The Devil's Lair (A Lou Prophet Western #6) (21 page)

He rode up and down Main a few times, just
to make his presence known, noticing several strange faces on the
boardwalks—drifters, grub-liners, drummers. Fortunately, none
looked like trouble.

He looked for Wallace Polk, curious about
the man’s demeanor the morning after he’d humiliated himself at
Fianna Whitman’s. Prophet hoped he didn’t have another backshooter
to worry about. While the drugstore was open and several ladies
passed in and out, Polk himself was apparently staying back behind
his counter, out of sight from the street.

Nursing one hell of a hangover, no
doubt.

Prophet halted his horse at the east edge
of town, just beyond the frame brothel houses. He was about to
circle around the town’s north edge, hoping to spot a man with a
rifle, when he saw the five gunslicks file out of the brothel they
apparently were staying at. They set their hats carefully on their
heads and kept to the south side of Main, heading west.

The shooters walked with long, confident
strides. Several swept their frock coats back behind their pistol
butts, making the weapons as visible as possible.

The two matronly ladies Prophet had seen in
the cafe earlier stepped out of the millinery store, just ahead of
the gunmen. The shooters paused, stepping aside to let the ladies
pass, pinching their hat brims and smiling.

Seeing the gunmen, the ladies froze,
eyebrows beetling. Chins up and lips pursed, they turned sharply,
skirts, shawls, and hat feathers swirling, and crossed the street
to the opposite boardwalk.

They continued walking east, shaking their
heads and casting disdainful looks across their shoulders.

One of the gunmen waved. They all
chuckled, continued strolling west to the Mother Lode, and
disappeared through the saloon’s swinging doors.

Prophet shook his head, scratched his ear,
and scowled at the saloon’s shuddering batwings. Those five were
going to be trouble.

He just had a feeling…

Early that evening, after a surprisingly
uneventful day— aside from “dessert” with Miss Frieda, that
is—Prophet’s feeling was validated.

He’d just taken another ride around the
town and was stabling Mean and Ugly, when a distant pistol shot
sounded. It was muffled enough by buildings and distance that it
could have been a branch snapping. But Prophet knew
better.

Goosey after the several attempts to
perforate his hide, he immediately unsnapped the thong over his
.45’s hammer. Peacemaker in hand, he slung his shotgun over his
neck and left the small stable flanking the jailhouse, walking
around the jail to Main Street.

He stopped and cast his gaze up and down the
near-dark street filled with the din of tinpanny music emanating
from the two saloons.

The dozen horses tethered to the hitch racks
before the Mother Lode were jerking around, startled. They tipped
their heads back and pulled at their reins.

A man yelled something Prophet couldn’t
hear. The Mother Lode’s piano fell silent. Another pistol shot cut
the night’s low din. A girl screamed. It was no scream of revelry.
The girl was scared.

And it all seemed to be coming from the
Mother Lode.

He’d just stepped into the street when
another gunshot cracked. It was followed a half second later by the
sound of shattering glass.

The horses were jerking around in earnest
now, the saloon’s bright lamplight bleeding through the plate-glass
window to glisten along their rustling manes and saddles. When
Prophet was about thirty feet from the saloon’s big window, three
men stepped through the batwings onto the boardwalk. Shaking their
heads and muttering, they angled up the street toward the
American.

As Prophet approached the
batwings, the girl yelled once again. “What’d I just tell you, you
little bitch?” retorted a man, his voice taut with anger. “And
you,” he said, “didn’t I tell you
to play!”

His brows beetled with wary wonderment,
Prophet peered over the batwings. He could see little, however, for
six or seven gents—cowpokes as well as a few businessmen—stood
blocking the bounty hunter’s view to the back of the room, where
the trouble appeared to be occurring.

Prophet was about to step into the saloon
when a big man standing left of the door turned to him. It was one
of the five hardcases—taller than Prophet, with a slouch hat, spade
beard, and light-blue devil’s eyes.

