As she stared at him, a flush rose up from her neck, painting her cheeks, and an angry light grew in her eyes. “So that’s what the dress and the dinner were all about.”
Prophet grimaced and looked around, as if for assistance. “No ... see ... I only wanted you to see what regular life was like again, so maybe you’d get a taste for it and give up this ugly business.”
Before he’d finished the sentence, she was standing and shoving her chair back from the table. “You did, did you? But it wasn’t your family murdered by those savages, was it? It wasn’t your mother and sister hauled into the tall weeds by the creek!” This last she fairly yelled, and all heads whipped toward them.
“Louisa!”
She’d swung around and was marching across the room toward the lobby. Prophet fumbled with his napkin and tried to stand. He hadn’t expected the chair to be so heavy, however, and he nearly lost his balance. When he finally got clear of the chair and was heading after Louisa, the waiter appeared as if from nowhere, looking perturbed.
“Is everything all right, sir?” he asked haughtily.
“Does everything look all right?” Prophet groused, digging in his jeans pocket for his last wad of bills.
Hurriedly unpeeling several greenbacks from the greatly diminished roll, he stuffed the money in the man’s vest pocket. “There, that should cover it.” He hurried from the room, weaving around tables where the diners sat in hushed silence, staring after him bewilderedly.
Prophet stepped onto the veranda and looked both ways along the street. The light was fading, but he saw Louisa retreating westward along the boardwalk. He descended the steps two at a time and jogged after the girl who was crossing a side street a block ahead, on the left side of Main. She marched stiffly, angrily, hair bouncing on her shoulders.
“Louisa, I just don’t want you to become one of them.’ Prophet beseeched her as his boots thumped the boards.
He was approaching a big surplus grocery warehouse when a man suddenly stepped onto the boardwalk before him from an alley between the buildings. He was a short, stocky hombre in a grimy undershirt, a hide vest, and a shabby bowler. His ruddy face was pinched with grim determination. The golden sunlight flashed on the barrel of the revolver he brought chest high and aimed at Prophet’s heart.
The bounty hunter saw the flash and heard the boom before he had time to twitch, much less duck.
Chapter Eight
PROPHET STARED FOR what seemed a long time at the shooter’s trembling, smoking gun.
Vaguely surprised to not be feeling the cold burn of a bullet, he stumbled back against the warehouse and whipped a quick glance behind him. Incredibly, the man’s hand had been shaking so hard that the bullet had sailed wide and plunked into a clapboard, drilling a splintery hole.
Instantly, Prophet clawed his own hogleg from his hip. But when he swung it forward, clicking the hammer back, his assailant disappeared around the building. Hearing boots pounding the boardwalk behind him, Prophet swung the gun that way. Another man—tall and thin and cow-eyed—was running toward him, yelling, “Bill, you goddamn yella dog!” The man came on, extending a revolver and sighting down the barrel.
Before he could fire, Prophet triggered his Peacemaker, the crack lifting angrily. The man took three more strides and dropped to his knees with a grunt. He held there, gazing stupidly down at the blood blossoming on his chest, then fell forward on his face, grinding his hat into the boardwalk.
Confused, his heart hammering, Prophet whipped forward and ran to the cross street. He stopped at the corner and extended the Peacemaker, peering south. Several horses and a leather-topped buggy were tied before a small tavern. Before the tavern, two old men in business suits stood holding soapy beer mugs and peering at Prophet warily.
“A man run this way?” Prophet called to them.
One of the old men nodded dully and pointed southward down the cross street. “And a girl. What’s goin’ on, mister?”
Prophet bolted forward, running hard, spurs clinking raucously. When he came to an alley, he stopped and looked left, then right. The alley was dark, as the sun was nearly gone, but he saw movement in the shadows that way.
“Louisa?” he called, his voice betraying his concern.
He crossed the street and jogged into the alley, stopping when he saw a slender figure approach, skirts swishing.
“Forget it,” she snarled, as angry as Prophet had ever seen her. Her voice was shrill with reproach. “He had a horse back there, and he’s gone. I could’ve shot him if I’d had a gun—and I would have had a gun if it hadn’t been for you and this dress and this silly, silly night you concocted!”
