Diablo (A Piccaddilly Publishing Western Book 6) Page 7

  “We go back seven years,” the Texan disclosed. “Ike saved my hide in Kansas once and we’ve been pards ever since. Wherever I go, he drifts there too. You’d think the idiot would learn his lesson, lasso a filly, and settle down. But he’s too fond of Lady Luck to court any others.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk,” the gambler bantered. “I don’t see you with a wife and sprouts.”

  Evers grew wistful. “Never had the inclination.” His gaze strayed to the blonde and he said softly, “But people have been known to change. Good evening Miss Rosell. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  “The honor is mine, Mr. Evers, sir,” Nelly said. In that short statement she managed to convey more affection than many people express in a lifetime.

  Lee pretended not to notice and saw Shannon do the same. Vint Evers did, and he had to clear his throat before he replied.

  “Call me Vint, ma’am, or you’ll have me feelin’ old before my time. I’ll put up with that nonsense from barkeeps and bootlickers, but not from the loveliest woman this side of Creation.”

  An awkward moment followed, with Lee unwilling to intrude on the special sentiments the two so plainly shared. He need not have bothered. They were intruded on anyway, and all thanks to him.

  Through the glass doors shoved the Mexican gunman called Morco. Beside him were two gun-hung cowboys, both as hard as tacks, their skin leathery and bronzed from long exposure to the elements, their countenances more reptilian than human. Or that was the illusion Lee had as Morco swept the saloon, caught sight of him, and bent to say something to the pair.

  Vint Evers set down his shot glass. “Somethin’ up, Lee?” he inquired.

  With exaggerated swaggers the pair of hard cases, dogged by Morco, shouldered through the throng. In the lead was a bull of a man packing a pair of Starr double-action .44 revolvers, worn butts forward, as Lee wore his. A high-crowned, dusty brown hat topped a thatch of brown hair slightly lighter than his bushy mustache. His boots were scuffed, his pants dotted with grime. He was a living man-mountain, and the patrons parted before him like blades of grass before an avalanche.

  “You!” the bull thundered, once again bringing the bustling establishment to a dead stop.

  “What’s this, then?” Ike Shannon asked.

  “Stay out of it,” Lee said, taking strides to the right so Nelly, Evers, and the gambler would not be caught by a stray slug if the worst came to pass. The threesome halted ten feet away, spreading apart so they would be harder to hit. “Do I know you, mister?” he challenged.

  “I’m told that you’re the one who put lead into Nate Collins and sent Bran Gristy to the hereafter,” the bull rumbled.

  “What’s it to you?” Lee said, pricked by the wicked grin on Morco’s face.

  “I’m foreman at the Bar K,” stated the bull. “Nate Collins is one of my punchers. So was Gristy. I hear tell that you threw down on them without cause.”

  “That’s a damned lie,” Lee said, bristling. Recollecting Doc’s teaching, he capped his temper and stared straight at Morco. “Show me the four-flusher who made the claim.”

  The Mexican was offended. “Why are we wasting time, amigo?” he asked the bull. “Let’s do what we came to do, eh? This cub must have his claws trimmed.”

  The other cowboy, a skinny bundle of whipcord and arrogance, grinned. He shouldn’t have. Four front teeth were gone.

  Light, carefree laughter smothered the grin and added a trace of confusion to the bull’s rough-hewn features. Vint Evers, of all people, was doing the laughing. “Who do you figure will pay for your funerals, boys?” he addressed the Bar K riders. “Your boss?”

  “This ain’t your concern, Evers,” the bull said.

  “Sure it is, Bodine,” the Texan said. “When anyone accuses a pard of mine with no just cause, I take it real personal. It’s one of my many flaws.”

  Bodine could not hide his surprise. “A pard of yours?” he said, and gave Morco a look that would have withered a plant. “You damned Mex. You didn’t tell me that he knew Evers.”

  “How was I to know?” Morco complained.

  Vint Evers, as innocent as could be, swirled the liquor in his glass. “You weren’t aware that Lee Scurlock and I are acquainted? For shame.”

  “Scurlock?” Bodine said, and Lee could practically see the gear turn inside the man’s skull. “That’s something else I didn’t know.”

