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

When Whitman had shoved wads down both
barrels of his Greener, he braced Eddie with a look and opened the
door. Holding the Greener out before him, the marshal stepped onto
the boardwalk, then drew the door closed behind him.

“
What is it, Scanlon?” the
marshal asked, as if he had no idea why the belligerent rancher had
come calling so late in the night.

“
I hear you been messin’ with my
boy again, Whitman,” Big Sam said in his deep, even voice. He sat
his mustang casually, one gloved hand atop the other on the saddle
horn.

“
I haven’t been messin’ with your
son. He’s been messin’ with the girls over at the Mother Lode. I
told him what was gonna happen next time he got out of line and
discharged his firearm within the town limits. He’s locked up, and
he’s gonna stay there till the circuit judge comes and hears his
story.”

Big Sam stared down at the marshal. The
cowboys on either side of him stared as well, their prominently
displayed pistols in easy reach.

Big Sam had been an outlaw
before he
’d
come to Bitter Creek and bought a ranch with stolen loot. Most of
his men were gun wolves with whom Sam had ridden the long coulees.
He used the wolves to keep the miners and grangers from tearing up
his graze and squatting on his water holes.

Whitman
couldn
’t see
the gun wolves’ faces under their hat brims, but he could tell by
the set of their shoulders that they weren’t smiling.

Big Sam
’s voice rumbled up from deep in his
chest. “You know I don’t recognize Henry Crumb’s so-called law. Let
my boy go, Whitman.”

“
I can’t do that,
Sam.”

“
Mr.
Scanlon,” corrected the tall,
loose-limbed cowboy sitting to Big Sam’s right.

Holding the Greener across his chest,
Whitman glared back at him in silence.

“
You let him go,” Big Sam warned,
“or I’ll stretch your neck. No one fucks with me, Marshal. No one.
Not you, not Henry Crumb, and not Dean Lovell. It’s time you and
all these rock-pickers and plow boys got it straight.”

Whitman
’s chest felt heavy and constricted.
He took a deep breath, calming his nerves, and measured his words
carefully, trying to keep the trill from his voice. “I know you
were one of the first settlers in this basin, Mist … Sam ... but
that don’t make you and your boy above the law. When young Rick
comes to town, he obeys Mr. Crumb’s laws or I turn the key on him,
just like I’d turn it on anyone else. No exceptions. I’ve given him
enough chances to straighten up and fly right. Now it’s time he
sees Mr. Crumb. He’ll probably only get a fine and maybe some
probation—”

“
One of Crumb’s famous fines,
eh?” Snarling, Scanlon rose in his saddle and leaned forward over
his horse’s long neck and said tightly, “Let him out,
Whitman.”

By the weak lamplight in the
window behind him, Whitman saw the old man
’s lips bunched beneath his
mustache.

“
Now!”
Sam roared.

“
It’s not gonna happen, Scanlon.
Now, you boys go on home. No doubt Rick’ll be along in a few
days.”

Neither the old man nor the
others said anything. The man to Scanlon
’s right, whom Whitman now recognized
as Leo Barnes, Sam’s ramrod, turned to the old man expectantly.
Scanlon fairly reeked of animosity. Whitman clutched the shotgun
before him, his heart thumping so hard he felt dizzy. His throat
was dry. Perspiration streaked his bearded cheeks.

He was encouraged by the old
man
’s lack of
action. Scanlon didn’t really want trouble with Henry Crumb and
Dean Lovell.

Feeling that he needed only to
press a tad harder to turn Scanlon
’s bunch for home, Whitman stepped off the
boardwalk into the street and thumbed the Greener’s right hammer
back.

“
Ride on home, Scanlon. Don’t dig
Rick’s hole any deeper than he already dug it himself.”

Silence.

Only the sound of the leaves
swirling along the boardwalks and pelting the dark storefronts. The
horses blew and stomped. At the other end of town, where the old
miners
’
shacks lined the creek, a dog was barking furiously.

