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

by Peter Brandvold

  In the Gay Inn’s lobby, Prophet ordered a tub and hot water for the countess’s room, giving the countess a furtive wink. When the tub had been brought up and filled by one of the errand boys, Prophet crept out of the countess’s closet, where he’d hidden from the errand boy.

  He disrobed the countess, then himself, and they made a night of it, making love in the tub and then in the bed, stopping only to sip his whiskey and to smoke before continuing again, teasing and laughing and making love like it was the last night of the world.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Well after dark, Prophet and Sergei saddled their horses in the livery barn and headed off to Gay’s hacienda.

  The Cossack looked part gambler, part mountain man in his dark cotton shirt, black denims, and boot moccasins. He wore a broad-brimmed Western hat he’d bought in Denver. Characteristically ostentatious, he’d knotted a black kerchief around his neck and secured it with a gold ring.

  He had rented a tall buckskin in whose eyes he claimed he saw “hellfire,” adding that every good Cossack warrior rode a mount with the fires of hell in its eyes.

  Prophet glanced over at the horse’s eyes. “That might just be gas.”

  Following Henry’s directions, they followed the pale ribbon of road through the quiet, purple desert, threading their way through a deep valley between jagged, rocky peaks. A coyote yammered from a nearby scarp. The bald, toothy ridges loomed blackly to their right and left, capped by brilliant starlight. Occasional explosions, dynamite detonated by the miners, echoed in the north.

  They drifted off the trail when they heard an ore wagon approach from the north, groaning and creaking, the driver cursing and popping a bullwhip over the backs of the four-mule team. When the wagon had passed, they drifted back onto the road and cantered for another mile, until they came to the trail twisting off to the left — a pale line coiling up the western ridge.

  About halfway up the ridge sat Gay’s hacienda, a small jewel of light shimmering against the mountain.

  “Here’s where we dismount,” Prophet said.

  As they’d planned, they tethered their horses in a gully shrouded by mesquite and sage, then walked westward, avoiding the closely guarded trail. When they’d walked a hundred yards, they started climbing the mountain, moving straight up toward the house, gazing around warily for the armed guards Henry had assured them would be spread across the slope.

  Their breathing grew heavy. Sweat ran down their backs.

  Stealing around boulders, they came upon a shallow trough in the mountainside. The scrub brush was thick enough to offer adequate cover, as long as no guards were perched in the trough. It wasn’t likely. Prophet figured most would have been positioned on higher ground, where they had a clearer view of the valley.

  Prophet figured wrong. When he and Sergei were two-thirds of the way up the mountain, a man’s voice called out from just above. “Who goes there?”

  Prophet and the Cossack froze, crouching, hands on their guns, resisting the urge to draw. Firing their weapons would draw the other guards. Prophet’s heart tom-tommed.

  “I said who’s there?” the guard called again, anger rising in his voice. He was a vague shifting of the darkness about twenty yards up the trough. Dull blue starlight shone off a rifle.

  “Just me,” Prophet said, trying to make his voice sound casual.

  The guard said nothing. Prophet had a feeling he was trying to process Prophet’s voice. In a second or two he’d realize he hadn’t recognized it.

  Reacting more than thinking, Prophet reached his right hand up to the back of his neck, shucking his Arkansas toothpick from the scabbard lying flat against his spine. With the same motion, he crouched lower, spread his feet, and snapped his hand out and down, releasing the savage weapon with a snap of his wrist.

  The knife disappeared in the darkness, only a silvery flicker marking its passage.

  Thump! The guard grunted softly. Prophet saw his silhouette stagger to the right. The rifle clattered to the ground. Another thump and a groan.

  Drawing his bowie, Prophet rushed forward. He stopped and crouched over the body of the prone guard. The man lay on his back, hat off, the Arkansas toothpick jutting straight up from his throat. The blood gleamed darkly.

  The man’s eyes fluttered, then slowly closed.

  Prophet turned to Sergei, who’d walked up behind him and was staring down at the dead man. “Not bad, eh?” Prophet said, a proud half-grin on his lips.

