Read Online Riding With the Devil's Mistress (Lou Prophet Western #3) by Peter Brandvold - Free Book Online Page B

fairly obvious why he
was here, he supposed, armed for bear as he was. These three
shouldn ’t be
much trouble, however, grouped up along the bar. He’d wait for his
drink and for one of them to make the first move....
    The fiery-eyed little terrier
said tightly, ‘What’s the matter—you don’t want to stand at the bar and
drink with us?’
    Prophet smiled at him. ‘No, I
don’t.’
    The others
didn ’t say
anything. The barman brought the beer and the shot, setting them on
the table before Prophet and collecting the coins the bounty hunter
had tossed down by his hat. The man moved quickly, nervous about
getting caught in a crossfire. In a moment, he was behind the bar,
backed up to the mirror, his uneasy gaze sliding between Prophet
and the three men before the mahogany.
    Overhead, the sounds of the fight had
died.
    ‘ That
ain’t very nice,’ one of the men at the bar said.
    ‘ Sorry,’ Prophet said, lifting the shot glass to his lips
and tossing back half the whiskey. ‘Didn’t mean to hurt your
feelings. It’s just that, well’—he set the glass down and looked at
the three from under his brows—’I never cottoned to drinkin’ with
wormy dog shit.’
    Upstairs, someone screamed.
Prophet couldn ’t tell at first if it was the girl or the man. That’s how
shrill the scream was. When it became obvious the long, echoing cry
belonged to the man, the three at the bar slid their eyes to each
other, befuddled. The cry was so enduring, expressing such pain and
horror, that it put even Prophet on edge.
    ‘ Sounds like your friend’s getting more than what he paid
for up there,’ Prophet said at last.
    ‘ Benny, go see,’ the little man ordered.
    ‘ What
about him?’ Benny said, eyeing Prophet.
    ‘ Forget him for now,’ the little man returned. ‘Go see what
in the hell’s wrong with Barry.’
    Upstairs, the cry seemed to
grow even louder. ‘Ahhhhhhh! No! Ahhhhhhhhhhh!
Nooooooooo-hoh-hoh-hoh!’
    Wincing with apprehension,
Benny sidled away from the group and walked to the stairs at the
back of the room. ‘Barry, what the hell’s happenin’ up there?’ he yelled.
Receiving only more yelling in reply, he placed a hand on the
railing and started up the stairs.
    Meanwhile, the two other men
stared at Prophet, hands on their guns. ‘Probably just stubbed his toe,’ the
little man said.
    ‘ That
can sure grieve ye,’ Prophet replied.
    It was not the little man who
drew first, but the man standing to his right. He crouched of a
sudden, bringing his six-shooter up and out of its holster. He took
too much time, however. All Prophet had to do was thumb back the
shotgun ’s
hammers, which he did, turn the barrel a little, and trip the right
trigger.
    The gun ’s enormous bark was followed by a
loud yelp. The gunman jerked so far backward that he smacked the
back of his head on the bar top, breaking his skull with an audible
crack. At the same time, the terrier crouched and drew. He, too,
was too slow, and a half second later he lay on the floor across
his friend, their blood mingling and running in several thick
streams across the warped wood floor.
    A shot sounded upstairs. A man yelled, and
then two more shots followed in quick succession. Something hit the
upstairs floor so hard that the hanging lamps danced, swaying
shadows.
    Prophet looked at the ceiling,
then at the barman. ‘You want any of this?’ he said, nodding at the two dead
men on the floor.
    The barman shook his
head. ‘I
just serve ‘em liquor— that’s all.’
    ‘ Smart
man,’ Prophet said.
    He breeched the shotgun and replaced the
spent shells. Then he scraped his chair back, stood, stepped over
the dead men, and walked to the stairs. Grabbing the newel post, he
gazed up uneasily, the shotgun in his right hand.
    He sighed and started up the stairs, taking
one step at a time. He tried to figure out what in the hell had
been going on up there, but nothing washed.
    When he made the landing, he paused, brought
the shotgun up