Staring Down the Devil (A Lou Prophet Western #5) (26 page)
Read Staring Down the Devil (A Lou Prophet Western #5) Online
Authors: Peter Brandvold
Tags: #pulp fiction, #wild west, #cowboys, #old west, #outlaws, #western frontier, #peter brandvold, #frontier fiction, #piccadilly publishing, #lou prophet
Later that night,
drunk and reeling from alcohol, Braddock led the countess away from
the camp to rape her.
He threw her down
and ripped her shirtwaist. She struggled against him, kicking and
clawing at his face. He slapped her once with the flat of his hand,
then balled his fist and punched her in the temple.
“Now,
then,” Braddock wheezed, his sweat
dripping
into her face, “that should settle you down, eh? I just want a
little fun. Just a little.” His words were slurred by drink, and he
swayed from side to side as he straddled her on his knees. “I’m
gonna get it one way or another; you might as well give it up. Go
easy on yourself.”
“Go to
hell,” she spat at him, struggling against his weight. He’d pinned
her hands above her head with one hand while he worked his way into
her chemise with the other, roughly fondling her
breasts.
She
kicked her legs futilely. “I would rather die!”
“That
can be arranged, you little Russian bitch!” he yelled, and punched
her again.
That
took the air out of her lungs and the fight out of her arms and
legs. Her head swirled, and she felt a searing pain between her
eyes. From the fire, she could dimly hear the snickers and laughs
of Braddock’s men.
He
would rape her, and there was nothing she could do about it. This
realization nearly coincided with the realization that Brad-dock
had passed out on top of her. He’d slumped forward, buried his face
in her chest, and had fallen sound asleep, snoring.
She
lay there tensely, not moving, fearful of waking him up lest he
continue what he’d started.
She
stared at the constellations revolving above her, listening to the
chatter and spats and grunts of Braddock’s men around the fire,
then later to their snores and to the snorts and blows of the
sleeping horses and to the dry scuttles of burrowing creatures. Her
eye swelled where Braddock had hit her, and blood trickled from her
lip before it dried on her chin.
He lay
heavy upon her, snoring, putting her limbs to sleep, until, with
painstaking ease, she managed to slide him off her left side. She
was trying to slip out from under his arm when he grunted, blinked
his eyes, and wagged his head. Natasha froze, stared at him in
terror.
His
eyes closed. Soon his snores resumed. Afraid to move and possibly
wake him again, she lay stiff on her back, his left arm
draped over her belly, alternately dozing
and
waking with her heart
pounding.
Finally, after
what had seemed an eternity, when the dawn was a pearl wash in the
east and the birds had begun their raucous morning cries, he
snorted and grunted, gave a moan, and lifted his head.
“Wh-where . . . what . . .” He blinked at her dully. He winced
and raised up on his hands, ran them over his face and through his
hair. “Well, I’ll be goddamned,” he said.
I fell
asleep!”
You
are an animal,” the countess scolded.
She
pushed herself into a sitting position, brushing sand and pine
needles from her bare arms.
Braddock looked at her, noting the torn shirtwaist. “Did we .
. . did I . . . ?”
“I did
nothing,” the countess said with taut-jawed disdain. If he thought
he’d had his pleasure, he might leave her alone now. “It was all
you. And then you passed out. You are a savage beast.”
Braddock chuckled and climbed to his feet. “Yeah, I’ve been
called a beast a time or two.” He staggered, clutched his head with
his hands. “Ahh . . . my head . . .” He looked at her and formed a
lascivious grin. “Too bad I don’t remember last night, though. I
bet you were fun.”
“Are
you going to let me go, now that you have had your fun?” she asked
hopefully.
“Shut
up.” Braddock winced again at the pain in his head, spat, and
brushed dust from his broadcloth trousers and sweat-stained white
shirt. “I still got plans for you and your Mr. Prophet.” He reached
down and jerked her to her feet. “We got some riding to do this
morning.”
From
his perch above Gay
’s camp, Prophet watched
the sun rise. As the huge lemon orb rose above the distant knobs, a
sharp dread rose in his loins and belly.
