Staring Down the Devil (A Lou Prophet Western #5) (9 page)

Prophet rode up to the stage station at nearly six-thirty that
evening. Behind him clattered the stage coated with seeds and gray
dust, the equally dust-coated Cossack smoking his cheroot in the
driver’s box.

As Prophet was
climbing out of the saddle, a portly, gray-haired gent stepped from
the cabin onto the rickety porch. He had large, rheumy eyes and a
knob-shaped, pockmarked nose. He carried a double-barreled greener
down low at his side.

To
Prophet’s left, the barn was quiet, its doors closed. From the log
shed beside the barn rose the tinny barks of a blacksmith’s hammer.
Sooty black smoke poured from the shed’s tin stovepipe, flattening
out against the roof. In the corral directly across the trail from
the cabin, a half-dozen horses hung their heads over the top rail
and twitched their ears at the strangers.

“Evenin’,” Prophet said to the man.

The
portly gent was giving the stage the twice-over. “Ellison-Daniels
Stage and Express Company?” he read, scowling.

“Private coach,” Prophet said. “We were wondering if we might
impose on you for the night.”

“Whose
coach?”

“The
Countess Natasha Roskov,” Sergei said from the driver’s box, reins
hanging loose in his gloved hands. His sunburned face was
clay-colored by dust, as was his hat, a tan plainsman to which he’d
switched when the weather got warmer.

“Countess?” the old man said, wrinkling one nostril. “What in
hell’s a countess?”

“A
Russian noblewoman,” Prophet answered for Sergei, just to keep
things simple. “This is Sergei, uh —”

“Andreyevich,” Sergei answered for Prophet, who had not yet
mastered the pronunciation of the Cossack’s last name. “I am the
countess’s assistant.”

Prophet said, “We’ve all been on the trail for over a week and
sure could use a bed and some table food.”

The
old man gave Sergei a slow, suspicious appraisal, then slid his
eyes back to Prophet, studying the bounty hunter cautiously. “Who
in the hell are you? You don’t look like no Russian. Why you ridin’
with them?”

“I’m
their guide,” Prophet said. “I’m friendly enough. Lou Prophet’s my
handle. If we can stay, say so, Mr. uh —”

“Fergus.”

“Mr.
Fergus. If no, we’ll fog it on down the trail.”

The
man studied the coach, Sergei, and Prophet once more, twitching his
bulb nose. He shrugged. “I reckon it’d be all right,” the man
grumbled. “I don’t have another coach due for two days. I have five
cots in the cabin and a couple more in the barn.”

“There’s just the three of us.” It’ll cost you three dollars
apiece. That’s including food and a bed with a pillow. Liquor is
more.”

“I
have to tell you,” Prophet said, “we may be trailed by long riders.
We were attacked last night in our camp. I haven’t seen any signs
of them today, but I thought I’d warn you just the same. If you
want us to keep ridin’, say so.”

“Long
riders, eh?” the station agent said, flaring his nostrils. “Well,
I’ve dealt with road agents before. Out here, they’re a fact of
life. That’s why I keep a half dozen rifles loaded and this here
greener by the door. Light and tend yourselves. There’s a basin
inside.”

“Much
obliged.” Prophet started to climb out of his saddle. Sergei set
the coach’s brake.

The
man called across the yard, “Timmy! Jimmy! Get out here and tend
this team!”

Prophet glanced across the yard, where two men appeared in the
open shed door, their faces and coveralls black with soot. They
both wore visored caps, both were in their mid-sixties, and both
were the spitting image of the other. Twins. Their identical faces
were long and sallow, their eyes vaguely haunted in deep, wizened
sockets. One held a long blacksmith’s tongs in his right hand clad
in leather gauntlets.

“That’s Timmy and Jimmy Miller,” the station agent said.
“They’re twins, in case you couldn’t tell.” He wheezed a laugh.
“They’ll take good care of your horses, but the feed’ll cost you
another dollar.”

“Sounds fair,” Prophet said.

“Will
they groom their coats, sir?” Sergei asked the station
agent.

