LeRoy, U.S. Marshal 3

by Neil Hunter

  The man slowed his pursuit, bringing his horse to a stop, where he waited close to the stand of cottonwoods LeRoy had used the previous night. Off his horse, allowing it to rest in the shade, Lang was in no hurry. He had assessed the situation and was content to bide his time. He had good reason and an hour later he watched the distant shape of horse and rider moving in his direction. It was someone he knew and had been expecting. A wiry black and white pony carrying a stocky, long haired Apache reined in close. He had been waiting for Lang to show. Always around but not showing until he needed to.

  ‘Four now,’ the rider said. He made cutting gestures with his hands as he spoke. ‘The three following are now two. The Pinda Lickoyi has taken one captive as easy as a Niño.’

  Lang’s own reading of the signs was confirmed.

  ‘Let them ride on until we are ready to take them,’ he said. ‘Make a fire and we will eat and have coffee.’

  The Apache nodded. He slipped from his pony and led it to the stream running through the trees. Letting the animal drink he gathered dead wood and quickly formed a fire, taking the cooking tin ware from Lang’s possibles sack. He moved with a bad limp, his left leg deformed and partly shrunken, the result of a severe gunshot wound, leaving him less than agile.

  He was a Wipuhk’a’bah Apache.

  A Yavapai.

  His name now was Crooked Leg. The name would be given him following his wounding during an encounter with a US cavalry troop on a roundup mission that had resulted in a bloody fight leaving a number of the Apaches dead. Crooked Leg was left for dead, his body half covered by one of his warrior brothers, blood from the slain man drenching his inert body. Half-conscious he had been overlooked by the soldiers as they rode away with a few prisoners. Crooked Leg had lain throughout the hot, dusty afternoon and it was only toward night that he managed to extract himself, binding his shattered limb as best he could and crawling away from the scene of death.

  He finally recovered his wandering pony, dragging himself on its back for the return to his people. He survived through sheer necessity and though initially welcomed back at his camp, he quickly realized his days as a fighting warrior were over. In the weeks that followed Crooked Leg, as was his new name, understood the reluctance of his people to accept him. He had become a burden. Unable to fight and his ability to even hunt reduced. He stayed for a month before leaving one night and riding away. He barely survived and ended up at one of the outlying agencies, where he spent his days doing menial tasks for food. Word had got around of his plight and Crooked Leg found himself on the receiving end of cruel taunts and jokes.

  That was until the man called Lang stopped at the agency and asked if there was anyone who could guide him into country he knew little about. He was on a bounty hunt. The man who ran the agency pointed out the crippled Apache.

  ‘He don’t look much, friend, but that feller knows every piece of dirt around. Can’t do much on his feet but put him on a pony an’ he’ll take you anywhere. Don’t know what his Apache name was. They call him Crooked Leg because...well you can see why. Thing is he can speak English pretty well too. Hell if I know where he learned but he gets by fine.’

  Lang knew the area well and took the wounded Apache to a secluded cabin hidden in an wooded area. Lang had used the hideaway for a number of years. It provided a base for him away from regular trails. There was a narrow stream close by so he had a source of water and there was good grass close by for his horse. It suited Lang. He liked his privacy, enjoying the isolation. Lang was by nature a man who preferred a solitary existence. The trappings of society offered him little.

  When Lang offered him work that would be paid in money and a limited supply of Pinda Lickoyi whisky, Crooked Leg reluctantly accepted. As a crippled warrior he had been shunned by his people, cast aside as not worthy to join them on raids. So he crossed over to the side of the Pinda Lickoyi and offered his tracking skills to help Lang hunt wanted men.

  That had been almost a year ago. The partnership worked well and for Lang it made his pursuit of criminals a sight easier.

  After feeding Crooked Leg rode off, picking up on the tracks he had spotted earlier and did what he was good at. He managed to get ahead of the group he was trailing and decided to lay an ambush. If he took down the Pinda Lickoyi it would make Lang’s capture of the prisoners easier and might get him a bonus of a fresh bottle of whisky.

