Stagecoach to Purgatory

by Peter Brandvold

  As Prophet gained the bottom of the stairs and headed toward the batwings, a man outside loudly ordered, “Just leave her where she is, Mrs. Knudsen. She’s goin’ with us and there ain’t no ifs, ands, or buts about it!”

  “Oh, there’s a few, I think!” Prophet said, pushing through the batwings and cocking his .45.

  Chapter 19

  Prophet stepped forward to the edge of the boardwalk as Lola dropped to a knee beside Mary, who was on both knees in the street, beside a lathered, saddled horse that had obviously been ridden a long ways at a full gallop. The horse gave an anxious whinny and, frightened by the three riders riding up behind it, sashayed hard to its left, then scampered away, trailing its reins along the ground.

  Now Prophet had an unobstructed view of the three riders as they sat their horses about ten feet behind Lola and Mary, who lifted her head toward Prophet and said, “John Leonard no longer works for my father, Lou! He works for Sand Creighton now!”

  “That’s neither here nor there, Miss Dunbar,” said Leonard, who sat his own lathered horse in the middle of the three-man pack. He held a Winchester carbine across his saddlebow. “The fact is, you belong to Mr. Creighton, and we’re taking you back.” He jerked his chin at Prophet. “Stay out of this, mister! This ain’t none of your damn business, so just stay out of it! You, too, Mrs. Knudsen!”

  “I will not!” Lola said, straightening to face the three riders, shielding Mary with her body. “You are not taking this girl anywhere she doesn’t want to go. You can tell Mr. Creighton to go to hell. Mary Dunbar is not some pot to be won or lost in a poker game!”

  Prophet had no idea what they were talking about. He had no idea the nature of the conflict he found himself at the center of. But he did know whose side he was on.

  He stepped down into the street behind the two women and aimed his cocked Colt at Leonard. “Lola, take Mary into the saloon.”

  Leonard shook his head determinedly and began to raise his carbine’s barrel. “That ain’t gonna happen, old son!”

  Prophet took quick aim at Leonard. His Colt roared, flames lapping from the barrel.

  Mary cried out. Lola leaped with a start. John Leonard sagged back in his saddle, howling, dropping his Winchester to grab the bloody hole in his upper right arm. The other two riders turned in shock to their wounded leader, all three horses uneasily shifting their weight, looking wide-eyed-wary and ready to run.

  “You son of a bitch!” Leonard wailed.

  “Lola!” Prophet said.

  Lola snapped out of her shocked daze, wrapped an arm around Mary’s waist, and pulled the girl to her feet. Mary walked gingerly, limping on her left foot, as Lola led her past Prophet, onto the boardwalk, and into the saloon.

  Prophet waved his cocked Peacemaker at the three men sitting their nervous horses before him. John Leonard was gritting his teeth painfully and glaring at Prophet as he clutched his bloody arm. “Do I need to make it any plainer?” Prophet asked.

  Leonard looked from Prophet to the two men on either side of him. They stared in frustration at Prophet, who held his smoking Colt on them.

  “Shoot him!” Leonard ordered. “Shoot him right now!”

  The man on Leonard’s right cursed sharply and jerked up his rifle. Prophet blew him out of his saddle. He hadn’t even hit the ground behind his shrieking horse before the man to Leonard’s left dropped his own rifle and threw up his gloved hands, palms out.

  “No!” he cried. “No! I’m done!”

  “You coward!” Leonard barked at him.

  The rider glanced once, sheepishly, at Leonard, then turned his horse and galloped off along the street to the west, the dark night quickly consuming him.

  Leonard shouted at him, cursing. Leonard’s frightened horse turned sharply to follow the other horse to the west, pitching Leonard from the saddle. Leonard gave a shrill cry as he threw up his right arm as though to regain his balance. It didn’t happen. As the horse galloped after the other horse and rider, Leonard bounced off his own mount’s left hip and plunged into the street.

  He rolled several times before piling up against the boardwalk fronting a boarded-up barbershop.

  Prophet strode into the street, stared off toward where the last of the three riders had disappeared. He couldn’t see the man but he heard the faint rataplan of his galloping horse growing fainter.

