The Devil's Lair (A Lou Prophet Western #6) (20 page)

He was in front of the jailhouse, halfway
across Main, when he heard a sound. Hooves of a galloping horse
thundered in the east.

Now what?

Turning, he squinted into the
darkness until the form of a horse emerged. He drew his gun and
watched a horse
bear down on him, head down, hooves flying—a dark,
fast-moving smudge against the starlit sky behind it.

Prophet was swinging his shotgun around to
the front, but froze, staring. He couldn’t see a rider on the
horse’s back. No saddle or bridle either. A loose horse.

Only, the horse was bearing down on him like
a Nebraska tornado!

Prophet lowered the shotgun and
bolted toward the jail-house, at the last second diving from the
charging horse’s path. The horse had come so close to running him
into the earth that Prophet could feel the
whush!
of the big animal displacing the air
around him.

Prophet fell on his right shoulder, losing
his hat, dropping the shotgun, and rolling. He lit on his heels and
elbows, and turned, certain the horse had continued galloping
westward along Main.

Nope.

The animal had skidded to a stop on its
rear hooves. Digging its front hooves into the street’s dirt and
manure, it flattened its ears again, ringed its dark eyes with
white, snorted loudly, and headed right back toward
Prophet.

The devil
’s horse released from
hell!

The bounty hunter got his boots beneath
him and dove onto the jailhouse boardwalk, feeling the horse’s
right front hoof nick his foot as he went airborne. Ignoring the
splinters digging into his palms, he rolled over to see the horse
turn once again and lunge toward the boardwalk.

Prophet blinked, mouth
agape.
“Mean?”

He’d know that hammer head, those
fight-shredded ears, and those crazy eyes anywhere, even in the
dark.

Prophet scrambled aside as the line-back
dun mounted the boardwalk, its hooves thundering and scraping over
the planks. Mean and Ugly swung its head against Prophet,
connecting soundly with the bounty hunter’s left shoulder, sending
him flying against the jailhouse.

The horse snorted and whinnied with
glee.

“
Mean, knock it off, you crazy
bastard. You’re gonna kill me!”

The horse snorted again. Prophet figured the
next round would leave him battered into the logs and chinking of
the old jailhouse, but the horse just stood there, nickering and
jerking its head up and down.

Prophet chuckled. “Glad to see me, eh,
Mean?”

Footsteps and labored breathing sounded
westward up Main. “Goddamn horse!” cried a kid. “You okay, Marshal?
I was leadin’ the sumbitch over to the livery barn when he musta
caught your scent and broke loose. He is yours, ain’t
he?”

“
Yeah, he’s mine,” Prophet said,
breathing hard and rubbing his sore shoulder, regarding the big
line-back dun with both apprehension and pleasure. “Where in the
hell’d he come from anyway? I left him in Cheyenne.”

“
Last stage just rolled into town
about fifteen minutes ago. The driver had him tied on behind. He
come with a note.” The lanky youngster with a sharp chin and a
billed hat fished a crumpled note from his pocket and handed it to
Prophet. “Your tack’s over to the livery barn. You want me to fetch
it over here?”

“
No, that’s all right,” Prophet
said.

He tossed a quarter to the boy, who
thanked him and headed back toward the stage depot. Behind him,
Prophet un-crumpled the note and stepped into the street to read it
by the light bleeding out from the Mother Lode. Mean and Ugly gave
another snort and followed, staying close to Prophet’s elbow,
determined not to get separated from his master again.

Dear Lou
,

You
’re the only one who seems to want
this hammer-headed reprobate. The owner of the Federated Livery in
Cheyenne was about to shoot him for fighting and tearing up stalls
when I intervened and arranged for the stage line to send him on to
you. I hope you ‘re still in Bitter Creek. What you see in this
animal I do not know.

You owe me for the new hat he bit a hole in.
I hope this finds you well. I am heading toward the Southwest. I
hope I see you again before the snow flies. If not...

I am, as always

And forever shall be

Yours, with love,

Louisa

Prophet smiled. He sniffed the note:
licorice with a hint of cherry sarsaparilla.