  Sergei set his mouth and nodded, shrugging one shoulder. “Not bad. I was about to do the same thing, but not bad.”

  “Not bad?” Prophet chuckled. He crouched down, pulled the Arkansas toothpick from the guard’s throat, wiped it off on the man’s shirt, and slid it back in its sheath. “Not bad, like hell. . .”With a snort, he started again up the trough.

  They made the crest of the shelf about ten minutes later, and scurried over to a wagon shed at the edge of the yard. Fifty yards before them, the hacienda sat behind a low adobe wall, its tall, arched windows blazing.

  Starlight spread a silvery sheen on the red clay tiles. Almond and orange trees were spidery silhouettes against the windows.

  A black buggy sat out front, at the head of the semicircular driveway marked with stones. A steeldust horse stood in the traces. Two burly men wearing bandoliers across their chests stood on either side of the wall’s gated door, smoking and talking, their voices muffled by distance.

  Somewhere to Prophet’s right, a cicada whirred.

  “Let’s head around behind, look for a back door,” Prophet whispered.

  Sergei nodded and stood. Prophet grabbed his forearm. “Wait!”

  He gestured at the hacienda. A man had appeared from the house’s rear, walking slowly along the wall. He held a rifle across his chest, like a soldier.

  Sergei crouched back down and scowled at Prophet. “I saw him,” he grumbled.

  “Sorry,” Prophet said gently. “I just thought your noble Russian ass might need savin’ — again.”

  “No, no. You misremember. It was I who saved your ass.”

  “As I recall . . . Oh, never mind,” Prophet grumbled, watching the guard moving along the wall.

  When the man reached the two men guarding the front, he stopped to chat, then drifted on around the other side of the house.

  Prophet said, “Come on!”

  Crouching, he and Sergei ran across the packed yard, skirting an empty corral and a blacksmith shop. When they reached the wall, they turned their backs to it and whipped looks to their right and left.

  Apparently, the guards hadn’t seen them. Wasting no time, Prophet stood and hoisted himself over the wall. Sergei did likewise, dropping into the dusty courtyard, just right of a dead orange tree.

  Before them, stone steps rose to a second-story door. Wooden cellar doors lay to the bottom right of the stairs.

  “You go in through the cellar,” Prophet said, keeping his voice down. “I’ll take the door above.”

  “Why must I take the cellar?”

  Prophet looked at him dully. “Why not?”

  “I think it is more likely she is upstairs than in the cellar. And since it is I who will recognize her, I should take the upper story.”

  Sergei made for the stairs. Shaking his head. Prophet crouched over the cellar doors. Carefully he lifted the right one by its metal ring, gritting his teeth at the quaking hinges. Slipping inside, in total darkness, he let the door close softly behind him and struck a match.

  He found nothing in the cellar but several old wine casks, racks, dry goods, and cobwebs. By matchlight he made his way up the basement stairs and slipped into a hall, easing the door closed behind him. Hearing voices, he edged along the hall, keeping one hand on his Colt.

  At the end of the hall he stole a glance around the corner. In the big, circular room before him was a rough wooden table. Around the table sat four men playing cards and drinking — big, sweaty men in dusty trail clothes and with the belligerent, unshaven faces
of long riders.

  As far as Prophet could tell, they all were armed with pistols. Two carried revolvers in shoulder rigs. Rifles and shotguns lay in easy reach.

  Prophet watched for a while, sizing up the group. There was a pillar between him and them. That and their concentration on the game, as well as the whiskey bottle before them, kept their attention on the table.

  Hearing laughter behind him, Prophet turned and walked back down the hall, taking exaggerated steps on the balls of his feet, so his spurs wouldn’t ching. Near the middle of the hall, on the right, he came to a stout wooden door with strap hinges and a tarnished brass latch. Voices emanated from the door, which was open a foot.

  Pressing his back to the wall, Prophet cocked an ear to the door, listening.

  “... just call it a contribution to your reelection campaign.”

  A man laughed. “Hell, I’ve already been reelected!”

  “For next time, Senator. For next time.”

  “Well, I reckon thinking ahead couldn’t hurt.”

