The Revenger by Peter Brandvold

Author:Peter Brandvold [Brandvold, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781641196413
Publisher: Wolfpack Publishing
Published: 2019-07-03T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 3

Sartain went back downstairs, the LeMat again in his hand.

Strange sounds were coming from the front of the saloon. Thudding and squawking sounds. As he walked through the saloon, the bar on his left, the tables on his right, he could tell someone was on the front gallery. They were removing the planks from over the front door—which was two doors with beveled and colored glass still in their top panels.

The squawking and thudding continued. The Cajun stood near the doors, waiting, the LeMat in his hand, an incredulous scowl on his face. He could feel the reverberations of the toil of the man or men through the floorboards.

Finally, the last board was removed from over the door and tossed onto the gallery floor.

“Ouch!” said a voice.

The Revenger’s scowl deepened. Had that been a young woman’s voice?

“Damn!” she said as though to herself. She must have injured herself on a nail.

Sartain could see her silhouette through the colored glass, the top glass squares showing the single word Saloon from the back. One of the doors opened halfway, and the girl’s shadow moved toward Sartain. She wore a hat and a coat, and he could see long hair hanging down past her shoulders. She half-turned as she closed the door.

As she started to turn toward the drinking hall, Sartain scratched another match to life on his thumbnail and held it high.

The girl screamed and stumbled back against the doors, stretching her arms out to both sides, then fell to her rump on the floor.

Sartain stepped forward, the match sputtering between his thumb and index finger.

The young woman’s battered Stetson tumbled off her left shoulder to reveal a rich, messy spill of chocolate-colored curls framing a clean-lined face with a straight nose and resolute jaw.

“Who’re you?” Sartain asked.

“Who’m I?” she said, dark eyes sparking in the match light. “Who’re you, you son of a buck?”

“Sartain.”

Just then, the match burned down to his fingers. He dropped it. Darkness closed over him and the girl once more. He heard her give an angry grunt. There was the scuffing of boots and then she was on him in two-fisted fury, bulling into him while smashing her fists against his face.

“Hold on!” he said, dropping the LeMat to get hold of her.

Before he could grab her flailing arms, which he could barely make out in the darkness before him, she’d shoved him back onto a table. Her supple body pressed against his. Her coat fell open, and he could feel the yielding curves of her body loosely restrained behind a blouse.

Sartain got hold of her right hand and was surprised to feel the cold, hard, irregular bulk of a pistol in it.

“No!” she cried through gritted teeth.

Sartain jerked the pistol free of the girl’s surprisingly strong grip. As he did, he fell back and sideways, rolled off the table, and hit the floor with a bang! The girl came with him, landing on top of him, getting to her knees, straddling him, and going back to work on his face with her fists.

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