Staring Down the Devil (A Lou Prophet Western #5) (7 page)

“Countess, where have you been?” Sergei asked the countess as
she approached the fire. “I was getting worried.”

“I
took a stroll to stretch my legs.”

“Ma
Cherie,”
he
said,
gently chiding, “do I need to remind you of the dangers of this
country?”

The most
dangerous thing in their camp at the moment was none other than the
countess herself, she thought as she made a beeline for the coach.
She could not believe that she had just thrown herself at Lou
Prophet. My god! How could she ever face him again?

“No,
Serge. I am well aware of the dangers
here.”

“Where
are you going?”

“To
bed. I’m suddenly very sleepy.”

“But,
Countess, you have not eaten supper. You must —”

She
stopped and wheeled toward the big Cossack, her skirts flying. “Oh,
please, Sergei!” She was poised to continue the outburst, but
stopped herself and took a deep, calming breath. “I am sorry. I am
just ... I have a headache. I am going to turn in early
tonight.”

“But I
have not made your bed. Certainly you can eat something. . .
.”

“No, I
am not hungry. I will make my own bed this evening. Thank you.
Serge. Good night.”

When
she’d disappeared into the coach, the Cossack twisted the ends of
his double-barreled mustache as he considered the Concord, which
jounced and squeaked as the countess prepared her bed.

Hearing brush
thrash behind him, he turned and slapped the revolver on his right
hip.

“Easy,” Prophet said, moving toward the fire the Cossack had
built. “Just me.”

“Ah .
. . yes,” Sergei growled.

Prophet saw that the barrel-chested Russian was watching him
suspiciously. He must have witnessed the countess’s distress and
been wondering if Prophet was to blame. They’d both come from the
same direction.

Just
Prophet’s luck. A woman throws herself at him, and he gets
blamed!

Prophet glanced at Sergei, grinned innocently to put the man
at ease, then reached for the coffeepot steaming on a rock in the
fire. “Is there anything better than a cup of hot coffee after a
long day on the trail?” he asked with as much affability as he
could muster.

He
sipped the brew and cast a cautious glance at Sergei, who was
swallowing none of Prophet’s charm. He regarded the bounty hunter
darkly, one hand on the butt of his revolver. On his other hip he
carried an English-made LeMatt. The combined six-shooter and
single-shot scattergun could make a hell of a mess at close
range.

Conversationally Prophet said, “Nothing like a cup of
Arbuckles to cut through the trail dust and lift a man’s spirits.
Join me?”

The
Russian stared at him. Finally he gave a snort, turned, and climbed
to the coach’s roof, apparently mucking around for his bed
gear.

Later, Prophet
reclined against his saddle, gnawing jerky and drinking coffee.
Sergei squatted across the fire, preparing his teapot.

“Hello
the camp,” rose a man’s cry in the quiet twilight.

In an
instant Prophet’s Colt was in his hand. He bolted to his feet.
Glancing across the fire, he saw that the Russian was standing
also, having dropped his teapot in favor of the stout LeMatt in his
hand.

Prophet stepped
back from the fire so he could see clearly into the thickening
shadows of the oaks along the creek. He was vaguely aware of the
Cossack doing the same, as though they were mirror images of each
other — two men from separate countries but with similar instincts
no doubt based on similar experience.

“Identify yourselves,” Prophet called.

“Name’s Ed Jones,” came the man’s pinched voice. “My partner’s
hurt. Can we ride in?”

Prophet glanced
at Sergei, who returned the wary gaze. Prophet threw a hand up for
the Russian to wait, then he wheeled to the coach and opened the
door.

“What
are you doing?” the Russian asked, his voice a taut, angry
rasp.

Prophet didn’t take the time to answer. He reached into the
dark coach, said, “Countess, take my hand.”

“What’s happening?” she asked groggily.

“Take
it!”

