Staring Down the Devil (A Lou Prophet Western #5)

by Peter Brandvold

  Issuing new and classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  Even though bounty hunter Lou Prophet is clean out of money, he'd rather ride a cactus than be saddled with foreign royalty. But comely Russian Countess Natasha Roskov has a problem: Her sister has disappeared after finding a treasure trove in Arizona — and all the countess has to go on is a map. Prophet knows that a beautiful woman with a treasure map will attract trouble like wolves are drawn to a fresh kill. Now he's forced to take his noble employer on the ride of her life — while fighting off a pack of ruthless villains.

  STARING DOWN THE DEVIL

  LOU PROPHET 5

  By Peter Brandvold

  First published by Berkley Books in 2004

  Copyright © 2004 by Peter Brandvold

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: December 2013

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading the book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover image © 2013 by Westworld Designs

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Chapter One

  It would be remembered forever in the annals of the Slap & Tickle Saloon as the night a pretty whore goaded Lou Prophet into wrestling a bear.

  “Oh, come on, Lou,” the girl pouted before the infamous event. “It’s not a very big bear.”

  Prophet was playing poker with four other gents at one of the Slap & Tickle’s four gambling tables. The game was stud, ten cents the limit, and the dull-eyed houseman had a bad case of the yawns. Prophet had been trying to fill in a straight when the girl had come into the gambling den and poked a wet finger in his ear, voicing her request.

  She was a short, round-faced girl with a delectable rosebud mouth and large breasts doing all they could to wriggle out of her skimpy purple dress. Skin like cream and hair like corn silk. A fake pearl necklace was looped several times around her neck, spilling over the ridge of her bosom to her waist. That, her snakeskin headband, and the feathers in her hair lent an added exotic flair.

  Tillie Azure was the sexiest whore in Denver. Prophet had never had the pleasure of her pleasures before, but she’d assured him earlier the night was his. Now he was trying to earn enough money to afford her. He’d come to town two days ago fairly flush, having apprehended a bandit named “Walleye” Ned Whitcomb with a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar bounty on his head, but Cherry Creek’s pleasure girls and poker tables had cleaned him out.

  “I don’t care how big he is,” Prophet said around the cheap cheroot in his mouth, chuckling dryly, “I ain’t wrastlin’ no bear.”

  “It’s a black bear, not a grizzly,” Tillie said.

  “Good for him.”

  “What’s the bear’s name?” asked the traveling drummer sitting to Prophet’s right.

  Prophet looked at him. “How could that make a difference?”

  “Curly,” the girl said.

  “Oh, Curly.” The drummer grinned.

  Prophet frowned. “You know him?”

  “That’s ole Cal Dyson’s bear. Dyson’s an ex-mountain man. Raised the bear from a cub. Dyson’s old, kinda stove up from layin’ traps in all that snowmelt, so now he and the bear just hang out here at the Slap & Tickle, and the old coot makes money off chumps who wanna wrestle his bear.”

  “You mean,” Prophet said, his forehead creased with incredulity, “men actually pay to wrestle the bear?”

  “No,” said the stocky miner to Prophet’s left. “They bet they can beat him.”

  “Some can,” the drummer said, “some can’t.”

  “He’s old,” Tillie said.

  “Well, I ain’t bettin’ I can take no bear, old or not,” Prophet told the girl. “And that’s that.”

  “Well,” Tillie said, crossing her arms over her ample breasts and stomping one heel on the floor, “I just bet fifty dollars you could. And if you don’t go in there and wrestle that bear, Lou Prophet, you won’t be spending this or any night with me.”

  Prophet looked at her, his mouth open, about to tell the girl that Ma Prophet of Murray County, Georgia, hadn’t raised no fool and that she could go to hell. But then his eyes ran down her soft, curvy figure before returning to her sexy indigo gaze, and he imagined how she would look, wearing only the headband and the pearls . . .

  “Step right up here, Mr. Prophet,” the old mountain man said, his right fist full of bills. Turning to the bear sleeping in the corner, he said, “Curly, get up here now. You got work to do!”