Louisa.

Slowly, thoughtfully, he folded the penciled
notepaper, stuffed it into his shirt pocket. Mean and Ugly was
sniffing and nibbling at the badge, which winked dully in the stray
light from the saloons.

“
Yeah, I know,” Prophet said,
shoving away the horse’s long snout. “That tin looks as out of
place on me as it would on you. That’s the straw I drew, but
believe me, I’ll never get that drunk again.”

He gave the horse a brusque hug, ran his
hands down its sweaty neck, pulled at its ears, and inspected it
briefly, making sure it had no cuts or deep bruises and that none
of its shoes had come loose. He drew a deep breath. The horse
smelled of sage and the night breeze ... of crisp starlight and the
open trail...

Prophet stared at the horse and chewed his
cheek, thoughtful.

Finally, he picked up his shotgun,
retrieved his rifle from the jailhouse, locked the door, and headed
west up Main, toward the livery barn. Mean and Ugly followed close
on his heels, nickering playfully and nipping at Prophet’s
shoulders and ears.

Prophet found his saddle just inside the
livery barn’s unlocked front doors. He quickly tacked up the horse,
strapped his bedroll behind the saddle, shoved his Winchester into
the leather boot, and mounted.

Mean jerked beneath him, muscles rippling.
The horse kicked a back rear hoof out and gave a snort as Prophet
reined him northward through an empty lot and heeled him into a
canter. A few minutes later, they were riding through the rolling
sage hills north of Bitter Creek.

A young coyote yipped to Prophet’s right.
A rabbit gave its befuddled shriek as a hawk or an owl nabbed it.
The air smelled like cinnamon, sage, and cedar.

Prophet caught a fleeting whiff of some
carcass rotting nearby—the remains of a coyote-killed deer, no
doubt. Then the sage and juniper and dew-damp rocks took over
again.

Prophet rode lightly in the saddle. Mean and
Ugly stepped smartly beneath him, giving his hammer head an
occasional energetic shake. His shod hooves rang off rocks, snapped
limbs from low shrubs.

Horse and rider wanted to continue riding,
but after he’d ridden a mile or so, Prophet turned back toward
Bitter Creek. Reining up on a knoll, he studied the quiet town—a
blue-black smudge in the starlight, with only a few shacks bleeding
wan lemon light onto the sage.

Satisfied all was quiet, he made a cold camp
in the hollow just north of the knoll, tied Mean and Ugly in high
buffalo grass near a spring, and rolled up in his soogan.

He studied the stars for a long time,
listened to the small night creatures burrowing into the grass and
rocks and rotten logs. Mean and Ugly tore at the grass several
yards away. The seep trickled tinnily, almost silently.

The coyote had ceased howling, but soon
another started in, from a northern hogback, and then two more
added their own refrains from the west.

Raucous yet melodic sounds, softened by
distance.

Prophet slept.

Prophet woke to
the scent of dewy
sage tickling his nostrils, to meadowlark song, and to pale dawn
light washing along the western horizon.

To the chittering of prairie dogs and
raucous magpie chants.

To a giant muley buck padding toward him
from the north, its big rack like an Indian’s brush cage, its
charcoal-crested neck and broad white chest ribbed with
muscle.

The buck had come upon the camp from up
breeze and, at once seeing and scenting human, it turned its head
to gaze at Prophet askance through marble-black eyes. A second
later, it twisted its heavy shoulders and trotted off through the
brush, the thuds of its heavy hooves fading gradually.

Head turned on his saddle, hair
mussed from sleep,
Prophet
watched the buck fade into the morning’s blue shadows. He
had no urge to reach for his Winchester. He killed only when he
needed food, never for trophies. Trophy shooting was a low pursuit,
fitting only for Eastern nabobs and Englishmen.

Mean and Ugly shook himself and nickered.
The old familiar camp sounds caused Prophet’s mouth to spread in a
grin. The smile disappeared when he saw the tin star on his
chest.

He had a job. Responsibilities. He had a
long-headed fool out looking to let sunshine through his hide.