She
did, and Prophet pulled her brusquely out of the coach. She was
dressed in gauzy blue nightclothes with a thin cotton wrapper. She
needed something warmer, but she didn’t have time. Quickly Prophet
led her through the brush and into a jumble of rocks at the camp’s
rear.

“Stay
here and keep your head down.”

She
gazed up at him, frightened. “What is happening?”

“Probably nothing.” She’d be safer in the rocks than in the
coach, the thin walls of which bullets could easily penetrate.
“Just a precaution.”

He
wheeled and trotted back to the fire. He grabbed his Winchester
leaning against his saddle, and cocked it. “All right, come on
in.”

For
several seconds there was only the sound of the breeze in the
branches. The fire snapped. The slow clomp of hooves rose and grew
louder until the silhouettes of two horses and two riders appeared
in the trees along the gurgling stream. One man rode straight in
his saddle. The other leaned low over his horse’s neck, his head
down.

“What’s wrong with him?” Prophet asked.

“Snake-bit,” said the one who’d identified himself as Ed
Jones. He was big, raw-boned, and slab-shouldered. He wore a black
vest over a grimy shirt missing buttons and bearing a torn pocket.
He appeared to be bald under his broad-brimmed hat. He wore twin
Colts in tied-down, border-draw holsters.

Dismounting his paint pony, Jones dropped the reins and turned
to the other horse. He put a gentle hand on the injured rider’s
shoulder. “You still kicking boy?”

“Yeah,
but I’m hurt pretty bad,” the young man said in a shaky voice. A
rifle stock poked up from his forward-canted saddle sheath, and the
kid wore an ivory-gripped Remington on his right hip.

Prophet’s eyes lingered over these details as he stood frozen
near the Cossack. His heart beat a steady, wary rhythm.

“Where’s he bit?” Prophet asked.

“Belly,” Jones said. Light from the gutter
ing fire revealed the lines in his craggy face.
Prophet guessed he was in his early forties,
though his mustache was pure black. “He leaned down for a drink of
water, and didn’t see the diamondback coiled under a
rock.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah,
ouch,” Jones agreed. “Would you help me get him out of his saddle
and over to your fire, mister? I’d sure appreciate it.”

“No.”
It was Sergei. He’d turned his head to direct his reply to Prophet.
His voice was low, level, and tight.

“What
do you mean, ‘no’?” Jones said, scowling with indignation. “I told
you, he’s snake-bit!”

Prophet gave the two men the twice over, trying to see what
Sergei had seen and which had prompted the Russian to deny the
man’s request for assistance.

As he
did so, a gun barked, making Prophet jump and extend the
Winchester. Jones’s head went back, and he staggered against the
young man’s horse. The horse jumped, and Jones fell, but not before
Prophet had seen the round, dark hole in his forehead.

Prophet glanced quickly at Sergei. The Russian’s LeMatt was
smoking.

“What
— ?”

Before
Prophet could say another word, the snake-bit rider’s head came up,
his eyes wide. The kid clawed at the gun on his thigh while trying
to steady his horse, which had commenced prancing and shaking its
head at the shot.

Sergei’s LeMatt barked and flashed again.

The
kid screamed and crouched over his saddle horn. His head dropped to
the horse’s buffeting mane just before the horse jerked to the
left, throwing the kid from his saddle. He hit the ground with a
groan and lay grinding his boot heels into the ground while
clutching his wounded belly. His horse and Jones’s paint galloped
back the way they’d come.

“Countess, stay down!” Sergei yelled as he wheeled and ran
across the encampment. Running and yelling in Russian, the Cossack
fired the LeMatt and his second revolver into the darkness. Prophet
wheeled then, too, and took off after the crazy Russian, vaguely
confused but also knowing with a sick feeling in his guts that the
night was about to explode.

The
night did, indeed, explode. The gunfire came from behind. Whoever
the owlhoots were, they’d intended to distract Prophet and Sergei
with the “wounded” kid and storm the camp with guns blazing from
the other side.

