LOU PROPHET WENT back to bed and slept, dreaming crazily about the battles he’d experienced during the Civil War, about his parents, his brothers and sisters, and the cousins he’d lost during the war and those who’d returned after Appomattox sporting crutches and empty sleeves. Somehow, mixed up in it all, was the showgirl, Lola Diamond, also known as Amber Skye, with whom he’d shared an adventure last year in the Beaverhead Mountains of Montana.
He and Lola had been chased by firebrands hired by the Johnson City crime boss, Billy Brown, but in Prophet’s dream, the men chasing him and Lola had been Union soldiers dressed in blue federal uniforms and wielding Spencer rifles and bayonets.
Then suddenly he was a boy courting his Blue Ridge Mountain sweetheart. Then, just as suddenly, he was standing by his grandfather’s freshly dug grave, with the redbuds and laurel in full flower and Cherry Creek gurgling and his grandmother weeping into her handkerchief while Uncle Cy played “In the Sweet Bye and Bye” on his fiddle.
It was when he was in Texas, just after the war, and trailing a herd to the railhead in Abilene, that someone placed a wet rag on his forehead, and he woke with a start, grabbing a hand. Opening his eyes, he saw a pretty, blue-eyed girl in a man’s blue shirt staring down at him. Lowering his gaze, he found her hand in his.
“Sorry,” she said. “I was just wiping the sweat off your forehead.”
He nodded slightly. His eyes grew heavy, slowly closing, and then he was sleeping again ... dreaming again.
When he woke again, golden sunshine pushed through the small sashed window to his left. He could hear birds chirping and someone hammering an anvil. His bladder was full and aching. Reaching down with his hand, he found a thunder mug and removed the lid. He held the pot with one hand as he turned onto his side and opened the fly of his union suit.
Letting go a sigh, he released a steady, heavy stream that hit the porcelain pot like thunder. It continued for what seemed like five minutes, sounding like a downpour on a tin roof, the weight of the pot straining the stitches in his side.
Finally finished, he set the pot on the floor. Lying back, he yawned, stretching his arms above his head. He felt better. Stronger. The sheets were damp but not wet, meaning his fever had probably broken.
He heard pans clattering in the main room, the bark of a stove lid, then footsteps. Someone knocked on the door.
“Yeah.”
“You finished?” the girl asked.
Prophet knew she’d heard his pee hitting the thunder mug; they could have heard it in Little Missouri. “Yup.”
The door opened, and the girl came in, dressed in blue jeans and a red flannel shirt. She looked better than she had when Prophet had first met her. She’d taken a bath and brushed her hair till it shone and pulled it back in a ponytail, with a few wisps curling over her forehead and beside her cheeks. The shirt was tight enough to reveal the matronly swell of her breasts and the slenderness of her waist. The jeans were faded nearly white in the knees, and her man’s boots were worn, but the contrast only highlighted her femininity.
Prophet had a pang of lust, which was not unusual for him, even in his condition. He hadn’t had a woman since Bismarck—how many days ago?
“How you feeling?” she asked from the doorway.
“Better. Think my fever’s broke. How long was I out?”
“Two and a half days. Gonna be awake for a while?”
“Yeah, I’m feelin’ plucky.”
“How ‘bout hungry?”
He frowned, thought about this. “Now that you mention it, I am a little hollow.”
“I’ll empty your pot and bring you a plate,” she said, moving forward for the slop bucket. Hefting it, she said, “Jeepers.”
“Sorry. Didn’t realize I could hold that much. Any sign of Loomis?”
“Not since you hid under the bed from him.” She turned from the door with a wry smile.
Prophet scowled, flushing. “Sorry you had to see that.”
“If you’d tried shooting it out, they would’ve ventilated you.” She laughed openly, throwing her head back. “Just the same, it sure was funny, seein’ a big man like you crawling out from under a bed.”
“Laughin’ at an injured man ... it ain’t right.”
She left and came back with the empty thunder mug, a pitcher of water, and a tin cup. While Prophet slugged several cups of water, cold and fresh from the well, the girl went out again, returning several minutes later with a tin plate covered with stew: thick chunks of deer meat, onions, potatoes, and rich, dark gravy. The tangy aroma wafting up from the plate made him salivate.
“Oh my,” Prophet crooned, sitting up and digging in. “Oh my, oh my, oh my ...”
Layla pulled a creaky straight-backed chair out from the wall, turning it so the back faced Prophet, and straddled the seat, facing him. He was so hungry, he didn’t look up from the plate until he’d nearly mopped up all the gravy with a baking powder biscuit. Layla was twisting the ends of a cigarette, regarding it thoughtfully.
“You smoke?” he said with surprise, swallowing a mouthful, then shoving the last of the gravy-soaked biscuit into his mouth.
