The Devil's Lair (A Lou Prophet Western #6) (28 page)

The air was sooty and hot. Pine resin popped
and sizzled as the flames jutted high against the sky. Beams
collapsed, thundering and showering sparks.

“
I reckon it depends on how you
look at it,” Prophet said, easing the kid along beside him. “Could
be just the beginning.”

Prophet remained in
Bitter Creek for a
few days to help clean up after the fire.

To his surprise, most of the townspeople,
including Frieda Schwartzenberger, decided to stay and rebuild and
to run the town the way a town should be run—with a democratically
elected mayor and town council and a marshal hired for the benefit
of all. Bitter Creek was their home. They had nowhere else to
go.

Only the businesses along Main Street had
burned. Still, it would be a long rebuilding process. The night
before Prophet decided to leave, a town council was elected. During
the council’s first meeting, held in Frieda’s cafe, Ralph Carmody
was elected mayor and his grandson, Ronnie Williams, recovering
nicely from the bullet wound in his side, was named town
marshal.

Prophet’s going-away gift to the town was
his reward money, found in Ralph Carmody’s charred bank vault. The
twenty-five hundred dollars, combined with the small fortune found
on Henry Crumb’s getaway horse, would give the town the financial
boost it needed toward getting back on its own two feet.

Prophet’s going-away gift to Frieda was a
private, carnal love dance carried out under the second-story eaves
of Gertrude’s Good Food. A three-quarter moon slanted milky light
through the window over the bed, limning Frieda’s heels crossed
over the small of the bounty-hunter’s broad back.

Frieda’s next-door neighbor—a widower
farmer named Frank Roderus—was awakened three times in two hours by
curious feral-like love screams carried on the wind. Thinking them
only wild cats, he grunted, spit, and sank back onto his
pillow.

Prophet was saddled up and riding the
eastern trail from Bitter Creek when the sun rose from behind a
hat-shaped rimrock and spread its pink light across the sage. Three
hours later, he paused to let Mean draw water at a trailside
spring. Suddenly, the dun raised its head and whinnied.

Prophet’s hand touched his Colt while his
eyes roamed the eastern horizon, finding a horseback figure
silhouetted against the sky. The rider came on slowly. Prophet sat,
his right hand caressing his pistol grips.

You never knew who you were going to run
into out here. Prophet just hoped whoever it was wasn’t trouble.
He’d had enough trouble over the past few weeks. He wanted to go
about his business unharassed, maybe wander down toward Glenwood
Springs and wallow in the healing waters for a time.

As the rider approached, the lines around
Prophet’s eyes deepened gradually, the eyes themselves taking in
the black Morgan and the female form of the rider, the ratty brown
poncho, the long hair curving over slender shoulders, and the tan
felt hat with chin strap.

She was fifty yards away when he muttered
disbelievingly, “Louisa?”

Suddenly, she heeled the Morgan into a
run. Mean whinnied again and rippled his withers at the Morgan’s
familiar scent.

Prophet grinned as her haughty hazel eyes
and dimpled chin came into focus. It really was her. He thought by
now she’d be in Denver City. “Louisa.”

Louisa reined the Morgan to a halt,
neck-reining the black horse quarter-wise to Prophet and Mean. She
furrowed her blond brows, pursed her rosebud lips, and placed one
churlish fist on her hip. “Lou Prophet, where have you
been?”

“
Louisa, what in the name of the
hounds of hell are you doin’ out here?”

Her voice was matronly admonishing. “I
sent telegram after telegram to Bitter Creek and received not one
reply.”

“
The telegraph office was out of
commission for a while.”

“
Don’t tell me you’ve been in
Bitter Creek this entire time!”

“
Well, yeah, that’s—”

She pooched her pink lips in disgust. “So
you found a soiled dove and decided to while away a couple of weeks
under the sheets?”

Prophet opened his mouth to object, but
she cut him off. “Lou Prophet, you are the vilest, laziest creature
the Good Lord set forth on this land. Living only to drink the
devil’s juice and couple with fallen women!”

Prophet found his ears warming like a
scolded schoolboy’s. “Louisa, that just ain’t true. I
been—”

Louisa slapped her hands to her ears.
“Please don’t assault me with the craven details!”

Prophet glared at her. “Louisa, I’m trying
to tell you, I been—”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Please
stop!”

Finally, he sighed and leaned over his
saddle horn, jutting his chin and screwing up his eyes. “Louisa,”
he shouted, “would you please just tell me what in the hell you’re
doin’ here!”

She removed her hands from her ears and
opened her eyes. “When I couldn’t contact you through the telegraph
from Denver City, I decided to start scouring the countryside for
you. Bitter Creek was the last place I saw you.”

He grinned, happy to see her, churlish as
she was. “So, now you found me. What’s up?”

“
We have a job to do, Lou
Prophet. It’s a big job. Too big for me alone.”

Prophet shook his head. “No jobs for me.
Not for at least a month. I’m wrung out.”

“
I told you I didn’t want to hear
the details of your devil party.”

He started to snarl a rebuttal, but again
she cut him off. “Quit horsing around, Lou. We have trouble in the
Southwest.” She reined the Morgan around and canted it back the way
she had come. “Come on,” she yelled behind her. “I’ll tell you
about it on our way to Cheyenne!”

“
Cheyenne?” Prophet
snorted.

“
We’ll pick up the train
there!”

“
Train?”

Prophet glared at her bobbing back.
Finally, he shook his head, kneed Mean into a trot, and yelled,
“Louisa, you’re a caution—you know that?”

He sighed and cursed and patted Mean’s
neck. “No rest for the weary, Mean. Not when that girl’s anywhere
within three territories …”

Grudgingly, he galloped Mean and Ugly into
Louisa’s sifting dust.

Piccadilly
Publishing is the brainchild of long time Western fans and Amazon
Kindle Number One bestselling Western writers Mike Stotter and
David Whitehead (a.k.a. Ben Bridges). The company intends to bring
back into 'e-print' some of the most popular and best-loved Western
and action-adventure series fiction of the last forty years.

Peter Brandvold is an American western
fiction author, who has written mor
e than thirty published novels. Born and raised in
North Dakota, Peter Brandvold spent much of his early life riding
horses, reading western novels, and watching western movies.
Brandvold later attended the University of North Dakota in Grand
Forks, and graduated with a B.A. in English. He then wrote for
several old west magazines such as Country Journal and True West
Magazine, until 1995, when he decided to write adventure stories.
Peter Brandvold also writes under his Frank Leslie pen name, of
which he has several published titles in the Yakima Henry series.
He has also written two titles for Ralph Compton.

1. The Devil and Lou Prophet

2. Dealt the Devil’s Hand

3. Riding with the Devil’s Mistress

4. The Devil Gets His Due

5. Staring Down the Devil

All available from Piccadilly Publishing