Stagecoach to Purgatory

by Peter Brandvold

  Chapter 17

  “Oh my God,” the woman said, shocked, taking a quick step for ward. “Lou?”

  “Lou who?” came a man’s voice, slurring the words. The question had come from the man who’d been slumped across a table to Prophet’s right, against the far wall.

  Lola dropped to her knees before Prophet. She sandwiched his face in her hands, shoved hers up close to his until he could see the watery light glinting in her soft, blue eyes. “Oh, Lou!” she cried half in joy, half in anguish.

  “Lou who?” said the drunk again, more persistently this time.

  “Oh, shut up, Buster!” Lola said, keeping her eyes on Prophet, raking her eyes across his bullet-torn temple. “Lou, my God, what happened to you?”

  “Had a little trouble . . . out on the trail.” Prophet stared at her in amazement. “Lola . . . it is you. My God!”

  It was Lola, all right. Whoever she was now, she was still Lola Diamond to him. She looked very much the same as when he’d last seen her several years ago. Still beautiful despite a slight tightening of the skin around her eyes and mouth. Maybe the eyes were a little less sparkling than before, a little more jaded. Maybe she was even prettier for time’s tempering of youth’s raw blush.

  “It is me, Lou. It is me. Come on. We have to get you upstairs.”

  Prophet smiled as he gazed into her eyes. “You’re even more beautiful than before, Lola. I didn’t think it possible, but, by God, girl . . . er, woman . . . you sure are!”

  Despite his physical agony, he couldn’t help taking a peek at the well-filled, low-cut bodice, which she wore over a ruffled, equally low-cut white blouse.

  Lola gave a throaty chuckle. “You’ve taken a right big blow to your head, Lou. Obviously.” She chuckled again and then turned to where the only other person in the place was now sitting up in his chair, watching them. “Buster, if you’re one bit conscious, get over here and help me get Lou upstairs. He’s a mite more man than I can handle on my own.”

  “You managed before . . . a time or two, as I recall.” Prophet grinned at her, winked.

  Lola blushed. She gave a grunt as, wrapping Prophet’s right arm around her neck, she hoisted him to his feet. Prophet couldn’t offer much help. His knees were weak. Likely the result of pain, blood loss, overexertion, and lack of food. But it was whiskey he craved the most.

  “Whoever runs this dump,” he said, glancing toward the bar, “you think they’d sell me a bottle?”

  “Since I’m the one who runs this dump, I reckon I would.”

  Prophet blinked. “You?”

  “Yep.” She turned toward where the drunk was stumbling toward them. “Buster, hurry!”

  “This is all the better I can do,” Buster said, walking like a knock-kneed, old, long-legged horse ready for the glue factory. He was as tall as Prophet but he was whipcord thin with a pronounced forehead and chin and bulging, drink-bleary brown eyes. His brown patch beard was liberally sprinkled with salt.

  He stumbled over a chair, nearly fell, then came around to Prophet’s other side and wrapped the bounty hunter’s left arm around his neck. “What’d you say your name was?” Buster asked as he and Lola began leading Prophet to the stairs at the back of the room.

  “Lou Prophet, Buster. The pleasure’s mine.”

  “Lou Prophet. Damn, I think I’ve heard that name,” Buster said, tripping over another chair.

  “Buster, be careful!” Lola cajoled him.

  “Lola, how do you know this big fella here?” Buster asked her as they made it to the bottom of the stairs.

  “Long story.” Lola gave Prophet a sidelong, conspiratorial smile. “Long, long story—eh, Lou?”

  “Ain’t near long enough for me, girl,” Prophet said as he put one foot on the bottom step and, with Lola’s and Buster’s help, began climbing.

  He gave Lola a wink and she returned it. He cast a glance down her corset, into the deep, dark cleavage.

  “You still have a brazen eye, bounty hunter.” Lola’s eyes danced with amusement.

  “A brazen eye for beauty.”

  Lola laughed. So did Buster. They almost fell back down the stairs but then Lola got serious and, grabbing the banister to her right and scolding both men profusely, got them back on an upward climb that, after another near-catastrophe, had them stumbling through the first door on the right of the second-floor hall.

