Lou Prophet 2

by Peter Brandvold

  Gradually, Prophet relaxed, dropped his hand from his Peacemaker’s grips. “Well, I reckon I was a tad more afraid than they were eager.” He grinned and shook his head. “But just a tad.”

  “Well, I know that ain’t true. No, sir. You killed Little Stu, and there ain’t any man more eager to see you dead than Gerard Loomis.”

  “I reckon that’s so,” Prophet agreed. Through one eye, he studied the big man, who had at least three inches on him, and forearms like hickory knots. “So I take it you ain’t too broke up about Little Stu?”

  “Me? Broke up about Little Stu? If it weren’t broad daylight, I’d kiss you right on the mug, fella. That Little Stu was one sick little hombre. He used to ride by here and take potshots at my cats. Why, he scared my wife so bad, she and my little girl headed back to Ohio last fall. I couldn’t find a buyer for this place, or I’d be gone, too.”

  “So you won’t tell anyone I been here?”

  “Hell, no!”

  Prophet heaved a sigh of relief and grinned. “Thank you, friend.”

  “No. Thank you, friend.”

  The liveryman lifted his apron over his head and tossed it on a barrel. Heading for the side door into the corral, he said, “You know, I used to daydream up ways I could kill that little polecat without his pa findin’ out. I thought of ambushin’ him on his way into town, ambushin’ him on his way out of town, and even slippin’ metal filings in his beer over at the saloon.”

  He stopped at the door and turned to Prophet. “But you saved me the trouble, and I appreciate that. I really do.”

  With that, he turned into the corral and hobbled off after Prophet’s horse.

  While he was gone, Prophet located his possessions in the little room in back of the cabin where more cats were lounging. It was all there: saddlebags, Winchester, shotgun, and tack. He hauled everything into the corral and watched the liveryman lead Mean and Ugly toward the cabin on a long rope, glancing anxiously over his shoulder.

  When the horse saw Prophet, it jumped into a canter, putting its head down and blowing. It nearly ran Prophet over, then turned sharply sideways, as if ready and raring to be saddled and ridden the hell out of here, its big muscles rippling eagerly.

  “Good Lord, that horse seems to actually like somebody,” the liveryman said as he removed his rope from around the dun’s neck with the caution of a man removing cheese from an unsprung trap.

  “Yeah, he likes me well enough, but he’ll still take a chunk out o’ my hide now and then.”

  “Why do you put up with him?”

  “We been up the mountain and down the river together, me an’ him. Besides, who’d buy him?”

  The man nodded and gave the horse a solicitous glance.

  “Now listen,” Prophet said, as he threw the saddle over Mean and Ugly’s back, “I only have about a dollar and fifty cents to my name. I know that don’t come nowhere near covering my bill—”

  The big man waved him off, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it, pard. I’m the man owin’ you—for shootin’ that Loomis snake and keepin’ me from havin’ to do it. I’d of ended up hangin’ from one of his old man’s cotton-woods. Now, hell, I might even be able to coax my wife and daughter back out here. I can’t go back to Ohio—not with all my capital wrapped up in this place.”

  “Much obliged,” Prophet said as he straightened from tightening the cinch.

  The big liveryman turned back into the cabin. “De nada, as the bean-eaters say.” A thought dawning on him, he stopped suddenly. “Say, whose horse you ride in on, anyway?”

  Prophet smiled deferentially. “Just as soon not say, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, I get it,” the. man said with a grin and a discerning nod. “You found someone else not too upset at the news of Little Stu’s demise.” Snickering, he turned into the shack.

  When Prophet had finished saddling the horse, he led it outside, untied Rebel’s reins from the rack, and mounted Mean and Ugly. “You haven’t seen any Loomis men in town today, have you?” he asked the liveryman.

  “Hell, no,” the man said, back at his bellows. “They’re south o’ town, huntin’ you!” He threw his head back with a hearty guffaw.

  “Be seein’ you,” Prophet said, kneeing Mean and Ugly down the street and leading the other horse along by the reins.

  “Good luck, my friend,” the liveryman said, adding darkly, “Something tells me you’re gonna need it.”

