Staring Down the Devil (A Lou Prophet Western #5) (25 page)
Read Staring Down the Devil (A Lou Prophet Western #5) Online
Authors: Peter Brandvold
Tags: #pulp fiction, #wild west, #cowboys, #old west, #outlaws, #western frontier, #peter brandvold, #frontier fiction, #piccadilly publishing, #lou prophet
The
sound of boots crunching gravel rose around the countess. A hand
appeared on the dark man’s collar, jerking him back on his hands
and heels.
“Get
away there, Roma,” another man growled. “Let me see.”
Another face appeared — a snake-eyed face with a two-day
growth of beard. The man wore a bowler and a white shirt unbuttoned
halfway down his chest. “Who in the hell are you?” he asked the
countess gruffly but appraising her with interest.
Her
face creased with pain, she glanced around to see four other men
standing around her, regarding her with varying degrees of lust and
curiosity in their hard, wild eyes. They wore filthy riding clothes
and guns on their hips. One man — a short, fat man with red-Irish
features — had several bandoliers draped across his chest and two
revolvers in the cross-draw position on his thighs. The foul odor
of the men’s sweaty bodies was thick in the countess’s
.nose.
“Answer me, you bitch, or I’ll shoot you right here!” The thin
man wearing the bowler was obviously their leader. He had a big
revolver and a wide-bladed knife on his hip. Neither went with his
city clothes.
Natasha recoiled, terrified. Quietly she heard her voice say,
“I am . . . Natasha Roskov.”
“Ah,
Russian.” The man in the bowler smiled. “Any relation to that
Russian gal of Gay’s?”
Natasha said nothing. She stared at the man fearfully,
wondering what kind of malignant mess she’d stumbled upon and
suddenly wishing she’d remained in Broken Knee. Getting herself
killed wasn’t going to do Marya any good.
When
she said nothing, the man called Roma chuckled. “Hey, she’s purty!
We can have a hell of a good time with her.”
“Shut
up, Roma!” the leader scolded. He knelt down before the countess
and grabbed her hair, pulling her head brusquely back. “I asked you
a question, miss. Is Gay’s girl the one you’re lookin’
for?”
Struggling against the man’s painful grip, the countess
nodded.
“She’s
your sister?”
“Yes.”
The
leader thought for several seconds while the other men looked on
with mute interest. “You in with Prophet and the short black-haired
gent?”
Tears of pain
oozing from her eyes and rolling down her cheeks as the man
tightened his grip on her hair, the countess looked at him with
vague bewilderment. How did he know Lou? How did he know that Lou
and Sergei were not bona fide bodyguards?
Apparently, Natasha’s expression was answer enough.
“Thought so,” the man said, grabbing her by her arm and
jerking her to her feet. He called to one of the men to fetch a
rope. “I’m gonna tie her to this tree over here,” he said,
brusquely leading the countess to a tall mesquite not far from the
fire.
“What
we gonna do with her, Boss?” Roma eagerly asked.
Ignoring the question, the leader directed one of his own to
Natasha. “You belong to Prophet or the other man?”
The
countess had no time to absorb the question, for he dragged her
along quickly, causing her to trip over rocks and small branches.
When he threw her down at the base of a mesquite tree, about ten
feet from the fire, he spoke again. “You heard me. You must belong
to one of ‘em — pretty little thing like you. Which
one?”
She
sat against the prickly tree, catching her breath, watching the
leader accept a length of rope from one of the other men. After a
second’s consideration she chose to let the man believe she was
Prophet’s woman. If he knew of Prophet’s reputation, he might spare
her, fearing the bounty hunter’s retribution.
It was worth a
try.
“I ...
I belong to Lou Prophet,” she said, meeting his gaze with proud
defiance. “I am Lou Prophet’s woman.”
“What
the hell you doin’ all alone out here?” He was cutting the rope
with a wide-bladed knife. The other men had gathered around him,
still watching Natasha with lascivious interest.
“I
came here from Broken Knee, looking for him and my
sister.”
“Prophet after the gold, too?”
The
countess stared at him, genuinely bewildered. “What
gold?”
“The
gold Gay’s after. The gold your sister has a map to.” The man
grinned as he tied the countess’s wrists together. “The gold I’m
after.”
Natasha blinked, distractedly watching the rope loop around
her wrists, wincing as he yanked it tight. So that’s what this man
and his men were out here for. The treasure marked on Marya’s
map.
“Lou
and Sergei are only trying to free my sister from Gay’s grip. They
do not care about gold. I do not care about gold. I care only about
my sister.”
