Chapter 7
Prophet reached for the Winchester leaning beside him. He loudly pumped a cartridge into the action and said, “Ride in. Slow.”
Hoof thuds sounded from straight out away from the fire. They grew louder—the slow clomps of a walking horse.
The horse blew. Bridle chains rattled. Leather squawked.
A horse and rider materialized out of the darkness. Firelight shimmered in the eyes of the horse first and then, as they continued toward the fire, in the eyes of its rider, beneath a brown Stetson with a low crown and a wide, flat brim.
The light found the S that had been burned into the rider’s left cheek, limning it in light and shadow, showing the knotted scar in stark relief against the otherwise long, smooth-skinned face framed by long, copper-red hair hanging straight down from the hat.
The rider wore a hickory shirt and suspenders under a faded denim jacket, and faded denim jeans. An old Remington rode in the cross-draw position on the kid’s right hip. A southpaw. A Henry repeating rifle jutted from a leather scabbard on the coyote dun’s left side.
The redhead was maybe twenty, lean as a rail. Prophet thought that, dripping wet and stuffed with supper, he might weigh as much as the bounty hunter’s right leg.
The two men studied each other—Prophet from the ground, the kid from his saddle. Mean gave another whinny from the corral obscured by darkness. The kid’s coyote dun turned his head toward Mean and pricked his ears, pawing lightly at the ground with one front hoof.
Prophet frowned as he studied the kid closely. He looked a little familiar, maybe. “Have we met?”
“Nope. Leastways, not official. I know who you are, though. Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Prophet.”
“Well, ain’t I the famous one?”
The kid almost smiled.
“That’s Bill Rondo’s tattoo on your mug.”
The kid didn’t say anything. He stared down from his saddle without expression; the cheek behind the tattoo twitched slightly.
“I hear he’s dead, Rondo,” Prophet added.
“Couldn’t have happened to a more deservin’ fella.”
Prophet cracked a wry grin, nodding. He jerked his head toward the corral. “Since you saved my hide with that old Henry, I reckon I’d best invite you to a plate of beans. There might be a few left if you dig deep enough into that pot. Go ahead and corral your horse with mine. I hope that stallion will stand up for himself.”
“Oh, he will.”
Prophet glanced at the coyote dun casting the stink eye toward Mean and Ugly, and smiled. “I do believe he will at that.”
When the kid had tended his horse and walked back to the camp, slouching beneath the burden of his saddle and the rest of his gear, Prophet was holding a sheet of paper up between his knees. He tossed it onto the ground beside the fire. He’d dug it out of his saddlebags where it had resided with a dozen more printed circulars. The kid’s face stared up from the coffee-stained leaf—or at least a rough likeness of the kid’s face—complete with the S brand on the cheek.
WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE took up nearly a third of the heavy paper.
“Ain’t this my lucky night?” Prophet said. “Not only did some mysterious shooter pluck my fat from the fire, but a four-thousand-dollar bounty just rode into my camp!” He picked up his wine cup. “My worm is turnin’. Purely it is. I might buy my own private parlor house in San Francisco.”
“Those California girls would send you to an early grave, Mr. Prophet.”
“Ah hell—since you saved my life and made me rich, you might as well call me Lou.”
“Colter.”
“I appreciate the help, Colter. I’d just as soon put off dyin’ as long as possible. Costs too damn much.”
“The deal you made with the devil?”
“Heard about that, did ya?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“How’s your leg?”
“I’ve hurt myself worse fallin’ down drunk. Trouble is, that’s no exaggeration.” Prophet snorted then glanced at the redhead. “I just want you to know, young Farrow, I was just about to set those boys on the run with their tails on fire.”
The kid had dropped his gear on the opposite side of the fire from Prophet and fished a spoon out of his war bag. “I decided to kill ’em fast so they wouldn’t suffer.”
“Why?”
“Why didn’t I want ’em to suffer?”
“Why’d you save my rancid old Confederate hide?”
“Maybe I didn’t want you to suffer, Lou.” The kid smiled as he scraped beans out of the bottom of Prophet’s cook pot.
