TIRING OF HER brothers’ unending questions about Prophet—who he was, where he’d come from, why he’d shot Little Stu, and was Layla going to marry him— she grabbed a towel and a soap cake and started for the creek for a bath.
“You guys get about your chores,” she said. “And Keith, when you’re done hauling wood, butcher a chicken for supper tonight. And you both stay away from the creek until I’m done with my bath. I catch you spyin’ on me, I’ll take a strap to you both.”
“You’re takin’ a bath on a Monday?” Keith called from the porch, where he and Charlie had lit like a couple of crows. “Boy, you must really be gone for him!” Charlie squealed.
Layla turned angrily around. “I am not ‘gone for him’,” she said. “Now if you two don’t get to work, you’re getting gruel for supper!”
“Yes, Layla,” Keith said, knowing the fun and excitement were over, and it was time to harness the sorrel quarter horse for wood hauling.
“Okay, Sister,” Charlie said, snugging his hat down lower on his head until his ears stuck out, and heading for the blacksmith lean-to off the barn.
Layla turned to them once more. “And I did not kiss him,” she announced. “He was... he was delirious last night.”
“You ain’t gonna marry him, then?” Keith asked.
“Yeah, you ain’t gonna marry him, then?” Charlie echoed his younger brother. “You’re still gonna marry ole Gregor Lang?”
“No, I ain’t gonna marry Mr. Prophet,” Layla said impatiently. “I’m still going to marry Gregor. He’s a good man. Besides, you know how Pa wanted me to. Now, get to work!”
“Ah, Layla.”
“Yeah ... ah, Layla ...”
Groaning with frustration, Layla wheeled and headed around the corral and barn toward the creek. Sometimes she got so tired of being both mother and older sister to those boys—only one of whom was actually younger than she—that she felt like heading to the barn with a short rope.
But then there’d be three graves under the cottonwood, and her brothers would be all alone. She knew Keith would probably manage; he was old for a twelve-year-old and wily as a brush wolf. But she wasn’t so sure about Charlie. The lad might have been nineteen in body, but in mind he was only about six or seven. He’d been born “touched,” as they say—a child forever.
Layla walked along the meandering horse trail to the creek, the deep cut of which twisted through the chalky buttes, shaded here and there by willows, cottonwoods, Russian olives, and occasional shrub thickets. Her favorite bath and swimming hole was straight south of the barn. Here the water deepened in a sharp bend, opaque green, with a soft sandy bottom and hardly any weeds and only a few rocks.
She stopped on the bank and stared into the sliding, murmuring water, wondering why she’d decided to bathe on a Monday.
She had little time to consider the question. Something sounded behind the butte before her, and she lifted her gaze that way, as two horsemen galloped over the crest, silhouetted against the sky.
Giving a start, she froze, staring at the two riders like apparitions from a nightmare.
Loomis men.
Her skin prickling and heart jumping, she wheeled and ran back toward the ranch yard. She heard the men whooping and splashing across the creek, then the hooves of their horses pounding up the bank behind her. One of the riders slapped her over the head with his lariat. She gave an angry cry and hit the ground.
She jumped to her feet, her jaw set with exasperation, and lunged to punch the man. He jerked his horse sideways, reached down, and grabbed Layla around the waist, lifting her against his saddle.
“Ow! Goddamn you ... what do you think you’re ... put me down!”
The man only laughed and spurred his horse, holding Layla against his saddle, riding into the ranch yard. He released her in front of the barn, and she hit the ground hard and rolled.
When she looked up, she saw through the wafting yellow dust about a dozen riders swarming into the ranch yard from all directions. They halted their sweating horses in a large, ragged circle and jerked their heads around cautiously, rifles and pistols held at the ready.
She heard Charlie cry her name. Whipping her head around, she saw him kneeling in the dust, a lariat encircling his chest. It appeared that one of the riders had lassoed and dragged him. His hat was missing, and he was dust-coated, his face twisted in agony. He sobbed, “Layla!”
“Get that rope off my brother!” she screamed.
Gerard Loomis rode into the yard on his steeldust, holding a screaming Keith against his saddle, the boy’s kicking legs a good foot above the ground.
“Lemme go, lemme go!” the boy cried, face twisted in pain and anger.
“You want me to let you go?” Loomis said, grinning.