  Lightning flashed to the north. Thunder rumbled—an especially ominous sound, given the circumstances.

  Prophet turned to the saloon, where Lola and Mary had disappeared. Mary’s sobs caromed over the batwings. They were drowned by another, louder thunderclap. Prophet looked at where Leonard lay against the boardwalk fronting the barbershop. He was groaning and clutching his arm. He turned to Prophet, began to slide a pistol from the holster on his right thigh.

  Prophet aimed his Peacemaker at the man, clicked the hammer back.

  That stopped the pistol’s slide. Leonard removed his hand from its grips. “I need tendin’ here. Get Buster!”

  “Shut up.”

  Prophet walked over to him. “Get up.”

  “Diddle yourself!”

  “I said get up!” Prophet grabbed the man by his wounded arm. Leonard yowled as he gained his feet. He cursed loudly. “Goddamnit, that hurts!”

  Prophet grabbed the man’s pistol from his holster, shoved it behind his own cartridge belt. “Get inside.”

  “I need Buster!”

  “Get inside or you’ll get another bullet. This one to your belly button. See if Buster can doctor that.”

  Leonard opened his mouth to give a retort but closed it when Prophet poked the barrel of his cocked Peacemaker against his belly button. Leonard looked down at the gun then began staggering toward the saloon. Prophet came up behind him, grabbed the back of his shirt collar, and threw him through the batwings.

  Leonard cursed and went shambling through the door. He hit the floor and rolled twice. He came up on his back, glaring at Mary, who was sitting across from Lola at a table right of the bar.

  Mary had been crouched forward over her entwined hands. Lola had given her a blanket; it was draped over her shoulders. Now Mary looked at Leonard, and said, “How could you deceive me like that? How could you take me to him when I thought I was going to my father? We used to be friends—you and me.”

  “I do what I get paid to do!” Leonard barked. “I was friends with you because your father wanted me to be. To make sure the other, younger men stayed away from you. I quit him because Sand Creighton offered me more!”

  Mary shook her head. Tears ran down her cheeks as she gazed befuddledly, heartbroken, at Leonard. “I don’t understand any of this.”

  “That makes two of us,” Prophet said. He looked at Lola. “Is this . . . situation . . . why you asked me to come?”

  Lola nodded. “I didn’t know that you and Mary would be riding the stage together. If I’d known that, I would have explained more in my letter, so that you knew what you were getting into.”

  “I’d like to know what he was getting into, too,” Mary told Lola. “Since I seem to be the one who caused it.”

  “It was your father who caused it, Mary. I know we haven’t met until now, but I run this place. I used to run it with my husband, Roy. I’m Lola Knudsen. I was here the night that your father, Vance Dunbar,” she added for Prophet’s benefit, “and Sand Creighton sat here drunker than skunks and gambled for three nights in a row.”

  She looked at Prophet standing just inside the door, his Peacemaker still in his hand, aimed at Leonard, who sat now with his back against the bar. “Mary’s father and Creighton have been rival ranchers here for at least as long as Roy could remember. Creighton ranches to the north, Dunbar to the south. They’ve pretty much crowded out all of the smaller operators. There is only those two, and that’s partly why Jubilee has dried up.”

  Lola returned her gaze to Mary, whose eyes were riveted on the older blonde. “As I was saying, they gambled right here, at this very table, for three nights
in a row. The third night, Creighton got on a lucky streak. By eleven o’clock, he’d relieved your father of over six thousand dollars in cash. Then the stakes got even higher.”

  Lola glanced at Prophet then turned to Leonard, who sat grunting and clutching his arm but also apparently listening to the conversation.

  “Oh, for chrissakes, go ahead and tell the girl. What’re you waiting for?” Leonard barked.

  “Tell me what?” Mary asked.

  “Tell her what?” Prophet said, hearing dark dread in his own voice.

  “They bet their own ranches,” Lola said, keeping her voice low.

  Rumbling thunder with occasional, sharp peals punctuated her words. Lightning flashed over the batwings behind Prophet. Fresh, chill air pushed in behind him. It smelled like rain, which he could hear plunking into the thick dust of the street.

  “Your father lost his ranch,” Lola told Mary, who sat there staring at the older woman as though she couldn’t quite make out what she was saying.

