Chapter 28
Prophet threw himself back behind a boulder as his fourth assailant’s .45s roared. The bullet curled the air a cat’s whisker off the end of Prophet’s nose and then slammed into the boulder just as Prophet pulled his face back behind it.
Lou flipped himself around and into a better position to confront his attacker. He shucked his Peacemaker from its holster, clicking back the hammer.
His fourth assailant, a short old man with a red face and a white beard parted in the middle, continued hammering the rock with his .45s and then lunged into Prophet’s field of vision, barking Spanish epithets and narrowing his brown eyes as he aimed down his Colt’s barrels at Lou.
He didn’t get off another shot as, hunkered on his heels, Prophet triggered two shots and then a third, sending the old peon in a ratty red serape flying back against another boulder. He shot himself in the knee, gave another shrill, howling wail as he stared at his ruined leg, then dropped to both his knees before falling sideways onto a shoulder where he expired with a heavy sigh.
The thunder of another near gun assaulted Prophet’s ears, momentarily disorienting him.
Where in the hell had that one come from?
Then a shadow—a slender gray flicker of movement within the shadows here on this side of the mesa—slid across the ground to his left. He wheeled as another blast assaulted his ears. That bullet, too, came very close to punching his ticket and would have done so if he hadn’t turned at that very instant.
He looked up to see a big, broad-shouldered man in dirty cream pantalones, high-topped deerskin moccasins, and a beaded deerskin serape standing on the boulder above him and extending an ivory-gripped Schofield at Prophet’s head. Lou swung his Peacemaker up and fired twice, fouling the big man’s aim as the bullet smashed into the man’s left shoulder.
The man screamed as he fired a bullet into the ground just left of Prophet’s left boot.
Lou fired another round, aiming for this would-be killer’s heart. The man had jerked sideways just in time to avoid a deadly bout of indigestion, instead taking the bullet in his upper-right chest. He screamed angrily, his broad, ugly, mustached face crumpling and reddening. He dropped the Schofield then stepped off the edge of the rock.
Prophet’s heart hiccupped when he saw the big man hurling toward him, swinging his arms out and looking every bit like black, winged death.
Lou clicked back the Peacemaker’s hammer but did not get off another shot before the big Mex smashed into him like a half ton of dry goods thrown from a freight wagon, slamming Lou backward off his heels and driving him to the ground while closing his big hands around Lou’s neck.
Lou tried to smash the Peacemaker against his attacker’s big, granitelike head matted with black hair peppered with lice and other vermin. But then he realized his right hand was empty. He’d lost the revolver when the man had smashed into him from above.
His knuckles merely glanced off the big man’s left temple as the big man himself rose onto his knees and, snarling like an enraged puma, dug his thumbs into Prophet’s throat, intent on busting his windpipe and smashing his Adam’s apple back against his spine, a task which it felt to Lou he was accomplishing, despite the blood the man was losing.
In desperation, Prophet slashed up with his arms, ramming the man’s hands free of his neck. He smashed his right fist against the big man’s left jaw and then they were snarling and rolling together—over and over to the left . . . over and over to the right . . . exchanging grips on each other’s necks and growling like two raging wolves in a struggle to end all struggles.
They broke their grips on each other’s necks to exchange punches—savage, smashing blows. Prophet could feel the man’s assault all the way down to his toes.
Then they went rolling and rolling again to the right . . . rolling and rolling again to the left, smashing each other with their fists, digging at each other’s eyes, trying to get the other’s neck in a death grip.
The Mexican brute grabbed Prophet’s head up off the ground in both his massive hands and smashed Lou’s head back against the ground so hard that for a second or two the bounty hunter lost consciousness. When he was aware again of who and where he was and of what was happening, the big Mexican was again trying to strangle him.
Prophet felt his eyes bulge. His head swelled from lack of oxygen. He’d grabbed the man’s big arms, even bigger than his own, but the Mexican brute had the high ground and a better angle. Prophet was addled from the savage blows to his head. He couldn’t get his opponent to release his choking, death-dealing grip.
The big Mex grinned maniacally down at Prophet, his green-brown eyes glinting devilishly. His broad, Indian-dark face was so badly pocked and pitted, it looked like he’d been mistaken for a coyote and taken two loads of buckshot point-blank. He smelled like something dead that had seasoned too long in the hot sun. Vaguely, Prophet wondered what was going to kill him first—the man’s thumbs grinding into his throat, or his smell.
The bean-eater’s eyelids drew down as though in ecstasy, and in a soft, seedily intimate voice he said, “Can you feel the devil tickling your escroto, señor?” He grunted out a girlish laugh.
Prophet’s vision was dimming and his brain was starting to die from oxygen starvation. In fact, he thought he could feel the devil’s long-nailed finger tickling him down low.
The fast-expiring cells in Lou’s brain were getting desperate. Suddenly, realizing he’d run out of all other options, he decided to slam his forehead up hard against that of the brute’s. He didn’t have enough room to build up much momentum, so he was pleasantly surprised when the man’s head snapped back and he momentarily eased his pressure on Prophet’s throat.
That gave Lou the half second he needed to reach down to his right hip with his right hand and shuck his big bowie knife from its sheath.
He lifted the knife just as the brute began grinding his thumbs into Prophet’s throat once more, grinning girlishly, the tip of his tongue poking out one corner of his mouth. Prophet’s vision was dimming again, as though an even deeper shadow had passed over this side of the mesa.
He probably would have passed out in another second or two if he hadn’t managed to poke the razor-edged tip of the bowie through the brute’s smoke-stained javelina-hide serape and into the man’s left side, just beneath his ribs.