“A girl’s allowed a vice or two, just like a man,” she said defiantly, holding out the quirley between her thumb and index finger. “But here, this is for you. If you’re up to it.”
“Oh, I’m up to it,” Prophet assured her. “I am indeed up to a smoke.”
He exchanged his empty plate for the quirley. She set the plate on the cluttered stand beside the bed, fished a box of matches from her right shirt pocket, and struck a match. She touched the flame to the end of his cigarette. He sucked the smoke greedily, holding it in and blowing it out toward the low ceiling.
“Coffee?” Layla asked him, waving out the match and tossing it on the floor.
Prophet shrugged. “If you’re buyin’.”
She went out and came back with two cups of coffee. Prophet took his cup in his left hand, and with the cigarette in the other, a warm, happy feeling came over him: the feeling of a well-fed man enjoying the simple pleasure of a cigarette and a cup of coffee. He knew it was a fleeting sensation, for he was stranded here, in the middle of nowhere, horseless and with a madman on his trail.
“Thanks for the grub. You sure can cook.”
She was straddling the chair again, pouring a line of tobacco onto wheat paper, the bridge of her nose lined with concentration. “I’m getting better. I’ve been practicing for when I’m married. Next thing, I guess I’m gonna have to work on my housekeeping skills.” There was little pleasure in her voice.
“Gettin’ hitched, are you?”
She tossed the canvas pouch onto the nightstand and began shaping the cigarette in her long, slender fingers. “Sometime before the snow flies, I reckon.”
Prophet took a hard drag, held it, scowling, and exhaled. “Who’s the lucky hombre?”
“Our neighbor, Gregor Lang.”
“You don’t sound exactly smitten.”
She shrugged. “I promised Pa. Gregor’s wife died two springs ago, during her birthing travails. The baby died, too. He’s forty-two. He needs a wife, and I reckon I need a man. I’m eighteen, and there ain’t many prospects hereabouts.”
“A pretty girl like you should marry for love.”
She only shrugged at this, twisted the ends of her quirley, and licked them, then struck a match.
“What happened to your folks?”
“Ma died of pneumonia three winters ago. Pa took it hard and went on the Forty-Mile Red-Eye. He was drivin’ home from Ivan Goering’s ranch on Little Porcupine Creek last spring, and rolled his wagon down a ravine.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What’s done is done,” she said. “We have to get on with our lives.”
“Ain’t that a fact?” Prophet said. He set his coffee down on the bedside table, stuck his quirley between his lips, and flung the covers back. He swung his legs to the floor.
“What are you doin’?”
“I’m gettin’ outta here before Loomis finds me here and burns you out.”
“You just woke up, and that side ain’t fit to ride.”
“I’m feelin’ plucky,” Prophet said, standing gingerly. “Those my jeans over there?” he asked her, nodding at the washed denims hanging from a hook, beside a clean, pin-striped shirt and cream-colored Stetson.
“Yes. The shirt and hat were Pa’s. I took the shoulders out of the shirt... Pa was some skinnier than you. He only bought the hat a few months before he died. It’s like new.”
“Much obliged, Miss Carr.”
“I told you my name’s Layla.”
“Layla.”
“You could at least have a bath before you get dressed. No offense, but you stink, and you sure could use a shave.”
Prophet stood there in his long Johns, not feeling embarrassed in front of her, who had been doctoring him for the past several days. He brushed a hand over his hairy cheeks.
“I reckon you’re right, ah, Layla. Wouldn’t wanna go soilin’ your pa’s shirt and hat up right away.” He lifted an arm to smell the pit and winkled his nose.
“Sit back down,” she said, taking his plate and cup and heading for the door. “I’ll fetch the tub and some water.”
When she’d finished filling the tub, he said, “Would you mind lending me a horse? I’ve got my own in town, at the livery barn—if Loomis didn’t mess with him, that is. I can send yours back when I’ve found ole Mean an’ Ugly.”
She looked at him with a wry grin. “Mean an’ Ugly?”
“That’s my hammerhead. Meanest damn animal you ever saw. Just as soon take a bite of your hide as look at you. I don’t know why I put up with him, but I won him off a rancher back in Wyoming about three years ago, an’ he and me, well, we been down the river and over the mountain together.” Prophet’s eyes acquired a worried cast. “Sure hope he’s still where I left him.”
“I’ll have Charlie saddle Rebel for you,” Layla said. “Seems right fittin’, since you’re Southern an’ all.”
“Now how did you know that?”
Layla laughed, not bothering to explain. “And you won’t need to send Reb home with anyone. Just take him to the edge of town and slap his rear. He’ll head straight back.”
“Good ’nough.”
