Lou Prophet 2

by Peter Brandvold

  “Mr. Prophet!”

  Startled out of his reverie, he looked around and saw Keith standing in the yard before him, a basket of eggs in his hand. The boy stared at Prophet, grinning.

  “What are you doin’ here?”

  “Just stopped back to say hello.”

  The boy looked confused. “But I thought you were heading for Montany?”

  Prophet shrugged. He didn’t feel like going into details. “Best laid plans, son. Best laid plans ...”

  “But—?”

  Layla appeared in the cabin door. “Keith, get in here with those eggs while I still have a fire to fry them with.”

  Keith looked at Layla, cut his eyes at Prophet, his lips widening in a foxy grin. “Oh, I see; you are gonna marry my sister!”

  “Keith!”

  Laughing, the boy ran onto the stoop and past his sister into the cabin. Prophet did not turn to look at Layla. His face was warm. Then he heard her talking to Keith in the cabin, and he sucked on the quirley with a troubled light in his eyes.

  His expression would have been even more troubled had he known that, at that very moment, two Loomis riders were headed that way.

  Chapter Eighteen

  GERBER RODE BETWEEN two grassy hogbacks, turned his horse off the cattle trail he and Kinch had been following since first light, and jogged up a rocky bluff. At the top, he reined the horse to a stop near low-growing junipers and eyeballed the country around him.

  Pretty Butte Creek was a dark, curving cut a half mile to the east. West were the jagged, purple buttes of the Little Mo, which the first rays of the morning sun had not yet discovered. North was more of the same chalky, smoky, coal-streaked, water-scored badlands they’d been scouring for the past two weeks now, ever since that son of a bitch bounty hunter shot Little Stu in Little Missouri.

  Gerber exhaled loudly and set his jaw. He was bone weary from hard riding and boredom. They’d been out here for the past three days and hadn’t seen a thing but grass, buttes, river, creeks, and cattle.

  Hearing hoof thuds, he turned to see Kinch ride up behind him, his tired horse digging its front hooves into the abraded gravel for purchase. At the top of the bluff, Kinch reined his mount to a halt beside Gerber and stared silently eastward. He was as tired as Gerber; he just didn’t complain as much.

  “Well, I tell you what, Kinch,” Gerber said, hooking a leg around his saddle horn, “I say we call it quits.”

  “Oh, you do, do ya?” Kinch said with a wry squint.

  “If we ain’t found Prophet yet, we ain’t gonna find him ... till he finds us, that is.”

  “Well, you heard what the old man said. We don’t go back to the ranch until we’ve found him.”

  When he’d been unable to track Prophet away from the burned barn, Loomis had sent out all fifteen of his remaining, healthy men in pairs and with orders not to return until they had Prophet tied to his saddle. In light of the trouble the man had caused, not to mention the embarrassment, Loomis had revised his earlier orders. He preferred Prophet be brought in alive, he said, but they could go ahead and kill him if they had to. He just wanted the man caught and given his due, one way or another.

  “Screw the ranch,” Gerber said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You heard me. Screw the ranch. Screw Loomis. I say we quit, ride south, find some other spread. One that ain’t run by no madman and his loco kid.”

  “Where we gonna get wages like Loomis pays?”

  “Kansas,” Gerber said. “Oklahoma. Hell, the Texas panhandle. There’s more greedy cattlemen out there needin’ gunhands. And if there ain’t, well then, hell, I hear they’re findin’ gold by the trainload in Deadwood Gulch.”

  When Kinch said nothing, Gerber sighed and built a smoke, thoughtful. “Well, we ain’t seen the old man in three days. Maybe he’s settled down by now, come to his senses, figured Little Stu just homswoggled the wrong tough and got his just desserts.”

  “Doubt it.”

  Gerber twisted the quirley’s ends and licked them. “Hell, this is just plumb crazy. He can’t order us to stay out here life this—indefinite! I ain’t had a drink or a woman in ...” He paused, thoughtful. “Jesus, I don’t know how long! Almost had that pretty little Carr girl, but you know what happened there.”

  Kinch did not respond, which riled the garrulous Gerber further.

