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

by Peter Brandvold

  Since the death of her husband, Count Roskov, Countess Tatayanna had become most protective of her daughters’ honor. They’d had to flee Russia like vagabonds; thus, in the elder countess’s view, the honor of their name was virtually all they had left, and it was to be protected at all costs.

  The countess rolled her eyes. No one in America gave a rat’s ass about the Roskovs, much less their “honor.” Feeling pleased with the vulgarism, one of the many she’d picked up from the irreverent Prophet, she returned her gold-tipped pen to its holder.

  She left the missive unfinished, hoping to complete it later with news of the trip’s success — that Marya had been freed from Gay and that she, Natasha, and Sergei were returning home together.

  The joy of the prospect was tempered by only the fact that once they had freed Marya from Leamon Gay, they would be separating from Prophet, the garrulous bounty hunter with whom the countess believed she was now in love. . . .

  Willing her thoughts away from Prophet — his flinty green eyes and wolfish smile and the way his big brown hands had massaged her shoulders and breasts — she put away her writing supplies and placed the letter in a leather portfolio.

  Then, feeling aimless and depressed, wondering how she’d spend the rest of this day, waiting for Lou and Sergei and Marya to appear, she strolled to the window and stared down at the street. It was crowded with bullwhackers and salesmen and scarlet women parading their fleshy wares on corners and from balconies. Two boys in tattered clothes — probably sired by drunken miners and abandoned by prostitutes — ran down the street, laughing, chased by a sleek black mongrel with one white front paw.

  This was indeed a savage place. The countess could not understand what had possessed Marya to come here. She’d always been the adventurous sort and a prideful, willful child, but Natasha couldn’t help believing that this hellhole, as Prophet had called it, was more adventure than even Marya had bargained for.

  “Oh, Marya,” Natasha whispered as she stared through the fly-specked window, “please be safe. . . .”

  She was about to start downstairs for lunch, when she saw something out the corner of her eye. Turning back to the window, she gazed south down the street, blinking as if to clear her eyes, her heart fluttering in her chest.

  A polished black buggy was approaching the inn. Four armed men surrounded it, two of whom were Lou Prophet and Sergei. Seeing them was a wonderful surprise, but what surprised Natasha most of all was that riding behind the buggy’s formally attired driver and beside a pale man smoking a thick cigar was none other than the Countess Marya Roskov herself!

  “Oh, my God!” Natasha whispered, unable to believe what she was seeing. She placed both her hands on the window, as if to move closer to her long-lost sibling. “Marya ... is it really you?”

  It was. There was no doubt about it, the countess realized to her shock and amazement. She would have known that proud, lovely face anywhere — that flaxen hair falling from beneath Marya’s green felt hat, those self-possessed eyes that now betrayed fear, yes, but also a defiance even stronger than usual.

  The way Leamon Gay sat beside her, insouciantly smoking and glancing off as the carriage pulled up to the hitch rail, it was obvious to Natasha that he possessed Marya, or thought he did. But from Marya’s demeanor, he may have possessed her body, but he did not possess her soul.

  “Oh, Marya!” Natasha cried under her breath, moving her face even closer to the window. She wanted so much for her sister to see her that it took all her willpower to keep from pounding the window.

  Befuddlement assailed her. What was happening? Why was Gay coming here with Marya? How did this mesh with Lou and Sergei’s plan? Or did it?

  Then something occurred to her: Maybe Gay was bringing Marya here to see her, Natasha.

  Could it be?

  As improbable as it seemed, could it be that Marya was with Leamon Gay of her own free will and that, having learned from Lou and Sergei that her sister was here in Broken Knee, Gay was bringing Marya here for a visit with Natasha?

  The countess did not consciously analyze the wishful speculation, but only reacted to the possibility, nervously running her hands through her hair, which she had not yet coiled and fastened atop her head. Then she hurried out of her room and down the dim, carpeted hall, and turned down the stairs.

  Halfway down, she stopped, her heart leaping into her throat when she saw Marya passing to the right of the stairs — less than fifteen feet away! Her hand was wedged in the crook of Gay’s arm, as if he feared she might run away if he released her.

  Following behind were two bodyguards, rough-looking men in buckskins and denims and carrying several guns apiece. One of them passed beyond the stairs. The other stopped and gazed up at her, a lascivious smile lighting his face. Finally he winked, pinched his hat brim at her, and continued past the stairs and into the dining room.

  A moment later the countess became aware of two sets of eyes on her. She saw Lou and Sergei standing where the bodyguard had stood, in the lobby, to the right of the stairs. They were both gazing up at her with expressions of contained anger and anxiety.

  Prophet glanced at Sergei, whispered something, then continued after Gay and Marya, heading for the dining room. Meanwhile, Sergei hurried up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.

  Stopping before the countess, he clutched her elbow and whispered in her ear, “Please go back to your room, Countess!”

  “That . . . that was Marya,” she stammered with delight.

  “Yes, that was Marya, and very soon now, she will be free. Go back to your room and wait for us there. Please, Countess!”

