Staring Down the Devil (A Lou Prophet Western #5) (21 page)

“I
should have been there,” Sergei said. “Together, we would have
taken the room apart.”

Prophet shook his head and rubbed the
back of his neck. “Too risky. If we were both
in the hoosegow, who’d look after the
countess?”

Sergei’s silhouette nodded. “Now what happens?”

Prophet sighed.
He inspected the goose egg on his forehead with his fingers. It was
two eggs, rather — one big one and one small one. The smaller one
felt the most tender, shooting sharp pains into his eyes when he
touched it.

His
cheeks balled with pain, he said, “It looks like they’re escortin’
me out of town.”

The
Russian’s reply was matter-of-fact and more of a statement than a
question. “They are kicking you out of Broken Knee.”

“According to the sheriff, I should feel lucky. But don’t
worry. I ain’t givin’ up. I’ll be back. You and the countess just
sit tight up there in the Gay Inn. I’ll figure something out
yet.”

Sergei shook his
head disapprovingly.

“It
ain’t my fault,” Prophet groused. “You and the countess thought it
would work,

too.”

Sergei said
nothing. He shook his head again and, grumbling, walked
away.

Prophet rasped after him, “Hey, where you goin’?” Nothing
chafed him more than the Cossack’s haughty attitude. “I wasn’t the
only one thought it would work!” Prophet called too
loudly.

Sergei
did not reply. Prophet heard only the Cossack’s boots grinding
gravel as he disappeared around the corner of the
jail-house.

“Proddy son of a bitch.”

Prophet turned from the window and dippered himself some water
from the wooden bucket in the corner. He sat back down on the cot,
its wall chains complaining against his weight, and fished in his
shirt pocket for his makings sack. He was glad the sheriff had left
it alone, for Prophet liked to smoke while he thought, and he had a
heap of thinking to do now, in spite of the big heart thumping in
his noggin.

How in
the hell would he be able to help Sergei and the countess get Marya
back after being banished from town? It wasn’t like he and Sergei
could just storm the hacienda. And they couldn’t sneak in again,
after they’d been spotted there once by the hacienda
guards.

Damn . .
.

The
sun had risen, flooding Prophet’s cell with brassy sunshine, when
the cell block door opened. . . . The sheriff appeared carrying a
key ring and looking grim.

“Well,
son,” he said as he stepped before Prophet’s cell, “I wasn’t
expectin’ this, but I can’t say as I’m surprised.”

“About
what, Sheriff?”

The
sheriff nodded to indicate the front of the jailhouse. “Mr. Gay’s
outside, waitin’ for you in his buggy.”

“In
his buggy?” Prophet asked, puzzled. “Why?”

The
sheriff poked the key in the lock and turned it. He shook his head.
“It don’t look good.”

“What
don’t look good?”

“I
reckon I shoulda hustled you out of town before Gay got to thinkin’
about it.”

Prophet was exasperated. “About what!”

“About
what you did last night to his men. He musta got to thinkin’ about
it and decided you couldn’t go unpunished. Sets a bad precedent.
I’m sorry, old son. He’ll probably have his men haul you out in the
desert and put a bullet in you. I’m sure it’ll be fast,
though.”

The sheriff swung
open the door and drew his Remington, aimed at Prophet.

“You
mean you’re gonna turn me over to him? So he can kill
me?”

“Like
I said, I’m sorry. Ain’t much I can do about it, though. This is
Gay’s town.”

“And
you’re just his jailor.”

The
sheriff nodded grimly. “He pays well, so . . .”

“You
dance to his music.”

The sheriff waved
the gun, and Prophet stepped out of the cell.

“Right
on through the cell block door there,” the sheriff ordered, falling
in behind Prophet, poking his back with his gun barrel to remind
him he was covered.

Prophet did as he was told — what else could he do? — and
walked into the sheriff’s office furnished with a couple of shabby
desks and a sheet-iron stove. Two young deputies sat around one of
the desks. Seeing Prophet, they smirked and rocked back in their
chairs, self-satisfied.

