“Ain’t this a coincidence?” Prophet said.
“Ain’t it, though?”
“Where might you be headed?”
“Johnson City,” the hard case said, cutting his dull gray eyes at Lola, who stared at him with unadulterated hate. “I see you finally got your prisoner settled down.” He grinned until his cheeks dimpled. Prophet could tell he was unaccustomed to smiling.
The bounty hunter glanced at the two Remingtons resting against the man’s thighs, the man’s hands not far from the gutta-percha grips. Apprehension was a bug buzzing around in the back of Prophet’s head. He’d seen just too much of the man of late. Coincidence? Maybe. Henry’s Crossing was a small town. While Prophet couldn’t understand what business the man would have with him or the girl, he wasn’t taking any chances.
“Yeah, she’s a lamb,” Prophet grumbled, glancing at the girl. She turned to him, eyes flaring.
“Right pretty,” said the stranger.
Prophet shrugged. There was nothing like kicking a man in the balls to make a girl look ordinary. “I’ve seen prettier.”
“Not around here you haven’t.”
“I’d take that towel from her mouth if she thought she could keep her mouth shut.” Prophet looked at her again. She returned his gaze, containing her anger, eyes beseeching him to remove the gag.
“I don’t know—wildcat, that one,” the stranger said with a grin.
Prophet untied the towel from around her head. She made a dry spitting noise, as if to rid her mouth of lint, and shook her head violently, whipping her hat off. It fell on the floor. Hands tied, she left it there. She flashed her angry eyes at Prophet once more but, catching herself, said nothing.
The stranger laughed. She looked at him, then back at Prophet. The noise the stage made as it rumbled down the road was loud enough that only Prophet could hear her when she said, leaning toward him, “He’s been sent to kill me.”
Prophet glanced at the stranger.
“I beg your pardon?” the man said, knowing he’d been talked about.
Prophet thought for a moment, wondering how to play it. He glanced at the man’s pistols again and felt a strange sensation at the base of his spine.
Deciding to play it straight—why not?—Prophet said, “The lady says you’ve been sent to kill her.”
The man didn’t say anything for about five seconds, shifting his gaze between Prophet and the girl. “Who would send me to do that?”
“Billy Brown,” the girl said.
“Who’s Billy Brown?” the man asked her, beating Prophet to the punch.
“You know who Billy Brown is as well as I do,” she said disdainfully, blue eyes flashing fire. “He’s the bastard who cut Hoyt Farley’s throat in his own saloon. He’s the man who hired you to kill me before I could testify against him.”
Keeping both eyes on the stranger. Prophet tensed. He found himself admiring the girl’s sand. If she really thought the man had been sent to kill her. it took guts to face him down like this. But maybe she didn’t think she had anything to lose ...
The man was staring at her, brows furrowed. He turned his head to one side, regarding her askance. “Miss, I don’t have the foggiest notion what you’re talking about.” His eyes slid to Prophet. “Do you, Marshal?”
Prophet didn’t say anything for several seconds. “Who’s Hoyt Farley?” he asked Lola, keeping his eyes on the stranger, watching his hands without staring at them directly. He figured the man would telegraph any move with his eyes.
She jerked a look at him. “You don’t know?”
He flushed, hesitating, feeling the girl’s hot gaze on him. Apparently, a deputy U.S. marshal involved in the case would know the name of Hoyt Farley. “Hey, I’m just ... just ... transporting a witness to a county sheriff.”
A knowing grin pulled at the nostrils of the stranger’s large, pitted nose.
“He’s the saloonkeeper Billy Brown killed,” the girl said impatiently.
“Saloonkeeper?” the stranger said, shuttling what appeared a genuinely baffled gaze between Prophet and Miss Diamond.
“Saloonkeeper?” the girl mocked him, not buying his performance—if performance it was. Prophet couldn’t decide. He didn’t know either one of these people well enough to read them.
To the girl, he said with a heavy sigh, “So ... you’re saying Billy Brown sent this man to keep you from talking to Owen McCreedy.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Now do you see the danger you’ve put me in? I just hope you’re better at handling your six-gun than you were at arresting me.”
Prophet flushed, not at all liking how complicated his life had suddenly become. He didn’t like the girl, and he didn’t like the stranger sitting across from him. Situations like this were hard on a man’s self-respect, not to mention his nerves.
“I don’t know what she’s talkin’ about,” the man said to Prophet. “My name’s Bannon and I’m just headin’ for the faro tables down in Johnson City.” He stopped as a thought came to him. “Oh, I know ... it’s these Remingtons,” he said, indicating the two irons on his hips. He chuckled and gave his head a wag. “Yeah, these two ladies—Ruth and Alice, I call ’em—they’re mostly for show, if you know what I’m sayin’. I’m in the poker profession—a gamblin’ man—and you’d be surprised all the ornery bastards I have to contend with.”
“That right?” Prophet said.
