Diablo
The Texas
By Georgina Gentry
ZEBRA BOOKS
Copyright © 2010
Lynne Murphy
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-0850-7
Chapter One
On a northbound train to Wyoming, early April 1892
Diablo paused between the swaying cars, looking through
the door to see who was inside before he entered. No gunfighter
worth his bullets would enter an area without checking
out the lay of the land, especially since this car was full
of Texas gunfighters, all hired killers like himself.
He had come a long way since Trace Durango had
found him fifteen years ago when he was a Santee slave
known as He Not Worthy of a Name. Well, he had earned
a name now, and when men heard it, they turned pale
and backed down from the big, half-breed gunfighter
with the scarred face. He dressed all in black, from his
Stetson down to his soft, knee-high moccasins. The superstitious
peasants along the Rio Grande had given him the
name: Diablo, the devil. It suited him just fine.
Now finally he was headed north to take care of unfinished
business. He had waited a long, long time for this,
and all these years he had been planning and perfecting
his aim. Though the Wyoming Stock Grower's Association
was paying exorbitant money to bring this trainload
of killers north, the money did not interest Diablo. What
interested him was vengeance, and now, finally, he would
have it. He was no longer the small and weak half-breed
slave. No, now he had a name and was respected and
feared throughout the West. Diablo had gained a reputation
as a fast, deadly gunman.
Trace Durango had done well in teaching him to use
a Colt, and he had used it time and time again in range
wars and saloon showdowns. His gun was for hire, and
he had fought side by side with men like Billy the Kid.
Billy had been dead more than ten years now. Many of
the others were dead too, before they reached middle
age. In the end, that would probably be his fate, but for
now, all that mattered was finishing his business with
four men. His biggest fear was that they might now be
dead and no longer able to face a showdown.
Diablo swung open the door and stood there watching
the others inside. The shades had been ordered drawn,
and the light in the swaying car was dim. Most of the men
turned to stare at him, unsmiling, cigar smoke swirling
above their heads. They did not nod a welcome, and he
had expected none. These were hired pistoleros like himself,
Texas gunfighters, on a special train to Wyoming
where a range war was about to start. An hombre named
Frank Canton had come down to hire twenty-five of the
best, offering great pay and bonuses for every rustler and
nester killed.
The train swayed, and the tracks made a rhythmic
click-clack as conversation in the car ceased. All the men
were looking at him, but he stared only at the men in the
first row of seats. Diablo liked to have his back against
the wall. The two men withered under his frown and
hurriedly got up and retreated down the car. Diablo
took the space they had vacated as if it were his right.
"Who in the hell is that half-breed?" The growling
voice drifted toward him.
"Shh! Be quiet, Buck; that's Diablo. You don't want
to make him mad."
"The Diablo?" Now he sounded impressed.
"There's only one," said the other.
"He don't look like so much."
"You challenge him, you'll find out."
"Maybe I'll just do that when we hit Wyoming."
Diablo sighed, pulled his black Stetson down over his
eyes, and leaned back against the scarlet horsehair cushions,
then opened the shade, stared out the window at the
passing landscape. Quickly he averted his eyes, not wanting
to see the reflection of his scarred face, and closed the
shade again.
He probably didn't look like much to the others, who
sported noisy, big spurs, fancy silver conchos and pistols,
and boots of the best leathers in bright colors. Diablo
dressed in the color of the night, and he wore moccasins,
the better to move silently against an enemy without
them knowing he was coming. Silver conchos and
pistols had a way of reflecting light that an enemy could
see for a long way. He not only moved silently, but his appearance
was as black as a thunderstorm, with no bit of
reflected light to give him away.
Now he stuck a slender cigarillo between his lips, but
he did not light it. He never lit them. The flash of a
match or the slightest scent of tobacco smoke would also
give a man away, and he had learned from the Santee
Sioux that he must move as silently as a spirit-kill and
be gone. No wonder the Mexicans averted their eyes and
crossed themselves as he rode past.
Hours later, Diablo decided he would have a drink
and moved toward the club car. Balancing lightly in his
moccasins as the train rumbled and click-clacked along
the rails, he was acutely aware of each man he passed,
sensing whether each was a threat or not. One or two
eyed him, hands fidgeting nervously, as if thinking of
being the one who killed the infamous Diablo, but each
seemed to think twice and let him pass unchallenged.
In the club car, five men hunched over a table playing
cards. Diablo paused in the doorway, looking them over.
Then slowly the conversation ceased as each turned to
look at him.
"Good God, look at his face!" the big, unshaven one
muttered. He had red hair, and freckles showed through
the balding spots.
"Be quiet, Buck," warned a pudgy one with missing
teeth, and a greasy ponytail of brown hair. "You want to
die before you ever get to Wyoming?"
"But he looks like a monster."
Nobody else said anything, waiting to see if the newcomer
would take offense, but Diablo pretended he had
not heard the remark. If he killed or challenged everyone
who commented on his scarred face, his six gun
would never be in its holster. Instead, he walked softly to
the small bar and addressed the black waiter. "Beer."