Finally, Scanlon turned to
Barnes. Whitman saw the man
’s hard face split with a grin. Barnes laughed,
and then the others laughed too, as if at an unexpected
joke.

When they
’d all had a good laugh, Scanlon
turned his gaze to the marshal’s left. “Okay, Joe!” he yelled with
a trace of humor remaining in his voice.

It could have been a trick to
divert the marshal
’s attention. With the hair pricking along his spine, he
stepped back, frowning, and turned his head just enough to see the
dark corner of the jailhouse behind him. It was blotted out by a
figure bolting toward him. Before Scanlon could turn around to face
the man, something hard slammed into the back of his head, catching
him just above his neck.

As he went down with a groan,
his finger tripped the Greener
’s right trigger. The gun roared as Whitman
dropped to his knees, lights flashing in his head and a thousand
horses screaming in his ears.

He dropped the shotgun and rolled in the
dirt, losing consciousness fast. Vaguely, as if in a dream, he
heard Eddie yell. The yell was followed by several shots, each more
muffled than the last, until a dark sea washed over the marshal,
snuffing the world like a blown candle.

Louisa lay naked
on the rumpled,
twisted sheets. Smiling seductively, she lay on her side, her head
resting on the heel of her right hand, her long, slender legs
curled together, delicate feet resting one atop the
other.

Her full, smooth, pink-tipped breasts tipped
down toward the bed, tantalizingly screened by her left arm. Her
hair was a lovely, flaxen mess.

Prophet quickly undressed, leaned down,
moved her arm out of the way, and gently suckled her right nipple
until the girl was cooing and sighing and scrubbing his head with
her hands and clutching at him with her legs.

After his bath,
he
’d looked
all over town for her. Finally, he’d eaten a tough steak at a
deserted little cafe called Gertrude’s Good Food, then stomped off
to find a room at the only hotel in town, The Cottonwood. That’s
when the spidery old man at the front desk—it was actually a
broken-down kitchen table with a penny notebook for a
register—informed Prophet that “his sister” had already purchased a
room for them both.

The old man
’s eyes twinkled knowingly as
Prophet, dressed in his trail clothes and hefting his war bag,
shotgun, and rifle, thanked the oldster, headed up the creaky
stairs to the second floor, and slouched to the end of the
hall.

“
Louisa, why do we have to go
through this brother-sister nonsense every time we check into a
hotel?” he asked after their coupling.

Yawning and stretching her arms
above her head, she turned to him with her customary
impudence.
“We wouldn’t want the gentleman downstairs to think we were
doing anything improper, would we?”

Prophet chuckled wryly and
hooked a lock of hair from her cheek with his finger.
“You’ve killed
upwards of thirty men, and you’re worried someone’s gonna think
you’re doing something depraved?”

“
Killing human dung beetles is
one thing, sharing a man’s room is another.” She turned, buried her
face in his chest, and wrapped her arms around his waist. “People
wouldn’t understand how it is with you and me.” She rubbed her
cheek against his chest. “I love you, Lou.”

Prophet ran a hand through her
hair.
“I love
you, Louisa.”

“
If we love we each other, why
are we never together more than a few days at a time?”

With slow thoughtfulness, he
said,
“Oh, I
reckon it’s ’cause we each have some oats to sow before we settle
down.”

She didn
’t say anything for a time, just held
him, enjoying the warmth of his big, muscular body, the slow thud
of his heart in his broad chest.

“
It’s because we both have men to
hunt,” she said.

“
Pshaw,” Prophet said. “I don’t
have men to hunt—just a livin’ to make, and it just so happens I
make it hunting men. You, on the other hand ... you …” He shook his
head again and sighed. “You got the world to save.”

Prophet felt her cheek form a
smile against his chest.
“I’m savin’ it too ... slow but sure.”