“Sure. I mean, hell, when you rake the felt of someone’s hard-earned cash, well, you better look out. Especially if they’ve been drinkin’. They’re liable to pull on you—especially if they don’t think you’re handy with iron. I have to make it look as though I’m handy.” He patted one of the gutta-percha grips lovingly. Prophet’s heart thumped, and he slid his hand closer to the butt of the forty-five on his right hip.
“Easy there, pard,” the man said, detecting the movement. “Don’t get itchy.”
“I won’t if you won’t.”
Bannon’s voice was even, his expression cool. “I was just explainin’ why the girl’s afraid.”
“Well, why don’t we just leave Ruth and Alice alone for now?”
A thin voice rose above the knock and rattle of the stage and the sharp reports of the driver’s blacksnake. “I second that motion.” Prophet and Bannon turned to the wizened old man sitting on the other side of Miss Diamond. He was staring at them warily, obviously in no mood to see lead flung around the coach’s tight quarters.
It was the first time Prophet was more than vaguely aware of others aboard the stage. In addition to the old man, there was a middle-aged woman and a boy who appeared to be traveling together. The boy sat to Bannon’s right, directly across from Miss Diamond. The woman sat next to the window, on the other side of the boy. Fear shone brightly in her eyes, but the boy shuttled his eager gaze between Prophet and Bannon, apparently not the least bit wary of a lead swap. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the festivities.
Prophet lipped his hat to the woman and the boy, smiling reassuringly, then looked at Bannon, who returned his gaze with a benign smile. Prophet wondered if the man was telling the truth. Was he lying, or did Miss Diamond have an overactive imagination? She was an actress.
For the sake of the others, Prophet extended his hand. “Lou Prophet.”
Bannon shook it. “Wayne Bannon.”
“Nice to meet you, Wayne.”
“Likewise.”
“And ... uh ... thanks for your help back in the hotel.” Prophet offered a sheepish smile.
Bannon shrugged. “I was just passin’ by and heard the commotion, that’s all.”
“You were stayin’ at the Waddy’s, eh?”
“I’m a regular there.” Bannon looked at Miss Diamond and touched his hat brim. “Sorry about your trouble, ma’am. I hope everything works out in your favor.”
She sneered at him, then turned away to gaze hatefully out the window.
“Game of cribbage?” Bannon asked Prophet after they’d ridden another mile or so in silence. He produced a cribbage board from an inside pocket of his frock coat.
Prophet hesitated. Then he shrugged. What better way to keep an eye on the man’s hands? “Sure.”
The man had handily won two rounds and was well on his way to winning a third when the stage slowed to a halt and the driver called down, “Horse rest! Fifteen minutes to stretch!”
When the stage had come to a complete stop Prophet opened the door. He had started to get out when Miss Diamond said, “Wait. Why don’t you let him go first?”
Prophet glanced at Bannon, who shrugged and chuckled. “Sure, I’ll go.”
Bannon climbed out. Prophet followed, then turned to help Lola, the boy, and the middle-aged woman. The old man came out last, wagging his head. “I thought for sure you two were going to have a shootin’ match in there.”
“This man causin’ trouble, Pop?” rumbled a guttural voice behind Prophet.
Prophet turned to see Frank Harvey, a former bounty hunter Prophet had known and hated for years. They’d fought in most of the saloons between Milestown and Dodge heard that the man had started riding shotgun for a stage company. It would have to be this one. He just hoped Harvey didn’t mention anything about bounty hunting in front of the girl. He wanted her to believe he was a deputy marshal for as long as possible.
“Hi, Frank. How you doing?”
“You causin’ trouble on this here stage?” Six-six and broad as a barn, the rolled-up sleeves of his threadbare long Johns revealing a maze of tattoos on his post-sized arms, Frank Harvey stood holding a double-barreled shotgun across his chest. His thick, curly beard was covered with clay-colored dust, and his floppy hat looked as though he stomped and pissed on it regularly.
“Not a bit, pard,” Bannon intervened. “There was a misunderstanding a few miles back, but it was all my fault. I have a short fuse, you see, but I’m much better now.” He reached into his frock coat and produced a flat silver box. “Cigarillo? They’re Cuban.”
Harvey’s eyes were still on Prophet, like those of a half-wild dog bristling for a fight. His nose worked as he smelled the expensive tobacco, however, and his gaze gradually drifted from Prophet to the cigarillos. “Yeah ... all right,” he chafed, selecting a smoke with his sausage fingers.
“Good man,” Bannon said, leading Harvey away as though attracting a dog with a bone.
Prophet gave a slow sigh of relief.
“You’re right popular today, Marshal,” the girl quipped. Giving her back to him, she said, “Would you mind releasing me, so I can tend to nature?”
Reluctantly, Prophet cut the tether with his Arkansas toothpick. There was no sign of the other three passengers, who’d wandered off to answer their own nature calls.
“Just remember,” Prophet scolded, “there ain’t nowhere to run out here. Besides, I’m a pretty fast runner myself.”
He was taken aback by the brazen look she returned.