The man tied a
knot in the rope and looked at her, measuring her expression
against her story.
“I do
not care about gold,” Natasha repeated beseechingly. “You can have
the gold. I want only my sister.”
The man stared
evenly at her. Finally he cut off another, longer length of rope.
He looped it around her waist and tied it behind the tree.
Confronting her again, he nodded.
“Well,
you might get your sister back,” he said, nodding again, his
expression vaguely mocking. “If she’s still alive after tomorrow,
that is. ‘Cause, you see, we’re going after Gay tomorrow. And we’re
going to get that map of your sister’s — one way or
another.”
He
straightened and dusted off the knees of his broadcloth trousers.
“Not only that, but I’m gonna kill me a conniving goddamn bounty
man by the name of Lou Prophet, too . . . after I’ve tortured him
real good.” He winked and turned away.
The
words resounded in Natasha’s ears, pricking the tender skin along
her spine, causing her heart to throb against her ribs. Not only
did Prophet and Sergei have to worry about Gay’s bodyguards, they
would have to contend with these men, as well.
The
countess fought back a sob.
Oh,
Marya
. . .
The
leader was talking to his men. “You two get back on watch, for
chrissakes. Don’t you know this is Apache country!”
Another man said, “What about her, Boss?”
“What
about her?”
“Aren’t we gonna . . . you know . . . ?”
The
leader chuckled. “Well, I just might, but you boys won’t. Hell,
you’d probably kill her, and then we wouldn’t have her for
tomorrow.”
“What’re we gonna do with her tomorrow, Mr. Braddock?” another
man asked as he stood near the fire, staring down at Natasha and
hungrily bunching the thighs of his buckskin pants in his
fists.
“She’s
gonna be riding with us when we ride up to Gay and his crew. I
figure if they see a woman in our party, they’ll hesitate before
they shoot.” Braddock grinned and nodded and clapped one of his men
on the shoulder. “And if she really is Prophet’s woman, which I
don’t doubt — that big Georgia bastard has a weakness for
good-looking women — Prophet’ll hesitate, too. Even if it’s only
for half a second, that’s all the time we’ll need.”
An
hour earlier Prophet rode drag on Gay
’s
crew, climbing the eastern foothills of the Penalino Mountains, a
long, rocky range buttressed by two tall, bald peaks that looked
like match flames as their crests caught the last of the day’s
light.
Prophet was deep
in thought, ruminating over their predicament. Six bodyguards lay
between him and Marya. Seven counting Gay, who may have considered
himself a civilized businessman now but had probably been handy
with a six-shooter not all that long ago, and likely still
was.
When
Prophet had thought Clark and Rosen would be the only other guards,
he figured they’d be able to snatch Marya away relatively easily,
not far from town. But with these extra guards, that plan was out
the window.
Thinking it over now, watching Marya and Gay riding ahead of
the pack of bodyguards filing up a twisting game trail, Prophet
decided their best choice was to try and slip her out of the camp
later that night. Gay would have guards posted, watching for
Indians, but Prophet thought if he and Sergei were crafty and quiet
enough, they might be able to slip away without anyone
noticing.
Then
they’d head back to Broken Knee, pick up the countess, and get the
hell out of Dodge, so to speak. Of course. Gay would trail them,
but Prophet had eluded more than one pesky tracker in his
day.
When Sergei
drifted back in the pack, sidling up to Prophet, he turned a
questioning glance at the bounty hunter. Prophet got out his
makings sack and rolled a smoke as he spoke softly, telling Sergei
his plan. When he was done, the Russian only nodded, not risking a
reply, and gigged his horse ahead.
“We’ll
stop here for the night,” Gay announced sometime later.
He
reined his horse to a halt in a wide arroyo abutted by a high stone
wall and bordered by low shrubs and mesquite trees. A spring
bubbled up between two of the trees, and a couple of the bodyguards
quickly strung a rope around it for the horses.
When
camp had been made. Prophet saw Marya say something to Gay, then
walk off down the arroyo. Prophet was rubbing Mean and Ugly down
with a handful of brome that grew thick along the
spring.
He
looked around. Only three bodyguards sat around the fire. Gay
sipped wine from a long-stemmed glass and sat on a log, looking
wan. Apparently, he didn’t often ride a saddle these days. The old
outlaw had gotten soft.
The
other men had been posted around the camp, on the lookout for
Apaches. They’d revolve the watch every two hours until
dawn.
