The old woman blinked down at her, baffled, dentures sliding off her gums. “Vot? “
“The really bad part of Bismarck. I want to know where the really bad people stay.”
“Vy on ert vould you vont to know dat!”
Yes, why would she? Louisa thought about it, dabbing at her lips again to buy time. “Because I lost my brother last night, and I’m thinking that, after all our time on the farm, with nary a trip to town in two years and our father thumping our heads with his Bible all the time, Hansel’s run off to the really bad part of town. You know, to cavort with—”
“Yes, I see vot you mean,” the old woman rushed in, nervously eyeing her other customers to see if they’d been listening. She bent down and said in Louisa’s ear, her breath smelling like rotten cabbage, “The vorst of dis place is vest by da river. A shantytown, it is. AM Unspeakable filth. I’ve never been, but I’ve heard da stories.” She sighed, shook her head, and straightened with an audible crack of the bones in her back. “More coffee?”
When Louisa had finished her breakfast, she went over to the livery barn and saddled her horse. Then she fought the freight traffic to the west end of town, following a well-worn trail through the buttes along the river.
She smelled the shantytown before she saw it: the reek of buffalo hides and overfilled latrines. Then the town itself: a few log shacks and tents strewn along the trail, up and down the buttes and shallow ravines.
In one such ravine many horses had been picketed near small, guttering fires around which men of all sizes and colors lounged, alone or in small groups. Many drank from whiskey bottles or stone jugs. Nearby were bundles of buffalo hides over which black clouds of flies hovered.
A hide-hunter’s camp.
Louisa had seen one before in southern Iowa, and she’d never wished to see one again. The stench alone had made her ill. And when you threw in the human vermin that populated such places—women as well as men ...
Yes, this was a place that would attract the likes of Handsome Dave Duvall. Or at the very least, someone here would have seen or heard of him.
Louisa rode over to a dirty white tent whose wood shingle hanging over the open front door deemed it The National Saloon. Dismounting, she stepped inside. There were four men at one of the three long tables. Three were dressed like freighters. Another wore coveralls and an apron—the barkeep, no doubt.
Not knowing the best way to broach the subject, Louisa decided to dive in headfirst. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, having to spit the “gentlemen” out like a sour plum while maintaining a neutral expression, “has anyone seen or heard of the whereabouts of Handsome Dave Duvall?”
All four men cast their gazes her way. She could tell from their expressions—a mix of wary caution and surprise—that they knew who she was talking about. They stared at her for a long time, looking her up and down, taking her measure.
Finally the barkeep said, “What in the hell would a pretty little thing like you want with Handsome Dave Duvall?”
“Personal business.”
“Personal, huh?” the barkeep chuffed, glancing at the others. “I bet it’s personal.”
All four men just stared. Finally, one drawled in a Southern accent, “I ain’t seen him. Don’t care to, neither.”
When the others did not say anything but only kept staring at Louisa, their eyes growing more and more lascivious, she became convinced none really had seen or heard of Dave Duvall’s presence here and walked away, leading her Morgan by the reins.
She stopped at another saloon and a dugout cabin before which an Indian woman, probably a hider’s wife, was cutting up a buffalo tongue. Getting no reply to her question at either place—neither the Indian nor the lone man sweeping out the second saloon so much as looked at her!—she headed over to another cabin across the road, sitting in a shallow ravine. It was flanked by three more sod-roofed shacks and a corral in which a handful of horses hung their heads and swished their tails at bugs. Several soldiers sat talking on the first cabin’s stoop.
lying the Morgan to the hitching post out front, Louisa walked across the hard-packed yard and mounted the porch. Ignoring the soldiers, who had ceased talking as soon as they saw her and were now staring the way most men of low breeding stared at her, she crossed the porch and knocked on the door. She did not bother asking the soldiers about Duvall, for she knew such men and knew from the smirks on these men’s faces that she could not count on the sincerity of their answers.
One of the soldiers laughed. “Door’s open, sweetheart. You don’t have to knock!” He laughed again, and the other four followed suit.
