Riding With the Devil's Mistress (Lou Prophet Western #3) (7 page)

This was different.
He
’d seen
what the Red River Gang had done, the brutality they’d carried out
with the abandon of boys teasing a schoolyard snake. He’d seen the
men and horses they’d killed, the property they’d destroyed, and
the girl they’d carted off like the candy Handsome Dave Duvall had
hauled out of the store.

And because
he
’d seen it
in person, without being able to do a damn thing about it at the
time, his hunt for them was personal. He figured all or most of the
men already had high bounties on their heads, but he didn’t care
about that. What he wanted first and foremost was to free the girl.
Then he wanted to see the renegades either behind bars or
dead.

How he
’d execute such a task, he wasn’t
sure. There were at least twelve of them and only one of him.
Eventually, lawmen would be alerted to their trail, but the group
had no doubt cut the telegraph lines out of Luther Falls, so for
the next few days, at least, Prophet would be on his
own.

For probably a hell of a lot
longer than that. He doubted this godforsaken part of the country
had any badge-toters with enough rawhide to face down the Red River
Gang. Federal marshals would probably be called in, but that would
take days, and it would take the marshals at least a week to get
here, even longer to pick up the gang
’s trail.

No, Prophet was alone for now, on the trail
of twenty ruthless killers. And he had no inkling of a plan....

‘
But
then again, I’m not much of a planner, anyway,’ he said to himself,
setting his cup on a rock and fishing in the breast pocket of his
buckskin tunic for his Bull Durham and rolling papers.

He smoked and watched the rain, and after
dark he checked on Mean and Ugly, banked the fire, and rolled up in
his soogan. The next day dawned clear and cool and fresh-smelling
after the rain. Prophet woke to geese honking on the river and
ducks jawing at the geese.

He got up and ate a hurried
breakfast, downing several cups of coffee and smoking several
cigarettes before rigging out Mean and Ugly. He
’d taken down his lean-to and
was all packed and mounted by the time the sun poked its bright
orange top above the western hills.

Fortunately, the rain
hadn
’t
lasted long enough to obliterate the renegades’ trail. It had made
it fainter, however, and Prophet had to be extra vigilant, keeping
his eyes glued to the grassy sod. He couldn’t just rely on the
flattened grass trails normally left by horses, for the wind and
rain themselves had flattened plenty of grass. Several times he had
to stop and dismount to spy hoof prints or horse apples in the
sod.

About nine o
’clock in the morning he
approached a creek meeting the river from the south, and stopped
suddenly when he smelled smoke from a cook fire. He reined the
line-back dun to a halt, sniffing the air and looking around.
Shortly, he reined the horse to his right, into the trees along the
river. He dismounted and tied the horse to a branch.

Shucking his Winchester, he
started walking westward through the trees, stopping every now and
then and listening for voices. He couldn
’t believe the Red River Gang would
be holed up this late in the day, but if they were as cocky as
they’d appeared, maybe they were careless enough to make stupid
mistakes....

Prophet moved forward, holding his
Winchester across his chest, avoiding branches and deadfalls which
would make noise if stepped on. He kept his ears pricked,
listening, and sniffed the air as he followed the smell of the
fire.

When he
’d walked a hundred yards, he stopped
and crouched down, his eyes widening. About twenty yards ahead,
blue smoke curled through the branches of the box elders and
cottonwoods. There were no voices, which might mean the gang had
left their camp without extinguishing their fire, but Prophet
wasn’t taking any chances.

He ducked behind a tree, laid
out a course that would bring him to the camp while zigzagging
between trees, and started off, quietly levering a shell into his
rifle breech. When he came to the last tree in his course, he
crouched low, removed his hat, and slid a look around the
Cottonwood
’s
wide bole.

His heart tapped rhythmically when he saw a
man sitting on the other side of a smoky fire, his back to a
natural levee. He was half-bald and unshaven, and his head was
thrust back, his face bunched, as if in pain. A wool blanket was
draped across his shoulders.

Prophet looked around, but it
didn
’t
appear to be a trap. Nearby was a single horse, but there were no
other riders in the area.

Thumbing the hammer of his
Winchester back, Prophet stepped out from behind the tree.
‘Keep your hands
where I can see them, old son.’

The man gave a start, his head
snapping level. The blanket fell from his shoulders as he grabbed
at the pistol on his right hip with his left hand. It was an
especially awkward maneuver, because he wasn
’t wearing a cross-draw
rig.

‘
Stop!’ Prophet shouted, squeezing off a shot and ripping a
widget of sod and leaves from the levee about six inches to the
man’s left.

That froze him, and he looked
at Prophet belligerently.
‘What the hell do you want?’

For a minute, Prophet wondered
if the man was just a farmer or some drover riding the grub line.
But then he saw the blood on the man
’s right arm, which was red from his
shoulder to his wrist.

‘
I
want you, if you’re part of the Red River Gang,’ Prophet said,
taking another cautious glance around, making sure he and the
wounded man were alone.

‘
The
Red River Gang?’ the man said with a caustic laugh. ‘Who in the
hell are they?’

Prophet studied the man and
knew he was one of the dozen he was looking for. He glanced at the
arm.
‘What
happened there? You take a bullet?’

The man looked at his own arm
and laughed again.
‘Yeah, I was out huntin’ and wouldn’t you know it—I dropped
my damn gun, and it went off on me. Hit me in the shoulder, bored a
route down the bone, and came out my wrist.’

‘
You
dropped it and it hit you in the shoulder, did ye? That’s some
fancy gun you have there.’ Prophet couldn’t remember hearing or
seeing any of the townsmen return fire. He had a feeling he’d hit
this man himself, with that old Colt Navy the hat maker had given
him.

‘
It’s
the darnedest thing,’ the man said, shaking his head.

