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

by Peter Brandvold

  “Wait a minute,” Prophet said, frowning. “You mean, you don’t know for sure?”

  “Marya didn’t tell me.” The countess stared back at Prophet. “You see, Marya ran away, against our mother’s wishes, when she traveled West. She has always been an adventurous girl. After reading many books about the frontier, she decided to come here herself.”

  Prophet was baffled. “She didn’t tell you where she was headin’?”

  The countess shook her head. “Marya knew she could confide in me — we were close, she and I. But she also knew that our mother could get the information out of me and probably send someone West to escort Marya back home. So all I know are the sketchy details she included in her letters — that she met an old prospector somewhere in Arizona and went off with this man, looking for gold!”The countess’s voice had risen with exasperation.

  “How old is your sister, anyway?” Prophet asked.

  “Four years younger than I — eighteen.”

  “Well, that explains a lot,” Prophet mused aloud. He was a little surprised to learn that the countess was only twenty-two. By her regal, haughty demeanor, he would have said she was in her late-twenties, early thirties. But then, her skin did appear awfully smooth and firm, he’d noticed with manly interest.

  She continued. “Not long after this time, I received that map in the mail. Along with the map was a brief note from Marya saying only that she wished for me to keep the map safely for her and to not show it to anyone. She said that if all went well, she would send for it.”

  Prophet stood beside his horse, frowning curiously. “If all what went well?”

  “I do not know. But she has not sent for the map, and we have heard nothing from her since she sent it. A couple of weeks ago, when my worry got the best of me, I decided to come to Arizona to look for Marya. And, if possible,” the countess added with a sigh, “bring her home.”

  “What did your mother say about that?”

  “She did not like it, but in the end she agreed that I should go, accompanied by Sergei. I have always been the most responsible child in the family. Besides, Mother, too, is very concerned about Marya.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  The countess looked demurely down at her shoes. “Because I didn’t think you would help us, after hearing such a crazy story.”

  “I got to admit, it does sound a little loco.”

  The countess clutched her shoulders and turned away, looking back toward the coach. It was nearly dark. Stars sparked to life in the violet sky above the black, spindly branches of the oaks.

  Sergei was gathering wood for a fire. Birds chattered. To the north and west, the mantled peaks of the San Juans turned salmon.

  “Marya is a ... a black goat, is how I believe you say it in English.”

  “I believe that’s ‘sheep,’ “ Prophet corrected with an inward smile.

  “Yes, sheep,” the countess agreed. “She always sought adventure, even before our father was killed and we came to this country.”

  Prophet’s frown lines deepened in his forehead. “How was your father killed?”

  “He was a nobleman and an officer in the Russian army. He had a very prestigious position. Many others were jealous.” The countess shrugged her shoulders, lifting her hands and dropping them. “So he was killed — shot while crossing the street to his favorite bakery. That happens in our country.”

  “What brought the family here?”

  “We were afraid that the men who had killed my father would try to kill us, as well. That is also a danger in my country. People disappear, you see. Whole families. So Sergei — who had fought with father against the Tartars and had become Father’s personal secretary — escorted us to Boston. Sergei lives with us. We have an apartment. It is a quiet life — much too quiet for Marya.” Prophet heard the smile in the woman’s voice.

  Prophet allowed a contemplative silence to seep in around them. Finally he turned, grabbed the brush off Mean’s back, and tossed it in the air, catching it and staring thoughtfully into the darkness. “So your sister’s in Arizona . . . somewhere.”

  “Yes,” the countess said, turning around to face his back. “Will you please help us find her, Mr. Prophet?”

  Slowly Prophet nodded. “I already agreed to that, didn’t I?”

  “But I thought after you had heard how crazy she is, and wild — and about the treasure map — you might have decided that we were all too crazy to —”

  “Listen, Countess,” Prophet interrupted, turning to face her. “I done took the job. It ain’t my way to back out halfway in. Or even a third in. True, I would have appreciated knowin’ all the details up front.” He squinted one eye at her. “I just hope there’s nothing else you’re holdin’ back.”