His smile revealed both front teeth capped
with gold. “Evenin’, Marshal,” he said coolly, in a faint Irish
accent. “The boys’re just lettin’ their wolves run off their
leashes a bit. Better run along and see if any dogs have treed any
cats.”

At the room’s rear a man yelled,
“No, goddamn ye ... I
can’t...
!”

There was more, but it was drowned out
when the piano suddenly sprang to life with an overly energetic
waltz. Prophet rose on his tiptoes to peer over the crowd, but the
Irishman moved to block his view, his smile losing its luster. The
big man shook his head and held out a big, freckled paw for
Prophet’s weaponry.

“
If you wanna come in, you’ll
have to turn over the irons.”

Prophet looked at him icily, anger
tightening his jaw. Then he smiled and shrugged. “I reckon I’ll
find me a different party. Looks like fun, but thanks.”

The Irishman smiled, the large, gold caps
flashing in the gaslight emanating from the bracket lamps on both
side of the doors.

When the bounty hunter had walked ten
feet, he stopped and turned around. The Irishman had returned his
attention to the show at the saloon’s rear; Prophet could see only
his grinning profile over the left batwing.

Quickly, hearing the girl crying beneath
the clattering piano, Prophet turned left down the gap between the
Mother Lode and the log shack housing a harness shop. He wended his
way through the tumbleweeds and trash, took another left, and found
himself looking up a set of stairs to the saloon’s second
story.

Hearing two more pistol shots followed by
the girl’s scream, he hurriedly climbed the stairs, clutching the
shotgun before him, eyeing the door at the top of the stairs for
possible trouble. The gunslicks might have posted a guard there
too.

Finding the top landing clear, Prophet
turned the doorknob and stepped quickly inside and right, pressing
his back against the wall. A narrow hall opened before him,
smelling musty and smoky. A single bracket lamp at the other end
offered a weak, guttering light.

Men’s laughter and a girl’s cries rose
from the first floor, along with the piano’s frantic clatter and an
occasional pistol crack. Prophet moved down the hall, holding the
shotgun out before him, walking slowly but purposefully, chewing
his cheek with concentration.

A few doors away from the door that
probably led to the stairs leading to the saloon’s first floor,
Prophet paused. A girl was crying up here as well as down
there.

“
Don’t hit me no more, Lars,” the
girl pleaded. “Please, I can’t take it!”

“
Shut up, goddamn your eyes!” the
man called Lars yelled. A sharp crack, like that of a hard slap,
rose from behind the door on Prophet’s left. Lars laughed tightly.
“Tonight, you listen to me, bitch! If I want you to cluck like a
damn turkey, by God you’ll
cluck!”

He slapped her again.

Lips bunched with fury, Prophet swung the
shotgun behind his back and unholstered his .45. Revolver in hand,
he turned to the door, swung his leg back and forward, planting his
right boot just below the knob. The door exploded inward with a
crash, slamming against the wall as wood shards sprayed from the
frame.

On the edge of the bed before him lay a
naked girl, spread knees facing the opposite wall. A naked,
soft-bellied man stood between her legs, facing Prophet over the
width of the bed. He was poking the barrel of six-shooter into the
girl’s mouth, pinning her head to the mussed, bloody
sheets.

The man snapped his head up at Prophet
wide-eyed, face flushed with fury.

He yelled something incoherent as he
jerked his revolver toward Prophet, snapping off a shot that
clipped the bounty hunter’s collar before thumping into the wall
behind him.

Coolly, Prophet raised his own revolver,
fired, and watched the naked man stumble back from between the
girl’s spread legs, dropping his six-shooter and grabbing his chest
with both hands.

Blood gushed through the man’s hands as he
pressed his back against the wall and, mouth drawn wide in a silent
scream, sank slowly down to the floor.

Quickly, Prophet turned back into the hall
and paused, listening. Another shot cracked below, and the piano
continued its crazy patter. There was a thumping sound, and the
laughter of several men, the hoots and guffaws of several more.

Taking a deep breath, Prophet quickly
replaced the spent shell in his Peacemaker and moved cautiously
forward, heart pumping ... well aware that all hell was about to
break loose.

