Staring Down the Devil (A Lou Prophet Western #5) (20 page)

“That
Leamon Gay?” Prophet asked the miner after the noise had settled
back to a steady roar. He knew it was Gay; he wanted to make his
act appear genuine.

“Why,
sure it is, mister. Who the hell else would buy drinks for the
whole damn house?”

“I
need to talk to him.”

The
miner laughed scornfully. “You need to talk to Mr. Gay?”

“That’s right.”

“How
come?”

“I
need a job.”

“Well,
sorry to tell you this, sonny, but Mr. Gay don’t do his own hirin’
and firin’. You’ll have to apply at the mine office like everyone
else.” Groom slapped Prophet’s shoulder with good-natured derision
and laughed.

“Well,
hell, that double-eagle there was the last o’ my roll. I’m lighter
than a damn feather and gettin’ a might wolfish. I need a job an’ I
need one now — tonight.”

“Don’t
do anything stupid, sonny,” the geezer warned. “Just hole up to the
livery and apply at the mine tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll have
somethin’ for you. You ever chip rock before?”

“No,
can’t say as I have.”

“Well,
maybe they’ll give ye a job hostlin’ the mules. Watch the
black-eared ones. They’re meaner’n a Texas whore with the clap. I
know that from experience. . . .”

But
Prophet didn’t wait for Groom to finish. With a high, dramatic
flair, he threw back his glass and slammed it on the mahogany.
Swallowing, eyes wide with single-minded purpose, he pushed through
the crowd, heading for the rear of the long room.

He gave hard
shoves to several miners, who cussed his back. He ignored the
come-ons of a red-haired bawd smelling of pilgrim spirits and
seemingly oblivious to the plump breast that had flopped free of
her incredibly low-cut gown.

At the back of
the room he found a door and knocked thrice, hard.

After
a minute the door opened and a face appeared, hard as an anvil. The
coldly glaring eyes took Prophet’s measure. The man lifted his
shotgun. “What the hell do you want?”

“I’d
like to talk to Mr. Gay,” Prophet said, slapping his hat from his
head with feigned politeness and grinning his best dullard’s
grin.

The
man smiled with one side of his mouth and said with mild disgust,
“Get the hell out of here.”

He
started pulling the door closed. Prophet jammed his boot in the
way. The man’s ruddy face darkened, and a prominent vein in his
cheek jumped. “Did you hear what I told you?”

It
wasn’t hard for Prophet to act drunk after all the whiskey he’d
consumed with the old miner. “I heard you just fine, but, by golly,
I wanna see Mr. Gay, an’ I wanna see him now.”

“Get
the hell out of here, you crazy son of a bitch!”

The
man took a step toward Prophet, readying the shotgun for a swing,
when a man behind him said, “What is it, Lynch?”

“Just
some drunk, Mr. Gay. I’ll take care of him.”

“I was
wonderin’ if I could have a word with you, sir,” Prophet said over
the bodyguard’s right shoulder.

There
was a table in the middle of the small but opulently furnished
room, covered with cards, chips, glasses, and bottles. A half dozen
men sat around the table. Gay’s bodyguards stood at intervals
around the room, and lounged on sofas and upholstered chairs,
smoking. A couple girls hovered over the players.

Everyone in the room frowned at the commotion at the door. A
couple of the other guards moved toward Prophet, scowling. All the
guards were big men — Prophet’s size and bigger — wearing soiled
denims and cotton or buckskin shirts. They were well-armed with
pistols and knives and with plenty of shells in their cartridge
belts. They were ready for marauding Apaches or
bandidos
or anyone else gunning for
their boss and his gold.

“I was
wondering if I could have a word with you about a job, Mr. Gay. I
know this ain’t exac’ly the right time, but I’m flat broke, sir.
And I wouldn’t normally be this brassy, but I’ve oiled my craw a
little, if you know what I mean.”

The
guard at the door turned his head toward the table. “It’s all
right, Mr. Gay. I’ll get rid of this dimwit.” As he turned back to
Prophet, again preparing the shotgun for a swing. Prophet stepped
toward him, pulling back his fist before swinging it forward and
burying it wrist-deep in the bodyguard’s gut.

The
man’s head plunged forward as he bellowed like a pole axed bull.
Immediately the three other bodyguards sprang toward Prophet, who
went to work, kicking one in the balls, ducking a swing from
another and swinging his fist into a jutting jaw. As the third man
grabbed him from behind, Prophet bent forward and heaved the man
over his shoulder and smashed him into the floor with a thunderous
bark, making the lanterns tingle.

The
first man had climbed painfully to his feet, prying his knees away
from his wounded oysters, and grabbed his shotgun off the floor.
Prophet kicked the shotgun out of the man’s hands and belted him
twice in the jaw, throwing him back against the wall.

He was a tough
hombre and would not go down. As Prophet swung on him again, the
other two grabbed him from behind, each taking an arm and wrestling
Prophet across the room and against the wall.