Prophet walked slowly up to
him, pointed the barrel at his face, reached down, and lifted the
revolver from the man
’s holster. It was a Colt Army with gutta-percha
grips. Prophet wedged the gun in his belt and said, ‘Get
up.’

The man lifted his eyes to
Prophet and snarled,
‘Go to hell, you bastard. Can’t you see I’m
bleedin’ to death here?’

‘
I’m
taking you to the sheriff over in Wahpeton. Maybe, if the man’s
nice and doesn’t mind wasting town funds on the likes of a shit dog
like yourself, he’ll hire a sawbones to tend that arm. Have you
good as new for the hangman.’ Prophet was seething, and he had to
try with all his might not to drill a slug through the man’s skull
and leave him here for the hawks. ‘Get up.’

‘
Sheriff? What sheriff? I didn’t do nothin’.’

‘
Get
up!’

‘
Can’t
you see I’m—?’

‘
If
you’re not standing in three seconds, I’m sending you to the
smokin’ gates.’

‘
All
right, all right,’ the man said with a sigh. ‘But I’m tellin’ you,
Mister—you’re makin’ a mistake.’ Painfully, without Prophet’s help,
the man donned his hat and gained his feet. ‘I don’t know what you
think I did, but I’m innocent as the baby Jesus.’

Prophet went around behind the man and
patted him down, finding a knife in a sheath down his back and a
hideout gun in the well of his left boot. He also found three new
gold watches in his jeans pockets, a new pocket knife, and several
shiny trinkets.

‘
Innocent as baby Jesus, eh?’ Prophet chuffed. ‘Move!’ he
ordered, pushing the man toward his horse.

The dapple-gray was unsaddled,
so Prophet tacked it up while the man watched with an angry sneer
on his pain-ravaged face. He was slick with sweat, and Prophet
didn
’t doubt
an infection had set in. He had a mind to put him out of his misery
and leave him here, but a coldblooded killer the bounty hunter was
not.

When Prophet had the man on his horse, he
tied his wrists to his saddle horn and bound his feet to his
stirrups. He led the dapple-gray back to Mean and Ugly, who
nickered at the strangers and lifted his tail aggressively at the
dapple-gray.

‘
Friendly horse you have there,’ the outlaw
remarked.

‘
Ain’t
he?’ Prophet said, yanking the line-back’s head away from the
dapple-gray’s ass, and mounting up.

Trailing the outlaw, who grunted and groaned
in pain, his head either sagging to his chest or tipped back on his
shoulders, Prophet tracked the main group along the river. He had a
feeling they were headed the same place he was headed—the little
town of Wahpeton, which sat at the point where the Ottertail and
Bois de Sioux rivers converged to form the Red on the Dakota line,
about ten or fifteen miles away.

If that
’s where they were headed—and there
wasn’t much else to head for out here—they and Prophet would be
meeting real soon.

THE HONEY-HAIRED BLONDE rode a sleek black
Morgan horse, as fine in head as a Swiss mantle clock, as deep in
barrel and haunch as a mountain grizzly. She walked the
well-trained mount across the wood bridge, traversing the
diminutive Rabbit River, and kicked him into a canter, then a
gallop. When the town came into sight around a bend in the muddy
wagon trail, she slowed the frisky Morgan back down to a trot.

As she passed the post with a
crudely painted sign with the word
Campbell
painted in green letters, she turned her
head from side to side, noting the handful of modest frame
buildings lining the recently graded railroad bed.

There were no tracks in the grade yet, but
the girl had heard that the St. Paul & Pacific would be laying
rails through these parts before the summer was out, connecting the
Red River Valley with Minneapolis and Chicago and other points
east.

Why anyone would care that this
backwater hole in hell was connected to anything, the girl had no
idea. But then, she didn
’t care, either. She didn’t care about much of
anything at the moment but the four horses tethered to the hitch
rack before a two-story building sitting between the brick depot
and the post office, with enough space on each side for one or two
more stores.

The sign over the
building
’s
veranda announced
the Philadelphia
hotel, and she thought the name mighty uppity for
such a humble pile of boards. Stopping her Morgan about fifty yards
before the white-painted building, she gave it a close study,
ignoring the subtly fearful tap of her pulse in her wrists and
neck, the cool-warmth of apprehension creeping up the backs of her
thighs.

If anyone had been out on the
street of this ambitious little railroad stop, they might have
wondered what had brought this girl here—a pretty blonde in her
late teens riding a tall, broad-chested black Morgan. They might
have thought she was a farmer
’s daughter come to buy some flour or eggs at the
general store, for she wore a round, felt farm hat with a chin
thong, a weathered brown poncho, and the kind of long, gray skirt
favored by farm women.

The fine horse would have thrown them off,
however. The Winchester carbine poking out of her saddle boot would
have stumped them, too, for few girls rode around this country
armed with rifles, let alone Winchester carbines.

Running her tongue along her
upper lip and inhaling deeply, steeling herself, the girl kneed the
Morgan over to the hitch rack. She dismounted, while keeping an eye
on the hotel
’s single door and its single frosted window. Her hands
trembling slightly, she looped the reins over the rack.

Turning, she faced the building for several
seconds before walking resolutely to the door, twisting the knob,
and pushing it open. She closed it quickly with only a cursory
glance around the room, and made for a table near the wall on her
left.

She took a seat with her back to the wall,
planted her elbows on the table, and rested her chin in her hands,
taking the time now to glance around.

There was a bar along the right
side of the room, and lined up at the bar, their backs to her, were
the four men who belonged to the four horses outside. They
hadn
’t seen
her yet. Only the barman had seen her—a stocky man with sandy hair
and an ostentatious mustache wearing sleeve garters and a white
apron. He gazed at her with a question wrinkling the bridge of his
nose.