  Lola looked down at her lap for a moment, then licked her lips and said, “But your father didn’t stop there. He said . . . he said . . .”

  “Said what?” Mary urged, leaning across the table, her voice becoming shrill.

  “Oh, fer chrissakes,” Leonard intoned. “Tell the girl. She has a right to know.” He looked at Mary. “Since your pa didn’t have nothin’ else, he threw you into the pot, to boot. But he put a condition on it. That Creighton accepted you in lieu of the ranch . . . but he had to pay Dunbar thirty thousand dollars.”

  Leonard laughed cynically, blood running through the fingers of his left hand and dribbling down his arm. “See, Dunbar knew Sand had an interest in a mine up in the mountains. He also knew that interest was worth right around thirty, thirty-five thousand dollars. Another thing he knew was that Creighton didn’t really want the Three-Box-D. He put far more value on somethin’ else. For several years, even when you was a little girl, Sand Creighton had his eye on Dunbar’s li’l Injun princess. Some men—their taste just runs toward the dark-skinned girls.”

  Leonard laughed caustically. “Dunbar lost the hand but kept his ranch. That’s why your father sent your old aunt down to fetch you . . . and thirty thousand dollars from Creighton’s Denver bank.”

  Prophet stared incredulously down at Leonard.

  Then he looked at Lola. “Is that true?”

  Lola looked at Prophet. Then she looked across the table at Mary, who sat with her head down, hands in her lap, quietly sobbing. Lola reached over and placed a hand on Mary’s shoulder while turning again to Prophet and nodding.

  “Yes, it’s true,” she said, tears glittering in her own eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mary.”

  Leonard turned to Prophet. “Creighton and several other men—all he’s got up at the home ranch—are probably on their way here right now. We was all together when we left the ranch, chasin’ this polecat who stabbed Sand in the belly, just when he was gettin’ ready to bed her, and rode out on a horse. We lost her trail and split up. My group came to town. The others headed toward Dunbar’s Three-Box-D. I’d bet the seed bull that by now Sand realizes he’s on a cold trail.”

  Leonard grinned savagely. “He and the others are headed this way, all right. When they get here, you’d best be prepared to turn this girl over to Sand, or there’ll be hell to pave and no hot pitch!”

  Mary whipped around toward Prophet, her wide eyes bright with terror. “Lou, you can’t let them take me. I’ll kill myself before I let myself go back to that fat, sick, old Sand Creighton!” Her face crumpled. “How could my father do that to me?” She bawled into her hands.

  Prophet was about to walk over to her but stopped when hooves thudded in the street behind him.

  Mary lifted her head with a horrified gasp.

  Leonard laughed.

  “Oh, Lou!” Lola said.

  “Quick,” Prophet said. “Get her upstair—!”

  A man’s deep, resonant voice rose from the street above the ticking rain and rumbling thunder. “Mary? Are you here, Mary?” A pause. “Mary, it’s your father!”

  “Oh, Christ!” John Leonard grunted.

  Mary stared in silent shock toward the batwings, her lower jaw slowly loosening. Numbly, she lowered her hands to her knees.

  Prophet stared out over the batwings as four riders rode up in front of the saloon. He recognized one as the older man who’d stopped the stage the second time and who he now realized was Mary’s father, Vance Dunbar. Dunbar’s left arm was in a sling, compliments the bullet Prophet had gifted him with. Prophet recognized the other, younger survivor of the original group, who’d helped Dunbar chase Prophet into the secondary canyon.

  The other two were new to him—a short, stocky gent with a spade beard and a big half-breed with black hair tumbling down his back in twin, hide-wrapped braids.

  Dunbar and the others were talking among themselves as they stared down at the Creighton rider whom Prophet had left dead in the street. The rain was falling steadily now, making silver puddles in the mud. Dunbar and the others wore greased canvas rain slickers, which shone wetly in the weak lamplight emanating from the saloon.

  Prophet turned toward Mary. “Your call. What do you want to do?”

  “What are my options?” Mary said, though it wasn’t a question. It was really more of a statement of fact that she had only one course of action, and that was to confront her father and let the chips fall where they may.

  Dunbar turned toward the saloon and called his daughter’s name again.

