Riding With the Devil's Mistress (Lou Prophet Western #3)

by Peter Brandvold

  About nine o’clock in the morning he approached a creek meeting the river from the south, and stopped suddenly when he smelled smoke from a cook fire. He reined the line-back dun to a halt, sniffing the air and looking around. Shortly, he reined the horse to his right, into the trees along the river. He dismounted and tied the horse to a branch.

  Shucking his Winchester, he started walking westward through the trees, stopping every now and then and listening for voices. He couldn’t believe the Red River Gang would be holed up this late in the day, but if they were as cocky as they’d appeared, maybe they were careless enough to make stupid mistakes....

  Prophet moved forward, holding his Winchester across his chest, avoiding branches and deadfalls which would make noise if stepped on. He kept his ears pricked, listening, and sniffed the air as he followed the smell of the fire.

  When he’d walked a hundred yards, he stopped and crouched down, his eyes widening. About twenty yards ahead, blue smoke curled through the branches of the box elders and cottonwoods. There were no voices, which might mean the gang had left their camp without extinguishing their fire, but Prophet wasn’t taking any chances.

  He ducked behind a tree, laid out a course that would bring him to the camp while zigzagging between trees, and started off, quietly levering a shell into his rifle breech. When he came to the last tree in his course, he crouched low, removed his hat, and slid a look around the Cottonwood’s wide bole.

  His heart tapped rhythmically when he saw a man sitting on the other side of a smoky fire, his back to a natural levee. He was half-bald and unshaven, and his head was thrust back, his face bunched, as if in pain. A wool blanket was draped across his shoulders.

  Prophet looked around, but it didn’t appear to be a trap. Nearby was a single horse, but there were no other riders in the area.

  Thumbing the hammer of his Winchester back, Prophet stepped out from behind the tree. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them, old son.’

  The man gave a start, his head snapping level. The blanket fell from his shoulders as he grabbed at the pistol on his right hip with his left hand. It was an especially awkward maneuver, because he wasn’t wearing a cross-draw rig.

  ‘Stop!’ Prophet shouted, squeezing off a shot and ripping a widget of sod and leaves from the levee about six inches to the man’s left.

  That froze him, and he looked at Prophet belligerently. ‘What the hell do you want?’

  For a minute, Prophet wondered if the man was just a farmer or some drover riding the grub line. But then he saw the blood on the man’s right arm, which was red from his shoulder to his wrist.

  ‘I want you, if you’re part of the Red River Gang,’ Prophet said, taking another cautious glance around, making sure he and the wounded man were alone.

  ‘The Red River Gang?’ the man said with a caustic laugh. ‘Who in the hell are they?’

  Prophet studied the man and knew he was one of the dozen he was looking for. He glanced at the arm. ‘What happened there? You take a bullet?’

  The man looked at his own arm and laughed again. ‘Yeah, I was out huntin’ and wouldn’t you know it—I dropped my damn gun, and it went off on me. Hit me in the shoulder, bored a route down the bone, and came out my wrist.’

  ‘You dropped it and it hit you in the shoulder, did ye? That’s some fancy gun you have there.’ Prophet couldn’t remember hearing or seeing any of the townsmen return fire. He had a feeling he’d hit this man himself, with that old Colt Navy the hat maker had given him.

  ‘It’s the darnedest thing,’ the man said, shaking his head.

  Prophet walked slowly up to him, pointed the barrel at his face, reached down, and lifted the revolver from the man’s holster. It was a Colt Army with gutta-percha grips. Prophet wedged the gun in his belt and said, ‘Get up.’

  The man lifted his eyes to Prophet and snarled, ‘Go to hell, you bastard. Can’t you see I’m bleedin’ to death here?’

  ‘I’m taking you to the sheriff over in Wahpeton. Maybe, if the man’s nice and doesn’t mind wasting town funds on the likes of a shit dog like yourself, he’ll hire a sawbones to tend that arm. Have you good as new for the hangman.’ Prophet was seething, and he had to try with all his might not to drill a slug through the man’s skull and leave him here for the hawks. ‘Get up.’

  ‘Sheriff? What sheriff? I didn’t do nothin’.’

  ‘Get up!’

