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

by Peter Brandvold

  “You’re right,” Henry admitted. “You got me off that racket, and I should be grateful.”

  “Yes, you should.”

  “I’m sorry. Thanks, Lou. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

  Prophet swung the register around and hefted his saddlebags off the desk. “I’m sure I’ll think of something someday. For now, just get me a room near those two Russians that checked in a little while ago, will you?”

  “That what they were — Russians?”

  Prophet nodded. Henry slid off his chair and turned to retrieve a key from a hook. “Why you ridin’ with Russians?”

  “I guided ‘em down here. Don’t tell anybody, Henry, but —” Prophet stopped as a thought occurred to him. A question. He assumed Henry had been here for a while. A savvy young man who had been in and out of petty trouble most of his life, Henry had no doubt sized up the town and its primary booster, Leamon Gay.

  Henry dropped the key in Prophet’s open hand. “But what?”

  “Say, Henry, you know this Leamon Gay fellow?”

  Henry stared at Prophet levelly. After a wary pause, he said, “Not personal. I know of him. Why?”

  “You know where he lives?”

  The desk clerk stared at Prophet with dark suspicion. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I know where he lives. Why you askin’?”

  “Ever been there?”

  “Why you askin’?”

  “Oh, come on, Henry. You ever been there?”

  Henry’s voice rose, a note of the old despair returning. “Yeah, I been there. So what? I work for the mercantile weekends, and once in a while I deliver goods to the place. So what?” Henry’s upper lip trembled slightly, and his eyes bore into Prophet’s like obsidian arrowheads.

  Prophet’s eyes lighted, and he grinned cunningly as he grabbed the young man’s arm. “Henry, you’re a peach. Give me a few minutes of your time, will you?”

  Henry wrenched his arm free of Prophet’s grip and stepped back from the desk. “What?”

  “Just five minutes, Henry, just five minutes,” Prophet beseeched the young clerk. “For the guy who saved you from the pen and saved your mama from a shame no woman should bear. . . .”

  Henry scowled and canted a squinted eye askance, the epitome of suspicion and fear. “What you up to, Lou Prophet?”

  “Just five minutes.” Prophet pulled the young man around the desk and onto the lobby floor. Henry held back, reluctant, telling Prophet he could not leave the desk unattended.

  “Just five minutes for the guy who saved you from the rock quarry, Henry,” Prophet said.

  Spying a blank placard hanging behind the desk, Prophet turned it around. “Back in One Hour,” it read.

  Slinging his saddlebags over his shoulder, Prophet ushered the young clerk up the narrow staircase to the second story, ignoring Henry’s protests and complaints. “If you got something with Mr. Gay, Proph, please don’t involve me. I beg you, man. I’m too young to die. Hell, I’d rather the old gang get me than Gay and his boys. . . .”

  Henry was practically sobbing by the time Prophet knocked on Sergei’s door, the number of which he’d noted in the register book. When the Russian answered the door, Prophet said, “Meet me in the countess’s

  room.”

  He didn’t wait for the Russian to respond. The young, protesting desk clerk in tow, he turned to the door across the hall and knocked.

  The countess answered, looking fresh after a sponge bath and a change of gowns. Due to the heat, she wore a sleeveless little form-fitting shirtwaist with ruffles across the bosom. Her hair was down, parted in the middle, with ringlets dancing about her cheeks. She looked as scrumptious as Prophet had ever seen her. But he had serious business to attend.

  “Can we come in?” he asked her. Not waiting for her reply, he pushed open the door and shoved Henry before him into the room.

  “Hey, hey, Lou — what’s goin’ on?” Henry complained. He was nearly sobbing. “I can’t ... I can’t be in a lady’s room. Oh, for mercy sakes!”

  “Oh, Henry, straighten up and grow some horns, will you?” Prophet admonished the lad as he deposited his saddlebags and arms in a corner. To the countess, who stood near the door looking incredulous, he said, “This is my old friend Henry Appleby. We go back, Henry and me. Henry — the Countess Natasha Roskov.”

