Free Hell's Angel by Peter Brandvold Page A

the top between slightly thicker, fuzzier patches on the sides, above his large ears whose lobes hung down like thumbs.
    Prophet said with quiet warning, “The next one’s gonna give you a second belly button about six inches above the first.”
    The dwarf gasped, glanced at the pistol, as though he hadn’t realized he was still holding it, then flung it down into the dust like a hot potato.
    The gunman flanking the dwarf on his right jerked his hand toward the pistol he carried in a shoulder holster, under his long, faded blue denim duster. Prophet slid his Peacemaker slightly right and fired.
    The bullet slammed through the gunman’s right hand as he began to slide the gun from its holster. He screamed and jerked sideways as the bullet ricocheted off his gun, tore through the side of his coat, and puffed dust in the street beside him, about two feet in front of the girl.
    She wasn’t smiling now.
    The man clutched his bloody right hand with his left and turned back toward Prophet, bending forward and grimacing, his eyes spitting javelins of raw fury.
    Prophet stared back at him, his Colt cocked and ready once more. The bounty man looked at the others, including the dwarf.
    They all appeared flabbergasted, indignant. The dwarf’s lower jaw hung in shock. The two unwounded men seemed to be awaiting orders from the dwarf. The little man appeared tongue-tied.
    Behind the men, the brown-haired girl lowered her arms, canted her head to one side, and drew a ragged breath. “Mister,” she said just loudly enough for Prophet to hear, wagging her head slowly. “You oughtn’t to have done that.”
    Prophet looked at her and then at the men. “Toss those guns in the dirt.” He looked at the girl again—at the pistol riding high on her left hip with the butt angled back toward her hip. “You, too, honey.”
    â€œDon’t
honey
me, mister.”
    Prophet raked his eyes over all of them. They stared back at him, silent and angry, fuming over the prospect of the humiliation of giving up their guns. Prophet knew he couldn’t ride out of here until they did, however. Not without risking getting drilled between his shoulder blades.
    He triggered the Colt again, blowing up dust to the right of the gunmen, causing them all to jerk with starts. He waited a few seconds and then plumed more dust to their left.
    The dwarf glanced at his men, rasped out a couple of harsh words that Prophet couldn’t pick up against the gusting breeze. Reluctantly, regarding Prophet owlishly, they all tossed their guns into the street.
    The girl stood atop the steps as she had before, saucily defiant. The dwarf followed Prophet’s gaze to her. “Throw the iron down, Griselda!”
    She waited another couple of seconds, then slid her pistol out of its holster, held it up high by two fingers, mocking Prophet with her eyes, and then dropped the pearl-gripped Smith & Wesson into the dust at the side of the gallery steps. It hit with a thump, causing dust to rise.
    Prophet glanced at the water bucket a couple of feet from his right boot. Mean had drunk nearly all of it. There might be a half a dipper left. He couldn’t risk drinking it, though, and taking his eyes off the men and the girl.
    He’d have to get more water later, though he’d first have to secure a canteen. He wasn’t leaving town without a full canteen, however, or he’d be in the same fix he’d been in when he’d left the Rio Grande.
    Keeping his pistol on the group before him, including the girl on the gallery steps, he gathered up Mean’s reins, turned the horse sideways to the hotel, and stepped into the leather. Staring grimly at the crew before him, he backed the horse down the street in the direction from which he’d come. He wasn’t sure where he was going; he only knew he’d worn out his welcome at the well.
    As he backed the horse, he spied two men standing on the