  ‘Can’t you see I’m—?’

  ‘If you’re not standing in three seconds, I’m sending you to the smokin’ gates.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ the man said with a sigh. ‘But I’m tellin’ you, Mister—you’re makin’ a mistake.’ Painfully, without Prophet’s help, the man donned his hat and gained his feet. ‘I don’t know what you think I did, but I’m innocent as the baby Jesus.’

  Prophet went around behind the man and patted him down, finding a knife in a sheath down his back and a hideout gun in the well of his left boot. He also found three new gold watches in his jeans pockets, a new pocket knife, and several shiny trinkets.

  ‘Innocent as baby Jesus, eh?’ Prophet chuffed. ‘Move!’ he ordered, pushing the man toward his horse.

  The dapple-gray was unsaddled, so Prophet tacked it up while the man watched with an angry sneer on his pain-ravaged face. He was slick with sweat, and Prophet didn’t doubt an infection had set in. He had a mind to put him out of his misery and leave him here, but a coldblooded killer the bounty hunter was not.

  When Prophet had the man on his horse, he tied his wrists to his saddle horn and bound his feet to his stirrups. He led the dapple-gray back to Mean and Ugly, who nickered at the strangers and lifted his tail aggressively at the dapple-gray.

  ‘Friendly horse you have there,’ the outlaw remarked.

  ‘Ain’t he?’ Prophet said, yanking the line-back’s head away from the dapple-gray’s ass, and mounting up.

  Trailing the outlaw, who grunted and groaned in pain, his head either sagging to his chest or tipped back on his shoulders, Prophet tracked the main group along the river. He had a feeling they were headed the same place he was headed—the little town of Wahpeton, which sat at the point where the Ottertail and Bois de Sioux rivers converged to form the Red on the Dakota line, about ten or fifteen miles away.

  If that’s where they were headed—and there wasn’t much else to head for out here—they and Prophet would be meeting real soon.

  Chapter Six

  THE HONEY-HAIRED BLONDE rode a sleek black Morgan horse, as fine in head as a Swiss mantle clock, as deep in barrel and haunch as a mountain grizzly. She walked the well-trained mount across the wood bridge, traversing the diminutive Rabbit River, and kicked him into a canter, then a gallop. When the town came into sight around a bend in the muddy wagon trail, she slowed the frisky Morgan back down to a trot.

  As she passed the post with a crudely painted sign with the word Campbell painted in green letters, she turned her head from side to side, noting the handful of modest frame buildings lining the recently graded railroad bed.

  There were no tracks in the grade yet, but the girl had heard that the St. Paul & Pacific would be laying rails through these parts before the summer was out, connecting the Red River Valley with Minneapolis and Chicago and other points east.

  Why anyone would care that this backwater hole in hell was connected to anything, the girl had no idea. But then, she didn’t care, either. She didn’t care about much of anything at the moment but the four horses tethered to the hitch rack before a two-story building sitting between the brick depot and the post office, with enough space on each side for one or two more stores.

  The sign over the building’s veranda announced the Philadelphia hotel, and she thought the name mighty uppity for such a humble pile of boards. Stopping her Morgan about fifty yards before the white-painted building, she gave it a close study, ignoring the subtly fearful tap of her pulse in her wrists and neck, the cool-warmth of apprehension creeping up the backs of her thighs.

 
; If anyone had been out on the street of this ambitious little railroad stop, they might have wondered what had brought this girl here—a pretty blonde in her late teens riding a tall, broad-chested black Morgan. They might have thought she was a farmer’s daughter come to buy some flour or eggs at the general store, for she wore a round, felt farm hat with a chin thong, a weathered brown poncho, and the kind of long, gray skirt favored by farm women.

  The fine horse would have thrown them off, however. The Winchester carbine poking out of her saddle boot would have stumped them, too, for few girls rode around this country armed with rifles, let alone Winchester carbines.

  Running her tongue along her upper lip and inhaling deeply, steeling herself, the girl kneed the Morgan over to the hitch rack. She dismounted, while keeping an eye on the hotel’s single door and its single frosted window. Her hands trembling slightly, she looped the reins over the rack.