  “Nothing,” the countess said, shaking her head reassuringly.

  Her voice thinned. “I am worried about my sister, Mr. Prophet. I am certain she is in trouble. What kind of trouble I cannot imagine.”

  Prophet nodded and sighed. “I reckon you’re right.” Any girl alone in the West was in trouble. One that had run off with some old desert rat after buried treasure in Apache and bandido country was most likely already dead.

  The countess stepped toward Prophet and placed her hand on his arm. She must have read his mind. “I am worried about Marya, Mr. Prophet,” she repeated. “She is young and headstrong. I want to find her and take her home.”

  “I think you’re all little headstrong, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so,” Prophet said with a cantankerous smile. “And that coach is pure-dee bullshit.”

  Her chin rose. Her nostrils flared. The proud royal was back. In a taut voice she said, “I need you, Mr. Prophet, but I am not fond of your impertinence.”

  “Tough titty.”

  Her eyes flared, and she took one startled, angry step backward. “What?”

  “It’s an old expression that means I don’t give a shit about how you feel about my attitude. The way I see it, you loco royals have gotten far too accustomed to giving orders and doing things your own way, whether they make sense or not. Now, I’m not going to run out on you, because for some damn reason that has only a little to do with money, I feel obligated to help you find your sister. You can keep your goddamn coach since it means so much to you to travel in style, but from now on no more day stops other than those to rest and water the horses. We keep movin’. No hour-long stops for lunch and afternoon tea. We move. Understand? The faster we’ve found this Broken Knee, the better off we’ll be.”

  The countess’s eyes flashed. “And the sooner you’ll be rid of us, no?”

  “You got that right.”

  He stared at her. She stared back, the skin stretched taut across her face. The sky’s last light boiled in her slanted eyes. Suddenly she bolted toward him, and for a moment Prophet thought she was about to slap his face.

  But then she was in his arms, rising up on the toes of her delicate shoes and clamping her mouth over his. Befuddled, he just stood there while she kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her bosom against his chest. He could feel the heat of her thighs against his own.

  He was lifting his own hands to hold her when she stepped back as suddenly as she’d pounced, as though she’d been jerked away by a taut rope.

  “Oh, my god,” she said, her voice quaking, pressing a hand to her breast. Her cheeks had flushed strawberry red. “I am sorry!”

  She turned, grabbed her skirts in her fists, and hurried through the brush toward the camp.

  Prophet stared after her, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, bewildered.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, shocked. He rubbed his open hand across his mouth, then looked at the wet palm, frowning.

  Sure enough, she’d really kissed him.

  Well, I’ll be goddamned,” he said again, still unable to believe it.

  Slowly he shook his head, stooped to pick up his rifle and saddlebags, and started toward the fire, dazed.

  Chapter S
even

  “Countess, where have you been?” Sergei asked the countess as she approached the fire. “I was getting worried.”

  “I took a stroll to stretch my legs.”

  “Ma Cherie,” he said, gently chiding, “do I need to remind you of the dangers of this country?”

  The most dangerous thing in their camp at the moment was none other than the countess herself, she thought as she made a beeline for the coach. She could not believe that she had just thrown herself at Lou Prophet. My god! How could she ever face him again?

  “No, Serge. I am well aware of the dangers here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To bed. I’m suddenly very sleepy.”

  “But, Countess, you have not eaten supper. You must —”

  She stopped and wheeled toward the big Cossack, her skirts flying. “Oh, please, Sergei!” She was poised to continue the outburst, but stopped herself and took a deep, calming breath. “I am sorry. I am just ... I have a headache. I am going to turn in early tonight.”

  “But I have not made your bed. Certainly you can eat something. . . .”

  “No, I am not hungry. I will make my own bed this evening. Thank you. Serge. Good night.”

  When she’d disappeared into the coach, the Cossack twisted the ends of his double-barreled mustache as he considered the Concord, which jounced and squeaked as the countess prepared her bed.

