Scolding himself for not keeping a closer watch on the yard—he was going to get that girl killed yet—Prophet made a beeline for the house and jerked the screen door open. Stepping inside, he raked his eyes across the lantern-lit room.
Two men, broadened by the shadows cast by the lanterns, sat at a table close to the kitchen. They were drinking coffee, and they looked up quickly as Prophet stepped into the room.
Silence yawned as the two factions regarded each other like unfamiliar dogs. The faces of both strangers were silhouetted against the lantern hanging on the wall behind them. Their hats lay on the table, their longish hair sweat-matted to their scalps. Both wore hide vests, dusters, and bandannas. Prophet couldn’t see their guns, but he knew they were packing iron.
Finally, one of the newcomers said, “Hidy,” and brought his cup to his lips and drank.
“Hidy,” Prophet said. “Didn’t know we had company.”
“Just rode in.” the taller of the two men said. He sat facing Prophet directly. The other man sat to his left, facing the outside wall and holding his cup to his face with both hands.
Prophet sauntered over to a table, pulled a chair out, and sat down. “Musta rode in mighty fast,” he said, grinning. “Those horses are lathered a bit.”
The two strangers said nothing to this. Prophet could hear someone moving around in the kitchen, opening and closing a squeaky range door.
“I’m Prophet,” the bounty man said, conversationally, trying to feel the two men out, hoping they hadn’t been sent for the girl, while the alarms in his head told him otherwise.
“That right?” said the tall man. He glanced at the other man; his dark eyes having acquired a humorous cast, they slid back to Prophet. “We’re Smith and Jones.”
He looked at his partner again and grinned. His partner laughed. He covered his mouth when the woman came out of the kitchen with an angry sigh, carrying two steaming plates. She set the plates before the men, glanced at Prophet with a scowl, then turned back toward the kitchen.
“Oh, miss,” the tall man called, extending his cup. “Could I have more coffee?”
“Yeah, me, too,” his partner chimed in.
The woman went into the kitchen and returned with the black enamel pot, holding the handle with a leather mitt. She slopped coffee into the men’s cups while they ate.
“What about you?” she said, shooting a look across the room at Prophet. “You want coffee, too?”
Prophet figured she couldn’t get much angrier, so he went ahead and voiced his wish. “You have any o’ that pie left?”
Unexpectedly, her eyes softened. “You liked that pie, did ye?”
“If you weren’t already married, you would be ... first thing in the mornin’.” Prophet’s eyes slitted flirtatiously.
She snickered and went into the kitchen, from which a tinny clatter issued. She reappeared a moment later with a big piece of pie and a stone mug of coffee, so black it would have floated a horseshoe.
“Much obliged, Mrs.—”
“Hill,” she finished for him, her haughty demeanor returned. She set the coffee pot on the newcomers’ table and addressed them automatically. “Now I’m cleaning up the kitchen and going to bed. I don’t serve all night long. Help yourselves to more coffee, but when it’s gone, it’s gone. No gambling and no roughhousing on the premises.”
With that, she tossed a lock of stray hair back from her face, returned to the kitchen, and started priming a squeaky well pump. Prophet picked up his fork and sliced into his pie, eyeing the newcomers eating with noisy abandon.
He chewed a forkful of pie thoughtfully and swallowed. “Who’s Smith and who’s Jones?”
The tall man looked up from his plate, both cheeks bulging as he chewed. When he opened his mouth, Prophet could see a biscuit. “He’s Smith an’ I’m Jones.”
Prophet nodded. He forked pie into his mouth and said, “Where you from ... Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones?”
The short man turned his head sharply to Prophet, squinting his eyes. “Well, ain’t you the snoopy one!”
“Easy, Morg—” The tall man glanced at Prophet. “I mean Jones. He’s just bein’ friendly, that’s all. Ain’t that right, Mr. Prophet?”
“That’s right,” Prophet said, one hand on his right thigh, close to his gun. These two looked handy with iron, but they didn’t look any handier than he was. The problem was there were two of them.
“That’s right,” Prophet said, staring over his coffee cup. “Just bein’ friendly.”
Smith shoved another forkful of beef in his mouth. “Me and Jones here,” he said, pausing to swallow, “we’re up from Kansas ... headin’ for the gold fields west of here. Gold-seekers, you might say.” He lifted his gaze to Prophet while he ate. and winked. “Hell, ever’body else is diggin’ for El Dorado. Why can’t we?”