The man’s eyes suddenly widened. He gasped, lower jaw loosening.
He shivered as if chilled.
Instantly, his hands fell slack against Prophet’s throat.
Lou had gotten the bowie into the big man’s body only about six inches, but now as he sucked a strength-replenishing breath into his starved lungs, and the shadow of unconsciousness began to lift, he gritted his teeth and rammed the knife several more inches into the big bean-eater’s body.
“¡Dios!” the brute cried, staring down in horror at Prophet’s large, gloved wrist wrapped around the bowie’s hide-wrapped walnut handle, between the handle and the brass hilt. Dark red blood bubbled up over the blade.
The brute raised his right fist, cocking it up near his shoulder, but before he could ram it down against Prophet’s face, Lou slid the bowie even farther into the man’s brisket, twisting and turning the blade, angling the savage point, curved like a wolf’s fang, up to the heart. Lou felt the point glance off a rib just before perforating the thick, beating cardiac muscle itself.
“Ach!” the brute screamed. “¡Mierda! ¡Estoy muerto!”
His right fist dropped slack to his side.
Prophet grunted and lifted his head and shoulders up off the ground, funneling more strength into his right arm and hand, driving the knife up even deeper into the man’s heart until Lou could feel the organ spasming desperately before it stopped beating.
The brute gave a choking, strangling sound as blood bubbled out between his lips. He fell straight back between Prophet’s spread legs. Since his legs were still straddling Prophet’s torso, it was a bizarre sight. Only the handle of Prophet’s bowie protruded from the big man’s side, drenched in blood. Prophet tried to pull himself out from under the lug, but he was too weak from the choking and the effort it had taken to kill the beast.
He lay back against the ground, breathing hard.
“Now that was somethin’ to see!”
Prophet whipped his head to his left. He blinked incredulously.
Baja Jack stood about ten feet away, smiling in amazement. Colter stood behind the little man, two heads taller. The other men in Jack’s gang, including old Pepe, stood in a ragged semicircle flanking Jack and Colter.
“It purely was at that,” Colter agreed with the smaller man. He was smiling at Prophet and slowly shaking his head.
Prophet scowled at them all. “How long you been standing there?”
“Only a couple minutes,” Colter said.
“You been standin’ there a couple minutes and you didn’t offer a hand?”
“It was a sight to behold!” Jack clapped his fat dark hands together, stretching his lips so far that if he’d been wearing dentures he would have lost them. “Two rogue grizzlies going head-to-head! Truly a sight to behold, partner!”
Colter walked forward, holstering his Remington. “Don’t worry, Lou. If I didn’t think you’d get the better of him, I’d have helped you out. It looked like you were doing all right, though.” He extended his hand to Lou and helped Prophet crawl out from beneath the dead brute.
“It looked like I was doing all right?” Prophet was out from beneath the big man now. He released Colter’s hand and heaved himself to his feet. “He was that close to snuffing my lamp! If I hadn’t had the bowie on me, I’d be a goner . . . while you stood there enjoyin’ the entertainment!”
“Ah, don’t be a sorehead,” Colter chided him.
“Yeah, don’t be a sorehead, Lou.” Baja Jack walked over, took Prophet’s right hand, and shook it, tipping his head back to smile admiringly nearly straight up at the taller man. “That was one hell of a show. Purely it was. We was all gonna help you out, but when we got up here and saw you two big fellas goin’ at it so hard and savage-like . . . two wild bruins goin’ at it tooth and claw . . . I reckon we didn’t have the heart to interrupt!”
“Well, thanks a whole damn bunch for bein’ so considerate!” Prophet glanced over at the other members of Jack’s gang. They were exchanging money, some laughing victoriously, others grumbling curses. Prophet glared at Colter and Baja Jack. “You mean, you took the time to bet on the outcome?”
Colter held up both hands, palms out, and shook his head. “Not me. No, sir. I’d never bet on a friend in such a dire situation, and I’m hurt that you’d think I would.”
Jack shrugged then planted his fists on his broad hips. “I admit I would have wagered, but I was transfixed.” He loosed a croaking laugh and shook his head again in amazement.
Prophet looked down at himself in disgust. He was covered in blood. At least, it wasn’t his own. That was something, anyway. He crouched over the dead man, planted a boot on the man’s hip, and yanked the bowie knife free.
Cleaning the knife off on the man’s deerskin leggings, he turned again to Colter and Jack.
“What about the other robbers?”
“Oh, there was only two more,” Colter said. “When we heard your gut-shredder thunder, we knew trouble was afoot and dispatched the only two that threatened us in no time. You cleaned out the whole rest of the gang yourself, Lou.”
“Too bad a scribbler for one of the eastern newspapers ain’t here,” Jack said. “Why, he’d have some ink to spill!”
“I gotta admit,” Colter said with some chagrin, “I was beginning to think you was old and washed up or maybe the scribblers was exaggeratin’ about you. But, no. You still got it, Lou, and I’m just proud to know I was here to see it on full display!”
Jack and Colter started heading back toward the springs, which is where the other men must have vanished to, as well. Having settled their bets, they were no longer in sight.
“Hurry up, now, Lou,” called Baja Jack. “We can’t linger here much longer. It’ll be gettin’ dark soon. There are many more banditos where those pendejos came from!”
Prophet stared after both men—the slender redhead and the bandy-legged little buzzard of a sombrero-clad mestizo. He gave a caustic chuff. “You mind if I take a piss?”
That was what he’d stepped away from the springs to do in the first place.
His bladder was fit to bust.