  “Hell, Kinch, maybe Boone and Kennison found him. If anyone can track him, it’s them two. Maybe they done caught him, and we’re ridin’ out here fer nothin’.”

  Kinch shrugged. “The old man would’ve sent someone for us.”

  “Maybe he forgot.”

  Kinch shook his head and stared off, the fresh breeze toying with the brim of his sombrero and the blue bandanna tied around his neck.

  Gerber resigned himself to his cigarette. No, they’d be out here another day, and another, and then another, until they found Prophet, or he found them. The truth was, it was damn hard to find wages like Loomis paid. When a man got used to such cash in his pocket, even though winter was the only time he could spend it, it was hard to give it up. On top of their normal pay, Loomis was offering a thousand dollar reward to the men who brought the bounty hunter in, dead or alive. A thousand bucks wasn’t anything to scoff at, no matter how chafed and blistered your ass.

  “Hey,” Gerber said with a wistful expression on his hawkish, unshaven face, “you don’t think that Carr girl picked him up, do you?”

  “We stopped by her place, remember?” Kinch said, scraping mud off the bottom of his right boot with his skinning knife.

  Gerber was frustrated. “It had to be her, Kinch. She was the only other person out there that day. I bet she found him layin’ wounded and picked him up.”

  “Even if she did, it don’t mean he’s there now.”

  “Could be holin’ up there, though.” Gerber grinned. “If she saved your hide, Kinch, wouldn’t you hole up in her digs?”

  Kinch chuckled as he scraped the mud from his knife with a finger.

  Gerber’s eyes were bright as he nodded, saying, “You know what, Kinch? I think we better pay another visit to her ranch.”

  Sheathing his knife, Kinch looked at Gerber knowingly. “And Miss Layla Carr?”

  Gerber’s grin widened. “Hell, Kinch, ain’t neither of us had a woman in weeks. And that girl there—why, you ever seen anything as pretty as her before in your life?” He raised his left hand, palm up, to his chest. “With nicer chiconas!’

  Kinch returned Gerber’s gaze with a sigh, his eyes bright. He may not have been as chatty as Gerber, but he was just as bored. And just as badly in need of a woman. “No, I can’t say as I have, Gerber.”

  “Her place is right over that butte yonder,” Gerber said, pointing.

  Kinch held out his arm. “Lead the way, my friend,” Gerber chuckled, stuck his cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and lead off at a trot.

  For Prophet, breakfast at the Carr ranch was awkward at first, in light of his and Layla’s night together and all the words that remained unspoken between them. But once he got settled at the table with a fresh cup of coffee and a full plate of eggs, bacon, and nicely browned potatoes fried in butter, he started feeling at home. As he’d done when he’d been sitting on the stoop, he imagined what it would be like, sitting here every morning with Layla and her brothers. A family.

  He liked both boys. Keith was a feisty, capable lad who took after his sister in all the right ways. He’d make one hell of an upright man. As for Charlie, what he lacked in smarts he made up for in heart. You could tell that by the soft light in his eyes and the constant smile on his lips. He never uttered a foul word to anyone except his younger brother, who deviled him now and then, in a harmless, brotherly way. You could tell by Charlie’s callused hands and muscled arms he was a good worker, too.

  Keith would probably go his own way someday, but Charlie would probably stay here with Layla, and that would be all right with Prophet, who remembered a “touched” cousin of his ow
n with fondness. Later on, Prophet and Layla would have kids, and Prophet would have to build a new cabin with plenty of rooms, a big kitchen, a huge hearth, and plenty of play space in the second story. There’d be a big rocker where he could sit and read bedtime tales and smoke a pipe just like his pa had always done (only Luther Prophet had had to recite them, since he couldn’t read). And there’d be a cozy sofa near the hearth, where he and Layla would snuggle after all the kids had been tucked into their beds....

  Prophet chuckled at the thought. The others looked at him curiously. Keith had been talking about a bear sleeping in a hollow tree that he and Charlie had stumbled on the other day when they were cutting wood. It was a funny story, but apparently Keith had gone beyond the funny part. At least, the looks on the three faces staring at him told Prophet that was the case.

  He cleared his throat and sipped his coffee, dropping his eyes with embarrassment. “Uh ... sorry, son,” he said. “I was just thinking’ about an old bear I happened on one time ... back in Georgia.”

