The Devil and Lou Prophet (10 page)

He saw movement out of the comer of
his left eye. Wheeling, he felt a bullet burn his temple at the
same moment he heard the report and saw the smoke and fire stab
from a gun. For a split second, the smoke and fire and the burning
pain in his head enveloped him. It did not freeze him, however. As
if of its own accord, his right hand brought the Peacemaker up
level with Bannon’s chest. It jumped as it fired.

Bannon flew back against the massive,
cracked wall of granite behind him, face pinched with pain. He
started bringing his gun up again, and Prophet’s second shot took
him through the soft skin beneath his chin, blasting through the
crown of his skull, carrying jellied brains through the exit and
plastering them on the granite slab above him. What remained of
Bannon toppled back toward Prophet, who stepped aside as Bannon
fell face first in the tracks he and Prophet had made at the bottom
of the arroyo.

“
There you go, you son of a
bitch.”

Prophet touched his temple and saw the
blood on his finger. He traced the burn along his forehead.
Deciding the groove wasn’t deep enough to worry about, he dabbed at
it with his bandanna as he went through Bannon’s pockets,
collecting a comb, a pencil, two packs of cards, the cigarillos and
cribbage board, matches, and a roll of two hundred and fifty
dollars bound with a diamond-studded money clip. Gambling winnings,
no doubt. There was no indication of why he was here or who had
sent him.

Billy Brown?

Prophet unbuckled the man’s gunbelt,
collected both Remingtons, and headed back toward the stage. He
intended to give Bannon’s personal effects to the first sheriff he
found. Then he’d cable Owen McCreedy a very short note: “WHAT IN
THE HELL IS GOING ON?”

He’d come to the place where he and
Bannon had descended the arroyo when the stage driver appeared,
cat-stepping sideways down the bank, a rifle in his hands. When he
saw Prophet he stopped abruptly, one foot nearly sliding out from
under him. “You find him?”

“
He’s dead.”

Clatsop sighed and shook his head.
“What the hell?”

“
That’s what I’d like to
know,” Prophet grumbled as he brushed past the jehu and continued
along the trail toward the stage.

As he approached the coach, he saw the
older woman, the boy, and the old man lying chest down behind a
wheel, worried faces lifted toward Prophet. Seeing the bounty
hunter, they looked somewhat relieved but made no effort to come
out from behind the wheel. The horses were skittish, but the
stage’s brake had held.

Frank Harvey was sitting near the
others, propped against a wheel, head inclined on a shoulder, eyes
half-open, hands crossed on his lap. The snakes tattooed on both
arms coiled demonically, spitting flames. Blood made a dark red bib
on his chest.

“
The driver said he’s
deader’n a doornail,” the boy told Prophet eagerly.

“
Daniel, you hush!” the old
woman screeched.

“
It’s all clear,” Prophet
told them.

“
You get him?” the old man
rasped.

“
Yep.”

Prophet turned to the girl. She sat
with her back to the rock Prophet had flung her behind. Her elbows
rested on her upraised knees, and her face was in her
hands.

“
It’s all right now—you can
get up,” Prophet told her.

Lowering her hands, she turned to him,
eyes bright with wrath. “It’s all right?”

“
Yes.”

Slowly, she stood—a lioness uncoiling
from her resting spot to pounce on prey. There was so much fury in
her bearing that Prophet felt his muscles tighten.

“
It’s all right?” she asked
again, louder, voice taut as Glidden wire.

As she approached him stiffly, eyes
wide, face blanched with indignation, Prophet worried about another
kick. He kept his arms at his sides, ready to grab her foot if he
had to.

“
It’s all right? We’re all
nearly killed, and you’re saying it’s all right?’

“
Bannon’s dead,” Prophet
said, annoyed.

“
Yes, but how many more men
has Billy Brown sent to kill me?”

Prophet gazed at her, frowning. He had
to admit it was a good question. “Who’s Billy Brown?” he
asked.

Mike Clatsop shouldered up next to
Prophet. “What’s this about Billy Brown?”

The girl turned to the driver. “He’s
the one who sent Bannon to kill me. Bannon and a whole lot more,
I’m afraid.”

