Diablo (A Piccaddilly Publishing Western Book 6) Read online

  “Here you are, friend.”

  “Obliged,” the tall man said, taking the glass with his left hand.

  “The stew will be ready soon,” Wynn said absently.

  “When is the stage due?”

  “Anytime now.”

  Sipping slowly, the man smiled as he quenched his thirst. “More precious than gold,” he repeated softly, as if to himself.

  “Mind if I sit and chew the fat?” Wynn proposed, reaching for another chair.

  The rider locked his steely eyes on Wynn s. “I’m a mite particular about the company I keep,” he said in that deceptively lazy drawl of his.

  Offended, Wynn started to return to the sink, then mustered his courage and pivoted. “Listen, sonny,” he said amiably enough, “I didn’t mean to get your goat a while ago. It’s not as if I think poorly of Mexicans or anything like that.”

  “You could have fooled me,” the man said, and gave a little shrug. “But what you do is your affair, not mine.”

  “True, true,” Wynn said. “I’d just like for you to know the truth so there’s no hard feelin’s. I don’t get many visitors worth wastin’ a breath on, but you’re different.” He leaned on the table. “Hell, it’s as plain as the nose on your face that you’re your own man, and so am I.”

  “Oh?”

  “I live my life my way and I don’t give a tinker’s damn what other folks think,” Wynn declared. He glanced at the door to make sure Salazar wasn’t anywhere near. “Sure, I pay Mexicans less than I’d pay whites. But everybody does it, not just me. Truth is, I pay better than most. You can ask Salazar if you don’t believe me.”

  “Like I said, what you do is your affair.”

  Wynn was more mystified than ever. Why was the stranger so put out by a practice so common that everyone else, including the Mexicans, took it for granted? “I’m not a Mex hater, if that’s what you’re thinkin’,” he said. “It’s just my nature. Believe it or not, I’m not a joy to be around.”

  “So I gathered,” the man said, and grinned.

  Pleased the ice had been broken, Wynn extended his hand. “Can we start over on the right foot?” He introduced himself.

  The tall man considered Wynn’s hand a moment before shaking. When he did so, he used his left hand, shaking crossways rather than raise his right arm. “Lee Scurlock.”

  “Scurlock?” Wynn said, the name jarring recollections of a notorious man-killer whose reputation had spread throughout the Southwest due to the gunman’s involvement in a bloody fracas over in Lincoln County, New Mexico. Choosing his words with care, he mentioned, “A short while back I heard tell that a man by that name was riding with the runt they call Billy the Kid. Are you Doc Scurlock?”

  “Doc is my older brother.”

  “You don’t say!” Wynn declared, delighted to make the acquaintance of someone related to a real celebrity. He took a seat. “Your brother is a famous man in these parts.”

  Lee gazed out the window. “I reckon.”

  “That Billy Bonney has been the talk of the territory for months now,” Wynn went on. “Hell, I hear he’s made a big name for himself back in the East, too, thanks to the papers.”

  “As big as Hickok ever was,” Lee said wearily.

  Wynn leaned forward. “So tell me, what’s the latest news? Have they caught the Kid yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Is it true he’s vowed never to be taken alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about your brother?”

  “What about him?”

  “They say Doc has killed seven men in gunfights,” Wynn said. “And the newspapers claimed he was involved in that big scrape in Lincoln.”

  “He was.”

  Something in the younger man’s manner stopped Wynn from asking another question. Cocking his head, he said, “Ain’t the talkative type, are you, sonny?”

  “So I’ve been told.” Lee Scurlock tilted his glass and downed the rest of the water in a single gulp, then smacked the glass on the tabletop.

  “I didn’t mean to pry,” Wynn said. “I just—” He stopped when hooves drummed outside, and listened for the telltale creak and rattle of the stage. Not hearing it, he rose and headed for the door. “Now, who could that be? Tarnation, this place is gettin’ worse than a train depot in a big city!”

  Just then, into the stage station strutted trouble with a capital T.

  Chapter Two

  “Long time no see, old-timer.”