  Hearing brush thrash behind him, he turned and slapped the revolver on his right hip.

  “Easy,” Prophet said, moving toward the fire the Cossack had built. “Just me.”

  “Ah . . . yes,” Sergei growled.

  Prophet saw that the barrel-chested Russian was watching him suspiciously. He must have witnessed the countess’s distress and been wondering if Prophet was to blame. They’d both come from the same direction.

  Just Prophet’s luck. A woman throws herself at him, and he gets blamed!

  Prophet glanced at Sergei, grinned innocently to put the man at ease, then reached for the coffeepot steaming on a rock in the fire. “Is there anything better than a cup of hot coffee after a long day on the trail?” he asked with as much affability as he could muster.

  He sipped the brew and cast a cautious glance at Sergei, who was swallowing none of Prophet’s charm. He regarded the bounty hunter darkly, one hand on the butt of his revolver. On his other hip he carried an English-made LeMatt. The combined six-shooter and single-shot scattergun could make a hell of a mess at close range.

  Conversationally Prophet said, “Nothing like a cup of Arbuckles to cut through the trail dust and lift a man’s spirits. Join me?”

  The Russian stared at him. Finally he gave a snort, turned, and climbed to the coach’s roof, apparently mucking around for his bed gear.

  Later, Prophet reclined against his saddle, gnawing jerky and drinking coffee. Sergei squatted across the fire, preparing his teapot.

  “Hello the camp,” rose a man’s cry in the quiet twilight.

  In an instant Prophet’s Colt was in his hand. He bolted to his feet. Glancing across the fire, he saw that the Russian was standing also, having dropped his teapot in favor of the stout LeMatt in his hand.

  Prophet stepped back from the fire so he could see clearly into the thickening shadows of the oaks along the creek. He was vaguely aware of the Cossack doing the same, as though they were mirror images of each other — two men from separate countries but with similar instincts no doubt based on similar experience.

  “Identify yourselves,” Prophet called.

  “Name’s Ed Jones,” came the man’s pinched voice. “My partner’s hurt. Can we ride in?”

  Prophet glanced at Sergei, who returned the wary gaze. Prophet threw a hand up for the Russian to wait, then he wheeled to the coach and opened the door.

  “What are you doing?” the Russian asked, his voice a taut, angry rasp.

  Prophet didn’t take the time to answer. He reached into the dark coach, said, “Countess, take my hand.”

  “What’s happening?” she asked groggily.

  “Take it!”

  She did, and Prophet pulled her brusquely out of the coach. She was dressed in gauzy blue nightclothes with a thin cotton wrapper. She needed something warmer, but she didn’t have time. Quickly Prophet led her through the brush and into a jumble of rocks at the camp’s rear.

  “Stay here and keep your head down.”

  She gazed up at him, frightened. “What is happening?”

  “Probably nothing.” She’d be safer in the rocks than in the coach, the thin walls of which bullets could easily penetrate. “Just a precaution.”

  He wheeled and trotted back to the fire. He grabbed his Winchester leaning against his saddle, and cocked it. “All right, come on in.”

  For several seconds there was only the sound of the breeze in the branches. The fire snapped. The slow clomp of hooves rose and grew louder until the silhouettes of two horses and two riders appeared in the trees along the gurgling stream. One man rode straight in his saddle. The other leaned low over his horse’s neck, his head down.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Prophet asked.

  “Snake-bit,” said the one who’d identified himself as Ed Jones. He was big, raw-boned, and slab-shouldered. He wore a black vest over a grimy shirt missing buttons and bearing a torn pocket. He appeared to be bald under his broad-brimmed hat. He wore twin Colts in tied-down, border-draw holsters.

  Dismounting his paint pony, Jones dropped the reins and turned to the other horse. He put a gentle hand on the injured rider’s shoulder. “You still kicking boy?”

  “Yeah, but I’m hurt pretty bad,” the young man said in a shaky voice. A rifle stock poked up from his forward-canted saddle sheath, and the kid wore an ivory-gripped Remington on his right hip.