She turned to leave and turned back, a troubled expression on her face. “But how do you ever expect to make it to Little Missouri without running into Loomis’s riders? They’re probably still scouring the country for you.”
“I thought of that,” Prophet said. “Figured I’d wait till late in the afternoon, travel most of the way under cover of darkness. Besides, I doubt they’d expect me to head back to town, do you?”
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know what to expect from a man like Loomis.” She paused, studying him. “Where will you go?”
It was Prophet’s turn to shrug. “Figure I’ll head for Montana, disappear into the mountains for a while, until this shit storm blows itself out.”
“Any shit storm involving Gerard Loomis will take a good long time to blow itself out, Mr. Prophet.”
“Lou.”
“If it ever does.”
Prophet thought about this. “Yeah, I suppose he’ll post rewards, eh?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it a bit. I’d head to Canada or Mexico, if I were you. And I’d stay there a good long time.”
She turned and went out, pulling the door closed behind her.
Prophet stripped gingerly, careful not to irritate the stitches, then climbed into the tub for a leisurely bath, shaving with care. He figured it would be a long time before he ever saw a bathtub again. Probably weeks, maybe months. If the girl was right and Loomis put out wanted notices, Prophet the bounty hunter would be Prophet the hunted for a good long time to come, and he could ill afford to show his face in populated areas, where someone might recognize him.
It was going to make it hard to do his job; he might have to try something else for a while. That would be even more difficult, for he hadn’t done anything but hunt men for a living for the past six years.
Maybe Layla had been right; maybe he should head to Canada or Mexico. He didn’t know what he’d do in such places, but there was little chance he’d be recognized in either country.
When he’d dressed, he fished around in his jeans pockets and found his dollar fifty in change, his pencil, and a small notebook. The girl must have taken them out, then replaced them after she’d washed the jeans.
Prophet stood there in his new shirt, with his new hat on his head, staring at the coins, notebook, and pencil stub in his open palm. That and the Peacemaker were all he had to his name. He had his tack, saddlebags, rifle, and ten-gauge shotgun in town, but who knew if they were still there? Loomis might have confiscated it all, including Mean and Ugly.
Prophet sighed. He wished he had some money to leave these kids for saving his life and tending him, risking their own necks. He owed them something, that was for sure, but he wasn’t going to insult them by leaving them a dollar fifty in change. He’d send them something more substantial later.
He found Layla on the porch, where she and the mutt named Herman were playing tug-of-war with a knotted rope. Seeing Prophet, the dog barked and growled, and Layla shooed him away. The dog cowered to the other end of the stoop and lay down beside a bleached jawbone, over which he draped a protective paw and eyed Prophet defiantly.
The boys, Keith and Charlie, were working a colt at the snubbing post in the corral off the barn. Outside the corral, a roan gelding had been saddled and tied, ready to
go-
“That my horse?”
“That’s him. I put some beans and biscuits in the saddlebags, a little coffee. If there’s anything else you need...”
“That should do. I’m sorry I can’t leave you any money, Miss Carr—”
“I don’t want your money, and it’s Layla.”
“Layla, I mean.”
He glanced around the yard, at the chickens pecking in the hay-flecked dust, at the weathered gray outbuildings and corrals, at the pigs snorting languidly in their pen on the other side of the log barn.
He touched his hat brim, finding it hard to say goodbye to this girl. “Thanks again, Layla.”
“Travel safe. If your horse ain’t in town, just take Rebel. He can be a little fiddle-footed at times, but he’s been a good cow pony for us. You can bring him back sometime when it’s safe.”
Prophet walked off the porch and started across the yard. “I’ll do that.”
“And don’t forget about those stitches. They need to come out in a week or so, or they’ll grow in an’ fester.”
“Will do.”
He untied the reins from the corral and climbed gingerly into the saddle, talking quietly to the horse, letting it get to know him. The wound in his side complained some, but he thought he’d be all right.
Looking over the corral fence, he said, “See you, boys.”
“See ya, Mr. Prophet,” the youngest, Keith, said.
Charlie, the oldest, waved stiffly, a befuddled expression on his face. “So... so you ain’t gonna marry our sister, after all?”
Prophet laughed and shot a look at Layla, who blushed.
“No, I don’t reckon, Charlie,” Prophet said. “I think she’s done spoken for.”
“Yeah, by ole Gregor Lang,” Keith groused.
“Keith, you watch your tongue,” his sister admonished him from across the yard.
Chuckling, Prophet tipped his hat to Layla as he walked the horse out of the yard. Crouched on the top porch step, holding onto the collar of Herman, who was giving Prophet a parting rebuke, she watched him ride away, squinting her lovely eyes against the bright, afternoon sun.
Prophet wasn’t sure, but he thought she was reluctant to see him go.
He knew for a fact that he was reluctant to leave.