Sergei
was shooting at the gun flashes in the shrubs, yelling again for
the countess to stay down. Prophet ran toward the shrubs, dropping
to a knee every few feet and firing the Winchester, hearing the
attackers’ bullets whistling around him and plunking into the grass
before him.

One
burned his right cheek. He cursed as he levered another cartridge
into the Winchester’s breech, picked out a gun flash, and
fired.

The
Winchester’s report was followed by a startled cry of
anguish.

Prophet fired again, noticing that Sergei’s guns had quieted.
When his own rifle clicked empty, he dropped to a knee, set the
rifle down, and drew his revolver. As he thumbed back the hammer
and raised the gun, he froze, frowning into the
darkness.

The shooting had
stopped, the silence descending even heavier than before. The
stench of powder smoke filled the air. From far off he heard
muffled yells and clomping hooves. Closer by, a man groaned and
cursed and groaned again.

“Help,
damnit! I’m hit
bad.”

A
shadow moved to Prophet’s right. He jerked the .45 toward it and
called, “Sergei?”

“Do
not shoot.” Sergei moved into the brush about thirty yards before
Prophet, toward the groans of the wounded owlhoot. Brush crunched
under his moccasins.

“Careful,” Prophet called.

“They
are gone,” Sergei replied. He stopped. Moving toward him, Prophet
frowned curiously as Sergei’s arm came up.

“No,
wait!” the wounded man cried. “Stop!”

The
LeMatt flashed in Sergei’s hand. The report was a sharp
thunderclap. Prophet stopped, startled by the Cossack’s cold
execution of the wounded man, then continued through the brush,
stopping where the body was sprawled out in the grass, fresh blood
gleaming in the starlight.

Sergei
was hunkered down, going through the man’s pockets.

Prophet frowned. “Why’d you kill him?”

“He
attacked us.”

“You
might have tried to find out why and who the hell he was before you
beefed him.”

The
Cossack stood, stuffing the man’s revolver behind his cartridge
belt. Dully he looked at Prophet. “Why?”

Not
waiting for an answer, he walked back
toward the coach. Watching him go, Prophet
had to admit the Russian had a point. Still, it wouldn’t have
hurt to try to find out how many were in the group and what exactly
they were after.

Prophet also had
to admit that Sergei had sniffed out the trap before he had. Sergei
may have dressed like a dude and exhibited a fetish for
cleanliness, but the Russian was a warrior to ride the river with.
That much was clear.

Another revolver report shattered the stillness. Prophet
snorted and shook his head. The Russian must have finished off the
kid who’d ridden into the camp with Jones.

“Law,”
Prophet said, “that Russian’s colder’n the devil at
Easter.”

The
bounty hunter walked over to the rocks where he’d hidden the
countess. She stood before them now, looking around warily, her
chestnut hair framing her pale face. She looked pretty and soft and
vulnerable, the bounty hunter thought, his pang of lust coinciding
with his memory of what had transpired between them less than an
hour ago. She wasn’t nearly as upright and dour as she liked people
to believe.

“It’s
all clear,” he told her now.

“Who
were those men?” she asked slowly, watching Sergei crouch down and
go through the dead kid’s pockets.

“I
don’t know. Didn’t get a chance to find out,” Prophet said with an
edge in his voice. “But I have to hand it to your bodyguard there.
He sniffed out the trap before I did.”

The
countess gave Prophet a self-satisfied smile. “Sergei is a warrior
as well as a gentleman,” she said meaningfully. “You see, one does
not have to exclude the other.”

“It
was you pret’ near jumped down my pants awhile ago, Your Majesty,”
Prophet said with a mocking chuckle. “Is that how ladies behave
over there in Russia?”

Cowed,
the countess turned away and said softly, “It was a momentary
lapse. I didn’t know what I was doing. I do hope, however, that you
will forget it ever happened ... as a gentleman would.”

“Sure,
I’ll forget it,” Prophet added with a grin. “As long as you
can.”