The Diablo’s Pistolas, Book One

THE CARD CHEAT

The New Mexico sky hung above escapin’ horse an’ rider like a heavy slab a turquoise, the hazy orange sun its only imperfection. A possessed posse, cuatro dead banditos, in hot pursuit a the wanted man. The dead were gainin’ on the livin’, each corpse an’ hell horse so close behind they were bein’ pelted by the gringo’s gallopin’ Mustang’s kicked-up dust an’ stone.

The cuatro dead banditos were after the Diablo’s stolen pistolas. Pistolas forged in hell. Dos magic pistolas that never exhausted silver bullets. Ostentatious pistolas the card cheat Braden Gamble had “won,” durin’ a poker game involvin’ marked cards, from the Devil hisself.

Twistin’ aroun’ in his creaky leather saddle, unholstered silver pistolas in black-gloved fists, Gamble fired both unholy six-shooters at the first rider: an ugly, fat, dead, decomposin’ bandito armed ta his rotten teeth an’ ridin’ an emaciated white horse. Dead bandito an’ hell horse, fulla magic lead, tumbled inta the scorchin’ desert sand an’ vanished like hellbound ghosts birthin’ dust devils.

Above, starvin’ vultures circled between orange sun an’ tobacco-colored desert, wonderin’ where their rotten meal went. Below, cacti stood like headstones an’ dusty tumbleweeds rolled west like wagon wheels.

Tres dead banditos, pistola totin’ banditos, wearin’ black sombreros, black Mexican suits studded with silver conchae, black cowboy boots with Mexican spurs, an’ black bandoliers fulla fat silver bullets crisscrossin’ their bloated chests—ridin’ emaciated red, black, an’ pale hell horses—returned pistola fire. The bang a, flash a, smoke a, stench a, an’ hot lead a weird Wild West gunfire filled the empty air.

A black Stetson fulla bullet holes hidin’ the tall gringo’s raven hair, icy blue eyes, bleached-white teeth, an’ knife-scarred features from the blisterin’ sun. His sun-crazed skin looked like ole leather. Loco, his adobe-colored Mustang—panicked, wide-eyed, neighin’, chompin’ at the bit, an’ gallopin’ onward—was still kickin’-up dust an’ stone.

“Yah!” Gamble rein-whipped an’ boot-spurred Loco’s hindquarters, violently, but the exhausted Mustang was already at top speed. Twistin’ aroun’ again, ta open fire at the tres dead banditos still in hot pursuit, the card cheat’s stolen pistolas blazed wildly.

Blood splatter stained the heat-distorted air red. “Damn!” Gamble screamed through clenched teeth. A slug a hot lead had tore through his left shoulder, almost knockin’ him from his worn saddle, almost knockin’ a priceless pistola from his black-gloved fist.

Venomous rattlesnakes an’ poisonous scorpions an’ horned lizards crunched under Loco’s iron horseshoes. A black silhouette a scramblin’ horse an’ wounded rider fled across a painted horizon, fled toward the mirage of a ghost town, fled toward the 1881 minin’ town a Turquoise Hills. A black silhouette a pistola wavin’ banditos followed.

Every abomination a hell, from across time an’ space, now on their trail, tryin’ ta kill ‘em, tryin’ ta steal back the Devil’s pistolas. Every demon tryin’ ta be the uno ta return “The Diablo’s Pistolas,” every demon tryin’ ta be the uno ta collect “The Devil’s Reward” a bein’ loosed from hell fer a cool, cool season.

Vaya con Dios, card cheat . . .

CHAPTER UNO

1881. Cerrillos, New Mexico.

The Minin’ Town a Turquoise Hills.

Loco reared-up in front of a hitchin’ post outside the High Noon Saloon, dustin’-up the ghost town. Wounded Gamble dismounted cautiously, gingerly, then smacked poor Loco’s hindquarters hard with a black-gloved hand—sendin’ his terrified horse gallopin’ north outta town, gallopin’ north toward Santa Fe with his saddle, rifle, canteen, bedroll, an’ saddlebags fulla life-savin’ trail gear.