  Prophet rode up the knoll on which he’d stopped when he’d first entered town. He pulled Rebel alongside him, tied the reins to Rebel’s saddle horn, and slapped his butt. The horse reared and ran, heading home.

  “Thanks for the ride, Reb.”

  Prophet turned his horse back into town. He’d decided several minutes ago that he was going to sit down and have a drink to numb the pain in his side, no matter what. He didn’t see the risk in it, as long as no Loomis riders were around. Like the liveryman had said, they were all south, hunting him. He doubted any of the other townsmen begrudged his killing Little Stu any more than the liveryman had. It wouldn’t matter if they did. He had his sawed-off ten-gauge slung over his back and his Winchester under his thigh.

  Just to be on the safe side, he pulled around the Pyramid Park, a faded red, two-story building with a shabby veranda on the second floor, and tied Mean and Ugly to a tree out back, behind the privy and near a trash heap. Sleeving sweat from his brow, he entered the hotel through the back door, walked down a narrow hall with an uneven floor and through a single batwing into the saloon.

  The room was abandoned, and Prophet had to clear his throat at the bar for a full minute before a man finally appeared, striding through the door from the hotel.

  “Sorry—I fell asleep at the front desk. Didn’t hear anyone ride up.”

  Prophet had only turned to glance at him, then quickly turned away, keeping his hat low. No sense in letting the man get a good look at him unless he had to.

  “No problem, friend,” Prophet said. “How ‘bout a beer and a shot o’ rye?” Then he’d hit the westward trail and camp in a quiet ravine. He’d make Montana by sundown of the next day.

  The man filled a mug at the keg while Prophet watched, salivating. The apron set the foam-topped beverage on the bar, then filled a shot glass and set it beside the beer.

  “Fifteen cents.”

  Staring at the straw-yellow beer and the coffee-colored rye like a man in love, Prophet rummaged in his jeans pocket for the coins. He slapped them on the bar and reached for the rye.

  “Say,” the barman said, haltingly. “Oh, my God, it is you!”

  Prophet glanced out the front window, feeling exposed. “Easy, friend.”

  “You’re still alive.”

  “So far...” Prophet tossed back the rye and set the glass on the bar.

  The barman watched him with a look of surprise on his sharp, diminutive features.

  “I’d just as soon you kept quiet about my bein’ here, if you wouldn’t mind. I know there ain’t no Loomis men in town, but...”

  “I ain’t gonna advertise it,” the man assured him. “Just the same, you’re takin’ quite a chance. Those Loomis men, they come in here all the time. Haven’t been in here the last couple days, but—”

  “Relax, friend,” Prophet said with a smile. “I’ll be outta here in a minute, after I take my medicine.” He smiled and sipped the beer, then tapped the shot glass. “Why don’t you hit me one more time.”

  When the man had refilled the shot glass and relieved Prophet of another dime, he corked the bottle. “Well, I best get back over to the hotel. I’m s’posed to be dusting. If you need anything else, just give a holler.”

  “Thanks, this’ll be it,” Prophet said.

  When the man had gone, Prophet decided to sit a spell and give his aching side a reprieve. He hoped those stitches would hold. All he needed was to open that wound again ...

  Beer in one hand, rye in the other, he made for a table at the back of the room, kicked out a
chair, and sat down. He sipped the beer and the rye alternately, savoring every sip and noting a definite quelling in the fire in his side.

  He was nearly finished with the rye when the barman appeared in the door from the hotel, looking pale. The man gave his head a single, philosophical shake.

  “Well, I’ll be goddamned. What rotten luck—”

  “What’s that?” Prophet asked him, frowning.

  The barman jerked a thumb over his shoulder just as three horseback riders appeared in the window behind him, reining their mounts up to the hitching post. They were haloed in dust, and their weapons winked in the waning light.

  “Loomis men.”

  Chapter Twelve

  PROPHET DID NOT move. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t. Maybe he figured he didn’t have enough time to climb out of his chair and scramble through the back door before the three Loomis riders entered the building. Maybe he just didn’t feel like running anymore.

  Maybe, semiconsciously, he’d decided that if he continued to run, he’d be running for the rest of his life.

