‘Uh-oh,’ Prophet said.
‘I don’t think we should have taken your shortcut,’ Louisa grumbled.
‘I don’t, either. In fact, I think I’ve changed my mind.’ Prophet turned around and froze. ‘Shit,’ he rasped, seeing two more figures at the alley mouth.
They were walking this way.
‘Throw down your guns and knife, buddy,’ a man called from before them. His accent was distinctly Irish.
‘And no one gets hurt. All we want is the pretty little lass at your side.’
‘Now you’ve done it,’ Louisa snapped at Prophet. ‘I’d have been a lot better off with my horse!’
Chapter Twenty
READING LOUISA’S MIND, Prophet grabbed her arm. ‘Keep your pistol holstered. They have us dead to rights.’
‘The hell they do!’
‘Do as I say!’
Prophet watched the two men approach in the darkness. Light glanced off something in the arms of the man on the left. Probably a shotgun. The other man tapped a club in his open left palm.
Turning around, Prophet watched the other two approach—big, burly types in overalls and smelling like breweries. Railroad men fueled by forty-rod and out for some fun. Prophet thought he recognized them from the food tent.
‘Drop that knife and pistol in the dirt, laddie,’ one of them ordered. He was aiming what looked like a snub-nosed, small-caliber pistol at Prophet’s solar plexus. Now he clicked the hammer back, and the bounty hunter’s stomach tensed. He winced as he removed his bowie and Colt and stooped to set them on the ground.
‘Listen, boys,’ he said, straightening, ‘you don’t want to mess with this girl. She’s not as innocent as she looks.’
‘She not, eh?’ one of the railroaders said, this one in a German accent. ‘Maybe she give goot time, then, no?’ He chuckled. ‘Rolf—I think thiss girl give goot time in the repair shop, no?’
‘Ah, she’s a fine little lassie, Peder,’ agreed the Irishman, reaching to brush a lock of hair from Louisa’s face. ‘Yessir!’ Turning to Prophet, he said, ‘We’re just gonna tap ye on the head now, laddie, nice and sweet-like. You won’t feel a thing till mornin’.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Prophet saw the man with the shotgun move up on him from behind. As Prophet crouched to duck the blow, he heard an anguished cry followed by two sharp pistol cracks. The commotion distracted the man with the shotgun enough that the butt of the sawed-off weapon merely grazed the back of Prophet’s head.
Ignoring the gunfire for the moment, Prophet swung his leg up sideways, and funneled all his strength into a solid kick to the shotgunner’s groin, effectively immobilizing the man. As he turned around, two more pistol shots sounded—these from a larger-caliber revolver, setting his ears to ringing painfully, the smell of cordite burning his nostrils. He saw another of the big railroaders stumble back against the building, grunting and bringing his hands to his chest.
Heart thudding and adrenaline coursing, Prophet jerked left. Louisa stood beside him, her silver-plated Colt extended straight out before her, aimed at the railroader who’d just collapsed against the building. Smoke swirled around her head and curled from the Colt’s five-inch barrel.
The man muttered something. Louisa fired again. The man’s head dropped and he said nothing more.
Hearing the sound of retreating feet behind him, Prophet turned around and saw the fourth railroader running off down the alley, fading in the darkness. He reappeared in the dull light at the alley’s end, turned, and disappeared.
The man Prophet had kicked cursed and groaned, hands to his crotch, while he rolled face-down on the ground.
Prophet turned back to Louisa, who was turning her gun on the Irishman, who now lay on his back in the middle of the alley, blood gushing from a long, deep gash in his neck. He blinked his eyes rapidly and worked his mouth, making weird, wet, guttural sounds. His pocket pistol lay beside him. Prophet figured the first two slugs he’d heard had come from the Irishman, fired involuntarily after Louisa had cut his throat.
‘Jesus Christ, girl,’ Prophet said, awestruck. After all he’d seen her do, he now realized he still had no idea what she was capable of.
‘No one touches me unless I say,’ she said mildly to the dying Irishman. Raising the gun to the man’s head and thumbing back the hammer, she added, ‘And I rarely say.’