  “Oh, shit, Prophet — sorry, ma’am,” the desk clerk said, flashing an apologetic glance at the countess, “but I can’t be in the room of no white countess — whatever a countess is. Jeepers!”

  The door opened and the burly Sergei entered, his wet hair and goatee freshly combed. He, too, had changed his clothes and was looking dapper and fresh. His face registered disapproval at the presence of the two other men in the countess’s room.

  “What is going on here?” he asked, scowling.

  “Come on in and sit down, Serge,” Prophet said.

  “This is the countess’s own private room,” the Cossack protested, his big face flushing with fury.

  Ignoring the remonstration, Prophet introduced the Russian to Henry, whom he shoved into one of the two chairs before the open window, sliding the countess’s open trunks out of the way with his foot. He gave the lad a drink of water to calm him, then turned to the countess, who stood holding one post of the four-poster bed, her heavy brow ridged skeptically. Sergei stood beside her, as though to defend her from a sudden attack from the crazy bounty hunter and distressed desk clerk.

  Prophet threw back his own glass of water, then, standing by the window, hoping to catch a breeze, he told the countess and Sergei about what he’d learned from the gambler. Daws.

  “Marya is living with Leamon Gay!” the countess exclaimed, slapping an exasperated hand to her throat.

  “It might not be her,” Prophet said. “That’s what we have to find out. If it is her, we have to know if she’s there because she wants to be or if he’s holding her for

  some reason.”

  “I guess we should just ride up there and ask,” the Cossack suggested. “That would be easiest, no?”

  Prophet nodded and poured another glass of water from the pitcher on the washstand. Thoughtfully, he moved back to the window, stepping over and around trunks.

  Finally he shook his head. “That might be the easiest way, but not the smartest. If he’s got her there against her will, we’d only be tipping our hand, letting him know we’re here to get her back.” He paused and gave his back to the window. He looked at Sergei. “I’m thinkin’ we sneak up there after dark and reconnoiter the situation.”

  Sergei crossed his bulky arms over his chest, pursed his lips thoughtfully, and nodded. The countess stared at Prophet, her eyes wide and expectant, thrilling to the possibility that her sister had at last been found.

  Prophet swerved his gaze to Henry, sitting in the spool-backed chair looking warily up at the trail-dusty, unshaven bounty hunter.

  Henry’s black face bunched around itself.

  “Oh, man! I done heard enough.” Climbing to his feet, he added, “It’s just like I thought — you got trouble with Mr. Gay, an’ I don’t want no part of it!”

  Prophet grabbed the kid’s arm and shoved him gently back in the chair. “Hold on, hold on. All I want you to do, Henry my child, is to tell us where we’ll find Gay’s lair and draw us a sketch of the compound. I’ll also need to know if he has guards and how many.”

  “Prophet, please, man, I beg you . . .”

  “I’m callin’ my note due, Henry. All you have to do is sketch me a little map, and we’re even Steven.” To the countess, he said, “Paper and pencil?”

  The countess crouched over a trunk and rummaged around in its contents.

  Henry begged Prophet, “You gotta promise that Mr. Gay won’t find out I had anything to do with this. You gotta promise! I mean, hell, I work for the man!”

  “Oh, quit bawlin’,” Prophet groused, shuttling a tablet and a pencil from the countess to Henry. “Now, draw me a map and be quick about it. I’m ge
tting tired of all your fussin’.”

  When Prophet and Sergei had made plans to reconnoiter at Gay’s hacienda later that night, after dark, Prophet returned to his room and, in spite of the stale heat and droning flies, slept some of the trail weariness from his bones. He woke around six, took a whore’s bath, and headed down to the small, square dining room for supper.

  The countess and Sergei were already there, looking rested, as well, and Prophet joined them for steak and all the surroundings washed down with hot, black coffee and followed up with an after-dinner whiskey. To the countess’s displeasure, the Gay Inn did not have cognac.

  Prophet was about to excuse himself and go looking for a bath and then a card game — even if they were crooked, it was something to do while waiting around for good dark — when Sergei nonchalantly stubbed out his cheroot and asked Prophet if he would look after the countess for a few hours. He had some business to tend.