  The room was large and well appointed in a feminine manner, with ornate wallpaper and lacy curtains over the two large windows. A thick oriental rug graced the floor, and a wine red canopy anointed the four-poster bed, which was covered with a black, silk, gold-embroidered comforter and large pillows also swathed in silk.

  “Holy Christ,” Prophet mumbled as Lola and Buster led him to the massive bed. “I didn’t know the queen of Merry Ole England was livin’ in Jubilee now.”

  “This is my room,” Lola said.

  “You sure you want this big ole reprobate in your room, Lola?” Buster sounded astonished.

  As they sat Prophet down on the edge of the bed, he narrowed one eye at the drunkard. “Buster, have we met before?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve heard the name before but I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

  “Then how did you know I was a reprobate?”

  “Don’t let it make you feel bad,” Buster said. “I’m the town drunk.”

  Prophet snorted.

  “Lou, you hush now, and lay back.” Lola was pulling the covers down. “You lay here and rest while I get some brandy and heat water so we can stitch that wound in your head before you bleed out.”

  She reached into a closet, grabbed a man’s shirt off a hanger, and laid it on the pillow near Prophet. “That’s so you don’t get blood all over my bed, you old reprobate.”

  She cupped her hand under his jaw and stared down at him with concern. “What happened to you, Lou?”

  “I’ll tell you about it after you fetch that brandy.” Prophet smacked his lips. “Damn, I’m thirsty!” He frowned as he kicked out of his boots and shifted his position on the bed, scooting up to lay his head back on the shirt-covered pillow. “Who’d you say was gonna stitch my head?”

  “Me an’ Buster are.”

  “You an’ Buster qualified to stitch my head?”

  “Not tonight, I ain’t!” Buster said. He was holding on to one of the posters holding up a corner of the canopy, as though it were the mast of a ship he was clinging to lest he should get swept overboard.

  “Buster’s an old ranch cook. You know how they are. They’re doctor and lawyer and mother and father and peace officer and even sometimes a judge and jury, when it comes to that. He’s been Jubilee’s only doctor for the past year and a half, since old Doc Baldwin kicked the bucket just down the hall with one of the girls who used to ply the old trade here.”

  “He died with a smile on his face, though, I’ll give him that,” Buster said, chuckling but looking peaked.

  “Go on downstairs and have a cup of coffee,” Lola told the man. “Have two. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  Buster negotiated the gap between the bed and the door as though it were the deck of the ship threatening to toss him into the cold, dark drink. “I think I’d better have three.”

  “Yeah, I think you’d better,” Prophet called to him.

  Lola turned to Prophet, who lay staring up at her, deeply puzzled. “Lola . . . ?” He shook his head, so confused that he wasn’t sure which question to ask first.

  Lola placed two soft fingers on his cracked lips. “You’re wondering what I’m doing here—the great actress, Lola Diamond, who had her hat set for the New York stage. What could I possibly be doing in this boil on the devil’s backside, running a watering hole? I’ll explain it all to you soon, Lou. As soon as we get you stitched up. And I’ll tell you why I summoned you here, as well.”

  “Yeah,” Prophet said, letting his heavy lids flutter closed. “All that . . .”

  He fell helplessly into a deep, dreamless sleep.
r />   He woke believing he must have fallen asleep in a raspberry patch. He opened his eyes. Lola stood beside the bed, running a cool, wet sponge across his naked chest.

  He couldn’t feel a stitch of clothes on him. Sliding his gaze down his body he saw that, sure enough, he was naked. Naked and damp, his body glistening dully in the faint, rippling lamplight.

  “Shhh,” Lola whispered. “All’s well, Lou. I’m just giving you a little bath. Make you feel better, cool you off.”

  Chapter 18

  Prophet awakened with his bladder on fire.

  He imagined it swelling to the size of an overfilled gut flask, straining its seams. He had to piss like a grizzly bear that had drained a rain barrel before nodding off and had held it all winter.

  He tossed the covers aside, dropped his feet to the floor, and looked around. The room was in a shadowy red glow, as though a massive wildfire were raging just outside the room’s windows. He wasn’t even sure where he was, for his mind was still fogged with sleep. He knew only that he had to drain the dragon before it drained of its own accord.

