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

by Peter Brandvold

  Sergei nodded at Prophet over his horse’s saddle.

  When they all were mounted, Marya led off, following the map in her head. Prophet hoped she remembered it correctly and that they arrived at the “treasure” soon. He didn’t know what in the hell would happen once they got there and Gay saw that there was no treasure. He figured he’d cross that bridge when they came to it.

  In the meantime. Apaches . . .

  All morning the column threaded its way through canyons and washes. At one point they dead-ended in a box canyon, and Gay threw a fit, asking his “chosen” if she actually knew where she was going or did she want a bullet in her pretty temple?

  Marya regarded the crime boss boldly. “I made a mistake. Have you not ever made a mistake, Mr. Gay?”

  “I told you to call me Leamon,” he muttered under his breath, self-consciously cutting his eyes around at his men. “After all, I am your chosen, aren’t I, my dear?”

  Marya did not answer. As she turned her horse around and rode back past Prophet and Sergei, she rolled her eyes.

  Prophet glanced at Sergei. “Spunky as a front-tit calf, ain’t she?”

  Sergei shrugged and reined his buckskin around.

  Following an arroyo, they entered another canyon. Riding at the rear of the column with Sergei, Prophet scanned the cliff tops rising on both sides of the arroyo. Again he felt a prickling, as if some witch were stitching his spine.

  “Be ready,” he told Sergei.

  The Russian frowned at him.

  “I got a sense about these things,” Prophet said, looking straight ahead, sweeping the cliff tops with his eyes. “You ride ahead, try to get as close to the girl as you can. When those bastards attack, grab her horse and head back this way. We’ll ride back down the arroyo.”

  As they entered the shadows that the cliffs canted onto the rocky bed of the arroyo, the prickling along Prophet’s spine increased, reaching into his ass and thighs. He adjusted his Colt, then reached down and unsheathed his Winchester. He levered a round in the chamber, uncocked the hammer, and rode with the rifle’s butt snugged against his hip.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you, Pepper?” one of the mine guards asked — a stocky German named Klein. “Losin’ your nerve?”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Prophet grumbled, keeping his eyes on the cliffs. “Now, shut up and keep your eyes peeled, unless you want an arrow in your back.”

  “Hey, don’t tell me to shut up, you —”

  Klein was cut off by Gay’s voice rising from the head of the column. “Whoooah!”

  Prophet cocked his Winchester’s hammer as the column slowed to a halt. His gaze caught on a small group of riders gathered on a ledge about thirty yards ahead, where the cliffs opened again.

  The fact that the riders weren’t Indians lightened Prophet’s mood a little. Then he saw the woman at the head of the group, sitting a black horse with her hands apparently tied behind her back. A thin man in a bowler hat was holding a shotgun to her head.

  Prophet couldn’t see her clearly from this far away, but he thought she looked like the countess. The realization flooded his gut with bile and set his heart hammering and his vision swimming.

  What in the hell was she doing out here?

  The two groups of riders sat staring at each other for nearly a minute. Then the other group rode toward Gay’s — slowly, the lead rider keeping the shotgun on the countess’s head. Gay sat at the head of his column in befuddled silence.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on?” someone near Prophet muttered.

  “It’s Braddock,” Prophet said as the other group approached.

  Gay called out, “What the hell is going on here, Bill? What are you doing out here?”

  “Same thing you are, Leamon.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m out here for the gold.” Braddock grinned, his unshaven cheeks looking muddy in the bold light, his dusty bowler tipped at an angle over his left eye.

  “Thought we might make a little swap. This woman here for yours. You must be getting tired of yours by now, aren’t you? I know you, Leamon.” Braddock chuckled.

  Marya tensed in her saddle. Prophet heard her say in a voice pinched with shock, “Natasha!”

  “Marya, stay there — I am all right,” the countess said timidly.

  The crime boss rose up in his saddle, his face flushing with anger. “Bill, what is the meaning of this?”

  Prophet and Sergei gigged their horses up in the procession, until they both sat near Marya and Gay.

  “You heard what the meaning is, Leamon,” Braddock said. “I want the map to the gold.”

