PROPHET SLEPT DEEPLY for another hour and was awakened at around six-fifteen by two old codgers walking past his door arguing. Lifting himself onto his elbows with a groan, his thigh burning, he shoved his pillows up against the headboard, and lay back, arms folded across his belly.
Cordelia was on his mind in all her bewitching tenderness. He smiled, remembering how she’d straddled him, sighing softly as she’d worked against him, her long hair in his face, her swollen breasts in his hands. He wondered whose room was directly beneath his and if they’d heard the bedsprings getting one hell of a workout so late last eve....
Prophet chuckled at the thought, but not for long. There was work to be done.
He sighed deeply and cleared his throat, scowling away the memory of Cordelia’s opulent breasts in his hands, and scooting higher against the headboard. It was time to give some thought to his next course of action against the Red River Gang.
Pondering the situation, he remembered Louisa telling him to meet her in Fargo tomorrow. He remembered from his study of a map on a stage station wall some time ago that Fargo lay about fifty miles north of Wahpeton, also on the Red River of the north. Larger than Wahpeton, it had become a major river port for Dakota Territory as well as northwestern Minnesota. The Northern Pacific Railway had laid track through there as well, and the town had become a major stopping-off place for immigrants heading west.
Had Louisa learned the gang was headed that way? She must have. How she had, Prophet didn’t bother to guess. The honey-haired Miss Bonaventure was pure-dee hell with the fires out, and if she told him to head to Fargo, you can damn well bet it wasn’t for a barn dance.
Thinking of her, he smiled ruefully and shook his head. No seasoned lawmen had yet been able to sink their teeth into that gang, but here she was, knocking them off one by one. How she’d gotten by with it so far was a mystery. Prophet guessed that being such a sweet-talking, innocent-looking girl had helped. And so had her patience, not to mention her methodical, relentless tracking abilities.
Also on her side was the keen yet subtle madness Prophet had seen in her eyes. The girl may have been only sixteen years old in body, but what she’d seen happen to her family had made her soul as old as the moon and stars. He’d seen people age like that during the War Between the States—hell, it had happened to him—and he knew that once that innocence was lost, there was no getting it back.
So Fargo it was, he thought, tossing his covers back and dropping his feet to the floor. In Fargo, he’d meet Louisa and they’d take it from there ...
He dressed in a clean pair of denims and buckskin shirt, and stomped into his undershot boots as soft as moccasins, then wrapped his gunbelt around his waist and donned his hat. He descended the stairs and nearly ran into Cordelia coming out of the kitchen with a bowl of scrambled eggs.
They smiled at each other lustily. Cordelia saw one of the regular boarders starting down the stairs and cleared her throat. She arranged an impartial expression and said, ‘Good morning, Mr. Prophet. Sleep well?’
‘I sure did, Mrs. Ryan,’ Prophet said, following her into the dining room and removing his hat. ‘Very well, indeed.’ He wanted to inquire about the condition of the girl, but knew it would have to wait until after breakfast. One did not inquire in public about such a delicate matter as rape.
Prophet stepped up to the table and frowned when he saw three strange men seated amidst the regulars before the long, oval table covered with a white cloth, glistening china, and steaming coffee cups. The men examined him critically as Prophet reached for a chair, and the bounty hunter measured them in turn.
They were all so young and well-dressed and carefully groomed, with such confident eyes and smiles, that they reminded Prophet of the young, green, well-bred cavalry officers he’d known back during the Little Misunderstanding. The resemblance was so keen, in fact, he nearly shuddered. The negligent leadership of such men—or boys, rather—had been responsible for the needless slaughter of so many of Prophet’s friends and family.
‘Mr. Prophet,’ Cordelia said, when she’d put down the egg bowl, ‘as you can see, we have three newcomers. They appeared last night, and Annabelle let them in. Gentlemen, would you introduce yourselves to Mr. Prophet and the other boarders while I fetch the rest of the meal?’
‘We certainly will, Mrs. Ryan,’ said the darkest of the three young men. His glittering eyes followed Cordelia’s backside from the room before sliding back to Prophet, the trace of a an appreciative leer lingering on his lips.