Prophet opened the
door at the end of
the hall and found himself on the balcony over the saloon. He
turned right, crouched low, and moved to the rail, the piano’s
clatter now making his eardrums ache.

“
Eeeee-nowwwwwwwwwwwr
a man screeched,
clapping his hands. “Ride that horse, Janice. That’s a
girl!”

Spare chairs were stacked along the
balcony’s edge, offering cover. Through the chair legs and balcony
rails, Prophet peered down through cigarette and gun smoke to the
main floor.

His eyes slitted and his stomach did a
somersault.

“
Come on, Janice—hold on, girl!”
a man’s voice roared again, then admonished, “Keep movin’, Burt.
You stop, and I shoot off another finger!”

Directly beneath Prophet, within a
semicircle of four seated gunmen, the saloon’s owner, Burt Carr,
was down on all fours, crawling around the floor. Janice, the blond
whore with the heart-shaped face, was straddling his
back.

She wore not a single stitch of clothes.
She was crying and clinging to the barman’s collar, her pale knees
pressed to his sides for support, her pear-shaped breasts swaying
and bouncing.

Carr didn’t look any happier than the
girl. It was hard to tell from this distance, but he appeared to
have lost a finger from his left hand, and the stump left a smeared
path of blood on the floor as he crawled. The hardcases lounged
back in their chairs, legs crossed, with cigarettes and soapy beer
mugs in their fists. They laughed at the spectacle. They cheered,
elbowed each other, pointed, slapped their thighs.

Thoroughly enjoying themselves.

Prophet’s nostrils flared, and his chest
burned with rage. The dogs indeed were off their
leashes…

Meanwhile, the ex-ranch cook and odd-job
man, Sorley Kitchen, was playing the piano shoved up against the
far right wall, his back to the room. His derby boasted two bullet
holes in its crown, and there were two similar holes in the
piano.

Kitchen ran his hands nervously over the
keys, hitting as many sour notes as good ones while jerking nervous
glances over his shoulder. Nervous sweat formed a broad, dark line
down the back of his denim shirt.

Behind the semicircle of hooting gun toughs,
several townsmen sat stiffly at their tables. Prophet saw the
portly banker, Ralph Carmody, sitting with the lumberman, Milt
Emory. Farther back, near the big front window, stood Wallace Polk,
separate, alone, hands in his trouser pockets. His brown bowler was
pulled low over his eyes as he worriedly chewed his cheek.

Several other townsmen stood about the
room, observing the gunmen’s bizarre festival with looks ranging
from awful fascination to fearful repugnance. Behind them, the big
Irishman stood guard at the batwings, grinning red-faced over the
room, guarding his companions’ backs.

“
Come on, Burt—buck! I wanna see
her titties jiggle!” ordered the man with the hard green
eyes.

Prophet curled a nostril and grunted
quietly through gritted teeth, “Now, that ain’t
sportin’.”

The gang’s leader extended a revolver over
his boot resting on his knee, and fired. The piano player paused
for half a second as the bullet drilled into the punchions near
Carr’s right knee.

The girl wailed.

The exhausted bartender, hair soaked with
sweat, lifted his hands only about six inches before falling back
to the floor, nearly collapsing as his elbows bent.

“
Ah, come on, Burt!” the
green-eyed gunman complained. “That ain’t no buck!”

Casually, he thumbed the hammer back and
extended the rifle over his boot, squinting down the barrel at the
bartender’s hand. Cursing under his breath, Prophet poked his
Peacemaker through the railing and fired.

The slug smacked the extended gun with a
metallic shriek, ripping it from the hand and tossing it halfway
across the room, making several men duck from its path.

The gunman loosed a howl,
grabbing his bullet-nicked hand and snapping his eyes up at
Prophet.
“You
... !”
he raged, spittle spraying from his lips, nostrils
flaring.

“
The rodeo’s over,” Prophet said,
standing behind the rail, extending the Peacemaker in his right
hand, the sawed-off shotgun in his left.