He knew she wanted him to hang around for some more slap ‘n’ tickle, but he had too much on his mind. Besides, he’d done enough rolling in the hay for one day.
He was tired. Tired and weary and wanting to get shed of this town in the worst possible way.
Shouldering his shotgun and leaving Frieda a sizable tip from the two hundred dollars Crumb had left, like cheese in a trap, he left the cafe and walked back toward Main Street, where he checked both saloons. Quiet.
Wondering about the five gunmen he’d seen ride into town earlier, he headed for the whorehouse they’d visited. Hidden in the shadows east of the shabby, clapboard house unidentified by a sign, he watched a short black man in a knit cap leading the gang’s five horses along the street, toward the stable in the backyard.
Inside, someone was playing a piano. The laughter of men and women trickled through the windows. Shadows moved behind the drawn shades.
It looked like the curly wolves were staying put for the night. That was all right with Prophet. He didn’t want any more trouble. Hopefully, the gang was just passing through, and they’d mosey on down the trail first thing tomorrow morning.
He was in front of the jailhouse, halfway across Main, when he heard a sound. Hooves of a galloping horse thundered in the east.
Now what?
Turning, he squinted into the darkness until the form of a horse emerged. He drew his gun and watched a horse bear down on him, head down, hooves flying—a dark, fast-moving smudge against the starlit sky behind it.
Prophet was swinging his shotgun around to the front, but froze, staring. He couldn’t see a rider on the horse’s back. No saddle or bridle either. A loose horse.
Only, the horse was bearing down on him like a Nebraska tornado!
Prophet lowered the shotgun and bolted toward the jail-house, at the last second diving from the charging horse’s path. The horse had come so close to running him into the earth that Prophet could feel the whush! of the big animal displacing the air around him.
Prophet fell on his right shoulder, losing his hat, dropping the shotgun, and rolling. He lit on his heels and elbows, and turned, certain the horse had continued galloping westward along Main.
Nope.
The animal had skidded to a stop on its rear hooves. Digging its front hooves into the street’s dirt and manure, it flattened its ears again, ringed its dark eyes with white, snorted loudly, and headed right back toward Prophet.
The devil’s horse released from hell!
The bounty hunter got his boots beneath him and dove onto the jailhouse boardwalk, feeling the horse’s right front hoof nick his foot as he went airborne. Ignoring the splinters digging into his palms, he rolled over to see the horse turn once again and lunge toward the boardwalk.
Prophet blinked, mouth agape. “Mean?”
He’d know that hammer head, those fight-shredded ears, and those crazy eyes anywhere, even in the dark.
Prophet scrambled aside as the line-back dun mounted the boardwalk, its hooves thundering and scraping over the planks. Mean and Ugly swung its head against Prophet, connecting soundly with the bounty hunter’s left shoulder, sending him flying against the jailhouse.
The horse snorted and whinnied with glee.
“Mean, knock it off, you crazy bastard. You’re gonna kill me!”
The horse snorted again. Prophet figured the next round would leave him battered into the logs and chinking of the old jailhouse, but the horse just stood there, nickering and jerking its head up and down.
Prophet chuckled. “Glad to see me, eh, Mean?”
Footsteps and labored breathing sounded westward up Main. “Goddamn horse!” cried a kid. “You okay, Marshal? I was leadin’ the sumbitch over to the livery barn when he musta caught your scent and broke loose. He is yours, ain’t he?”
“Yeah, he’s mine,” Prophet said, breathing hard and rubbing his sore shoulder, regarding the big line-back dun with both apprehension and pleasure. “Where in the hell’d he come from anyway? I left him in Cheyenne.”
“Last stage just rolled into town about fifteen minutes ago. The driver had him tied on behind. He come with a note.” The lanky youngster with a sharp chin and a billed hat fished a crumpled note from his pocket and handed it to Prophet. “Your tack’s over to the livery barn. You want me to fetch it over here?”
“No, that’s all right,” Prophet said.
He tossed a quarter to the boy, who thanked him and headed back toward the stage depot. Behind him, Prophet un-crumpled the note and stepped into the street to read it by the light bleeding out from the Mother Lode. Mean and Ugly gave another snort and followed, staying close to Prophet’s elbow, determined not to get separated from his master again.