Immediately, Prophet didn’t like him. He was tall, pale, and thin, with a full head of black hair and a carefully combed mustache the blue-black of anthracite.
‘I’m Abel Montgomery,’ he said, and, turning to his compatriots seated on his right, added, ‘this is Ezekial Mcllroy and Edward Fontana. We’re deputy U.S. marshals out of Yankton, Dakota Territory. We were in the area when we heard about the Red River Gang tearing through your town the other day. We’re here to bring them to justice.’
Smiling, very pleased with himself, he glanced around the table, as if waiting for applause. The old people watched him dully. One of the checker players wrinkled his nose and shook his head, shakily lifting his coffee to his lips. Two withered ladies whispered in each other’s ears.
Prophet stared at the three young men in their boiled shirts and brushed vests and blemished faces, barely able to keep from laughing. So these were the lawmen they’d sent after the Red River Gang? Inwardly, Prophet shook his head. Hell would freeze over and the devil would have icicles in his beard before these three even got close to taking down that bunch.
‘You boys done anted up for a whole pack of trouble when you signed up to take down the Red River Gang,’ Prophet warned.
Flushing, the three took exception with being called ‘boys.’ Their eyes fell to Prophet and set up like pudding.
‘We know exactly who and what we’re up against, Mr. Prophet,’ the red-haired deputy Mcllroy announced self-righteously. ‘We’ve studied all the paper we could find on this gang.’
‘Have you ever met up with any of ‘em?’
‘No, but we didn’t have to, to know who and what they are,’ said Edward Fontana, a short, sandy-haired lad. ‘They’re lead by Handsome Dave Duvall and his number-one henchman, Dayton Flowers. Both spent time in Arizona’s Yuma Prison, where they met, and together they’ve robbed stage coaches and banks across the West for the past six years. They kill flagrantly and with apparent glee, and often torture their victims. They’re also kidnappers and rape—’
‘That’ll be enough business talk now, gentlemen,’ Cordelia announced as she strode into the room with a platter of bacon and a bowl of fried potatoes. When she’d set the food on the table, she folded her hands before her and turned to one of the checker players. ‘Floyd, would you mind saying grace this morning, please?’
No more was said on the topic, but over breakfast, the three deputies eyed Prophet derisively, taking his measure again and again and never appearing to like the tally. Keeping the peace, Prophet merely grinned and forked potatoes into his mouth.
When he’d finished eating, he took his coffee cup out to the porch. As he knew they would, the deputies followed him. They lined up before him, glaring down icily under the broad brims of their hats, their black boots polished to high shines. The sandy-haired Fontana was smoking a slim cheroot. Prophet glimpsed Montgomery’s badge peeking out from behind his vest.
When they didn’t speak, Prophet looked around and said affably, ‘Looks like it’s gonna make a nice one today. This far north, you never know what kind o’ weather the good Lord’s gonna bless us with.’
Montgomery’s eyes remained frigid. ‘Last night we learned from Mrs. Ryan’s helper, a Miss Annabelle, that you rescued a girl back from the gang over in Wahpeton.’ His voice was friendly enough, but Prophet could tell it was a strain for him. ‘We appreciate that, Mr. Prophet. From now on, however, we respectfully request that you stay out of this affair. It’s our job now to bring the Red River Gang to justice.’
Prophet poked his hat back from his forehead and gazed up at the deputies troubledly. ‘You boys know where they are and where they’re headed?’
‘We have reason to believe they’re headed for Fargo, and then Grand Forks,’ Mcllroy said, his red hair catching the morning sun beneath his snuff-colored hat. ‘They’ll rob a bank in Fargo, one in Grand Forks, then head to Canada. That’s been their pattern, once every year for the past three years.’
Montgomery added, ‘Then no one will see them again for another six months, when they’ll show up farther west, heading south and starting their vicious, rampaging arc all over again, starting with the gold camps in Wyoming.’
Prophet nodded, admiring their knowledge of the gang. It was one thing to gather information, however, and another to bring down a small army of badmen.
‘Maybe I should throw in with you b—’ He stopped himself, cracked a smile. ‘Marshals.’