“Reckon this is the end of the line, old son,” one of the
deputies said, fingering his sparse blond mustache and hitching his
holster on his hip.

“Shut
up, Jerry,” ordered the sheriff. “Right on outside,” he said to
Prophet.

The
bounty hunter stepped out under the brush arbor shading a strip of
packed earth before the adobe jailhouse. Gay’s phaeton sat in the
street. Gay sat on the rear leather seat, resembling a whiskey
peddler in a black-checked suit and bowler, his bleached hair
hanging straight to his shoulders. Wire-rimmed spectacles were
perched on his long, hooked nose. His raptorial features combined
with the suit made him look ludicrously evil, an obvious pimp and
panderer, crafty vermin who had outrun the law long enough to get
rich enough to buy it. He obviously enjoyed playing the role of
rich hooligan and boomtown lord.

Four bodyguards —
the same ones from last night — sat on their horses around the
phaeton. One had a white bandage wrapped around his head and tied
under his jaw.

Another sported a
swollen eye as purple as spoiled fruit.

Another’s arm hung in a sling.

The fourth was
sitting on a small, red pillow and leaning slightly forward in his
saddle, as if to lighten the load on his crotch.

They scowled at
Prophet as though staring into the sun. Gay studied the bounty
hunter like a three-card draw.

The
sheriff came out behind Prophet. “Here he is, Mr. Gay,” he said,
pointing out the obvious. “I reckon he’s all yours,” he added with
a note of genuine regret in his voice.

Gay
studied Prophet another moment. “Who are you?” he asked
tonelessly.

“Me?”
Prophet said, hesitant, tipping his head to the side to work the
kinks in his neck. “I’m Lou Pepper.”

Gay
stared as though considering a stucco wall, then blinked his
raptor’s eyes once. “Where are you from and what have you
done?”

Prophet considered his story a moment, then licked his lips
and canted his head the other way. “I’m from Georgia and I’ve done
just about everything there is and a little

more.”

“Can
you shoot as well as you can fight with your fists?”

Prophet flicked his eyes at Gay’s scowling guards, nodded, and
let his upper lip rise, grinning. “Almost.”

Gay
lifted a gun and cartridge belt off the seat beside him, and slung
it toward the bounty hunter. The belt landed in the dust at his
feet. It was Prophet’s gun, cartridge belt, and bowie
knife.

He
looked at Gay, wary. The man said, “You got a horse?”

Prophet hesitated. “Yeah . . .”

“Strap
your gun on and get it. Then meet me at the mine office. You’re
hired.”

Gay
propped a French calfskin boot on the back of the seat before him.
“Let’s go,” he told the driver.

The driver
clucked to the horse, and the phaeton clattered away, two guards
riding point, two riding drag. All four stared resentfully back at
Prophet.

“Well,
I’ll be damned,” said the sheriff. “You gotta be the luckiest
sumbitch alive.”

Prophet snorted with relief and stared with wonder at the
dwindling caravan, “Took the words right out of my
mouth.”

An hour later
Prophet and Sergei reined their horses to a halt on the mine
road.

Before
them sat the mine’s dark gash in a high cliff face, chalky tailings
tonguing below the entrance. On a slope far below sat what Prophet
figured was the mine office — a barrack-like stone structure with a
red tile roof. It was flanked by stables and a wagon shed as well
as an enormous corral for the mules that pulled the big Murphy ore
wagons to the stamping mill.

Wagons pounded
down the switchbacks from the mine, contributing to the brassy dust
hanging heavy in the scorched, dry air.

Mules
brayed and blacksnakes popped. A couple of brindle hounds barked at
the wagons. At a stone repair shop to Prophet’s right, a smithy
reshaped a bent wheel rim while a mule skinner and a shotgun guard
sipped coffee from tin cups and offered counsel.

Prophet gave Sergei a meaningful look, then gigged Mean and
Ugly toward the office, turning to avoid a booming wagon and
cussing mule skinner. As he and Sergei neared the office, Prophet
saw the four bodyguards whose skulls he’d dusted last night sitting
in a row of hide-bottom chairs on the porch, shaded by a tin-roofed
awning.