“You got a soft spot for ole Lou, do you, Red?”
“Nah.” Colter Farrow sank back against his saddle, the cook pot on his lap. “I was just hopin’ that maybe one day you’d introduce me to the Vengeance Queen.”
He cut another sly smile across the fire at Prophet, the fire reflecting off his eyes that matched the copper color of his hair.
“Kid, Louisa Bonaventure would turn you inside out, stomp your heart in the dirt, and leave you howlin’.”
Colter shrugged as he kept working on the beans. “Not that I don’t believe you, Lou, but I’d just as soon see for myself.”
Prophet chuckled and sipped his wine.
Young Farrow spooned beans into his mouth then licked the spoon, stared at it, and said, “I figured I might need the favor returned someday.”
“Huh?”
“You asked me why I plucked your fat from the fire. That’s why.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t get yourself in such a tinhorn situation in the first place.”
Colter shrugged as he continued to spoon the beans into his mouth, grinning. “When I get as old as you, maybe. Old men get careless.”
Prophet threw a chunk of wood at him. It bounced off the redhead’s shoulder. Colter chuckled and continued eating the beans, scraping the charred leftovers off the bottom of the pot.
“Why were they after you, Lou?” Colter looked across the fire at him. “I mean . . . if you don’t mind me askin’.”
“Hell, my life’s an open book. I shot a man I shouldn’t have. A deputy sheriff. I shot him for a doxie. Never shoot a man for a doxie unless you know for sure who you’re killin’. A doxie don’t always tell you the whole story.”
“That bad, huh?”
“She was a good doxie in other ways, though.”
“Those are the important things.”
“What are you doin’ down here . . . so far from Sapinero?” Prophet asked the younker, glancing at the brand on the redhead’s cheek again then looking away quickly, sheepishly. “If you don’t mind me askin’, of course . . .”
“Similar trouble. I killed the wrong man. Er, men, supposedly.”
“Rondo?”
Colter glanced down at the wanted dodger offering the four-thousand-dollar federal bounty on his head. “If I’d killed him quicker he might not have framed me for the murder of two deputy U.S. marshals.”
“That’ll boil Uncle Sam’s oysters, for sure.”
“Tell me about it.” Colter set the empty pot aside and ran a sleeve across his mouth. He sighed, belched, spat, looked around, and said, “Somehow I attracted bounty hunters to my trail, so I decided to head for Mexico.”
Prophet took another sip of Otero’s well-aged vino and arched a brow at the redhead sitting across the fire from him. “I seen you behind me, trailin’ me, so don’t get to thinkin’ I’m so old I don’t know what’s a shadow an’ what ain’t.”
“You did?”
“I glassed you yesterday just after noon. I seen you before but I wasn’t sure you was followin’ me. When I realized you was followin’ me but stayin’ clear of Rodane’s bunch of cutthroats also followin’ me, I figured you might be an independent contractor.”
“Sort of like yourself?”
Prophet shook his head and gave a fateful chuff. “Believe me, there’s none worse. Or more unpredictable.” He chuckled as he swirled the wine in his cup, admiring the reflection of the fire off the bloodred liquid.
Colter crossed his arms on his narrow chest and regarded Prophet through the low, dancing flames. “I think our stars might be aligned, somehow.”
“Oh?”
“This ain’t the first time our trails have crossed. You probably don’t remember, but there was a time or two . . .”
“I remember the brand. And the red hair. The left-handed gun.” Prophet looked at the kid, looked away, then turned back to him again. “Tell me, kid . . . does it hurt? The brand, I mean. I apologize for the question, and you sure as hell don’t have to . . .”
“Only when a purty girl looks at me and flinches. Or looks at me, just like you just did, and then turns back to stare.” Colter gazed off grimly. “Then it hurts powerful bad. Almost as bad as when Rondo first pressed that red iron against my face.”
“I’m sorry I stared, kid.”
“That’s all right.” Colter curled another wry grin. “You’re not pretty enough to make it ache.”
Prophet laughed. “Kid, you remind me of someone.”