  “What’s the matter with him?” Prophet asked, indicating the man passed out on the floor behind Dyson’s chair. The man had a pained snarl on his face.

  “Oh, he’ll be all right,” Dyson chuckled. “He just wasn’t ready for Curly’s turnip twist, is all.”

  “You mean he wrestled the bear?”

  “Always does.” Dyson chuckled and wagged his head, thumbing through the bills, his grizzled gray hair falling from beneath a greasy wool hat with a narrow, upturned brim.

  Men and pleasure girls had gathered around Prophet. The bartenders had paused to watch from behind the mahogany. When he’d entered the room from the gambling den, the room had erupted in applause, and Tillie had marched him over to the mountain man’s corner, cheerily leading her lamb to the slaughter.

  “What the hell’s a turnip twist?” Prophet wanted to know, scowling with apprehension.

  “Curly, get up now, damn ye!” Dyson said, prodding the bear with his gnarled hickory cane. “You got work to do.”

  The bear’s head lolled, and it swiped at the cane with a heavy paw. Dyson prodded the animal again, and the bear lifted its head, its deep brown eyes blinking and clearing as it rose out of its stupor.

  Again, Dyson prodded the beast. Prophet watched skeptically as the animal yawned and stretched and slowly gained its feet. It ambled over to Dyson and regarded Prophet dully.

  It was a big bear, but Prophet had seen bigger. Prophet weighed about two-twenty in his birthday suit, and all his horse riding and owlhoot chasing had chiseled every pound to hard muscle. The bear weighed probably double that, but Curly had big jowls and flabby shoulders and hips, and he moved awkwardly, swaying on his back hips, as though his bones were stove up from lying too long on the cold saloon floor. Also, he had a sizable paunch. Glancing at the floor where the bear had been lying, Prophet saw a pie tin of what looked like beer.

  Prophet grinned as he stared into the bear’s glassy eyes. Curly was not only fat and stove up. He was drunk, to boot.

  Dyson gave the bear’s rear a swap with the cane and said, “Don’t just stand there, Curly. Have at it. And keep your claws in. And for god sakes leave the poor man’s nose alone.”

  “Nose?” Prophet crouched as he moved toward the bear, feeling like an idiot, not quite sure what to do with his hands. He’d never wrestled a bear. Maybe he should have sought the counsel of someone who had. . . .

  “And leave off with the turnip twist!” Dyson ordered as the bear shuffled toward Prophet.

  Prophet looked at the mountain man, who reclined in his chair like a lord, his boots crossed on the table on which his money, beer glass, and not
ebook lay.

  Anxiously Prophet asked, “What the hell’s a turnip twist?”

  Several onlookers chuckled and elbowed each other. Dyson’s brows furrowed. He scribbled something in his notebook.

  Whatever a turnip twist was, it was too late for Prophet to back out now. The bear had closed on him, the animal’s eyes dark and dumb but deep with feral purpose. He smelled of beer and the wild, musky-sweet smell of bear.

  “Go, Lou!” Tillie Azure cried from a group of several other doves, clapping her hands. “I know you can do it. See, he’s not a very big bear at all, and he’s been drinkin’ all afternoon!”

  Prophet moved in. His best strategy would be to act quickly and take the bear by surprise. As the beast rose up on its hind legs, Prophet ducked under its nailing paws, pivoted around behind it, and jumped onto its back, crooking his arms around its neck.

  The bear cried out with surprise as Prophet tightened his hold on its neck and dug his boots into Curly’s gut. Giving another cry, the beast lost its balance, stumbled heavily, and fell with a boom.

  “Go, Lou!”Tillie cried.

  Gaining confidence, Prophet scrambled onto his heels, bolted off his feet, and dived onto the bear’s shaggy belly, pinning one hairy leg with both his knees while holding the other down with his arms.

  Curly gave an angry wail, jerking all his limbs at once, and suddenly Prophet was airborne, flying head over heels, brushing an onlooker, and plunging through a chair. He hit the floor hard on his ass. Staring at the rafters, he gulped air into his battered lungs.

  “Lou-oo!” Tillie complained with more disgust than concern. Several others, including Dyson, yelled and clapped for the bear.