  “And all you have to do is convince the territorial governor that I’m worthy of a pardon —”

  “For all previous offenses,” the senator said, haltingly, as though he were pondering the proposition.

  “All previous offenses. Surely, he’ll see fit. I mean, I’ve been damn good for the Territory’s economy, have I not?”

  Good-natured laughter. “Well, I reckon you have, since you quit robbing the army paymasters!”

  There was a pause while the senator’s laughter boiled down to silence.

  “That’s all in the past, Senator,” the one who was obviously Leamon Gay said. “All in the past. Now, I’ve mended my ways, and I’m damn good for this territory.”

  “Well, uh, how will I get that? In bank draft or — ?”

  “Gold.”

  “Gold?”

  “Pure gold. Twenty thousand dollars’ worth . . .”

  Prophet shook his head. Gay was a rapscallion, all right. A rapscallion and then some. It sounded as though he would soon be a rapscallion amnestied by the Territorial governor. All future crimes would no doubt be sanctioned by the governor himself.

  Having heard enough and wanting to find the girl, Prophet moved off down the hall. A few minutes later he came to a narrow, curving stairs. He climbed the stairs, opened a door, and crept down another hall lit by a single bracket lamp. He paused by a closed door on his left, pressed his ear to the wood.

  The sound of splashing water rose in the room. Prophet lowered his gaze to the key in the lock. He turned it and pressed the latch, slowly opening the door, again gritting his teeth against squawking hinges. When the door was open a foot, he slid his head through.

  A dull light entered his gaze, and the corners of his mouth curved down in a smile. Before him stood a slender girl — no more than nineteen or twenty — standing naked in a copper tub, her back to him. Ash blond hair hung straight down her back. Her butt was small and round and firm, the thighs long and wonderfully sculpted.

  Prophet couldn’t help pausing a moment to enjoy the view as she sponged her breasts. Suddenly, as though sensing him there, she turned her head, casting a glance over her shoulder.

  Seeing him, she gave a clipped, raspy scream and turned, splashing water over the sides of the tub.

  Quickly Prophet stepped into the room, closed the door, and faced the girl with his hands spread open before him.

  “Easy, easy,” he whispered.

  She covered her breasts with her elbows and stared at him with her wide, hazel eyes. She was pretty and fine-featured with a high-born nose like the countess’s. The family resemblance continued in the wide-spaced eyes and firm, delicate jaw. Her skin was not as creamy, however. This girl — Marya, Prophet assumed — had obviously spent considerable time in the sun. Her arms were long-muscled, her hands slightly corded, neither of which took away from her femininity. The girl was a looker, through and through.

  “Who are you?” she snapped, reaching for a towel off the chair beside her and using it to cover herself.

  Prophet kept his voice low, his ears pricked for noise outside the door. “I’m Lou Prophet. A friend. Marya Roskov, I assume?”

  She studied him, her eyes remaining sharp, the flush still coloring her cheeks. “How do you know my name?” Her tone was accusatory.

  “I’m here with your sister, Natasha, and Sergei.”

  The lines around her eyes disappeared. She stared at him agape. “What?”

  “We’re gettin’ you out of here.”

  The girl’s face now paled as she pinned Prophet with an urgent stare, clutching the towel to her chest. “Where . . . ?”

  “Your sister’s in Broken Knee. Sergei’s in the house somewhere. I take it you’re not here because you want to be?”

  Her shoulders drooped. “Oh, god!” she rasped.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Holding the towel over her breasts and hips, the girl stepped out of the slipper tub, revealing one long, creamy leg in turn. She moved toward Prophet urgently and gazed up at his face. “I hoped so much that someone would come.”

  “Why’s Gay holding you here?” Prophet had just finished the question when he heard a spur ching softly outside the door. He turned, listening. Faintly he heard footsteps.

  He sidled up to the door and said, just above a whisper, “Sergei?”

  “Lou?” came the Russian’s lowered voice.

  Prophet threw open the door, beckoned the Cossack in, and shut it softly behind him. He turned as Sergei and Marya locked gazes. The girl’s eyes widened with relief and joy, and she bounded into the Cossack’s arms.

