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

by Peter Brandvold

‘Well, the Morgan’ll just have to do,’ Louisa said, giving the horse the spurs.

  The black gave a halfhearted lunge off its back feet, but the gallop quickly wilted into a half-hearted canter. The Morgan blew and shook its head, flinging lather in the moonlight. At the edge of the yard, it stopped and turned broadside to Prophet.

  ‘Goddamnit,’ Louisa said, her soft voice clear in the quiet yard, the moon nearly straight overhead. She looked around at the darkness around the cabin and corral, then turned to Prophet.

  Her voice was small as she gave into her frustration and weariness. ‘He killed my family.’ She took her face in her hands and sobbed, slouched in her saddle.

  Prophet walked to her, reached up, put his hands around her waist, and slipped her, crying, from her saddle.

  ‘He won’t get far, Louisa,’ Prophet assured her. ‘His horse is as tired as ours. Tomorrow, we’ll track him.. . together.’

  ‘He killed my ... he killed my whole family,’ she cried against Prophet’s shoulder, releasing a flood of tears, her body racked with anguish.

  Prophet held her tightly, surprised at how slight and slender she was, for all her vim and vinegar. He stood there, holding her, and let her cry.

  Prophet awoke at dawn the next morning and lifted his head from his saddle. He looked around the camp he and Mcllroy had set up in the tall grass behind the cabin, away from the main trail.

  The fire ring was a mound of gray ashes, the coffee pot cold. Directly across the dead fire lay the deputy, curled under his blanket. To Mcllroy’s left lay the two British women, nestled under the blankets Prophet had gleaned from the soogans he’d found in the lean-to. They’d both murmured in troubled dreams all night, but at the moment the women appeared to be resting contentedly.

  So not to disturb them—he’d let them sleep another hour—Prophet turned quietly to his right, looking for Louisa where she’d spread her blankets the night before not far from his side.

  All that was there, however, was a rectangular patch of matted grass. Louisa, her saddle, and her soogan were gone!

  Resisting the urge to cuss aloud, Prophet tossed his blanket aside and climbed to his feet, looking around. There was no sign of her. Grabbing his gunbelt and hat, he headed around the cabin to the corral.

  The horses snorted as he approached and looked over the top corral slat, sweeping the remuda with his gaze and setting his jaw when he saw the Morgan was gone.

  Saddled up and gone, with Louisa on his back...

  ‘The girl gone?’

  Prophet turned to see Mcllroy walking toward him, wrapping his gunbelt around his waist, his dusty, wrinkled frock coat flapping like huge bat wings.

  ‘Yeah,’ Prophet groused, drawing the word out for emphasis.

  ‘She’s hell in a saddle, isn’t she?’

  ‘I could tell you stories.’ Prophet stared down at the fresh tracks leading from the corral and southward out of the yard. To Mcllroy, he said, ‘See the Englishers back to Fargo, will you, kid? I’m going after Louisa.’

  Prophet started toward the lean-to for his saddle, but stopped when Mcllroy place a freckled hand on his shoulder. ‘Hey, wait a minute, Prophet. First off, I’m no kid. Second, it’s my official duty to track Handsome Dave Duvall.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Prophet said, a cunning twinkle in his eyes. ‘Who’s gonna see the Englishers back to Fargo?’

  Mcllroy stared at him. Then he sighed. ‘I don’t suppose you ... ?’

  Prophet shook his head, grinning. Placing his own paw on the crestfallen deputy’s shoulder, he said, ‘Now you see why freelancing’s the only way to go? I’m not responsible to anyone but myself.’ Seeing Mean and Ugly staring at him over the corral fence, Prophet added, ‘Oh, and my horse, of course.’

  He patted the deputy’s shoulder and headed into the lean-to. Ten minutes later, he led the saddled horse out of the corral, Mcllroy opening the rickety gate for him.

  ‘Well, it was nice ridin’ with you, Zeke,’ Prophet said, turning out a stirrup and poking his boot through. ‘Maybe see ya around sometime.’

  ‘You mean that?’

  Prophet looked at the young man, Mcllroy’s face shaded by the brim of his snuff-colored Stetson. ‘Mean what?’

  ‘That it was nice ridin’ with me. I mean, not that I care what an old, down-at-heel bounty hunter has to say, but— you know—since you been down the river a few times ...’

  ‘Hey, I ain’t as old as I look, kid,’ Prophet said with mock severity, leaning out from his saddle. ‘But after the sand you showed in the cabin last night, you can ride any river with me you want—though I’d just as soon you pocketed that shiny silver star when you did.’

  With that, Prophet reached out and tugged the deputy’s hat brim over his eyes, then kneed Mean and Ugly into a canter.

  He stopped when he heard a female voice call, ‘Say, there . . . can one of you direct us to the lavat’ry?’

  The duchess stood beside the cabin, holding the hand of her glum friend. Both women were wrapped in their blankets, their tangled hair drooping past their shoulders, the hems of their expensive gowns soaked from the morning dew.

  Prophet chuckled and glanced at Mcllroy. ‘The deputy’ll direct ye straightaway,’ he hollered to the women.

  Craning around to grin at the deputy, he touched his hat brim in a mock salute, gave a laugh, and gigged his horse southward out of the yard. Mcllroy watched him—a big, broad-shouldered man with a sawed-off shotgun hanging down his back, riding an ornery line-back dun.

  ‘Be seeing you again soon, Prophet,’ the deputy said with a dry chuckle. ‘Lord help me....’

  Piccadilly Publishing

  The brainchild of Amazon Kindle Number One Bestselling Western writers Mike Stotter and Ben Bridges, Piccadilly Publishing is dedicated to reissuing classic popular fiction from the 1970s, 80s, 90s and Beyond!

  To visit our website, click here

  To visit our blog, click here

  To follow us on Facebook click here