Gamble’s “Wanted Dead NOT Alive” posters were tacked all over the facade a the tumbledown drinkin’ establishment. He pushed through the swingin’ doors a the empty saloon an’ staggered straight fer the dusty bar, fer a bottle a whiskey. The torrid place smelled a parched sawdust, ole leather boots, an’ stale whiskey. The horned head of a great white buffalo was mounted above the bar, its bulbous wild blue eyes starin’ down at him, as if guardin’ the bottles a rotgut whiskey fer a barkeep long departed. He poured the shit whiskey over his gunshot wound, ta prevent infection, causin’ a pain like holy hellfire. Then he took a long pull on the dusty bottle hisself . . .

Gunshots! . . . Model 1873, lever-action, repeatin’ rifles blazin’—their hot brass casings flyin’ through the dusty air.

“Dang it!”

Whiskey bottles an’ Indian pottery were suddenly explodin’ all aroun’ the wounded gringo. Tres saloon whores were shootin’ at him, wantin’ the card cheat ta cash in his chips. Abandonin’ his bottled courage, he took cover behind the bar.

“The pistolas, geeve us de pistolas!” Tres voices, each possessed.

Tres sexy putas were comin’ down the brothel’s stairs, tres dead Señoritas with faces like Day-of-the-Dead skulls—wearin’ nothin’ but black-leather cowboy hats, black-leather chaps studded with silver conchae, an’ black-leather cowboy boots with Mexican spurs—were firin’ their Winchester rifles down at the world’s most wanted man.

Huge chunks a wooden bar top were takin’ splintery flight.

Uno a the Señorita’s rifle bullets must a ricocheted an’ hit the pianola, the player piano’s ivory keys suddenly jumpin’ up an’ down, shrilly playin’ an erie version a “Happy Trails.”

“Geeve us de pistolas!” Again, tres voices, each possessed.

I’ll give ya the fuckin’ pistolas! he thought from underneath his black Stetson fulla bullet holes.

Checkin’ the putas locations in the long mirror behind the dusty whiskey bottles, Gamble popped up from behind the bar, a pistola in his right hand as his left hand quickly fanned its hammer: cylinder revolvin’, chambers firin’, smoke bloomin’, magic lead flyin’.

“Eat lead, demonios!”

A slug a hot lead hit the first whore in her cock holster—cigarrillo, lips, teeth, tongue, brain, an’ blood splattered on the wall behind her—then she tumbled down the stairs an’ lay dead still in a twisted whore pose until the perverted ghost a an ole undertaker whisked her spirit away ta the underworld.

Gamble took cover behind the bar as the remainin’ dos Señoritas returned rifle fire—violently splinterin’ an’ gougin’ an’ uglifyin’ up the wooden bar top. His abandoned bottle a whiskey took a bullet, blown ta bits.

“Sonofabitch!” he screamed. The cowboy now drenched in rotgut whiskey.

Gamble grabbed a kerosene lantern stowed behind the bar, pulled a match from his vest pocket, struck it against his bootheel, lit the lantern’s oily wick, tossed the lit match, an’ adjusted the lantern’s flame ta high. He waited fer a pause in the whores’ nonstop gunfire, then when the dos putas were reloadin’ their Winchester rifles, he popped up from behind the bar an’ threw the orangish-glowin’ lantern at them. The dos rode-hard whores an’ the ole wooden saloon’s rotten stairs suddenly burst inta hellish flames.

Gamble fired both magic pistolas at the squealin’ an’ twirlin’ an’ burnin’ whores until their charred bodies collapsed an’ their bitchin’ spirits—still smokin’ cigarrillos—were avoidin’ his blazin’ pistolas. “You’ll hang fer dis, card cheet!” the dos pissed-off spirits screamed as they vanished inta thin air.

The ole wooden saloon, soaked in decades a rotgut whiskey, was suddenly ablaze.

Knowin’ he had seconds ta get the hell outta Dodge or burn dead, Gamble stumbled toward the swingin’ saloon doors, stumbled toward safety . . .