He felt the gaze of the others on his back, but he ignored
them.
"Hey," the one called Buck asked, "you got a big rattlesnake
hatband and rattles on that Stetson. You kill it
yourself?"
Diablo nodded as he took his beer and moved across
the scarlet carpet to a comfortable chair with its back
against a wall and sat down. Play at the poker table
seemed suspended.
"Hell," snorted a short man in a derby hat, "it ain't no
big thing to kill a giant rattler. Anyone can shoot them."
Diablo drilled him with his hard stare. "I didn't shoot
it. When it struck at me, I put my foot on its head and
killed it with my knife."
The man with the ponytail raised his bushy eyebrows,
and the light reflected off the silver conchos on his
leather vest. "Man has to be fast as greased lightnin' to
kill a snake that way."
Diablo didn't answer, and he knew they all stared at
his rattler hatband with the dozen rattles still attached.
Now he took out a fresh cigarillo, stuck it in his mouth,
and gazed out the window.
"Hey, half-breed, you need a light?" The one called
Buck half rose from his chair, his voice challenging. He
wore big spurs, and when he moved, they rattled like the
tin pans on a peddler's cart.
The others tried to shush him.
Diablo was in no mood to kill someone today. He
merely looked at the challenger, dark eyes glowering,
and the man sat down suddenly.
"Well, boys," Buck huffed, his dirty, freckled hands as
nervous as his unshaven face, "let's get this game goin',
shall we?"
Diablo watched the country gliding past the train windows
for a long moment. They were only hours from Wyoming,
and he was weary of the long trip. He reached
for a newspaper on the nearby table. Cimarron Durango
had taught him to read, and that made up for his loneliness.
The others raised their heads and watched him as
if astounded that a gunfighter was reading, then returned
to their poker game.
Sunny sat between her father and Hurd Kruger as
Hurd drove the buggy along the dusty road toward the
train station in the town of Casper. Early spring flowers
now bloomed along the way and in the fields where
hundreds of cattle grazed.
"Thank you, Mr. Kruger, for inviting me along," she
said politely, looking up at him. He was a big, beefy man
with yellow teeth that he sucked constantly. His hair and
mustache were coal black, and when he sweated, little
drops of dye ran down the sides of his ruddy face.
"Now, Sunny, dear, you ought to at least call me Hurd.
I'm not really your uncle."
The way he looked at her made her feel uneasy. He'd
been looking at her that way ever since she'd gone into
her teens, and now that she was eighteen, he looked at
her that way more and more often. She brushed a blond
wisp back under her pale blue bonnet. "All right," she
agreed and looked over at her father. Swen Sorrenson
did not look pleased.
"Hurd, I still don't think much of this idea," he said,
his Danish accent still strong after all these years.
"Now, Swen, we've been through this before, and
anyway, we shouldn't discuss this in front of our Sunny,
should we?"
It upset her that her father seemed uneasy. Her mother
had died giving birth to her, and Sunny felt obliged and
guilty about Dad's loss. If it hadn't been for his obligations
in raising a daughter in this rough land, he might have remarried
or even returned to Denmark. He had always
seemed frail and ill suited to this wild wilderness.
"Uncle Hurd, I mean Hurd, why are we going to
town?" she asked.
"Business. The Stock Growers Association business.
You know I am the president. But don't you worry your
pretty little head about that, Sunny-you can go shoppin'
while your dad and I tend to it."
That didn't account for the unhappy look in Swen's pale
blue eyes, but she decided not to ask any more questions.
A trip to a big town was a rare treat for a ranch girl.
They were approaching the town, and her excitement
built. In the distance, she heard the distinctive
wail of a train whistle. "Oh, a train! Who do you suppose
is coming in?"
Her father started to say something, then closed his
mouth.
"Some men," Hurd said, sucking his teeth, "part of the
cattlemen's business."
They came into town on the main road and headed
toward the train station. Others were gathering, too. The
arrival of a train in this small, isolated town was big news.
They pulled into the station, and Hurd got down
and tied the horse to the hitching rail. Then he came
around to help Sunny out of the buggy, but her father
got there first.
Hurd frowned. "Now, Sunny, dear, you go along and
shop. Your dad and I and some of the other members
will meet the train."
"But it's so exciting!" she protested, shaking the dust
from her pale blue cotton dress and readjusting her
skewered bonnet, "I want to see who's getting off."
"Next year," Swen said to her with a smile, "maybe you
will ride the train to Boston and go to college."
Hurd frowned. "Aw, don't put such high-falutin' ideas
in her head, Swen. Maybe she'll want to get married instead.
There ain't much need for a ranch wife to get an
education."
Swen looked like he might disagree, but instead, pulled
his Stetson down over his sparse hair as pale as Sunny's
and turned toward the station.
The crowd of curious onlookers was growing on the
platform as the trio joined them. In the distance, Sunny
could see the smoke from the engine and hear the whistle
as it chugged toward the town.
