Diablo (A Piccaddilly Publishing Western Book 6) Page 3

  “Make yourselves comfortable, folks,” Wynn announced. “Vittles are just about to be served.”

  With a wave of a hand, the handsome man indicated the table at which the matron sat. “Shall we, my dear?” he said. He held a chair for the young woman, then, with a sigh, slid into another. “It’s nice to be sitting on something that isn’t bouncing up and down,” he quipped.

  Wynn hurried over, aware of the evil looks the three toughs cast at the pair. “Howdy,” he said, and informed them who he was. He wished there were something he could say to warn them, but he dared not with the gunmen eavesdropping. “I hope none of you object to stew and biscuits. If you’ so inclined, I’ve got liquid refreshment, too.” Winking, he bobbed his chin at the shelf containing the hard stuff.

  “A simple glass of water for the two of us will suffice,” said the man in the Stetson, indicating the lovely young redhead. “This is my daughter, Allison. I’m Jim Hays.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Wynn said, with a hopeful look at the matron. “How about you, ma’am?”

  “Water, if you please,” she said softly.

  The drummer at the other table piped up and said, “I’ll take some whiskey, sir. Nothing less will wash down all the dust I’ve swallowed today.”

  “Hold your britches,” Wynn said, giving the matron his best smile. As much as he liked living alone, he was not above being friendly to an occasional female. Some things a man just couldn’t do without.

  It took no time at all to fetch the water. As Wynn turned to the shelf for the bug juice, he glimpsed Nate Collins rising, wearing a malevolent smirk. His stomach did flip-flops.

  Nate raised his voice so everyone could hear. “Water, mister? Did I hear you say that you’re only drinkin’ water?”

  Jim Hays, taken aback, scrutinized the gunman closely. “Are you addressing me, young man?”

  Like a cougar stalking prey, Nate Collins moved toward their table, his smirk widening, his spurs jangling with each step. “I sure ain’t talkin’ to that potbelly over yonder,” he said, jerking his thumb at the drummer.

  “Who are you calling a potbelly, sir?” the slicker asked, taking offense.

  Nate swiveled, his right hand hovering near his Colt. His tone became thick with menace. “You’re the only one here with more fat on him than my grandpappy’s hog. ’Course, if you don’t like me pointin’ it out, you’re perfectly welcome to show how much grit you’ve got.”

  Totally flustered, the portly passenger averted his red face and folded his hands in front of him.

  “What’s the matter?” Nate would not let it be. “No gumption? Make smoke anytime you’re ready.”

  “I’m not armed,” the drummer said.

  “Whose fault is that?” Nate retorted, eliciting laughter from Gristy and Morco. “If you’re too stupid to go around heeled, you’d better be ready to curl your tail when you meddle in matters that don’t concern you.”

  Jim Hays cleared his throat and drew a grateful look from the drummer by saying, “He’s done nothing to you, young man. You should let him alone.”

  Nate wheeled, a vicious gleam animating his eyes. “Should I, now? And who are you to be telling me what I should be doing?”

  Hays was a big man, and he was not intimidated. “You act as if you’re on the prod. If so, maybe you should go elsewhere. None of us want any trouble.”

  “Is that a fact? And who’s going to put me in my place if I don’t? You, mister?”

  Wynn saw Hays’s eyes narrow. The man in the Stetson realized that Collins was up to something, that he was prodding them on purpose. Hays or the drummer had to be the one the three gunmen were waiting for. Whoever it was, their potential victim was as good as dead. When Nate Collins worked himself into a killing mood, lead was bound to fly.

  Jim Hays controlled himself with a visible effort. “I’m warning you, young man,” he said severely. “Either desist with this juvenile behavior or I’ll report you to the first law office I see.”

  Raucous laughter burst from the Bar K riders. “Oh, my!” Gristy squealed in mock terror. “He’s going to tell the law on us! I’m tremblin’ in my boots!”

  Allison Hays had been sitting quietly, her features inscrutable. Abruptly, she straightened, demanding with fiery passion, “Why don’t you stick your head in the horse trough and cool off? We haven’t done a thing to deserve this barbaric treatment.” She was about to say more, but her father gripped her wrist and shook his head.