It was daylight.
The Apaches could attack at any time.
Prophet had been on guard here, on the south side of the camp,
since two o’clock, and he’d seen or heard no sign of the red
devils. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there. In fact, the
prickling along his spine told him they were near, sure as
hell.
Prophet adjusted his Colt and bowie knife on his hip and
climbed down the rocky upthrust toward the remuda, where Sergei and
several other men were rigging up their mounts. Marya was still
sitting with Gay on a log, nibbling a biscuit. She sent Prophet a
questioning look; neither he nor Sergei had been able to inform her
of the change in plans, and her glance told him she was wondering
why they hadn’t snatched her from the camp last night.
In
reply to her silent inquiry, Prophet gave his head a brief shake,
then turned to Mean and Ugly with the horse’s bridle in his hand.
When the other men had led their horses from the remuda, leaving
only Sergei and Prophet, Prophet swung his saddlebags over Mean’s
back and said under his breath, “Keep your eyes peeled, Serge. If
they attack, we grab the girl and hightail it.”
Sergei
nodded at Prophet over his horse’s saddle.
When
they all were mounted, Marya led off, following the map in her
head. Prophet hoped she remembered it correctly and that they
arrived at the “treasure” soon. He didn’t know what in the hell
would happen once they got there and Gay saw that there was no
treasure. He figured he’d cross that bridge when they came to
it.
In the meantime.
Apaches . . .
All
morning the column threaded its way through canyons and washes. At
one point they dead-ended in a box canyon, and Gay threw a fit,
asking his “chosen” if she actually knew where she was going or did
she want a bullet in her pretty temple?
Marya
regarded the crime boss boldly. “I made a mistake. Have you not
ever made a mistake, Mr. Gay?”
“I
told you to call me Leamon,” he muttered under his breath,
self-consciously cutting his eyes around at his men. “After all, I
am your chosen, aren’t I, my dear?”
Marya did not
answer. As she turned her horse around and rode back past Prophet
and Sergei, she rolled her eyes.
Prophet glanced at Sergei. “Spunky as a front-tit calf, ain’t
she?”
Sergei shrugged
and reined his buckskin around.
Following an
arroyo, they entered another canyon. Riding at the rear of the
column with Sergei, Prophet scanned the cliff tops rising on both
sides of the arroyo. Again he felt a prickling, as if some witch
were stitching his spine.
“Be
ready,” he told Sergei.
The Russian
frowned at him.
“I got
a sense about these things,” Prophet said, looking straight ahead,
sweeping the cliff tops with his eyes. “You ride ahead, try to get
as close to the girl as you can. When those bastards attack, grab
her horse and head back this way. We’ll ride back down the
arroyo.”
As
they entered the shadows that the cliffs canted onto the rocky bed
of the arroyo, the prickling along Prophet’s spine increased,
reaching into his ass and thighs. He adjusted his Colt, then
reached down and unsheathed his Winchester. He levered a round in
the chamber, uncocked the hammer, and rode with the rifle’s butt
snugged against his hip.
“What
the hell’s the matter with you, Pepper?” one of the mine guards
asked — a stocky German named Klein. “Losin’ your
nerve?”
“Yeah,
that’s it,” Prophet grumbled, keeping his eyes on the cliffs. “Now,
shut up and keep your eyes peeled, unless you want an arrow in your
back.”
“Hey,
don’t tell me to shut up, you —”
Klein
was cut off by Gay’s voice rising from the head of the column.
“Whoooah!”
Prophet cocked his Winchester’s hammer as the column slowed to
a halt. His gaze caught on a small group of riders gathered on a
ledge about thirty yards ahead, where the cliffs opened
again.
The
fact that the riders weren’t Indians lightened Prophet’s mood a
little. Then he saw the woman at the head of the group, sitting a
black horse with her hands apparently tied behind her back. A thin
man in a bowler hat was holding a shotgun to her head.
