smacking the back of the dry-goods store west of the washhouse. He left a good-sized blood smear on the unpainted, clapboard-sided wall before slumping down into the rocks and sage at the wall’s base.
“Oh,” he said, kicking his silver-tipped black boots. His blond head was tipped at an odd angle against a rock, and he seemed to be staring at his bloody belly. “Oh . . . oh, shit. . . .”
Just beyond him, another figure stood aiming a rifle toward Prophet. The bounty hunter’s heart thudded as he was about to drop the gut shredder and draw his Peacemaker.
A familiar voice said, “Lou!”
It was Louisa. She lowered her Winchester and came running. She was dressed in nothing more, it appeared, than a red poncho, hat, and boots. Her creamy legs were bare. Her wheat-colored curls bounced on her shoulders laid nearly bare by the poncho’s wide neck. Others ran up behind her—Hiram Severin and two other men wearing silver stars on their wool vests or coat lapels.
Louisa slowed to get a look at the dying blond bushwhacker slumped between the bathhouse and the dry-goods store. She glanced at the back of the bathhouse, where the Chinaman stood in the open doorway, yelling in his bizarre tongue while throwing his hands up toward the bullet holes peppering the bathhouse’s back wall.
Swinging her head back to Prophet, Louisa sidled up to the big bounty hunter, who was only a little better clothed than she, and looked at the first gent he’d torn in half and flung off in the brush.
“You, too, huh?”
11
PROPHET FROWNED AT his comely younger partner.
Before he could ask her what she’d meant, Sheriff Severin jogged up, red-faced beneath his crisp bowler, breathing hard. “Lou, goddamnit—what’s all the shootin’ about?” The sheriff’s tone was breathless and grieved as he looked down at the blond gent who lay blinking and kicking against the rock. “I told you, I run a peaceable town here!”
Prophet returned the sheriff’s accusatory glare. “Sounds like empty boosterin’ to me, Hiram. Both these gents tried to ventilate my hide as I washed it. At least one of ’em did. From the roof of this here shed. The other was skulkin’ around out here, ready to finish off what the first gent left kickin’.”
Sweating, Severin regarded Prophet skeptically. “You didn’t start it?” He seemed surprised.
“I sure as hell did not!”
“No more than I could start a lead swap from the comfort of my own tub,” Louisa expostulated saucily to the haggard-looking lawman, whose two younger deputies— one small and wiry, one tall and slender with cow-dumb eyes—moved up cautiously behind him.
Prophet swung his indignant gaze from the confused-looking sheriff to Louisa. “You, too?”
“No sooner had I dispatched my two than I heard the shooting over here. Had a feeling it wasn’t someone putting down an old dog.” She paused. “And I wasn’t far from wrong.”
“All right,” Prophet said, cutting her off. “I ain’t no old dog, but these snipes here are privy slop of the lowest grade. I don’t recognize the first gent, but the blond one over yonder is Kentucky Earl Watson. Brother of Jed Watson, who I brought to Judge Parker in Fort Smith about three and a half years ago. He wasn’t long out of the saddle before he was dangling about three feet off the ground. His little brother Earl there, who was in Parker’s lockup at the time, though not for a hangin’ offense, vowed he’d kick me out with a shovel, but that was so long ago, I’d forgotten about him.”
Louisa kicked a rock and rested her rifle on her shoulder as she stared up at Prophet, who was having trouble not looking at her long, creamy legs even though he’d seen them plenty enough times before though perhaps not in such a favorable slant of sunlight. “I recognized both men who kicked my door in so rudely, Lou.”
She tipped her glance up at Sheriff Severin, who, in turn, jerked his own appreciative glance from Louisa’s
“Oh,” he said, kicking his silver-tipped black boots. His blond head was tipped at an odd angle against a rock, and he seemed to be staring at his bloody belly. “Oh . . . oh, shit. . . .”
Just beyond him, another figure stood aiming a rifle toward Prophet. The bounty hunter’s heart thudded as he was about to drop the gut shredder and draw his Peacemaker.
A familiar voice said, “Lou!”
It was Louisa. She lowered her Winchester and came running. She was dressed in nothing more, it appeared, than a red poncho, hat, and boots. Her creamy legs were bare. Her wheat-colored curls bounced on her shoulders laid nearly bare by the poncho’s wide neck. Others ran up behind her—Hiram Severin and two other men wearing silver stars on their wool vests or coat lapels.
Louisa slowed to get a look at the dying blond bushwhacker slumped between the bathhouse and the dry-goods store. She glanced at the back of the bathhouse, where the Chinaman stood in the open doorway, yelling in his bizarre tongue while throwing his hands up toward the bullet holes peppering the bathhouse’s back wall.
Swinging her head back to Prophet, Louisa sidled up to the big bounty hunter, who was only a little better clothed than she, and looked at the first gent he’d torn in half and flung off in the brush.
“You, too, huh?”
11
PROPHET FROWNED AT his comely younger partner.
Before he could ask her what she’d meant, Sheriff Severin jogged up, red-faced beneath his crisp bowler, breathing hard. “Lou, goddamnit—what’s all the shootin’ about?” The sheriff’s tone was breathless and grieved as he looked down at the blond gent who lay blinking and kicking against the rock. “I told you, I run a peaceable town here!”
Prophet returned the sheriff’s accusatory glare. “Sounds like empty boosterin’ to me, Hiram. Both these gents tried to ventilate my hide as I washed it. At least one of ’em did. From the roof of this here shed. The other was skulkin’ around out here, ready to finish off what the first gent left kickin’.”
Sweating, Severin regarded Prophet skeptically. “You didn’t start it?” He seemed surprised.
“I sure as hell did not!”
“No more than I could start a lead swap from the comfort of my own tub,” Louisa expostulated saucily to the haggard-looking lawman, whose two younger deputies— one small and wiry, one tall and slender with cow-dumb eyes—moved up cautiously behind him.
Prophet swung his indignant gaze from the confused-looking sheriff to Louisa. “You, too?”
“No sooner had I dispatched my two than I heard the shooting over here. Had a feeling it wasn’t someone putting down an old dog.” She paused. “And I wasn’t far from wrong.”
“All right,” Prophet said, cutting her off. “I ain’t no old dog, but these snipes here are privy slop of the lowest grade. I don’t recognize the first gent, but the blond one over yonder is Kentucky Earl Watson. Brother of Jed Watson, who I brought to Judge Parker in Fort Smith about three and a half years ago. He wasn’t long out of the saddle before he was dangling about three feet off the ground. His little brother Earl there, who was in Parker’s lockup at the time, though not for a hangin’ offense, vowed he’d kick me out with a shovel, but that was so long ago, I’d forgotten about him.”
Louisa kicked a rock and rested her rifle on her shoulder as she stared up at Prophet, who was having trouble not looking at her long, creamy legs even though he’d seen them plenty enough times before though perhaps not in such a favorable slant of sunlight. “I recognized both men who kicked my door in so rudely, Lou.”
She tipped her glance up at Sheriff Severin, who, in turn, jerked his own appreciative glance from Louisa’s
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