Riding With the Devil's Mistress (Lou Prophet Western #3) by Peter Brandvold Read Free Book Online Page B

dismounted and tied the horse to a branch.
    Shucking his Winchester, he
started walking westward through the trees, stopping every now and
then and listening for voices. He couldn ’t believe the Red River Gang would
be holed up this late in the day, but if they were as cocky as
they’d appeared, maybe they were careless enough to make stupid
mistakes....
    Prophet moved forward, holding his
Winchester across his chest, avoiding branches and deadfalls which
would make noise if stepped on. He kept his ears pricked,
listening, and sniffed the air as he followed the smell of the
fire.
    When he ’d walked a hundred yards, he stopped
and crouched down, his eyes widening. About twenty yards ahead,
blue smoke curled through the branches of the box elders and
cottonwoods. There were no voices, which might mean the gang had
left their camp without extinguishing their fire, but Prophet
wasn’t taking any chances.
    He ducked behind a tree, laid
out a course that would bring him to the camp while zigzagging
between trees, and started off, quietly levering a shell into his
rifle breech. When he came to the last tree in his course, he
crouched low, removed his hat, and slid a look around the
Cottonwood ’s
wide bole.
    His heart tapped rhythmically when he saw a
man sitting on the other side of a smoky fire, his back to a
natural levee. He was half-bald and unshaven, and his head was
thrust back, his face bunched, as if in pain. A wool blanket was
draped across his shoulders.
    Prophet looked around, but it
didn ’t
appear to be a trap. Nearby was a single horse, but there were no
other riders in the area.
    Thumbing the hammer of his
Winchester back, Prophet stepped out from behind the tree. ‘Keep your hands
where I can see them, old son.’
    The man gave a start, his head
snapping level. The blanket fell from his shoulders as he grabbed
at the pistol on his right hip with his left hand. It was an
especially awkward maneuver, because he wasn ’t wearing a cross-draw
rig.
    ‘ Stop!’ Prophet shouted, squeezing off a shot and ripping a
widget of sod and leaves from the levee about six inches to the
man’s left.
    That froze him, and he looked
at Prophet belligerently. ‘What the hell do you want?’
    For a minute, Prophet wondered
if the man was just a farmer or some drover riding the grub line.
But then he saw the blood on the man ’s right arm, which was red from his
shoulder to his wrist.
    ‘ I
want you, if you’re part of the Red River Gang,’ Prophet said,
taking another cautious glance around, making sure he and the
wounded man were alone.
    ‘ The
Red River Gang?’ the man said with a caustic laugh. ‘Who in the
hell are they?’
    Prophet studied the man and
knew he was one of the dozen he was looking for. He glanced at the
arm. ‘What
happened there? You take a bullet?’
    The man looked at his own arm
and laughed again. ‘Yeah, I was out huntin’ and wouldn’t you know it—I dropped
my damn gun, and it went off on me. Hit me in the shoulder, bored a
route down the bone, and came out my wrist.’
    ‘ You
dropped it and it hit you in the shoulder, did ye? That’s some
fancy gun you have there.’ Prophet couldn’t remember hearing or
seeing any of the townsmen return fire. He had a feeling he’d hit
this man himself, with that old Colt Navy the hat maker had given
him.
    ‘ It’s
the darnedest thing,’ the man said, shaking his head.
    Prophet walked slowly up to
him, pointed the barrel at his face, reached down, and lifted the
revolver from the man ’s holster. It was a Colt Army with gutta-percha
grips. Prophet wedged the gun in his belt and said, ‘Get
up.’
    The man lifted his eyes to
Prophet and snarled, ‘Go to hell, you bastard. Can’t you see I’m
bleedin’ to death here?’
    ‘ I’m
taking you to the sheriff over in Wahpeton. Maybe, if the man’s
nice and doesn’t mind wasting town funds on the likes of a shit dog
like yourself, he’ll hire a sawbones to tend that arm. Have you
good as new