was Indian—most likely Comanche, considering the territory, or even Apache, given the name—and so small in stature, the stirrups on his horse had been raised above the animal's belly. His hands were large, his body withered. He looked like a harmless, little, old, Indian man until he turned his head and saw Reese and Rico watching him.
Then he laughed, and the sound sent a shiver down Reese's spine. Madness brewed beneath that laugh and behind those dark, feral, too intelligent eyes.
No one had died yet? Only because El Diablo hadn't wanted them to, and Reese had to wonder why.
"Infierno," Rico muttered.
"You've got that right, Kid. Hell just rode into Rock Creek."
El Diablo held up a hand, and the men stopped. At a flick of his finger, one separated from the rest, and together the two approached.
"I don't know any Injun, Reese," Rico said. "Maybe you should get Sullivan out here."
"He doesn't know any, either."
El Diablo stopped his horse and stared at Reese. The second man, who was as huge as the first was not, stared at Rico. While El Diablo was obviously Indian, the other man was just as obviously white. His gray pants revealed he'd been on the same side as Reese in the war, but Reese doubted Colonel Mosby had ever recruited El Diablo's right-hand man for an elite team of guerrilla fighters.
"What are you doing in our town?" The voice did not hold even a hint of the South but rather the flat tones of a Yankee.
"Your town?" Rico sneered. "I suppose those would be your pants too?"
The fellow grinned, revealing several holes where teeth should be. "They are now."
Rico took a step forward.
"Forget it," Reese ordered, keeping his eyes on the false Confederate, knowing Rico would do as he was told—for a while, anyway. "That's not why we're here."
"Why are you here?" the man asked.
"To make you leave."
He laughed. "I'm going to enjoy this."
Reese switched his gaze from one to the other. "Does El Diablo talk?"
"If he's of a mind."
"Does his mind understand English?"
"Better than most."
Reese addressed his next words to El Diablo. "We've been hired by Rock Creek to protect what's theirs. If you leave now and don't come back, we won't have to shed your blood."
A thin, cruel smile spread over El Diablo's face. "If you leave now, we will not have to kill you and let the buzzards pick your brains."
The old fellow not only understood English; he spoke it better than his right-hand man.
"If you're smart, you'll move on to a town with less protection. You'll only end up dead if you keep coming back here."
"Is that a threat?"
"I thought that's what we were doing—making threats."
"No, I am making a promise, senor; you and your friend will die today."
The sound of a rifle being cocked split the silence. "One man moves an inch and the buzzards won't have to pick for El Diablo's brains, they'll be spread nice and fine all over the street."
Reese sighed. Nate never did have a lick of patience, which was an odd quirk for a sniper—and a reverend.
The false Confederate's face turned the shade of a beet when he realized he'd been caught in a trap. Of course, if the other men chose to open fire, Reese and Rico would be dead, but so would the Yankee and El Diablo.
El Diablo kept his dark gaze on Reese. "Just because there was not a battle today does not mean you haven't begun a war." He turned his horse. "Jefferson, we will finish this another day."
After a moment of futile glaring, first at Reese, then Rico, who must have made a face or obscene gesture, Jefferson started to shake with fury before he glanced up at Nate, scowled, and trailed after El Diablo.
"We will be back when you least expect us," El Diablo called.
"You and the rest of my nightmares," Reese murmured as the bandits left town.
* * *
Mary had been pacing her parlor, wringing her hands and praying for peace while listening for gunshots. She looked out her window a hundred times and didn't see a single person after El Diablo and his crew
Then he laughed, and the sound sent a shiver down Reese's spine. Madness brewed beneath that laugh and behind those dark, feral, too intelligent eyes.
No one had died yet? Only because El Diablo hadn't wanted them to, and Reese had to wonder why.
"Infierno," Rico muttered.
"You've got that right, Kid. Hell just rode into Rock Creek."
El Diablo held up a hand, and the men stopped. At a flick of his finger, one separated from the rest, and together the two approached.
"I don't know any Injun, Reese," Rico said. "Maybe you should get Sullivan out here."
"He doesn't know any, either."
El Diablo stopped his horse and stared at Reese. The second man, who was as huge as the first was not, stared at Rico. While El Diablo was obviously Indian, the other man was just as obviously white. His gray pants revealed he'd been on the same side as Reese in the war, but Reese doubted Colonel Mosby had ever recruited El Diablo's right-hand man for an elite team of guerrilla fighters.
"What are you doing in our town?" The voice did not hold even a hint of the South but rather the flat tones of a Yankee.
"Your town?" Rico sneered. "I suppose those would be your pants too?"
The fellow grinned, revealing several holes where teeth should be. "They are now."
Rico took a step forward.
"Forget it," Reese ordered, keeping his eyes on the false Confederate, knowing Rico would do as he was told—for a while, anyway. "That's not why we're here."
"Why are you here?" the man asked.
"To make you leave."
He laughed. "I'm going to enjoy this."
Reese switched his gaze from one to the other. "Does El Diablo talk?"
"If he's of a mind."
"Does his mind understand English?"
"Better than most."
Reese addressed his next words to El Diablo. "We've been hired by Rock Creek to protect what's theirs. If you leave now and don't come back, we won't have to shed your blood."
A thin, cruel smile spread over El Diablo's face. "If you leave now, we will not have to kill you and let the buzzards pick your brains."
The old fellow not only understood English; he spoke it better than his right-hand man.
"If you're smart, you'll move on to a town with less protection. You'll only end up dead if you keep coming back here."
"Is that a threat?"
"I thought that's what we were doing—making threats."
"No, I am making a promise, senor; you and your friend will die today."
The sound of a rifle being cocked split the silence. "One man moves an inch and the buzzards won't have to pick for El Diablo's brains, they'll be spread nice and fine all over the street."
Reese sighed. Nate never did have a lick of patience, which was an odd quirk for a sniper—and a reverend.
The false Confederate's face turned the shade of a beet when he realized he'd been caught in a trap. Of course, if the other men chose to open fire, Reese and Rico would be dead, but so would the Yankee and El Diablo.
El Diablo kept his dark gaze on Reese. "Just because there was not a battle today does not mean you haven't begun a war." He turned his horse. "Jefferson, we will finish this another day."
After a moment of futile glaring, first at Reese, then Rico, who must have made a face or obscene gesture, Jefferson started to shake with fury before he glanced up at Nate, scowled, and trailed after El Diablo.
"We will be back when you least expect us," El Diablo called.
"You and the rest of my nightmares," Reese murmured as the bandits left town.
* * *
Mary had been pacing her parlor, wringing her hands and praying for peace while listening for gunshots. She looked out her window a hundred times and didn't see a single person after El Diablo and his crew
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