  Prophet’s eyes lingered over these details as he stood frozen near the Cossack. His heart beat a steady, wary rhythm.

  “Where’s he bit?” Prophet asked.

  “Belly,” Jones said. Light from the guttering fire revealed the lines in his craggy face. Prophet guessed he was in his early forties, though his mustache was pure black. “He leaned down for a drink of water, and didn’t see the diamondback coiled under a rock.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, ouch,” Jones agreed. “Would you help me get him out of his saddle and over to your fire, mister? I’d sure appreciate it.”

  “No.” It was Sergei. He’d turned his head to direct his reply to Prophet. His voice was low, level, and tight.

  “What do you mean, ‘no’?” Jones said, scowling with indignation. “I told you, he’s snake-bit!”

  Prophet gave the two men the twice over, trying to see what Sergei had seen and which had prompted the Russian to deny the man’s request for assistance.

  As he did so, a gun barked, making Prophet jump and extend the Winchester. Jones’s head went back, and he staggered against the young man’s horse. The horse jumped, and Jones fell, but not before Prophet had seen the round, dark hole in his forehead.

  Prophet glanced quickly at Sergei. The Russian’s LeMatt was smoking.

  “What — ?”

  Before Prophet could say another word, the snake-bit rider’s head came up, his eyes wide. The kid clawed at the gun on his thigh while trying to steady his horse, which had commenced prancing and shaking its head at the shot.

  Sergei’s LeMatt barked and flashed again.

  The kid screamed and crouched over his saddle horn. His head dropped to the horse’s buffeting mane just before the horse jerked to the left, throwing the kid from his saddle. He hit the ground with a groan and lay grinding his boot heels into the ground while clutching his wounded belly. His horse and Jones’s paint galloped back the way they’d come.

  “Countess, stay down!” Sergei yelled as he wheeled and ran across the encampment. Running and yelling in Russian, the Cossack fired the LeMatt and his second revolver into the darkness. Prophet wheeled then, too, and took off after the crazy Russian, vaguely confu
sed but also knowing with a sick feeling in his guts that the night was about to explode.

  Chapter Eight

  The night did, indeed, explode. The gunfire came from behind. Whoever the owlhoots were, they’d intended to distract Prophet and Sergei with the “wounded” kid and storm the camp with guns blazing from the other side.

  Sergei was shooting at the gun flashes in the shrubs, yelling again for the countess to stay down. Prophet ran toward the shrubs, dropping to a knee every few feet and firing the Winchester, hearing the attackers’ bullets whistling around him and plunking into the grass before him.

  One burned his right cheek. He cursed as he levered another cartridge into the Winchester’s breech, picked out a gun flash, and fired.

  The Winchester’s report was followed by a startled cry of anguish.

  Prophet fired again, noticing that Sergei’s guns had quieted. When his own rifle clicked empty, he dropped to a knee, set the rifle down, and drew his revolver. As he thumbed back the hammer and raised the gun, he froze, frowning into the darkness.

  The shooting had stopped, the silence descending even heavier than before. The stench of powder smoke filled the air. From far off he heard muffled yells and clomping hooves. Closer by, a man groaned and cursed and groaned again.

  “Help, damnit! I’m hit bad.”

  A shadow moved to Prophet’s right. He jerked the .45 toward it and called, “Sergei?”

  “Do not shoot.” Sergei moved into the brush about thirty yards before Prophet, toward the groans of the wounded owlhoot. Brush crunched under his moccasins.

  “Careful,” Prophet called.

  “They are gone,” Sergei replied. He stopped. Moving toward him, Prophet frowned curiously as Sergei’s arm came up.

  “No, wait!” the wounded man cried. “Stop!”

  The LeMatt flashed in Sergei’s hand. The report was a sharp thunderclap. Prophet stopped, startled by the Cossack’s cold execution of the wounded man, then continued through the brush, stopping where the body was sprawled out in the grass, fresh blood gleaming in the starlight.

  Sergei was hunkered down, going through the man’s pockets.