  Before Gay could respond, Braddock cut his eyes at Prophet. “That’s what that bounty hunter you have working for you’s after, too.”

  “What bounty hunter?” Gay said, brows beetling as he glanced around, confused.

  “Prophet,” Braddock said.

  “You mean Pepper?”

  “Is that the handle he gave you?” Braddock laughed. “Hell, his name’s Prophet. Headhunter. He’s after your gold, Leamon. Him and that gent there” — he canted his head to indicate Sergei — “and these two

  women.”

  Gay turned to Sergei and Prophet. “Why, you sons of bitches,” he spat. Then he turned his crimson face back to Braddock and the five men surrounding him.

  “And you, Bill,” he castigated. “You pathetic, double-crossing bastard. I don’t know what makes you think I’m going to trade this girl for that one, when that one doesn’t even have a treasure map!”

  With that, Gay reached for his revolver. But before he’d lifted it, Braddock gave a spine-melting yell and arched his back, tripping a trigger of his double-barrel shotgun, which exploded in the air above Natasha’s head.

  Braddock’s horse turned, crow-hopping, revealing the Apache war lance protruding from its rider’s back. Above him, an Apache stood on a rocky shelf jutting out from the cliff. Reaching for an arrow from the quiver on his back, the brave cut loose with an ear-rattling war cry.

  “Countess!” Sergei yelled, bolting forward at a gallop.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Screaming like witches released from hell, a dozen Apaches slipped and slid down the rocky cliff wall, their hide-red faces pinched with animal fury. Several loosed arrows into the canyon. Men from Braddock’s and Gay’s group cried out as the arrows split the air and knocked them off their mounts.

  Holding taut to his horse’s reins with one hand, Prophet fired the rifle with the other. Mean was in a frenzy, as the other horses screamed and the other men began opening up with their pistols and rifles. Prophet could not draw an accurate bead. He fired three more times, anyway, to cover Sergei as the Russian galloped toward the Countess Natasha’s frightened mount.

  Dodging and ducking under whistling arrows, Prophet whipped Mean over to Marya, whose horse danced amidst the gunfire that rose up from the arroyo around them. Several of Braddock’s and Gay’s men had dismounted to kneel in the arroyo, triggering bullets at the cliff bristling with Indians.

  “Come on, girl, let’s ride!” Prophet shouted, flailing for the bridle of Marya’s rearing mount.

  Marya cursed the horse, sawing back on the reins. As the horse whinnied and plunged forward, bolting into Mean, Prophet grabbed the bridle and reined his own mount left, heading back down the arroyo.

  “Keep your head down!” he yelled to Marya as arrows and lances clattered in the rocks around them.

  Prophet had ripped the reins from the girl’s hands and was now leading her galloping mount down the arroyo, swerving around confused, riderless horses.

  Sergei’s deep voice boomed above the Indian whoops and the gunfire. “Go, Lou! I’ve got the countess!”

  Prophet looked back. The hairy-faced Russian was galloping down the arroyo, trailing Natasha’s mount, upon which the countess rode sidesaddle, her skirts and hair whipping in the wind as she cast anxious looks at the skirmish behind them.

  Prophet didn’t have
to rake Mean with his spurs; the horse knew the score, and he’d never liked Indians to begin with. Headlong, the horse galloped down the arroyo, its hooves slipping slightly in the sand as he curved around rock-walled bends.

  Twisted around in his saddle, Prophet triggered his six-shooter at the several Apaches pursuing them on foot. A couple wielded old-style revolvers that misfired or threw their slugs wide of their targets.

  Prophet plugged one in the belly, another in his right kneecap. Both went down, wailing. Another stopped running and lifted his bow. The arrow whistled over Prophet’s head. The warrior quickly notched another and let fly. The arrow arced through the dusty air, brushed Natasha’s right shoulder, and plunged into Sergei’s lower back.

  The Russian gave a grieved shout and stiffened in his saddle.

  “Sergei!” Natasha cried.

  The Cossack shook his head and shouted, “Keep going, Countess! Ride!”

  When they were out of range of the Indians, Prophet holstered his revolver and faced forward in his saddle. Mean galloped over the rocks, leaping over cacti, shrubs, and mesquite branches.

