Staring Down the Devil (A Lou Prophet Western #5) (14 page)

The
limping Daws led Prophet to a small canvas and wood tent shack
situated near a garbage-choked ravine at the north end of town and
slightly back from the main drag.
“I
haven’t been here,” Daws said. “Ain’t my kinda place. The whiskey’s
probably half-strychnine and gunpowder, but they probably won’t
recognize me here, either.”

Daws
took a bench at the rough-hewn table near the plank bar. Prophet
dropped his gear near the bench, then ordered drinks from the
grizzled proprietor — a bottle of whiskey, two glasses, and two
mugs of beer — and set them on the table. He sat across from Daws,
who’d thrown back his first whiskey before Prophet’s butt had
touched the bench.

Daws
rubbed a soiled, beringed paw across his blood-crusted lips.
“That’s mighty good.”

Prophet threw back his own whiskey, then refilled both
glasses. “You a gambler by profession, Mr. Daws?”

The
well-dressed gent was glancing around, obviously pleased no one
seemed to recognize him. There were only two other people in the
place — a stocky young black man in the blue, yellow-striped
trousers of a federal soldier and a homespun shirt open to his
navel, and an old Chinaman with a patch over his right eye. They
sat across from each other at a table near the brightly lit
doorway, but they weren’t speaking.

“That’s right,” Daws said. “I work the mining camps mostly.”
He chuckled. “Think I’ll stay away from this one in the
future.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Prophet said, sipping his warm,
flat beer and licking the foam from his upper lip. “So tell me
about Leamon Gay.”

“Hey,
keep your voice down, will you?” Daws admonished, leaning toward
Prophet and glancing at the barman, who returned the look, frowning
askance.

Prophet saw that
the black man and the Chinaman were looking at him, as
well.

“Sorry,” he said to the gambler.

Daws
threw back his second whiskey, then refilled his shot glass. In a
low voice he said, “What’s to tell? He’s a penny-ante crook who
made it big smuggling horses across the border and selling whiskey
and weapons to the Injuns. Also hunted Apache scalps. He put his
money into a saloon in Wickenburg and then another saloon and a
couple whorehouses in Phoenix, and made a small bundle. When an old
prospector discovered gold in these mountains about four years ago,
the prospector disappeared of a sudden.”

Daws looked at
Prophet meaningfully. The whiskey appeared to have loosened his
mood as well as the stiff muscles in his face and shoulders. Even
some of the swelling around his eyes appeared to have gone
down.

“The
next thing you know,” Daws continued, “Gay leads a caravan of
miners and his own band of hardcases up here and builds him a town.
Gay himself took over an old Mexican ranch house — haciendas, they
call ‘em down here — on a mountaintop near the mine. I spied it
from a distance through field glasses. Fancy place on a big, grassy
shelf jutting out of the mountain. Big shots from all over the
Territory ride up here to rub shoulders with the owlhoot.” “What
money won’t do for a man’s reputation.”

“They
say he has enough for several reputations.”

“And
all the games in the town are fixed?”

“And
all the whores belong to Gay. He gets a percentage — a big one — of
every dollar they make.”

“In
return for what?”

“Protection.”

“From?”

Daws
grinned without humor. “Gay.” He sipped his whiskey, followed it
down with a big swallow of the beer. “Any women who come to town
and decide they’re going to open their own businesses, independent
like, get closed up real quick. They either sign up with Gay, or
end up as part of the trash in that ravine yonder.”

“Sweet.”

“Yep.”

“So
why’d you stay here so long?”

“‘
Cause I’m a poor loser. Decided to figure out how the games
were rigged. The dealers are damn good — he must’ve sent away for
them. But I finally figured it out.” Daws dabbed at a jellied gash
over his upper lip, just right of his nose. “My sin, however, was
greed. I should’ve just won back what I lost and hightailed it.
But, no, not me. I thought I’d hit the mother lode.”