  “Get that son of a bitch, Curly!” a man yelled. “Get that son of a bitch!”

  Prophet turned to see the shaggy beast awkwardly gain its feet, head swinging, smacking its lips as though hungry, its eyes as dark and dumb as before but with a vague glitter deep in the pupils, like a small flame at the bottom of a well. It lifted its front paws eagerly, giving Prophet an indignant glare.

  Knowing he couldn’t remain on the floor without the bear sitting on him or worse, Prophet gained his feet, staggering, red flares flashing behind his eyes. The bear approached, chuffing and growling and working its nose.

  Prophet raised his fists, intending to smack the bear, which stood about Prophet’s six-four. But the idea somehow seemed ludicrous. Who in the hell ever heard of punching a bear? What in the hell would you aim for — its nose? You’d only break your hand if you tried smacking that thick skull.

  The hesitation was a mistake.

  As Prophet tried to skip around the brute, the bear turned quickly, lunging and bowling into Prophet with what felt like the weight of an overloaded dray. Prophet went down, the back of his head slamming the puncheons and igniting a chorus of hoarse trumpets in his ears.

  Sucking back the pain, he scrambled to his haunches. The bear got down on all fours and rammed Prophet with his shoulder. The weight and force was too much. Flat on his back once again, his head feeling like a smashed pumpkin, Prophet again found himself staring at the rafters.

  “I give ... I give . . .” he mumbled, trying to be heard above the crowd’s din.

  The bear rested its forearms on Prophet’s chest, forcing the air from his lungs. Prophet struggled against the enormous weight, desperately kicking his legs. The great beast lowered its head, its eyes dark and flat and gold-flecked with rage. The toothy mouth opened, then closed over Prophet’s nose.

  “Owwww!” Prophet yelled as the teeth dug in. By instinct and reflex more than cunning, he brought his right boot up hard into the animal’s crotch.

  The bear opened its mouth, releasing Prophet’s nose. It tipped its head back and cut loose with an indignant roar so loud that the hanging lamps shook.

  The crowd fell silent as Curly sank to his butt, stubby back legs straight out before him, and dropped his paws to his injured groin. With a more hurt, indignant look than Prophet had seen on the face of man or beast, the bear wailed again, its eyes glaring at the rafters, its head wagging from side to side as if asking why, why, why?

  Prophet scrambled back on his butt and glanced around. The crowd regarded the bear sadly. Several incriminating looks were directed at Prophet. Heads wagged.

  “Jesus, what an awful thing to do!” someone exclaimed.

  “He kicked him in the balls,” someone else said, as though he could hardly believe his eyes.

  As Curly wailed again, still holding his crotch, Prophet said, “Well, what in the hell did you expect me to do? The damn brute tried bitin’ my nose off!” He grabbed the appendage in question and his fingers came away stained with blood — not a lot, but enough to know his kick had been justified.

  “Oh, Lou!” Tillie cried, gazing at Prophet reprovingly. “How could you?”

  “What?” Prophet raged. For god’s sake, the bear had tried to bite off his nose.

  “Lou!” Tillie cried again, stomping her foot. Turning to Dyson, who’d come out of his chair to check the damage to his bear, she said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Dyson. I never should have suggested an uncouth brute like that” — she jerked her head at Prophet — “wrestle poor Curly. I just didn’t know he’d fight like a damn . . . girl!”

  With that, Tillie lifted her skirts, wheeled, pushed through the crowd, and marched haughtily up the stairs at the back of the room. The other girls gave Prophet angry glares and followed Tillie’s lead.

  “You okay, Curly?” Dyson asked the bear, hunkering down to get a look at the brute’s crotch.

  The bear only glowered at him and snorted, then pushed the man away and climbed to all fours. Wobbling like an off-balance Gypsy cart, it ambled back to its place in the corner, gave one last bereaved sigh, and lay down. Kicking one leg out, it planted its snoot on the floor and snorted, staring balefully at a knot in the worn puncheons.

  Prophet looked around the room in exasperation, unable to believe all the nasty looks directed at him. “What in the hell did you expect me to do?” he yelled, his indignant voice breaking on the high notes.