  With that, the big Cossack wheeled, hurried back down the stairs, and moderated his pace, taking several calming breaths as he walked across the lobby and disappeared into the dining room.

  “Very soon now, she will be free,” he had said.

  The encouraging words resounded in the countess’s head, lightening her heart, as she turned and willed herself back to her room.

  “That’s one purty little filly there!” Rosen said, whistling under his breath.

  He, Clark, Prophet, and Sergei sat together several tables away from their boss and his “chosen,” as Gay ironically called Marya. There were several other diners in the room, and their conversations covered the bodyguards’ remarks.

  “Yeah, she shore is,” Clark agreed. “I don’t see why he hasn’t brought her down to the town before now. A man has a fine little damsel like that, you’d think he’d wanna parade her around a might. Show her off.”

  “Not if she knows where the Morales Gold Cache is,” Rosen said. “Someone’s liable to kidnap her, make her show him where the gold is.”

  Clark laughed as he spooned split-pea soup in his mouth. “Shee-it. Wild horses and a string of Missouri mules couldn’t drag that out of her. She’s a polecat, that one. The only reason she’s talkin’ now is cause she got bored, moonin’ around that hacienda the last three weeks.”

  “She could moon around my hacienda anytime,” Rosen said, staring across the room, where Gay and Marya sat eating in silence.

  Prophet saw the angry look boiling up on Sergei’s features. The Cossack had taken offense at the way the two bodyguards were ogling Marya and making comments. Fortunately, the men were too distracted to notice the Russian’s displeasure. Prophet gave Sergei a kick under the table. Cowed, the Russian stuffed bread in his mouth and followed it down with coffee.

  A few minutes later the head waiter appeared from the kitchen, toting a long wicker basket draped with oilcloth. He set it on Gay’s table with a flourish, then showed the crime lord a bottle of wine, to which Gay nodded his approval, and deposited the bottle in the basket. Gay smiled and nodded — a macabre caricature of a romantic lover about to take his betrothed on a picnic in the hills.

  Dressed in a pale green riding habit — another gift from Gay — Marya sat stiffly in her chair, staring off.

  When the waiter had disappeared, Gay turned to the bodyguard
s and nodded.

  “Here we go, boys,” Clark said, shucking off his napkin.

  As had been decided earlier, when the official orders had come down, including the plan for Gay and Marya to have a quiet lunch at the hotel before heading into the mountains, Prophet went out and drove Gay’s carriage over to the livery barn.

  Two fine, black saddle horses were waiting before the open doors, fully rigged. A packhorse stood there as well, its panniers sagging with the weight of four days’ worth of supplies. Taking the reins of all three horses, Prophet led them back to the hotel just as Gay and Marya emerged, surrounded by Clark, Rosen, and Sergei.

  But what caught Prophet’s attention and made him wince were the four other men sitting their mounts in the street before the hotel. They were well armed, and, saddlebags bulging, appeared ready for a long ride.

  Additional riders.

  “Are your horses well fed and watered?” Gay asked them as he and Marya strode to the two saddle horses Prophet had led from the livery barn.

  “All ready and rarin’ to go, Boss,” one of the guards said with a nod.

  “Good. Be sure to keep your eyes peeled, all of you,” Gay added, shuttling his glance around his men. “Apaches have been spotted in the area we’ll be traversing. Small bands of them, but Apaches nevertheless, and I think you all know what that means.”

  “We sure do, Boss,” Clark said as he swung up onto his saddle. “But with this many of us, I doubt they’ll attack.”

  “You just keep your eyes peeled, mister,” Gay said gruffly. “You hear?”

  “You got it, Boss,” Clark said, cutting his eyes around sheepishly.

  Prophet was staring at Sergei, as if to say, “What the hell do we do now?” With this many bodyguards, he and Prophet were badly outnumbered. It was going to be some trick to get Marya away from Gay.

  Locking stares with Prophet, Sergei chewed his mustache and grimaced.

  “Here, let me give you a hand, miss,” Prophet said to Marya as she came around her horse. She gave him her hand with a taut smile that said she hadn’t been expecting this many guards, either.

  “Get away from there, mister!” Gay intervened. “I’ll help her up on her damn horse. See to your own!”

  “Yes, Mr. Gay,” Prophet said, truckling. “Whatever you say, sir.”

  He climbed aboard Mean. When Gay had swung up onto his own mount, he trotted ahead of the group, his chin jutting self-importantly. Marya fell in behind him as Gay called, “Let’s go!”

  The bodyguards gigged their horses after their boss. Prophet hung back with Sergei. They stared after the six well-armed bodyguards.

  Finally Prophet sighed and brushed Mean with his heels. “Well, you heard the man, mister,” he said with irony. “Let’s ride.”

  Across the street two men stepped out of the Pink Pig Saloon. One of the men was the Pink Pig’s owner, Bill Braddock, clad in a cheap business suit and bowler, his thin mustache freshly trimmed and waxed.

