Staring Down the Devil (A Lou Prophet Western #5) Read Online Free

doubted that aroused was the word she’d meant to use. In spite of
himself, he chuckled and turned to Sergei, who ran his thumb and
index finger through his shiny, raven goatee and sipped his
brandy.
    Setting the glass down before him, he entwined his stubby
fingers around it and leaned over the table. “As I mentioned
before, this is the Countess Roskov. I am Sergei Andreyevich, her
manservant and bodyguard. We are from Russia originally but now
reside in Boston. We have come west in search of the countess’s
sister, Marya.”
    “We
met your friend Mr. Senate in Kansas City,” the countess said. “He
told us that you might be able to help us. He told us, in fact,”
she added, with a trace of patronizing humor, “that if anyone
could, it is you.” She glanced at Sergei, as if wondering if Senate
had been off his rocker.
    “I’m a
bounty hunter,” Prophet said, giving the cravat an irritated jerk.
“I only go after people with bounties on their heads.”
    The
countess studied him coolly. “Mr. Senate said that you would
probably be in Denver in the early winter. We’ve been waiting for
you for several weeks. I hope we have not waited in
vain.”
    Prophet scowled. “You have. I’m a might later than I expected.
How did you find me, anyway? Denver’s become a pretty big
berg.”
    “We
asked around at the — how do you say? — cathouses.” The countess’s
expression was matter-of-fact, but the knobs of her cheeks flushed
slightly. “A helpful young lady said that sooner or later we could
find you at the house where she works or in the Slap & Tickle
Saloon.”
    Prophet’s cheeks warmed with chagrin as the countess
continued. “We just happened to check there after dinner this
evening, and there you were, flying out the door.”
    A
smile tugged at her lips, and she glanced at Sergei Andreyevich,
whose hairy hands were still entwined around his glass. He had a
ruggedly handsome face. The carefully trimmed goatee lent a formal,
almost military touch. A humorous light shone in the broad
Russian’s lustrous brown gaze.
    “Mr.
Senate described you perfectly,” the countess said, a note of
admiration tempering her amusement.
    Prophet finally removed the annoying cravat and tossed it on
the table with the hat. “Sorry, I can’t help you.” He slid his
chair back and stood.
    “Can’t?” she asked. “Or won’t?”
    “Both.”
    “Why?”
    “I
told you, I’m a bounty hunter. If your sister don’t have legal
paper on her, I won’t mess with it. Just simpler that way. I like
things simple. I’ll leave the clothes at the Black Stallion Livery
Barn in the morning. It’s by the Cherry Creek bridge.”
    Before
he could turn away, the countess nodded at Sergei, who removed a
fat, brown envelope from his jacket and set it on Prophet’s side of
the table.
    “I can
offer you one thousand dollars at this moment,” she said. “Another
thousand when we’ve found Marya.”
    Prophet looked at the envelope. As much as he needed the
money, he couldn’t do it. He didn’t work for people, only wanted
dodgers. Life was just more livable that way. Besides, these people
took too much for granted.
    “Sorry,” he said again. Leaving the hat and cravat on the
table, he headed for the door.
    As he
headed east toward the livery barn, he stopped in a tavern for a
bottle. Back in the fresh night air, he dug the cork from the
bottle with his pocketknife and drank, enjoying the burn of the
whiskey in his throat.
    Two
thousand dollars. Damn.
    He
took another drink, corked the bottle, and continued walking east
along Denver’s downtown flats. He was halfway down the block when a
string of horses appeared, walking slowly around a closed leather
goods shop, heads hanging with fatigue. At the head of the string
was a short, longhaired hombre on a tall, black horse. All four
horses behind him carried riders draped belly down across their
saddles, their heads, arms, and feet jerking stiffly as the horses
tramped through the