The driver’s leathery, deep-lined face
turned crimson, his lips parting as if to respond, but no words
formed. Watching him, Prophet said, “Would someone please tell me
who the hell Billy Brown is!”

Under the stage, the old miner said,
“What’s this I’m hearin’ again about Billy Brown?”

The driver turned to Prophet. “You
ain’t heard of Billy Brown, Lou?”

“
No!” Prophet
exclaimed.

Clatsop shook his head. “Well, hell...
he’s ... just plain ... bad.”

Miss Diamond turned to Prophet. “He’s
a wealthy businessman in Johnson City who runs a corrupt syndicate.
All the saloon-, brothel-, and theater-owners in town pay him a
monthly fee or get burned to the ground ... or worse. Worse is what
happened to Hoyt Farley.”

“
You saw it?”

“
Yes.”

“
And you went to the
sheriff?”

“
I wasn’t that stupid. If I
had, I’d be dead by now.”

“
Then how does the sheriff
know you were a witness to this Farley fella’s murder?”

The girl’s voice was grimly sarcastic.
“I have no idea. All I know is I was perfectly safe—until you
showed up, thank you very much, Mr. Prophet.”

Prophet was incredulous. “You don’t
think I led them to you, do you?”

“
That’s exactly what I
think. I think word got out that the Johnson City sheriff hired you
to bring me in. I think Billy Brown had you followed, and you led
Bannon right to my doorstep.”

Incensed, Prophet stepped toward the girl,
stabbing a finger at his chest. “Listen, lady—nobody follows Lou
Prophet without him knowing about it. Nobody.” Prophet’s eyes were
sharp, and his nostrils flared.

The girl wasn’t backing down, however.
Placing her fists on her hips, she’d opened her mouth to respond
when Clatsop intervened.

“
Okay, okay,” he said,
waving his hands. “We’d best load ol’ Frank aboard the coach and
get a move on. We’re a good hour behind schedule the way it
is.”

A half hour later, the stage pulled
away from the stop. Frank Harvey was strapped to the top luggage
rack, and Prophet was riding shotgun. The horses galloped, kicking
dust in his face, and Clatsop encouraged them with his
epithet-laced harangues. The bounty hunter brooded, silently
cursing the girl and wondering what kind of hell he’d gotten
himself into now.

Wondering which of Billy Brown’s men would
appear next ... and when.

Lola Diamond sat beside the old
miner and gazed out the stage window from under the bending brim of
her straw hat. Suddenly aware of being watched, she turned to see
the boy across from her staring at her with wide-eyed wonder. In
spite
of how
tired and hopeless she felt, she smiled at the lad.

“
Does someone really want
to kill you?” the boy asked innocently.

“
Daniel!” the mother
snapped, grabbing the boy’s thigh in a claw like grip. “You mind
your own business and stop staring at her. She’s bad!”

The miner looked up from the dime
novel he’d been reading. “Now, Mrs. Phelps, just because the girl’s
in trouble doesn’t mean she’s bad.”

“
Oh, doesn’t it?” the woman said
sharply. “I know who she is. She’s a showgirl.” The prudish,
cow-eyed gaze switched to Lola, who found herself recoiling from
it. “I saw her riding into Henry’s Crossing with those show wagons.
Harlots, all of ’em! Besides, any woman caught up in the misdeeds
of badmen is bound to be bad herself. Harumph!”

“
Now. Mrs. Phelps—” the
miner continued placatingly.

“
That’s all right, mister
... really,” Lola said, offering the man an appreciative smile.
“I’m used to it.”

“
Used to getting innocent
people killed, no doubt, too,” Mrs. Phelps mumbled under her breath
as she gazed out her window.

Lola turned to the boy, who was
staring at her again. For the boy’s benefit, she stuck her tongue
out at the woman, and grinned at the lad. The boy mimicked her,
covering his mouth to muffle a snicker. Lola winked at him, then
returned her gaze out the window, at the grassy buttes and
pine-studded ridges rolling under big, puffy clouds.

She rested against the side of the
coach, her mood souring quickly as she considered her situation:
nabbed by a bounty hunter determined to drag her back to Johnson
City. She doubled she’d get that far. If Billy Brown got his
way—and when did he not?—she’d be dead very soon indeed.