  Behind Braddock stood one of Braddock’s men, a snake named Tony Roma. Roma shook his long black hair from his Indian-featured face with its multiple scars and pits, and glanced at his boss expectantly.

  “Have the men ready to ride in ten minutes,” Braddock said tightly, staring after Gay.

  Roma hitched his cartridge belts on his lean hips and ambled casually away.

  “Go!” Braddock raged behind him. “Move your half-breed ass!”

  Clutching his hat to his head, Roma bolted down the boardwalk.

  In her hotel room Natasha Roskov anxiously paced the floor between her bed and the grimy window. Since watching Gay’s group ride out of town a half hour before, her stomach had been a nest of writhing snakes. With that many men accompanying the crime boss, how in the world could Prophet and Sergei rescue Marya? Surely Gay would have men watching her at all times. Even if they did manage to get her away from Gay, surely Gay’s men would run them down in the desert and kill them!

  “Oh, Marya!” the countess whispered, feeling a painful tightness in her chest.

  She didn’t know what to do with herself. She couldn’t stay in her room. The waiting and wondering would drive her crazy.

  But what else could she do?

  At her wits end, she suddenly stopped pacing, her restless eyes freezing as an idea occurred to her, a plan working itself out in her mind. She would ride out after the group.

  She realized it was an impulsive, foolhardy idea. She’d never fired a gun in her life; she could be no help to Prophet and Sergei. Still, she could not remain here without going insane, and she felt an overwhelming need to be close to Marya.

  Turning to one of the turtleback trunks, she began filling a carpetbag. She changed into a simple, light blue riding dress and a cream hat she’d bought in Denver because it looked distinctly Western. It was more than a mere memento to her now, however. Now it would protect her from the fierce desert sun.

  Bag in hand, she went out and locked the door behind her. Dropping the key in her pocket, she went downstairs and asked the man standing behind the desk where she could rent a horse. On his direction, she headed for the livery barn.

  The Mexican hostler took one look at the countess — one long, smoldering look followed by a grin — and told her sure, he had a horse she could rent.

  “Put a sidesaddle on him for me, please.”

  “Do you not want to know how much he costs, senora?”

  “No, just saddle him,” the countess said, rummaging around in her carpetbag for her money.

  She rode out on a high-stepping pinto a few minutes later. Behind her, the hostler grinned as he counted the wad of greenbacks she’d thrust into his hand.

  The countess did not know where Prophet and Sergei were going, but from her window she’d seen them head south from town. Since there were few trails that way, and few riders came or went in that direction, she figured their horse tracks would be fairly easy to follow.

  She was right. The fresh tracks were clearly marked in the finely sifted dust of the trail that rose and fell across the rocky desert, angling around mesquite thickets and boulders and rising through passes between buttes.

  She rode for over an hour, the sun slanting westward, when she suddenly became confused. The trail forked, and both forks were scored with recent hoofprints. The trail had narrowed considerably the past mile or so, the hooves overlapping, so she couldn’t tell by counting the sets which fork Gay’s group had taken.

  Deciding that the left fork looked the more promising, she gigged the pinto ahead, climbing a gradual slope rising to saguaro-studded hills shaded by higher rimrocks. The sky was cloudless. The sun turned rusty as it sank toward the western horizon. Occasional roadrunners crossed Natasha’s trail, and once she startled two wild pigs — javelinas, she believed they were called — that had been sleeping in the shade of a low upthrust of rock. They scampered off, squealing and startling the countess’s horse.

  The noise scared Natasha, as well. The dying light, her distance from town, and the yawning, empty silence of this vast wilderness spawned a deep apprehension. This was a foreign land to her, alien as the moon. Afflicted with a terrible sense of her aloneness and vulnerability out here — were there wolves or even bears here, and were those coyotes yipping from that ridge over there? — she resisted the urge to turn back. It was so late in the day, it would be dark long before she returned to Broken Knee, and in the dark she might easily get herself irrevocably lost.

  No, she’d started this foolish trek. She must continue. She hoped she would find Prophet and Sergei soon, though what she would do then, she had no idea.

  She also hoped she’d taken the correct fork in the trail, and that she was following Prophet and Sergei and not a group of prospectors — or highwaymen, or, worse yet, Indians. . . .

  Fifteen minutes later the trail dipped into a ravine in which she could hear a spring gurgling. A horse’s whinny sent an electric jolt through her spine, and she reined the pinto to a halt, staring ahead through the dar
kness. A fire guttered low, about forty yards away amidst rocks and spindly trees. Near the fire a horse flicked its tail.

  A camp!

  She was pondering a plan when something knocked her out of her saddle. She hit the ground with a squelched cry as the air was hammered from her lungs and her ears rang from the throbbing in her skull.

  Blinking her eyes, she stared upward, dazed. A man climbed to his knees and hovered over her, blocking out the stars. It was a savage face — flat and dark-eyed and framed by long black hair. His labored breath was fetid with alcohol, his teeth black from rot.

  The dull eyes inspected her like those of an animal inspecting a prospective meal. Grinning, he lifted his head and yelled, “Hey! It’s a woman!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  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.”