“Oh? Who’s that?”
“Me. A few years back.”
“What were you doin’ when you were my age, Lou?”
“Runnin’ west after the war. Lookin’ for any sort of trouble I could get into. Any sorta trouble that would keep me from remembering all the friends and cousins and even some of my uncles blown to bits or hacked to pieces by bayonets and minié balls, during the War of Northern Aggression.”
“Well, that makes us different, then.”
“What does?” Prophet asked.
Again, the young man stared grimly into the darkness. “You were runnin’ to trouble. Me? I’ve been runnin’ from trouble ever since I ran into it in the form of Bill Rondo’s dead carcass on his kitchen floor.”
“Mexico’s not such a good place to avoid trouble, Red.”
“I reckon it’s a matter of which skillet is hotter at any given time.”
“Tooshay, as I heard a French parlor girl say once.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Right as rain, but I’m no Frenchman.”
“Ah.” Colter nodded.
“You want some wine?”
Colter looked at him, flushing a little. “Truth be told, Lou, I haven’t refined my drinking skills yet. I’m workin’ on ’em.”
“All the more for me, then, though ole Otero has a house full of the stuff.”
“Really? Where is he?”
“Dead.”
“Don’t that beat all?”
“You didn’t know about this place? I mean, before now?”
“Hell, no,” Colter said. “I just followed you here.”
Prophet regarded him curiously.
“Like I said,” Colter explained, “our stars must be aligned. I just happened to spy a fella ahead of me—one with a fine bunch of cutthroats after him. I worked around the cutthroats an’ must’ve glassed you right around when you glassed me. I couldn’t see you very well from that distance, but I spotted your horse. I put the big man and the big horse together, an’ . . .”
“Yeah, we stick out, me an’ Mean do,” Prophet said.
“So, anyways,” Colter continued, “I figured if you wouldn’t mind, we could maybe throw in together. Fact is—and I’d appreciate if you didn’t bandy this around overmuch, as I embarrass easily—but I tend to get a little homesick out here all by my lonesome . . . from time to time. I thought it might be nice to have a kindred spirit to share the trail with. If I’m crowdin’ you at all, Lou, just say so and I’ll pull my picket pin at first light tomorrow.”
“Ah hell, no, you ain’t crowdin’ me.” Prophet refilled his wine cup from the stone pitcher. “Two pairs of eyes is better than one, I reckon. But I must say, I do have a way of attractin’ teetotalers.”
He chuckled dryly, thinking of Louisa, who never drank anything stronger than sarsaparilla.
“Well, then,” Colter said, heeling the ground absently as he sat back against his saddle, “where we headin’, Lou? Me—I got no destination in mind.”
“I know this sweet little town up in them mountains yonder, on the other side of the desert,” Prophet said. “The señoritas up there . . . well, let’s just say they’re . . .”
He spent the bulk of the next hour describing the attributes not to mention the talents of the soiled doves residing in the little village of Sayulita. Of course, he was doing more than talking. He was remembering, anticipating, taking himself out of this dry-as-dust world and leaping ahead to that more idyllic one across the desert. Forever across the desert . . .
He talked until he saw that he’d put his new partner to sleep over there on the other side of the fire. Chuckling, he drifted away from the fire to bleed off some of the whiskey and wine, then took a big long drink of Otero’s sparkling cold water and rolled into his soogan.
He’d let the fire burn down to umber coals. The fewer folks who knew about his and Colter’s presence here, the better. Even the wildcats that prowled these rocks and washes . . .
He soon learned that his new trail partner shared more than a penchant for teetotaling with his other, more comely, blond partner, Louisa Bonaventure. He shared her inclination for troubling dreams.
Prophet woke to hear the young man muttering the name “Marianna” over and over again on the other side of the fire’s slowly dying coals—restlessly, anxiously, as though calling out to her over a long distance, rattling a sob from time to time before he rolled over and somewhere in the tortured caverns of his lonesome mind found peace at last.
“Sleep easy, Red,” Lou whispered, and fell into a restless sleep again himself.