“Get him, for God’s sakes!” he vaguely heard the senator yell. “For the love of God, get that man off my son!”
Several men grabbed Prophet from behind. One grabbed his hair and jerked his head back sharply. Still, he managed to shrug from their grips long enough to land two more hammering jabs to Rawdney’s face, which was by now a mask of pulp and blood.
One of the big Russians launched himself onto Prophet’s back, grunting as he wrapped his arms around Lou’s neck and rolled over onto his own back, pulling Prophet over on top of him, belly up. The other two and then yet another big Russian surrounded them, dropping to their knees and punching Prophet’s face while others kicked him in the ribs, hips, and thighs.
Lou tried to fight back but the big man beneath him, holding him fast against him, pinned his arms behind his back.
Prophet stared up in frustration, grunting and groaning as the Russians’ big fists smashed into his face—one hammering blow after another. He felt his brows and lips split. Thick, oily blood ran down his face only to be smeared against his cheeks and jaws by more savage blows. Meanwhile, the Russians’ boots were like railroad spikes hammering his ribs and belly, his hips and his legs . . .
Vaguely, as though she were standing atop the deep well at the bottom of which he lay, being pummeled by the Russians, Prophet could hear the countess screeching out protests and crying. Just as vaguely, he could see someone, probably her father, holding her back away from the fray.
The room was beginning to fade around Lou when a man, probably Senator Fairchild, bellowed in perfect English, “That’s enough. You’re making a mess of the place. Get him the hell out of here!”
Prophet was fading fast when the beating suddenly stopped.
Several hands brusquely pulled him to his feet. His boots dragged across the thick carpet as two men, each holding an arm, half-carried him across the rail car and out onto the windy vestibule. The cold, cold wind and bright sunlight braced him a little, at least enough that he opened his eyes in time to see Rawdney’s assistant, the immaculately tailored and barbered Leo, step out through the door behind him and the Russians.
“Hold on!” Leo yelled into the wind.
The two Russians dragging Prophet to the top of the vestibule steps stopped and turned him around.
His short, dark, carefully cut hair sliding around his head in the cold wind, Leo stepped up to Prophet and curled a menacing smile. With a pale, beringed hand, he removed the cap from a six-inch stiletto with a jewel-encrusted, obsidian handle. The nasty, slender blade glistened in the new-penny sunshine.
Leo snarled again and gave a prissy little grunt as he lunged forward, sinking the blade into Prophet’s belly. Prophet felt the blade’s sharp bite, like a snake sinking its teeth into him, just above his cartridge belt.
“There!” Leo shouted. “Now rid this train of that Dixie vermin!”
The Russians stepped around Prophet, each holding him by an arm then gave him a shove.
Prophet flew backward off the vestibule. His arms flopped out around him. He watched in an absentminded sort of horror his moccasins leave the iron platform and dangle in midair. For a long, cold moment he hung there in the air beside the train, glimpsing the snowy, gravelly ground rise up around him.
The snowy ground engulfed him like a firm pillow.
“Ohhh!” The exclamation was punched out of his lungs in a burst of wind.
He went rolling, rolling down a long hill, the snow biting into him like a million cold teeth while the train’s whistle blew somewhere beyond him.
“Oh!” he heard himself say. “Oh, oh, oh . . .”
In the periphery of his blurred vision he watched the train slide away . . . away . . . away along the tracks until there was only silence and a bed of ice around him and a cold night enfolding him in its black wings.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Western novelist PETER BRANDVOLD was born and raised in North Dakota. He has penned over 90 fast-action westerns under his own name and his penname, FRANK LESLIE. He is the author of the ever-popular .45-Caliber books featuring Cuno Massey, as well as the Lou Prophet and Yakima Henry novels. The Ben Stillman books are a long-running series with previous volumes available as e-books. Recently, Brandvold published two horror westerns—Canyon of a Thousand Eyes and Dust of the Damned. Head honcho at Mean Pete Publishing, publisher of lightning-fast western e-books, he has lived all over the American West but currently lives in western Minnesota. Visit his website at www.peterbrandvold.com. Follow his blog at www.peterbrandvold.blogspot.com.
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