Prophet cursed
and raged and flailed his arms exaggeratedly.

“I
just wanna talk to Mr. Gay about a job!” he yelled. “I need a job .
. . I’ll do anything . . . I’m flat broke . . . !”

With
that, Prophet flung off one of the bodyguards, sent him tumbling
over the gambling table and scattering the cards and players. One
of the girls screamed as Prophet belted the other bodyguard with a
right haymaker, bouncing the man’s head off the wall and dimming
the light in his eyes.

He was turning to
the third man — the man with the shotgun — when something hard
slammed his left temple. He staggered backward, blinking. Before
his eyes lost total focus, he saw the man with the shotgun standing
before him, a savage smile on his face, holding the greener
butt-forward toward Prophet.

He
jabbed the butt forward once more, wincing with satisfaction as the
brass plate tattooed Prophet’s forehead, sending the bounty hunter
sprawling across a fainting couch, where one of the girls had taken
refuge. She now scurried away in her high heels,
shrieking.

In
Prophet’s ears the girl’s screams along with every other sound
slowly died until he heard nothing at all. His lids fluttered like
a dove’s wings over his aching eyes.

“Boy,
you got yourself in a whole heap of trouble!”

The voice came
from far away, from deep in a tunnel or the bottom of a well.
Prophet could barely hear it above the fireworks in his head. There
was another sound, like keys jingling, and then a lock rattled.
Hinges squawked. He opened his eyes, found himself before a jail
cell that stunk of piss and old sweat.

The door was
pulled open by a tall young man in a frock coat and wielding a
shotgun. He scowled at Prophet as someone else shoved him through
the door.

Falling forward on the cot — a strap-iron shelf hanging from
the wall by chains — Prophet drew his lips back from his teeth and
groaned. He turned his head to the door. A short, gray-haired man
with close-set blue eyes and wearing a sheriffs star stood in the
open cell door. He wore a hat a shade darker gray than his hair,
and his coat had been washed so many times it appeared white in
places, its collar frayed.

The
old badge-toter took one step forward. “Now, I don’t know who in
the hell you are or what in the hell you wanted with Mr. Gay, but
tomorrow mornin’, two of my deputies are going to escort you a mile
out of town. From there, you’re gonna head east, out of the
Territory. Understand? If I catch you back in Broken Knee again,
I’ll turn you over to Gay himself — and believe me, he won’t be
near as charitable as yours truly.”

There was a short
pause.

“You
comprendo my lingo, cowboy?” the sheriff asked, his voice sharp
with anger.

Apparently it was his job to keep the town free of cutthroats
— especially those who might trouble Broken Knee’s infamous father
and primary booster. Prophet’s little fandango at the saloon must
have made the sheriff look negligent, and it piss-burned the old
man good. He no doubt lived very deep in Gay’s pocket and was
hoping to stay there, snug as a worm in the dirt.

Prophet
grunted.

“What’s that?”

Prophet turned his head on the pillow. “I hear you, Sheriff,”
he said, continuing his down-at-the-heel grub liner routine. “I was
just lookin’ for a job’s all. Didn’t mean no harm. Sure am
sorry.”

“Just
you understand you’re gettin’ the hell out of town tomorrow, and
you’re never comin’ back!”

The door slammed
with an iron clatter, and Prophet lifted his head against the
reenergized inner explosion, which seemed to vibrate through the
pillow. The key clattered in the lock, the light in the cell block
died, and Prophet rested his chin on the pillow with a
sigh.

“Lou?”

Another,
different voice. Prophet only growled at it, his face buried in the
pillow that stank of old puke.

“Pssst — Lou?”

The voice was
familiar, Prophet realized now. Lifting his head, he opened his
eyes. The darkness had given way to a wan, gray light. He turned to
the cell door, but no one was there.

“Lou —
here,” came the voice again, the voice of a Russian speaking
stilted, precise English. “At the window.”

Noting
that the pounding in his head had abated somewhat, and that he must
have slept for several hours — the light told him it was nearly
dawn — Prophet stood and
stepped over to
the window. It held no glass,
only bars.
Just beyond the bars stood the dusky shape of Sergei Andreyevich
looking customarily peculiar with his western hat and Russian
mustaches and goatee.

“What
happened?” the Russian asked. The pearly dawn light lined his
frowning eyes under the hat brim.

“Things didn’t exactly turn out the way we figured,” Prophet
confessed. He’d thought that if he could take Gay’s bodyguards to
the dance, so to speak, he could beat a shortcut to the crime
boss’s payroll and eventually get close enough to Marya to spring
her from the hacienda.

“Gay
was not impressed, eh?” Sergei asked glumly.

Prophet winced at the pain in his head. His tone was
defensive. “I gave ‘em a pretty
good fight.
It was four against one, for chris
sakes.”