Bonaventure, you lout.”
“Look around,” Prophet said, swinging his gaze from one side of the street to the other. “There’s every kind of shop you can think of. And look there, on the door of that haberdashery place. ‘Help Wanted. Query Within.’”
“I can’t see you selling buttons to old ladies in picture hats, Lou.”
Prophet glanced to his left, and a well-dressed gent waved to him from the covered boardwalk in front of the Federated Bank and Trust of Southern Wyoming Territory. Prophet flushed and turned away sharply but checked Mean and Ugly down.
“You got my funny bone, Miss Bonnyventure.” He pointed toward a boxlike, nondescript building ahead and on the street’s right side. “There’s a bathhouse. Why don’t you go on over and scrub some trail dust off your purty little hide without starting a riot amongst the men folk. I’ll be along in a minute.”
“Where’re you going?”
Prophet hesitated. “I’m gonna look for a livery barn.” “We passed three.”
“Will you quit?” He jerked his chin at the bathhouse. “Go on and get yourself cleaned up now, and I’ll see if I can scrounge up enough pocket jingle to buy you a steak and one o’ them sarsaparillas you love so much.”
“You’re broke.”
“Then you’ll buy me a steak and a beer.”
With a haughty chuff, Louisa booted the pinto up the street. As she pulled up to one of the three hitchracks fronting the bathhouse, Prophet reined Mean over to the bank, where the well-dressed gent who’d waved and who also wore the five-pointed star of a county sheriff on the lapel of his black frock coat stood with a man even better dressed though slighter in build and puffing a long, black cheroot.
“Well, look what the damn cat dragged in,” growled Hell-Bringin’ Hiram Severin, standing beside the gent with the cigar while holding the flaps of his coat back from the two ivory-gripped Colts positioned for the cross draw on his lean hips. Beneath the brim of his black derby, he had a face like a crumbling old barn, and his knife-slash mouth was capped with a silver, soup-strainer mustache through which a gold front tooth flashed in the afternoon sunshine.
“What cat?” said the man next to him, puffing his cheroot as his black eyes strayed across the street to where Prophet had parted with Louisa. “It looked like a blond dragged him into town, and a pretty one at that.” Not quite as old as the sheriff, who was in his early sixties, this man was hatless, with elegant silver-streaked hair combed straight back from a prominent widow’s peak, and a heavy Spanish accent.
“Nah, she didn’t drag me.” Prophet reined up in front of the boardwalk. “I had to drag her, though fortunately she didn’t kick and scream too damn loud. It’ll be the gents in the washhouse who’ll be kickin’ and screamin’ when she starts takin’ her clothes off.”
Chuckling, the big, trail-worn bounty hunter stepped down from his saddle and, lifting his double-barreled shotgun up over his head and hanging it from his saddle horn by its wide leather lanyard, extended his hand to his old pal, Hiram Severin. “How’n the hell you been, you old chicken thief?”
“Better’n you look, ya damn brush wolf!” Severin pumped Prophet’s hand with exuberance, and turned to the well-attired Mexican. “Don Jose Encina, bank president and mayor of Juniper, please meet your new gold guard, Lou Prophet.”
7
PROPHET REMEMBERED ENCINA’S name from the telegram he’d received from Severin in response to his inquiry about employment in the sheriff’s fair town. “Don, pleased to make your acquaintance. Sorry for the trail dust and foul odor, but I aim to fix that situation over to the bathhouse in two jangles of a whore’s bell.”
“The pleasure is mine, Senor Prophet,” Encinca said, tapping ashes from his smoldering cheroot. “I have heard much about you from Sheriff Severin. Your inquiry for employment came at a most opportune time
“Look around,” Prophet said, swinging his gaze from one side of the street to the other. “There’s every kind of shop you can think of. And look there, on the door of that haberdashery place. ‘Help Wanted. Query Within.’”
“I can’t see you selling buttons to old ladies in picture hats, Lou.”
Prophet glanced to his left, and a well-dressed gent waved to him from the covered boardwalk in front of the Federated Bank and Trust of Southern Wyoming Territory. Prophet flushed and turned away sharply but checked Mean and Ugly down.
“You got my funny bone, Miss Bonnyventure.” He pointed toward a boxlike, nondescript building ahead and on the street’s right side. “There’s a bathhouse. Why don’t you go on over and scrub some trail dust off your purty little hide without starting a riot amongst the men folk. I’ll be along in a minute.”
“Where’re you going?”
Prophet hesitated. “I’m gonna look for a livery barn.” “We passed three.”
“Will you quit?” He jerked his chin at the bathhouse. “Go on and get yourself cleaned up now, and I’ll see if I can scrounge up enough pocket jingle to buy you a steak and one o’ them sarsaparillas you love so much.”
“You’re broke.”
“Then you’ll buy me a steak and a beer.”
With a haughty chuff, Louisa booted the pinto up the street. As she pulled up to one of the three hitchracks fronting the bathhouse, Prophet reined Mean over to the bank, where the well-dressed gent who’d waved and who also wore the five-pointed star of a county sheriff on the lapel of his black frock coat stood with a man even better dressed though slighter in build and puffing a long, black cheroot.
“Well, look what the damn cat dragged in,” growled Hell-Bringin’ Hiram Severin, standing beside the gent with the cigar while holding the flaps of his coat back from the two ivory-gripped Colts positioned for the cross draw on his lean hips. Beneath the brim of his black derby, he had a face like a crumbling old barn, and his knife-slash mouth was capped with a silver, soup-strainer mustache through which a gold front tooth flashed in the afternoon sunshine.
“What cat?” said the man next to him, puffing his cheroot as his black eyes strayed across the street to where Prophet had parted with Louisa. “It looked like a blond dragged him into town, and a pretty one at that.” Not quite as old as the sheriff, who was in his early sixties, this man was hatless, with elegant silver-streaked hair combed straight back from a prominent widow’s peak, and a heavy Spanish accent.
“Nah, she didn’t drag me.” Prophet reined up in front of the boardwalk. “I had to drag her, though fortunately she didn’t kick and scream too damn loud. It’ll be the gents in the washhouse who’ll be kickin’ and screamin’ when she starts takin’ her clothes off.”
Chuckling, the big, trail-worn bounty hunter stepped down from his saddle and, lifting his double-barreled shotgun up over his head and hanging it from his saddle horn by its wide leather lanyard, extended his hand to his old pal, Hiram Severin. “How’n the hell you been, you old chicken thief?”
“Better’n you look, ya damn brush wolf!” Severin pumped Prophet’s hand with exuberance, and turned to the well-attired Mexican. “Don Jose Encina, bank president and mayor of Juniper, please meet your new gold guard, Lou Prophet.”
7
PROPHET REMEMBERED ENCINA’S name from the telegram he’d received from Severin in response to his inquiry about employment in the sheriff’s fair town. “Don, pleased to make your acquaintance. Sorry for the trail dust and foul odor, but I aim to fix that situation over to the bathhouse in two jangles of a whore’s bell.”
“The pleasure is mine, Senor Prophet,” Encinca said, tapping ashes from his smoldering cheroot. “I have heard much about you from Sheriff Severin. Your inquiry for employment came at a most opportune time
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