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

by Peter Brandvold

  “Ah, Russian.” The man in the bowler smiled. “Any relation to that Russian gal of Gay’s?”

  Natasha said nothing. She stared at the man fearfully, wondering what kind of malignant mess she’d stumbled upon and suddenly wishing she’d remained in Broken Knee. Getting herself killed wasn’t going to do Marya any good.

  When she said nothing, the man called Roma chuckled. “Hey, she’s purty! We can have a hell of a good time with her.”

  “Shut up, Roma!” the leader scolded. He knelt down before the countess and grabbed her hair, pulling her head brusquely back. “I asked you a question, miss. Is Gay’s girl the one you’re lookin’ for?”

  Struggling against the man’s painful grip, the countess nodded.

  “She’s your sister?”

  “Yes.”

  The leader thought for several seconds while the other men looked on with mute interest. “You in with Prophet and the short black-haired gent?”

  Tears of pain oozing from her eyes and rolling down her cheeks as the man tightened his grip on her hair, the countess looked at him with vague bewilderment. How did he know Lou? How did he know that Lou and Sergei were not bona fide bodyguards?

  Apparently, Natasha’s expression was answer enough.

  “Thought so,” the man said, grabbing her by her arm and jerking her to her feet. He called to one of the men to fetch a rope. “I’m gonna tie her to this tree over here,” he said, brusquely leading the countess to a tall mesquite not far from the fire.

  “What we gonna do with her, Boss?” Roma eagerly asked.

  Ignoring the question, the leader directed one of his own to Natasha. “You belong to Prophet or the other man?”

  The countess had no time to absorb the question, for he dragged her along quickly, causing her to trip over rocks and small branches. When he threw her down at the base of a mesquite tree, about ten feet from the fire, he spoke again. “You heard me. You must belong to one of ‘em — pretty little thing like you. Which one?”

  She sat against the prickly tree, catching her breath, watching the leader accept a length of rope from one of the other men. After a second’s consideration she chose to let the man believe she was Prophet’s woman. If he knew of Prophet’s reputation, he might spare her, fearing the bounty hunter’s retribution.

  It was worth a try.

  “I ... I belong to Lou Prophet,” she said, meeting his gaze with proud defiance. “I am Lou Prophet’s woman.”

  “What the hell you doin’ all alone out here?” He was cutting the rope with a wide-bladed knife. The other men had gathered around him, still watching Natasha with lascivious interest.

  “I came here from Broken Knee, looking for him and my sister.”

  “Prophet after the gold, too?”

  The countess stared at him, genuinely bewildered. “What gold?”

  “The gold Gay’s after. The gold your sister has a map to.” The man grinned as he tied the countess’s wrists together. “The gold I’m after.”

  Natasha blinked, distractedly watching the rope loop around her wrists, wincing as he yanked it tight. So that’s what this man and his men were out here for. The treasure marked on Marya’s map.

  “Lou and Sergei are only trying to free my sister from Gay’s grip. They do not care about gold. I do not care about gold. I care only about my sister.”

  The man tied a knot in the rope and looked at her, measuring her expression against her story.

  “I do not care about gold,” Natasha repeated beseechingly. “You can have the gold. I want only my sister.”

  The man stared evenly at her. Finally he cut off another, longer length of rope. He looped it around her waist and tied it behind the tree. Confronting her again, he nodded.

  “Well, you might get your sister back,” he said, nodding again, his expression vaguely mocking. “If she’s still alive after tomorrow, that is. ‘Cause, you see, we’re going after Gay tomorrow. And we’re going to get that map of your sister’s — one way or another.”

  He straightened and dusted off the knees of his broadcloth trousers. “Not only that, but I’m gonna kill me a conniving goddamn bounty man by the name of Lou Prophet, too . . . after I’ve tortured him real good.” He winked and turned away.

  The words resounded in Natasha’s ears, pricking the tender skin along her spine, causing her heart to throb against her ribs. Not only did Prophet and Sergei have to worry about Gay’s bodyguards, they would have to contend with these men, as well.

