The Devil and Lou Prophet by Peter Brandvold Page A

she stood in her open doorway. The girl she was sharing a
room with had gone in ahead of her. The other two had already gone
into the room next door, and had closed the door after effusively
thanking Prophet for his help. “I’ll tell Dave over at the saloon
to draw you a beer on Big Dan,” Lola added as she turned away and
started closing the door in Prophet’s face.
    “ Well, uh ... ” Prophet sighed.
Here it was, the moment of truth. “I’m afraid I won’t be hanging
around. And I’m afraid ... ” He let the sentence trail off, feeling
like a genuine shit heel for what he was about to do. But he had a
strong sense that getting her to Johnson City in four days meant a
great deal more to Owen McCreedy than what the sheriff had
expressed in his note.
    Deciding to let the subpoena speak for
itself, Prophet pulled it out of his shirt pocket and handed it
over. “Here ... this is for you.”
    She frowned. “What’s this?” She took
the paper, unfolded it. and began reading. Almost instantly, her
face paled. Her rich lips parted as she inhaled deeply. She lowered
the document to her side and narrowed her eyes at him. “What the
hell’s a subpoena?”
    Silently amused by the girl’s salty tongue
but caught off-guard by the question, Prophet said, “Well ... it’s
a ... a legally binding document ... that says ... well ... that
says you have to accompany me down to Johnson City, to testify at a
hearing.” Suddenly unsure what a subpoena was himself, and calling
on the deputy sheriff’s badge for backup, he drew his coat back
from the star only long enough for her to glimpse it. He doubted
she knew the difference between a deputy sheriff’s star and a
deputy marshal’s badge, but he figured she could read the writing
engraved on the tin. “Louis B. Prophet, deputy U.S. marshal. That
paper says you have to accompany me to Johnson City. The sheriff
there wants to talk to you.”
    “ You’re here to arrest
me?”
    “ No, ma’am,” Prophet said,
vehemently shaking his head. “I’m here to escort you to Johnson
City.”
    She took several steps back, slapping
a hand to her chest. “Well, I won’t go. I can’t go!”
    “ Miss, I’m
sorry—”
    Before he could finish the sentence,
she slammed the door. Prophet jammed one of his new boots between
the door and the frame, halting the door so suddenly it cracked.
The girl screamed and threw her weight against it. She was no match
for the bounty hunter, who heaved it open with a grunt.
    The girl gave up on the door, ran across
the room, grabbed a pitcher, and tossed it at Prophet. Heavy with
water, it made it only halfway, hitting the floor with a thunderous
bang. Dumbfounded, Prophet stared at the water spreading across the
floor. He saw the girl hike her leg on a chair and reach inside her
dress. Having seen this move before, Prophet lunged for her,
grabbed her wrist, and removed the hideout gun—a .32-caliber
Hopkins and Allen, an underpowered little snub-nose but reasonably
effective at close range—just as she removed it from the sheath
strapped to her thigh. She cried angrily, jerking her empty hand
from his grasp and falling against the dresser.
    Prophet stuck the pea shooter in his
cartridge belt, his mind reeling. He hadn’t expected a reaction
this violent. He’d thought the deputy U.S. marshal guise would
sedate her, resign her to the fact she was going to Johnson City
whether she wanted to or not. The plan hadn’t worked, and he was
dumbfounded and perplexed. He had a wild female on his hands,
which, he was quickly discovering, was akin to wrestling a wounded
bobcat in a Conestoga wagon.
    The problem was a dull ache in his
brain: How do you restrain a woman without hurting her?
    “ Listen, miss ... please
... I—”
    His voice was cut off by the other
girl, who jumped to her feet screaming like a banshee.
    Prophet turned to her, opening his
hands acquiescently. He stopped when he heard thundering footsteps
and raised voices behind him.