Free Staring Down the Devil (A Lou Prophet Western #5) by Peter Brandvold Page B

reckon it’d be all right,” the man
grumbled. “I don’t have another coach due for two days. I have five
cots in the cabin and a couple more in the barn.”
    “There’s just the three of us.” It’ll cost you three dollars
apiece. That’s including food and a bed with a pillow. Liquor is
more.”
    “I
have to tell you,” Prophet said, “we may be trailed by long riders.
We were attacked last night in our camp. I haven’t seen any signs
of them today, but I thought I’d warn you just the same. If you
want us to keep ridin’, say so.”
    “Long
riders, eh?” the station agent said, flaring his nostrils. “Well,
I’ve dealt with road agents before. Out here, they’re a fact of
life. That’s why I keep a half dozen rifles loaded and this here
greener by the door. Light and tend yourselves. There’s a basin
inside.”
    “Much
obliged.” Prophet started to climb out of his saddle. Sergei set
the coach’s brake.
    The
man called across the yard, “Timmy! Jimmy! Get out here and tend
this team!”
    Prophet glanced across the yard, where two men appeared in the
open shed door, their faces and coveralls black with soot. They
both wore visored caps, both were in their mid-sixties, and both
were the spitting image of the other. Twins. Their identical faces
were long and sallow, their eyes vaguely haunted in deep, wizened
sockets. One held a long blacksmith’s tongs in his right hand clad
in leather gauntlets.
    “That’s Timmy and Jimmy Miller,” the station agent said.
“They’re twins, in case you couldn’t tell.” He wheezed a laugh.
“They’ll take good care of your horses, but the feed’ll cost you
another dollar.”
    “Sounds fair,” Prophet said.
    “Will
they groom their coats, sir?” Sergei asked the station
agent.
    Fergus
had turned to the cabin door. Now he turned back with a surly
frown. “I reckon they can groom ‘em, for an extra
dollar.”
    Sergei
appeared about to argue. Not wanting the agent’s feathers ruffled,
Prophet cut him off. “That’s right generous,” he said, looping his
reins over the hitch rack.
    When
he looked at the agent again, he saw that the man was frozen before
the door, staring toward the coach, a curious light in his owly
eyes. “Well, hello there,” he said, a smile wrinkling his
mouth.
    Sergei
had opened the coach door, and the countess was disembarking, one
hand in Sergei’s, the other bunching her skirts above her booties.
She blinked her eyes against the dust that was still sifting around
the coach. Her sleek, lacy traveling attire with plumed hat was
nearly as dusty as Prophet’s and the Cossack’s garb; the coach’s
canvas shades did little to prevent dust from seeping in the
windows.
    “This
is the Countess Roskov,” Sergei said very formally, when the
countess had planted both feet on the ground and was gently beating
her dress with her gloves.
    “Countess . . .” Fergus said wonderingly. “Well, that sounds
some highfalutin, it does!”
    When neither the
countess nor Sergei joined in his laughter, the manager flushed and
sobered. He gave his gaze to Prophet, who arched his eyebrows
wryly.
    Nervously rubbing his hands on his shirt, the manager said,
“Well, it sure will be nice to have a woman in the place for a
change. It’s been a couple weeks now since me and the boys have
seen a woman. Ain’t many that travel this country, what with the
road agents and Injuns.”
    “And
you are . . . ?” the countess asked the man, daintily extending her
hand.
    “Oh,
I’m Riley Fergus,” the manager said, giving his right hand another
wipe before giving the countess’s a rough shake. “I’m the boss o’
this here crew,” he said, nodding at the hostlers taking the bays
off the coach. “If you call two old French bachelors, a half-dozen
cats, and a fat ole coyote-dog a crew, that is.” He tipped his head
back and guffawed, but Prophet saw his eyes roving the countess’s
dress.
    Apparently, Sergei had seen Fergus’s scrutiny of the