  The countess fought back a sob. Oh, Marya . . .

  The leader was talking to his men. “You two get back on watch, for chrissakes. Don’t you know this is Apache country!”

  Another man said, “What about her, Boss?”

  “What about her?”

  “Aren’t we gonna . . . you know . . . ?”

  The leader chuckled. “Well, I just might, but you boys won’t. Hell, you’d probably kill her, and then we wouldn’t have her for tomorrow.”

  “What’re we gonna do with her tomorrow, Mr. Braddock?” another man asked as he stood near the fire, staring down at Natasha and hungrily bunching the thighs of his buckskin pants in his fists.

  “She’s gonna be riding with us when we ride up to Gay and his crew. I figure if they see a woman in our party, they’ll hesitate before they shoot.” Braddock grinned and nodded and clapped one of his men on the shoulder. “And if she really is Prophet’s woman, which I don’t doubt — that big Georgia bastard has a weakness for good-looking women — Prophet’ll hesitate, too. Even if it’s only for half a second, that’s all the time we’ll need.”

  An hour earlier Prophet rode drag on Gay’s crew, climbing the eastern foothills of the Penalino Mountains, a long, rocky range buttressed by two tall, bald peaks that looked like match flames as their crests caught the last of the day’s light.

  Prophet was deep in thought, ruminating over their predicament. Six bodyguards lay between him and Marya. Seven counting Gay, who may have considered himself a civilized businessman now but had probably been handy with a six-shooter not all that long ago, and likely still was.

  When Prophet had thought Clark and Rosen would be the only other guards, he figured they’d be able to snatch Marya away relatively easily, not far from town. But with these extra guards, that plan was out the window.

  Thinking it over now, watching Marya and Gay riding ahead of the pack of bodyguards filing up a twisting game trail, Prophet decided their best choice was to try and slip her out of the camp later that night. Gay would have guards posted, watching for Indians, but Prophet thought if he and Sergei were crafty and quiet enough, they might be able to slip away without anyone noticing.

  Then they’d head back to Broken Knee, pick up the countess, and get the hell out of Dodge, so to speak. Of course. Gay would trail them, but Prophet had eluded more than one pesky tracker in his day.

  When Sergei drifted back in the pack, sidling up to Prophet, he turned a questioning glance at the bounty hunter. Prophet got out his makings sack and rolled a smoke as he spoke softly, telling Sergei his plan. When he was done, the Russian only nodded, not risking a reply, and gigged his horse ahead.

  “We’ll stop here for the night,” Gay announced sometime later.

  He reined his horse to a halt in a wide arroyo abutted by a high stone wall and bordered by low shrubs and mesquite trees. A spring bubbled up between two of the trees, and a couple of the bodyguards quickly strung a rope around it for the horses.

  When camp had been made. Prophet saw Marya say something to Gay, then walk off down the arroyo. Prophet was rubbing Mean and Ugly down with a handful of brome that grew thick along the spring.

  He looked around. Only three bodyguards sat around the fire. Gay sipped wine from a long-stemmed glass and sat on a log, looking wan. Apparently, he didn’t often ride a saddle these days. The old outlaw had gotten soft.

  The other men had been posted around the camp, on the lookout for Apaches. They’d revolve the watch every two ho
urs until dawn.

  No one appeared to be watching Prophet, so he dropped to the grass and slipped casually into the arroyo and stepped quietly across the stones, taking his time in the darkness, heading in the direction Marya had gone.

  When he’d walked around a bend, her voice rose on his right. “Who’s there?”

  Quietly he replied, “It’s Prophet.”

  A moment later he heard stones crunch and brush rustle, and then she appeared, a vague form of a girl in the thickening darkness.

  “Sorry to bother you,” he said, knowing she’d probably slipped off to tend nature.

  “But I didn’t know when else we could talk.”

  “It is all right,” she whispered, looking around warily. “Are you sure we are alone? I expected him to follow me. He doesn’t think I’ll try to escape out here, with Indians around, but he’s very jealous.”

  “I’ll make this quick,” Prophet said, moving to her so he could keep his voice low.