Dear Lou,
You’re the only one who seems to want this hammer-headed reprobate. The owner of the Federated Livery in Cheyenne was about to shoot him for fighting and tearing up stalls when I intervened and arranged for the stage line to send him on to you. I hope you ‘re still in Bitter Creek. What you see in this animal I do not know.
You owe me for the new hat he bit a hole in. I hope this finds you well. I am heading toward the Southwest. I hope I see you again before the snow flies. If not...
I am, as always
And forever shall be
Yours, with love,
Louisa
Prophet smiled. He sniffed the note: licorice with a hint of cherry sarsaparilla.
Louisa.
Slowly, thoughtfully, he folded the penciled notepaper, stuffed it into his shirt pocket. Mean and Ugly was sniffing and nibbling at the badge, which winked dully in the stray light from the saloons.
“Yeah, I know,” Prophet said, shoving away the horse’s long snout. “That tin looks as out of place on me as it would on you. That’s the straw I drew, but believe me, I’ll never get that drunk again.”
He gave the horse a brusque hug, ran his hands down its sweaty neck, pulled at its ears, and inspected it briefly, making sure it had no cuts or deep bruises and that none of its shoes had come loose. He drew a deep breath. The horse smelled of sage and the night breeze ... of crisp starlight and the open trail...
Prophet stared at the horse and chewed his cheek, thoughtful.
Finally, he picked up his shotgun, retrieved his rifle from the jailhouse, locked the door, and headed west up Main, toward the livery barn. Mean and Ugly followed close on his heels, nickering playfully and nipping at Prophet’s shoulders and ears.
Prophet found his saddle just inside the livery barn’s unlocked front doors. He quickly tacked up the horse, strapped his bedroll behind the saddle, shoved his Winchester into the leather boot, and mounted.
Mean jerked beneath him, muscles rippling. The horse kicked a back rear hoof out and gave a snort as Prophet reined him northward through an empty lot and heeled him into a canter. A few minutes later, they were riding through the rolling sage hills north of Bitter Creek.
A young coyote yipped to Prophet’s right. A rabbit gave its befuddled shriek as a hawk or an owl nabbed it. The air smelled like cinnamon, sage, and cedar.
Prophet caught a fleeting whiff of some carcass rotting nearby—the remains of a coyote-killed deer, no doubt. Then the sage and juniper and dew-damp rocks took over again.
Prophet rode lightly in the saddle. Mean and Ugly stepped smartly beneath him, giving his hammer head an occasional energetic shake. His shod hooves rang off rocks, snapped limbs from low shrubs.
Horse and rider wanted to continue riding, but after he’d ridden a mile or so, Prophet turned back toward Bitter Creek. Reining up on a knoll, he studied the quiet town—a blue-black smudge in the starlight, with only a few shacks bleeding wan lemon light onto the sage.
Satisfied all was quiet, he made a cold camp in the hollow just north of the knoll, tied Mean and Ugly in high buffalo grass near a spring, and rolled up in his soogan.
He studied the stars for a long time, listened to the small night creatures burrowing into the grass and rocks and
rotten logs. Mean and Ugly tore at the grass several yards away. The seep trickled tinnily, almost silently.
The coyote had ceased howling, but soon another started in, from a northern hogback, and then two more added their own refrains from the west.
Raucous yet melodic sounds, softened by distance.
Prophet slept.
Chapter Sixteen
Prophet woke to the scent of dewy sage tickling his nostrils, to meadowlark song, and to pale dawn light washing along the western horizon.
To the chittering of prairie dogs and raucous magpie chants.
To a giant muley buck padding toward him from the north, its big rack like an Indian’s brush cage, its charcoal-crested neck and broad white chest ribbed with muscle.
The buck had come upon the camp from up breeze and, at once seeing and scenting human, it turned its head to gaze at Prophet askance through marble-black eyes. A second later, it twisted its heavy shoulders and trotted off through the brush, the thuds of its heavy hooves fading gradually.
