The Devil's Lair (A Lou Prophet Western #6)

Inside the rocking, rattling
stage, Lou Prophet shifted uncomfortably in his forward-facing
seat. Within the tiny confines in which Prophet and six other
passengers had been sealed like slugs in a
revolver
’s
cylinder, the air hung hot, heavy, dusty, and reeking with
sweat.

They were high on the high
Wyoming plains, but it was still damn hot, and no one was more
aware of it than Prophet, clad in widow
’s weeds—a woman’s high-buttoned
black dress with a cape and stitched white collar. The collar
pinched his neck until he felt as though the blood had been cut off
from his brain. His neck itched so bad he felt like ripping the
dress open and hacking at himself with the Arkansas toothpick
hanging from a rawhide strap down his back.

Under the pillow strapped to his chest,
giving him a bosom the size of a stock trough, sweat ran in rivers
down his belly.

The matching black hat with a
gauzy black veil didn
’t help matters. It sealed the heat inside his body, making
him feel like a boiling English teapot. The black, square-heeled
shoes—the largest he could find—were two sizes too small, which
made keeping his feet set primly together beneath the hard plank
bench as demanding as keeping mum while rats chewed your
privates.

Hoping his wince passed for a priggish smile
befitting an elderly widow, he stared out the windows and assuaged
his discomfort with remembered images of bathing naked in a clear,
flowing creek near his boyhood home in the Appalachians of north
Georgia. Interrupting the daydream, an elbow poked his ribs.

He turned to his left and looked
down at his partner, Louisa Bonaventure, clad in a summery yellow
form
-fitting
dress and looking for all the world like a wholesome young parson’s
daughter on her way to a church picnic. She smiled up at Prophet
sweetly, pushed up on her tiny rump, cupped her hands around her
mouth, and whispered in his ear, “Stop squirming, you big
idiot!”

She drew away, her feigned smile so bright
that her cheeks dimpled, but Prophet recognized the tartness in her
hazel-eyed gaze.

He leaned sideways, nudging her
shoulder, smiling the old-lady smile he
’d practiced so well, and grunted
through clenched teeth, “I can’t help it!”

Louisa
’s smile brightened, as though she
and Prophet were merely discussing an anticipated pound cake and
tea later in Bitter Creek. But as she turned away, Prophet felt the
sharp pain of her bony elbow stabbing his ribs.

He turned to the window again, clutching the
lumpy, leather reticule in his lap and smiling instead of
cursing.

As he did so, he caught a
glimpse of the man sitting directly across from him. Since the man
had boarded the stage in Rosehawk, he
’d either been checking his tarnished
silver pocket watch every ten minutes, or making eyes at Louisa. He
was staring at her again now, his eyes hooded and leering. Louisa
ignored him, staring out the window to her right.

Prophet eyed the man through his veil. He
had hardcase written all over him—from his unruly, long blond hair
falling down from his shabby bowler to his hatchet face, which he
tried to soften with a pair of tiny, green-tinted, rectangular
spectacles riding high on a long, broad nose.

He wore a black suit with a
fawn-colored vest and polished brogans, but the worn cartridge belt
and long-barreled Remington tied low on his right thigh gave the
lie to the cheap gambler
’s duds.

He was no more a gambler than was Prophet a
Presbyterian minister.

Prophet shuttled his gaze around the stage,
quickly taking in the portly businessman reading a newspaper on the
other side of Louisa, and the plain-faced, young woman clad in
homespun cotton and holding a blanket-wrapped infant.

The girl
’s stocky husband, dressed like a
farmer, sat between her and the hardcase, directly across from
Louisa. The young man snored softly, his chin tipped to his chest,
revealing the tattered, sun-faded crown of his black felt hat
trimmed with a red squirrel’s tail.

Prophet tensed when the
hardcase
’s
hand moved suddenly. His muscles relaxed as the man again plucked
his tarnished silver watch from his vest pocket, flipped the lid,
glanced at the face, and casually returned the old turnip to its
pocket.

The man sighed as though bored,
leaning forward to look out the window. He gave the passing
countryside—a forested ridge beyond a meadow splashed with
wildflowers— a casual glance, then sat back in his seat and
returned his leering gaze to Louisa, his eyes flickering across the
girl
’s small,
firm mounds pushing at the yellow cloth.

Instinctively protective of
Louisa while knowing she needed little protection, Prophet felt the
urge to kick the man
’s knee with one of his stout, black shoes, but restrained
himself.