  “Here,” Prophet said, and pushed through the batwings. He stepped out onto the front boardwalk, holding his Colt down low by his side.

  Dunbar rode straight up to Prophet and stopped. He stared at Prophet from beneath the broad brim of his tall, cream Stetson. The man’s face was mostly in shadow but the light shone in his eyes and delineated the gray mustache mantling his thin mouth.

  “You again,” Dunbar snarled, lifting his Winchester from his saddle pommel.

  “Slide that Winchester into its boot,” Prophet said. “That’s the price of gettin’ in here out of the rain.”

  “What about my daughter?”

  “She’s in here.”

  “How do I know that?”

  Prophet turned to Mary. She sat twisted around in her chair, half facing him. She stared at the floor in mute shock, her dark eyes round and flat.

  Prophet shuttled his gaze back to Dunbar. “You’re just gonna have to take my word for it.”

  He stepped to one side of the batwings.

  Chapter 20

  Dunbar glanced at the men sitting their horses to each side of him. He looked at Prophet then swung down from his saddle. The others began to dismount but froze when Prophet said, “Only Dunbar. You two are welcome to wait out here with your horses.”

  “To hell with you,” said the man on Prophet’s right, and stepped to the ground.

  “Yeah, you, big man,” said the half-breed, swinging down from his saddle and pointing an angry finger at the bounty hunter. “You put the hogleg down and we’ll fight man to man. I’ll break you in half, send you home in a bag!”

  “Stand down, Curly,” Dunbar ordered.

  “Maybe some other time, Curly.” Prophet wagged his pistol at the rancher. “Leave the Winchester in its sheath.”

  Dunbar wrinkled a nostril at him then reluctantly slid his rifle into the scabbard strapped to his saddle. He stepped up onto the boardwalk, looked at Prophet disdainfully. “If you’re not a Creighton man, who are you?”

  “A friend of your daughter.”

  Dunbar gave a frustrated chuff then peered over the batwings. “Mary!” he said, and pushed through the doors.

  Prophet returned the glares of Curly and the other Dunbar rider, both men standing in the rain beside their horses, then followed the rancher inside.

  “Mary,” Dunbar said again, striding haltingly toward his daughter.

  Mary still had her eyes on the floor, as though stricken.


  Dunbar looked at John Leonard, who’d heaved himself to his feet and was leaning back against the bar, holding his wounded arm. Dunbar glanced at Prophet, who stood wide of the bar so he could keep everyone inside the saloon in sight while also keeping an eye on the batwings.

  “What in hell is going on here?”

  “Leonard took your daughter off the stage,” Prophet said. “She didn’t realize he no longer worked for you.”

  Dunbar stared at Leonard. Leonard stared back at him, hatless, his chest rising and falling heavily as he breathed.

  Showing his teeth like a demented dog, Leonard said, “I was just doin’ my job. The deal was Mary went to Sand. For thirty grand. It seems you didn’t tell Mary, so she was a little surprised when we got to the Jinglebob. She’ll get used to it in time. He’s a rich man, Sand is. Far richer than you, Dunbar. He’ll likely be showin’ up here any ole time now.”

  Dunbar turned to yell over the batwings, “Keep an eye out for Creighton!”

  The rancher turned back to Leonard. “So that’s why we saw him headed toward the Three-Box-D.” He turned to Mary. “He was after M-Mary. We were headed to town. I figured you’d eventually end up here, Mary. At least, I hoped. We heard riders comin’, turned off the trail, watched ’em pass. It was Creighton and four others, all right.” Dunbar scrubbed his weathered face with a battered hand. “Christ!”

  Mary was staring up at him, her eyes a mixture of rage, despair, and disbelief. “So it’s true, eh, Pa? What they told me you did. You lost me in a poker game to Sand Creighton.”

  Dunbar gave a deep, animal-like groan then whipped the sling from his shoulder, setting his left arm free. He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees before his daughter, doffing his hat and tossing it onto the floor beside him. “Oh God, Mary—please forgive me!”

  “It is true . . .”

  “It’s true, but it was the act of a desperate man!”

  Mary shook her head as she gazed at him through tear-shiny eyes. “What are you talking about—a desperate man?”