“Instead, it hit you.”

“You
got it.” Daws was watching Prophet deftly building a cigarette
across from him. “So, tell me something. What are you doing here,
Prophet?”

“I’m
looking for a girl.”

“Wife
or sister?”

“Neither.” Prophet produced the picture of Marya Roskov from
his breast pocket and showed it to Daws.

“Pretty,” the gambler said.

“Ever
see her around here?”

Daws
studied the picture, then slowly shook his head. “No, can’t say as
I have. She’s pretty. One like that would stand out in this
hole.”

“She’s
Russian,” Prophet said, hoping that might jog the gambler’s
memory.

Daws
raised his eyes to Prophet’s. He appeared to frown, though it was
hard to tell
with all that purple swelling
around his eyes.
“Russian?”

Prophet waited for the gambler’s memory gears to
click.

In a
few seconds they did. “I heard one of the miners mention something
about a ‘furriner’ — a ‘purty furriner’ — the other night, in one
of the saloons. Something about the girl living up at Gay’s house .
. . as his mistress.”

Prophet studied the gambler, waiting for him to continue, his
blood quickening in his veins. Had he found Marya? It almost seemed
too much to hope for. He’d nearly convinced himself the girl was
dead.

Noting
Prophet’s piqued interest, the gambler spread his hands and said,
“That’s all I know.”

Prophet dragged deeply on his cigarette and sipped his beer.
“I reckon there aren’t too many ‘furrin’ girls in these
parts.”

“Mostly Americans and Mexicans and a
few Indians,” Daws said. “You think the one
up at Gay’s might be the one you’re looking
for?”

“It’s
worth checking out.”

Daws
chuckled, the cuts on his lips open
ing
slightly and oozing jellied blood. “Easier
said than done, my good man. You’ll learn that. Cheers.” He
threw back the last of his whiskey.

Voices grew
outside the tent saloon. Prophet and Daws glanced at the entrance,
where two men appeared, ducking inside the flaps.

Daws
turned quickly back to Prophet, his face bleaching. “Oh,
shit.”

“What
is it?”

“Those
are two of Gay’s upstarts.”

“You
don’t say,” Prophet said, appraising the two men, who walked
between the tables, approaching the makeshift bar. Both were big
and burly, one younger than the other by several years. The older
man carried a hide-wrapped club from a lanyard on his wide, black
belt.

“Hello, Jake. Hello Dan,” the bartender said nervously as the
men approached.

“Hello, there, Charlie,” the older man with the bung starter
said. “You got your tax?”

“It’s
been a week already?” the bartender grumbled.

“Sure
has,” Dan said without smiling.

“Time
sure flies,” the bartender said, turning to a wooden lockbox on the
shelf behind him. He extracted five one-dollar bills from the box
and tossed them on the bar planks. “There ye are — five dollars.
What it’s for, I’d sure like to know.”

“Why,
for your protection, Charlie,” Jake said, as though answering a
ridiculous question. “I mean, where would you be if it weren’t for
Mr. Gay? Hell, you’d prob’ly be peddlin’ your rotgut whiskey down
in Tucson, for a third of what it brings you here.”

“That
a fact?” Charlie said, unconvinced.

“That’s a fact,” Dan said grimly. “It’d do you to be a little
better mannered next time we come for Mr. Leamon’s
dues.”

“I’ll
keep that in mind, Dan,” the bartender said. His hatred for these
men and for Leamon Gay was apparent in his dark eyes and flushed
cheeks. He eyed them disdainfully over the bar planks, leaning on
his fists.

The men bid the
barman a mocking adieu. Turning away, the older man raked his eyes
over Prophet and Daws. The gambler was crouched over his empty
glasses and staring at the table, trying to make himself
small.

Jake
froze, frowning at the gambler. “Hey, don’t I know you?”

Daws closed his
eyes and spread his sore lips in a grimace. He appeared to be
trying to turtle his head into his shoulders.

