Excerpt:

The Devil Comes in Red – Chapter 2

—Marcus, we need to talk… you, get lost—Rory had just walked into the sheriff’s office like he owned the place.

—I’ve told you I’m the sheriff. Show some respect and don’t call me by my name—snapped the lawman, then cast a glance at his deputy. The man rose grudgingly and left the office.

—What the hell do you want?—the sheriff asked sourly.

—The old man wants you to find out what’s going on. The thing with Mazbit and Heming was bound to happen—they were making too much noise and drawing the attention of the Marshals in the area, but…

Rory slid a scrap of paper across the desk.

—A telegram reached the old man. Someone wiped out Argent and his men. And remember those lands to the north the old man wanted?

—Yeah. The supposed silver mine.

—The old man sent that idiot Ernest and his boys to do the dirty work. That was a week ago. We haven’t heard from them since.

—The old man thinks someone’s liquidating his partners?

—Maybe.

—And what does he want me to do?

—I don’t know. That’s your problem. I just shoot—he replied, touching the Colt Navy with the ivory grip at his waist.

—I’ll do what I can—Marcus muttered.

—Sheriff!—the deputy burst into the office.

—Lenny, I told you to leave us alone—Marcus scolded him.

But the deputy ignored him.

—There’s a man entering town.

—So?

—He’s dressed in red and riding a yellow horse.

Marcus glanced at the gun on Rory’s hip and then at his face, recalling the stranger they’d swindled the day before.

—Damn it.

The sheriff stood, adjusted his belt, drew his gun and checked the rounds in the cylinder, grabbed his hat, and stepped outside. Lenny and Rory followed. In the distance, a yellow horse was drinking from the trough while its rider stepped into the tailor’s shop. The sheriff and the other two watched from afar. Minutes later, the red-clad stranger emerged from the tailor’s and headed toward the Betsy.

—Melvin, what did that man want?—Marcus asked the tailor.

—Sheriff—Melvin acknowledged him without enthusiasm. His face twisted in displeasure at the sight of Rory.

—A very strange man. His clothes are full of holes. He asked me to make a red suit, like the one he’s wearing. Gave me the measurements and paid in advance.

—Aside from the color, I don’t see what’s strange—Lenny remarked.

—Well, he told me to make the suit no matter what happens—even if he gets killed.

The sheriff scratched his head.

—This fellow’s trouble—he complained, heading for the saloon.

—I’m looking for a man—the man in red was saying to the bartender as the sheriff and his companions came through the door.

—Lots of people pass through here—the bartender replied.

—I doubt it—the man in red said, taking a pull of whiskey.

—And who’s the man you’re looking for?—the sheriff asked.

—In short: a despicable creature, a cattle thief, a parasite in the service of a bully with delusions of grandeur, and an accomplice in the murder of several families—including children—the man in red replied, without turning to face the sheriff.

—I see. I don’t think your man is in town. You seen anyone like that, Lenny?

—No, Sheriff—the deputy answered, stepping closer to the bar and leaning on the wood to get a better look at the red stranger’s face. The badge on his chest was easy to spot, and Lenny made no effort to hide it.

The man in red looked Lenny in the eye as if weighing him. His green eyes reminded Lenny of childhood—of his father’s look before a slap when he’d misbehaved. A chill ran through him, but no blow came. Lenny froze; his eyes dropped by instinct.

The red-clad stranger turned. His face met the sheriff’s. The sheriff puffed out his chest, making his badge more prominent. The stranger ignored him and looked to Rory.

—Colt Navy. Ivory grip. I’m looking for the man who carried it.

Without turning or looking, he passed his left hand over his right arm, took his whiskey, and drained it.

—This revolver’s always been mine, hasn’t it, Sheriff?—Rory said.

—That’s right. I guarantee it. A man of the law wouldn’t lie—the sheriff affirmed.

—A man of the law? Which law?—the stranger fixed the sheriff with his gaze.

The sheriff clenched his jaw, his stare hardening, brows knitting, his hand seeming ready to drift toward his revolver. The stranger raised the index finger of his left hand, turned it toward his chest, and pinched the edge of his red coat, lifting it to reveal what lay beneath. The badge on his chest lacked the shine of the sheriff’s or the deputy’s—worn and dirty—but its shape and lettering made it unmistakable.