  Nineteen

  LeRoy studied the stretch ahead with a mounting sense of apprehension. Something told him the scenario wasn’t as safe as it appeared. It wasn’t as if there were visible signs. Just the soft ripples in the sand reaching out to the gray bones of the abandoned wagon. Shreds of bleached canvas slung to the hooped stays, moving in the ever present breeze. The wagon was two thirds buried in the sand, the upper curves of the wheels still showing. One wheel had broken splintered spokes exposed. The sand lifted by the wind rattled dryly against the wood.

  The closer they got to the wreckage the more LeRoy’s tension increased. He couldn’t explain it in words but his whole being was warning him not to take anything at face value. It was not the first time his instincts put him on alert.

  His eyes searched the area around the wagon. Looking for anything that might provide him with a hint...

  If LeRoy hadn’t seen the faint movement in the soft surface of the sand just beneath the wagon bed he might have been faced with a different outcome. Even so he could easily have ignored it if it hadn’t been that the shift went against the drift caused by the wind. It was blowing in a an opposite direction to the breeze.

  The movement he saw went against the air current.

  Disturbed by something under the sand?

  LeRoy pitched himself sideway out of the saddle, letting go of the cumbersome rifle as he dropped, pulling out his holstered Colt. He turned in the air, dogging back the pistol’s hammer as he hit the ground on his left shoulder, coming upright and around to face...

  ...the eruption as a blur of movement exposed the armed, figure of an Apache coming to his knees, slowed by the twisted shape of his left leg, sand sliding from his body as he powered upright. The muzzle of the rifle he held angled towards LeRoy’s body. Teeth bared, eyes blazing with rage, Crooked Leg lunged upward, the rifle firing. The slug went by LeRoy, close enough he could feel the burn. By then he was gauging his own shot, triggered, and saw the slug tear across the Apache’s left shoulder; not a deep wound, simply a flesh gouge. LeRoy gathered himself and fired a second shot, this time placing his .45 slug in the Apache’s body, seeing the ragged tear as it emerged from his side in a spurt of red. Crooked Leg braced his feet apart to steady himself and worked the rifle’s lever, holding back the trigger as he sent a burst of fire in LeRoy’s direction. He lunged forward, closing the gap as he kept firing, and ran directly into LeRoy’s own shots as the lawman held his ground, two-handing the pistol. He put one in Crooked Leg’s throat, then a second that hammered into the Apache’s head, just above his left eye and jerking his head back. The short range allowed the lead to tear out the back of Crooked Leg’s skull, sending bloody matter in a ragged burst. Crooked Leg dropped instantly, face down in the sand. LeRoy took note of the badly scarred twist in his left leg that had marred his movement. The scarring was old, the flesh gnarled and shriveled.

  The three riders ahead of LeRoy were startled by the sudden burst of fire, horses skittering themselves. As they hauled in on their reins and brought the animals round they slammed in their heels and bore down on LeRoy’s position.

  In the confusion of the moment he had the presence of mind to drag out his second pistol. It was a gesture too slow and the pounding thunder of the trio of horses caught up to him, sand flying from beneath the hoofs.

  LeRoy found himself surrounded by horseflesh, the solid weight driving him back and forth, with the lashing swing of hard boots striking at his unprotected body. The riders were yelling wildly, urging their horses close and it seemed they were going to drive LeRoy to the ground.

  ‘Son
ofabitch,’ LeRoy said, his rage overcoming the situation.

  The battering he was receiving might have put him down and he realized if that happened he wouldn’t get to his feet again.

  Choking on the dust, tasting it in his mouth, he braced himself. Raised the pair of pistols still clutched in his hands, he raised the weapons and fired off shots that hammered in the ears of the bucking horses. The loud explosions startled the animals and they pulled aside, giving LeRoy time to break from the circle, stumbling and going to his knees. He dragged himself upright and lifted his handguns, aiming at the riders.

  ‘Back away,’ he said. ‘Do it now or I start putting bullets in the first man who refuses. Now, goddamnit.’

