Thanks to Cal Gal, Deana & and the kind-hearted folks in the Action Scenes Critique thread for graciously betaing. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
One, afternoon ~~~
Three days, three towns, and nothing. No leads, no clues. The only thing James West had gleaned so far was a sneaking suspicion that, whoever was behind all this, he had most of the locals in his back pocket - and that included far too many of the sheriffs and deputies that Jim had met.
And now with evening drawing on, Jim rode into the town of Belle Fleur. He hitched his big black stallion to the railing and gave the horse a fond pat before mounting the steps to the latest hotel. As he entered and crossed to the front desk to inquire for a room for the night, Jim could feel eyes following him. He signed in, accepted the key for Room 12, then headed upstairs to drop off his stuff. Moments later he emerged again to take care of settling his horse in at the livery stable - and that was when they jumped him.
Four men. There was hardly enough room in the corridor to accommodate them all. They leapt at him as soon as he opened the door. Instinctively, Jim slammed the door in their faces - for one of them, literally. When Jim threw the door open again, that one slowly slid to the floor, out cold.
As the remaining three tried to grab West, he sprang up, caught hold of the lintel above the doorway, then swung out, knocking them all to the floor.
One of the three bounded up again and tried to slug West, only to receive a hard left to the chin that sent him back to the floor. The next came in behind West and flung his arms around him in a massive bear hug, trying to wrestle him down. West reached over his head and grabbed his larger opponent around the head, flipping him over his shoulder and into a delicate hallway table, sending its vase and doily scattering.
The last man now closed with West, getting in a vicious punch to the solar plexus that sent West to one knee, gasping. With a laugh, the last man nodded to his two still-conscious companions. "We finish this," he said, pulling out a knife. The others followed suit and crowded after him, all three looming over Jim West.
West looked up at them, his eyes meeting each of the others' in turn. And then Jim took hold of the edge of the carpet runner and gave it a firm yank.
Men and knives went flying - and one knife, in descending, gashed its erstwhile wielder. Evidently that was enough for them. The three scrambled to their feet and scurried off, leaving the unconscious man behind.
Jim knelt at that man's side, took hold of his collar, then slapped him lightly across both cheeks till the fellow's eyes opened. He gave a gurgle on seeing himself in Jim West's clutches and tried to wriggle free. The appearance of West's revolver a moment later put an end to that.
"Now," said West. "I have some questions and I'm sure you know what they are. Talk."
The man's eyes darted about, but whether he was hoping for rescue or afraid of being overheard was not clear.
"Talk," Jim insisted, touching the muzzle of the gun to the assailant's ribs.
"Ah! Ah!" the fellow sputtered. "It… it is only, m'sieur, that, that you are the yankee. No one want the yankee here in the bayou! Allez-vous en! Go away!"
West regarded him coolly. "Right," he said. "And who put you up to this? Who sent out you and your buddies to be my welcoming committee, hmm?"
The captive gaped at him, not answering. But another voice spoke up.
"Why, M'sieur West, what make you think anyone put ol' Petitcharles et ses amis up to this? They's jes' a buncha péquenauds - y'know, good ole boys - runnin' on high spirits and mebbe a bit o' the liquid spirits too, hein?"
A man was walking down the corridor toward them - tall, wide, paunchy, with a star pinned to his vest. He looked at West's captive, said, "Allez-vous en," and jerked his head down the hall toward the stairs. The man clambered up, glanced once more at West, then skedaddled.
West rose smoothly to his feet and looked the newcomer in the eye. "You're the sheriff here?"
"That I am. Henri Boirot." He held out his hand. After another measured look, Jim holstered his gun and shook the hand.
"I'm surprised to see the sheriff patrolling the halls of the hotel," said Jim.
"Aw, I was in the lobby, jes' steppin' inside out of the sun, y'know, when les Romain brothers, they come peltin' down the stairs and one o' them bleedin'. So I mosey on up, take a look-see."
"And you know who I am."
"Bien sûr, M'sieur West! Everyone in the bayou is talkin' of the presence of the famous Secret Service agent! Oui, everyone is wonderin' why it is you have come, what it is you will find. Hein?" The sheriff leaned closer. "But me, I think you will find nothin', M'sieur West. Nothin' but bayou."
"And what lives in the bayou," West pointed out.
"Vraiment?" The sheriff laughed heartily. "Mais, M'sieur West! What lives in the bayou is the gator, n'est-ce pas? And anyone who stirs up the gator - ah, that one, he risks bein' bit, y'know."