He held her away from him. She
looked up at him, a faint smile quirking the corners of her
mouth.
“Louisa, you can kill twenty more men. Make that thirty.
Hell, you can kill a hundred.” He shook his head. “It’s not gonna
bring your family back.”

She flinched as though
he
’d slapped
her. “I’ve told you before, I don’t want to talk about my
family.”

“
Louisa, you’re a damn good
bounty hunter, but I want you to quit. I want you to cash in your
chips and call it a game before someone cashes them in for
you.”

The smile on her cherubic face
blossomed.
“Are you worried about me?”

“
Yes.”

She lifted her face to him, as
though basking in the sun of his concern. Finally, she said,
“I can handle
myself. You saw that water cup.”

He chuffed.
“I saw, but that kinda display’s
gonna make you a target. It’s gonna get you killed one of these
days, Louisa.” He stared at her, pleading. “Won’t you hang ’em up
for old Lou?”

Her smile turned into a
frown.
“What
would I do? Where would I go?”

“
Back to Nebraska.”

“
No one’s there.” Squeezing her
eyes closed suddenly, as though overcome by a sudden pain, she
shook her head. “No!” She lifted her chin, wrapped her arms around
his neck, and pressed her breasts against his chest. “I don’t want
to talk about this ... just ... just make love to me,
Lou.”

She brought her lips to his, kissing him
hungrily. Not much time had passed since their first coupling, but
she clung to him with such desperation that he succumbed to her and
to his own reigniting desire.

Prophet had many weaknesses,
Louisa not least among
them. Her compact, full-breasted body pushed
against him. He held her tightly, kissing her, enjoying her smooth,
moist lips against his, her honey-apple mouth opening, her tongue
exploring. In a few minutes, they lay entangled on the sagging,
brass-framed bed, the springs complaining with the regularity of a
speeding metronome.

Later in the night, he woke with a start and
turned to her, curled beside him, her face buried against his ribs.
She moaned and sobbed, shaking her head and scissoring her
legs.

“
Louisa,” he said, gently shaking
her.

She sobbed again, shook her
head, her tangled hair sliding across her face.
“No ... please, no!”

“
Louisa, it’s all
right.”

Her voice was small, pinched,
pleading.
“Oh, God ...
Please don’t kill them
!”

He turned onto his side, took
her shoulders in his hands, and shook her once, forcefully. He
raised his voice.
“Louisa, wake up. You’re dreaming.”

Her eyes snapped open, filled with black
horror.

“
Louisa, it’s all right,” he
whispered. “It’s me. Lou. You’re safe.” He smoothed her hair back
from her face, kissed her flushed, moist cheek
reassuringly.

Slowly, the fear left her eyes, replaced
with a relieved recognition. She blinked. Her features softened,
and her muscles relaxed. She rested her face against his ribs.

Just when he thought
she
’d fallen
back asleep, her shoulders jerked. She sobbed. And then she was
crying, an all-out storm of emotion. All he could do was hold her,
rock her gently as she was forced by the nightmare to peer down
that dark corridor into the past and watch as her Nebraska farm was
raided and her family butchered by the mindless, renegade horde led
by Handsome Dave Duvall.

Prophet wished he could erase
the images from her mind and set her free, but
he
’d known
her long enough to know that all he could do was hold her. He held
her close, rocked her gently, caressing her temple with his face,
until the storm had passed and she had once again fallen asleep on
his shoulder.

He stared up at the ceiling, Louisa
breathing softly against him.

Her family had been killed three
years ago. It had been a sudden, thunderous attack by sadistic
outlaws. The Red River Gang had been out mostly to rape and to
terrorize— what more could they get from attacking poor farm
families like Louisa
’s?—and they’d done a good job of it that day on the little
Bonaventure farm on Sand Creek, near Roseville in Nebraska
Territory.

Louisa had been out selling eggs
to neighbors that morning. When the attack had come,
she
’d been on
her way back home, only a half mile from the farm.