‘Easy, easy,’ Prophet said, shoving her gun down. ‘He’s good as dead, and we’ve made enough noise the way it is. Let’s get out of here before we have to explain all this to the sheriff.’ He stooped to retrieve his Colt and started down the alley. ‘Come on.’
When he didn’t hear her running behind him, he stopped and turned. She was on her knees, looking suddenly, uncharacteristically weary.
Running back to her, Prophet knelt down. ‘What’s the matter, girl?’
She gave a heavy sigh. ‘I feel faint... all of a sudden. ...’
‘Probably all the beer and excitement. You’ll be all right in a minute. I’ll take your saddlebags.’
He reached for the bags she’d draped over her shoulder.
She stopped him with, ‘No—that ain’t it. I always feel faint when I see my own blood.’
‘Huh?’
She took Prophet’s arm and heaved herself standing, then stooped to place a hand on her calf. ‘Think I took a ricochet from the Irishman’s peashooter,’ she said.
Prophet frowned with concern. ‘Where?’
‘Here.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘I don’t know, but’—she swooned like a Southern belle—’I think I’m gonna faint.’
‘Oh, Jesus!’ Prophet carped, catching her.
He picked her up, saddlebags and all, in his arms, and ran clumsily down the alley. The man he’d groined spat behind him, ‘You goddamn ... sons’bitches ... ye fight yella!’
Prophet was amazed at how light the girl seemed at first, considering all her sass and firepower. Her saddlebags dangling off his left arm felt heavier than she herself. The whole package, however, became more cumbersome the farther he ran, looking for his hotel, which he seemed to have misplaced. He was considering setting Louisa and her cargo down for a breather when he finally saw the place—a modest, two-story building with a cafe on the first floor and a handful of rented rooms on the second.
‘It’s more money for two,’ announced the cranky old bat behind the front desk, scowling over the cream-colored poodle sitting on the counter. The dog growled through its teeth at the big, clumsy newcomer stumbling through the lobby door with a comatose girl in his arms.
‘I’ll pay up in the morning,’ Prophet said, heading for the narrow, winding stairs behind the desk.
‘You’ll pay now!’ chirped the shrew, jutting a crooked finger at a hand-lettered sign requiring all payments in advance.
‘Go diddle yourself!’
Aside from the poodle’s single yip, that was the end of the conversation, for Prophet had made the landing and was starting up the second flight of stairs, fumbling his way through the darkness. The old biddy was too cheap to keep a lantern lit in the hall, so he had to count the doors on the left before finding his own.
Grappling in his pocket for the key which he was glad he hadn’t turned over to the biddy before leaving, he got the door open, stepped inside, and lay Louisa gently down on the bed. Not having heard a peep out of her for several minutes, he was worried she was dead.
Quickly, he kicked the door closed, got a lantern lit, and set it on the rickety table beside the lumpy, slanting bed, upon which Louisa lay on her hat, which had tumbled down her back, hanging by its cord. Her hair was in her face and her skin looked pale.
‘Louisa,’ Prophet gently called, leaning down to listen to her heart. ‘Louisa, you all right, girl?’
He listened for several seconds, not sure if what he was hearing was her heart or something else. Worried she’d taken more than one bullet and was teetering on death’s doorstep, he headed for the door in search of a doctor.
He’d just opened the door and was heading into the hall when Louisa sighed behind him.
He turned.
She sighed again, and mumbled something.
Prophet went to her, leaned over the bed, took her delicate chin in his hand, and gently moved her head from side to side. ‘Louisa? You all right?’
Her eyelids fluttered open. Her mouth opened and she took a deep draught of air. ‘Oh, God ... what happened?’
‘You passed out. Tell me where you’re hurt.’
‘My leg ...’
‘Just your leg?’
‘I think so... .’
Prophet ran his eyes down her body, looking for more wounds. ‘Sure you’re not hit somewhere else?’
‘No—just my leg.’ She lifted her head to look at her leg, made a face, turned pale again, and made a gagging sound. ‘Ah, God! I can’t... I never been able to stand the sight of blood.’
Prophet looked at her skeptically. ‘What?’
She rested her head back on the pillow. ‘Never could stand it.’