“Gringo! . . . Gringo! . . . Geeve us de pistolas!” a dead bandito called from outside, called from in the middle a the ghost town’s dusty Main Street. Then all tres dead banditos, sittin’ up high on tres emaciated hell horses, started laughin’ wildly an’ shootin’ their pistolas up inta the bone-dry New Mexico air. The fly-covered banditos were sharin’ a clear bottle a firewater—tequila with a rojo mescal worm—waitin’ on the card cheat, on the pistola thief, on the gunslinger, ta exit the burnin’ saloon.

Gamble stopped dead in his tracks, almost comin’ outta his suede cowboy boots. Possessed banditos an’ a ragin’ fire had him surrounded. His movements suddenly skittish, like a Mexican jumpin’ bean. Where ta hightail it to? Am I gunna burn ta death? The thick black smoke was makin’ it hard ta see an’ breathe. He shifted his red bandanna from aroun’ his leathery neck ta cover his knife-scarred nose an’ mouth.

What’s on the other side a that uno an’ only window? More dead banditos on hell horses? Or somethin’ worse, I reckon? Fuckit!—I ain’t no yella-belly chickenshit!

Twirlin’ the smokin’ pistolas aroun’ his deadly trigger fingers, he holstered ’em.

Grabbin’ a colorful Mexican blanket from behind the bullet-hole riddled bar, he covered his head an’ arms with the Mexican blanket sportin’ geometric Indian designs, an’ dove head first through the soot-covered window.

Gamble was dazed, flat on his back, atop a the Mexican blanket an’ bits a hot glass, an’ lyin’ in a dusty alley that ran behind the burnin’ saloon. Black vultures were circlin’ above him in a smoke-filled, orange an’ turquoise sky.

Reachin’ fer his stolen pistolas . . . Still holstered. Still red-hot. Still smokin’.

Banditos? Hell horses? Whores? Ghosts? Fire? Or somethin’ worse comin’? Gotta get ta my boots. A gut feelin’ I gotta git the hell outta here—an’ pronto!

Staggerin’ down the smokey back alley, spurs singin’, gunshot bleedin’, head ringin’, Gamble stepped over the bleached bones of a perro an’ headed toward an ole adobe church.

Atop Our Lady a Guadalupe, a trinity a white crosses—a welcome sight ta the man the Devil hisself was after. Beside the ole adobe church, Our Lady a Guadalupe’s bone orchard, its graveyard, fulla leanin’ tombstones an’ rottin’ wooden crosses—a typical sight across the untamed American frontier.

“Ayuda! . . . Señor! . . . Help!” a Señorita screamed, a beautiful Catholic nun screamed, she was makin’ the Sign a the Cross an’ runnin’ wild-like toward Gamble. The virgin’s black hair, brown face, an’ holy habit in disarray.

Ahh hell! . . . What now?!

“Señor! . . . Señor!” Sister Tonantzin dropped ta her knees inta the hot desert sand before Gamble, pleadin’ in Mexican fer his help. Her brown hands tremblin’, clutchin’ a cheap wooden rosary.

“Sí, Señorita—Qué?!” the wounded gringo asked. “English, por favor.”

“Father Juan Diego, they’re beatin’ heem like a piñata! They’re killin’ heem!”

“Who’s killin’ him?!” Gamble could hear the tres banditos hootin’ an’ hollerin’, hear them shootin’ their pistolas inta the burnin’ saloon, hear their tres hell horses devilish neighin’. He could hear the wooden saloon’s cracklin’ burn, smell its boozy smoke, feel its heat wave against the back a his horsemen’s duster.

“Luchadores! . . . How you say?! . . . Masked wrestlers!”

“Wrastlers?!”

“Sí, Señor! Help heem! He’s inside de iglesia, inside de church!”

Gamble boot-scooted across soft sand an’ sharp stone, past tall cacti an’ fat tumbleweeds, under scrollin’ puffs a white cloud in a vast turquoise sky, until he stood before the wide open doors a the ole adobe church. Sister Tonantzin by his side, prayin’ aloud in Mexican. The smell a sweat an’ cerveza punched them in their faces.

Inside the church, dos drunken luchadores, a tag team, both dead as doornails, who musta mistaken the day fer Cinco de Mayo an’ the place fer a wrestlin’ ring, were beatin’ Father Juan Diego inta a bloody pulp.