Fergus
had turned to the cabin door. Now he turned back with a surly
frown. “I reckon they can groom ‘em, for an extra
dollar.”

Sergei
appeared about to argue. Not wanting the agent’s feathers ruffled,
Prophet cut him off. “That’s right generous,” he said, looping his
reins over the hitch rack.

When
he looked at the agent again, he saw that the man was frozen before
the door, staring toward the coach, a curious light in his owly
eyes. “Well, hello there,” he said, a smile wrinkling his
mouth.

Sergei
had opened the coach door, and the countess was disembarking, one
hand in Sergei’s, the other bunching her skirts above her booties.
She blinked her eyes against the dust that was still sifting around
the coach. Her sleek, lacy traveling attire with plumed hat was
nearly as dusty as Prophet’s and the Cossack’s garb; the coach’s
canvas shades did little to prevent dust from seeping in the
windows.

“This
is the Countess Roskov,” Sergei said very formally, when the
countess had planted both feet on the ground and was gently beating
her dress with her gloves.

“Countess . . .” Fergus said wonderingly. “Well, that sounds
some highfalutin, it does!”

When neither the
countess nor Sergei joined in his laughter, the manager flushed and
sobered. He gave his gaze to Prophet, who arched his eyebrows
wryly.

Nervously rubbing his hands on his shirt, the manager said,
“Well, it sure will be nice to have a woman in the place for a
change. It’s been a couple weeks now since me and the boys have
seen a woman. Ain’t many that travel this country, what with the
road agents and Injuns.”

“And
you are . . . ?” the countess asked the man, daintily extending her
hand.

“Oh,
I’m Riley Fergus,” the manager said, giving his right hand another
wipe before giving the countess’s a rough shake. “I’m the boss o’
this here crew,” he said, nodding at the hostlers taking the bays
off the coach. “If you call two old French bachelors, a half-dozen
cats, and a fat ole coyote-dog a crew, that is.” He tipped his head
back and guffawed, but Prophet saw his eyes roving the countess’s
dress.

Apparently, Sergei had seen Fergus’s scrutiny of the countess,
too. The big Russian cleared his throat and said, “The countess is
tired, and we’re all very hungry. . . .”

“Oh,
yes, of course, of course,” Riley Fergus said, clumsily opening the
door and stepping back, grinning moronically while the countess and
Sergei stepped into the cabin.

“After
you,” Prophet said, waving the manager in ahead of him. He didn’t
like giving his back to strangers. Besides, he wanted to take a
look around the station, make sure they hadn’t been followed. He
stood on the porch until he heard the countess inhale
sharply.

“What
is it?” Prophet said, hurrying into the cabin, his hand on his
Colt’s butt.

The countess
stood looking silently around, a hand drawn to her mouth in
horror.

Prophet followed
her gaze across the two rough-hewn tables littered with dirty
plates, cups, food scraps, and cigarette and cigar butts. Two cats
were eating off the tables. The benches were covered with torn
clothing and leather gear from the barn, which was apparently in
the process of being mended. Cobwebs hung from the low rafters. The
place was a dump.

The only sign of
civility was a half-dead African violet perched on a windowsill, in
a cracked stone pot bleeding dirt.

A calico cat,
sleeping on a stack of yellow newspapers behind the door, lifted
its head to scrutinize the strangers. A few seconds later it went
to work, languidly bathing its left front paw.

“What’s the matter, ma’am?” Fergus asked, confused.

The
countess spoke in Russian to Sergei, who merely shook his head. To
the agent, he growled, “The countess was not prepared for such
squalid lodgings.”

Fergus
glanced around the room.

“Squalid! What the hell do you mean, squalid? I reckon I ain’t
the best housekeeper in New Mexico, but I don’t think it’s fair,
you callin’ it squalid!”

“Easy,
easy,” Prophet said, placing a placating hand on the manager’s
shoulder. “The countess has had a long, hard pull. I’m sure she’ll
be as happy as a duck in a puddle once she gets some vittles in
her.”

