DROWSY FROM AN afternoon nap, Prophet propped himself on an elbow in Layla’s bed in the cabin and looked at her lying naked beside him. They’d spent most of the day making love, and he felt pleasantly tired, dreamily fulfilled.
Wan afternoon light angled through the window, and a lone fly buzzed against the glass. The cabin and yard were cloaked in midsummer languor.
Layla slept on her back, lips slightly parted. Prophet reached over and gently swept a lock of her lovely hair back from her cheek. Absently, tenderly, he ran his finger down the curve of her neck, across her chest, along one lovely round breast to a nipple.
The nipple stirred under his touch, swelling a little. He leaned over and kissed it.
Lifting his head, he sighed luxuriously. He could get used to a permanent woman, a permanent home. There was no question that he loved her....
He glanced at her face and saw that her eyes were open. She was smiling.
“Did I wake you?”
Still smiling, eyes slitted, she nodded. She slid over to him, put her arms around his neck, and snuggled against his chest. “I never knew it could be like this, Lou.”
“I never knew, either, Layla.”
“Oh, what are we gonna do?”
“Take it an hour, a day at a time, I reckon.”
“But I love you so.”
“I love you, too.”
She entwined her legs with his and squirmed against him, flattening her breasts against his chest, kissing his ears and neck.
He swept her hair back from her face with both hands. “Again?”
She nodded and rolled onto her back, grinning. He leaned down to kiss her but stopped.
“What was that?” he said.
“What was what?”
The hard thuds of galloping hooves rose amid the quiet. A horse blew.
“That,” Prophet said.
She didn’t have time to answer. An anguished cry rose from the yard. “Layla!”
Prophet looked at her. “It’s Charlie,” she said, hurriedly wrapping herself in a sheet and dashing out the door.
Prophet climbed into his jeans and followed her into the yard, where Charlie was trying to dismount his foaming, blowing horse. He’d gotten his foot caught in a stirrup, however, and now he fell face first in the dust. Layla ran to him.
“Charlie!” she cried. “What’s wrong? Where’s Keith?” She shot a look up the westward trail, then back to Charlie, who climbed to his knees, caked with dust.
“Loomis,” the man-child yelled, red-faced with hysteria. His voice caught in his throat, and he lowered his head, swallowing and trying to catch his breath.
“What about Loomis?” Prophet said, kneeling next to Layla.
Charlie lifted his head, trembling. “L-Loomis has him!” His voice broke and tears poured from his eyes. “He took Keith ... told me ... told me to tell you.... Jason ... Mr. Lang ... he shot ‘em!”
Prophet shot Layla a puzzled expression. “Loomis shot Anders and Lang?”
Layla put her hands on Charlie’s shoulders, gave him a shake. “Charlie, please, what are you saying?”
“Loomis shot Mr. Lang!” Charlie wailed. “Then he shot Jason, an’ he ... an’ he took Keith.”
“Charlie, where did this happen?” Layla said, her voice quaking.
“Back ... back where ... we was cuttin’ wood!”
Prophet said, “Why did he take Keith?”
Charlie gasped for breath, his face pale now and washed with tears. “’Cause he said... you was here. If you want Keith... you gotta fetch him from the Crosshatch.”
Prophet’s heart throbbed in his throat, and every nerve in his body was on fire. “How did he know I was here?”
The boy put his head down and sobbed.
“Charlie,” Prophet said, grabbing the young man’s arms, shaking him, “how did he know I was here?”
Charlie’s head lifted as though yanked by a string. He looked at Prophet through tear-filled eyes. “Mr. Lang said ... he seen you....”
Prophet looked in horror at Layla, who returned the gaze. Absently, absorbing the information as he gave voice to it, he said, “Lang must’ve come by... seen me... here ... with you.”
Layla’s expression was one of disbelief. “And gone to Loomis?” She shook her head slowly.
Prophet got up and ran into the house. He came out a few minutes later, fully dressed and carrying his rifle, his sawed-off ten gauge hanging down his back.
He knelt down beside Charlie and Layla. Layla was holding her brother in her arms. Charlie was still sobbing. Layla just looked pale and terrified, still not quite believing what had happened.
“Charlie,” Prophet said, “will you show me where all this happened?”
The young man sobbed quietly against Layla’s shoulder. Gently, she pushed him back to face her. “Charlie,” she said softly. “Charlie, you have to tell us where this happened... so we can help Jason and Mr. Lang.” Her voice quivered fearfully.
Charlie’s distant gaze slid slowly to Prophet. He blinked and sniffed. “I’ll show,” he said, nodding. “I’ll show ... you.”
“Good boy,” Prophet said, standing and heading for the corral.
“What about Keith?” Layla called to him.
Prophet turned. “First I’ll see if Anders and Lang can be helped. Then I’ll get Keith.” He looked at her seriously. “I don’t think they’ll hurt him. I really don’t. It’s me they want.”
“Then you’ll be riding right into their trap.”
“What choice do I have?” Prophet turned away.
“Wait. I’m coming with you,” Layla said, and bounded for the house.
“No!” Prophet yelled. But she’d already disappeared inside.
He saddled his own horse and a fresh one for Charlie. Knowing there was no use trying to convince her to stay, Prophet went ahead and saddled a horse for Layla, as well. Anders and Lang might need her doctoring, anyway. She could tend them while Prophet headed for the Crosshatch.
He was leading the saddled horses across the yard when Layla appeared, dressed in boots, jeans, cotton shirt, and flat-brimmed hat, and carrying a rifle. She slid the old Spencer into her saddle scabbard and turned to Charlie, who stood in a daze, regarding the horse Prophet had saddled for him.
“Come on, Charlie,” she said, gently guiding him to the horse. “Show us where you were cutting wood, okay?”
