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

by Peter Brandvold

  ‘We certainly will, Mrs. Ryan,’ said the darkest of the three young men. His glittering eyes followed Cordelia’s backside from the room before sliding back to Prophet, the trace of a an appreciative leer lingering on his lips.

  Immediately, Prophet didn’t like him. He was tall, pale, and thin, with a full head of black hair and a carefully combed mustache the blue-black of anthracite.

  ‘I’m Abel Montgomery,’ he said, and, turning to his compatriots seated on his right, added, ‘this is Ezekial Mcllroy and Edward Fontana. We’re deputy U.S. marshals out of Yankton, Dakota Territory. We were in the area when we heard about the Red River Gang tearing through your town the other day. We’re here to bring them to justice.’

  Smiling, very pleased with himself, he glanced around the table, as if waiting for applause. The old people watched him dully. One of the checker players wrinkled his nose and shook his head, shakily lifting his coffee to his lips. Two withered ladies whispered in each other’s ears.

  Prophet stared at the three young men in their boiled shirts and brushed vests and blemished faces, barely able to keep from laughing. So these were the lawmen they’d sent after the Red River Gang? Inwardly, Prophet shook his head. Hell would freeze over and the devil would have icicles in his beard before these three even got close to taking down that bunch.

  ‘You boys done anted up for a whole pack of trouble when you signed up to take down the Red River Gang,’ Prophet warned.

  Flushing, the three took exception with being called ‘boys.’ Their eyes fell to Prophet and set up like pudding.

  ‘We know exactly who and what we’re up against, Mr. Prophet,’ the red-haired deputy Mcllroy announced self-righteously. ‘We’ve studied all the paper we could find on this gang.’

  ‘Have you ever met up with any of ‘em?’

  ‘No, but we didn’t have to, to know who and what they are,’ said Edward Fontana, a short, sandy-haired lad. ‘They’re lead by Handsome Dave Duvall and his number-one henchman, Dayton Flowers. Both spent time in Arizona’s Yuma Prison, where they met, and together they’ve robbed stage coaches and banks across the West for the past six years. They kill flagrantly and with apparent glee, and often torture their victims. They’re also kidnappers and rape—’

  ‘That’ll be enough business talk now, gentlemen,’ Cordelia announced as she strode into the room with a platter of bacon and a bowl of fried potatoes. When she’d set the food on the table, she folded her hands before her and turned to one of the checker players. ‘Floyd, would you mind saying grace this morning, please?’

  No more was said on the topic, but over breakfast, the three deputies eyed Prophet derisively, taking his measure again and again and never appearing to like the tally. Keeping the peace, Prophet merely grinned and forked potatoes into his mouth.

  When he’d finished eating, he took his coffee cup out to the porch. As he knew they would, the deputies followed him. They lined up before him, glaring down icily under the broad brims of their hats, their black boots polished to high shines. The sandy-haired Fontana was smoking a slim cheroot. Prophet glimpsed Montgomery’s badge peeking out from behind his vest.

  When they didn’t speak, Prophet looked around and said affably, ‘Looks like it’s gonna make a nice one today. This far north, you never know what kind o’ weather the good Lord’s gonna bless us with.’

  Montgomery’s eyes remained frigid. ‘Last night we learned from Mrs. Ryan’s helper, a Miss Annabelle, that you rescued a girl back from the gang over in Wahpeton.’ His voice was friendly enough, but Prophet could tell it was a strain for him. ‘We appreciate that, Mr. Prophet. From now on, however, we respectfully request that you stay out of this affair. It’s our job now to bring the Red River Gang to justice.’

  Prophet poked his hat back from his forehead and gazed up at the deputies troubledly. ‘You boys know where they are and where they’re headed?’

  ‘We have reason to believe they’re headed for Fargo, and then Grand Forks,’ Mcllroy said, his red hair catching the morning sun beneath his snuff-colored hat. ‘They’ll rob a bank in Fargo, one in Grand Forks, then head to Canada. That’s been their pattern, once every year for the past three years.’

  Montgomery added, ‘Then no one will see them again for another six months, when they’ll show up farther west, heading south and starting their vicious, rampaging arc all over again, starting with the gold camps in Wyoming.’