  He stood with his back to the old wagon, layered with dust, sweating, his body aching. Blood streaked his bruised face and LeRoy could feel the beating his body had taken. His ribs ached from the pounding they had taken and LeRoy knew he was going suffer from it. Right then all he wanted to do was lie down and rest but that was something he daren’t do.

  He cocked each pistol, sighting in on his captives.

  ‘I got enough shots here to put every damn one of you down. All I need it an excuse. Any excuse so think about it.’

  By this time the three had pulled their horses under control. They sat and met LeRoy’s unflinching stare.

  Hobbs was still defiant.

  ‘Boys, I don’t figure this lawdog will last as far as Yuma. State he’s in he’s liable to fall down any minute.’

  ‘Man has a point,’ Tannen said. ‘LeRoy, you still got Munro and Riggs on your backtrail.’

  ‘If they’re as smart as you, I don’t figure I have much to worry about.’

  ‘I had my hands free I’d deal with you easy.’

  ‘Thing is, Riggs, you don’t have your hands free and it’s staying that way, mister.’

  ‘I got a question,’ Teague said. ‘Where did that ‘pache come from? He on his own or part of a bunch?’

  Hobbs grinned. ‘Yeah, LeRoy, what you got to say to that? Seems to me that damn buck was waitin’ on someone ridin’ his way. Him being hidden an’ all.’

  LeRoy didn’t give him an answer. Because he had none, only a question of his own about the Apache. The more he considered it there seemed only one reason.

  The Apache had been waiting for them to appear.

  ‘Appears to me, we got someone else doggin’ our trail, Mr. Lawdog,’ Hobbs said. ‘You bringin’ in more trouble for us?’

  ‘More than likely they’re coming in for you,’ LeRoy said.

  The grin that had been forming on Hobbs face vanished as LeRoy’s words registered. He swiveled his head back and forth, eyes searching the bleak terrain.

  LeRoy pushed one gun away, backing from the others as he slapped at the dust coating him. He moved to his horse, holstered his other pistol and reached for one of his canteens, using water to sluice his face and rinse out his gritty mouth before taking a drink.

  ‘Dare say this ain’t as much fun as you expected,’ Hobbs said.

  LeRoy located his hat, slapped the dust from it before he mounted his horse. It took an effort to pull himself into the saddle. With his reins in his left hand he covered his prisoners with his Colt.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  Twenty

  Lang found the body hours later. Sat his saddle and stared down at Crooked Leg.

  He had spotted the circling vultures well before coming up on The big black birds had voiced their displeasure at the appearance of the human and rose to hover overhead. They would return once Lang had moved on.

  The bounty hunter hunched over his saddle, hands clasped on the saddlehorn. He was going to miss the Apache if only because of the man’s usefulness as a tracker. Crooked Leg might have been crippled but his ability to follow a trail had always paid off.

  Until today.

  Easing away from the body Lang studied the signs that told him the four riders were still moving across the desert. And still heading in a direction that would take them to Yuma.

  That was LeRoy. Stubborn as hell. Refusing to be distracted from his destination.

  Lang took a small mouthful of water from his canteen. Splashed some on his face.

  ‘Well, Mr. LeRoy, least we got that in common. I don’t quit either.’

  He rode forward never once looking back to where the Apache lay. The body would be picked clean by the carrion and the other predators of the desert.

  From the land and back to the land. The circle would be completed.

  A few miles along he picked up the cluster of bleached boulders and knew that would be where Crooked Leg would have left his pony. He found the wiry animal as he had figured. Stripped off the minimal trappings, gave it water from the bladder hung across its back and turned it loose. He watched the pony turnabout and head back the way they had come. Like its dead master the pony was a native of the wasteland and would survive.

  Lang watered his own animal before tossing aside the bladder, remounted and picked up the trail heading across the burning desert land. Sooner or later he was going to catch up with LeRoy and his prisoners. Then his real work would begin.

