Diablo (2 page)

“I read the report on your trial,” Masters said quietly. “I know how Diablo was born. You haven't changed that much in three years. You're still tilting at windmills.”

“You know nothing,” Kane said.

“I know you have one chance to save yourself and your friend from dying in two days. Maybe you don't care about yourself, but David Carson is different, isn't he? Maybe he wants to live. Maybe his family wants him to live.”

It was a shot in the gut. Kane felt it rip through him. That had been the worst of his trial, seeing Davy's wife and son sitting in the courtroom, watching their faces as the verdict was announced. He suddenly made a decision. “I'll agree on one condition,” he said. “Davy gets a full pardon.”

“I can't promise that,” Masters said again. “I got a pardon promised for you because you would be risking your life. Carson's sentence is to be commuted to prison.”

“Then the answer is no,” Kane said. “Davy couldn't survive years in prison. I had a year of it, remember? We'd both be better off dead.”

Masters hesitated. “I'll do what I can.”

“I want him with me.”

“No,” Masters said firmly. “He's the only reason I got the governor to agree. The fact that he'll hang if you run is the only leash we have.”

Kane's fingers clenched into a fist. “You have it all figured, don't you?”

Masters was silent, his eyes watchful as he waited.

“A pardon for David Carson,” Kane said. “I don't care about myself. Take it or leave it.”

“If I can convince the governor to give your pardon to Carson, you'll go?”

“Yes.”

“And return to face your own sentence?”

Kane's lips moved into a slight, sardonic smile. “Don't ever go into the drummer business, Masters. You couldn't sell a dying man a sip of water.”

“I just want to be sure we understand each other.”

“We understand each other,” Kane repeated. “But I want Davy's pardon in writing, and I want it in the hands of someone I trust.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“You'd better hurry.” Kane leaned against the stone wall of his cell. “Oh, and I want that pardon for Davy even if I'm killed.”

“I might be able to convince the governor … if we find your body.”

“I'll try to die where you can find me. Don't want to inconvenience you any.”

Masters didn't answer. He went to the door and yelled for the guard, then said to Kane, “I'll be back.”

“Even if the governor turns you down?”

“I'll be back,” Masters said again. “Either way.”

“Don't bother coming if he says no. I don't want to waste my last hours being reminded of an error in judgment.”

Masters was spared making a reply. The door opened, and he started to leave. He paused a moment, looked back as if to say something, then shook his head. He disappeared out the door, and Kane was left with the sound of iron closing on iron and the echo of spurs on the stone floor.

Kane stood where he was, his mind running over every word of the conversation. Maybe he could save Davy. Maybe. He rubbed the scar on his face. It itched, as it always seemed to do when he was troubled. To save Davy, he would have to become a marionette, his strings pulled by a man he despised: a lawman who wanted to use him for his own purposes, who would hold the life of his friend hostage.

He hated the idea. He hated the prospect of being a spy, of betraying people who trusted him. But he would do anything for Davy.

Masters had a day and a half before he and Davy were scheduled to die. Kane wondered whether the marshal would succeed.

Twelve hours until the noose would drop around his neck
.

Kane had given up on Masters. He'd asked too much. He tried to tell himself the offer had been a hoax from the beginning, a final indignity. But part of him wanted to hang on to hope just a little bit longer. All of him wanted Davy to see his family again.

He refused the plate of beans that would be his last meal. He drank the coffee, though. Drinking it passed the time. He tried not to think of the next morning.

The guard had been taunting him all day, telling him how various men had died on the rope. All of them, according to the guard, ended up begging. Some, he'd smirked, had taken ten minutes or more to die. There were wagers on how fast Diablo would die. Kane had ignored him, and finally the guard left.

Kane lay down on his bed, leaned his head against the wall, and closed his eyes. He sorted through memories as if they were cards in a poker deck. He discarded the jokers: the war, his quixotic rescue of Masters, his fated plunge into outlawry.