As though sensing
Prophet
’s
acrimony, the hardcase turned to him. Prophet slid his eyes to the
window and tensed, feeling the man’s gaze on him, appraising,
scrutinizing. Prophet tightened his big, white-gloved paws on the
leather reticule, gently squeezing.

The hardcase cleared his
throat.
“Sure
is a lovely ... uh ... fine young lady travelin’ with you today,
ma’am.”

Prophet turned to him, prickling
with jealous anger. Before he could reply, Louisa gently elbowed
his ribs, warning him to keep his emotion on a short leash. Prophet
swallowed his anger and considered a feminine response.
He
’d
practiced a high-pitched voice on Louisa before boarding the stage,
and they’d both agreed he should open his mouth as little as
possible.

Prophet smiled behind his veil and tittered
modestly.

“
Yessiree,” the hardcase drawled,
his frankly appraising gaze glued to Louisa’s breasts, “she sure
looks like a ... uh ... mighty
civilized
young lady.”

Politely, her hands folded in
her lap, Louisa said,
“Why, thank you, sir. I do endeavor to make myself
an asset to society.”

The man glanced at Prophet, the
bridge of his nose wrinkling distastefully.
“You two can’t be
related.”

Prophet stared at the man, straining to
maintain his mute, witless smile.

“
Of course we are,” Louisa said.
“Aunt Eloise is my dearly departed mother’s older
sister.”

“
You don’t say. There sure ain’t
much of a family resemblance.” The hardcase tilted his head as he
shuttled his gaze back to Louisa. “What do you say Auntie Eloise
and I switch places?”

Louisa glanced at
Prophet.
“Why
would you want to do that?” she asked innocently.

The man didn
’t say anything for a moment.
Through a lusty grin, he said, “So we can ... get better
acquainted. Maybe, uh ... snuggle a little.”

Louisa
’s voice turned hard. “I don’t
snuggle with strangers, sir!”

The man looked surprised.
“You don’t? A pretty
little piece o’ poon-tang like you? What a shame!”

Prophet hoped Louisa would keep a lid on her
rage. You never knew what she would do, one moment to the next.

“
What did you call me, sir?”
Louisa’s voice was as sweet as Christmas fudge, but Prophet noted
the dangerous edge.

Oh, no. Smiling gently, Prophet
placed a hand on the girl
’s thigh, silently commanding her to ignore the
man.

The hardcase
’s eyes went snaky-flat as they
again strayed to Louisa’s pert bosom and continued down her slender
but well-turned legs sheathed in the form-fitting dress. To
Prophet, he said, “Come on, Auntie. Let’s switch places.” The man
slid forward on his seat.

Prophet
’s smile tightened into a silent
warning. Beside the hardcase, the sleeping young farmer snorted and
bobbed his head, chin grazing his chest. The baby fussed, and the
farmer’s wife rocked the child from side to side. She watched
Louisa, Prophet, and the hardcase, a nervous look on her moist,
unadorned features. The businessman glanced at the hardcase and
quickly buried his face again in his newspaper.

“
Come on, Auntie,” the hardcase
insisted, “let’s switch places. You’ll get a change of scenery, and
I’ll ... well, I’ll get acquainted with your lovely
niece.”

“
Aunt Eloise appreciates your
concern, sir,” Louisa said, and Prophet was happy to hear the
equanimity restored to her voice. “But she gets sick when riding
backwards. We wouldn’t want her getting sick on the stage”—Louisa
snickered—“after all the pig’s liver and buttermilk she ate at the
last way station.”

She glanced at Prophet, drawing her full,
cherry lips wide with a humorous grin. Prophet turned to her,
smiling stiffly.

The hardcase
’s features blanched and his
grin quickly faded. Compressing his lips with defeat, he sat back
against the stage’s front wall. He said nothing, but his
frustrated, lusty eyes played openly over Louisa’s body for the
next five minutes. Then, as if remembering something, he stiffened
and reached for his watch. Before he could open it, guns popped in
the distance.

“
Oh, my word!” the young mother
exclaimed with a start. “What was that?”

“
Yes, what was that?” Louisa
echoed. She too was staring out the right-side windows, where
several horsemen could be seen, galloping across the meadow on an
interception course with the stage.

Prophet did his best to look
surprised, gasping and
trilling and craning his neck to look out the
window with everyone else. Everyone but the hardcase, that
is.

A gun hammer clicked. Prophet turned back to
the hardcase, who waved his Remington, grinning with smoky
delight.

“
That, ladies and gentlemen,” he
said, “is a holdup.”