  Prophet had tossed Marya her reins, and she now rode abreast of him, crouched over her horse’s head and flicking her reins back over the mount’s rump, urging more speed. Her face was flushed with fear. Having lost her hat, her blond hair flew out in the wind.

  Several yards behind her, Sergei rode slumped forward in his saddle, head down, his right hand reaching behind for the arrow in his back. His horse was losing speed.

  “We have to stop!” It was Natasha, whose own horse had caught up to Sergei.

  Cursing, Prophet reined Mean to a sliding halt. Sergei’s horse had already stopped. Natasha had ridden over and was crouched over Sergei, speaking in Russian.

  “How bad is it?” Prophet cast a glance at their backtrail. The shooting was growing faint. No Indians appeared to be trailing them.

  “It is buried in his back!” the countess cried, scowling at the arrow protruding about two inches right of his spine. “Oh, Lou, can you do something?”

  Sidling Mean up to Sergei’s fidgeting horse, Prophet said, “How you doin’, hoss?”

  “I have been . . . better, Lou,” the Russian said in a pain-pinched voice.

  “Let me see what you got there in your back, you big lummox. A souvenir, eh? Well . . .”

  The arrow’s tip was buried about four inches deep. Prophet gave it a pull, but it wouldn’t budge. Sergei lifted his head with a pained grunt.

  “She’s in there good,” Prophet said. Glancing around, he added, “He can’t ride much further. Losin’ a lot of blood. We have to hole up somewhere.”

  “I know a place,” Marya said. “Follow me.

  Prophet frowned at her, skeptical.

  “Follow me!” the young countess insisted.

  Prophet glanced at Natasha, who returned the puzzled look. He shrugged and grabbed the reins of Sergei’s horse.

  “Hold tight, hoss,” he told the Russian. “We got a woman driver. Let’s see where in the hell she leads us. Can’t be much worse off than we are now, though, eh?”

  “No!” the Cossack objected. “Leave me. Save yourselves!”

  “We aren’t leaving you, Sergei!” the countess cried.

  “Lou, leave me!”

  Prophet shook his head and kneed Mean into a trot, pulling the Russian’s horse behind him. “Shut up or I just might.”

  “Please go,” the Cossack said, casting a worried look behind. “The Indians . . . they will be following.”

  Ignoring the Russian’s pleas, Prophet cantered his horse back down the arroyo behind Marya. Turning left between two boulders, they followed what looked like a feeder ravine. It was a narrow canyon with high walls occasionally narrowing to no more than six feet, occasionally widening to twenty or thirty.

  Cliff swallows screeched above them. The sun was blocked by the sheer stone walls, and the air smelled cool and earthy.

  “There!” Marya cried, bringing her horse to a stop and whipping around in her saddle. “We can hide in that cave. We can even hide the horses.”

  Prophet looked where she was pointing. A cave opened on the cliff wall. It was a big opening — about the size of a modest settler’s cabin.

  Prophet slipped out of his saddle, dropped Mean’s reins, and walked back to Sergei, who was crouched over his horse’s neck. His face was sweat-beaded and pale.

  “Come on, hoss,” Prophet said, reaching up to give the big Russian a hand down.

  Marya and Natasha had dismounted and now hurried over to help. Together, the three of them pulled Sergei from his saddle and led him up a slight grade to the cave entrance. Prophet paused a moment, Sergei propped against him. He couldn’t see very far inside, but what he could see — merely stone walls and an uneven floor littered with bird and bat shit and slender dried leaves — looked friendly enough. At least it was shelter.

  “Let’s set him down over here,” Prophet said, and led the Russian to the left wall.

  He and the women eased Sergei down. Squatting on his haunches. Prophet helped him lie prone. Sergei muttered what could only have been Russian curses while Prophet probed gently at the Apache arrow protruding from his back.

  “What can you do?” Marya asked Prophet. She and Natasha both sat near Sergei, their dusty, sunburned faces wan with fear and anxiety.

  “Well, first thing I have to do” — Prophet carefully grabbed the bloody arrow in his right hand and snapped it off — “is break off the end.”