Louisa lifted the crude leather latch and stepped inside, shutting the door behind her on the laughing voices of the soldiers. The cabin was stuffed to brimming with crude furniture, including several cots and an iron range. Shelves spilled pots and pans and dry goods. Louisa stood where she was, for she knew that to move in such dusky, cramped quarters would probably mean knocking something over.
“Who’re you?” came a female voice from the shadows across the cabin.
Squinting and casting her gaze about, Louisa discovered a woman reclining on another cot behind two blankets hanging from a wire, which she had parted with her hand. Her black hair was streaked with gray. She wore only a wash-worn chemise, it appeared, exposing nearly one whole, sagging breast. A cheroot smoldered in her hand parting the blankets. The air in the place was fetid with unspeakable human secretions.
“My name is Louisa Bonaventure of Sand Creek, Nebraska, and I’m looking for a man called Handsome Dave Duvall. Have you seen or heard of his presence hereabouts in the last few days?”
The woman stared through the parted blankets, expressionless. Finally, she blinked. “Why on earth would you be looking for such a man?” she asked sadly.
“I’ve personal business with him.”
“Personal?” The woman’s gaze turned vaguely ironic as she studied Louisa from head to toe and back again. “Let me give you a free piece of sound advice, honey. Dave Duvall might be as handsome as all get out, but he’s the devil’s filth. Not the man a sweet little thing like you should be chasing all the way from Nebraska or anywhere else.”
“You know where he is, don’t you?”
The woman sighed and puffed the cheroot. Her face paled. “I heard from someone who thought they seen him over at Jack Clawson’s sawmill down the road apiece, south. I hope to hell he isn’t, because there’s nowhere Dave goes that the people don’t suffer in the most horrible ways.”
She studied Louisa, whose heart was thudding. “But you just leave him alone. Stay clear of that man, honey.”
“South, you said?”
“Listen, honey, you just never mind what I said. You just—”
Louisa didn’t hear the rest, for she’d already turned, opened the door, and stepped back onto the porch. She moved toward her horse, but one of the soldiers gathered around the door stepped into her path, smirking.
“Excuse me, sir.”
“Excuse me, sweetheart.”
“I was heading for my horse.”
“Ah, now, what’s the hurry?”
Louisa glanced around at the five leering faces. Fear and anger gripped her, but she was no stranger to either emotion. “Kindly remove yourself from my path, sir,” she ordered the young, stringbean firebrand standing between her and the Morgan.
“What are you gonna do if I don’t?”
Louisa reached into the slit in her poncho and produced the Colt. Extending it, she thumbed back the hammer. “I’ll blow a hole in your worthless hide a mile wide.”
The firebrand stared at the gun, his eyes widening. “Jesus Christ, boys, look at the cannon this pretty little gal’s packin’!”
Suddenly, his left hand slashed at the gun, knocking it out of Louisa’s hand before she had time to fire. It went off when it hit the porch floor, the slug tearing into the base of the cabin. Before Louisa knew what was happening, one of the soldiers grabbed her from behind,
lifting her off her feet.
“No!” she cried. “No, you vermin ... slime!”
The soldiers hooted and howled. The one holding Louisa dodged her flying fists and kicking feet, and then one of the others grabbed her legs in his arms, pinning them together.
“Eeee-tow, Jeb!” the stringbean soldier cried. ‘Take that little polecat in the cabin and go to work! Let me know when you’re done, ’cause I’m next!”
“Help me, Jim!” Jeb howled to the man holding Louisa’s feet.
“You got it, Jeb!”
One of the other soldiers opened the cabin door, and Jeb and Jim carried the desperately fighting Louisa into the cabin and kicked the door closed behind them.
Chapter Twelve
LOU PROPHET WOKE for the second time that morning, to a scratching, sniffing sound. Opening his eyes, he looked around the tiny cell.
Morning light angled through the single, barred window, making visible the single wood table and chair and the rat that was inspecting Prophet’s breakfast leavings: stale gruel with weevils the size of raisins.