He tossed away the dew-damp blankets, got
up, stretched, gave Mean a long, leisurely brushing, and saddled
him. A few minutes later, he reluctantly mounted and turned the
horse toward town.

The shadows were gradually lifting along
Main when he rode in from the west. It wasn’t yet seven, but
several shopkeepers were sweeping dust and leaves from their
boardwalks. Riding stiff-backed, Prophet searched the rooftops for
the long, thin shadow of a rifle barrel canted in his
direction.

Except for the industrious store proprietors
and a few dogs heading home after their all-night country hunts,
all was quiet.

At the east end of Main, Prophet turned
toward Gertrude’s Good Food. He pulled up at the hitch rack before
the cafe, where a buggy and several saddle horses stood, then
looped his reins over the rack, ordered Mean to behave himself, and
went inside.

He took two steps and froze.

Sitting at a table to his right was the
five-man gang of toughs who’d ridden into town yesterday afternoon.
One of the men turned to him, raised an eyebrow, and cleared his
throat. The others turned then as well.

They were a rough-hewn, gimlet-eyed lot,
wearing the mustaches and long, brushed hair of professional
gunmen.

“
Mornin’, Marshal,” said the one
nearest Prophet. His hair and beard were strawberry blond. His
sun-bronzed cheeks were pocked and pitted. He stared at Prophet,
faintly bemused, waiting.

“
Mornin’,” Prophet replied. No
reason not to be sociable. “Nice town you got here.”

“
Well, it ain’t really mine. I’m
only temporary. But thanks just the same.”

The gunman’s thin lips spread and the lids
of his green eyes came halfway down. “The pleasure’s all
mine.”

He held Prophet’s gaze, and Prophet waited
for him to say something else. The man’s stare appeared at once
forced and challenging, like he was daring an old dog to go for his
ankle. After several seconds, the man turned to the others, nodded
almost imperceptibly, and went back to his food. The others chewed
down grins as they hunkered over their plates.

Puzzled, Prophet studied the gang another
second, then headed for an empty table near two men wearing the
worn suits and high-crowned hats of horse buyers, and sat down.

The girl Frieda employed to help with
large breakfast crowds took Prophet’s order and disappeared into
the kitchen, where Frieda was cooking, knocking pans around and
working the squeaky pump handle. Prophet tried not to stare at the
gang across the room. He didn’t want to provoke
anything.

But who were they? What were they here for?
How long were they staying?

He was half-finished with his own meal
when the gang scraped their chairs back, stood, tossed coins onto
the table, and moseyed toward the door. The cherry-blond who’d
spoken to Prophet now turned to him again, grinned woodenly,
pinched his hat brim, and headed outside.

Prophet only shrugged and kept his
confounded muttering to himself. Those five were like pit dogs on
short leashes…

When he’d finished his own breakfast ten
minutes later, he tossed down a dollar for the meal, added a tip,
and stood. The waitress appeared at his side, her cheeks flushed
from toil.

“
Marshal, Miss Frieda would like
you to stop by later for dessert, after she closes for the
afternoon. She said she had some legal matters to
discuss.”

Prophet stared at the waitress. He wondered
for a moment if the girl was joshing, but her expression was
serious. Then the kitchen door swung open. Frieda stuck her head
out and stared at Prophet, eyes devilish, and winked.

“
Oh... right,” Prophet said,
returning his gaze to the girl. “Tell Miss Frieda I’ll try to make
it back for, uh, dessert…”

Behind the girl, Frieda’s plump cheeks
flushed as she smiled and withdrew into the kitchen.

“
I’ll tell her, Marshal,” the
waitress said and reached for his plate and coffee cup.

Prophet sniffed and adjusted his cartridge
belt on his hips. A grass widow was a dangerous critter for a
bachelor bounty hunter… He pinched his hat brim to a couple of
matronly ladies in the corner and headed for the door.

Outside, he mounted Mean and Ugly and
reined back toward Main, straining his neck to look around for the
drygulcher. A man couldn’t let his guard down when someone was
trying to turn him into a free lunch for the coyotes, and he was
looking forward to catching the sumbitch and thrashing the holy
hell out of him.