overcame me, and I meant to hurry away. But somebody knocked on the door. It's Johnny Duncan, I thought. He's come to announce his true identity and begin his mission of bringing down Sweetie Hieronymus. Of course, it was not Johnny.
"I'm Payne," she told Placido.
He looked at her stupidly.
"I thought . . ."
"Juno Frankie Payne," she said. "A thousand each for the three deputies, and two-thousand for Duprey."
"Too much!" Placido said. "I couldn't . . ."
Frankie shrugged and started out the door. She had it opened when Placido cried out: "I'll pay -- out of the pittance my mother left me!"
"Go do it now," he told her, "and then we'll force Sweetie to make me his vice president."
"A thousand more for that," Frankie said.
I thought Placido might faint. But he nodded, with his eyes shut against the fiscal trauma, and Frankie shrugged again and walked out the door.
After that, I shot out of my mother's room and down the stairs, to see the action.
In the saloon, Johnny had now moved to Nellie Bly's table, leaning towards her to talk, making moony eyes. Nellie ignored him, still furiously jotting notes.
Johnny suddenly hushed and looked up. On the landing stood Frankie, staring at him.
She still wore her smoked glasses. But now she had on black leather trousers and a leather jacket, also black. She took in Johnny and Nellie Bly, her blank face scary.
"Hey there," Johnny said, with a canary feathers look. "I was just asking Miss Bly if she knew. . ."
But he trailed off, as if Frankie's stare wilted him.
"Go to the sheriff's office," Frankie told him. "Tell them they can live if they leave Duster right now. Say I said so."
Johnny probably didn't want to cross Frankie just then. I could see him biting his lip, with those sky-blue eyes darting around, as if her were looking for an exit.
"Frankie, you know they'll just shoot me or something," he said. "Why give them an out anyway?"
"It's the code," Frankie said. "Like being true, you know?"
Johnny sat looking down at the table, miserable. It was disgusting.
"I'll go," I told Frankie. "They won't shoot a little girl."
So I went.
When I got there, the three deputies were playing poker and Fitzpatrick Duprey sat with his shoes up on his desk watching them, but looking distracted.
"Get out of Duster right now," I told them. "J. F. Payne says she'll kill you all."
Those deputies laughed.
I called them Big, Medium, and Small, because of their different proportions. But, to a man, they were mad-dog nasty. Small unholstered his revolver and aimed it at me, pretending to shoot, after which he blew away imaginary smoke from the barrel. They argued over what to do with me, such as fricasseeing me like a capon and sending me back to J. F. Payne on a crockery platter.
"Shut up," Fitzpatrick Duprey told them.
He stood up and looked out the window.
"You don't know what we're up against," he said.
J.F. Payne, he told them, had taken out top gunslingers all the way from Evansville, Indiana, to Santa Fe. No spellslinger ever survived her, either. In Chicago, she even turned the O'Ditherty gang's powerful Hiram Glott into ashes and smoke before he got past his strongest spell's second syllable.
Big, Medium, and Small took that in. Big finally snorted.
"We're four, she's one," he said. "And we're quick -- while she's muttering her spell,
bang, bang, bang!"
Fitzpatrick Duprey looked at the ceiling and silently sighed.
"Besides, you can take her, can't you, Fitz?" said Medium. "You ain't afraid of her, are you?"
Sheriff Duprey looked out the window. But then he turned, grinning, the evilest grin I'll ever see. He opened his desk's drawer and pulled out a long wooden case.
"This cost me plenty in Macao," he said. "I've saved it for something like this."
From the case, he extracted a long, thin ivory wand, with golden Chinese characters inscribed along its white length. He held it up between his right hand's thumb and forefinger.
"Casting spells bare handed, that's
"I'm Payne," she told Placido.
He looked at her stupidly.
"I thought . . ."
"Juno Frankie Payne," she said. "A thousand each for the three deputies, and two-thousand for Duprey."
"Too much!" Placido said. "I couldn't . . ."
Frankie shrugged and started out the door. She had it opened when Placido cried out: "I'll pay -- out of the pittance my mother left me!"
"Go do it now," he told her, "and then we'll force Sweetie to make me his vice president."
"A thousand more for that," Frankie said.
I thought Placido might faint. But he nodded, with his eyes shut against the fiscal trauma, and Frankie shrugged again and walked out the door.
After that, I shot out of my mother's room and down the stairs, to see the action.
In the saloon, Johnny had now moved to Nellie Bly's table, leaning towards her to talk, making moony eyes. Nellie ignored him, still furiously jotting notes.
Johnny suddenly hushed and looked up. On the landing stood Frankie, staring at him.
She still wore her smoked glasses. But now she had on black leather trousers and a leather jacket, also black. She took in Johnny and Nellie Bly, her blank face scary.
"Hey there," Johnny said, with a canary feathers look. "I was just asking Miss Bly if she knew. . ."
But he trailed off, as if Frankie's stare wilted him.
"Go to the sheriff's office," Frankie told him. "Tell them they can live if they leave Duster right now. Say I said so."
Johnny probably didn't want to cross Frankie just then. I could see him biting his lip, with those sky-blue eyes darting around, as if her were looking for an exit.
"Frankie, you know they'll just shoot me or something," he said. "Why give them an out anyway?"
"It's the code," Frankie said. "Like being true, you know?"
Johnny sat looking down at the table, miserable. It was disgusting.
"I'll go," I told Frankie. "They won't shoot a little girl."
So I went.
When I got there, the three deputies were playing poker and Fitzpatrick Duprey sat with his shoes up on his desk watching them, but looking distracted.
"Get out of Duster right now," I told them. "J. F. Payne says she'll kill you all."
Those deputies laughed.
I called them Big, Medium, and Small, because of their different proportions. But, to a man, they were mad-dog nasty. Small unholstered his revolver and aimed it at me, pretending to shoot, after which he blew away imaginary smoke from the barrel. They argued over what to do with me, such as fricasseeing me like a capon and sending me back to J. F. Payne on a crockery platter.
"Shut up," Fitzpatrick Duprey told them.
He stood up and looked out the window.
"You don't know what we're up against," he said.
J.F. Payne, he told them, had taken out top gunslingers all the way from Evansville, Indiana, to Santa Fe. No spellslinger ever survived her, either. In Chicago, she even turned the O'Ditherty gang's powerful Hiram Glott into ashes and smoke before he got past his strongest spell's second syllable.
Big, Medium, and Small took that in. Big finally snorted.
"We're four, she's one," he said. "And we're quick -- while she's muttering her spell,
bang, bang, bang!"
Fitzpatrick Duprey looked at the ceiling and silently sighed.
"Besides, you can take her, can't you, Fitz?" said Medium. "You ain't afraid of her, are you?"
Sheriff Duprey looked out the window. But then he turned, grinning, the evilest grin I'll ever see. He opened his desk's drawer and pulled out a long wooden case.
"This cost me plenty in Macao," he said. "I've saved it for something like this."
From the case, he extracted a long, thin ivory wand, with golden Chinese characters inscribed along its white length. He held it up between his right hand's thumb and forefinger.
"Casting spells bare handed, that's
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