Blood at Sundown

by Peter Brandvold

  Prophet counted silently on his fingers.

  “We’re a few wolves short of a pack,” he said, looking around, frowning, fists on his hips. “More than a few. Several.”

  Lou walked over to the stairs climbing his side of the saloon hall and inspected the long-haired dead man there whom Louisa had drilled a third eye. Swinging toward where Louisa stood by the overturned table, near the dead Indian girl, brushing her gloved hands down her carbine’s stock, Prophet said, “This is Joe Horton. So far I haven’t seen Hatchley. Or the woman in the bunch—what’s her name . . . ?”

  “Sweets DuPree,” Louisa said. “As deadly as Hatchley, but she’s the half-breed’s woman—Pima Quarrels.”

  “Where’s Hatchley?” Prophet asked her. “I didn’t see him outside.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No. I’ll check again, but I’d recognize that varmint from a mile away. Probably smell him from that distance, too. He’s almost as tall as I am. Nasty-lookin’ devil with a big, thick head and a curly beard, and he wears a stinky buffalo coat. He’s got a gold stud through his left ear. Resembles a mossy-horned bull buff, and he’s got a temper to match.”

  “I haven’t seen any ill-tempered bull buffaloes in here, Lou.”

  “I didn’t see any out back. No woman, neither, save the dead girl. In here?”

  “Only the redhead.” Louisa jerked her chin toward the second-story balcony behind her and set her Stetson on her head, letting the horsehair chin thong dangle against her coat.

  Prophet turned to stare up the stairs rising behind and above him, beyond the dead Joe Horton. “Anybody up there?”

  “I haven’t made it that far,” Louisa said. “Pretty quiet, though. If Hatchley was up there, I think we might have heard from him by now.”

  “Just the same . . .”

  Prophet palmed his Colt, clicked the hammer back, leaped up and over the dead man, and quickly but thoroughly checked out the second story. He found nothing but overfilled slop buckets, unmade beds, and the owlhoots’ strewn gear.

  “Nothing,” Prophet said, dropping back down the steps, leaping the dead man again, and sliding the Peacemaker back into its holster.

  Louisa had been waiting at the bottom of the stairs, holding her carbine in both hands at port arms across her chest, ready in case anyone besides Prophet came back down the stairs. Now as Prophet dropped into the saloon, Louisa turned to follow him as he walked along beside the bar and out through the rear door he’d left open.

  He walked across the stoop and into the yard, stopping and looking around. Only one of the five men out here was moving. That was Wind River Bob. He was down on one knee, trying to rise onto the other knee but the leg that had been pinned under his horse wasn’t having it. He was grunting and groaning and looking around—probably for a gun. Blood dribbled from the cut on his left temple, courtesy Prophet’s gun barrel.

  “Which one is that?” Louisa asked Prophet.

  “Wind River Bob.”

  “Albright?”

  “One an’ the same.”

  “Are any of the others Hatchley?”

  “Nope.”

  Prophet stepped over Kooch Ringo to inspect the other men he’d shot from a distance and hadn’t gotten a good look at yet. He rattled off their names then turned to Louisa. “Hatchley an’ the woman ain’t here. Who’re the fellas you hurled out the windows?”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  Prophet swung around and walked up the side of the roadhouse toward the front. Louisa, too, had a good eye for the men they were after. After all, they’d been on their trail for the past two weeks; she and Prophet had had plenty of time to study their likenesses and descriptions on wanted circulars, usually by the light of their nightly campfires and while coyotes yammered in the distance.

  Louisa named both men she’d blown out the windows on either side of the fireplace as Charlie Seltzer and Billy “Hoe-Down” Scroggs.

  She turned to Prophet, fists on her hips. “There’s one more on the other side. N. B. Stone.”

  “No Hatchley,” Prophet said, scraping a thumb along his jaw and looking around as though he thought the gang leader might appear out of the chill wind. “No Weed Brougham, either.”

  “And no Sweets DuPree nor Pima Quarrels.”

  Behind them, Wind River Bob groaned loudly as he sagged onto his butt, his injured leg protruding straight out in front of him. “I need help here! Say there—I need help! I’m afraid my leg is broken!”

  Prophet and Louisa shared a glance.

  The bounty hunters moseyed over to where Wind River Bob lay writhing and groaning. They stood over Bob, staring distastefully down at the vile brigand.