  Turning, she faced the building for several seconds before walking resolutely to the door, twisting the knob, and pushing it open. She closed it quickly with only a cursory glance around the room, and made for a table near the wall on her left.

  She took a seat with her back to the wall, planted her elbows on the table, and rested her chin in her hands, taking the time now to glance around.

  There was a bar along the right side of the room, and lined up at the bar, their backs to her, were the four men who belonged to the four horses outside. They hadn’t seen her yet. Only the barman had seen her—a stocky man with sandy hair and an ostentatious mustache wearing sleeve garters and a white apron. He gazed at her with a question wrinkling the bridge of his nose.

  The four men standing at the bar noticed the barman’s gaze and turned to follow it to the girl, who smiled, removed her hat, and tossed it on the chair beside her. She shook her head, tossing her long, blond hair out from the collar of her worn poncho, then replaced her chin in her hands.

  The barman cleared his throat, lifted his chin, and called, ‘If you’re waitin’ for the stage, Miss, it don’t get here till tomorrow noon.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she said.

  Puzzled, the barman glanced at the others. The others glanced at each other. Then the man farthest on the girl’s left said, ‘Maybe she’s waitin’ for the train.’

  The others laughed.

  ‘Nope. I ain’t waitin’ for the train, neither,’ she said. ‘I’m just waitin’.’ Her voice was at once girlish and mature; it was a trait that made her appealing to men. Especially men, she had found to her horror, like the ones before her now: denim-clad hookworms.

  The others shared glances again, chuckling. The four along the bar elbowed each other, snickering. Finally, one picked up his beer mug and made his way to the table, weaving a little, sucking in his gut and adjusting the holster tied low on his thigh. He had curly hair under a battered hat with a funneled brim, and his brown eyes were bleary.

  ‘Well, you must be waitin’ for somethin’,’ he said when he’d stopped before her, grinning down at her stupidly.

  ‘No, not really,’ she said. ‘I was just passin’ through and thought I’d take a breather, maybe have a sarsaparilla’—she glanced at the barman—’if you have any, sir.’

  The man before her laughed. Turning to the barman he mocked, ‘If you have any, sir.’

  The three men at the bar laughed. The barman turned to them, and he laughed, too.

  The man before her turned to her and planted his left fist on the table, regarding her lewdly, running his eyes over the two pert swellings in her poncho. ‘Why don’t you have a beer with me?’ he said. ‘I’ll buy.’

  ‘I don’t much care for spiritous liquids, sir,’ the girl said. ‘My grandmother raised me to believe they were brewed by the devil and imbibed by the damned.’

  More laughter. The man standing over the girl smiled down at her, showing his brown teeth. ‘Well, now, how in the hell would she know? I bet she never drank anything stronger than goat’s milk. And I bet you haven’t neither, have you, sweetie?’

  The girl didn’t respond to this. She returned the man’s gaze levelly, her hazel eyes wide and innocent.

  ‘Where you from and where you headed, angel face?’ the man asked.

  ‘I’m from Minneapolis. My dear grandmother passed away last week, and I’m off to Montana to find Aunty Gert.’

  The man turned to the others. ‘She’s off to Montana to find her Aunty Gert,’ he said, his voice teeming with irony.

  ‘Ask her if she wants some company,’ one of the others at the bar called.

  ‘You heard him, sweetie,’ the man said. ‘You want some company out to ole Montany, looking for Aunty Gert?’

  ‘No, thank you, sir. But thanks for asking.’

  ‘Well, how about a beer, then?’ the man standing before her said.

  ‘No, thank you. Like I said...’

  ‘Yeah, I know what you said.’ The man turned to the bartender. ‘Dave, bring the little miss here a sarsaparilla, an’ put it on my tab.’

  He tossed the girl’s hat off the chair beside her and sat down, turning to face her. She nearly choked on the beer stench of his breath, but kept her gaze even and innocent.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  When the bartender came with the sarsaparilla, setting the glass before the girl, the man sitting beside her said conversationally, ‘So you’re heading to ole Montany, eh, my sweet?’

  The girl sipped her drink noisily. ‘That’s right,’ she said, wiping her pretty, wide mouth with the back of her hand.