  Nate blinked, feigning shock. He had hoped the girl would speak up. She was as fine a looker as he had ever seen, and he was strongly tempted to run his fingers through her luxurious red mane. Lecherously ogling her figure, he said, “A regular firebrand, ain’t you, lady?”

  Allison would have risen if not for her father’s restraining hand. “If I were a man, I’d teach you manners.

  “I believe you,” Nate said soberly. “It’s plain who wears the britches in your family.”

  Morco and Gristy cackled.

  “See here!” Jim Hays said hotly. “This has gone far enough. I won’t have you insulting my daughter.”

  Nate resorted to his customary smirk. “Well, I apologize, then. All I wanted was to offer you a taste of a man’s drink. Water is for pussy-kittens. Have a glass of whiskey with me.”

  “No,” Jim Hays said.

  “Come on. Por favor,” Nate coaxed. “I’m being real sociable, mister. The least you can do is accept to show there are no hard feelings.”

  Jim Hays hesitated. He exchanged a peculiar look with his daughter, then said, “I can’t.”

  “Can’t? Or won’t?”

  It was Allison who answered. “All we want is water.”

  “What’s wrong? Ain’t I good enough to drink with?”

  Clarence Wynn knew he should do something. As station master, he was responsible for the welfare of the passengers. But he had no hankering to get himself shot full of holes, which was bound to happen if he butted in. He saw now that it was Hays the trio were after, that Collins was determined to provoke the man into doing something rash.

  “I don’t care for any whiskey,” Jim Hays stressed emphatically.

  Nate backed up a stride and bent his elbow so his hand was almost touching his six-shooter. He had followed his boss’s instructions to the letter, and now was the moment of truth. “Seems to me I’m the one who has just been insulted. Stand up and take your medicine.”

  Before the father could respond, Allison Hays leaped to her feet and shook a finger at their tormentor. “How dare you threaten us, you vermin!” Her face blazed, matching the hue of her hair. “You’re an animal! Go away, or else!”

  “Or else what?” Nate said. “Are you aimin’ to slap me for misbehavin’? I’d like that. I admire a female who plays rough.”

  Jim Hays stood, his fists balled. “That’s enough!” he thundered. “I will not sit still and let you abuse my daughter.”

  Gristy, then Morco, also rose.

  A palpable tension seized the room, crackling with the energy of a lightning bolt, threatening to erupt into violence at any second. Nate Collins was poised to draw on Jim Hays, and his two partners were set to back his play. A careless word or hasty movement by Hays would result in his instant death.

  At that moment, when the ominous atmosphere was on the verge of unleashing a leaden hailstorm, a calm voice spoke from the front doorway. “Are these polecats badgering you, ma’am?”

  All eyes swung toward the square-shouldered form of Lee Scurlock. His striking blue eyes were on Allison Hays. The left side of his frock coat had been swept back, revealing his ivory-handled Peacemaker.

  Jim Hays replied, “Yes, they are.”

  Scurlock said nothing. He stared at Allison, waiting for her to acknowledge his question. It was as if they were the only people in the station. Or the only ones who mattered to him.

  Allison Hays met his stare. With a toss of her head, she said, “These ruffians are trying to goad my father into a fight. I would
like for them to desist.”

  “Then they will,” the man in the frock coat said, and he shifted toward the gunmen.

  Chapter Three

  It was not the first time Lee Scurlock had confronted killers on the prod.

  As clearly as if it had just happened, Lee recalled the day his brother, Josiah—whose nickname was “Doc”—taught him how to use a pistol, and the words of wisdom Josiah had imparted: “Never let yourself get flustered. The man who loses his head loses his life. Keep your nerves as steady as steel, and don’t let your mind drift.”

  Lee had learned his lessons well. Willing himself to relax, he scanned the three gunmen, taking their measure. The blond leader seemed flabbergasted that anyone had opposed them. The Mexican had cold but wary eyes; he would not draw unless drawn on. The greatest danger came from the weasel, whose fury was barely contained.

  Gristy sidled to the right to be clear of the table. “If you know what’s good for you, mister, you’ll get the hell out of here while you still can.”

  Clarence Wynn edged toward his Winchester, intending to side with the southerner if gunplay broke out. No one could handle all three gunmen alone. They were too fast.