  “Business?” Prophet asked.

  The Cossack flushed slightly but remained otherwise composed. “Yes. I thought I would try out the gambling tables.”

  “Remember, they’re rigged,” Prophet reminded him.

  “Yes, but it will give me a chance to appraise the town — with only the countess’s best interest in mind, of course. We Cossacks like to be prepared for anything.”

  “Oh, of course,” Prophet said, chewing back a grin. He was more than happy to spend the evening with the countess but tried not to look too eager as the big Cossack donned his slouch hat, asked the countess if she needed anything before he left, and exited the dining room.

  The countess chuckled huskily, covering her mouth and looking in the direction Sergei had disappeared.

  “What’s so funny?” Prophet said. “You ain’t buyin’ his excuse?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “I reckon it’s about time for him to get his ashes hauled again,” Prophet speculated.

  When he explained the old expression, she tipped her head back, clapped her hands together once, and said, “He is so formal about it and rather shy and awkward. Like a little Cossack boy.”

  “And a terrible liar.”

  “Yes. I heard some soiled doves, as you call them, calling up to him as he stood on his balcony earlier, smoking.”

  “Ah, the call of the wild,” Prophet quipped. “He might find a couple to his liking.” He smiled across the table at the countess, who looked more ravishing than he’d ever seen her. She wore a pearl necklace with a pearl headband holding her chestnut hair in coils atop her head. “I might even find a pretty little lass to my own liking this evenin’.”

  She regarded him bashfully. “Do you mean me?”

  “Of course I mean you.”

  “Do you find me attractive, Lou?”

  “You bet I do.” Prophet smiled.

  She reached across the table and placed her hand on his. “I know I am not, but I thank you for saying so, anyway.”

  “Natasha,” Prophet said, gazing directly into her eyes, “when you loosen up and smile, you’re one of the prettiest women I’ve ever known. And, not to brag, but I’ve known a few.”

  She sank back in her chair, her slanted eyes flashing. “Yes, I imagine you have, Lou Prophet. With your charm, I think you could have any woman you desire.” Lowering her voice, she added seductively, “And tonight you will, indeed, have me.” She smiled and reached across the table again. “But first, show me around the town a little?”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Prophet said, standing and pulling out her chair.

  She waited in the lobby while he paid for the meal. Outside, he offered the countess his arm, and they strolled east down the street, which had settled down a little since supper. But the ore wagons continued their endless stream. The saloons were busier than ever, and Prophet speculated they’d get busier by the hour, for the sun hadn’t even sunk yet. A pretty, coppery light spilled down from the mountains, and purple shadows drew out from the buildings along the street.

  The cooling air was velvety and smelled faintly of desert blossoms.

  Fleeing the dust kicked up by the ore wagons. Prophet led the countess off down a side street, toward the ravine that cut around the town.

  “I am so happy you found Marya,” the countess said as they turned around a tangle of greasewood in their path.

  “Now, we don’t know it’s Marya, Countess. Like I said, this might be a long shot.”

  “Call me Natasha, Lou, and kiss me.” She’d stopped and smiled up at him.

  When he turned to her, she threw her arms around his neck, rose up on her tiptoes, and kissed him hungrily on the lips. He returned the kiss, having wanted to kiss her ever since their first tryst in the stage. The countess was many things — arrogant, irritating, demanding, to name only a few — but she was also bewitching and tender and a superb lover. Prophet didn’t mind being her whipping boy nearly as much as he had at the start of their journey. In fact, his feelings for her had grown rather complicated.

  “You are some kind of woman — you know that?” Prophet asked her now, staring down into her eyes which the fading desert light rendered an iridescent vermilion.

  “And you are some kind of man. Thank you very much.”

  “Are we back on Marya again?”

  “Of course. You have found her. I know it. I know such things when they are in my heart.” Her smile broadened. “And you will bring her back to me and my family. I know you will.”

  “Well, first we have to get her away from Leamon Gay.”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard. Marya has never been able to keep a man interested in her for long. She is — what is the word? Strong-headed?”