  Sergei lifted his chin from the cave floor and shouted something that sounded like “Rumashkahaven!” But then everything Russian sounded alike to Prophet.

  “There.” The bounty hunter nodded, satisfied. “Now, you women gather some wood and build us a fire. Just a small one. We don’t need much smoke with those Indians around. I’m going to get our horses and gear.”

  “Why do I always have to be the one who gets shot, Lou?” Sergei called as Prophet headed out of the cave.

  “Reckon you just don’t live right, pard,” Prophet said with a grin.

  When the fire had been built and water boiled, Prophet sterilized his narrow-bladed knife, gave Sergei several sips of whiskey, and went to work cutting the arrowhead from the Russian’s back. Sergei tensed and grunted and took several more slugs from the bottle while Prophet worked, cutting with his right hand and probing around the arrowhead with the other.

  The women gazed on, faces creased with horror.

  “Are you sure you know what you are doing, Lou?” the countess asked, one hand on Prophet’s shoulder.

  “Well, that’s the thing,” Prophet said, wincing with concentration as he probed the flinty arrowhead, which had lodged between two flat tendons. “I really don’t, but since there ain’t no sawbones around, what else can we do . . . ?”

  Finally the arrow came free. Sergei gave a groan.

  “There it is,” Prophet said, setting the flint head and six-inch shaft on the cave floor, where Sergei could see it. “There’s your souvenir, hoss.”

  The Russian muttered another curse.

  When he’d covered Sergei with a blanket. Prophet turned to Marya. She and Natasha were holding each other and speaking softly, grateful to be in each other’s company once again.

  “Tell me, Miss Roskov,” Prophet said to Marya. “How did you know about this cave?”

  Marya released her sister and rested her back against the wall. She smiled mysteriously. “Because this is the treasure cave.”

  “Huh?” Prophet asked.

  At the same time Natasha turned to her younger sister and said, “What?”

  With an ethereal smile Marya rose and made her way back into the cave’s deepest shadows. “Bert told me it was back here somewhere. Around a ledge.” Her voice grew fainter.

  “Marya,” the countess called, worried.

  “I’m all right,” the girl returned, her voice sounding as though it were coming from halfway down a well, echoing off the stone walls.
/>   Prophet stood and gazed anxiously into the shadows. “You better not go back very far, miss. Never know —”

  “I found it!” Marya cried. “I did! I really did! The trunk is here, just like Bert said!”

  Prophet looked at Natasha, who looked back at him, one eyebrow arched. Prophet shrugged and walked back into the shadows, running his right hand along the wall and holding the left one out before him, feeling his way.

  “It has a lock on it,” Marya said from what he judged to be about thirty feet away.

  “Hold on,” Prophet said.

  A scream rose behind him, freezing his blood.

  He stopped and wheeled around. “Countess?”

  She screamed again. Prophet grabbed his .45 from his holster and ran back the way he had come. “Natasha!”

  As he neared the cave entrance, he saw two figures silhouetted against the bright opening. One was a man. One was a woman — the countess. The man had his left arm around her neck, holding her tight. In the other hand he held a gun to her temple.

  Still in the cave’s shadows, Prophet dropped to one knee and extended the Colt.

  “Don’t shoot, Pepper!” Leamon Gay yelled. “Or Prophet, I should say. Or I’ll blow her head off.”

  Prophet knelt there, gun extended, heart racing. He was trying to figure out what to do and could come up with nothing. Damn. He’d thought for sure that Gay had been killed by the Indians. He was wondering how many more of his men were out there, when a shadow appeared on the sunlit cave wall.

  A man stepped into the opening, his revolver extended. It was Clark, hatless, clothes torn, blood streaming from a cut on his brow.

  “Don’t shoot her,” Prophet said. “There’s no point.”

  “Drop your gun!” Gay commanded.

  “All right, I’m putting it down,” Prophet said, setting the gun on the ground by his boot.

  “Now kick it over toward me. Gently.”

  Prophet kicked the gun toward Gay. Holding his hand chest high, he straightened. He heard footsteps and knew Marya was coming up behind him. She stopped near his right shoulder.

  “Hey, baby doll,” Gay said, grinning.