Prophet couldn’t see her clearly from this far away, but he
thought she looked like the countess. The realization flooded his
gut with bile and set his heart hammering and his vision
swimming.
What in the hell
was she doing out here?
The
two groups of riders sat staring at each other for nearly a minute.
Then the other group rode toward Gay’s — slowly, the lead rider
keeping the shotgun on the countess’s head. Gay sat at the head of
his column in befuddled silence.
“What
the hell’s goin’ on?” someone near Prophet muttered.
“It’s
Braddock,” Prophet said as the other group approached.
Gay
called out, “What the hell is going on here, Bill? What are you
doing out here?”
“Same
thing you are, Leamon.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m
out here for the gold.” Braddock grinned, his unshaven cheeks
looking muddy in the bold light, his dusty bowler tipped at an
angle over his left eye.
“Thought we might make a little swap. This woman here for
yours. You must be getting tired of yours by now, aren’t you? I
know you, Leamon.” Braddock chuckled.
Marya
tensed in her saddle. Prophet heard her say in a voice pinched with
shock, “Natasha!”
“Marya, stay there — I am all right,” the countess said
timidly.
The
crime boss rose up in his saddle, his face flushing with anger.
“Bill, what is the meaning of this?”
Prophet and
Sergei gigged their horses up in the procession, until they both
sat near Marya and Gay.
“You
heard what the meaning is, Leamon,” Braddock said. “I want the map
to the gold.”
Before
Gay could respond, Braddock cut his eyes at Prophet. “That’s what
that bounty hunter you have working for you’s after,
too.”
“What
bounty hunter?” Gay said, brows beetling as he glanced around,
confused.
“Prophet,” Braddock said.
“You
mean Pepper?”
“Is
that the handle he gave you?” Braddock laughed. “Hell, his name’s
Prophet. Headhunter. He’s after your gold, Leamon. Him and that
gent there” — he canted his head to indicate Sergei — “and these
two
women.”
Gay
turned to Sergei and Prophet. “Why, you sons of bitches,” he spat.
Then he turned his crimson face back to Braddock and the five men
surrounding him.
“And
you, Bill,” he castigated. “You pathetic, double-crossing bastard.
I don’t know what makes you think I’m going to trade this girl for
that one, when that one doesn’t even have a treasure
map!”
With
that, Gay reached for his revolver. But before he’d lifted it,
Braddock gave a spine-melting yell and arched his back, tripping a
trigger of his double-barrel shotgun, which exploded in the air
above Natasha’s head.
Braddock’s horse turned, crow-hopping, revealing the Apache
war lance protruding from its rider’s back. Above him, an Apache
stood on a rocky shelf jutting out from the cliff. Reaching for an
arrow from the quiver on his back, the brave cut loose with an
ear-rattling war cry.
“Countess!” Sergei yelled, bolting forward at a
gallop.
Screaming like witches released from hell, a dozen Apaches
slipped and slid down the
rocky cliff wall,
their hide-red faces pinched
with animal
fury. Several loosed arrows into the canyon. Men from Braddock’s
and Gay’s group cried out as the arrows split the air and knocked
them off their mounts.
Holding taut to his horse’s reins with one hand, Prophet fired
the rifle with the other. Mean was in a frenzy, as the other horses
screamed and the other men began opening up with their pistols and
rifles. Prophet could not draw an accurate bead. He fired
three more times, anyway, to cover Sergei
as
the Russian galloped toward the Countess
Natasha’s frightened mount.
Dodging and ducking under whistling arrows, Prophet whipped
Mean over to Marya, whose horse danced amidst the gunfire that rose
up from the arroyo around them. Several of Braddock’s and Gay’s men
had dismounted to kneel in the arroyo, triggering bullets at the
cliff bristling with Indi
ans.
“Come
on, girl, let’s ride!” Prophet shouted, flailing for the bridle of
Marya’s rearing mount.
Marya cursed the
horse, sawing back on the reins. As the horse whinnied and plunged
forward, bolting into Mean, Prophet grabbed the bridle and reined
his own mount left, heading back down the arroyo.