  “Not feelin’ too good this afternoon, Bob?” Prophet asked.

  Bob looked up at him through pain-racked, dung-brown eyes. “I need a doctor. I think my hip is broke. Hurts god-awful bad!”

  “Let me see.”

  Prophet dropped to a knee before Bob. He grabbed the man’s right ankle with one hand and laid his other hand over the man’s knee.

  “What are you, doin’, Prophet?” Bob looked confused, fearful. He tried to scuttle back away from the bounty hunter. “Don’t touch me, damnit. I need a sawbo . . . ohhhh ! Jesus Christ! What are you doin’?”

  “I’m just tryin’ to see if your leg’s broke.” Prophet pressed his left hand down hard against Bob’s knee. “How’s that feel?”

  “Owwww!” Bob howled, tipping his head back and trying to inch away again. “It hurts like hell. Leave me alone. I can tell it’s broke. I don’t need you to . . . ohhh ! Owwww! What the hell are you doin’, you fork-tailed devil?”

  “We’re missing a few folks, Bob,” Louisa said, standing over Prophet, staring down at Bob.

  “Wha . . . wha . . . what?”

  “We’re a few wolves short of a whole pack,” Prophet said.

  “You really like that one—don’t you, Lou?” Louisa said.

  “Get your hands off me—damnit, Prophet! I’m an injured man!”

  Prophet shoved down hard again on the man’s knee. “Where’d they go, Bob?”

  Wind River Bob threw his head back and howled like a gut-shot coyote. “St . . . st . . . stawwwppp!”

  “Where’s Hatchley, Bob?” Louisa asked the outlaw. “Where’s his sidekick cousin, Brougham?”

  “And where’s the girl, Sweets Dupree?” Prophet added. “Oh, and the half-breed, Pima Quarrels. Where’s Quarrels, Bob?”

  “I don’t know,” Bob said, panting and staring at Prophet in horror. Even though the temperature was dropping fast now as dusky shadows filled the yard and more snow stitched the breeze, sweat beads dribbled down Bob’s cheeks and into his beard. “How would I know where they are?”

  “Bob,” Prophet said, “let me check your hip.”

  “Nooooo!”

  Prophet tugged on the man’s right ankle.

  Bob threw his head back and screamed. “Dam . . . dam . . . damnit!” he said, panting, when Prophet had eased up on the tension on Bob’s wounded leg. “I think . . . I think it’s separated.”

  “No,” Prophet said. “It’s your knee that’s separated. It’s swelling up on ya real bad. I think your hip is plum broken. Lordy, you’re injured bad, Bob!”

  The bounty hunter grinned devilishly and gave the man’s right ankle another savage tug.

  Chapter 5

  Howling, Bob flopped back against the ground, slamming the backs of his fists into the finely churned dirt laced with hay, horse manure, and fresh snow.

  Louisa stepped forward, placed her right boot over Bob’s right knee. “Where’d they go, Bob?”

  Bob sobbed, shook his head, then hardened his jaws and gritted his teeth. “You ain’t new to this business—neither one of ya. You know I can’t tell you that!”

  Louisa rammed her boot down on Bob’s knee.

  Bob slammed his fist into the ground, wailing.

  When Louisa had removed her boot from the man’s knee, Prophet scuttled u
p to kneel beside the man’s left shoulder, on the opposite side of Bob from Louisa. “Bob, I’m gonna turn my partner loose on you here in a minute. You are aware of what everyone calls her—aren’t ya? The Vengeance Queen?”

  “Yes, I’m very much aware of that,” Bob said, dead sober.

  Prophet poked his hat brim up on his forehead. “It ain’t worth it, Bob. Let me tell ya straight. Look at her.”

  Bob looked up at Louisa smiling down at him, the heel of her boot resting on the ground beside Bob’s right leg, the bottom of the sole angling over the knee that was swelling up to the size of a wheel hub.

  Bob whined deep in his chest.

  Prophet said, “She’d love nothin’ better than to put you through the worst kind of misery. A man like you? One that’s known for sellin’ poor li’l Injun orphan girls into slavery? That’s been terrorizin’—not to mention killin’—the doxies here at the roadhouse? Why, Louisa’s been dreamin’ of this day!”

  “I have, Bob.” Louisa blinked her catlike hazel eyes slowly. “It’s true.”