  Layla watched him. As if reading his mind, she cracked a warm smile, then dropped her eyes to her plate.

  “Really?” Keith said. “Tell us—” The boy stopped and turned to the window, where Herman had started barking up a storm.

  “See what it is, Keith,” Layla said.

  The boy pushed back his chair and walked to the door. He opened the screen and stiffened. Turning back inside, his face scrunched up with alarm. He said, “Kinch and Gerber.” Sliding his frightened eyes to Prophet, he added, “Loomis men!”

  Prophet turned to Layla sharply. “In the back room. Quick!”

  “Keith, Charlie,” Layla said firmly, scraping back her chair.

  Neither boy hesitated in complying with their sister’s orders. They’d seen and experienced what the Crosshatch men were capable of the last time they called. When they were both in the room, Layla turned around to give Prophet a worried, questioning look. He hadn’t moved from his chair.

  “It’ll be all right,” he told her. “Just keep your heads down.”

  She hesitated, frowning. “Please be careful, Lou,” she beseeched him. Then she withdrew into the room and softly latched the door.

  Prophet glanced over his shoulder, making sure the Winchester and shotgun were where he’d propped them against the wall behind him. He drew his Colt from his holster, plucked a forty-five shell from his cartridge belt, and filled the chamber he always left empty beneath the hammer.

  He closed the cylinder, gave it a spin, and held the gun on his thigh. Sitting back in the chair, he casually hiked a boot on a knee, and waited, hearing the dog barking even louder now, and the clomp of hooves as the riders approached the house.

  Suddenly, the dog gave a yelp, as though someone had thrown something at it, and the barking ceased. One of the men said something in a low, caustic tone, and the other one chuckled.

  There was a silence filled with only the sounds of blowing horses and squeaking leather. Then: “Hello the cabin!”

  “Come on in,” Prophet returned. The men were to the right of the window, out of his field of vision.

  Another silence.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Come on in and have a look-see for yourself.”

  The voice was tentative this time, but owned an eager, laughing quality, as well. “Prophet, that you?”

  “It’s me, all right. Why don’t you two come on in so’s we can discuss this mess. But keep your irons in your holsters, unless you want a lead swap.”

  A horse blew. There was the creak of saddle leather, as though the men were dismounting.

  “Come on in,” Prophet urged in his mock-friendly voice. “The coffee ain’t gettin’ any hotter.”

  He slid his chair back against the stove. Still, he couldn’t see anything but the yard directly before the cabin, part of the barn, a few chickens, and wheeling swallows. He could see only part of the screen door. He figured the riders were standing before the stoop, talking it over, concocting a plan to take him.

  They were going to have to come inside for him, though. He wasn’t going out there. He didn’t like risking the lives of Layla and her brothers, but he knew that if he went outside, he’d be walking right into their hands. They’d gun him down, and then they’d come inside, anyway.

  Prophet sat running his thumb up and down the curve of his pistol grip, his heart thumping, waiting.

  “All right, Lou,” one of the riders called cheerily. “Don’t mind if I do come in for that cup of coffee you’re offering’. Don’t go shootin’ me now. My pistol’s in its holster.”

  “Like I said, I won’t if you won’t. What about your friend?”

  “Cinch’s gonna stay with the horses.”

  Prophet smiled at that. “Shy, is he? All right, then, Gerber. What’re you waitin’ for?”

  There was a pause. Then a boot heel came down on the porch steps. Then another. Slowly, the man made his way to the screen door. Another pause. Then the door creaked open, and a long shadow stretched across the floor.

  Prophet slipped his gun in his holster but kept his hand on the butt.

  Gerber stepped into the cabin and stopped, one hand on his holstered six-shooter. He was a tall, slightly stoop-shouldered man in his late twenties, with a pale, whiskered face and the long, broad nose of an Indian. He looked at Prophet, his hawk eyes wide.

  His voice was cool, with a malign edge. “I knew that girl picked you up. She had the old man fooled, but I knew it.”

  “Have a seat,” Prophet said. He kicked out the chair at the end of the table.

  “Reckon I’ll stand.”

  Prophet shrugged. “Have it your way. Coffee?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s good.”