In unison, all three shook their heads. ‘You have bounty hunter written all over you, Prophet,’ Montgomery growled.
‘And we don’t cotton to bounty hunters,’ Fontana added, wrinkling his slender nose as though detecting dog droppings.
‘So stay out of it, Mr. Prophet,’ Mcllroy warned. ‘If we see you or hear of you out there, within twenty square miles of us, we’ll arrest you for interfering with the duties of federal law enforcers.’
Prophet studied them with an incredulous frown. ‘You boys sure take yourselves serious,’ he said, raking his eyes across their fancy six-shooters prominently displayed and secured to their thighs with leather thongs. Then he raised his hands and dropped them to his knees. ‘But have it your way.’
‘That’ll be all, Mr. Prophet,’ Montgomery said, as though dismissing him. But it was they who turned and headed back into the boarding house.
They reappeared five minutes later, carrying rifles, war bags, and bedrolls. They didn’t so much as glance at Prophet as they crossed the porch, descended the steps, and filed off toward the livery barn for their horses.
Cordelia stepped outside and gazed after them for several seconds before turning to Prophet, who’d finished his coffee and was smoking a cigarette, his right boot hiked on his left knee, hat tipped back on his head.
‘Do they have any chance at all, Lou?’
‘Yeah,’ Prophet said with a sigh. ‘But a very slim one. How’s the girl?’
‘Still sleeping. She’s pretty beat up. She’ll probably sleep the rest of the day and maybe even tomorrow. I dread her waking up and having to tell her that both her parents are dead.’
Prophet looked around to see if anyone was watching, then reached out and took Cordelia’s hand in his, caressed her tender skin with his thumb.
She dropped her eyes to him and offered a fragile smile. Her words were not fragile at all, however, when she said, ‘Make them pay for what they did here, Lou. I’m normally a Christian kind of woman, but what they did here wasn’t Christian, and they should be treated accordingly. I know those boys with badges can’t do it, so you’ll have to do it. You’re the only one.’
‘I know,’ Prophet said, nodding.
‘Do you think you can, Lou? Do you think you can get all of them?’
‘I think so.’ With a certain little farm girl’s help, he thought with a grim light in his eyes.
He stubbed out his cigarette, stood, and hugged Cordelia tightly, then went inside for his gear. When he came back carrying his shotgun and rifle, Cordelia was still standing on the porch.
‘Will you be back?’
Prophet grinned. ‘I have to come back. I left a pile of dirty clothes on the floor up in my room.’
He looked around cautiously again, then kissed her full on the lips, gave her a wink, and walked off the porch and around back to the carriage shed.
When he’d rigged out Mean and Ugly, he rode the horse south to Main Street. He stopped on a corner by the barbershop when he saw the three deputy marshals leading their saddled mounts down the livery barn’s ramp. Looking serious and businesslike, the three lads adjusted their stirrups, double-checked their cinches, donned their cream dusters, and tightened the chin straps so their hats wouldn’t fly off their heads. Exchanging official nods, they mounted up and gigged their horses eastward, primly ignoring the dogs that ran out to bark at their horses.
Again remembering the dangerous officers in charge of his ill-fated company during the War, Prophet shook his head, glanced around, and gigged the line-back dun to the gunsmith shop up the street to his left. When he’d bought a good supply of shells for his shotgun, rifle, and Peacemaker, he headed over to the barbershop. Getting a shave and a haircut would kill enough time for those three badge-toting younkers to get a safe distance ahead of him. He didn’t want to see them any worse than they wanted to see him. They were the very picture of meat headed for the grinder, and they gave him the willies.
He tied Mean and Ugly to the hitch rack before the barbershop and stepped inside. He walked out forty-five minutes later not only shaved and trimmed but bathed, as well. It had turned out the barber, trying to drum up business again after the renegades had given the town a bad name, was running a special, and the bath had cost him only one extra dime.
‘I’d say I smelled some better than you, Mean and Ugly,’ Prophet told the horse as he gathered the reins from the rack. ‘What do you think about that?’
He’d just stepped off the boardwalk when a shot rang out, tearing Prophet’s hat from his head.