  “Huh,” Prophet chuffed with playful mockery. “Imagine that, with such a wallflower like you for a sister!”

  The countess frowned beautifully, fine lines etching above the bridge of her nose, full lips parting. She knew she was being teased but not exactly how. “What is the ‘wall flower’?”

  Prophet told her, and she laughed. She took his arm again, and they continued along the path, chatting quietly, silently observing how the dying light turned the desert lime green, then blue and then slowly purple. Tiny birds chatted in the grease-wood and mesquite growing along the bone-dry ravine.

  “Have you ever been in love, Lou?” the countess asked after a long pause.

  Prophet thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”

  “But you never married.”

  “Nope. Don’t intend to, neither.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t want to be tied down.”

  “That is because you have never met anyone you would want to ‘tie you down,’ as you say.”

  Prophet shrugged. “I can’t imagine anyone like that. I like Mean and Ugly too much. Him and me have quite a time ridin’ here and there, chasin’ owlhoots and laughin’ with the girls. Why, if it wasn’t for that, I never would’ve met you, now would I?”

  “You have a point,” the countess said with a husky chuckle. “But someday you will want to settle down and have children, to continue after you are gone.”

  “I don’t think so, Natasha.”

  She looked up at him as they strolled, and he noticed that a sad curiosity had seeped into her eyes. “You are a troubled man, Lou Prophet.”

  “Troubled?” he said, incredulous. “Hell, I ain’t troubled. Now, a wife and kids — they’d trouble me.”

  “You can say what you want, but you are an unhappy man deep down inside. In your soul. I can see it now. I have seen it often when I have watched you secretly.”

  “Now, that ain’t nice — spyin’ on a man,” he admonished her, teasing.

  “What happened? Was it the war in your country, between the States?”

  He glanced at her again, then continued walking in silence, pondering her question. “I reckon if there is any trouble in me — and I’m not sayin’ there is, but I guess it’s possible — it’s no doubt because of the War.”

  “Did
you have to kill?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And you saw your friends killed?”

  “Sure.” He stopped suddenly and looked down at her. He had no idea what he was going to say before he’d started in.

  “I had to kill one of them, too, one of my friends. Only he wasn’t only a friend — he was a cousin of mine from Tunnel Hill, Georgia, two years younger. We were in a skirmish down near Dalton, just after Chickamauga. We were on a ridge, and this Yankee runnin’ up the ridge shot Andy with a musket he’d loaded with buck an’ ball. That means he’d poured two cartridge loads of black powder down the barrel — then a double charge on top of the powder. That’s twenty-four buckshots — damn near a mortar round — with a sixty-caliber ball rammed down on top of it. And —”

  Prophet stopped, suddenly realizing he’d been chewing the rag and she didn’t understand any of it, not a word. He could see that in her eyes staring up at him, filled with woe. But she was listening, so he decided just to go ahead and spill the rest of it, get the gall and wormwood out of his blood.

  For he’d never told this to anyone before. Had never even really told it to himself. . . .

  “Well, that ball with all that mean powder behind it blew poor Andy’s insides clear to Kingdom Come, but Andy lingered. He begged me to shoot him, to end his pain, and he handed me his gun.” Prophet took a deep breath and let his eyes wander off.

  “So I did it,” he said, very softly. “Only I couldn’t see very well through the tears in my eyes, and I ended up blowing half his jaw away with the first shot. I finally killed him with the second shot, while those eyes were starin’ up at me, filled with more misery and pain and torture than I knew even existed before that day.”

  Prophet’s voice broke on the last of this, and he turned away, clearing his throat. She put a hand on his shoulder and just stood there, massaging his shoulder gently while he thought it all through, then sleeved the tears from his eyes.

  Finally he said, “Sorry. Listen to me rattle, would you.”

  “I am glad you told me,” she said, putting her arms around his back and pressing her cheek to his chest.

  Prophet found his humor again as they headed back toward the hotel, and they were both laughing as they walked down the main street, squinting against the dust still kicked up by the ore wagons.