PROPHET STARED FOR what seemed a long time at the shooter’s trembling, smoking gun.
Vaguely surprised to not be feeling the cold burn of a bullet, he stumbled back against the warehouse and whipped a quick glance behind him. Incredibly, the man’s hand had been shaking so hard that the bullet had sailed wide and plunked into a clapboard, drilling a splintery hole.
Instantly, Prophet clawed his own hogleg from his hip. But when he swung it forward, clicking the hammer back, his assailant disappeared around the building. Hearing boots pounding the boardwalk behind him, Prophet swung the gun that way. Another man—tall and thin and cow-eyed—was running toward him, yelling, “Bill, you goddamn yella dog!” The man came on, extending a revolver and sighting down the barrel.
Before he could fire, Prophet triggered his Peacemaker, the crack lifting angrily. The man took three more strides and dropped to his knees with a grunt. He held there, gazing stupidly down at the blood blossoming on his chest, then fell forward on his face, grinding his hat into the boardwalk.
Confused, his heart hammering, Prophet whipped forward and ran to the cross street. He stopped at the corner and extended the Peacemaker, peering south. Several horses and a leather-topped buggy were tied before a small tavern. Before the tavern, two old men in business suits stood holding soapy beer mugs and peering at Prophet warily.
“A man run this way?” Prophet called to them.
One of the old men nodded dully and pointed southward down the cross street. “And a girl. What’s goin’ on, mister?”
Prophet bolted forward, running hard, spurs clinking raucously. When he came to an alley, he stopped and looked left, then right. The alley was dark, as the sun was nearly gone, but he saw movement in the shadows that way.
“Louisa?” he called, his voice betraying his concern.
He crossed the street and jogged into the alley, stopping when he saw a slender figure approach, skirts swishing.
“Forget it,” she snarled, as angry as Prophet had ever seen her. Her voice was shrill with reproach. “He had a horse back there, and he’s gone. I could’ve shot him if I’d had a gun—and I would have had a gun if it hadn’t been for you and this dress and this silly, silly night you concocted!”
She brushed past him and marched up the cross street, her back stiff, her arms swinging furiously.
“Be careful,” Prophet told her. “There was another one. I shot him, but there could be more.”
She stopped abruptly and turned around. Before she could ask the obvious question, Prophet shook his head. “It wasn’t Duvall.”
“Who, then?”
Prophet shrugged and, gun hanging at his side, walked up the cross street and turned before the warehouse, where the dead man lay face down on the boardwalk, blood pooling around him. Louisa came up behind Prophet and peered grimly down at the crumpled body.
“Dave’s here” she said coldly. “He sent them.”
“Not necessarily” Prophet said. “I’ve got lots of enemies ... all over.”
“It’s too much of a coincidence. He’s here.”
“You there!” someone yelled. “You there; stay where you are and drop your weapon.”
Prophet peered back down the boardwalk, wincing. Two men were heading toward him and Louisa. One was short and nattily dressed in a cream Stetson and suit coat over a vest upon which a badge winked in the fading light. Another, larger man tramped along behind him, wielding a shotgun. He, too, wore a badge.
“Shit,” Prophet muttered.
“You there!” the short man yelled, stopping on the boardwalk, turning sideways, lifting an arm, and extending a stern finger at the bounty hunter. “I told you to drop that gun!”
“Droppin’ it on the boardwalk will raise hell with the action. Sheriff, how ‘bout if I just hand it to you butt first?”
The sheriff acquired a pained look and dropped his arm. “Prophet?”
“Yeah, it’s me,” he said with a fateful sigh.
The sheriff turned to the big, mustachioed deputy who stood behind him, then shook his head and began strolling toward Prophet, his fingers in his vest pockets. He glanced suspiciously between the bounty hunter and the dead man. “Who in the hell did you kill now!”
“Didn’t tell me his name,” Prophet said. “Just aimed that gun at me like he was fixin’ to use it, so I offed him. Miss Bonny-venture here will attest to the fact it was either him or me.”
“Miss who?”
“Miss Bonny—” Prophet turned to where Louisa had been standing behind him, but she wasn’t there. Looking around, he didn’t see her anywhere. “Well, I’ll be ... she was right here.” Prophet turned and took several steps up the street. “Louisa?”
“Get your ass back here, Prophet,” the sheriff ordered. “I won’t have any of your foolishness. Now tell me who this man is and why you killed him. If it’s a bounty you’re after, there sure as hell better be some paper on him.”
Prophet was still looking up the street for Louisa. She’d disappeared into thin air, the ungrateful little hellcat.
Scowling, he turned to the sheriff. The deputy was squatted down, going through the dead man’s pockets.
“I told you, Sheriff,” Prophet said, “it was self-defense. He and a buddy tried layin’ me out. The buddy missed and ran off, and this man here came runnin’ up behind me, aimin’ that thirty-six he’s got there. So I shot him. Fair and square. Him or me.”
“He dead?” the sheriff asked the deputy.
“Deader’n hell, Sheriff. Shot him right through the brisket. No one I recognize.”
The sheriff turned to the dozen or so people who’d heard the commotion and were milling up and down the street, looking this way. Most had come from the taverns and were holding glasses or cigars.
“Anyone see what happened here?” the sheriff asked them, swinging his gaze around.
No one said anything. A few shrugged. A few others wagged their heads. Deciding the excitement was over, several wandered back into their respective saloons, brothels, or restaurants. A fiddler was fiddling in a tavern up the street, and the lively music was a stark contrast to the grim situation on the bloody boardwalk.
The sheriff brought his gaze back to Prophet and extended his hand. “Give me that Peacemaker, Prophet.”
“What for? I told you—”
“I know what you told me, but I’m bringin’ you in.”
Prophet opened his mouth to object, but the sheriff held his hand up, cutting him off. “I’m gonna hold you overnight while Daniel here makes the saloon rounds. Sometimes it takes a few drinks to loosen people’s tongues. Someone must have seen what happened here.”
“Someone did see what happened here, Sheriff. Louisa Bonny-venture. She’s over at—”
“Now I’ve had enough of that foolishness, Prophet. You’re just up to your old tricks, tryin’ to make us lawmen look like fools. Well, I won’t have it. Now hand over that gun before I charge you with resisting arrest.”
Prophet scowled and wagged his head as he lifted the Peacemaker from his holster. Some lawmen he got along with, some he didn’t. Sheriff Edward Teal had always been one of the latter, for no good reason Prophet could think of, unless it was the time Prophet had found the bank robber the sheriff and his posse were tracking into the nether regions of the county, in a cathouse right across from the jail. If only Louisa hadn’t stalked off and left him here to explain himself. Some way to thank a fellow who only had her best interests in mind! When he saw her again, he had a mind to truss her up like a pig and give her a good old-fashioned tanning.
“You’ve just been waitin’ for this, haven’t you, Sheriff?” Prophet groused as he handed over the Peacemaker.
Teal shrugged and shared a snide glance with his deputy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Prophet. That’s enough of your smart talk. Now move out. I’m turnin’ the key on you!”
And he was going to enjoy every minute of it, Prophet thought as he stalked off toward the jail, feeling his own pistol poke his back. With no satisfaction at all, he also thought how Louisa’s trick could backfire on her if Handsome Dave called on her tonight, without Prophet there to help.