Riding With the Devil's Mistress (Lou Prophet Western #3) (24 page)

Ignoring the gunfire for the
moment, Prophet swung his leg up sideways, and funneled all his
strength into a solid kick to the shotgunner
’s groin, effectively
immobilizing the man. As he turned around, two more pistol shots
sounded—these from a larger-caliber revolver, setting his ears to
ringing painfully, the smell of cordite burning his nostrils. He
saw another of the big railroaders stumble back against the
building, grunting and bringing his hands to his chest.

Heart thudding and adrenaline
coursing, Prophet jerked left. Louisa stood beside him, her
silver-plated Colt extended straight out before her, aimed at the
railroader who
’d just collapsed against the building. Smoke swirled
around her head and curled from the Colt’s five-inch
barrel.

The man muttered something.
Louisa fired again. The man
’s head dropped and he said nothing
more.

Hearing
the sound of retreating feet
behind him, Prophet turned around and saw the fourth railroader
running off down the alley, fading in the darkness. He reappeared
in the dull light at the alley’s end, turned, and
disappeared.

The man Prophet had kicked cursed and
groaned, hands to his crotch, while he rolled face-down on the
ground.

Prophet turned back to Louisa,
who was turning her gun on the Irishman, who now lay on his back in
the middle of the alley, blood gushing from a long, deep gash in
his neck. He blinked his eyes rapidly and worked his mouth, making
weird, wet, guttural sounds. His pocket pistol lay beside him.
Prophet figured the first two slugs he
’d heard had come from the Irishman,
fired involuntarily after Louisa had cut his throat.

‘
Jesus
Christ, girl,’ Prophet said, awestruck. After all he’d seen her do,
he now realized he still had no idea what she was capable
of.

‘
No
one touches me unless I say,’ she said mildly to the dying
Irishman. Raising the gun to the man’s head and thumbing back the
hammer, she added, ‘And I rarely say.’

‘
Easy,
easy,’ Prophet said, shoving her gun down. ‘He’s good as dead, and
we’ve made enough noise the way it is. Let’s get out of here before
we have to explain all this to the sheriff.’ He stooped to retrieve
his Colt and started down the alley. ‘Come on.’

When he didn
’t hear her running behind him,
he stopped and turned. She was on her knees, looking suddenly,
uncharacteristically weary.

Running back to her, Prophet
knelt down.
‘What’s the matter, girl?’

She gave a heavy sigh.
‘I feel faint...
all of a sudden. ...’

‘
Probably all the beer and excitement. You’ll be all right
in a minute. I’ll take your saddlebags.’

He reached for the bags
she
’d draped
over her shoulder.

She stopped him with,
‘No—that ain’t it.
I always feel faint when I see my own blood.’

‘
Huh?’

She took
Prophet
’s
arm and heaved herself standing, then stooped to place a hand on
her calf. ‘Think I took a ricochet from the Irishman’s peashooter,’
she said.

Prophet frowned with
concern.
‘Where?’

‘
Here.’

‘
How
bad is it?’

‘
I
don’t know, but’—she swooned like a Southern belle—’I think I’m
gonna faint.’

‘
Oh,
Jesus!’ Prophet carped, catching her.

He picked her up, saddlebags
and all, in his arms, and ran clumsily down the alley. The man
he
’d groined
spat behind him, ‘You goddamn ... sons’bitches ... ye fight
yella!’

Prophet was amazed at how light the girl
seemed at first, considering all her sass and firepower. Her
saddlebags dangling off his left arm felt heavier than she herself.
The whole package, however, became more cumbersome the farther he
ran, looking for his hotel, which he seemed to have misplaced. He
was considering setting Louisa and her cargo down for a breather
when he finally saw the place—a modest, two-story building with a
cafe on the first floor and a handful of rented rooms on the
second.

‘
It’s
more money for two,’ announced the cranky old bat behind the front
desk, scowling over the cream-colored poodle sitting on the
counter. The dog growled through its teeth at the big, clumsy
newcomer stumbling through the lobby door with a comatose girl in
his arms.

‘
I’ll
pay up in the morning,’ Prophet said, heading for the narrow,
winding stairs behind the desk.

‘
You’ll pay now!’ chirped the shrew, jutting a crooked
finger at a hand-lettered sign requiring all payments in
advance.

‘
Go
diddle yourself!’

Aside from the
poodle
’s
single yip, that was the end of the conversation, for Prophet had
made the landing and was starting up the second flight of stairs,
fumbling his way through the darkness. The old biddy was too cheap
to keep a lantern lit in the hall, so he had to count the doors on
the left before finding his own.

Grappling in his pocket for the
key which he was glad he hadn
’t turned over to the biddy before leaving, he got
the door open, stepped inside, and lay Louisa gently down on the
bed. Not having heard a peep out of her for several minutes, he was
worried she was dead.

Quickly, he kicked the door closed, got a
lantern lit, and set it on the rickety table beside the lumpy,
slanting bed, upon which Louisa lay on her hat, which had tumbled
down her back, hanging by its cord. Her hair was in her face and
her skin looked pale.

‘
Louisa,’ Prophet gently called, leaning down to listen to
her heart. ‘Louisa, you all right, girl?’

He listened for several
seconds, not sure if what he was hearing was her heart or something
else. Worried she
’d taken more than one bullet and was teetering on death’s
doorstep, he headed for the door in search of a doctor.

He
’d just opened the door and was
heading into the hall when Louisa sighed behind him.

He turned.

She sighed again, and mumbled something.

Prophet went to her, leaned
over the bed, took her delicate chin in his hand, and gently moved
her head from side to side.
‘Louisa? You all right?’