  “Dog my cats!” Evers declared. “I’m surprised at an old hand like you not checkin’ his facts before he goes on the prod.” Evers winked at Lee. “By the way, this here is Jesse Bodine. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

  The name rang a bell. Lee realized that Evers had cleverly let him know who the ramrod was to ensure he wasn’t too quick on the trigger.

  Jesse Bodine was a Texan, like Evers. He had played a leading role in the Simms-Harkey feud, reportedly rubbing out five of the Simms family in one fell swoop. Later Bodine took a herd north to Kansas, three thousand head, all hardy longhorns. In Indian Territory six hungry Osage requested ten head over and above the tribe’s usual cut. Bodine refused, a warrior lifted his rifle, and Bodine shot all six dead.

  Near Kansas, another herd crowded Bodine’s from the rear. When Bodine objected, the other trail boss made an insulting reference to Bodine’s mother. It was costly. The trail boss and three punchers who were with him were added to Bodine’s string.

  And this was the same Jesse Bodine, the White Oaks Man-Killer.

  Evers turned to Lee. “What did Collins and Gristy do, anyhow?”

  “Tried to provoke an unarmed man into a fight by insulting his daughter. When I pointed out their lack of manners, they went for their hardware.” Lee added, to show that he was not going to back down to any man, “It’s not my fault, Bodine, if your men suffer from a bad case of slow.”

  Evers wanted to learn more. “Who was this hombre they picked on?”

  “A law wrangler by the name of Jim Hays.”

  “Now, ain’t that interestin’?” Evers twanged thoughtfully.

  Jesse Bodine glanced from his fellow Texan to the Tennessean, his bushy brows knit. When Ike Shannon took a step from the bar, he seemed to come to a decision, and pivoted. “If I had proof, Scurlock, I’d settle accounts. As it stands, it’s your word against Morco’s and Nate’s.”

  Morco clutched Bodine’s sleeve. “But I told you the truth, compadre. Es verdad!”

  Lee could feel a welcome warmth spreading through his abdomen courtesy of the whiskey. He also felt a rising outrage that the Mexican killer had goaded Bodine into throwing down on him. Added to that was a chilling insight. Morco had tried to kill Jim Hays once. What was to stop him from trying again? Morco and his friends had not been drunk, as Allison halfheartedly suggested. There had to be another reason they had braced her father, a reason that might prompt Morco and Nate Collins to try again.

  “We’re leavin’,” Bodine announced, leading the other two off.

  “Not so fast!” Lee challenged, his voice cracking like a bullwhip. Customers hastened to clear out from behind the trio. He took a few paces so he had a clear view of the Mexican, then said, “Where I come from, anyone who would shoot an unarmed man is scum.”

  Morco scowled. He had not counted on this. Just as he had not counted on Bodine backing down. The fire in the Tennessean’s stare warned him of what was to come and he wanted no part of it, but he saw no way out other than to turn tail in front of everyone there.

  “I’m accusing you of being a lying, low-down coward,” Lee went on. He had never deliberately goaded anyone into drawing before, but he had no qualms about doing so. It was for Jim Hays’s sake. And for Allison’s.

  “You push your luck, gringo,” Morco blustered. He looked at Bodine and the other man, hoping they would back him if push came to shove, but it was apparent that neither was going to help. He suspected that the presence of Vint Evers was to blame.

  “Didn’t you hear me, Morco?” Lee said. “I say that you’re yellow. That you
prefer to fight women, and men who can’t defend themselves.”

  The indignity of the public humiliation grated on Morco. Many were staring at him with contempt, some in ridicule. He could abide many things, but not that. No man who was a man would stand for having his manhood questioned. “I warn you!” he cried.

  Lee saw the Mexican tremble with indignation. All it would take was a few choice words and he would get his wish. He never hesitated. Spurred by the image of the redhead, he lashed out, “Save your breath, you miserable son of a bitch. If I’m wrong, prove it. If not, leave this valley and don’t ever show your face again.”

  “Bastardo!” Morco fumed. At the back of his mind a tiny voice screamed for him to stay calm, for him not to let the gringo bait him. But he silenced the voice with a choking sob of fury and jerked at his Remington. He was, after all, not without skill with a pistol. He had a chance.