She brushed past him and marched up the cross street, her back stiff, her arms swinging furiously.
“Be careful,” Prophet told her. “There was another one. I shot him, but there could be more.”
She stopped abruptly and turned around. Before she could ask the obvious question, Prophet shook his head. “It wasn’t Duvall.”
“Who, then?”
Prophet shrugged and, gun hanging at his side, walked up the cross street and turned before the warehouse, where the dead man lay face down on the boardwalk, blood pooling around him. Louisa came up behind Prophet and peered grimly down at the crumpled body.
“Dave’s here” she said coldly. “He sent them.”
“Not necessarily” Prophet said. “I’ve got lots of enemies ... all over.”
“It’s too much of a coincidence. He’s here.”
“You there!” someone yelled. “You there; stay where you are and drop your weapon.”
Prophet peered back down the boardwalk, wincing. Two men were heading toward him and Louisa. One was short and nattily dressed in a cream Stetson and suit coat over a vest upon which a badge winked in the fading light. Another, larger man tramped along behind him, wielding a shotgun. He, too, wore a badge.
“Shit,” Prophet muttered.
“You there!” the short man yelled, stopping on the boardwalk, turning sideways, lifting an arm, and extending a stern finger at the bounty hunter. “I told you to drop that gun!”
“Droppin’ it on the boardwalk will raise hell with the action. Sheriff, how ‘bout if I just hand it to you butt first?”
The sheriff acquired a pained look and dropped his arm. “Prophet?”
“Yeah, it’s me,” he said with a fateful sigh.
The sheriff turned to the big, mustachioed deputy who stood behind him, then shook his head and began strolling toward Prophet, his fingers in his vest pockets. He glanced suspiciously between the bounty hunter and the dead man. “Who in the hell did you kill now!”
“Didn’t tell me his name,” Prophet said. “Just aimed that gun at me like he was fixin’ to use it, so I offed him. Miss Bonny-venture here will attest to the fact it was either him or me.”
“Miss who?”
“Miss Bonny—” Prophet turned to where Louisa had been standing behind him, but she wasn’t there. Looking around, he didn’t see her anywhere. “Well, I’ll be ... she was right here.” Prophet turned and took several steps up the street. “Louisa?”
“Get your ass back here, Prophet,” the sheriff ordered. “I won’t have any of your foolishness. Now tell me who this man is and why you killed him. If it’s a bounty you’re after, there sure as hell better be some paper on him.”
Prophet was still looking up the street for Louisa. She’d disappeared into thin air, the ungrateful little hellcat.
Scowling, he turned to the sheriff. The deputy was squatted down, going through the dead man’s pockets.
“I told you, Sheriff,” Prophet said, “it was self-defense. He and a buddy tried layin’ me out. The buddy missed and ran off, and this man here came runnin’ up behind me, aimin’ that thirty-six he’s got there. So I shot him. Fair and square. Him or me.”
“He dead?” the sheriff asked the deputy.
“Deader’n hell, Sheriff. Shot him right through the brisket. No one I recognize.”
The sh
eriff turned to the dozen or so people who’d heard the commotion and were milling up and down the street, looking this way. Most had come from the taverns and were holding glasses or cigars.
“Anyone see what happened here?” the sheriff asked them, swinging his gaze around.
No one said anything. A few shrugged. A few others wagged their heads. Deciding the excitement was over, several wandered back into their respective saloons, brothels, or restaurants. A fiddler was fiddling in a tavern up the street, and the lively music was a stark contrast to the grim situation on the bloody boardwalk.
The sheriff brought his gaze back to Prophet and extended his hand. “Give me that Peacemaker, Prophet.”
“What for? I told you—”
“I know what you told me, but I’m bringin’ you in.”
Prophet opened his mouth to object, but the sheriff held his hand up, cutting him off. “I’m gonna hold you overnight while Daniel here makes the saloon rounds. Sometimes it takes a few drinks to loosen people’s tongues. Someone must have seen what happened here.”