  ‘Better be careful in ole Montany,’ the man said, half turning to his compatriots at the bar. ‘Montany’s full of one-eyed snakes.’

  One of the men at the bar sprayed beer from his mouth. The others chuckled and jostled each other.

  ‘One-eyed snakes?’ the girl asked.

  The men at the bar guffawed.

  Smiling, the man seated beside the girl said, ‘That’s right. There’s a whole bunch of ‘em out ole Montany way. You’ll want to be careful.’ He turned a cockeyed look at her. ‘You mean to tell me you’ve never seen a one-eyed snake before?’

  The girl thought about it, rolling up her eyes. ‘Nope. I don’t think so.’ Frowning, she looked at the man seriously. ‘Are they a type of sidewinder?’

  The men at the bar were laughing so hard they had to grab the zinc counter to keep from falling down.

  The man sitting next to the girl dropped his head, then brought it back up, tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘Yes, ma’am. I guess you could say they’re a type of sidewinder.’ He paused and squinted his eyes, as though a thought had just occurred to him. ‘Say, maybe you should see one, so you know what they look like. That way, if you see one along the trail, you’ll know to avoid them.’

  The girl sipped her sarsaparilla and shrugged noncommittally.

  ‘Yeah,’ the man said, turning to his friends for counsel. ‘Boys, don’t you think this girl should see a one-eyed snake, so she’ll know what to avoid out in ole Montany?’

  ‘I think that’d only be prudent,’ one of the men said through a belly laugh.

  ‘Why don’t you come upstairs with me, honey?’ the man beside the girl said. ‘And I’ll show you a one-eyed snake.’

  The girl set her glass down, frowning. ‘They have one-eyed snakes in Minnesota, too?’

  ‘Well,’ the man smiled. ‘There ain’t as many of ‘em hereabouts, but I’ve got one upstairs ... in a special cage.’ He put his hand on the back of her chair. ‘Come on. I’ll show you.’

  He turned to the bartender. ‘Say, Dave, can I have a room for, say, half an hour?’

  ‘Five minutes, more like,’ one of the man’s friends interjected.

  ‘Yeah, but it’ll cost you,’ the bartender said.

  ‘Put it on my tab.’ Turning to the girl, the man said, ‘Come on, little honey. Let’s go upstairs, and I’ll show you my one-eyed snake.’

  The girl rolled her eyes to the side as she sipped her drink, thinking about it. ‘Nan. I better
not. My grandmother told me never to go off with strange men.’

  The man grabbed her arm, standing. ‘Come on, little honey. I’m gonna show you my one-eyed snake.’

  ‘No,’ the girl objected as he dragged her to her feet. ‘I told you, my—’

  ‘Yeah, I know what you’re grandmother said,’ the man said, pulling the girl away from the table. ‘But granny’s worm food now, and it’s time you had you a good look at one of them ole one-eyed snakes you’re gonna be seein’ plenty of out in ole Montany.’

  The men at the bar whooped and yelled.

  ‘No!’ the girl cried, yanking her hands from the man’s iron grip.

  ‘Hey!’ the man shouted, his face creased with sudden rage. He turned sharply and smacked her hard with his right fist, sending her sprawling across two chairs. He grabbed her, yanked her to her feet, bent down, and threw her over his shoulder. As she kicked and yelled, pounding his back with her fists, he made his way to the stairs at the back of the room.

  ‘I’m second,’ one of the men at the bar called.

  ‘I’m third,’ yelled another, raising his fist after the man disappearing with the girl up the stairs.

  ‘Guess you know what that makes you,’ the bartender said to the fourth man.

  Above them, the girl cried for help.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘WELL, I’LL BE damned,’ Prophet said.

  Mean and Ugly’s reins in his hand, he was hunkered on his haunches, studying the horse sign in the sod. He looked around, then lifted his gaze westward, turned it south, and sighed. With a gloved finger, he poked his hat back from his forehead and scowled.

  ‘They split up.’

  He heard a snicker. Turning his head, he saw the man sitting the speckle-gray behind Mean and Ugly. The man was smiling through the pain of his shattered arm.

  ‘What the hell are they doin’ splittin’ up out here?’ Prophet asked him.