No one appeared
to be watching Prophet, so he dropped to the grass and slipped
casually into the arroyo and stepped quietly across the stones,
taking his time in the darkness, heading in the direction Marya had
gone.
When
he’d walked around a bend, her voice rose on his right. “Who’s
there?”
Quietly he replied, “It’s Prophet.”
A moment later he
heard stones crunch and brush rustle, and then she appeared, a
vague form of a girl in the thickening darkness.
“Sorry
to bother you,” he said, knowing she’d probably slipped off to tend
nature.
“But I
didn’t know when else we could talk.”
“It is
all right,” she whispered, looking around warily. “Are you sure we
are alone? I expected him to follow me. He doesn’t
think I’ll try to escape out here, with
Indians
around, but he’s very
jealous.”
“I’ll
make this quick,” Prophet said, moving to her so he could keep his
voice low.
He
told Marya the plan. “How heavy do you sleep?” he asked
her.
“Not
very . . . anymore,” she added with a grimace.
“Don’t
worry,” Prophet told her. “We’ll get you free of that
varmint.”
He
squeezed her arm reassuringly and turned to make his way back to
the camp. He stopped when Marya grabbed his elbow. “When I am free,
will you help me find the treasure?”
Prophet turned
back to her. Her face was vaguely defined in the gathering
darkness, but he could see that her eyes were wide with appeal. He
chuffed a mirthless laugh.
How in
the hell could the girl think of searching for lost treasure after
all she’d been through? Most would have wanted nothing more than to
hightail it home.
“We’ll
talk about it later,” he told her, hav
ing
no intention of going after the so-called
treasure. When he and Sergei had sprung Marya from the camp,
they would make a beeline for Broken Knee, where they’d retrieve
the countess and make another beeline for Denver. Then Prophet
would ship the three Russians home, once and for all.
The countess was
one pretty woman, but no woman was worth this much trouble. . .
.
When
he got back to his horse, he was startled by Gay’s voice. “Where
have you been, Pepper?”
Gay
was standing in the darkness, his wineglass reflecting light from
the kindling stars. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Just
off tendin’ nature, is all.”
Gay
studied him, though Prophet couldn’t see his face. Finally Gay
moved toward the bounty hunter. “Let me warn you, Pepper. Any of my
men I find with my women are done for. Do you hear? And I don’t
mean they’re just fired.” He was close enough now that Prophet
could see him blink, smell the wine on his breath. “Do I make
myself clear?”
“Very
clear, sir,” Prophet said, making a mental note to cut this uppity
outlaw’s throat tonight before he left.
“Good.”
Before
he could walk away, a man carrying a rifle came up behind him.
“Boss, we got trouble.” The man was breathing hard, his clothes
soaked from sweat, as if he’d run a good distance.
“What
is it?”
“Injuns. I seen three of ‘em just before the sun went down,
two ridges over south.”
Gay
cursed. “They know we’re here?”
“Probably,” the man said, swallowing. “I fought those bastards
with ole Crook, and believe me, they’re wily. And by the way they
were skulking around that ridge, I’d say they’re tryin’ to get
close to our bivouac.”
“Shit!” Gay swung on his heel to the fire.
“What
do you wanna do, Mr. Gay?” asked one of the bodyguards sitting by
the fire, a note of fear in his voice. It was obvious he was all
for returning to Broken Knee.
“Douse
those flames,” Gay ordered. “And everyone stay alert.”
One of
the other men by the fire cleared his throat tentatively. “You
don’t think we should head back to town? Maybe try this another
time?”
“No, I
don’t,” Gay said with conviction. “I fought Apaches myself, when I
was running horses across the border. They will not attack at
night. At first light tomorrow we move out as planned.” He looked
at the last man who had spoken. “Unless you’re afraid,
McNab?”
“No,
no, sir — I ain’t afraid” — McNab concocted a snicker — “of a few
‘Paches.”
“Good,” Gay said, walking away. “Marya,
where are you, my dear?” he called, his voice
dwindling with distance.
Prophet turned to pick up his saddle and saw Sergei standing
on the other side of Mean and Ugly. “Indians, eh?”
“Yep,”
Prophet growled, not liking it one bit.
“What
does that mean for us, Lou?”
Prophet kept his voice low. “It means we don’t leave tonight.
The Apaches probably have us surrounded, and we’d run into them in
the dark. Besides that” — he chuckled ironically and with great
frustration — “we’re now probably safer with Gay than without
him.”
“What
about Marya?”
“Good
question,” Prophet said.