  Prophet nodded, admiring their knowledge of the gang. It was one thing to gather information, however, and another to bring down a small army of badmen.

  ‘Maybe I should throw in with you b—’ He stopped himself, cracked a smile. ‘Marshals.’

  In unison, all three shook their heads. ‘You have bounty hunter written all over you, Prophet,’ Montgomery growled.

  ‘And we don’t cotton to bounty hunters,’ Fontana added, wrinkling his slender nose as though detecting dog droppings.

  ‘So stay out of it, Mr. Prophet,’ Mcllroy warned. ‘If we see you or hear of you out there, within twenty square miles of us, we’ll arrest you for interfering with the duties of federal law enforcers.’

  Prophet studied them with an incredulous frown. ‘You boys sure take yourselves serious,’ he said, raking his eyes across their fancy six-shooters prominently displayed and secured to their thighs with leather thongs. Then he raised his hands and dropped them to his knees. ‘But have it your way.’

  ‘That’ll be all, Mr. Prophet,’ Montgomery said, as though dismissing him. But it was they who turned and headed back into the boarding house.

  They reappeared five minutes later, carrying rifles, war bags, and bedrolls. They didn’t so much as glance at Prophet as they crossed the porch, descended the steps, and filed off toward the livery barn for their horses.

  Cordelia stepped outside and gazed after them for several seconds before turning to Prophet, who’d finished his coffee and was smoking a cigarette, his right boot hiked on his left knee, hat tipped back on his head.

  ‘Do they have any chance at all, Lou?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Prophet said with a sigh. ‘But a very slim one. How’s the girl?’

  ‘Still sleeping. She’s pretty beat up. She’ll probably sleep the rest of the day and maybe even tomorrow. I dread her waking up and having to tell her that both her parents are dead.’

  Prophet looked around to see if anyone was watching, then reached out and took Cordelia’s hand in his, caressed her tender skin with his thumb.

  She dropped her eyes to him and offered a fragile smile. Her words were not fragile at all, however, when she said, ‘Make them pay for what they did here, Lou. I’m normally a Christian kind of woman, but what they did here wasn’t Christian, and they should be treated accordingly. I know those boys with badges can’t do it, so you’ll have to do it. You’re the only one.’

  ‘I know,’ Prophet said, nodding.

  ‘Do you think you can, Lou? Do you think you can get all of them?’

  ‘I think so.’ With a certain little farm girl’s help, he thought with a grim light in his eyes.

  He stubbed out his cigarette, stood, and hugged Cordelia tightly, then went inside for his gear. When he came back carrying his shotgun and rifle, Cordelia was still standing on the porch.

  ‘Will you be back?’

  Prophet grinned. ‘I have to come back. I left a pile of dirty clothes on the floor up in my room.’

  He looked around cautiously again, then kissed her full on the lips, gave her a wink, and walked off the porch and around back to the carriage shed.

  When he’d rigged out Mean and Ugly, he rode the horse south to Main Street. He stopped on a corner by the barbershop when he saw the three deputy marshals leading their saddled mounts down the livery barn’s ramp. Looking serious and businesslike, the three lads adjusted their stirrups, double-checked their cinches, donned their cream dusters, and tightened the chin straps so their hats wouldn’t fly off their heads. Exchanging official nods, they mounted up and gigged their h
orses eastward, primly ignoring the dogs that ran out to bark at their horses.

  Again remembering the dangerous officers in charge of his ill-fated company during the War, Prophet shook his head, glanced around, and gigged the line-back dun to the gunsmith shop up the street to his left. When he’d bought a good supply of shells for his shotgun, rifle, and Peacemaker, he headed over to the barbershop. Getting a shave and a haircut would kill enough time for those three badge-toting younkers to get a safe distance ahead of him. He didn’t want to see them any worse than they wanted to see him. They were the very picture of meat headed for the grinder, and they gave him the willies.

  He tied Mean and Ugly to the hitch rack before the barbershop and stepped inside. He walked out forty-five minutes later not only shaved and trimmed but bathed, as well. It had turned out the barber, trying to drum up business again after the renegades had given the town a bad name, was running a special, and the bath had cost him only one extra dime.

  ‘I’d say I smelled some better than you, Mean and Ugly,’ Prophet told the horse as he gathered the reins from the rack. ‘What do you think about that?’