  Lee’s hand flew in a cross-draw, the Colt leaping from its holster. He fired once as Morco’s Remington cleared leather, fired again as Morco tottered backward, fired a third time as Morco twisted and crashed onto a faro table, spilling the table and everything on top of it into an untidy heap.

  Smoke curled from the Peacemaker as Lee warily walked over. The table had landed on its side, partially covering Morco from the waist up. Lee kicked the Remington away from the Mexican’s hand.

  Never again would the pistolero dance the fandango or savor a tequila. Never again would he ride the range or thrill to a woman’s embrace. His sombrero lay a yard from his head, upended, spattered with blood. A jagged entry hole low on his forehead explained why. Framing his tousled hair was a growing scarlet pool. Over his sternum were two neat holes, pumping more blood.

  The patter of onrushing boots brought Lee around in a flash to cover three men who were running toward him. The foremost was a short, dapper individual in an expensive suit, whose clipped sideburns and trimmed handlebar mustache testified to a streak of vanity. The other two were burly underlings. “That’s far enough!” Lee barked.

  They stopped, not one going for a weapon. The dapper leader stared at Morco, then at Bodine and Evers.

  “What’s your mix in this?” Lee demanded.

  “I’m Frank Lowe,” the dapper man said in a voice reminiscent of sandpaper grating on metal. “I own this establishment.”

  Frank Lowe. Lee remembered Jim Hays telling him that a man by that name owned one of the general stores in Diablo. Apparently, Lowe had his hand in more than one business enterprise.

  “I don’t tolerate gunplay in the Applejack,” Lowe said. “Unless a shooting is justified, I post the hombre responsible from the premises.”

  “Are you aiming to post me?” Lee asked, irked by the man’s smug air.

  “That depends on what happened.”

  Vint Evers came to Lee’s defense. “Morco had it comin’, Lowe. He was spreadin’ a pack of lies about Mr. Scurlock, here. When Lee called him on it, Morco slapped leather.”

  Lowe faced Jesse Bodine. “Is that the way it went?”

  The bullish Texan was gazing at the body, his features rippling with resentment. “Morco went for his gun first,” he reluctantly admitted.

  “Then you’re off the hook,” Lowe told Lee. “My men will tend to the body. In the future, though, I’d be grateful if you settled your scores outside.” At a gesture from him, the two burly underlings each grabbed one of Morco’s arms and dragged the body toward the rear of the saloon.

  Lee had yet to lower his smoking Colt. Turning toward Morco’s companions, he waited to see if they were going to call him on what he had done. That was the way of things west of the Mississippi. Kill a man, and the man’s friends invariably came after you.

  Jesse Bodine hitched at his gunbelt. “This ain’t over, Scurlock,” he said gruffly. “There’ll be hell to pay.” So saying, he stalked from the Applejack with the skinny cowboy dogging his spurs.

  The saloon slowly galvanized into life again, most of its occupants speaking in muted tones. Lee was given a wide berth as he walked to the bar, where he began replacing the spent cartridges.

  Ike Shannon clapped him on the shoulder. “Pure quicksilver, laddie,” he said. “There aren’t many who can match you. Vint, for sure. Maybe Bodine, too, and five or six others I can think of. But that’s all.”

  “My brother is one of them,” Lee idly mentioned. “We used to practice all the time, and I never could beat him.” He slid the reloaded Colt into his holster.

  Nelly handed him his glass. “Here. You could probably use this.” She watched him gulp the contents, then said, “Between you and me, I’m glad you shot that bastard. A week ago he got drunk and beat up one of the girls for no excuse at all.”

  As Lee lowered his arm, he spotted several men in the middle of the room. One, a pocket hunter by the looks of him, had a red stain on his shoulder and was being tended by two friends.

  Vint Evers noticed. “Your second shot went clean through Morco and hit that prospector. Happens a lot, I’m sorry to say. Once, in Newton, three men tried to bushwhack me as I came out of a store. They sprayed so much lead that they hit everything except me. One of their shots went through a wall and killed a little girl.”

  Lee strode toward the wounded man, who glanced up and took a step back. The pair bandaging him froze, unsure of what would occur. “You were clipped,” Lee said, stating the obvious.

  “My own fault,” the prospector grumbled. “I ought to know to make myself scarce when a shooting scrape breaks out. A smart man hits the floor first thing.”