  He told Marya the plan. “How heavy do you sleep?” he asked her.

  “Not very . . . anymore,” she added with a grimace.

  “Don’t worry,” Prophet told her. “We’ll get you free of that varmint.”

  He squeezed her arm reassuringly and turned to make his way back to the camp. He stopped when Marya grabbed his elbow. “When I am free, will you help me find the treasure?”

  Prophet turned back to her. Her face was vaguely defined in the gathering darkness, but he could see that her eyes were wide with appeal. He chuffed a mirthless laugh.

  How in the hell could the girl think of searching for lost treasure after all she’d been through? Most would have wanted nothing more than to hightail it home.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” he told her, having no intention of going after the so-called treasure. When he and Sergei had sprung Marya from the camp, they would make a beeline for Broken Knee, where they’d retrieve the countess and make another beeline for Denver. Then Prophet would ship the three Russians home, once and for all.

  The countess was one pretty woman, but no woman was worth this much trouble. . . .

  When he got back to his horse, he was startled by Gay’s voice. “Where have you been, Pepper?”

  Gay was standing in the darkness, his wineglass reflecting light from the kindling stars. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Just off tendin’ nature, is all.”

  Gay studied him, though Prophet couldn’t see his face. Finally Gay moved toward the bounty hunter. “Let me warn you, Pepper. Any of my men I find with my women are done for. Do you hear? And I don’t mean they’re just fired.” He was close enough now that Prophet could see him blink, smell the wine on his breath. “Do I make myself clear?”

  “Very clear, sir,” Prophet said, making a mental note to cut this uppity outlaw’s throat tonight before he left.

  “Good.”

  Before he could walk away, a man carrying a rifle came up behind him. “Boss, we got trouble.” The man was breathing hard, his clothes soaked from sweat, as if he’d run a good distance.

  “What is it?”

  “Injuns. I seen three of ‘em just before the sun went down, two ridges over south.”

  Gay cursed. “They know we’re here?”

  “Probably,” the man said, swallowing. “I fought those bastards with ole Crook, and believe me, they’re wily. And by the way they were skulking around that ridge, I’d say they’re tryin’ to get close to our bivouac.”

  “Shit!” Gay swung on his heel to the fire.

  “What do you wanna do, Mr. Gay?” asked one of the bodyguards sitting by the fire, a note of fear in his voice. It was obvious he was all for returning to Broken Knee.

  “Douse those flames,” Gay ordered. “And everyone stay alert.”

  One of the other men by the fire cleared his throat tentatively. “You don’t think we should head back to town? Maybe try this another time?”

  “No, I don’t,” Gay said with conviction. “I fought Apaches myself, when I was running horses across the border. They will not attack at night. At first light tomorrow we move out as planned.” He looked at the last man who had spoken. “Unless you’re afraid, McNab?”

  “No, no, sir — I ain’t afraid” — McNab concocted a snicker — “of a few ‘Paches.”

  “Good,” Gay said, walking away. “Marya, where are you, my dear?” he called, his voice dwindling with distance.

  Prophet turned to pick up his saddle and saw Sergei standing on the other side of Mean and Ugly. “Indians, eh?”

  “Yep,” Prophet growled, not liking it one bit.

  “What does that mean for us, Lou?”

  Prophet kept his voice low. “It means we don’t leave tonight. The Apaches probably have us surrounded, and we’d run into them in the dark. Besides that” — he chuckled ironically and with great frustration — “we’re now probably safer with Gay than without him.”

  “What about Marya?”

  “Good question,” Prophet said.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Later that night, drunk and reeling from alcohol, Braddock led the countess away from the camp to rape her.

  He threw her down and ripped her shirtwaist. She struggled against him, kicking and clawing at his face. He slapped her once with the flat of his hand, then balled his fist and punched her in the temple.

  “Now, then,” Braddock wheezed, his sweat dripping into her face, “that should settle you down, eh? I just want a little fun. Just a little.” His words were slurred by drink, and he swayed from side to side as he straddled her on his knees. “I’m gonna get it one way or another; you might as well give it up. Go easy on yourself.”