Prophet reached for his boot, threw it at the rat. The rat gave a surprised screech as it leaped from the table and scuttled down a hole in the floor. Presently, the door to the cell block squawked open, and one of the sheriff’s deputies looked in angrily.
“What’s the trouble in here?”
“You got more rats than a goddamn Yankee prison camp.”
“Hold it down over there, Prophet, or I’ll give you a good poke with the butt of my shotgun. In case you don’t know it, you ain’t one of Sheriff Teal’s favorite people.”
“He ain’t exactly one of mine, either. So why doesn’t he just let me go? He must’ve had time to investigate the killing, as he calls it.” Glancing around, Prophet saw that there were only three other prisoners in the cell block. “Hell, he’s already let the drunks out!”
“Sheriff Teal’s enjoying his breakfast over at the Bismarck. He’ll get to you when he’s damn good and ready.”
With that, the deputy retreated, pulling the door closed behind him.
One of the others prisoners chuckled, the laughter echoing along the cell block. “Amigo, if Sheriff Teal don’t like you, you gonna be here awhile.”
Prophet knew the man was right. Deciding there was no use getting all worked up over something he couldn’t control, he lay back down on the cot for another nap. He’d barely nodded off when the door opened again, and boots thumped in the cell block.
Prophet lifted his hat from his eyes. The deputy was turning a key in the door to Prophet’s cell.
“You’re in luck, Prophet,” the turnkey said. “The sheriff’s feeling agreeable this morning.”
Prophet stomped into his boots in a hurry and followed the deputy out of the cell block, down a flight of stairs, through a short hall, and into the main office of the Burleigh County sheriff. Teal was sitting behind a massive desk, several filing cabinets and a framed map of the county on the wall behind him. He did not look up as Prophet stepped into the room.
“You’re damn lucky the man you killed raped a girl from Ambrose two months ago, Prophet. Damn lucky. Now get the hell out of here!”
“I take it the fishing didn’t go so well last night.” Prophet smirked. He knew he was pushing his luck, but he didn’t appreciate spending the night in the hoosegow after defending himself from an assassination attempt. The attempt was a good indication that Duvall was in the area, which meant Louisa was in danger, whether she knew it or not.
The sheriff looked up now, his florid face swelling with anger. “Don’t tempt me to throw you back in your cell, you rebel son of a bitch!”
Prophet was openly defiant. “On what charge?”
“Violation of the city ordinance which prohibits discharge of firearms within the corporate limits other than by those empowered to employ same, except upon Fourth of July, Christmas, and New Year’s!”
“That’s a new one on me.”
“You’ve just never obeyed it!” Teal waved savagely. “Joe, give him his gear and show him the goddamn door!”
“Wait a minute, Sheriff,” Prophet said, softening his tone. “I, uh ... I think you have five hundred dollars of my bounty money.”
The sheriff stared at him, scowling.
Prophet grimaced and fidgeted on his feet, as though he were asking the sheriff for his daughter’s hand.
“Remember? I brought in the two rascals that held up that express wagon a few months back. When the reward money came in, you were gonna stow it in your safe until—”
“I remember,” the sheriff said, a cunning light entering his eyes. “It’s gone.”
Prophet’s jaw dropped. “Gone? What are you talkin’ about?”
“It went to pay your fine for not only wearing your gun within the city limits but for firing it in same. What’s left will go to the undertaker who’s tending the body.”
“Five hundred dollars!”
“It’s either that or go before the judge. He don’t particularly care for Southern bounty hunters any more than I do.”
Prophet stared at the pugnacious old cuss, who stared back, eyes gleaming smugly. Finally, deciding he’d been beaten and was now broke, to boot, having spent virtually his last change on Louisa’s dress and on the meal at the Bismarck Hotel, Prophet sighed and donned his hat. He turned to the outside door. The deputy stood beside it, offering Prophet’s gun belt, a grin lifting his handlebar mustache.
Prophet grabbed the belt and put his hand on the doorknob. Before he could pull, the deputy said with a self-satisfied grin, “I wouldn’t wear that in town no more. Turn it over to your hotel clerk until you leave”— the man winked and bobbed his head—”or we’ll be seein’ ye again real soon.”