Head turned on his saddle, hair mussed from sleep, Prophet watched the buck fade into the morning’s blue shadows. He had no urge to reach for his Winchester. He killed only when he needed food, never for trophies. Trophy shooting was a low pursuit, fitting only for Eastern nabobs and Englishmen.
Mean and Ugly shook himself and nickered. The old familiar camp sounds caused Prophet’s mouth to spread in a grin. The smile disappeared when he saw the tin star on his chest.
He had a job. Responsibilities. He had a long-headed fool out looking to let sunshine through his hide.
He tossed away the dew-damp blankets, got up, stretched, gave Mean a long, leisurely brushing, and saddled him. A few minutes later, he reluctantly mounted and turned the horse toward town.
The shadows were gradually lifting along Main when he rode in from the west. It wasn’t yet seven, but several shopkeepers were sweeping dust and leaves from their boardwalks. Riding stiff-backed, Prophet searched the rooftops for the long, thin shadow of a rifle barrel canted in his direction.
Except for the industrious store proprietors and a few dogs heading home after their all-night country hunts, all was quiet.
At the east end of Main, Prophet turned toward Gertrude’s Good Food. He pulled up at the hitch rack before the cafe, where a buggy and several saddle horses stood, then looped his reins over the rack, ordered Mean to behave himself, and went inside.
He took two steps and froze.
Sitting at a table to his right was the five-man gang of toughs who’d ridden into town yesterday afternoon. One of the men turned to him, raised an eyebrow, and cleared his throat. The others turned then as well.
They were a rough-hewn, gimlet-eyed lot, wearing the mustaches and long, brushed hair of professional gunmen.
“Mornin’, Marshal,” said the one nearest Prophet. His hair and beard were strawberry blond. His sun-bronzed cheeks were pocked and pitted. He stared at Prophet, faintly bemused, waiting.
“Mornin’,” Prophet replied. No reason not to be sociable. “Nice town you got here.”
“Well, it ain’t really mine. I’m only temporary. But thanks just the same.”
The gunman’s thin lips spread and the lids of his green eyes came halfway down. “The pleasure’s all mine.”
He held Prophet’s gaze, and Prophet waited for him to say something else. The man’s stare appeared at once forced and challenging, like he was daring an old dog to go for his ankle. After several seconds, the man turned to the others, nodded almost imperceptibly, and went back to his food. The others chewed down grins as they hunkered over their plates.
Puzzled, Prophet studied the gang another second, then headed for an empty table near two men wearing the worn suits and high-crowned hats of horse buyers, and sat down.
The girl Frieda employed to help with large breakfast crowds took Prophet’s order and disappeared into the kitchen, where Frieda was cooking, knocking pans around and working the squeaky pump handle. Prophet tried not to stare at the gang across the room. He didn’t want to provoke anything.
But who were they? What were they here for? How long were they staying?
He was half-finished with his own meal when the gang scraped their chairs back, stood, tossed coins onto the table, and moseyed toward the door. The cherry-blond who’d spoken to Prophet now turned to him again, grinned woodenly, pinched his hat brim, and headed outside.
Prophet only shrugged and kept his confounded muttering to himself. Those five were like pit dogs on short leashes…
When he’d finished his own breakfast ten minutes later, he tossed down a dollar for the meal, added a tip, and stood. The waitress appeared at his side, her cheeks flushed from toil.
“Marshal, Miss Frieda would like you to stop by later for dessert, after she closes for the afternoon. She said she had some legal matters to discuss.”
Prophet stared at the waitress. He wondered for a moment if the girl was joshing, but her expression was serious. Then the kitchen door swung open. Frieda stuck her head out and stared at Prophet, eyes devilish, and winked.
“Oh... right,” Prophet said, returning his gaze to the girl. “Tell Miss Frieda I’ll try to make it back for, uh, dessert…”
Behind the girl, Frieda’s plump cheeks flushed as she smiled and withdrew into the kitchen.
“I’ll tell her, Marshal,” the waitress said and reached for his plate and coffee cup.
Prophet sniffed and adjusted his cartridge belt on his hips. A grass widow was a dangerous critter for a bachelor bounty hunter… He pinched his hat brim to a couple of matronly ladies in the corner and headed for the door.