“They took Keith “
“I know, Charlie. Lou’s gonna get him back for us. But first we have to see if Jason and Gregor need our help. Okay?”
The boy nodded, accepting his reins from Prophet, and he poked a boot in his stirrup.
“There you go. That’s it,” Layla said. Then she turned and ran to her own horse, climbing nimbly into the saddle.
Prophet did likewise, swinging Mean and Ugly westward. He glanced at Layla meaningfully as they followed Charlie out of the yard at a gallop.
Charlie led them along twisting horse trails through several ravines and across two skunky-smelling creeks. Finally they crossed a rocky saddle and descended a crease choked with brush and sprinkled with cottonwoods, several of which had died years ago when the creek flooded, providing well-seasoned firewood for Jason Anders.
But he wouldn’t be needing it anymore, Prophet saw when he rolled the old man over. The bullet in his back had drilled through his heart and out his chest, bibbing his shirt with dark red blood.
Prophet turned to Layla, who was checking Lang, lying twisted on the horse trail skirting the buttes. He didn’t have to inquire about Lang’s condition. He knew the man was dead from the way Layla knelt on one knee, staring down at the body with her head bowed, silently sobbing, shoulders jerking.
When she looked at Prophet, smoothing her hair from her eyes with her gloved hands, inquiring with her expression about Anders, Prophet shook his head. Then she let go an audible sob. It rolled up from deep in her chest, and she buried her face in her hands.
Prophet glanced at Charlie, who sat his horse stiffly, staring round-eyed at the bloody heap of Jason Anders. Walking over to Layla, Prophet knelt down and took her in his arms. She sobbed against his shoulder, trembling.
When she finally caught her breath, she said, “Keith ... they’ve probably killed him, too!”
“No,” Prophet said, shaking his head. “I don’t think so. I’m the one they want. Keith’s just the bait.” His heart was breaking, knowing he’d brought this pain to her and her family. He was the reason Lang and Jason Anders were dead. If only he’d gone to Montana like he’d planned, none of this would have happened.
“But they could’ve killed him,” Layla cried. “You wouldn’t know ... thrown him along the trail...”
He knew she could very well be right, but he wasn’t going to let her know he thought so. “He’s alive, Layla,” he insisted, squeezing her shoulders. “And I’m gonna get him back!”
“Then Loomis’ll kill you, too ... an’ you an’ Keith and Jason an’ ...”
“Layla, pull yourself together now. Take Charlie home, and both of you stay put. I’m gonna follow Loomis’s tracks to the—”
She’d lifted her head, squinting her eyes defiantly. “I’m going with you.”
“No way.”
“He’s my brother.”
‘Take Charlie home and stay there.”
“You can’t stop me. I’m going with you, and I’m going to kill that son of a bitch ... slow!”
“I know how you feel, but I can do this much easier alone. I’ve done it before. You haven’t.” He stopped and stared at her, trying to send the message home with his eyes. “You want him back, don’t you?”
She didn’t answer, her eyes still defiant. He gave her a shake. “Don’t you?”
Slowly, she nodded, her resolve softening.
He stood and walked over to the wagon filled with firewood. The two horses stood hang-headed in the traces, looking at once harried and tired. Prophet unbuckled the lines and removed the collars, letting them go. As they lumbered over to the tall grass, Prophet climbed atop Mean and Ugly and swung the horse around to Layla.
“Where’s Jason’s ranch?” he asked.
She pointed halfheartedly. “Just up the trail and north, around a bend in the creek.” She looked at him. “Why?”
“Just got an idea,” Prophet said, kneeing his horse westward along the trail.
“Lou?” she called to him.
He stopped the horse and turned to look at her. She stared at him, shaking her head. Her face was white, her expression at once horrified, puzzled, and sad. She was in shock.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll be back later tonight. With your brother.”
Then he spurred the dun down the trail and around the brushy base of a stubby butte.
He found Anders’s ranch ten minutes later, between two hogbacks. It was a shabby little cabin with a sunken sod roof, a connecting stock shelter, and a windmill out front, its wooden tank filled with mossy brown water. In the pole corral, three swaybacked horses stood with their heads over the gate, inspecting Prophet as he entered the yard.
He brought his horse up to the corral and dismounted, tying the reins to one of the posts. Since Anders wouldn’t be here to feed and water the horses, he opened the gate and hazed them outside. They didn’t go far, just to the edge of the yard, where they stopped and looked back as Prophet made his way to the cabin.
He ducked through the low door and looked around. There were only two windows and an uneven dirt floor, with a small table, a few hand-hewn chairs, and a squat iron stove. Traps hung everywhere, as did the hides of everything from wolves and grizzlies to rabbits and badgers. The air was pungent with the smell of skunk oil, which the old man had probably used in his lanterns.
Prophet looked under the bed and in every nook and cranny he could find in the cramped hovel, then went outside. Turning left, he headed for the shelter, found a door in the east wall, and opened it. The twelve-by-six-foot room was filled to the ceiling with odds and ends: iron and leather in all shapes and sizes. On the floor, under a half-dozen moth-eaten horse blankets so mildewed they made Prophet’s lungs constrict, the bounty hunter found what he was looking for: a wood box marked TNT.
Something had told him he’d find it. Most ranchers had a few sticks of dynamite lying around to blow out stock ponds and tree stumps and to move rock now and then. There were eight or nine sticks in the box, with a dozen or so fuses. Prophet grabbed the sticks and fuses, walked back to his horse, and stuffed the booty in his saddlebags.
With a grim, determined set to his jaw, he mounted up, rode back out to pick up Loomis’s trail, and followed it north, keeping an eye skinned for a possible ambush. He didn’t think that was likely, though. He sensed that Loomis wanted to meet him in person, on Loomis’s home turf.
Prophet wouldn’t have had it any other way.