  “I know what you can do, mister,” a burly man in miner’s garb declared, stepping forward. “You can get the hell out of here right now.”

  “Yeah, you’re not welcome in the Slap & Tickle anymore, Prophet,” one of the bartenders told him.

  “Now, wait a minute . . .”

  Before Prophet could say more, three other men came forward. Two took his arms and two took his legs. Deaf to his objections, they carried him like a battering ram across the room and through the batwings.

  “Now maybe you’ll think twice before fightin’ cheap again!” one of the men said as he and the others threw the bounty hunter headfirst into the street.

  It had been raining, and the mud was a foot deep, laced with a healthy dose of horse dung. Prophet slid halfway into the street before he came to a stop. He lifted his face from the mud and dung, spitting the foul ooze from his mouth, blinking.

  A pair of lady’s cloth boots and the hem of a heavy wool skirt, held above the mud, appeared before him. To the right was a pair of men’s ankle-high, calfskin shoes below the hemmed cuffs of pin-striped trousers. A black frock brushed the man’s knees.

  “Well,” said the woman with cool disapproval, “that was a very attractive display.” She spoke in an Old World brogue, pronouncing her w’s like v’s.

  “Yes, very attractive,” said the man. His voice bore the same accent as the woman’s. “Very attractive indeed, Countess. Are you sure he is the one we are looking for?”

  “No,” the woman said crisply. “But bring him anyway.”

  Chapter Two

  Prophet grumbled and cursed, spitting mud and dung. He rose up on his arms, his hands buried in the mud.

  The man before him squatted down and peered at him skeptically. He was a stocky, blocky-framed hombre, round-faced, with a carefully trimmed mustache, goatee, and long sideburns.

  “He does appear to be the one,” th
e man said in his heavily accented English. “Are you all right, Mr. Prophet?”

  Prophet stared at him, curious, his nose hurting and his eyes burning from the dung and mud. “Do I know you?”

  “I am Sergei Andreyevich,” the man said. Glancing up at the woman, he added, “This is Countess Roskov.”

  “No kiddin’,” was the only response that came to the bounty hunter’s reeling, beer-fogged brain.

  “Dean Senate sent us,” the man called Sergei informed him. “We met him in Kansas City. He said you might be able to help us.”

  Prophet climbed to his knees and scrubbed mud from his left eye with his right sleeve. He eyed the round, hairy face before him, his drunken incredulity having been aroused by the name. Dean Senate was an old friend of Prophet’s — an ex-mountain man who now owned the plush Ozark Hotel in Kansas City.

  “Help you do what?”

  “Sergei,” the woman said, “this is no place to talk.” The words hadn’t died on her tongue before a phaeton rolled past, missing them by only a few feet and splashing them all with mud.

  “No, it is not,” Sergei agreed. He straightened and grabbed Prophet’s left arm. “Here — let me help you up.”

  Prophet felt rickety and tired and dazed from the alcohol and his bear-bit nose. His back and neck were sore.

  “Goddamn bear,” he groused as they approached the boardwalk.

  “What bear?”

  “The damn bear that bit me.”

  “Oh, he ain’t a grizzly bear, Lou!”

  “Pshaw! Grizzly or no, I never shoulda let that tart talk me into wrastlin’ a bear.”

  “You wrestled a bear?” the woman asked with surprise. She stood facing Prophet on the boardwalk, between two lighted windows, one of which belonged to a hotel, the other a small cafe. Occasional miners and townsmen swerved around them. Buggies and wagons clattered on the street, horse hooves and wagon wheels making sucking sounds in the mud.

  Prophet steadied his gaze at the woman, sizing her up. She was probably in her mid-twenties, her long chestnut hair worn in a stylish bun, with tendrils framing her heart-shaped face. Her eyes were rather startling in their blueness and in the way they slanted, almost like those of an Oriental. Her skin was pale and smooth as cream. She had a heavy brow, which gave her a severe look. She could have been the churchgoing wife of a politician or a military man. She was dressed for it, too, in a conservative purple dress and a black cape hanging loosely about her shoulders.