  He leaned down and reached under the bed. His hand found a porcelain pot. He dragged the pot out by its handle, rose from the bed, aimed, and let go.

  He lifted his chin to the ceiling and gave a long, ragged sigh as his stream hit the pot with a ping and then a steadily deepening zinging sound as the pot filled.

  The door latch clicked. Prophet jerked with a start but kept the stream going. He flung his right hand out, instinctively reaching for a gun though he had no idea where his Peacemaker or Winchester were, then lowered the hand when Lola came in.

  Seeing her, it all came to him in a rush. The stagecoach, Mary, the ambush at Porcupine Station, the notch cave . . .

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Lola said, setting a food tray on the dresser by the door then walking over to him as he continued to fill the thunder mug. She smiled down at his workings.

  “A lady would avert her gaze,” Prophet said.

  “I’m no lady,” Lola said.

  “Is that the sun setting out there? Have I slept all the way since last night?”

  “Last night?” Lola snorted. “You slept all through yesterday, last night, and today!”

  His head no longer ached. At least, not near as badly as before. He could feel the pinch and rake of the stitches that Buster had sewn into his temple, closing the notch. He only vaguely remembered that—both Buster and Lola crouching over him while Buster, bright eyed from coffee but still a mite tipsy from tangleleg, had sutured closed the wound. Prophet had slugged down half a bottle of brandy and passed out.

  “You sit back down,” she said. “Are you hungry? I brought you some bread and stew. I also have coffee and brandy.”

  Prophet rubbed his belly. “Yeah, I reckon I could eat a bite. Now that I think on it, I’m right hungry. As empty as a dead man’s boot, in fact.”

  Lola set the tray on his lap. On the tray was a wooden bowl filled with steaming beef stew swimming in thick, brown gravy showing the whites of chopped potatoes, the orange of carrots, and the green of beans. A plate containing two slices of grainy brown bread sat beside the bowl. There was also a tin cup filled with coffee and a corked whiskey bottle.

  “Holy cow,” Prophet said. “I didn’t know you could cook. Didn’t know that was in the actress’s bag of talents.”

  “I had to learn, after coming here,” Lola said, popping the cork on the bottle and splashing a goodly portion into the coffee. “I have a garden out back. It’s so dry around here it’s tough to keep it growing without hauling water from the rain barrel two, three times a day. But Roy always liked his vegetables, so I tended the garden for him.”

  Prophet dug into the stew, dipping the bread into the gravy as he ate with his fork, following up each forkful with a bite of the bread. Lola sat on the edge of the bed beside him.

  “Who’s Roy?” Prophet asked her.

  “My husband.”

  He jerked a wide-eyed look of shock at her.

  “Don’t choke, Lou. Yes, I married.”

  Prophet glanced at the door, a pang of consternation joining his other various miseries.

  Lola chuckled. “Don’t worry, he’s not about to kick the door in, Lou. While I’m sure you’re accustomed to that sort of thing, he’s totally incapable.”

  Prophet gave a sheepish shrug while arching a quizzical brow.

  “Roy is dead.”

  “I’m sorry, Lola.” Prophet swallowed a mouthful of stew and said, “Hearin’ that you got yourself hitched is even more surprising than finding you here in hell. Er . . . Jubilee, I reckon it’s called, though back along the trail I found myself feelin’ like I was headed fer hell.”

  “Hell is a good name for this place now. I’m one of the last few folks still residing here. There’s me and Tad Demry, who runs the stagecoach station, and Demry’s lone hostler, Buster O’Brien.”

  “A hostler and a sawbones,” Prophet said. “Buster’s right talented.” He shoved in another forkful of food, chewed. “How did you come to marry this Roy feller?”

  Lola looked off for a time, sighed, then walked over to where a small liquor cabinet hung on a wall. Glasses lined the two upper shelves, and three cut glass decanters lined the lower one. The decanters were empty, but Lola grabbed a glass off the shelf, returned to the bed where Prophet continued to eat, watching her, and poured whiskey into her glass.

  He’d seen that look on a pretty woman’s face before. The look of a run of bad luck and broken dreams, hopes unfulfilled.

  Prophet’s heart ached for the girl. Woman, rather. She was a girl no longer, but a woman who was running out of options.