Prophet wanted to smack the kid silly, and even considered it until he remembered Louisa. As he opened the door and started outside, the sheriff called once more from his desk.
“Hey, Prophet, what the hell brought you to town, anyway?”
Prophet considered telling the sheriff about Duvall but decided against it. He didn’t want Teal or any of his dimwitted deputies involved. In Prophet’s experience, bad lawmen were like bad bird dogs, tending to flush their quarry long before it got within shooting range. Besides, he’d probably already received cables that Handsome Dave was in the area and had decided to ignore them as long as he could.
“Just wanted to see you again, Sheriff,” Prophet said with a mocking grin. “A pleasure as always.”
He donned his hat and left the courthouse. Worried about Louisa, he went straight to his hotel, ignoring the deputy’s warning to turn his gun over to the desk clerk. There was no way in heaven or hell he was going to walk around unarmed with Handsome Dave Duvall gunning for him.
When the desk clerk handed over his key, the man gave Prophet a knowing smirk. “Guess you and your, uh, friend had a falling out?”
Prophet glowered at the man. “What makes you say that?”
The man adjusted his paper collar and nudged his glasses up his haughty nose. “Well, since she already checked out and all, I just thought...”
Prophet’s stomach burned with anxiety. “Checked out? Where’d she go?”
The clerk shrugged and spread his soft hands. “Didn’t say. Just took off—in rather a hurry, I must say.”
Prophet turned fretfully away and mounted the stairs, taking them two at a time. On the second floor, he found the dress he’d bought Louisa hanging on his door.
“Goddamn you, girl,” Prophet groused as he unlocked the door and stepped into the room. Tossing the dress on the bed, he said, “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times, you’re gonna be the death of me yet.”
He went to the window and drew the shade. Staring down at the busy street, he wondered where she had disappeared to. She’d obviously gone out on her own to hunt for Dave Duvall. But where was she planning on starting? Prophet himself had covered all the saloons and brothels in Bismarck.
Well, almos
t all. There was one place he had yet to search.
To that end, he grabbed his gear, tossed his room key to the desk clerk on his way out of the hotel, and headed for the feed barn. As he’d suspected, the Morgan was gone. Prophet saddled Mean and Ugly and trotted west on Main, swerving impatiently around stalled freight wagons and buckboards loaded with farming and ranching supplies. When he was free of the snarled traffic, he gave Mean the spurs and didn’t check the dun down until he’d made the buttes along the river.
From atop a sagey knoll, he appraised the handful of shanties and the buffalo camp to the west.
“Prophet, you rebel dog!” one of the hunters called affably from his cook fire. “Where in the hell you been keeping yourself?”
Prophet gigged his horse toward the man in stained buckskins and a tangled beard. A middle-aged half-breed woman sat near nearby, darning a saddle blanket.
“Max, you seen a blonde-headed girl ride through here on a black Morgan?”
Max scratched his head thoughtfully. “Well, yeah, I did. About fifteen, twenty minutes ago. Rode up to the National over there, as I recall.” A wide grin broke out on the man’s sun-seared cheeks. “What you up to now, Proph, chasin’ blonde-headed girls around the territory?”
Prophet didn’t take the time to answer. Instead, he reined Mean and Ugly back on the trail, spurring him hard. A minute later, he rode up to the long saloon tent in a cloud of yellow dust. The Morgan wasn’t tied to the hitch rack out front, but Prophet inquired within, learning from the barkeep that a pretty blonde had been there a few minutes ago, looking for Handsome Dave Duvall.
Prophet forked leather again and rode along the trail through the heart of the shantytown, looking this way and that for the Morgan. He was nearly to the town’s south end when he turned left.
The Morgan was there, tied before a cabin in a shallow ravine.
“He-yaw!” Prophet encouraged his horse.
Mean descended the ravine in two fluid leaps, kicking up dirt and gouts of sod. Prophet leaped from the saddle as the dun approached the Morgan, the black horse sidling away and giving a startled whinny.
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