  “Besides,” Prophet said. “What do you want Hatchley and the others getting away for? Why should they be allowed to ride free . . . free to drink and gamble and carouse to their hearts’ content . . . while you’re headed to a federal courthouse in Bismarck. Hell, your trial won’t last ten minutes before they drag you out to the federal gallows down by the Big Misery. After the jury hears what all you’ve done—all the nefarious nasty deeds to them orphan girls and others—they’ll hang you by the neck and watch you do the midair kick-step while the band plays, the dogs bark, and the doxies dance!”

  “Think about it, Bob,” Louisa prodded the man. “Do you really want Hatchley and the others running free, enjoying themselves, while you’re feeding the angleworms?” She pressed her boot down on the outlaw’s swollen knee.

  Bob wailed. “All right, all right—stop that! Stop it—you hear? I see your point!”

  Louisa removed her boot from the man’s knee.

  Wind River Bob stared up at her and Prophet, hardening his jaws in anger. “I see your point,” he repeated, panting. “Hatchley and Weed Brougham headed east to Indian Butte. Sweets an’ Pima Quarrels headed south to Sundown. We was all headed for Canada. No one expects outlaws to head north this time of the year instead of south, so we headed north. Leave it to you two crazy-assed bounty hunters to head north after us! Do you know what time of year it is? Prophet, ain’t you a Southern boy?”

  “Hear me when I say your point is well-taken, Bob.”

  Bob chuckled sourly, shook his head, brushed a tear of misery from his left cheek. “Hatchley an’ Pima had a fallin’-out over Sweets. The half-breed thought he saw Sweets makin’ candy eyes at Hatchley. Sweets always thought Pima should be headin’ up the gang, and she’s been tryin’ to goad Pima into challenging Hatchley, but Pima didn’t want no part of Gritch Hatchley. So Sweets—she started gettin’ cozy with Hatchley.”

  Bob scowled up at Louisa. “What is it with you women? Sweet an’ purty-lookin’, but savages!”

  Louisa smiled down at him.

  “What are their plans in Indian Butte and Sundown, Bob?” Prophet asked.

  “I don’t know,” Bob said. “Hatchley said somethin’ about maybe goin’ on to Canada after Christmas, then headin’ south, when their trails had cooled. Brougham tagged along because Brougham wouldn’t know what to do with himself without Hatchley by his side, makin’ all the decisions. After the big fuss and them makin’ up all sugar-like, Sweets an’ Pima decided to forget about Canada. They decided to take their chances an’ start makin’ their way down to Mexico. We knew you was behind us three days ago, but we hadn’t seen you on our back trail lately, so we got to thinkin’ it was too cold for your old rebel ass, Prophet, an’ you decided to head for Mexico your ownself. An’ took her with you.”

  He wrinkled his nostrils at Louisa. “Pima’s from Arizona. He don’t care for this cold weather one bit.”

  Bob looked around, indicating the cold, snow-stitched breeze. “Can’t say as I care for it, neither, by God!”

  Louisa glanced at Prophet. “Think we can believe him?”

  “Yeah, I think we can,” Prophet said. “He knows what’s gonna happen to him if I find out he’s been lyin’—don’t ya, Bob?”

  Bob snarled, gave a little croaklike sob.

  To Louisa, Prophet said, “Bob an’ me will head over to Indian Butte for Hatchley and Brougham. Them’s the two with the biggest bounties on their heads. Each is worth around five hundred more alive than dead, so I’ll take them, try to take ’em alive. You’d just shoot ’em an’ be done with it. Sweets an’ Pima are worth more alive, too, so remember that. They’re not worth as much alive as Gritch an’ Weed are, but money’s money.”

  Louisa didn’t argue. “I’ll head south to Sundown, pickup Sweets and Pima Quarrels. Both towns are on the spur railroad line. I’ll wait for you to pull through on the train, then we’ll continue on to Bismarck together.”

  She glanced at the dead men lying twisted around them. “We’ll turn all this dead outlaw beef over to the U.S. marshal there and collect the bounties.” She smiled sourly at Prophet. “Should make you a nice stake for Mexico.”

  Prophet grinned. “In the meantime, let’s get inside before I freeze somethin’ else off . . . not that I probably have anything left that ain’t already frozen. I’ll gather up the dead later on, lay ’em out in the barn nice an’ tidy, so the wolves don’t get ’em. I want to thaw out and have another drink first.”