Outside, he mounted Mean and Ugly and reined back toward Main, straining his neck to look around for the drygulcher. A man couldn’t let his guard down when someone was trying to turn him into a free lunch for the coyotes, and he was looking forward to catching the sumbitch and thrashing the holy hell out of him.
He rode up and down Main a few times, just to make his presence known, noticing several strange faces on the boardwalks—drifters, grub-liners, drummers. Fortunately, none looked like trouble.
He looked for Wallace Polk, curious about the man’s demeanor the morning after he’d humiliated himself at Fianna Whitman’s. Prophet hoped he didn’t have another backshooter to worry about. While the drugstore was open and several ladies passed in and out, Polk himself was apparently staying back behind his counter, out of sight from the street.
Nursing one hell of a hangover, no doubt.
Prophet halted his horse at the east edge of town, just beyond the frame brothel houses. He was about to circle around the town’s north edge, hoping to spot a man with a rifle, when he saw the five gunslicks file out of the brothel they apparently were staying at. They set their hats carefully on their heads and kept to the south side of Main, heading west.
The shooters walked with long, confident strides. Several swept their frock coats back behind their pistol butts, making the weapons as visible as possible.
The two matronly ladies Prophet had seen in the cafe earlier stepped out of the millinery store, just ahead of the gunmen. The shooters paused, stepping aside to let the ladies pass, pinching their hat brims and smiling.
Seeing the gunmen, the ladies froze, eyebrows beetling. Chins up and lips pursed, they turned sharply, skirts, shawls, and hat feathers swirling, and crossed the street to the opposite boardwalk.
They continued walking east, shaking their heads and casting disdainful looks across their shoulders.
One of the gunmen waved. They all chuckled, continued strolling west to the Mother Lode, and disappeared through the saloon’s swinging doors.
Prophet shook his head, scratched his ear, and scowled at the saloon’s shuddering batwings. Those five were going to be trouble.
He just had a feeling…
Early that evening, after a surprisingly uneventful day— aside from “dessert” with Miss Frieda, that is—Prophet’s feeling was validated.
; He’d just taken another ride around the town and was stabling Mean and Ugly, when a distant pistol shot sounded. It was muffled enough by buildings and distance that it could have been a branch snapping. But Prophet knew better.
Goosey after the several attempts to perforate his hide, he immediately unsnapped the thong over his .45’s hammer. Peacemaker in hand, he slung his shotgun over his neck and left the small stable flanking the jailhouse, walking around the jail to Main Street.
He stopped and cast his gaze up and down the near-dark street filled with the din of tinpanny music emanating from the two saloons.
The dozen horses tethered to the hitch racks before the Mother Lode were jerking around, startled. They tipped their heads back and pulled at their reins.
A man yelled something Prophet couldn’t hear. The Mother Lode’s piano fell silent. Another pistol shot cut the night’s low din. A girl screamed. It was no scream of revelry. The girl was scared.
And it all seemed to be coming from the Mother Lode.
He’d just stepped into the street when another gunshot cracked. It was followed a half second later by the sound of shattering glass.
The horses were jerking around in earnest now, the saloon’s bright lamplight bleeding through the plate-glass window to glisten along their rustling manes and saddles. When Prophet was about thirty feet from the saloon’s big window, three men stepped through the batwings onto the boardwalk. Shaking their heads and muttering, they angled up the street toward the American.
As Prophet approached the batwings, the girl yelled once again. “What’d I just tell you, you little bitch?” retorted a man, his voice taut with anger. “And you,” he said, “didn’t I tell you to play!”
His brows beetled with wary wonderment, Prophet peered over the batwings. He could see little, however, for six or seven gents—cowpokes as well as a few businessmen—stood blocking the bounty hunter’s view to the back of the room, where the trouble appeared to be occurring.
Prophet was about to step into the saloon when a big man standing left of the door turned to him. It was one of the five hardcases—taller than Prophet, with a slouch hat, spade beard, and light-blue devil’s eyes.
The Devil's Lair (A Lou Prophet Western #6) Page 14