  Unimpeded, Lee inspected the wound. “It’s only a crease,” he said, relieved. Gunning down a coldblooded killer like Morco was one thing; to slay an innocent man would be a burden he did not care to bear.

  “Don’t fret yourself on my account,” the prospector said. “I’ve been hurt a lot worse. Hell, you should have seen me the time a tunnel caved in on top of a bunch of us. Busted my shoulder and both legs besides. I was in agony for weeks.”

  Be that as it may, Lee had to make it up to him. “Are you a drinking man?”

  “Does a bear crap in the woods?”

  “How about if I treat you to one? Consider it my way of apologizing.”

  The man grinned slyly. “How about if you treat me to a bottle?”

  “Tell the barkeep to set you up, on me.”

  Chortling, the prospector elbowed one of his friends. “Don’t this beat all? Maybe I should get shot more often. I’d spend a heap less on liquor.”

  Their laughter was the catalyst that restored the Applejack to normal. In the short time it took Lee to reach the bar, the saloon was its noisy, turbulent self again.

  “That was a mighty fine thing to do,” Vint Evers said.

  Lee glanced at Shannon. “I learned it from a friend of yours.”

  The Texan rested his forearms on the mahogany. “I reckon it’s only fair that I warn you. By killin’ Morco, you’ve made yourself some powerful enemies.”

  “Don’t forget what I did to Gristy and Collins,” Lee said dryly.

  “I’m not forgettin’, and neither will those who pulled their strings.” Evers paused. “You say that they were proddin’ Jim Hays?”

  “Yep. Do you know him?”

  “I’ve seen him around. He’s a decent enough gent, for a lawyer. Mind you, they could take the whole kit and caboodle and toss ’em off a cliff and we’d all be better off.”

  “Who are these powerful enemies you mentioned?” Lee asked.

  “Allister Kemp and Frank Lowe, for starters,” Evers answered. “You just met Lowe. I don’t know if you know it, but he also owns a general store and runs the bank. Kemp owns most of Diablo Valley. The two of them are the leaders of what the newspaper is callin’ the Cowboy Faction.” He paused, and Ike Shannon took up the account.

  “Then there’s the Mining Faction, which is led by old Abe Howard, the prospector who first struck silver, and his business partner, a man by the name of Parsons who runs Howard’s general store.”<
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  “As if that ain’t complicated enough,” Evers resumed, “there’s the Homesteader Faction, headed by a farmer, Will Dyer. All three factions despise one another, and there’s been no end of trouble. All that hatred is bound to come to a head.”

  Lee waved a hand. “I don’t intend to get involved with one side or the other.”

  “You’re already involved whether you want to be or not,” Vint Evers said. “By killin’ two of Kemp’s men and woundin’ his favorite, Nate Collins, you’ve set yourself up against Kemp and Lowe.”

  “Lowe seemed cordial enough,” Lee noted.

  Ike Shannon snorted. “Frank Lowe is a snake in the grass. He’s the kind who would smile while he stuck a knife into your back. You can’t trust him any further than you could chuck his horse.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Nelly said so bitterly that all three of them looked at her.

  “I still don’t intend to get involved,” Lee insisted. His only interest was in safeguarding Jim and Allison Hays.

  “Staying neutral is impossible, laddie,” Shannon said.

  The Texan pushed back his hat. “Maybe not. I can think of a way, Lee. Become a lawman. The town council is fixin’ to pick a marshal next Tuesday. I’ve applied, and word is I’ll get the badge. If so, I’ll need two or three deputies I can rely on. I’d like you to be one of them.”

  The offer tantalized Lee. Never in his wildest dreams had he ever considered being a lawdog. Perhaps, once, he would have leaped at the opportunity, but now he was a wanted man, a fugitive from justice. “I can’t,” he said. To justify his refusal, he added, “I don’t expect to be here more than a few days.”

  Evers shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, look me up.” He smacked Shannon’s shoulder. “What say we play some cards? I need some spendin’ money.”

  “Then you’d better go rob some poor old lady, ’cause you sure won’t be taking any of mine,” the gambler said as they walked to his table.

  Nelly could not take her eyes off Vint Evers. “He’s something, isn’t he?” she said, her longing thick enough to be cut with a knife.