  “The girl?” Louisa stared toward where the girl in the buffalo robe lay near the barn.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll bring her inside.”

  Louisa nodded, and they headed for the roadhouse.

  “Hey!” bellowed Wind River Bob. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Prophet and Louisa stopped, exchanged a look.

  “What do you think?” Lou said.

  “I think we should leave him to the wolves.”

  “I hear ya.” Prophet looked at Wind River Bob staring over his shoulder at them in horror. “On the other hand, I think Bob’s worth more alive than dead. So, practically speaking, I think I’m gonna haul his undeserving behind inside, thaw him out for the hangman.”

  “I’d call killing him good money well spent, but have it your way.” Louisa continued on into the roadhouse.

  “All right, Bob,” Prophet said, dropping to his knees behind the killer. “Let’s get you inside, shall we? Hangmen need to earn a living, too.”

  Prophet hauled the killer to his feet, Bob cussing and grunting and casting doubt on the purity of the bounty hunter’s lineage. Prophet chuckled as he slung Bob’s arm over his shoulder and began leading the injured brigand back toward the roadhouse.

  Louisa came out the back door to stop on the rear stoop. In her arms she held the dead Indian girl who’d been lying across the table near the front of the place.

  “Who cut this girl’s throat?” Louisa asked Bob tightly.

  Bob glanced at Prophet then cut his sheepish gaze back to Louisa. “Hatchley.”

  Louisa arched a skeptical brow. “Really?”

  “It was Hatchley!” Bob insisted. “He called her scrawny and berated Burt Jiggs—he’s the apron that ran the place—for not having no decent girls in his employ. He said they was all too skinny. Jiggs told him he had better girls before the railroad came through and wrecked his business. Hatchley, being drunk and smoking that nasty weed he likes to smoke, didn’t like Jiggs’s tone, so he shot Jiggs and cut the girl. Tossed her over the table. He spent the night with the redhead. She seemed to pacify him, likely got him drunk so he passed out. Slept till late this mornin’ when he an’ Brougham headed out, avoidin’ a sure shootin’ war with Sweets an’ Quarrels.”

  “What got the other one shot?” Prophet asked, glancing over his shoulder toward where the dead girl lay by the barn.

  “Ah hell.”

  “What was it?” Louisa prodded.

  Bob
sighed. “Don’t hold it against me, now, but she overheard me an’ Ringo talkin’ about . . . about prob’ly havin’ to kill her an’ the other girl when we left tomorrow mornin’. You know—we couldn’t be expected to leave anyone alive who seen our faces.”

  When Bob saw how Prophet and Louisa were looking at him, he added with no little exasperation, “That wouldn’t have been professional!”

  Louisa gritted her teeth as she came forward, turned sideways, and chopped the side of her boot down against Bob’s swollen knee.

  * * *

  Prophet helped Wind River Bob into the roadhouse and laid him down on a beat-up leather sofa angled before the fireplace. So Bob couldn’t get his hands on any of the weapons strewn around the saloon in the wake of the shoot-out, Prophet tied Bob’s hands behind his back.

  “There you go, Bob,” Prophet said, cutting the excess rope from around Bob’s wrists with his barlow knife and shoving the injured owlhoot back against the sour, overstuffed sofa. “I hope you’re comfortable. I didn’t get those ropes too tight, now, did I?”

  “Go to hell, you rancid grayback!” Bob pulled against the rope. “I need some whiskey to kill the pain. Fetch me a bottle!”

  “I ain’t here to feed liquor to girl-killers. You’re so low you’d stick a rattlesnake in a man’s pocket and ask him for a light!”

  Prophet put a pot of hot water on the fire to boil and built himself a toddy of hot water, whiskey, and dark cane sugar he found in a crock behind the bar. He sipped two toddies while sitting in a chair before the fire. Bob snarled at him, like a leg-trapped wolf. Louisa, who abstained from alcoholic beverages, drank a couple cups of coffee. Louisa could turn men toe-down without batting one of her pretty, long-lashed eyes, but she never drank anything stronger than coffee, tea, milk, or sarsaparilla. Occasionally, she’d take a ginger beer.

  When Prophet could feel his toes again, and before the toddy could make him overly sleepy, he shrugged into his coat once more and dragged the two dead owlhoots—the one on the stairs and the one behind the bar—out to the barn. He retrieved his and Louisa’s horses from the far side of the hill and stabled them in the barn with plenty of feed and water.