Una dead luchador—wearin’ only a black-leather mask sportin’ a golden Mexican eagle design, a black-leather cape, black-leather tights, an’ golden-leather knee-high boots—had just mule-kicked Father Juan Diego in his chest with some kinda high-flyin’, lucha libra, wrestlin’ maneuver.

The padre—a small, frail, ole man—tumbled bald head over leather sandals across the church’s dirt floor until he lay tangled in his brown frock an’ long pectoral cross.

The other dead luchador—wearin’ only a red-leather mask sportin’ a black reversed pentagram design, a red-leather cape, red-leather tights, an’ black-leather knee-high boots—picked up the tiny man an’ body slammed him back onta the dirt floor, knockin’ the little man a God unconscious. Killin’ him.

Father Juan Diego’s tiny body was crushed, takin’ a dirt siesta, patiently awaitin’ its pine box. Sister Tonantzin was horrified, prayin’ aloud an’ makin’ the Sign a the Cross nonstop. Gamble had seen mucho, mucho worse.

The dos drunken luchadores, dos dead luchadores, suddenly noticed the onlookers.

“Well looky what we got here, a virgin an’ a card cheat, an’ . . .”

“Geeve us de pistolas, gringo,” the red-clad luchador interrupted the black-clad luchador.

The dos luchadores started flexin’ their muscles, an’ trash talkin’ in Mexican, an’ approachin’ Gamble an’ Sister Tonantzin in some kinda queer wrestlin’ crouch.

“Geeve us de pistolas, gringo,” the red-clad luchador repeated.

Gamble didn’t say a word, didn’t move a muscle, he let the luchadores approach. Then as quick as lightnin’, he drew both pistolas an’ fired simultaneously. A magic bullet hole clean through both leather-masked heads. Their physical bodies fell backwards, dead, onta the ole adobe church’s dirt floor. Their ghosts still standin’, shocked, slowly fadin’ away inta hell unseen . . .

Twirlin’ the smokin’ pistolas aroun’ his deadly trigger fingers, he holstered ‘em. The hot irons hangin’ loose from his hips. He plunged his dirty hands inta the beautiful font a holy water by the church’s front doors, an’ drank agua santa from cupped hands. He looked at Sister Tonantzin, tipped his black cowboy hat fulla bullet holes, said “Adiós, Señorita,” turned, an’ with spurs singin’, swaggered away toward Main Street. Leavin’ the beautiful Catholic nun ta bury the tres corpses, in Our Lady a Guadalupe’s haunted bone orchard, all by herself.

Sister Tonantzin watched the tall stranger swagger away, watched his fine rear end swayin’ in his faded denim jeans all the way ta Main Street. The lonely nun was wishin’ the ruggedly-handsome gringo had stayed—at least fer una noche. She said a silent prayer ta Our Lady a Guadalupe, askin’ fer forgiveness fer her lusty thoughts.

Main Street was deserted, except fer an empty tequila bottle an’ a couple a spinnin’ dust devils an’ bouncin’ tumbleweeds an’ flappin’ wanted posters. The tres ugly, dead banditos on emaciated hell horses had rode on, still lookin’ fer the wanted hombre called Gamble, still lookin’ fer The Devil’s Pistolas.

Gamble stood in the middle a dusty Main Street. The brim a his black cowboy hat tilted inta the whippin’ wind. His horsemen’s duster an’ leather vest wind-tossed. His black-gloved hands restin’ atop “his” holstered pistolas, atop handles made a human bone. His long denim-wrapped legs spread wide. His suede cowboy boots planted deep inta the dusty street. His silver spurs spinnin’ wild—singin’ an alarm. Wonderin’:

Where did the tres dead banditos on hell horses git ta? Are they comin’ back? Are they still lookin’ ta kill me? What other abominations a hell are after me, after The Diablo’s Pistolas, after The Devil’s Reward?

An ole wooden sign swayin’ up high in the dusty wind—that read “General Store” in faded white paint an’ was fulla bullet holes—caught the attention a his squintin’ eyes.