  Gristy had not gotten a reply, and his fury was mounting. “Didn’t you hear me?” he rasped. “Vamoose.”

  Lee Scurlock took a step to the left and planted his feet firmly. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the redhead gazing at him in wide-eyed wonder, and he shut her from his thoughts, just as his brother had taught him. “I want the three of you to shed your irons,” he directed.

  “Do what?” Gristy snarled.

  “Were not backin’ down this time,” Nate Collins said. Not that he expected it to make a difference. As incredible as it seemed, the stranger actually had enough sand to take on the three of them. No one had ever done that before.

  Morco found his voice. “Hit the breeze, hombre,” he said, the short hairs at the nape of his neck prickling. Something about the gringo bothered him, something he could not quite put his finger on, something that told him not to go for his revolver. But he had to if the others did. They were his compadres.

  Again a terrible tension charged the room. More than a minute went by and no one uttered a sound.

  The strain began to take a toll on Gristy. Nervously switching his weight from the ball of one foot to the other, he licked his thin lips and scowled. It rankled him, being put upon—and twice by the same upstart. “Damn your hide!” he roared, more to bolster his bloodlust than anything else. “I’ll show you!” With that, he clawed at his Smith & Wessons.

  Gristy’s enraged act served as the signal for his two companions to unlimber their pistols. Their arms were blurs. Gristy wore a smile of triumph, born of supreme confidence in his speed and accuracy. In the blink of an eye he had the Smith & Wessons out and leveled. To his amazement, though, the air rocked to the boom of the tall man’s Colt even as his fingers were tightening on the triggers.

  Lee Scurlock fired at the two-gun hothead, pivoted, and sent another slug into their blond leader. He pivoted again to fire at Morco, but the hairy Mexican had frozen with the Remington partway out.

  It all happened so swiftly that the onlookers were not quite sure of the sequence of events. They saw Gristy smashed backward, blood spurting from his chest. They saw him crash into the wall with his arms outspread, then crumple like a toppled house of cards.

  They also saw Nate Collins whipped around, his six-shooter sent flying. He was jolted to the floor, where he clutched at his bloody right shoulder in agony.

  Transfixed by the astounding turn of events, Morco stood with the tip of his revolver’s barrel hooked in the top of his holster. His skin itched as if from a rash. A tingle rippled down his backbone, and he thrust his left hand at the man in the frock coat, crying, “Don’t shoot!”

  “Get to fighting or drop the gun,” Lee instructed.

  The Remington hit the dirt floor with a thud. Morco elevated his arms, not caring one whit if his compadres branded him a coward. He would rather live than die any day.

  Gristy was propped against the wall, a scarlet stain working down the front of his shirt. “Help me!” he whined, dizziness assailing him. “Dear God! Someone help me!”

  No one moved to his aid. A cloud of gun smoke slowly spread outward, causing the drummer to hack and sputter.

  “You bored me!” Gristy fumed at Lee. “I’m dyin’!”

  “Good riddance,” Lee drawled. He had known men like the weasel before, and the world was a better place without them and their evil.

  The scrawny gunman looked at Morco. “Get word to my brother,” he pleaded. Blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth and dribbling down his chin. “You owe me that much.”

  Morco nodded.

  Everyone was dumbfounded when the kindly matron unexpectedly rose and hastened over to the stricken gun-shark. “There, there,” she said to soothe him, clasping his shoulders.

  Wynn had the Winchester in his hands, but he did not remember picking it up. Going to the matron’s side, he said gently, “Don’t bother with that no-account, ma’am. He’s not worth the bother.”

  She focused on him in reproach. “He’s a human being, isn’t he?”

  “Barely,” Wynn said.

  “The Good Book says we must do unto others as we would have them do unto us,” the matron said. “Even sinners need comfort when it’s their time to cast off this earthly coil.”

  Wynn didn’t know what to say. Bible-thumpers always left him tongue-tied. Arguing with them was like arguing with living Bibles, and he wasn’t about to slur Scripture. Although never much of a churchgoer, he favored not doing anything to get on the Almighty’s bad side.

  Gristy was having a hard time breathing. He had lost all sensation in his body and the world around him was blurring. “I don’t want to die!” he groaned.