  She sat back down on the edge of the bed, sipped from the glass, and set the glass on her thigh.

  “I was working in Cheyenne.” She glanced at Prophet, giving a wan smile. “Never quite made it to San Francisco or New York.”

  “Few do, Lola,” Prophet said, setting his fork down. He’d had enough. Besides, he wanted to give his old friend his full attention. “Those are faraway places. Ain’t no shame in not makin’ it to the top. Few are cut out for it. I reckon I should know that much.”

  “I’m not complaining,” Lola said. “Nothing quite so unattractive as a failed actress whining about not being ushered around on the arms of royalty. I met Roy there, in Cheyenne. He’d come to a few of my shows. He traveled to Cheyenne every couple of months on business. He took me to dinner a few times.

  “His wife had died a couple of years ago, and he was living here in Jubilee, running the Lazy Day, and he was lonely. He offered his hand and, realizing I wasn’t as talented as I’d once thought I was, and had become the age when I was probably soon to be culled from the saloon’s herd of dancers, I accepted.”

  She looked at Prophet quickly. “Not that that’s the only reason I married Roy. He was a good, sweet man. Very kind. Very gentle. And he gave me a good home here . . . until he died eight months ago. Stroke, Buster thought. Roy hung on for a day and then he died quietly in my arms.”

  “I’m very sorry, Lola.”

  She shrugged. “I reckon I’ve become accustomed to hard luck. Anyway, I’ve stayed on here, not having anywhere else to go. Hardly anyone lives here anymore, but business is still good enough now and then, with passing trail traffic, to keep me going. It’s not to my advantage that the stage line is pulling out, of course, but I’ll make do. My overhead is low.”

  Prophet reached up and caressed her shoulder with his big right hand. “Why did you call me here, Lola?”

  She sighed, turned her head to kiss his hand on her shoulder. She looked at Lou again, and her eyes were cast with fear. “Trouble, Lou. The kind I was hoping you could solve, but now . . . now I know who you tangled with. It should have occurred to me when you came in later that same night as Vance Dunbar came through with a bullet in his arm, but . . . for some reason I didn’t put you and him together.”

  Prophet squeezed her shoulder gently. “Lola, what is it?”
>
  On the street outside, a horse whinnied. It had seemed to come from outside the saloon.

  “That’s strange,” Lola said, frowning at the curtained window that had turned dark now since the sun had finished setting. “I don’t usually get any business on weeknights. None besides Buster and maybe the men from the—”

  “Help me!” a girl’s pleading cry rose from the street. “Someone . . . please, help!”

  Prophet jerked his head up.

  “Oh my!” Lola said, rising from the bed. “That’s a girl. I didn’t think there were any girls left in Jubilee.”

  Prophet slid the tray onto the bed beside him. “I recognize that voice.”

  As though she hadn’t heard him, Lola strode quickly to the door. “You stay where you are, Lou. You’re in no condition to be getting out of bed. I’ll see to the girl . . . whoever she is,” Lola added as she left the room.

  “Someone, please help me!” Mary called again from the street. “Is anyone there?”

  Her voice was filled with anguish.

  Heart thudding, Prophet dropped his feet to the floor, heaved himself out of bed. His head swam, the pain in his temple kicking up again. He felt disoriented and weak, a little sick to his gut. But he had to get outside and help Mary.

  Stumbling around, he found his clothes neatly piled on a shelf in a large, oak armoire standing against the wall opposite the bed. His guns were in there, too—the Peacemaker and shell belt, his Winchester and scattergun.

  He stepped into his balbriggans then shrugged into his shirt and drew his freshly washed and dried denims up his legs. He could hear Lola striding across the wooden floor downstairs, heading for the batwings, but now only silence rose from the street.

  Prophet stomped into his boots and then, strapping his pistol belt around his waist, headed out of the room, sucking a sharp breath through gritted teeth when pain lanced through his head from the bullet tear in his temple.

  The narrow, murky hall pitched around him.

  He steadied himself with one hand on the wall and then hurried over to the stairs. As he dropped down the steps, holding on to the railing, he could hear Lola’s voice outside. It was accompanied by the thuds of several horses and the loud voices of angry men.