“Someone did see what happened here, Sheriff. Louisa Bonny-venture. She’s over at—”
“Now I’ve had enough of that foolishness, Prophet. You’re just up to your old tricks, tryin’ to make us lawmen look like fools. Well, I won’t have it. Now hand over that gun before I charge you with resisting arrest.”
Prophet scowled and wagged his head as he lifted the Peacemaker from his holster. Some lawmen he got along with, some he didn’t. Sheriff Edward Teal had always been one of the latter, for no good reason Prophet could think of, unless it was the time Prophet had found the bank robber the sheriff and his posse were tracking into the nether regions of the county, in a cathouse right across from the jail. If only Louisa hadn’t stalked off and left him here to explain himself. Some way to thank a fellow who only had her best interests in mind! When he saw her again, he had a mind to truss her up like a pig and give her a good old-fashioned tanning.
“You’ve just been waitin’ for this, haven’t you, Sheriff?” Prophet groused as he handed over the Peacemaker.
Teal shrugged and shared a snide glance with his deputy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Prophet. That’s enough of your smart talk. Now move out. I’m turnin’ the key on you!”
And he was going to enjoy every minute of it, Prophet thought as he stalked off toward the jail, feeling his own pistol poke his back. With no satisfaction at all, he also thought how Louisa’s trick could backfire on her if Handsome Dave called on her tonight, without Prophet there to help.
Chapter Nine
HANDSOME DAVE DUVALL set the coffee can on the corral post beside the five other cans he’d placed there after gleaning all six cans from the trash heap behind the roadhouse.
He inspected the cans, furling his bushy, auburn brows. Satisfied with their positions, he turned and took several steps back from the fence. He saw Jack Clawson sitting on the roadhouse’s porch across the dusty yard and lifted his hand to shield the light of the setting sun from his face.
“Hi, Jack!” Dave called with a friendly wave and a grin that dimpled his handsome cheeks. “How you feelin’ this evenin’?’
Jack just stared across the yard at Dave. He sat in a rocking chair, clad in a tattered green robe and hide slippers. His head was swollen and blue, his eyes mere slits in the yellow purple flesh of his beaten face. His chest bulged with the taut bandage Margie had wrapped him in to secure his broken ribs.
Jack didn’t say anything. His thin hair slid around in the evening breeze.
Still smiling, Dave shook his head as though at a peculiar and vaguely humorous twist of fate. Then he swung back toward the cans, clawed the pearl-handled revolver from his hand-tooled holster tied low on his thigh, crouched, and fired, fanning the trigger. The gun roared and jerked, roared and jerked. One by one, from left to right, the cans flew off the fence. The last can rose high in the air over the corral. It winked in the salmon light, twisting and turning as it rose to its apex and started back groundward.
Dave removed the second gun from the waistband of his broadcloth breeches, aimed, and fired. The can jerked again, bounding off toward the barn and landing in a sage tuft with a tinny rustle.
Dave turned to Jack, who sat on the porch without moving, dull-eyed. Dave lifted the smoking barrel of his revolver to his lips and blew on it. “Whew! Now that was some shooting, wouldn’t you say, Jack?”
Margie appeared in the door, fists on her hips. “Dave, I declare! What are you shootin’ at now? You’re gonna give me a heart stroke, with all your shootin’!”
“Just stayin’ sharp, Margie girl,” Dave said affably, shoving the revolver into his waistband.
“You’re gonna give me a heart stroke, Dave,” Margie scolded, then turned back into the cabin.
“Sorry, Margie,” Dave called to her. “I’ll make it up to you later.” He slid his eyes to Jack, grinning. He couldn’t tell from this distance, but he thought the woodcutter’s face turned a darker shade of blue.
Dave was lining the cans up on the fence rail again when he heard the slow clomp of horses to the west. Turning, he saw dust rising and the silhouettes of three riders making their way toward the roadhouse. The sun was a pink ball behind them, making their dust look smoky.
Without hesitation, Dave drew his holstered revolver and began loading it quickly from his shell belt. It took his trained fingers only a few seconds to fill all the chambers with brass, and then he was working on his belly gun. He’d just spun its cylinder when the riders came around the Cottonwood tree and the woodshed. They rode slowly, sitting lazily in their saddles, rolling with the slow sway of their mounts.