  The speaker was a wolfish, muscular man in his early twenties. Curly blond hair ringed rounded ears, a golden halo to contrast with his devilishly handsome features. Blessed with flawless good looks, he had turned the head of many an unwed filly and quite a few married females, besides. In addition to his vanity, Nate Collins was notorious for his speed with a six-shooter, as well as his readiness to resort to one at the most innocent of slights.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” Clarence Wynn asked. He disliked Collins only slightly less than the two men the young tough was with.

  Hooking his thumbs in his gunbelt, Nate chuckled. “If I didn’t know better, Morco,” he said, “I’d swear old Clarence ain’t glad to see us.” He figured that secretly the old station owner was afraid of them, and it tickled him. Inspiring fear always gave him a thrill.

  “Sounds that way to me, amigo,” said Morco, a husky, hairy Mexican who wore a brown sombrero and adorned his left hip with a Remington. A recent arrival in Arizona, he had drifted north of the border after murdering three people in Sonora.

  “Me, too,” added their companion, a weasel of a character dressed in grungy range clothes. Although as thin as a rail, he wore a Smith & Wesson on either hip. Gristy, he called himself. Few believed it was his real name. Rumor had it that he was wanted for killings in Texas and elsewhere.

  Wynn refused to be cowed. “The last time you three were here, you shot holes in my ceiling,” he snapped. “I want your word that you’ll behave yourselves this time around.”

  “Or what?” Nate Collins taunted, casually resting his hand on the smooth butt of his Colt.

  The three hardcases reminded Wynn of rabid wolves about to pounce. He wanted no part of them. Not when he was standing there unarmed. “All I’m askin’ is that you keep your irons in their leather,” he said, and made for the kitchen area to be closer to his rifle.

  Nate let the old geezer walk off. He had to. The stage wouldn’t linger if he shot the owner dead, which meant he wouldn’t be able to do as his boss wanted, which in turn would make his boss mad. And the last thing Nate wanted was to anger his employer. “So what if we put a few holes in your roof?” he said. “At least we didn’t put them in you.”

  Wynn decided to change the subject. “On your way back to the Bar K?”

  “What if we are? Are you pryin’ into our business, old man?” Nate responded.

  There had been a time when no one would have talked to Clarence Wynn in so insolent a manner. Wrinkles, he had learned, bred disrespect in the young. It should be the other way around, but life was seldom fair. Swallowing his pride, he said, “Not me. I’m not loco.”

  Nate Collins chortled. “You’re a smart man, Clarence. No wonder you’ve lived so long.” Nodding at a shelf behind the counter, he said, “Rustle us up a bottle of your best coffin varnish. We rode hard to get here before the stage arrives, and we’re thirsty as hell.”

  “The stage?” Wynn said, concerned.

  “The whiskey,” Nate reminded him. As the station owner hustled to comply, Nate’s gaze alighted on Lee Scurlock. “Well, what have we here?” he inquired of no one in particular.

  Morco had already seen the man, and he did not like what he saw. A shrewd judge of character, he rated men on how dangerous he felt they were. This one, he sensed, was more dangerous than most.

  Wynn halted and glanced from Scurlock to Collins. “He’s a customer, and I’ll thank you to leave him be.”

  “I do as I damn well please,” Nate said, echoing the sentiments W
ynn had expressed a short while ago. “Now, produce that rotgut, fast.” Motioning to Morco and Gristy, Nate sauntered to the stranger’s table. “Howdy, mister. I guess no one told you that this table is reserved for us.”

  Lee Scurlock sat impassively, the empty glass in his left hand.

  Gristy fidgeted. He disliked it when anyone treated them as if they were dirt, and that was exactly what the man in the frock coat was doing. “Didn’t you hear me, pard?” he demanded.

  “He must be deaf,” Nate said.

  Morco was a few feet behind his friends. He nearly recoiled when the stranger looked up at them; an icy chill rippled down his spine. His every instinct screamed at him to do as Wynn had advised. He wanted to suggest that they pick another table, but he held his tongue. His friends would think he was yellow. They would laugh at his expense. That, he could not allow.

  Gristy sidled to the left. “Maybe this jasper needs new holes in his ears,” he said, sneering wickedly.