"Casper! Coming into Casper!" The conductor walked
up and down the aisle and into the next car, "Casper
next stop!"
On the sidewalk near the station, Sunny Sorrenson
smiled at her father. "Oh, Dad, I never saw a train up close!"
"Yes, dear," Swen smiled back at her with eyes as blue
as hers. "Hurd's been expecting it."
"Yep, this is a special train." Hurd walked toward
them, smiling. "Now we'll get some action."
"What's going on?" Sunny smiled up at him. She was
petite next to the big man.
"Now, sweetheart, never mind," Hurd paused in sucking
his yellow teeth and nodded. "It's just cattle business-nothing
to worry your pretty little head about."
"All right, Uncle Hurd." She saw a slight look of worry
pass over her father's tanned face. He didn't often disagree
with Hurd Kruger, their neighbor from the big
K Bar ranch, especially since Hurd held the mortgage
on their small spread and had been extra nice to them.
The train pulled into the station, puffing and blowing
acrid smoke. People started gathering on the platform.
The train arrival was always a big event in town. The three
of them walked to the station in time to see the conductor
step down and begin unloading baggage. After a
moment, the passengers began to disembark. They were
all men-tough-looking, weathered men, all wearing gun
belts. The newcomers looked over the crowd, not smiling,
then strode to the stock car, started unloading horses.
Sunny shielded her pale eyes from the sun. "Look at
all those cowboys. Do you think they'll be able to find
work here? I thought there were plenty in the area."
"Uh," her father cleared his throat, "Hurd brought
them in."
"Be quiet, Swen," the other man snapped; then he
smiled at her and said, "Now, Sunny, dear, why don't you
run along and do some shopping? We men have things
to discuss."
There was something wrong here, but she wasn't quite
sure what it was. There must be almost twenty-five or
thirty of these tough-looking cowboys milling about on
the platform, gathering up their carpetbags and unloading
their horses.
A tall, straight man with a mustache got off the train
and strode over to them, smiling. "Well, Mr. Kruger, I
brought them. Handpicked them, too, twenty-five or so
of the best from Texas."
"Shut up, Canton," Hurd said, glancing at her. "We'll
talk later."
She felt the men were withholding something because
of her, but she was always obedient, as was expected of a
young lady, so she walked away down the platform as
Canton, Dad, and Hurd went to meet some of those
men. They gathered and began to talk as she looked up
at the train.
Then one final man stepped into the doorway of the
railcar, looking about as if checking out the landscape.
He caught her attention because he was so different than
the others-taller and darker. He was dressed all in black,
his Stetson pulled low over his dark face, and he wore
moccasins instead of boots. From here, she could see the
left side of his face, and he was handsome, with dark eyes
and just wisps of very black hair showing beneath his hat.
A half-breed, she thought. Unlike the others, he wore no
silver conchos or spurs, and his pistol and gun belt were
very plain and worn low and tied down. This was no ordinary
cowboy, she realized with a sudden interest.
At that point, he turned his face toward her, and she
took a deep breath and stepped backward in shock.
While the left side of his face was handsome, the right
side was scarred and twisted. "Oh, dear Lord," she whispered,
trying not to stare but unable to take her eyes
off the stranger.
He seemed to sense her horror, and he winced and
turned quickly away so that his right side was hidden again.
Diablo watched her from the car step. He was almost
hypnotized by the girl. She was certainly not yet twenty,
and small. Her blue dress accentuated her eyes, which
were as pale as a Texas sky, and her hair was lighter than
corn silk. The tight waist accentuated her tiny body, and
she was fragile and delicate, almost too delicate to be in
this cold, harsh country. He had never seen anything
like her before. He found himself staring at her full,
pink lips, and without thinking, he turned his head to
get a better look.
Too late he saw her hand go to her mouth and the way
she stepped backward in dismay. Diablo turned his face
away, too aware that his scarred face had frightened her,
and the old anger arose in him. He would always have
this effect on women, always. The fact made him angry
with the beautiful, petite girl, although he knew it was
not her fault.
Two men walked up to join the girl, not looking at
Diablo. The older one had wispy hair, almost snow
blond, and eyes as pale as the girl's. The other was
middle-aged, perhaps in his forties with a small potbelly,
and hair and mustache dyed too black to hide the gray.
Diablo's hand went to his pistol as the old memories
flooded back. Then he forced himself to concentrate and
not think of that long-ago day. He would pick the day and
time, and this was not it. He grabbed his carpetbag and
stepped back into the shadows of the car door so the men
would not see him. He stared at the girl again, thinking
he had never seen anything so fragile and beautiful. He
wanted her as a man wants a woman, but was angry because
she had recoiled from him. What could he expect?
Didn't women always shrink back from his ugly face? And
yet, he always hoped there would be one who wouldn't.
Sunny, yes, that was what they had called her, and that was
a good name for her. This girl was a magnificent princess;
she could have any man she wanted, and she would not
want him. He sighed and turned his attention again to
the men congregating on the platform.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Diablo
by Georgina Gentry
Copyright © 2010 by Lynne Murphy.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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