  He’d just stepped off the boardwalk when a shot rang out, tearing Prophet’s hat from his head.

  Chapter Fourteen

  PROPHET CROUCHED AS he drew his pistol, holding out his left hand so his fiddle-footed horse wouldn’t trample him. Tossing his gaze across the street, he saw smoke dispersing in the air over a feed trough.

  Prophet fired twice at the trough, then, releasing Mean’s reins, he pivoted to his right, ran back onto the boardwalk, and crouched behind a barrel someone had cut in half and filled with petunias.

  The pistol across the street cracked again, the slugs plunking into the barrel. Certain that members of the Red River Gang had tracked him from Wahpeton, Prophet stretched his arm around the right side of the barrel but held his fire when he saw the gunman dart up from behind the trough and disappear around the corner of the millinery shop.

  Only one man?

  Prophet hesitated, knowing it could be a trap. If he followed the gunman, he might run straight into the rest of the gang waiting for him in an alley. But his legs had already taken him halfway across the street before his mind decided to go ahead and chase the son of a bitch.

  He pressed his back to the front of the millinery store, and slid a cautious gaze around the corner. One man, a stout hombre in a floppy hat and suspenders, was mounting a dust-gray horse waiting for him in the alley. Vaguely surprised to not see more men with drawn weapons, Prophet bolted around the corner as the man gigged the agitated mount southward, and fired off three ineffectual shots at the retreating figure.

  Prophet paused to stare at the dwindling horseman befuddledly. Something about the man’s homespun clothes, crude gear, and heavy-footed horse told the bounty hunter he was not a member of the Red River Gang. But if he was not, then who was he, and why in the hell was he trying to kill Prophet?

  Prophet ran back for his horse, but Ugly was not where he’d left him. He cursed again, ran down the side street, and found the dun standing by a trash heap in the alley, his bridle reins hanging, an owly look in his eyes.

  ‘Easy, Mean—damnit,’ Prophet groused, walking slowly up to the perturbed mount in spite of his need to hurry. ‘Don’t act like you never heard gunshots before, you old crank.’

  When he got close, the horse sidled away, but Prophet lunged for the reins, grabbing them, and jumped into the leather. A moment later he was following the gunman’s path south, tracing a meandering trail around shanties and log cabins. He stopped at the school, where children paused in their play to regard him curiously.

  ‘A man just gallop through here?’ he asked, suddenly unsure of the gunman’s trail.

  A boy in highwater coveralls lifted his arm and pointed southeast. ‘He crossed the river through there! Wolf chased him!’

  ‘Much obliged!’

  Prophet had no idea who Wolf was, but he found out a minute later, when a big, black sheepdog loped toward him from the south, tongue hanging. The dog paused and hunkered low in a patch of high grass, watching Prophet gallop toward him. As Prophet passed, the dog leapt at Mean and Ugly’s hocks, snarling, but was too tuckered to give chase.

  Prophet crossed the shallow river and climbed the sparsely wooded rise on the other side. Raking his gaze around, he saw a rider cresting a hill in the middle distance, heading southeast at a lumbering gallop.

  Prophet heeled Ugly after him, and when he’d ridden a good mile, he topped a high hill on the other side of a brushy creek. Looking eastward, he saw dust lingering in the still morning air, but he did not see the rider. Apparently, the man had ridden over the next rise east. If he held true to his speed and course, about now he should be climbing the next, higher hill beyond.

  But he wasn’t.

  Prophet turned Mean and Ugly back down to the creek bottom and tied the horse to a tree. Looping the shotgun around his neck and holding it out before him, he followed the base of the hill southward. When he came to a cleft in the hill, he followed it east.

  On the other side of the hill, he paused, looking around. Several trees and boulders provided good cover. A horse blew somewhere nearby, and Prophet crouched, quickening his gaze. Seeing nothing, he moved farther east, staying low in the brush and looking northward up the ravine.

  He stopped when he saw the gray horse tied to a tree about fifty yards before him.

  Prophet sucked his teeth, wary. Was there really only one man, or was that how it was supposed to look? Was he supposed to creep up on a man placed as a decoy while others crept up on Prophet from behind?