Instead, he focused on the aces. Ah, the aces. The horse races with Davy across the fields. The swimming hole where he and Davy used to splash after a day of tending cattle. A table brimming with biscuits and chicken and fresh vegetables. But Davy was waiting to die, just as he was. And a tin plate of cold, mushy beans sat on the floor near the door, mocking him with their rancid smell.

Back to the jokers. They were easier to bear.

Then he heard the footsteps, just as he had yesterday. He didn't move, but he felt his muscles tense. The steps neared. He didn't turn his head, but he heard the sound of the key in the lock, and the heavy door groaning as it opened.

“Get up,” the guard said as he entered the cell. He was followed by Marshal Ben Masters.

“What are you going to do if I don't?” Kane drawled.

The guard took a club from his belt and moved threateningly over to the slab. His arm was caught by Masters. “No,” Masters ordered. “Leave us.”

The guard reluctantly retreated.

Kane sat up lazily, leaning his back against the stone wall. And waited.

“I have what you wanted,” Masters said. “You find Sanctuary for us, and Carson goes free.”

“In writing?”

“In writing.”

A glimmer of triumph snaked through Kane, but he was careful not to show it. “I want to see it sent to an attorney in Austin.” He gave the name. And agreed, at Masters's insistence, that the envelope be labeled OPEN ONLY IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH.

“There are some conditions,” Masters said after a moment. “I'll need your word that you will return.”

“The word of Diablo?” Kane asked sarcastically.

“The word of Kane O'Brien.”

“Why do you need that? You have Davy. My leash, you called him.”

For a moment, Masters looked discomfited, and Kane drew a small measure of satisfaction in that.

“All right,” Kane said after a moment of silence. “You have it. For what it's worth. What else?”

“You have three months,” Masters said. “It took one hell of an argument to get you that much.”

“And if I can't do it in that time?”

“Carson dies.”

Kane stood at that, his fingers fisted at his side. “You are a bastard, Masters.”

“Remember that, O'Brien. I'm your other leash. Your contact. Your lifeline.” The marshal's voice was hard, callous.

“What if I want someone else?”

“What you want doesn't matter. You're a condemned murderer.”

“A condemned murderer you want to use,” Kane replied bitterly.

“We
have
to use,” Masters corrected. “I don't like it any better than you.”

“Don't like getting your hands dirty, working with an outlaw? A reb?”

Masters sighed. “I don't have a choice, and neither do you. It's me, or you and Carson hang on schedule. Do we do business or not?”

“We do,” Kane said. “But don't push me.”

Masters shrugged. “Let's get one thing clear from the beginning. You don't make the rules. I do. If you're not willing to accept that fact, the deal's off.”

Kane wanted to throw the offer back in his face. If it were his life, he would. But Davy's life was important enough that he would swallow his pride. Even if it choked him. He nodded reluctantly.

“You'll escape tonight.”

“How?” Kane said with a touch of humor. “I've been trying with little success.”

“A priest will visit you in a few hours. You knock him out, take the cassock.”

“Now why didn't I think of that?” Kane said sardonically. “He approves of all this?”

Masters ignored the sarcasm. “The priest will be a deputy marshal. There will be a gun in his cassock.”

“Loaded?”

Masters looked at him steadily. “Could I trust you with one?”

“I don't know,” Kane challenged. “Could you?”

“I don't think so, not yet.”

“Trust is truly a beautiful thing. I can tell we're going to have a long, fruitful partnership. A little lacking in warmth perhaps, but that should be more than balanced by your astounding faith in me.”

Understanding flickered in Masters's eyes, but Kane knew he wasn't going to change his mind. He itched to hit the man. “I want to see Davy.”

“No.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“It would only endanger you if we did,” Masters said. “Only five of us know and, of course, the governor. Even the warden here won't. Carson's execution will be delayed on the pretext of his being needed to help find you.”

Kane took several steps toward him. “You're going to keep him believing he's going to hang?”