“You know, Marshal,” she said with an exaggerated air of perplexity, “I never did get a very good look at that badge of yours.”
“Huh?”
“Why don’t you wear your badge out where folks can see it?”
Prophet looked down at his chest, his vision beginning to swim as his nerves started dancing once more. “Well... ’cause ... uh ...” For the life of him, he couldn’t come up with an answer. Fidgeting, he glanced at the driver, grateful to see he was on the other side of the team, checking the horses’ hooves for loose nails and shoe wear.
“Let me see your badge,” Miss Diamond demanded, marching forward and yanking the right side of his coat back, revealing the badge. She leaned in close and squinted her eyes. “Huh! This doesn’t look very professional at all. Why, this badge is upside down!” Her voice was an axe, chopping him in two.
“Uh ... well ...”
“And you know what else?” She jerked another look at the badge, pantomiming another close inspection, then returned her vilifying gaze back to Prophet. “It’s not a deputy U.S. marshal’s badge at all. It’s a deputy sheriff’s star.” She waited, her eyes wide and expectant, chest heaving, her face flushed with anger.
Prophet stood there, an oversized schoolboy caught looking up girls’ dresses on the playground. He didn’t know what to say. His mouth opened several times before he managed to get words through it. “It ... is ... ?”
“Yes, it is,” she said so tightly Prophet thought her jaws would crack. “Hmmm.” She put a finger to her lip, mimicking deliberation. “What do you suppose that means? That—maybe, possibly—you’re not actually who you say you are!”
Prophet could not meet her gaze. Slowly, he removed the star from his vest and tossed it in the dust. “All right,” he said. “You got me. I’m not a deputy U.S. marshal.”
“A deputy sheriff?” she mocked.
“I’m not a deputy sheriff, either. I’m ... ” He didn’t know how to say it. He was afraid that once she learned his true profession, she’d kick him in the balls again.
“Yes?” she said, crossing her arms over her breasts, waiting.
“I’m a bounty hunter.”
He looked at her. She just stood there, arms crossed, hair beneath her hat lifting slightly in the breeze, staring at him as though at a mildly interesting statue.
“But the subpoena is one hundred percent real,” he assured her. “The sheriff from Johnson City hired me to issue it and to see that you made it to his office. And that’s what I intend to do.” His features grew stern as he touched the butt of his Peacemaker, hoping to defuse any idea she had about attacking him. He wondered how many times he could dust off his dignity before there was nothing left to dust off. In ten years of dogging badmen, he’d never felt this uncomfortable. Oh, to be rid of this woman!
She stared at him thoughtfully. “Well, you’re a big man, Mr. Prophet, so there’s little I can do against you. All I can do is try to convince you that if you go through with this, you and I are both going to die.”
It was Prophet’s turn to look skeptical. “Don’t you think you might be just a little too emotional?”
“You don’t believe our Mr. Bannon is out to kill me?”
“I didn’t say that ... ” But he was skeptical. He’d known a lot of short-trigger men, but Bannon didn’t seem the type. He was no doubt handy with his Remingtons, but he was a card man first, a killer only in a pinch.
Miss Diamond started to respond but was interrupted by the driver approaching with a shoe hammer in his hand. Prophet saw that the other three passengers had returned but were lingering several yards away, near the back of the coach. Having overheard the argument, they were glancing guardedly at him and Miss Diamond.
“Okay, folks,” the driver called. “Time to board up.”
The girl looked around. “Where’s Bannon?”
“He’s by the tree, smoking with my pal Harvey,” Prophet said.
She turned to the driver, who was returning his hammer to a tool box. “Driver, I haven’t taken my comfort yet. I’ll be just a minute.”
The driver turned his head and frowned, but before he could say anything, she was already addressing Prophet. “You keep an eye on Bannon.” Then she headed east around the rocks.
“Women,” the driver said, drawing on his cigarette.
“I’ll say,” Prophet agreed.
They stood there smoking and chatting, Prophet keeping one eye skinned on Harvey and Bannon smoking by a tree several yards away. He wasn’t concerned about Miss Diamond trying to escape him out here, for on foot she would have been in more trouble away from him than she was with him. Finally, he saw her returning, holding her dress up as she moved through the tall grass.
“What are you gawkin’ at?” Prophet turned to see Frank Harvey standing behind him. The driver had gone around to mount the stage on the opposite side.
“None of your goddamn—”
“Climb aboard, Prophet, or you’re gonna be sportin’ this up your ass,” Harvey said, holding up his double-barreled shotgun for Prophet’s inspection.
“Boys, boys,” Miss Diamond scolded, stepping between them.
“Let me give ya a hand there, miss,” Harvey said, offering a paw.
“Thank you.”
Prophet rolled his eyes as she took the shotgun rider’s hand. She stumbled. “Oh, darn!” she exclaimed. “My shoe.”
She bent down just as a gun popped. A bullet whistled through the air where her head had been a moment before, and plunged into Frank Harvey’s chest with a thump.