“Hey,
Dan,” Jake said, nudging the younger man, “don’t we know
him?”

Dan
scrutinized the gambler, who stared at the table, flushing, his
haunted eyes like those of a rabbit cornered by two wolves in a
privy.

“Why,
we sure as hell do,” Dan intoned. “We done gave him a scoldin’ last
night and ordered him out of town.”

Prophet lifted his voice. “Nah, it wasn’t him.”

Both men turned
to the bounty hunter.

“Who
the hell are you?” Jake asked.

“Name’s Prophet.” He narrowed his eyes at Jake, who was
carrying a double-barreled shotgun. “If you turn that gun any
closer to me, friend, you’re gonna be wearin’ it up your
ass.”

Dan’s
laugh was shrill. “What are you tryin’ to do, you stupid bastard?
Commit suicide?”

“He
sure as hell is,” Jake said as he leveled his shotgun at
Prophet.

The barrel had
just come down in his right hand when an explosion rocked the room,
blowing Jake two feet in the air and hurdling him back across a
table. In nearly two pieces separated by a ragged, red hole in his
middle, he rolled off the table and hit the packed-earth floor with
a thump and a massive fart.

The
second barrel of Prophet’s sawed-off coach gun, which he’d swung
over the tabletop in the time it took an average man to blink,
exploded on the heels of the first blast. Dan was reaching for the
Remington on his hip. The gun wasn’t halfway out of his holster
when a massive, ragged hole opened in his chest. He flew straight
backward, slamming his head against a beer keg as he fell. His head
hung like a puppet’s from a frayed string. His eyes fluttered,
found Prophet, fluttered again as his mouth worked, trying to form
words. Then he gave up, dropped his chin to his chest, rolled onto
the floor, his head touching Jake’s, and died.

The Chinaman and
the black man had bolted to their feet, shuttling their wide eyes
between Prophet and the two dead men. Daws had flung himself to the
floor, covering his head with his arms. Now he lowered his arms to
peer through the gun smoke. At length, his eyes found
Prophet.

“Jesus
H. Christ.”

The
bartender was climbing to his feet behind the bar, lifting his head
to inspect Gay’s men.

Calmly
Prophet glanced at the door as he broke the Richards open, plucked
out the smoking wads, and thumbed in two fresh. He snapped the
shotgun back together as the barman said, “Oh, my god.”

“Prophet,” Daws said, gaining his feet, his face white as
freshly fallen snow, “you have any idea what you just
did?”

“I
reckon it was either them or me,” Prophet allowed. His complacent
tone belied the fact that he knew he was in a heap of trouble. He
needed to hightail it fast, before more of Gay’s men
arrived.

“Quick,” the barman said. “Go out the back.” In spite of the
mess in his shack, his eyes were bright and his flushed face was
grinning. “I’ll make up a story.”

Prophet stared at
the man, skeptical and puzzled.

“Call
it payment for ridding the town of these two human blowflies,” the
barman explained. Turning to the Chinese and the black man, who
were still standing, he said, “Will you two back me?”

They looked at
each other. The black man shrugged. The Chinaman nodded slowly, a
faint smile on his lips.

“Quick!” the barman repeated, waving Prophet and the gambler
around behind the bar.

With
one last glance at the dead men. Prophet nodded at Daws and hurried
out the tent’s back flap. Making his way around the barman’s army
cot, clothesline, and several discarded crates and barrels, Prophet
hurried down a greasewood-lined path which appeared to angle toward
the ravine.

“We’d
better split up,” he said. “How much did you say you needed to
spring your horse?”

He
turned, but the gambler wasn’t behind him. Looking around, he saw
Daws running through the shrubs farther down the canyon, tripping
over rocks and catching the tails of his swallowtail coat on
briers.

The
gambler ran as though the hounds of
hell
were on his heels, and then he was gone.