He brought the gray to a halt before Layla and released Keith, who hit the ground on his feet. The boy lost his balance and, stumbling, tumbled to his butt, doing a complete backward somersault and coming up with his dirt-caked hair hanging in his eyes.
“There. I let you go,” Loomis said, laughing, his evil dark eyes glittering.
Layla jumped to her feet. “You bastard!” she screamed, her voice breaking with emotion. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? This is private property. You’re trespassing!”
“Where is he?” Loomis said.
She stared at him. “Where’s who?”
“Prophet.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Behind her, a man coming out of the barn said, “He ain’t in there, boss.”
“What about the other buildings?” Loomis asked the group in general.
“Nothin’ boss,” a man said as he and another moved toward the group from the outbuildings.
Loomis glanced impatiently at Herman, the dog, running in a semicircle around him and his men, barking hysterically and taking occasional nips at the horses.
“Someone silence that goddamn dog,” he ordered.
“No!” Keith cried, running toward the dog.
“I got it, boss,” a rider said. He drew his revolver and fired. The bullet creased Herman’s skull, and the dog crouched with a squeal, wheeled, and ran behind the barn with his tail between his legs. The boy disappeared after him.
“You son of a bitch!” Layla cried, bolting toward Loomis. One of the other men put his horse between them, shoving her back and aiming his pistol at her face.
Beside Loomis, Luther McConnell said, “We haven’t checked the house yet, boss.”
“Well, then,” Loomis said to his foreman, “shall we, Luther?”
“You got it, boss.”
Dismounting, Loomis said to the other men, “Fan out and cover us. If he’s not in one of the other buildings, he has to be in the house.” He looked at Layla. “And keep a close eye on the girl. If we find Prophet here, this ranch will be burned to the ground and she and her brothers will hang.”
Frozen with fear, Layla said nothing.
Loomis and McConnell drew their revolvers and walked cautiously toward the cabin.
Mounting the stoop, Loomis listened at the door. He lifted the latch and kicked the door wide. It bounced against the wall. Catching it with his left hand, he entered with his gold-plated Colt in his right.
“Come out here, Prophet,” Loomis called. “You’re gonna pay for killin’ my boy, you worthless rebel scum.”
He and McConnell walked slowly through the cluttered room, looking behind the woodstove and range and everywhere else a man could hide. When it was obvious Prophet wasn’t in the main room or kitchen, both men made their way to the plank door at the back, each taking a side.
Loomis threw the door open and crouched, ready to fire.
He held up. The bed before him was empty, the sheets and quilt thrown back.
“Check under the bed.”
McConnell got down on his hands and knees and looked under the bed, moving things around with his right hand. Finally, he looked at his boss.
“There ain’t no room for a man under here, boss.”
Loomis sighed angrily and holstered his gun. He stared at the bed, his face turning to stone, the blood retreating. Wheeling, he stomped out of the house.
“He’s not here,” he told the men fanned out around him. “We’ll check every ranch along the Pretty Butte. One of these goddamn nesters had to pick him up.”
He forked leather and started away, then checked the steeldust and turned back to Layla, who stood in the middle of the ranch yard as though in a dream, staring at the house.
“You see the man I’m lookin’ for, you best get word to me, girl. Pronto.”
Then he rode away.
Layla hadn’t even turned to him. She was still staring with confused relief at the house, nearly giddy with the impossible realization they hadn’t found Prophet. She’d expected to be dead by now ... or worse.
When the riders were gone and only their dust remained, she turned to Charlie, still kneeling in the yard where they’d left him. He stared at Layla blankly.
“You okay, Brother?” Layla called to him.
Charlie stood slowly and brushed himself off. He didn’t say anything. Keith came up behind Layla, and she turned to him.
“How’s Herman?”
“He’ll be okay. He’s hidin’ behind the barn. What happened?”
“I don’t know.” Layla started for the cabin.
She and Keith entered the bedroom and stood just inside the door, gazing wide-eyed around the small, cramped room. The bed was empty.
“Mr. Prophet?” Layla called, tentative.
Silence.
After several seconds, a muffled voice rose. “They gone?”
“Yes.”
There was another pause. The paraphernalia under the bed started to move outward, including Prophet’s boots, filthy denims, and gun belt. Finally, Prophet’s pale face peered out from under the bed.
“Everybody all right?” he asked.
Layla nodded. “More or less. How ’bout you?”
“Peachy.”