Still scowling, Prophet moved to her ankle, lifted her skirt up until he saw the blood staining her pantaloons. He began separating her stockings from her pantaloons, and she said, ‘No!’
‘I gotta get that wound cleaned and see if the bullet’s still in there!’
She made another gagging sound and turned her head to the side, ready to vomit.
‘Get a grip on yourself now, girl,’ he admonished, rolling the pantaloons up her leg. ‘I’m not gonna hurt you, and I’m not lookin’ for a thrill, for Chrissakes. I’m just gonna see how bad you’re hit.’
‘The bullet’—she gagged again and coughed—’the bullet ain’t in there; I can’t feel it. Th-the bullet just creased my calf.’
In a moment, Prophet saw that it was true. The slug had made a small neat furrow along her calf, drilling just deep enough to make it look worse than it was. Finding it hard to reconcile her reaction—he’d thought she was dead!—to the superficiality of the wound, he put his head close to her naked leg, carefully scrutinizing the wound.
‘Sure enough, it’s just a graze!’ Prophet looked at her frowning, then broke out in laughter. ‘It’s just a graze! What in the hell you makin’ such a big fuss about?’
‘I told you,’ she said tightly, angry now, staring up at the ceiling, ‘I can’t stand the sight of blood.’
‘Your own blood, you mean.’
‘Yes, mine.’
Prophet guffawed. ‘... Because you sure as hell don’t mind the sight of others’ blood ... !’ He sat down on the bed beside her and threw his head back with laughter, until someone from below hit the floor several times with something hard.
He covered his mouth, squealing and wheezing, until he finally settled down, chuckling, and turned to her, wagging his head. ‘Girl, you take the cake, you know that?’
‘I’m glad you’re so amused, Mr. Prophet.’
He chuckled again, as relieved she wasn’t seriously hurt as he was amused by her. In spite of her off-putting idiosyncracies, or maybe because of them, he’d taken a shine to this girl. Mystified and appalled by her, he knew the world would be a duller place without her.
Finally, he stood and poured water from the pitcher on the washstand into the basin, and found a clean cloth in his saddlebags. He brought the basin and the rag to the bed, soaked the rag, and began dabbing at the girl’s bloody calf.
‘Don’t you go lookin’ at my leg now,’ Louisa scolded. Her voice was still tight, as though she was doing everything she could do distract herself from the idea of her own blood.
‘Now, how am I supposed to clean your leg if I don’t look at it?’
‘Well, just don’t look at any more of it than you have to.’
‘Too late,’ Prophet quipped. He grinned. ‘Already took me a good, long look, and that’s one pretty leg you got here, Miss Bonny-venture. I bet more than one boy set store by you back home.’
When she did not reply, Prophet looked up at her. She lay still, still staring at the ceiling, but her eyes were shiny, and a single tear rolled down her left cheek.
Prophet frowned. ‘What’s the mat—?’ he stopped, realizing what it was. He’d mentioned home.
He started dabbing at the blood again, letting several minutes pass before asking, ‘Want to tell me about it?’
She swallowed and shook her head. Her voice was phlegmy when she said, ‘Uh-uh.’
That was all she said, and Prophet said nothing more, either, as he finished cleaning the wound with whiskey from his saddlebags, and wrapped it with a clean cloth.
‘There you are—good as new,’ he said, getting up from the bed and returning the basin to the stand. ‘You can bear to look at it now. It’s got a nice white cloth on it.’
She sat up, scooted up against the headboard, and looked down at her leg. Glancing at Prophet sheepishly, she said, ‘Obliged.’
‘De nada.’
‘Sorry I passed out.’
Prophet shrugged. ‘I’ve had women faint on me before.’ He smiled as he-rinsed his rag in the basin. ‘Just not one quite like you.’
‘I reckon I better see about getting my own room.’ She moved to get off the bed.
‘The biddy’s done turned in. She closes at nine, and it’s past nine now. You’ll have to sleep here tonight. Don’t worry, I’m too tired to maul you.’
Louisa looked at him warily, then carefully scooted back against the headboard, adjusting her skirts over her legs and lacing her fingers in her lap. ‘That isn’t right.’
‘What—my not mauling you, or our sharing the same room?’
‘You know what I mean, Mr. Prophet.’
