The Devil and Lou Prophet by Peter Brandvold Page B

Turning to cover his flank, he was
too slow to see Miss Diamond dart forward, hiking her dress above
her ankles and lifting her right foot until it had connected
soundly with his groin.
    Prophet had taken a direct hit in the
balls a few times in the past—in his line of work, it was nearly
unavoidable—but he couldn’t remember any man kicking him this
hard.
    He doubled over with an enormous groan
and a sigh, automatically bringing his hands to his crotch. Giving
an angry cry, the girl punched him twice in the head, upending his
hat and staggering him sideways.
    He fell to his knees and glanced up.
All four girls were gathering around him—concernedly, defensively,
angrily. It didn’t take them long to assess his apparent threat to
one of their own. One kicked him in the shoulder, another in the
ribs. Screaming oaths he’d never heard from female lips, another
pulled his hair and socked him in the ear so hard that the entire
right side of his head went numb.
    Amid the blows from foot and fist,
Prophet tried gaining his feet. Before he could do so, he heard
boots thump into the room, the floorboards complaining above the
din of the admonishing women. Turning and lifting his head
slightly, he saw the man with the big nose standing just inside the
door, outside of which three or four other hotel guests had
gathered, looking shocked and confused.
    The man was aiming one of his fancy
pistols at the girls. His mouth was a dark slash across his face,
and his heavy brows were knit, but there was a humorous flash in
his eyes. One at a time, the girls saw him. They fell instantly
silent, mouths agape, eyes sliding between the gun and the gaze of
the man wielding it.
    When the room had quieted, the man
said to Prophet reasonably, “I was just walkin’ by when I heard the
commotion ... uh ... Marshal. Looks like you need a little
help.”
    Still clutching his bruised balls,
which felt as though they’d swollen to twice their normal size,
Prophet gave a grunt and a feeble nod. Blood trickled from his cut
lip. He flushed, embarrassed. “Obliged.”
    “ Which one you after ... or
all of ’em?”
    “ Just this one
here.”
    Lola’s eyes darted to Prophet.
Clenching her teeth stubbornly, she shook her head. “I will not go
with you.”
    Someone from the doorway cleared his
throat. “You ... you want I should call the sheriff?” a man’s thin
voice inquired.
    The well-dressed, big-nosed man
half-turned to the doorway. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,”
he said. “This man here’s a deputy U.S. marshal. He was trying to
arrest one of the girls when they all attacked him ... the poor son
of a bitch.” The man addressed Prophet pityingly. “You all right
... Marshal?”
    “ I’m all right,” Prophet
managed, his voice pinched. He got his feet beneath him and pushed
himself standing, releasing his balls, which dangled there,
burning. The pain abated in increments almost too small to
register. He felt the hot flash of anger unique to a man who’d been
attacked in that sensitive male region.
    “ I can handle it now,” he
said, drawing the revolver from his holster and staring hotly at
Miss Diamond, who cowered behind the others.
    The man asked, “You want I should lock
these others in the next room?”
    Prophet’s eyes rolled around as he
tried reorienting himself against the ringing in his ears and the
pain in his loins and lip. “I reckon that would be a good idea,” he
allowed, his voice sounding to him like a distant chirp.
    “ All right, ladies, you
heard the marshal,” ordered the man. “In the other room. Let’s go,
or I’ll drop the hammer on you. Oh, pipe down! Move!”
    When the man and the other three women had
left, the women throwing caustic looks at Prophet and concerned
ones at Lola, Prophet started toward her. She backed up against the
bureau and crossed her arms defiantly across her chest. “I refuse
to go!”
    “ So you said.” Prophet
quickly holstered his pistol, grabbed the girl,