  Besides, they were only three, and he had his sawed-off barn-blaster slung down his back and his Peacemaker on his hip.

  He sat frozen in his chair, boots propped on another chair, arms crossed on his chest, head tipped so that anyone giving him a casual glance might think he was napping. But beneath the inclined brim of Layla Carr’s father’s Stetson, he watched the three dusty riders stomp onto the boardwalk, slapping dust from their jeans with their hats, and push through the batwings.

  They were all breathing heavily and sighing loudly, like men who’d been riding for a long time.

  “Hey, Mort,” one of them called to the barman, who was still frozen in the side door off the hotel. “Three whiskies, and make it fast. We ain’t supposed to be here.”

  One of the others laughed as they made their way to a table near the window. “And as far as you’re concerned, we ain’t been here, okay, Mort?”

  Mort just stood in the door to the hotel, looking pale. He glanced cautiously at Prophet, as if to ask him why in hell he hadn’t hightailed it when he’d had the chance. Quickly, he cut his eyes back to the three dusty men, forced a smile, and moved toward the bar.

  “Oh... sure, sure, boys. Whatever you say. Three whiskies ... on the way.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” the shortest of the three said. “Sure wish I could get a woman to say that. ‘Whatever you say, Roy.’ “ He and the others laughed.

  When Mort brought a bottle and three shot glasses, Roy said, “Mort, say that again, will you?”

  “What’s that, Roy?”

  “Say, ‘Whatever you say, Roy.’ “

  “Oh.” Mort formed a cardboard smile as he poured the whiskey. “Whatever you say, Roy.”

  Roy sat back in his chair and clapped his hands together with a laugh. “I love it. Mort, will you marry me?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Roy.”

  “By God, I’d love to find a woman who’d say that to me just once.”

  “You’re too short,” one of the others told him.

  Roy’s face lost its expression and his eyes turned dark. “What’s that, Duke?”

  “No woman’s gonna tell you that, Roy, because you’re short.” Duke grinned, and a chuckle cut through his wide-drawn lips.

  “Easy, Duke,” the third man said, bringing the whiskey to his lips and scowling at Duke, the largest of the three. Then to Roy, he said, “He’s just funnin’ you, Roy. Drink up.”

  Roy stared at Duke with mute displeasure. “You know, Duke, that kinda talk is gonna get you killed one o’ these days. I’m warning you now.”

  Duke tossed back the whiskey and slammed his glass on the table. “You been warnin’ me since you started at the Crosshatch, Roy.” He smacked his lips and smiled wolfishly at the short cowboy. “And I keep tellin’ you, make your move, Roy.”

  “Cut it out, both of you!” the third man scolded.

  Duke said to the bartender, who’d been standing stiffly between the third man and Roy and cutting sidelong glances at Prophet while he fidgeted the bottle in his hand, “Do that to me again, Mort. And pour another round for my friends here. Oh, I’m just joshin’ you, Roy—for Goddsakes!”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Sourpuss,” Duke said, and pulled Roy’s hat over his eyes, which Roy immediately corrected while cutting Duke a little-brother look of strained tolerance.

  Mort poured three more shots and recorked the bottle. Haltingly, he said, “Well... if you boys ain’t s’posed to be here... where are you s’posed to be?” He’d said it cautiously, conversationally, and cut another fearful look toward Prophet.

  “We’re s’posed to be lookin’ around here for that bounty hunter,” Roy said.

  “Just s’posed to swing through town, see if he swung back on us, then ride right back out to the ranch . .. without stoppin’ in here.” The third man grinned at Mort. “But how could we not stop here without thoroughly checking the town, eh, Mort?”

  Mort chuckled, but there was no humor in it whatsoever. Prophet thought the barman was liable to have a stroke.

  “You won’t tell on us, will you, Mort?” Duke asked with mock seriousness.

  “No, I won’t tell,” Mort said, turning and heading back to the bar as though walking on eggshells.

  “You haven’t seen him, have you, Mort? You know, the big hombre who shot Little Stu?” It was the third man, sitting over his shot glass with his elbows on the table.

  Mort turned behind the bar and did not look at the third man. “No ... no, I ain’t seen him, Steve.” His voice was soft, deeply troubled. From his expression, you might have thought he’d just learned that his favorite aunt had passed away.