The sheriff went pale. One of the women crossed herself. Another descended the stairs from the second floor; despite her poise, no one noticed her until her footsteps sounded. She smiled wickedly as she approached the stranger.

—Well now. A Texas Ranger. Rare to see one of your kind so far from home. What’s your name, officer?

—Eric. Eric McCormick. And you, miss?

—Emilia Delano—the woman replied, extending her right hand, gloved in black, up to his arm.

—A pleasure, Miss Delano—Eric kissed the back of the hand she offered.

She was tall and slender, her pale face healthy and vibrant—striking against the tired, worn faces around her. Her jet-black hair was gathered into a thick bun. Voluptuous, full-breasted, the corset of her black dress cinched her waist tight, accentuating her curves and broad hips.

—You must be tired, Agent McCormick. Why not relax a little before attending to official business?

—I’d love to, miss, but I’m afraid my business has found me—he said, nodding toward Rory’s revolver.

—Oh, that. Though you may have your suspicions, I fear they’re unfounded. Rory traded it with a drifter who passed through yesterday. Almost a swindle, but not quite illegal—the woman explained.

Rory clicked his tongue in irritation. The stranger smiled.

—Good thing the law is always present in this town—and never lies—Eric said, grinning broadly at the sheriff.

The sheriff was taut, his left hand rigid. Eric, by contrast, looked eager. Everyone in the room felt it—a premonition. If bullets flew, Marcus was a dead man.

—Your man isn’t here, Agent McCormick. Now that I think of it, a drifter passed through yesterday, headed east. If you leave now, you might catch him in under half a day—Lenny offered out of nowhere, easing the tension and drawing attention away from the sheriff.

Eric smoothed his red suit and stepped forward, then turned to the woman in black, whose face showed disappointment.

—Hmm. My horse is tired, and so am I. I wouldn’t mind staying in town a couple of days.

She smiled. The sheriff grew paler still. Rory remained calm at a distance, studying the situation.

—Sheriff, we’ve got work to do at the office—Lenny said.

—Yes, that’s true—the sheriff agreed, lowering his gaze under everyone’s eyes. He left the saloon with Lenny and Rory behind him.

Eric turned his attention back to the woman.

—Any recommendations for lodging?

—Our guest rooms are available. If you like, you can stay with us. Number three is free. Breakfast and dinner included. One dollar a night.

—An offer I’ll have to accept… Could someone look after my horse?

—Liam!—Emilia called.

A thin boy of thirteen or fourteen appeared from the second floor and hurried down the stairs.

—Ma’am—the boy said, standing before her.

His sun-bronzed skin, straight short hair, and features marked him as Indigenous—or at least mixed-blood. He wore a white man’s clothes, a knife resting at his waist.

—Take care of the gentleman’s horse.

Liam looked up at Eric with a bright smile, eyes full of life.

—I’ll come with you, boy. You won’t go near my horse for the first time unless I’m there.

Eric and Liam left the Betsy toward the yellow horse waiting loose by the trough, unmoving.

—What tribe are you from?—Eric asked.

—Cheyenne, sir.

—You’re far from your people’s lands.

—I’m an orphan, sir. Mixed-blood. The lady took me in when I was a child and brought me here.

—I see. She’s a good woman.

—She is. But that old bastard won’t leave her alone. One day, when I’m bigger, I’ll put a bullet in that miserable wretch.

Eric raised an eyebrow.

—Which old man?

—Don George Williamson. He’s the one who runs things here—the sheriff, the deputy, Rory, and the rest of the mangy dogs all work for him.

—He must be powerful.

—He’s a judge. Got rich on dirty business and now has the whole town under his thumb. He hasn’t dared lay hands on the lady yet, but he wants to.

—I’ll bet it wouldn’t be easy. She seems tough.

—She’d rather shoot herself than fall into that pig-nosed bastard’s hands.

They reached the horse. Eric spoke to it as if to a person.

—Reaper, this is Liam. He’ll take care of you these next few days. Understand?

The horse brought its nose to Liam, sniffed twice, stamped its left forehoof, and whinnied.

—All right. You can take him, boy—Eric said, handing over the reins.

Liam took them, then paused.

—Be careful with Rory. He doesn’t look like much, but he’s fast—maybe the fastest for miles around—he said, eyeing the gun at Eric’s waist…

… "

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at fictograma.com–