  “Oh, Marya!” Sergei exclaimed under his breath, wrapping the girl in his broad-shouldered hug and holding her tightly, gently rocking her from side to side. She’d buried her face in his chest. Her shoulders jerked as she sobbed.

  The Cossack said, “I was beginning to wonder if we would ever find you alive.”

  When she looked up at him, her lovely face was filled with fear and sorrow. “He killed Bert, and he has been holding me for over a month now, locked in this room.”

  Sergei smoothed a wing of blond hair back from her brow. “But why, ma cherie? Why is he holding you here?”

  “He wants the treasure Bert discovered — Bert, my prospector friend. Did Natasha get my map?”

  Sergei nodded, but his eyes were puzzled. “We did not understand. It is a map to what?”

  “To the gold,” Marya said. “I sent it just after we arrived in Broken Knee, in case anything should happen to Bert and me.”

  Prophet was dubious. “What gold?”

  Marya turned to him, still enmeshed in Sergei’s arms. “The Lost Morales Gold Cache,” she said. “Bert had found it a few years ago, when he was in the cavalry. The Apaches were too thick in the area to retrieve it then, however. When I met Bert, he had just retired from the army and was gathering supplies to retrieve the gold. That’s when Gay found us. His men brought us here. He killed Bert. . . .” She squeezed her eyes closed.

  “How did he know Bert was going after the gold?” Prophet asked. He stood by the door, an ear cocked toward the corridor. His nerves twanged in every appendage.

  Marya shook her head, half-sad, half-disgusted. “It had been rumored that Bert knew where the gold was. He was not sure how the rumor got started, but Bert was a drinker, you see. He sometimes bragged when he drank. He suspected that he must have bragged about having found the gold one time when he was drinking in one of the cantinas. Word must have gotten back to Gay. When he showed up in Broken Knee . . .”

  “Gay figured, correctly, that he was here to retrieve the gold,” Sergei finished for her.

  “What does Gay need with the gold?” Prophet asked with an incredulous grunt. “I mean, he has a whole mine full.”

  Marya turned to him again, gave her head a single shake. “The gold is disappearing from the ore. I heard him talking to one of his men outside my window. The vein is playing out.”


  “Ah,” Prophet said, nodding. “He’s about to go belly up.”

  Sergei turned to him, curious. “Belly up?”

  “Broke.”

  “Broke?”

  Prophet shook his head. “I’d love to explain” — he looked at the girl critically — “and I’d love to know why in the hell you just didn’t go ahead and turn over the gold and be on your way, but there’s no time. Miss, why don’t you get dressed — and I mean fast — and —”

  Prophet stopped and turned his ear back to the door. “Shit!” he exclaimed. “Someone’s coming.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “It’s him,” Marya said, meaning Gay. “He’s coming for me, to show me off to his senator friend.”

  “Quick!” Prophet said. “Throw something on.

  “No — it’s too late. If I go with you now, he’ll see that I’m gone too soon. We won’t get away.” She stared at Sergei, her cheeks drawn down with disappointment. “You both go. Out the window. Come for me another time.”

  “Marya, no!” Sergei said, his face bunching with frustration, showing his teeth.

  Prophet listened at the door. Boots clomped up the stairs, growing louder.

  Prophet shook his head and bounded past Sergei, nudging the Cossack’s shoulder as he made for the large casement window, open to the night air. “She’s right. We’ll have to spring her some other time.”

  Sergei stood staring with red-faced frustration at the girl, refusing to move.

  Boots thumped in the hall.

  “Sergei — go!” she pleaded, jerking his arm toward the window. Prophet was already straddling the casement, one leg outside.

  “I cannot leave you,” the Russian insisted.

  “If you don’t leave me now, we will all die,” she insisted, jerking on his arm, leading him toward the window. “I have been here this long, I can wait longer.”

  The boots stopped outside the door. The doorknob turned. Marya watched it, her heart in her throat. The door opened, and Leamon Gay’s frowning visage appeared. He wore a bowler hat, and his stringy white hair brushed the tops of his shoulders. His face was pink from the sun; a pair of steel-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.