  “Go to hell,” she spat at him, struggling against his weight. He’d pinned her hands above her head with one hand while he worked his way into her chemise with the other, roughly fondling her breasts.

  She kicked her legs futilely. “I would rather die!”

  “That can be arranged, you little Russian bitch!” he yelled, and punched her again.

  That took the air out of her lungs and the fight out of her arms and legs. Her head swirled, and she felt a searing pain between her eyes. From the fire, she could dimly hear the snickers and laughs of Braddock’s men.

  He would rape her, and there was nothing she could do about it. This realization nearly coincided with the realization that Brad-dock had passed out on top of her. He’d slumped forward, buried his face in her chest, and had fallen sound asleep, snoring.

  She lay there tensely, not moving, fearful of waking him up lest he continue what he’d started.

  She stared at the constellations revolving above her, listening to the chatter and spats and grunts of Braddock’s men around the fire, then later to their snores and to the snorts and blows of the sleeping horses and to the dry scuttles of burrowing creatures. Her eye swelled where Braddock had hit her, and blood trickled from her lip before it dried on her chin.

  He lay heavy upon her, snoring, putting her limbs to sleep, until, with painstaking ease, she managed to slide him off her left side. She was trying to slip out from under his arm when he grunted, blinked his eyes, and wagged his head. Natasha froze, stared at him in terror.

  His eyes closed. Soon his snores resumed. Afraid to move and possibly wake him again, she lay stiff on her back, his left arm draped over her belly, alternately dozing and waking with her heart pounding.

  Finally, after what had seemed an eternity, when the dawn was a pearl wash in the east and the birds had begun their raucous morning cries, he snorted and grunted, gave a moan, and lifted his head.

  “Wh-where . . . what . . .” He blinked at her dully. He winced and raised up on his hands, ran them over his face and through his hair. “Well, I’ll be goddamned,” he said.

  I fell asleep!”

  You are an animal,” the countess scolded. She pushed herself into a sitting position, brushing sand and pine needles from her bare arms.

  Braddock looked at her, noting the
torn shirtwaist. “Did we . . . did I . . . ?”

  “I did nothing,” the countess said with taut-jawed disdain. If he thought he’d had his pleasure, he might leave her alone now. “It was all you. And then you passed out. You are a savage beast.”

  Braddock chuckled and climbed to his feet. “Yeah, I’ve been called a beast a time or two.” He staggered, clutched his head with his hands. “Ahh . . . my head . . .” He looked at her and formed a lascivious grin. “Too bad I don’t remember last night, though. I bet you were fun.”

  “Are you going to let me go, now that you have had your fun?” she asked hopefully.

  “Shut up.” Braddock winced again at the pain in his head, spat, and brushed dust from his broadcloth trousers and sweat-stained white shirt. “I still got plans for you and your Mr. Prophet.” He reached down and jerked her to her feet. “We got some riding to do this morning.”

  From his perch above Gay’s camp, Prophet watched the sun rise. As the huge lemon orb rose above the distant knobs, a sharp dread rose in his loins and belly.

  It was daylight. The Apaches could attack at any time.

  Prophet had been on guard here, on the south side of the camp, since two o’clock, and he’d seen or heard no sign of the red devils. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there. In fact, the prickling along his spine told him they were near, sure as hell.

  Prophet adjusted his Colt and bowie knife on his hip and climbed down the rocky upthrust toward the remuda, where Sergei and several other men were rigging up their mounts. Marya was still sitting with Gay on a log, nibbling a biscuit. She sent Prophet a questioning look; neither he nor Sergei had been able to inform her of the change in plans, and her glance told him she was wondering why they hadn’t snatched her from the camp last night.

  In reply to her silent inquiry, Prophet gave his head a brief shake, then turned to Mean and Ugly with the horse’s bridle in his hand. When the other men had led their horses from the remuda, leaving only Sergei and Prophet, Prophet swung his saddlebags over Mean’s back and said under his breath, “Keep your eyes peeled, Serge. If they attack, we grab the girl and hightail it.”