  “Do you have any last requests?” the matron politely inquired.

  A stupid question, Gristy thought. Sure he had a last request! He’d like to live! He yearned to spit in her face but could not gather the spittle he needed.

  Lee Scurlock had no more interest in the weasel. Advancing, he towered over the blond gunman. “On your feet.”

  “I can’t,” Nate said through clenched teeth. He had lost a lot of blood and was feeling woozy. Torment racked him with every breath. When he tried to move, his shoulder shrieked with anguish.

  “Your legs aren’t busted,” Lee said, and roughly yanked the hard case to his feet, heedless of Nate’s stifled outcry. Anyone who tried to kill him deserved no sympathy. “Take your companero and make yourself scarce.”

  “I need a doctor,” Nate complained.

  “If I hadn’t rushed my shot, you’d need an undertaker,” Lee informed him. “Count your blessings and skedaddle before I change my mind.”

  Morco was not about to tempt fate twice. Darting to his friend’s side, he braced Nate under one arm and angled toward the door. “Let’s go, amigo,” he said. “There will be other days.”

  “But Gristy—!” Nate said.

  The weasel’s head flopped to the right and left. Eyes wide, blood oozing thickly over his lower lip, he whimpered like a puppy. “I hurt!” he wailed. “Lordy, I hurt!”

  “Downright pathetic,” Wynn commented. He didn’t know why it was, but the scum who made a habit of bucking other folks out in a haze of gun smoke were usually the ones who fell all to pieces when their own time came.

  “Go to hell!” Gristy said. Marshaling his fading strength, he stared at the man who had mortally wounded him. A spasm racked him as he huffed, “I’ll have the last laugh, you bastard! When my brother hears about this, he’ll come gunnin’ for you. You’ll be dead before the year is out. Mark my words.”

  “If your brother comes after me, your parents will lose two sons,” Lee promised.

  “May you rot in—” Gristy began to say, but couldn’t. Stiffening, he raggedly sucked air, quivered spastically, then pitched onto his right side and
was still.

  Wynn snorted. “One less bad apple.”

  Over by the entrance, Morco firmed his grip on Nate, who plucked at the Mexican’s elbow. “Wait! My hogleg. I dropped it.”

  Lee Scurlock wagged his Colt. “Leave it.”

  “You can’t take a man’s gun,” Nate said venomously.

  “When you want it back, I won’t be hard to find.”

  Feral hatred animated Nate’s countenance as Morco carted him from the premises. He was in a funk, craving to curse a blue streak, but he lacked the energy. “This ain’t over,” he vowed weakly.

  For a few moments no one said anything. Clarence Wynn felt sorry for the southerner. Scurlock should have killed all three when he had the chance. “You’ve made a mortal enemy today, son,” he said. “That curly wolf won’t rest until you’re six feet under.”

  Lee had gone to the door to be sure the pair departed. Morco boosted the blond into the saddle of a dun, forked leather himself, and gripped the dun’s reins. Without a backward glance, the Mexican headed westward.

  Wynn’s boot nudged something, and he looked down to find Collins’s pistol. “I reckon this is yours now,” he said, carrying it over to Lee.

  Still watching the gunmen, Lee accepted the Colt and hefted it. Like his, it was a Peacemaker, but plain in comparison, with walnut grips and no nickel plating. Still, the balance was superb, the single action smooth.

  “Excuse me,” the matron said anxiously.

  Lee checked to verify that the killers were gone, then turned to learn why she was upset. Two men stood close to the rear door, the shorter of the pair holding a scattergun aimed in his direction. The other fellow, a scarecrow in buckskins and a floppy hat, was armed with a Sharps rifle. Automatically, he covered them both with the two Colts, assuming they were friends of the gunmen.

  Wynn took one look and sprang in front of Scurlock to avert more bloodshed. “Buckskin, you danged idiot!” he yelled at the man with the Sharps. “What do you think you’re doing? This hombre just saved one of your passengers from being made into wolf meat.”

  Buckskin promptly lowered the big buffalo gun. “What the Sam Hill went on here, Wynn? We heard the shooting and snuck around back to get the drop on whoever was being rambunctious.”