The Devil's Revolver

chapter 1-2

“Thinking about ordering it this time?” Mr. Hooper asked cheerfully.

“I will if I win the contest today.” She glanced up. “Don’t tell Pa.”

He smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I know you mean well for Abby.”

Abby and Ma, she thought. There was enough in that dose to bring her mother back to full health; and maybe Abby would finally stop having fits and trances. That would be fully worth disobeying Pa.

When the hour of the shooting contest arrived, Hettie headed for the tannery at the edge of town. More than half of Newhaven had gathered to watch. Men made their way into the fenced-off contest area where the Robson brothers collected entry fees. Groups of boys pooled their nickels and dimes to enter their best shot. Older men with scarred hands and lined faces scrutinized their opponents from the sidelines before throwing in their dollars.

That entry fee was Hettie’s only obstacle now. She spotted Will Samson hanging on the fringe of the crowd, long limbs dangling over the split-rail fence. She sidled up next to him and leaned against the fence post. “Rumor has it the prize is half the pot,” she said by way of greeting, giving him her most winsome smile.

He pushed his bangs out of his eyes. “Hello, Hettie. You in town with your pa?”

“He’s at your father’s now, getting a wheel repaired. You thinking of entering?” she asked casually.

He gave a bark of laughter. “You know I’m a terrible shot.”

“Thought maybe you’d enter just for fun. Maybe show off to a certain young lady?” She nodded toward golden-haired Sophie Favreau, a beacon of beauty and sophistication among the folks of Newhaven. Resting in the shade of a tree, she held court with a group of well-dressed young men and ladies from town. Sophie’s grandmother, Patrice Favreau, the Soothsayer of the South, had made the family wealthy with her ability to see the future. Sophie was only in Newhaven because of her father’s business interests in Montana—her status set her head and shoulders above everyone here.

Will jammed his hands in his pockets, and his cheeks bloomed with color. “I’m not making a fool of myself with them watching.”

“You know, if you front me the dollar for the entry fee, I could double your investment.”

“No way. They’d never let you in.”

“Why not?”

“’Cuz.” He shuffled his feet. “You’re a girl.”

“All the more reason to let me try. They’ll take my money and think they’ll get a few laughs. But you and I both know I can tag a fox’s tail at two hundred yards.” She gave her most confident smile. “Spare me a dollar and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Only if you win.”

“You forgetting who my pa is?”

“You’re not your father,” he huffed.

Someone in the crowd shouted, “Last call! All entrants, last call!”

Hettie clasped her hands together. If she had to resort to waterworks, she would. “Will, please. You know I can do it.” She waved toward Sophie and her entourage. “I bet you could buy Sophie a bunch of ribbons with the prize money. She loves ribbons.”

Will licked his lips, and Hettie sensed his imminent capitulation. “Fifty-fifty split.”

“Ten-ninety,” she countered.

“Forty-sixty.”

“Thirty-seventy, and not a cent more. I’m doing all the hard work, after all.”

“Done.”

Yes! They shook on it, and she grabbed his money and hurried into the contestants’ arena.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming,” Tate, the elder of the Robson brothers, bellowed. “We’re going to start shortly, but I want to make the rules clear. First: magical charms, spells, talismans, potions, lotions, creams, unguents, or any other non-mundane aids are prohibited. We’ll ask that you strip off all jewelry and empty your pockets before entering the range.”

“Might as well ask us to strip down to our skivvies!” someone shouted, and the crowd laughed. It was only a half joke, though; some people actually sewed talismans into their clothes.

“All we ask for are your charms, though I’d suggest you remove any more … er … private items before you step up. Winston Bluefeather will ensure you’re being honest, and will safekeep your belongings.” He gestured to the man at his right, a sorcerer in a charcoal-gray Western suit. Eagle feathers and bright blue beads were woven into his hair. Hettie could almost feel the magic shimmering around him.

“This is a contest of pure human skill, ladies and gentlemen.” Tate pointed to seven cans balanced on the far fence that bordered the tannery. “Over yonder are the targets. Each contestant will be given three guns, each with four bullets. You must knock down as many as possible with the ammunition and weapons provided. More than five qualifies to win. In the event of a tie, the contestants will have a quick-draw sudden death shootout. The prize money is a tidy twenty-five dollars.”

Hettie inhaled sharply. Minus Will’s cut, that would be almost enough to get the potion for Abby. She could work off the rest for Mr. Hooper, or maybe pay him in game. He did love quail.

Tate’s brother, James, opened three gun cases with a flourish. The crowd murmured.

Hettie frowned.

“What’s wrong?” Will asked at her side.

“I’m no good with a Colt,” she whispered harshly.

Will’s gaze bounced between the revolver and her. “How’s that possible? Your pa has one just like it. What kind of rancher are you that you don’t use a six-shooter?”

“I said I’m no good with it, not that I can’t use it.” She wondered if the Robsons would let her use her own weapon. Not likely, since the wood stock of the Winchester had been magicked so it’d never warp. “I don’t get a lot of practice with Pa’s gun.”

Will wrung his hands, then patted her shoulder gingerly. “You can do it, Hettie. I believe in you.” It wasn’t a ringing endorsement, but Hettie was in too deep now to back out.

She joined the contestants. James asked, “You got your entry fee, son?”

She toyed with the idea of playing the charade through. She was forever being mistaken for a boy in Paul’s clothes. Instead, she pulled off her hat, letting the long, dark, thick braid tucked beneath slide past her shoulders like a heavy coil of rope. James flinched as if it were a dead snake.

“Don’t you know who that is?” Tate chuckled, joining them. “That’s John Alabama’s little girl.”