  “There, we checked the town,” Steve told his partners. “Mort knows about anything and everything happening in Little Missouri, don’t you, Mort?”

  Mort stood at the bar, his fists on the mahogany, staring into space. “That’s about right, I reckon, Steve.”

  “I think he’s dead,” Roy said.

  “I don’t,” Duke retorted confidently. “I think one o’ those Pretty Butte nesters took him in. I told Mr. Loomis that myself, and I think he agrees.”

  “We done checked the Pretty Butte country,” Roy said.

  “Yeah, but they’re sneaky, them people,” Duke said, bringing his shot glass to his lips and raising his thick blond mustache with the back of his left hand. “They’d take him in just cause he’s against us.”

  Steve cuffed Duke’s back and squealed, “You just wanna pay another visit to that Carr bitch.”

  Duke shook his head. “She ain’t bad.”

  “Hell, Duke, you crawled between her legs, you’d have a stroke.”

  “Yeah, but what a way to go!” Duke bellowed, leaning toward Steve and slamming his hand on the table.

  They all laughed, then sat sipping their drinks, sighing, and cursing the heat and their sore backsides. Mort stood at the bar, staring warily off into space, as if awaiting an imminent earthquake. Prophet sat about twenty yards behind the three men, half facing two. Steve faced Prophet, but Roy was between them.

  Flies buzzed against the dirt-streaked windows, and the liveryman was clanging away on his anvil down the street. From one of the shanties on the edge of town, a child called. It was a high, thin voice that quickly succumbed to the silence of this little canyon nestled in a horseshoe of the Little Mo.

  The men sipped their second whiskies in fidgety silence, having run out of conversation. Duke drank, swallowed wrong, and coughed. Roy curled his lip at the big man, snickering. Steve swatted at a fly buzzing around his head.

  All at once, the men froze in their seats, as if hearing something far off in the distance, or as if the same thought dawned on each of them simultaneously. They looked at each other, cutting their eyes around but not moving their heads.

  Finally, Steve leaned a look around Roy at Prophet. The other two turned in their chairs at the same time to reg
ard the stranger sitting behind them, their faces pale with startled understanding.

  Prophet tipped his head back, revealing his face. He formed a slow grin.

  “Hidy-ho.”

  Silence. The men stared at him in mute shock.

  “Oh, boy, here we go,” the bartender muttered and ducked behind the bar.

  Ten seconds passed like hours. Suddenly, all three Loomis men jerked to their feet at once, clawing iron. With his right hand, Prophet reached for the butt of his greener over his right shoulder, bringing it over his head and down in one fluid swing, thumbing the right rabbit ear back and pulling one of the triggers.

  The gun exploded, smoke and fire mushrooming. Vaguely, through the smoke, Prophet saw Duke and Roy go down hard, spewing blood. They hadn’t hit the floor before Prophet leveled the barn-blaster on Steve, who was bringing his revolver to bear, and let him have the left barrel.

  Steve flew backward off his feet and through the window, landing on the boardwalk in a rain of glass and viscera.

  Prophet started forward when Duke, groaning and cursing and spitting blood, climbed to a knee and lifted his revolver. Prophet stopped, clawed his Peacemaker from his holster, and shot Duke in the head. Duke gave a grunt and hit the floor like a sack of potatoes, flinging his gun toward the batwings.

  Prophet remained crouched, gun drawn, until he was sure all three men were dead. Finally, he straightened and holstered the Peacemaker.

  The barman rose from behind the bar, his face white as paper, his eyes bloodshot. He scrutinized the carnage, the table Roy had wrecked when he fell on it, and the shattered window.

  Turning to Prophet, he said with an air of deep perplexity and trauma, “You know, I knew you were trouble the first time I laid eyes on you.”

  “That’s funny,” Prophet said. “My momma told me the same thing.” Then he turned around and walked out the back door.

  Prophet mounted Mean and Ugly and rode north of town, following an old horse trail through the buttes. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was following him. When he was relatively certain he was alone, he faced forward in his saddle and tried to figure out just what in the hell he was going to do now.