How had she gotten to this horrible
place in her life? she wondered. She’d been taught by the best
drama teachers in the East. She was beautiful, talented, and eager
to spend her life doing what she loved: singing, dancing, and
acting. She belonged on the best stages in the world reciting
Shakespeare, singing the best ballads to the best crowds,
performing uproarious vaudeville to guffawing hordes of the
impeccably dressed elite. She’d sit at the tables of aristocrats,
governors, generals, presidents, and kings.

Her lovers would be tall, dashing, and
Italian.

When her private train car rolled into
a city, she’d be greeted by marching bands, red carpets, and tall,
enclosed carriages driven by fawning men in high hats and white
gloves. In the grandest hotels, the world’s best champagne would
await her on ice.

That was the life of an Amber Skye or
a Lola Diamond. Not this traveling from one rat-bit mining dump to
another in a creaking, smelly wagon led by a drunk lech like Big
Dan Walthrop, only to get nabbed by some two-bit bounty hunter and
hauled kicking and screaming back to a town that wanted her
dead.

She couldn’t have cared less about
Hoyt Farley. Who was he anyway—or had he been—but some small-time
brothel pimp and drink-slinger? It didn’t matter to her that he was
dead. She’d be damned if she’d endanger her life just to keep the
man who’d killed him behind bars.

As soon as she could, she would run.
Run where, she did not know. But the big, half-witted bounty hunter
who’d latched onto her like a bramble burr would surely get her
killed if she did not escape him soon. She was lucky to have lived
as long as she had. Billy Brown’s hired gun had obviously found her
by following the unwitting Prophet right to her
doorstep.

Damn that bounty hunter!

But how did Bannon know the sheriff of
Johnson City had hired Prophet ... unless the sheriff or someone
close to him had leaked the information to Billy Brown?

She closed her eyes and shook her head
to rid herself of the distressing, convoluted thoughts. All she
knew for sure, and all she needed to know to stay alive, was that
she was a target. The only way she’d stay alive was if she got far,
far away from here ... back to San Francisco, maybe. Or maybe she’d
go down to Texas. She’d heard there were scads of show troupes down
there. In one of those, eventually, she’d roll into the fame that
was rightfully hers.

Surely Billy Brown’s tentacles wouldn’t
reach her in Texas ...

Another thought occurred to her that
made her heart quicken and her eyes darken. All she had for money
was six dollars and a few cents in her carpetbag—enough to buy her
a couple of meals, but that was all. Certainly not enough for stage
fair to San Francisco or Abilene.

As if out of nowhere, tears flooded
her eyes. Feeling her heart and soul shrivel, feeling more alone
and wayward than she’d felt since her mother died, she lowered her
head to her hands and sobbed. It was as though she were a dry stick
broken in a hard wind, all her hopes and dreams scattered like so
much flotsam in a hurricane.

“
Ah, miss, don’t ... don’t do
that,” the old miner beseeched her.

“
I’m sorry,” she said, her
hand over her mouth.

“
It’s ... really ...
Ever’thing’s gonna work out just fine.”

“
Yes .
.. ”

“
You’ll see.”

“
I know,” she said,
accepting the handkerchief he offered. She wiped her eyes and blew
her nose. Looking up, she saw the boy’s mother staring at her
derisively.

“
Yeah,” the woman said.
“Everything’s gonna work out just fine for her. Just fine in hell,
that is!” With that, she turned her head sharply back to the
window.

“
Oh, Mrs. Phelps!” the old
miner chastised.

The woman acted as if she hadn’t heard
the man. She continued gazing primly out the window, her gaudy
coiffure secured beneath her cheap, feathered hat. It was the hard
set of the woman’s persnickety double chin, the pug, upturned nose,
and dull eyes that saved Miss Lola Diamond from total defeat.
Watching the woman in all her disdain—a drummer’s wife, probably,
or a store clerk’s— filled Lola with a disdain of her own. The
anger seethed up from her toes to her legs to her stomach and
chest, until she was suddenly, inexplicably steeled by
it.