  Gerber ran his tongue along the edge of his upper lip. “You been here all along?”

  Prophet didn’t say anything.

  Gerber shook his head slowly, stiffly. “That barn you burned—that ain’t gonna make it any easier fer ye.” He half formed a smile. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his long, thin neck.

  Prophet said, “I wasn’t tryin’ to make up with the man. I was tryin’ to show him what he was in for, if he kept after me.”

  Gerber’s smile widened, and his dark eyes flashed.

  “You know what happened between me and Little Stu. You were there. Why didn’t you tell him it was self-defense?”

  A laugh came up from deep in Gerber’s chest, like a squeal from a baby pig. “It wouldn’t matter if you was unarmed and Little Stu was coming at you with a pitchfork and you laid him out with a spitball. The old man’d hunt you down and kill you like a skunk-bit dog.”

  Prophet’s anger grew. “You saw it all,” he said, his jaw tightening. “You know how it happened.”

  Gerber just stood there grinning, his eyes bright. Prophet thought he could see the rocks rolling around in the idiot’s head.

  “How much of a bonus is he offering?” he asked.

  “An even thousand to the men who bring you in. Where’s them kids?”

  “Those kids don’t concern you.”

  Another light flashed like a miniature lightning bolt in Gerber’s dark eyes. “We’ll see about that. After we’ve done kilt you, we’re gonna bum ‘em out.” His eyes hooded, smoldering. “Have us some fun with the girl.”

  Prophet swallowed the knot of rage in his throat. “Not hardly.”

  Gerber just stared at him, the rocks in his head rolling this way and that, his eyes telegraphing his intentions. His right hand clawed iron. He got the gun out of his holster and was lifting the barrel when Prophet’s gun barked over the table. Twice it jumped, spitting smoke and flames, taking Gerber once through the left cheek, once through the chest. He rose off his feet, flew back about four feet, and landed on his back with a grunt.

  Gerber’s last breath was exhaling through his mouth when a shadow moved in the window to Prophet’s left. Outside, a gun barked just as Prophet ducked beneath the table. The bullet ricoch
eted off the range with a deafening clang. Prophet lifted his gun, fired once through the broken glass, then stood and ran out the screen door.

  He stopped on the stoop, crouching, and pivoted left, ready to fire. Kinch was running away toward the barn. Prophet knelt, lifted the gun chest high, and fired twice. The first slug was high, the other low.

  Kinch crouched behind the stock tank and lifted his revolver. Prophet ducked as one slug barked into a porch post and another slammed into the cabin. By the time he’d risen to return fire, Kinch was running again toward the barn.

  Prophet waited until the man slowed to duck through the corral, and fired again. The slug tore a widget from the corral slat above Kinch’s head. Prophet thumbed back his Colt’s hammer. Before he’d leveled the gun again, Kinch disappeared behind the barn.

  Cursing under his breath and clutching his sewn side, Prophet ran toward the corral. He ducked through the slats and ran along the barn, crouching under the windows. When he came to the end of the log building, he paused, replaced the spent shells in his gun with new, then sprang around the corner, holding his gun out before him.

  A brown and white milch cow gave a start and backed away. Something had attracted it to the back door of the barn, which swayed half open in the morning breeze.

  Suppressing the pain of his strained stitches, Prophet stole over to the door. He peeked around it, offering only half his head. In the shaded barn he saw little but a few vague outlines of stable partitions and ceiling joists from which wood-handled tools hung.

  Throwing himself left, he sprang inside, pressing his back to the other door. He squinted through the shadows, aware that bullets could come from anywhere. A calf bawled in a stall, and Prophet gave a start.

  He stepped behind a joist, using the joist and the singletrees and harness arranged there as a shield. The calf knocked its stall.

  Prophet licked his lips and peered into the barn’s inner twilight, his gun swinging back and forth. Slowly, he stepped out from behind the joist and crept down the alley.

  He heard what sounded like the muffled scrape of a boot heel, and looked up. Dust and hay flecks filtered between two ceiling boards. Adrenaline jetting in his veins, he dove forward as three quick shots erupted in the loft, the bullets tearing widgets from the ceiling and barking into the dirt floor where he’d been standing.