Staring Down the Devil (A Lou Prophet Western #5) (24 page)

This
was indeed a savage place. The countess could not understand what
had possessed Marya to come here. She’d always been the adventurous
sort and a prideful, willful child, but Natasha couldn’t help
believing that this hellhole, as Prophet had called it, was more
adventure than even Marya had bargained for.

“Oh,
Marya,” Natasha whispered as she stared through the fly-specked
window, “please be safe. . . .”

She was about to
start downstairs for lunch, when she saw something out the corner
of her eye. Turning back to the window, she gazed south down the
street, blinking as if to clear her eyes, her heart fluttering in
her chest.

A
polished black buggy was approaching the inn. Four armed men
surrounded it, two of whom were Lou Prophet and Sergei. Seeing them
was a wonderful surprise, but what surprised Natasha most of all
was that riding behind the buggy’s formally attired driver and
beside a pale man smoking a thick cigar was none other than the
Countess Marya Roskov herself!

“Oh,
my God!” Natasha whispered, unable to believe what she was seeing.
She placed both her hands on the window, as if to move closer to
her long-lost sibling. “Marya ... is it really you?”

It
was. There was no doubt about it, the countess realized to her
shock and amazement. She would have known that proud, lovely face
anywhere — that flaxen hair falling from beneath Marya’s green felt
hat, those self-possessed eyes that now betrayed fear, yes, but
also a defiance even stronger than usual.

The
way Leamon Gay sat beside her, insouciantly smoking and glancing
off as the carriage pulled up to the hitch rail, it was obvious to
Natasha that he possessed Marya, or thought he did. But from
Marya’s demeanor, he may have possessed her body, but he did not
possess her soul.

“Oh,
Marya!” Natasha cried under her breath, moving her face even closer
to the window. She wanted so much for her sister to see her that it
took all her willpower to keep from pounding the window.

Befuddlement assailed her. What was happening? Why was Gay
coming here with Marya? How did this mesh with Lou and Sergei’s
plan? Or did it?

Then
something occurred to her: Maybe Gay was bringing Marya here to see
her, Natasha.

Could it
be?

As improbable as
it seemed, could it be that Marya was with Leamon Gay of her own
free will and that, having learned from Lou and Sergei that her
sister was here in Broken Knee, Gay was bringing Marya here for a
visit with Natasha?

The countess did
not consciously analyze the wishful speculation, but only reacted
to the possibility, nervously running her hands through her hair,
which she had not yet coiled and fastened atop her head. Then she
hurried out of her room and down the dim, carpeted hall, and turned
down the stairs.

Halfway down, she stopped, her heart leaping into her throat
when she saw Marya passing to the right of the stairs — less than
fifteen feet away! Her hand was wedged in the crook of Gay’s arm,
as if he feared she might run away if he released her.

Following behind
were two bodyguards, rough-looking men in buckskins and denims and
carrying several guns apiece. One of them passed beyond the stairs.
The other stopped and gazed up at her, a lascivious smile lighting
his face. Finally he winked, pinched his hat brim at her, and
continued past the stairs and into the dining room.

A
moment later the countess became aware of two sets of eyes on her.
She saw Lou and Sergei standing where the bodyguard had stood, in
the lobby, to the right of the stairs. They were both gazing up at
her with expressions of contained anger and anxiety.

Prophet glanced
at Sergei, whispered something, then continued after Gay and Marya,
heading for the dining room. Meanwhile, Sergei hurried up the
stairs, taking the steps two at a time.

Stopping before the countess, he clutched her elbow and
whispered in her ear, “Please go back to your room,
Countess!”

“That
. . . that was Marya,” she stammered with delight.

“Yes,
that was Marya, and very soon now, she will be free. Go back to
your room and wait for us there. Please, Countess!”

With that, the
big Cossack wheeled, hurried back down the stairs, and moderated
his pace, taking several calming breaths as he walked across the
lobby and disappeared into the dining room.

“Very
soon now, she will be free,” he had said.

The
encouraging words resounded in the countess’s head, lightening her
heart, as she turned and willed herself back to her
room.

“That’s one purty little filly there!” Rosen said, whistling
under his breath.

He,
Clark, Prophet, and Sergei sat together several tables away from
their boss and his “chosen,” as Gay ironically called Marya. There
were several other diners in the room, and their conversations
covered the bodyguards’ remarks.

“Yeah,
she shore is,” Clark agreed. “I don’t see why he hasn’t brought her
down to the town before now. A man has a fine little damsel like
that, you’d think he’d wanna parade her around a might. Show her
off.”

“Not
if she knows where the Morales Gold Cache is,” Rosen said.
“Someone’s liable to kidnap her, make her show him where the gold
is.”