  “Maybe he does,” Nate agreed. He’d never met anyone so all-fired eager to inflict pain as the weasel. Once, just to show how the Apaches had tortured an acquaintance, Gristy did the same to a puppy he stole. It had taken that dog six hours to die.

  “I’ll do the honors,” Gristy said, rather nonchalantly lowering his hands to the Smith & Wessons.

  The sharp, unmistakable click of a gun hammer being cocked caused the trio to stiffen. Clarence Wynn also heard, and tensed, hoping Scurlock would put windows in the skulls of all three.

  Nate Collins stared at the top of the table. It dawned on him that the stranger’s right hand was out of sight, and he mentally cursed himself for being a jackass. Licking his lips, he said with forced levity, “What are you hidin’ under there, friend?”

  “I’m not your friend,” came the harsh reply. “And if that son of a bitch next to you doesn’t take his hands off his hoglegs, I’m liable to start shooting.”

  Clarence Wynn suppressed an urge to guffaw at the expressions the three gunmen wore. He hoped one of them would be dumb enough to pull on Scurlock, but they disappointed him.

  Nate elevated his hands, palms out. “There’s no call to get so tetchy, mister. We were just funnin’ you, is all.”

  Gristy eased his spread fingers from the Smith & Wessons. “That’s right. Just pokin’ fun,” he parroted.

  “Do you see me laughing?” Lee Scurlock said.

  None of them answered.

  The man in the frock coat slowly stood, the Henry in his left hand, the cocked Colt held rock steady in his right. “If you ever hooraw me again,” he warned, “you’ll be worm food.” With measured steps he skirted the table and backed to the doorway. Nodding at Wynn, he departed.

  “Wheee-oh!” Nate Collins exclaimed, letting out the breath he had not been aware of holding.

  Gristy clenched and unclenched his hands. “The gall of that hombre! Who does he think he is, anyhow?” He swung toward the station owner. “What’s his handle, you old buzzard?”

  “How should I know?” Wynn fibbed. “I never laid eyes on the gent until a short while before you got here. He wasn’t much for conversation.”

  Morco said nothing. He thought it unwise to constantly push others, as his newfound friends were forever doing. Sooner or later they were bound to meet someone who would not bend, and he did not care to be with them when that happened. It was stupid to die for nothing.

  When Morco killed, he did so for a reason, as had been the case with the three men he murdered in Mexico. One had made the mistake of flashing around a thick wad of bills at a cantina, another had owned a fine sorrel that was now Morco’s, and the third had suspected him of slaying the second.

  Morco had dropped all three from ambush, then buried the bodies where no one would ever find them. Or so he thought, until a boy out playing with a dog stumbled on the last grave and the dog, drawn by the scent of blood, dug down, exposing part of the body. The federales had been called in, of course, leaving Morco only one option.

  So here he was, north of the border, working for a man who had as few scruples as he did.

  Nate Collins walked around the table Lee Scurlock had vacated and sat down in Scurlock’s chair. It hit him that although the man in the frock coat had thrown down on them and lived to tell of it, they had buffaloed the bastard into leaving. That counted for something.

  Ever since he was knee high to a calf, Nate had taken considerable pleasure in making others do as he wanted. He could remember beating up his brothers and sisters as a kid when they had something he wanted and they would not hand it over. At the age of eleven he’d nearly kicked a neighbor boy to death because the boy refused to give him a folding knife he had taken a shine to.

  The way Nate saw things, there were two kinds of people in the world: the sheep and the wolves. The sheep were there to be sheared, and he was one of those who truly loved shearing.

  “I don’t like anyone runnin’ roughshod over me,” Gristy declared, sinking into a chair on his friend’s left. He was so mad he could hardly think straight. No one was allowed to get the better of him, ever.

  Gristy’s pa was to blame. Until he turned fifteen, his old man had beaten the tar out of him every time he turned around, walloping him for things like not chopping enough wood for the fireplace or forgetting to feed the chickens. It had gotten so bad that Gristy ran away from home.

  The first thing Gristy did when he was on his own was to scrimp and save up enough money to buy a pistol. He’d practiced and practiced until he was as slick as a greased gopher snake when he drew. No one had laid a finger on him since.