‘Hey, just cause I seen your leg doesn’t mean you have to start calling me Mr. Prophet.’ He pegged his hat and shell belt, then held his quart bottle of Tennessee rye up to the light. Noting the liquid’s level, he sat in the barrel chair by the window, set the whiskey on the floor between his feet, and fished his makings sack from his shirt pocket.
Louisa watched him. ‘You gonna smoke and drink now?’
He looked at her dully. ‘Is that all right?’
‘You can open the window for the smoke, but what if the drinkin’ turns you into a savage?’
Prophet snorted and went to work on the quirley. ‘Don’t worry—I’m well aware of that knife and six-shooter you’re packin’ under your skirt.’
There was a pause while Prophet finished building his smoke and cracked the window. He lit the cigarette, picked up the bottle, corked it, and took a swig. Balancing the bottle on his knee with one hand, he smoked the quirley with the other.
He frowned at her staring at him. ‘How does that work, anyway?’ he said, exhaling a long plume of smoke.
‘What?’
‘How are you carryin’ that knife and gun under your skirt? Don’t worry—I ain’t gettin’ fresh. Just curious about your armaments, is all.’
Louisa shrugged. ‘I got a gunbelt on under my skirt. I cut slits in the skirt so I can retrieve the gun or the knife pronto. The poncho covers the bulges.’
‘Where did you get such an outfit?’
‘What—the gunbelt and knife? Stole ‘em off the first man I killed.’
‘A Red River Ganger?’
‘Yep. Killed him with my pa’s twenty-gauge I fished out of the barn’s ashes. Then I took the outlaw’s weapons and his horse—the Morgan was his, too, the poor horse— and I camped for a month in the Nations, and practiced my shootin’ and knife-throwin’. Pa was right handy with both, since he’d fought in the Indian Wars, and I’d picked up a few tricks over the years. I could shoot faster and straighter than my brother, James.’
Prophet stared at her, took a sip from the bottle, then stared at her again. Frowning, he asked, ‘What are you gonna do, Louisa, when all this is over?’
She stared at the wall straight off the end of the bed, thinking. Then she slid her eyes back to Prophet. ‘I don’t know. What are you gonna do?’
�
��More o’ the same. I do it for a living.’
A faint smile pulled at her full, pink lips. ‘Well, then, maybe I will, too.’
Prophet finished his cigarette, then built and smoked another while he sipped the whiskey. Finally, he flicked the cigarette stub out the window and held the bottle up to the light, scrutinizing the whiskey line. He took a final sip, corked the bottle, and returned it to his saddlebags.
‘Well, I reckon,’ he sighed, stretching. He kicked out of his boots and started unbuttoning his shirt.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m comin’ to bed.’
‘I told you the whiskey would turn you into a savage.’
Prophet looked around, thoughtful. ‘I don’t feel so damn savage.’
‘You mean you’re just gonna sleep?’
‘What else would I do?’
‘Ravage me.’
Prophet chuckled. ‘I done told you, I ain’t in the ravagin’ mood.’
‘I thought all men wanted to ravage virgins.’
He was peeling off his denims but stopped and looked at her under his brows. ‘You a virgin?’
‘Of course. I ain’t married, am I?’
Prophet snorted and kicked off his jeans, leaving them bunched on the floor. ‘Figures.’
Prophet emptied the wash basin in the thunder mug under the bed, then refilled it from the pitcher and splashed water in his face. When he’d dried himself on the towel hanging on the stand, he stretched again, scratched his hairy chest through his union suit, and headed for the other side of the bed.
He crawled in, groaning and tired, and fluffed his pillow. Then he lay back, drew the quilt and sheet up, yawned, and closed his eyes.
After a minute, Louisa said quietly in the silent room, ‘You can if you want to. I mean, I mind, of course, but I reckon all men need it, so .. . since we’re workin’ together and all.’
He turned to her. ‘I can what?’
She turned to him, blinking and looking annoyed. ‘Ravage me.’
‘I’m too tired to ravage a virgin tonight. Maybe some other time. Now go to sleep, and don’t forget to blow the lamp out.’
Riding With the Devil's Mistress (Lou Prophet Western #3) Page 16