Clark
laughed as he spooned split-pea soup in his mouth. “Shee-it. Wild
horses and a string of Missouri mules couldn’t drag that out of
her. She’s a polecat, that one. The only reason she’s talkin’ now
is cause she got bored, moonin’ around that hacienda the last three
weeks.”

“She
could moon around my hacienda anytime,” Rosen said, staring across
the room, where Gay and Marya sat eating in silence.

Prophet saw the angry look boiling up on Sergei’s features.
The Cossack had taken offense at the way the two bodyguards were
ogling Marya and making comments. Fortunately, the men were too
distracted to notice the Russian’s displeasure. Prophet gave Sergei
a kick under the table. Cowed, the Russian stuffed bread in his
mouth and followed it down with coffee.

A few
minutes later the head waiter appeared from the kitchen, toting a
long wicker basket draped with oilcloth. He set it on Gay’s table
with a flourish, then showed the crime lord a bottle of wine, to
which Gay nodded his approval, and deposited the bottle in the
basket. Gay smiled and nodded — a macabre caricature of a romantic
lover about to take his betrothed on a picnic in the
hills.

Dressed in a pale
green riding habit — another gift from Gay — Marya sat stiffly in
her chair, staring off.

When the waiter
had disappeared, Gay turned to the bodyguards and
nodded.

“Here
we go, boys,” Clark said, shucking off his napkin.

As had
been decided earlier, when the official orders had come down,
including the plan for Gay and Marya to have a quiet lunch at the
hotel before heading into the mountains, Prophet went out and drove
Gay’s carriage over to the livery barn.

Two
fine, black saddle horses were waiting before the open doors, fully
rigged. A packhorse stood there as well, its panniers sagging with
the weight of four days’ worth of supplies. Taking the reins of all
three horses, Prophet led them back to the hotel just as Gay and
Marya emerged, surrounded by Clark, Rosen, and Sergei.

But
what caught Prophet’s attention and made him wince were the four
other men sitting their mounts in the street before the hotel. They
were well armed, and, saddlebags bulging, appeared ready for a long
ride.

Additional
riders.

“Are
your horses well fed and watered?” Gay asked them as he and Marya
strode to the two saddle horses Prophet had led from the livery
barn.

“All
ready and rarin’ to go, Boss,” one of the guards said with a
nod.

“Good.
Be sure to keep your eyes peeled, all of you,” Gay added, shuttling
his glance around his men. “Apaches have been spotted in the area
we’ll be traversing. Small bands of them, but Apaches nevertheless,
and I think you all know what that means.”

“We
sure do, Boss,” Clark said as he swung up onto his saddle. “But
with this many of us, I doubt they’ll attack.”

“You
just keep your eyes peeled, mister,” Gay said gruffly. “You
hear?”

“You
got it, Boss,” Clark said, cutting his eyes around
sheepishly.

Prophet was staring at Sergei, as if to say, “What the hell do
we do now?” With this many bodyguards, he and Prophet were badly
outnumbered. It was going to be some trick to get Marya away from
Gay.

Locking stares
with Prophet, Sergei chewed his mustache and grimaced.

“Here,
let me give you a hand, miss,” Prophet said to Marya as she came
around her horse. She gave him her hand with a taut smile that said
she hadn’t been expecting this many guards, either.

“Get
away from there, mister!” Gay intervened. “I’ll help her up on her
damn horse. See to your own!”

“Yes,
Mr. Gay,” Prophet said, truckling. “Whatever you say,
sir.”

He
climbed aboard Mean. When Gay had swung up onto his own mount, he
trotted ahead of the group, his chin jutting self-importantly.
Marya fell in behind him as Gay called, “Let’s go!”

The
bodyguards gigged their horses after their boss. Prophet hung back
with Sergei. They stared after the six well-armed
bodyguards.

Finally Prophet sighed and brushed Mean with his heels. “Well,
you heard the man, mister,” he said with irony. “Let’s
ride.”

Across
the street two men stepped out of the Pink Pig Saloon. One of the
men was the Pink Pig’s owner, Bill Braddock, clad in a cheap
business suit and bowler, his thin mustache freshly trimmed and
waxed.

Behind
Braddock stood one of Braddock’s men, a snake named Tony Roma. Roma
shook his long black hair from his Indian-featured face with its
multiple scars and pits, and glanced at his boss
expectantly.

“Have
the men ready to ride in ten minutes,” Braddock said tightly,
staring after Gay.

Roma hitched his
cartridge belts on his lean hips and ambled casually
away.

“Go!”
Braddock raged behind him. “Move your half-breed ass!”

Clutching his hat
to his head, Roma bolted down the boardwalk.