Her eyelids fluttered open. Her
mouth opened and she took a deep draught of air.
‘Oh, God ... what
happened?’

‘
You
passed out. Tell me where you’re hurt.’

‘
My
leg ...’

‘
Just
your leg?’

‘
I
think so... .’

Prophet ran his eyes down her
body, looking for more
wounds. ‘Sure you’re not hit somewhere
else?’

‘
No—just my leg.’ She lifted her head to look at her leg,
made a face, turned pale again, and made a gagging sound. ‘Ah, God!
I can’t... I never been able to stand the sight of
blood.’

Prophet looked at her
skeptically.
‘What?’

She rested her head back on the
pillow.
‘Never could stand it.’

Still scowling, Prophet moved
to her ankle, lifted her skirt up until he saw the blood staining
her pantaloons. He began separating her stockings from her
pantaloons, and she said,
‘No!’

‘
I
gotta get that wound cleaned and see if the bullet’s still in
there!’

She made another gagging sound and turned
her head to the side, ready to vomit.

‘
Get a
grip on yourself now, girl,’ he admonished, rolling the pantaloons
up her leg. ‘I’m not gonna hurt you, and I’m not lookin’ for a
thrill, for Chrissakes. I’m just gonna see how bad you’re
hit.’

‘
The
bullet’—she gagged again and coughed—’the bullet ain’t in there; I
can’t feel it. Th-the bullet just creased my calf.’

In a moment, Prophet saw that
it was true. The slug had made a small neat furrow along her calf,
drilling just deep enough to make it look worse than it was.
Finding it hard to reconcile her reaction—he
’d thought she was dead!—to the
superficiality of the wound, he put his head close to her naked
leg, carefully scrutinizing the wound.

‘
Sure
enough, it’s just a graze!’ Prophet looked at her frowning, then
broke out in laughter. ‘It’s just a graze! What in the hell you
makin’ such a big fuss about?’

‘
I
told you,’ she said tightly, angry now, staring up at the ceiling,
‘I can’t stand the sight of blood.’

‘
Your
own blood, you mean.’

‘
Yes,
mine.’

Prophet guffawed.
‘... Because you
sure as hell don’t mind the sight of others’ blood ... !’ He sat
down on the bed beside her and threw his head back with laughter,
until someone from below hit the floor several times with something
hard.

He covered his mouth, squealing
and wheezing, until he finally settled down, chuckling, and turned
to her, wagging his head.
‘Girl, you take the cake, you know
that?’

‘
I’m
glad you’re so amused, Mr. Prophet.’

He chuckled again, as relieved
she wasn
’t
seriously hurt as he was amused by her. In spite of her off-putting
idiosyncracies, or maybe because of them, he’d taken a shine to
this girl. Mystified and appalled by her, he knew the world would
be a duller place without her.

Finally, he stood and poured
water from the pitcher on the washstand into the basin, and found a
clean cloth in his saddlebags. He brought the basin and the rag to
the bed, soaked the rag, and began dabbing at the
girl
’s
bloody calf.

‘
Don’t
you go lookin’ at my leg now,’ Louisa scolded. Her voice was still
tight, as though she was doing everything she could do distract
herself from the idea of her own blood.

‘
Now,
how am I supposed to clean your leg if I don’t look at
it?’

‘
Well,
just don’t look at any more of it than you have to.’

‘
Too
late,’ Prophet quipped. He grinned. ‘Already took me a good, long
look, and that’s one pretty leg you got here, Miss Bonny-venture. I
bet more than one boy set store by you back home.’

When she did not reply, Prophet looked up at
her. She lay still, still staring at the ceiling, but her eyes were
shiny, and a single tear rolled down her left cheek.

Prophet frowned.
‘What’s the mat—?’
he stopped, realizing what it was. He’d mentioned home.

He started dabbing at the blood
again, letting several minutes pass before asking,
‘Want to tell me
about it?’

She swallowed and shook her
head. Her voice was phlegmy when she said,
‘Uh-uh.’

That was all she said, and Prophet said
nothing more, either, as he finished cleaning the wound with
whiskey from his saddlebags, and wrapped it with a clean cloth.

‘
There
you are—good as new,’ he said, getting up from the bed and
returning the basin to the stand. ‘You can bear to look at it now.
It’s got a nice white cloth on it.’

She sat up, scooted up against
the headboard, and looked down at her leg. Glancing at Prophet
sheepishly, she said,
‘Obliged.’

‘
De
nada.’

‘
Sorry
I passed out.’

Prophet shrugged.
‘I’ve had women
faint on me before.’ He smiled as he-rinsed his rag in the basin.
‘Just not one quite like you.’

‘
I
reckon I better see about getting my own room.’ She moved to get
off the bed.

‘
The
biddy’s done turned in. She closes at nine, and it’s past nine now.
You’ll have to sleep here tonight. Don’t worry, I’m too tired to
maul you.’

Louisa looked at him warily,
then carefully scooted back against the headboard, adjusting her
skirts over her legs and lacing her fingers in her lap.
‘That isn’t
right.’

‘
What—my not mauling you, or our sharing the same
room?’

‘
You
know what I mean, Mr. Prophet.’

‘
Hey,
just cause I seen your leg doesn’t mean you have to start calling
me Mr. Prophet.’ He pegged his hat and shell belt, then held his
quart bottle of Tennessee rye up to the light. Noting the liquid’s
level, he sat in the barrel chair by the window, set the whiskey on
the floor between his feet, and fished his makings sack from his
shirt pocket.

Louisa watched him.
‘You gonna smoke
and drink now?’

He looked at her dully.
‘Is that all
right?’