They squinted out
from under their hat brims as Prophet and the Russian approached
the hitch rack. The guards looked none too happy to see Prophet,
who grinned and nodded affably.

“Howdy, boys. Doin’ all right?”

“Buddy, you think you’re smart. Don’t get too smart,” warned
the man Prophet had kicked in the balls.

“Who —
me? I’m just a simple Georgia boy tryin’ to make a
livin’.”

A few
minutes later a runty clerk ushered Prophet and Sergei into Gay’s
office at the building’s rear. Gay sat behind a big oak desk,
smoking a hefty cigar and going over a ledger. His sleeves were
rolled up his long, pale, knife-scarred arms.

“Who’s
this?” he asked, regarding the Cossack disdainfully.

“Friend of mine,” Prophet said. “Met him on the trail over
east. Can you use him, too, Mr. Gay? He’s short but a broad son of
a bitch. Look at him.”

Gay
studied the Russian, obviously impressed by his looks. “Can he
fight like you?”

Prophet laughed. “Well, now, I wouldn’t say he can fight like
me. Not many can. But he can hold his own in a Dodge City barn
dance — I’ll give him that.” He glanced at Sergei, who flashed him
an indignant look.

Gay
walked around the desk, his cigar smoldering between his slender
fingers. He stopped a foot away from Sergei, squinted into the
Russian’s emotionless brown eyes. Sergei stood stiff-backed, tense
as a private given the twice-over by a general.

“What’s your name?”

Prophet cleared his throat. “Uh — he don’t speak, sir. He’s
mute. He can write, though. That’s how I found out his name is
Dick.” If Gay heard Sergei’s accent, he might tie him to
Marya.

“Dick?”

“Dick.”

“Dick
what?”

“Uh,
Dick Lubowski.”

“Lubowski.”

“Dick
here — he’s been a bar bouncer and a bodyguard to several
governors. Why, he even escorted an English prince West on a
huntin’ trip. Saved the royal from a scalpin’ — held off twelve
Injun bucks with nothin’ but a six-shooter and a bowie
knife!”

Gay
stared into the Cossack’s eyes, his nostrils twitching as though
testing the air for the smell of dung.

“Mighty impressive credentials,” he grumbled, and poked the
cigar back in his mouth for several thoughtful puffs, his cold eyes
narrowing.

“He
ain’t real smart, though,” Prophet added. He noted a slight flush
rising in Sergei’s cheeks. “No, he ain’t a whip like me, but then
we can’t all be good with our fists
and
smart.”

Gay’s
eyes flickered toward Prophet, and a sneer yanked at his mouth.
“He’s not as bright as you? What a pity.” Gay puffed the stogie.
“Well, I haven’t seen him fight, but I’d like to see how well he
takes a punch.”

Gay
had barely finished the sentence before he pulled his arm back,
making a fist, then swung it forward. Prophet winced and blinked.
When he looked again, he saw the stubby, hairy fingers of the
Cossack’s left hand wrapped around Gay’s wrist, Gay’s fist barely
touching the Russian’s belly. Gay’s hand was turning pink. He gave
a restrained yelp as he pulled back on the captured limb, shuffling
to his right.

Prophet elbowed the Cossack. “That’s enough, Dick. I think he
gets the point.”

A few minutes
later, massaging his right hand with his left, Gay led Prophet and
Sergei outside, where the four bodyguards were still sitting in a
grim line on the porch.

“Harland, DeBocha — you’re fired,” Gay said crisply. “Clean
your things out of your quarters and get the hell out of
town.”

The
four men looked at one another, then at their boss, dumbly. “Huh?”
one of them grunted, outraged.

“You
heard me. Scram! These men have won your jobs.”

“He
surprised us last night, Boss!” said the guard with shaggy
muttonchops and a white bandage around his head. His bib-front
shirt was open to the thick matt of dun-colored hair on his chest.
He wore an ivory-gripped Colt in a well-worn shoulder
rig.