“Mighty tempting, I have to admit,” Prophet said. “Kansas, you say, eh?”
Smith nodded as he chewed. “Abilene. We worked for a spread thataway.”
“Oh, really?” Prophet said, setting his coffee down and taking up his fork. “I worked a few spreads down there myself. The T-Bar and Hoffman’s Lazy-H.”
Jones glanced at Prophet, sneering, then turned to Smith. “Now I s’pose he wants to know who we rode for—snoopy bastard.”
“Easy, Jones, easy,” Smith said, patting his partner’s wrist. To Prophet, he said, “It’s getting past his bedtime. Jones always gets cranky when he’s up too late.”
“I see.”
“We rode for a man called Breckenridge.”
“Breckenridge?”
Smith was swabbing his plate. “Hear of it?”
“Sure, I heard of it,” Prophet said. “That’s about the biggest spread in Dawson County. At least, it used to be.”
“Still is ... as of two weeks ago,” Smith said.
Prophet nodded and studied the two men warily, perplexed. They did indeed look like drovers. They might have gotten tired of the long hours, back-breaking work, and poor pay, and decided to head for the mining camps. They might have given Prophet the obviously phony names just for the fun of it. Cowboy humor. But why the lathered horses?
The bounty man knew little enough about these men to know he’d have to keep a close eye on them tonight— if they stayed over, that was, and Prophet had a feeling they would.
His suspicion was validated when Smith finished his coffee, sat back in his chair, and stretched. “Well, Jones, what you say we bed the horses down in the barn and mosey upstairs for some shut-eye?”
“I hear that.”
The two men scraped their chairs back, stood, and headed for the door, Smith tipping his hat at Prophet as he passed. Prophet cracked an affable smile and offered a nod. When they were gone, he sat trying to figure a plan to protect the girl, alone in her room, with these two men in the same house.
But they didn’t know what room she was in. Prophet reminded himself. Which meant they’d probably wait till morning to show their hand, when she appeared. That’s when Prophet had to be ready. He wished she’d let him sleep in her room tonight, but he knew his chances of that were nil. Attempting to do so might not only get him another boot to the groin, but give her room away, as well.
He finished his coffee, went to the door, and looked out. The barn doors were open, spilling light on the hard-packed, hay-flecked earth. Deciding to head upstairs before Smith and Jones returned, to get himself situated and ready for anything. Prophet made for his room and lit the lamp on the dresser. He picked the sawed-off Richards off the bed and hefted it thoughtfully in his hands.
Moving to a window, he pulled the shade away and peered down into the yard. The light in the barn went out. A moment later. Smith and Jones appeared, two dark figures heading across the yard to the house. When they were inside, boots clomping on the wood floor below. Prophet went to the door, holding the shotgun in both hands out before him, and pressed his back to the wall.
Listening through the door, he heard the men climb the stairs.
“Well, what the hell room’s empty ... ?” Smith carped.
“This one here ... the door’s open,” Jones said.
It was the last room on the right, on the other side of Prophet. When Prophet heard their door close, he gave a relieved sigh and sat on the edge of the bed, listening until the noises in the next room had died. Then he pushed himself back onto the bed, his back against the headboard, boots crossed, feeling the tension ease a little.
Prophet knew he couldn’t let his guard down completely. It was when you thought you were in the clear that all hell broke loose.
Hours passed, slow as a lifetime. The lamp flickered and spat, then steadied for a while, flickering and spitting again intermittently, all night long. Prophet dozed lightly for a few minutes at a time, waking with a jerk, his whole body tensing, whenever someone in one of the bedrooms coughed, the old miner ceased snoring suddenly before resuming, the joists creaked as the house settled, or a mouse scuttled in the hall.
Prophet was grateful when the first light of dawn smudged his window, and the birds began stirring, their chirps and songs sounding as loud as thunder after the long, silent night. Someone in the living quarters below must have heard them, too, for they began moving around down there. When the first smell of coffee wafted up the stairs. Prophet heard the old jehu, Mike Clatsop, open his door, give a tired groan, and clomp down the hall in his boots.
“Stage leaves in forty minutes, folks!” he reported in a voice about two decibels below a yell. Then he continued downstairs.
Prophet didn’t move until he’d heard Smith and Jones leave their room and stroll downstairs, spurs jangling like change. Then he got up and blew out his lamp.