  Angrily pounding the table, Gristy hollered, “Where’s that red-eye, old man? You’d best put some spring in your step!”

  “It’s on the way,” Wynn responded, retrieving a bottle he had watered down the week before. He grabbed three dirty glasses from the sink, wiped them with an even dirtier apron, and hurried over. “Here. Help yourself.”

  Moving to the stove, Wynn made a show of inspecting the stew, even going so far as to dip in the ladle and sip as if tasting it. In reality, he had his ears pricked to catch snatches of their conversation.

  “I don’t like backin down to any man,” Gristy was saying. “I’ve half a mind to follow that coyote and settle accounts.”

  “Simmer down,” Nate said. “We have us a job to do, remember? That comes first. As for the dandy in the frock coat, he’ll get his eventually. As my dear sainted ma used to say, all things come to those who wait.”

  “Maybe so,” Gristy groused, “but I’ve never been long on patience.” After pouring himself a glass, he gulped thirstily, savoring the burning sensation that seared his parched throat.

  “Only a jackass bucks a rigged deck,” Nate said. “If we’d touched our hardware, that son of a bitch would have blown out our lamps. So I let him walk away until I can repay the courtesy when the odds are in our favor. Savvy?”

  “I savvy,” Gristy said, “but I still don’t like it.”

  Nate took a swig straight from the bottle, smacked his lips, then wiped his mouth with the left sleeve of his red shirt. “That temper of yours will be the death of you one day,” he predicted.

  Morco motioned at the whiskey. “Let me have a taste, amigo.”

  Wynn lingered at the stew, stirring it. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine why those three had shown up when they did. Whatever they were up to, it was bound to be no good. Which was why their mention of the stage had him so worried.

  “I hope we don’t have too long to wait,” Gristy remarked.

  “We’ll stick as long as it takes,” Nate said. “Mr. Kemp gave us orders, and we’ll follow them to the letter.”

  At that moment Salazar appeared, calling out, “Señor Wynn, the stage is coming.”

  “Thanks,” Wynn said, his stomach churning. “Take care of the team, will you? I have things to do in here.”

  “Si, señor,” Salazar said, mildly surprised. His employer always greeted the stages to swap good-natured ins
ults with the drivers. Something must be wrong, but it was not his place to question. So he left.

  Gristy bent toward Nate. “What if he ain’t on it?” he asked. “Do we wait for the next one?”

  “He’ll be on it,” Nate said. “The boss was sure.”

  “I hope so,” Morco said. There was a certain señorita counting on him to show up in town that night, and he did not care to let her down.

  Intense curiosity burned in Wynn, mingled with rising dread. He hoped they would say more, but they fell silent as the racket made by the approaching stage grew louder and louder, until with a clatter of hooves and a rhythmic creaking the coach rumbled to a halt outside the relay station. A billowing cloud of fine dust eddied at the open door.

  Voices punctuated its arrival. Horses whinnied at the tempting scent of water. Footfalls neared the building. Wynn walked to the counter and tied the apron around his middle.

  First to enter was a portly man attired in an ill-fitting suit, his balding pate crowned by a muley.

  A citified slicker, Wynn decided. A drummer, by the looks of him. Or maybe a dentist. It was hard to tell the two types apart.

  Next came a stately gray-haired matron in a prim blue dress. She was using a fan to lessen the effect of the awful July heat on her pale neck.

  Wynn’s interest perked up substantially.

  The slicker and the matron took seats at separate tables without saying a word, the latter bestowing a charming smile on the station owner.

  Flustered, Wynn returned the favor. There should be others, he mused. The front office rarely sent a run down the line without at least four paying passengers on board. Were they availing themselves of the facilities out back? He made for the stove with an armful of bowls.

  Wynn saw the three hardcases glance sharply at the entrance. Just entering were a man and a young woman. They were obviously related. Both had full heads of flaming red hair, the man’s partly covered by a Stetson, the woman’s falling to shapely slim shoulders. Both had frank blue eyes and pointed chins. The man wore a costly brown suit, the woman a stylish beige dress.

  Gristy whispered excitedly to Nate.