  He would have no problems putting down the lawman. Or the third man LeRoy had picked up. In Lang’s eyes they were as good as dead. With them out of the way Teague and Hobbs would be in his hands.

  Lang would be left with a simple decision. To kill the pair – or take them back for Lawrence Machin to handle however he saw fit. Lang would get paid in either event. Teague and Hobbs were heading for a dead end.

  Their eventual fate meant nothing to Lang. He was being paid to apprehend them. That was his purpose. He took a job and saw it through to the end. Beyond that he wasn’t interested. Lang worked for the money plain and simple. Nothing mattered beyond that. He was a practical individual. Understood the world didn’t owe him a damn thing.

  Not a blamed thing.

  He had learned that at an early age. He saw how people could struggle simply to earn enough to put food on the table. The struggle became their focus and Lang was there down in the dirt just the same, until he figured there had to be a better way. So he watched and learned and took it all in. At sixteen he left home, vowing he would never let himself become one of the crowd. He took whatever work he could find. Learned fast even though he got his fingers burned a few time. Yet each time he was knocked back he hauled himself up again and never made the same mistake twice.

  At twenty he was working with a trail herd. Eating dust and fried beans. It was dirty back breaking work but Lang took to it. He never let it beat him. The men who worked alongside him were hard, unforgiving and he took a deal of hell from them until he started to kick back. He took some beatings until he began to fight back and proved to be a hard case. He earned respect. And all the time he kept learning.

  On a drive heading for Sedalia, pushing a big heard, Lang used the gun he carried for the first time in a stand up fight. He put his tormentor, a loutish individual named Andres, down with a single shot from his old pistol when Andres went for his gun.

  It was agreed that Andres had been begging for a showdown. There were few if any among the crew who liked Andres and they didn’t grieve over his demise. It was determined Lang had simply defended himself and got what was definitely coming to him. Andres was buried alongside the trail and Lang inherited his few possessions.

  Among the few items was Andres’ pistol. A well-cared for .45 caliber Colt. When Lang strapped on the rig it felt right. Comfortable in his hip. And the gun slipped into his hand so easily. The wood grips were perfect for his grip and Lang experienced a bonding with the weapon.

  He practiced his draw every day and dry fired the gun each time it rose in his hand. By the time the drive reached Sedalia Lang was as one with the weapon. He was paid off and declined to sign on again. Now he felt whole. Ready to face the world on his own terms.

  Two days later he braced a cold eyed man with a reputation as a deadly shootist. It had been easy to find an
argument with the man. He had been striding around determined to cause an argument and Lang, sure of his skill goaded the man until they faced off in a crowded saloon.

  When the moment came and they drew there was only one shot.

  It was from Lang’s gun.

  The telling went around town like a brush fire.

  Ray Peck had been beaten by a young man, not even clearing leather.

  And Lang was suddenly everyone’s friend.

  A reputation easily won and a name in the making.

  The local lawman, a long serving individual, presented with overwhelming evidence that the shooting had been a fair fight had words with Lang, warning him not to become too casual over the result, told the young man he had choices. Let the matter push him into more gunfights, or channel his talent in another direction. He did point out that if Lang chose wrong he would simply become a walking target for every would be gunslinger, and one time would come against the gun that was faster.

  ‘Hell, friend, I seen it happen enough times. Ain’t no kind of life. On the move trying to stay ahead of the line all waiting to be the one to take you down. I seen it happen too many times. ..’

  ‘So what’s the other way?’

  ‘Put on a badge and use what you have for the good.’

  Lang became a lawman. He put on a deputy badge and worked the streets of Sedalia for the next year. He had his share of moments and learned the law. He also became aware of the bounties being paid to the men who went out in search of outlaws, bringing them in and collecting the offered money. The money paid out was well in excess of what he could wearing a badge. The concept intrigued Lang. He still had the dream to make himself richer than he was now, or ever would be as a deputy. That was not what he wanted and risky as it was, Lang realized that becoming a bounty man was a lawful way to earn money by bringing in wanted criminals.