  Chewing his cheek, Prophet gazed around with cautious eyes, and peeled the Richards’s hammers back, ready to start blasting at the first sign of trouble. Stepping eastward, he came upon a thin game trail hugging the east side of the ravine, and followed its meandering path north through shrubs and bramble.

  Birds cried and gophers chattered in the grass.

  When he came to a cottonwood, Prophet stopped suddenly.

  About forty feet before him, the gunman crouched behind a mossy boulder, keeping his eyes and rifle trained on the western ridge of the hill looming up before him. He was waiting for Prophet to come galloping down that hill and into his rifle fire—lights out, that’s all she wrote. Fiddler, start the music.

  Crouching, holding the shotgun chest-high, Prophet started toward the man. His foot cracked a branch, and the man swung toward him, eyes widening, face coloring up like a sunset.

  ‘Stop!’ Prophet warned.

  When the man didn’t check the arc of the rifle, Prophet tripped his right trigger, and the Richards jumped with the explosion of spewing buckshot. The gunman fired once, the slug smacking into the tree behind Prophet. As the buckshot took him through his middle, he flew back against the rock and dropped his rifle. He stood there a moment and lowered his chin to stare down at his open belly, losing his hat in the process. He looked at Prophet, stumbled forward snarling, then fell to his knees, breathing hard and making high-pitched sobbing sounds.

  ‘Goddamnit!’ Prophet groused. ‘I told you to stop!’

  ‘Y-you blasted me ... ye ... snake.’

  ‘You’re the one layin’ for me in the grass,’ Prophet reminded the man as he stepped forward, lowering the Richards, and glancing around to make sure they were alone.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Prophet asked, crouching down and removing the six-shooter from the man’s holster. He had wavy brown hair and a broad, pitted nose. Half his left ear was gone, leaving an ugly mess of scar tissue—the result of a knife fight, no doubt.

  ‘I’m Carlton Mack,’ the man groaned, turning onto his shoulder, his face bunched with pain. ‘You shot my brother, Benny, and brung him here for the bounty, you no-good’—the man cried out in pain—’bounty hunter!’

  Prophet stared down at the man wearily, lining up his thoughts. Then he remembered that Benny Mack was one of the two men he’d killed in the Johnson Lake Road-hous
e, prior to traveling to Luther Falls. The corners of his eyes creased with surprise.

  ‘You’re Benny Mack’s brother?’

  ‘C-came t-ta ... kill you ... you son ... of a bitch!’

  With that, the man expired, his head dropping, his mask of pain flattening out and relaxing, tongue drooping. His eyes remained open, sightlessly studying the ants that were already moving in to investigate the gift of carnage fallen here as if from the sky.

  ‘You goddamn fool,’ Prophet snarled.

  On one hand, he was relieved that the man had no connection to the Red River Gang. On the other, he felt chagrined by the fact that a family member of one of his quarry had come gunning for him. Not that it hadn’t happened before, and not that it wouldn’t happen again.

  He just didn’t like it. There were too many ways to get killed at this job.

  He didn’t bother burying the man. The brush wolves and the bears in these parts would only dig him up in a few hours, anyway. Besides, he didn’t have time. He had the Red River Gang to hunt.

  Moodily, he took the man’s guns and walked over to his horse tethered to the oak. He slid the rifle into the saddle boot and dropped the six-shooter in a saddlebag, then led the horse over to Mean and Ugly.

  A minute later, he was heading back for Luther Falls, trailing the dust-gray for delivery to the school. No doubt one of those young ’uns on the playground could use a good saddle horse.

  An hour earlier, Tom Taber and Billy Silver were sitting before the lumberyard across from the livery barn, smoking and trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, given this was a good Lutheran town and the two gang members not only had sidewinder written all over them, but one was Indian and the other white.

  And, of course, there was the little matter of their raid a few days back.

  Neither man worried about any of that, however. The town was without its sheriff, and thus these pious folks of Luther Falls were babes in the woods, without threat and defenseless—except for the man who’d taken the girl out of the Wahpeton saloon, that was. That’s who Taber and Silver were watching for now, believing he’d sooner or later show himself around the livery barn. They’d recognize him easy enough. A rough-hewn character like that, clad in trail garb, would stand out in a porridge-and-raisin village like this one.