Helldorado by Peter Brandvold Page B

legs, as did the two deputies flanking him. “They were Noah Calhoun and Big Dick Broadstreet. Broadstreet gave himself the favorable moniker, though I’d heard from a sporting girl in Dodge that Dick was big in name only.”
    “What was their beef with you . . . uh . . . little lady?”
    “Did you notice the scar on Big Dick’s right cheek? Came from a bullet of mine up near Little Box Elder Creek in southern Dakota Territory. I took down two of his partners for killing whores for fun in Bismarck, and he skinned out the back of the roadhouse that they were drinking in and jumped on a horse, but not before I triggered a forty-five round at him. I knew I’d hit him. I’d been hoping ever since he’d died miserably in some creek bottom. Noah Calhoun is his brother. Saw his likeness scratched on a handbill at Fort Griffin last year. It seems he had the same weakness for mistreating sporting girls as his brother.”
    “Well, I’ll be damned.”
    “Maybe you don’t run such a peaceable kingdom, after all, Hiram.” Prophet couldn’t resist getting the dig in.
    “I said it was peaceable,” the sheriff said as he walked over to the first man Prophet had shot. “Not Heaven.”
    The taller deputy had followed the sheriff while the short, wiry one had walked over to the blond bushwhacker. The sheriff shuttled his gaze between them. “You boys see either of these brigands around town before?”
    “I seen ’em, Sheriff,” said the tall deputy, who wore his curly hair long but whose scraggly beard couldn’t hide his round, boyish face. “They drink over at the Mexican’s place every now and then. They ain’t in town all that much, though, so I never seen no reason to inquire about their business. You said to confront those who stay too long without any real purpose. Ain’t that so?”
    “Yeah, that’s so.”
    “I figured these two must work for one of the ranches,” the tall deputy said and hiked a shoulder with a defensive air. “As for them that bushwhacked Miss Bonaventure—I wouldn’t know either o’ them from Adam’s off-ox.”
    “This one here’s still alive, Sheriff,” said the short, blond badge toter standing over Kentucky Earl Watson, who seemed to be trying to lift his head. The bushwhacker’s lips were moving as his chest rose and fell slightly.
    As the short deputy prodded Kentucky Earl with his boot toe, Louisa strolled over, dropped her rifle down from her shoulder, spread her boots about shoulder-width apart, and aimed the Winchester at Kentucky Earl’s head. The blond deputy looked at her, his eyes wide with shock. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Louisa’s Winchester barked.
    Kentucky Earl’s head jerked violently as the bullet went in one ear and out the other, blowing about half of Earl’s brains out with it.
    “Now he’s not.” Louisa shouldered her rifle once more and strode back off in the direction of the Golden Slipper, leaving all three lawmen staring incredulously after her.
    Sheriff Severin looked at Prophet, who looked away, scratching the back of his head. “Can’t blame her for wantin’ to leave the profession in style.”
     
    After Hell-Bringin’ Hiram Severin sent one of his deputies off to fetch the undertaker for the two dead men, the sheriff asked Prophet with a chagrined air if he’d join him and Jose Encina for supper at Avril Tweet’s Cafe that evening, obviously feeling guilty that he’d been so quick to assume that Prophet had started the lead swap. Not one to hold a grudge, and since he had no one else to sup with, Prophet agreed to join the two men.
    When the sheriff had given Prophet directions to the eatery, the bounty hunter clomped back into the bathhouse to finish dressing and endure more of the Chinaman’s tirade.
    When he’d dressed in relatively clean clothes from his saddlebags—faded denims, powder-blue denim shirt that had shrunk a couple sizes too small for his broad shoulders, and red neckerchief—he lugged