“Squalid?” Fergus grumbled, casting his injured gaze around
the room again. “This ain’t New York City! Who do they think they
are?”

Prophet urged the man toward the kitchen, slipping him a
silver cartwheel to smooth his feathers. When the man returned with
a coffeepot and three cups, he pointedly ignored the countess and
Sergei and said to Prophet, “You’d think foreigners would know
enough to mind their p’s and q’s over here, wouldn’t
you?”

When
he went away, the countess leaned toward Prophet, eyes narrowed.
“What are p’s and q’s?”

Prophet got his makings from his shirt pocket and sighed as he
began building a smoke. “He means you ruffled his
feathers.”

“What
is ‘ruffled his feathers’?”

“Never
mind,” Prophet said, tired of translating.

She
tilted her long nose toward the ceiling. “I will sleep in the
coach.”

“I
wouldn’t do that. You’re gonna piss-burn the gent but
good.”

She
frowned, staring at the bounty hunter. “What is — ?”

“Oh,
give it a rest, will you?”

She
gazed at him, hurt. “You are angry.”

“I’m
not angry,” Prophet lied. “I’m just tired.”

“I
will get water for your cheek,” the countess said, rising from the
bench where they’d taken a seat.

“The
cheek’s fine,” Prophet assured her.

Ignoring him, she
walked into the kitchen part of the cabin and asked Riley Fergus
for a bowl, water, and a clean cloth.

“Oh,
you want a clean one, huh?” Fergus said indignantly. “Reckon you
want it starched and ironed, too?”

When the countess
finally had a bowl of water and a relatively clean cloth, she
returned to the table and sat down beside Prophet. She soaked the
rag in the basin, wrung it out, and dabbed at the cut.

Prophet jerked
back.

“It
hurts?”

Prophet nodded. “A little.”

She
smiled, faint lines forming at the corners of her slanted eyes,
which were more lovely than Prophet had thought. He’d never seen
them this close.

“I
will be gentle,” she said softly.

“Why,
thank you, ma’am.”

Prophet grinned a
smoky grin and began rolling a cigarette from his makings sack. He
spared a glance at Sergei. The Cossack was staring at him, a
skeptical cast to his hide-brown eyes below his black, furrowed
brow. He puffed his cheroot aggressively.

Prophet returned
his gaze to the countess, who was wringing the rag out again in the
basin.

“Protective, ain’t he?”

The
countess’s eyes sparked as she smiled and dabbed again at Prophet’s
face. “My father trained him well.”

“I
reckon he had his reasons,” Prophet said, sprinkling tobacco on the
paper while keeping his chin raised for the countess. “Not the
least of which was havin’ a pretty daughter.”

She
looked shocked. “Mr. Prophet, was that a compliment?”

Sergei grunted
under his breath, as though his cheroot had grown nasty. The
countess ignored him.

Prophet shrugged and rolled the quirley closed. He poked the
cigarette in his mouth, struck a match on the table, and fired the
cigarette. He canted his head to one side and regarded the countess
through slitted eyes.

She
did not shy from the gaze, but returned it with a brash one of her
own, lids drawn a third of the way down, her hand dabbing gently at
the crusted blood on Prophet’s face.

Prophet lowered
his gaze to her smooth, creamy neck, then down her chest to her
ample bosom pushing at her finely cut white basque. He dropped it
still farther, to her thighs straddling the rough bench, her
sage-green skirt drawn tight against their firm
suppleness.

As he
ran his eyes back the way they’d dropped, he thought he could hear
a slight catch in her breathing. He saw she was still gazing
bemusedly at him, apparently unoffended by the scrutiny. In fact,
it seemed to warm her cheeks, evoke a sheen on her brow.

The
look stirred him, and to distract himself, he said, “Didn’t figure
you to play nursemaid.”

She
shrugged, licked her lips, taking awhile to answer. “I guess I just
tired of seeing blood on your face. You said it was
nothing.”

“It is
nothing.”

“You
could get infection. Then what would you do?”

“I got
a strong constitution,” Prophet said, inhaling deeply on his
cigarette.