Wynn lowered his voice so only the southerner could hear. “You have to ride them Mexicans all the time or they’ll slack off every chance they get.”

  The corners of the man’s mouth tugged downward. Wynn, staring after his station hand, did not see it.

  “If you don’t think highly of those with Spanish blood, why bother hiring them?” the rider asked.

  Wynn sighed. “There ain’t many white men willing to shovel horse crap for a livin’. Besides, the Mexicans work just as hard, and I can pay them less.”

  “You’re a shrewd businessman, Wynn.”

  “Bet your britches I am.”

  “You hire cheap labor, then stand around and do practically nothing most of the day, I’ll bet.”

  The station owner snickered. “There you have it! That’s the secret of good business. Keep expenses low and the profit high.”

  “You’ve missed your calling. You should be working for the railroad.”

  “How come?” Wynn asked, puzzled by the reference.

  “Never mind,” the longhair replied. Having already draped his saddlebags and the black coat over his right shoulder, he now effortlessly slung his saddle over his left and looked at Wynn. “Shouldn’t you be getting that food ready?” he asked in the very same tone Wynn had used a minute before on Salazar.

  Wynn abruptly saw that his remarks had offended the rider, and that the man had been mocking him moments earlier. A flinty narrowing of the stranger’s eyes prompted him to check the indignant retort he was about to make. Instead, he mustered a feeble grin and nodded. “Some grub, comin’ right up.”

  To try to make amends, Wynn pointed at the stable. “You can put your horse in one of the stalls if you want. There’s plenty of hay and some oats, but the oats will cost. They’re hard to come by.”

  “Thanks,” the stranger said coldly.

  Wheeling, Wynn entered the station, his mind awhirl, appalled by his lapse. He should have realized that the stranger might not look down his nose at Mexicans, as most did. The man spoke Spanish fluently, after all. For all Wynn knew, the longhair might even have some Spanish blood in him. If he wasn’t real careful, he could find himself looking down the barrel of that Peacemaker.

  Resolving to be
more cautious, Wynn crossed to the cooking area along the west wall, passing four large tables set up for the benefit of the customers. After propping the Winchester in a corner, he checked a huge pot on the stove.

  In it, stew was simmering nicely. Stew was Wynn’s specialty, the only meal he ever served the passengers. For one thing, it was easy to make. All he had to do was take his rifle and go for a stroll. Any critter unlucky enough to come under his sights wound up in the pot.

  For another, Wynn always got a chuckle out of watching the pilgrims wolf down chunks of rattlesnake and lizard meat without their being the wiser. Every now and then he was tempted to tell what was in his concoctions. But he knew if he did, the tenderfeet would have a fit, or else puke their guts out. They’d also probably complain to the head office, and he could do without that aggravation.

  Wynn went to the sink, where the skin of a six-foot sidewinder lay. Since it wouldn’t do to have any of the stage line’s squeamish customers catch sight of it, he tossed the skin out the rear door, onto the scrap heap, then set about placing plates and silverware on the tables.

  He had to have everything ready to go. The stage never stayed more than half an hour, if that, barely enough time for the passengers to heed nature’s call and down a quick meal.

  Turning, Wynn was startled to see the stranger a few feet inside the doorway. “I didn’t hear you come in,” he blurted.

  Despite the heat, the man now wore his frock coat. His saddlebags were draped over his shoulder, a Henry repeater in his left hand. He stepped to the table farthest from the entrance and sat facing it, his back to the wall, propping the Henry against his chair.

  The precautions were not lost on Wynn. “Care for a drink, mister?” he asked to cover his nervousness.

  “Water will do.”

  “Comin’ right up.” Wynn quickly poured a glass from a pitcher he kept on the sink. On his way over, he noted that the man held his right hand under the table, no doubt near the Colt.

  If the stranger wasn’t a gunman, then Wynn had missed his guess.