“He
will
hang,” Masters said bluntly, “unless you do what's expected. Why give him false hope?”

“I should have left you to die.”

A muscle worked in Masters's cheek. “Maybe so,” he said, “but right now I'm all you have.”

“I'd rather have smallpox.”

Masters smiled wryly. “Let's get on with it. If you have those robes and a gun, do you think you can make it out the gates?”

“Oh, I'll make it all right,” Kane said.

“The drainage ditch outside … I'll be about an eighth of a mile south with a horse.”

Kane nodded.

“And don't try to find Carson on the way. He's being moved to another section of the prison.”

“You think of everything, don't you?”

“I try,” Masters said. He turned toward the door and yelled for the guard. He looked back for a moment. “Good luck.” He didn't hold out his hand.

Kane didn't answer. He just watched as Masters left the cell and thought about the next few hours.

A priest for Diablo. A priest with a gun. It was somehow fitting.

Chapter Two

Sanctuary

Nicky looked up at the ridge of mountains that represented the walls of her existence. She yearned to ride beyond them, to take her brother away from this place and never look back.

But she was like a butterfly pinned to a board, bound there by loyalties she couldn't ignore. She'd almost decided to leave—any way she could—when she'd chanced on her uncle this morning. He'd been doubled over in pain. It was not the first time she'd seen him that way, though he'd tried to dismiss it as something he'd eaten.

Her uncle or her brother—she would have to choose between them soon. Her brother, Robin, was already too eager to reach for a gun, too ready to admire the desperadoes that stayed at Sanctuary. Jesse and Frank James were his heroes. She didn't want him to travel down the same road as their father and wind up in an unmarked grave.

Sanctuary. It had been that for her and Robin years ago. Now it was more a prison.

Her mare, Molly, snorted and pranced impatiently under her. Nicky wanted to run, too. At twenty-two, she wanted to be a woman, an ordinary woman, who wore pretty dresses and attracted men she could admire. Instead, she wore trousers and a loose shirt. Her hair was cropped short, like a halo of curls, because her uncle feared—she feared—that if she looked like a woman some of the outlaws might well be inspired to want a lot more than what they were paying for.

She had skills, some womanly and some not so womanly. She could cook well enough, and she had a way with a needle and thread. She could shoot and fight dirty. She could ride like the wind and do some doctoring.

She could play the fiddle, but couldn't dance. She didn't know nice manners or how to dress properly. She didn't know how to flirt or tease or be courted. She was twenty-two, and she'd never had a beau, mainly because the only men around were thieves and murderers and worse—and her uncle would kill anyone who laid a hand on her.

Molly snorted again. Nicky gave the mare her head, and they raced across the barren valley, ignoring the lookouts stationed all along the hills surrounding Sanctuary. Not that they had much to worry about. The Commanches protected them—for a price. And the place was as well guarded as any medieval castle Nicky had read about in her small collection of books.

What worried her most was Robin. She was so afraid for him. She should have left years ago and taken Robin with her, but she owed her uncle so much. Besides, she hadn't had the faintest idea how to earn a living to support herself and Robin. She had thought of starting a ranch, or a boardinghouse, but both required a great deal of money. Money she didn't have. If she'd been alone, she might have risked striking out, but Robin was a different matter.

Now, she feared that Robin might be in greater danger here. That feeling had been growing stronger since she'd discovered Robin practicing quick draws with Cobb Yancy, a ruthless killer. But just as her resolve to leave hardened, she'd found her uncle doubled over, his face pale and sweaty. To be sick here, to show any sign of weakness, was death. The men in Sanctuary would turn on him as hyenas turned on their wounded and dying. She had to convince him to leave, to find a good doctor, not the lawless quacks who sought refuge here.

She ran Molly until the horse slowed. Then she turned the mare's head and started back. Her uncle didn't like her being out here alone, even though she could take care of herself. He always wanted either himself, Robin, or Mitch Evers, the only man her uncle really trusted, to ride with her.