They were all dressed in rough trail gear, but Dave recognized them as the three soldiers who had stopped here yesterday for lunch. They’d gassed with Dave on the porch, though Dave hadn’t told them who he was. Harmless boys they were, bored with the army and searching for distractions. Dave was relieved it was only them and not the man who’d been dogging him, or lawmen.
His brows ridged as he cocked his head to the side, wondering why they weren’t wearing their uniforms. And why had they returned so soon? Fort Lincoln was a good twenty miles away, on the other side of the river.
Wondering if they’d recognized him and, after gathering their courage, had decided they’d take him down for the reward money on his head, he felt the muscles along his spine tighten. He held the belly gun down low at his side, ready to bring it up fast and ventilate these blue bellies if necessary.
The middle rider, riding a little ahead of the other two, must have recognized the tension in Dave’s stance. He raised a placating hand as he checked his army bay down, twenty yards before Duvall.
“Hello, Mr. Duvall.”
The other two youngsters rode up beside the first one and gazed at Dave with a mixture of fear and expectation. He noticed that none moved his hand close to the gun on his hip, and that their eyes didn’t appear to be too shifty, either. Both good signs. But if they weren’t here to take him down—and they’d called him by name—what were they doing here?
Duvall played it cool. “Hello, boys. What brings you back out here so soon? Your sergeant get generous with the day passes, did he?”
The young man on the far left was a soft-faced young man with brown hair and spare mutton chop whiskers. His eyes were emerald green and glittery. “Nah, he didn’t,” he said with a mild guffaw, sucking at the wedge of chaw in his cheek.
“Shut up, Harold,” the kid in the middle said—a thin, muscular lad with blond hair beneath a weathered, narrow-brimmed Stetson. This kid was all rawhide, with a knife slash for a mouth. “I told you I’d do the talkin’.”
“I didn’t mean nothin’, Clyde. I was just—”
“Shut up, Harold!” Clyde admonished, jerking his head wickedly at his friend.
Duvall waited, sliding his eyes from one lad to the next, then back again. The kid on the far right was the largest of the three. He didn’t say a word
, just stared silently from beneath the brim of his floppy black farm hat, the acorn of which flopped beneath his anvil chin.
Clyde turned to Duvall with a nervous grin that parted his thin lips and squinted his eyes. He chuckled. “I guess you know we know who ye are. It was Danny over there”—he tipped his head to indicate the big, silent lad— “who recognized you. It didn’t come to him till we were down the trail a ways. H-he grew up in your hometown of Saint Joseph, Missouri, didn’t ye, Danny?”
“You don’t say?” Dave said skeptically. “I s’pose you know old Jack Ramey then—the Nigra that runs the ferry.”
“I sure do know Jack,” Danny said smartly, giving his big chin a self-satisfied dip.
“What’s his big, fat wife’s name again?” Duvall said, scratching his chin. “I forget....”
Danny smiled. “Peach.”
“Peach—that’s right,” Duvall said, appraising the lad with interest. “So you’re from Saint Joe and you know who I am. What does that make you?”
“Well, we kinda figured it might make us amigos,” Clyde piped up, leaning forward on his saddle horn. “I’ll put it to you honest, Mr. Duvall, we done been tired of the army’s bullshit for months now. We don’t see goin’ into another winter up here, freezin’ our peckers off and chasin’ Injuns through the snow. We wanna join up with your bunch and do some real ridin’ for some real money.”
“Yeah, we heard you boys get all the nice-looking girls!”
“Shut up, Harold, for the last time!” Clyde bellowed, swatting Harold with his hat.
Duvall chuckled.
Clyde said, “What do you say, Mr. Duvall. We know we’re prob’ly a little green compared to a man like yourself, but we all—even Harold here—have killed people and robbed. I shot a mean ole Colorado farmer when I was just thirteen years old!”
“You did?” Duvall said with mock surprise. “What for?”
“He caught me stealin’ potatoes out of his cellar. Said he was gonna cut my balls off. Shot him right through the ticker.”
Harold said, “I shot somebody, too, Mr. Duvall. Just last year.”
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