“Hettie?” James peered at her, sobering. “Good heavens, you look just like your brother, God rest his soul.”

“If she’s as good a shot as her pa, then we’ve got ourselves a real competition.” Tate ushered her into the lineup. “Pardon me, gentlemen, but as the expression goes, ladies first.”

“That’s all right, Tate. Give the fellas a sporting chance. I insist.” She wanted to see how everyone else handled the weapons.

He shrugged and let her take her place in the lineup next to Ling Tsang, who smiled down at her. He occasionally worked odd jobs on the ranch and tended the herd with Uncle. Pa couldn’t afford to have him around full-time, but whenever he needed help he’d hire Ling and even let him sleep in the barn when he didn’t have anywhere else to go. “Hello, Ling. Haven’t seen you around much.”

“Miss Hettie,” he greeted, tugging on the brim of his hat. Tall and lean, with high cheekbones and hair cut short and neat without the braided queue most of his countrymen wore, Ling was quite handsome, in Hettie’s opinion. “I’ve been busy on a couple of other ranches, but if your father ever needs me, I’ll come. I hope you don’t find it impertinent that I compete against you.”

Ling’s English and manners were better than most folks’. She wondered if that was the reason the other Chinese in town avoided him. She’d always thought he could do better in a big city, but he’d told her he “preferred the air and scenery” in Montana.

“Not at all. I look forward to whomping you and every other man here.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

She got a good look at the weapons as she passed the table. In the first case lay a double-barreled shotgun. It was the kind of thing a man would use to take down a bear, and complete overkill for this contest. Maybe that was the point, throwing the contestants off by thinking that power meant accuracy. Pa had made sure she’d learned that lesson second. The first was never to point a gun at a man unless you meant to kill him.

The second case held a Winchester repeater, a finely crafted rifle with gold inlay on the stock and a filigreed brass receiver. A less-seasoned marksman might have mistaken the dazzling showpiece for a well-used, well-cared-for weapon.

The Colt revolver in the last case was battered and dull. James loaded the .45 bullets efficiently, spun the wheel, and handed it to the first contestant, Francis Fawker from the livery. He walked to a spot marked by two sticks and spent a long time steadying his aim. He c****d the gun and pulled the trigger. The sound was more of a pop than a bang. He fired off all four shots but didn’t hit a thing.

He went for the fancy Winchester next. It looked out of place against Francis’s stained and patched shirt, but he held it snug against his shoulder and let loose four booming shots. He knocked down one can to some mild applause.

He hit nothing with the shotgun. Hettie could see it was going to be a struggle for her to use it—the kickback rocked the man on his heels.

The targets were reset while the next contestant stripped off his talismans. He knocked down two cans with the Winchester, but nothing else. Six contestants later, only one man had managed to knock down five of the seven cans.

Then Ling went up. He picked up the Winchester, weighed it, put it back. He picked up the revolver, spun the wheel, put it back.

He grabbed the shotgun. His smile broadened as he leveled it at the fence. A few people clucked and whistled to spook him—they hadn’t done so for any of the other contestants. When that shotgun roared, two cans fell at once, silencing everyone. He aimed half an inch to the right and fired again. Another two cans fell. He did it twice more, leaving only one can standing.

“He’s a dirty cheater!” the large man with dark hair and beady eyes who’d knocked down five cans shouted. “I didn’t even hear those shots hit!”

Tate turned to Winston. “Bluefeather, do you concur?”

“No magic here,” the sorcerer said.

“What about all that mystic Eastern junk, huh? He could be using ether magic on us!”

Ling spun around, shotgun pointed at the ground. “I don’t need magic to win this contest. But if you think I’m cheating, I’ll bow out right now and we can settle this like real men.”

“Whoa, partner, there’s no need for that.” Tate steered him back toward the targets. “This is just a friendly competition. C’mon. Why don’t you finish this? Show them what you’re made of.”

Ling gazed around, absorbing the suspicion cast his way. “The sparkle of the challenge has dulled.” He stalked out, leaving awkward silence in his wake.

Hettie watched him go, feeling sore for Ling. He would’ve won—it was hardly fair that a bunch of jealous blowhards could drive him off. She glared at the knot of accusers, whose narrowed eyes followed Ling out.

“You’re up next, Miss Alabama,” James said. “Your talismans?”

She removed the protective necklace her parents had paid quite a lot for, feeling naked without it. She’d been gifted the charm when her menses had come and had been warned never to remove it, especially around men, but rules were rules, and she didn’t want to be caught out and humiliated in front of the crowd by refusing to take it off. Chin high, she dropped it into Winston’s bowl, along with the meager contents of her pockets, and handed her own rifle over.

The sorcerer muttered a spell and waved his hand over the vessel, then gave her a probing look, as if he were seeking something at the bottom of a pond. A strange feeling rippled through her. He nodded silently at Tate, who gestured for her to proceed.

“You think that tomboy’ll hit anything?” She heard someone snicker.

“With that face, she’s more likely to scare the cans off the fence.” The laughter from the sidelines wormed its way between Hettie’s ears. She’d heard it all before. She’d inherited none of her mother’s delicate looks. She had her father’s broad, strong nose, though it seemed to be permanently upturned like a bat’s. Her cheeks were freckled and puffy, and her dull brown eyes were too close together. Not that looks mattered when it came to breaking horses or herding cattle. Part of her wished she could show those townies just how good a shot she was and take off the tips of their ears, but that dandified lot wasn’t worth wasting bullets on.

She inspected each gun as Ling had. “Do I have to use all the shots in each gun at once?”