His saddlebags over his left shoulder, his shotgun hanging down his back, and his Winchester in his right hand, he headed downstairs in time to see Smith head outside and Jones sit down at one of the tables. Mike Clatsop must have gone out to help the old man and the boys hitch the horses to the stage, for he was nowhere in sight. The smell of bacon and coffee was thick and enticing. Through the open kitchen door rose the sounds of cooking.
“Mornin’,” Prophet said to Smith, who sat with his arms on the table before him, unshaven face puffy from his good night’s rest. “Sleep well?”
Jones made a face as though he smelled shit on his boots. “Like a log,” he drawled. “How ‘bout you?”
“Like a dead man.”
Smith came the closest Prophet had seen him to cracking a smile. Seeing the rifle and the shotgun, Smith said. “Why, you’re loaded for bear!”
“Never know what, or who, you might run into out here.”
Smith smirked. “Ain’t that a fact?”
Mrs. Hill appeared with a coffee pot and a tray of cups. She set it all down on a table in the room’s center. “Help yourselves to coffee, boys. Breakfast’ll be out in a minute.”
Prophet got up, poured coffee into a cup, and delivered the cup to Smith’s table with a grin. “There ye are, friend,” he said. “First cup’s on me.”
Smith looked up at him dull-eyed, contemptuous, and didn’t say anything. Prophet poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. He’d taken two sips when Mrs. Phelps and her son Daniel appeared, and took a table as far from Prophet as they could get. The old miner was about three minutes behind them, joining them at their table.
Prophet was wondering about Miss Diamond—had she overslept or snuck out a window?—when Mrs. Phelps brought a plate for him and Jones. First come, first served. The bounty man was about to get up to pour himself another cup of coffee when he saw Smith standing in the doorway. He’d froze and was looking toward the stairs.
Prophet turned to see what Smith was looking at, and his pulse quickened. Miss Diamond stood at the foot of the stairs, frozen, staring at Smith, as if some inner alarm warned her of danger.
Prophet’s gaze shifted to Jones. He, too, was staring at the girl, dark eyes wide with mute excitement. Prophet’s heart pounded. A warm flush spread up his neck and into his face. The Winchester stood against the wall behind him. His shotgun was strapped around his neck, hanging butt-up down his back.
He became acutely aware of the eight-gauge. Could he get to it in time, or should he go for the Peacemaker?
He shifted his gaze back to Smith, whose eyes darted between Prophet and Jones as he nervously licked his lips and slowly moved his right hand toward the revolver hanging on his thigh.
“What are we doin’ here, Price?” Jones asked tightly, gritting his teeth. Jones was watching Prophet and the girl, who remained before the stairs, frozen in place, eyes wide with trepidation.
Smith swallowed a dry knot in his throat. “I’ll take Prophet.” he said calmly. Then he yelled, “You take the girl!”
Jones’s right arm jerked to his six-shooter. Pulling the shotgun over his head with his right hand, Prophet bounded to his feet. He got the eight-gauge out before him, thrust his right finger through the trigger guard, eared back the right hammer, leveled the barrels on Jones, and squeezed the trigger.
The shotgun roared smoke and fire, and Jones gave a high-pitched yell as the buckshot caught him in the chest, stood him up, and Hung him back against the wall.
Prophet didn’t see him fall. He was too busy kicking the table out to his left and diving to his right just as Smith clawed iron and loosed two quick rounds in his direction. The slugs tore into the wall behind his table. Prophet hit the floor on his right side, brought the shotgun up, earing back the left trigger, and thundered another round of buckshot toward Smith, who yelled, dropped his gun, grabbed his right shoulder, and sagged against the doorjamb.
“Goddamn, you ... son of a bitch!” he cried, his face twisted in pain, blood leaking between the fingers of his gloved left hand.
He heaved himself off the jamb and ran outside. Prophet climbed to his feet, shoved a table out of his way, and ran to the door. By the time he got there, Smith had mounted one of the two horses he’d apparently saddled and led out from the barn. Sagging in the saddle of a skewbald gelding, he dug his spurs into the horse’s ribs and headed out of the yard at a ground-eating gallop.
Knowing that if the man got away he’d summon others, Prophet dropped the empty shotgun, unholstered his Peacemaker, and ran out to the middle of the yard. Dropping to a knee, he fired off an entire cylinder. The last bullet took the man just under his hat. He sagged down the side of the running horse and rolled.
Prophet stood and stared at the dead man through the dust churned up by his horse, which had fled out of sight. He tipped his hat back and ran a hand down his face. He’d gotten these two, but how many more would come?
However many it takes, the girl had said.
With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Prophet knew it was true.