Read Online The Devil’s Laughter: A Lou Prophet Novel by Peter Brandvold - Free Book Online Page B

continuing outside.
    â€œSugar,” Hannady said, as he plucked fresh cartridges from an open shell box on the floor behind him and slipped them through the Colt’s open loading gate, slowly rolling the barrel between his thumb and index finger. “You must be sweet.”
    He gave her a leering look, winked, then flipped the loading gate closed. He frowned and looked around the room, then slowly turned his head toward the open window above him, the open shutter of which was nudged by a vagrant breeze. The rusty hinges squawked softly.
    â€œThe shooting stopped,” Sugar said, still sitting in front of the door and staring wide-eyed but with her customary lack of expression straight down the length of the earthen-floored station house.
    With a grunt, Hannady heaved himself up off the floor and edged a look out the window. “I’ll be damned,” he said softly. “They’re hightailin’ it. Two of ’em, anyways. I see three dead.”
    â€œSix followed us here.”
    â€œYeah, well, there been a whole lot more than them six ridin’ loco around the station. Ranches been burned, a whole gold town sacked up on the California border. There’s a good twenty or so Mojaves jumped the reservation a while back. Joined up with some broncos been holin’ up in the Sierra Madre, and they’re all runnin’ loco together, killin’ every white man, woman, and child in sight.” He shook his head. “That five likely peeled off from a larger war party when they seen you.”
    Hannady looked out the window again, still extending his pistol out in front of him. “I been alone here since my two hostlers and cook was killed two weeks ago when they were out cuttin’ wood. Mojaves. Fortunately, them two boys outside are U.S. marshals. They was just stoppin’ for breakfast when we heard you four comin’ hard, like the devil’s hounds were nippin’ at your heels.”
    Sugar had just started to rise but let her slender back fall against the door again. Slowly, she turned her fine, blind head toward Hannady, fine lines drawing taut above the bridge of her long, slender nose. “Did you say U.S. marshals, Fletch?”
    â€œU.S. marshals—that’s right. They don’t wear their badges cause the Mojaves find ’em right handy targets. But they’re marshals, just the same. Holmes and Butler been around the ole Mojave merry-go-round a few times. Nice to have gun-handy men around.” Slowly, staring down at Sugar, Hannady walked toward her, stopped only a few feet away. His thick, suety chest rose and fell heavily behind his dirty work shirt. “Say, you’re right purty.”
    â€œMr. Hannady,” Sugar said in her silky-smooth voice, looking up at him obliquely, “you smell bad.”
    â€œSay, now, that ain’t nice. I was just bein’ friendly.”
    â€œI don’t appreciate your brand of friendliness, Mr. Hannady.”
    â€œSay . . . wait now . . . !” Hannady said as he saw her lift her carbine and press the stock against her shoulder. “You got no cause to—!”
    Red flames lashed from the round muzzle. The crackingreport was a thunderclap in the close-walled room, causing glasses to clink on the counter to Sugar’s left, and dust to sift from the rafters. The carbine spoke two, three more times, throwing Hannady over a near, round table, overturning the table as he piled up on the floor behind it.
    Smoke wafted in the air around Sugar as, gritting her teeth and staring blindly up at where Hannady had been standing a moment before, she ejected the last spent shell casing and pumped a fresh cartridge into the chamber.
    Behind Sugar, the men in the yard were speaking. Boots thumped on the porch. A knock on the door followed by Lazzaro’s Spanish-accented voice: “Sugar?”
    Sugar ran her tongue along her lower lip. “Antonio,”