Legion of Fire

by William W. Johnstone

  Luke edged forward, brushing along the side of the building, pistols raised and ready. The street remained empty and silent. The sound of his muddy boots on the soggy ground sounded contrastingly loud.

  Reaching the corner of the café, he leaned cautiously ahead and out. His eyes locked intently as more and more of the blacksmith shop’s open doorway came into view. All of it was right before him . . . but it was empty! There was no longer any sign of Craddock.

  What the hell?

  Luke fought the urge to lunge forward and sweep his gaze in all directions. But no, he didn’t want to risk exposing himself too completely or too suddenly. Craddock could have merely stepped back deeper into the shop, losing himself in the shadows but still maintaining a full view of the street.

  Luke had moved fast but apparently not fast enough to keep Craddock from growing suspicious or for some other reason deciding to shift his own position. Exactly to where and what he next—

  A sudden ruckus came from somewhere near the back of the blacksmith shop. What sounded like the clatter of loose boards mixed with the shrill protest of a horse against a man’s harsh commands.

  “Yah! Yah! Get on through there, damn you!”

  It was enough for Luke to realize what was happening. Craddock was attempting to escape on horseback out the rear of the blacksmith shop!

  Luke shoved away from the café, and rushed out onto the street, quickly taking in the rectangular, scaled-down, barnlike structure of the blacksmith shop. Through the wide-open front doors, he could see the glow of a forge near the front. Farther back, since the smithy fashioned horseshoes and apparently also did farrier work, Luke reckoned there must be stalls or holding pens of some kind. Speculating that Craddock had his horse in for some shoe work meant the animal was readily available now that the fugitive was resorting to flight after his failure to effectively ambush the bounty hunter.

  Luke wasn’t inclined to let that happen. Not if he could help it.

  Although the alley and the ground he’d passed over behind the other buildings was wet and sloppy, it was nothing compared to the middle of the street. Churned by numerous horses and wagons during and since the prolonged rain, it was a soupy, syrupy morass that seemed almost like a living thing bent on trapping and holding Luke’s feet and legs. The slowness forced on him by fighting through the thick muck was infuriating, but he trudged ahead, slogging on, slamming first one foot forward and then the other. He thought he heard the wet thud of hooves out back of the blacksmith barn but couldn’t be sure over the puff of his labored breathing and the thick slap of his own feet.

  He stayed on a straight course toward the side of the blacksmith building, not veering to the open doorway. The alley on the side was wide and clear, through which he figured he could make better time than threading his way through the crowded, cluttered shop. Plus he didn’t want to silhouette himself in the wide doorway, just in case Craddock lingered long enough to try one more shot at him.

  The alley running beside the blacksmith barn was as muddy as the previous alleys and the ground behind the other buildings, but it was still a welcome reprieve from the street. When Luke reached it and began racing toward the other end, he finally felt like his feet had been freed and he was actually running again.

  As he neared the end of the alley, he glimpsed the treeless, grassy, undulating expanse of Kansas landscape behind the blacksmith barn. It was interrupted only by a battered old wooden fence and a deep, weed-choked drainage ditch just a short way beyond that.

  Ignoring the view, he came in sight of Craddock again. As expected, the fugitive was mounted on the same horse Luke had previously caught glimpses of through his binocular lenses. They’d already made it past the fence, a pair of wooden rails knocked loose from their posts offering an explanation for the clattering of boards Luke had heard earlier.

  Craddock was spurring his horse hard toward the drainage ditch but had to hold up after only a couple of dozen yards in order to negotiate the steep banks of the ditch—too wide to jump and worn deep by decades of hard rain runoff from the surrounding slopes. The horse shied at the near edge of the cut, not wanting to start down the slick, weedy bank, but Craddock’s cursing and the insistent pounding of his heels forced the frightened beast on over.

  Luke ran past the end of the blacksmith barn just as horse and rider dropped down out of sight. The depth of the ditch and the high growth of weeds running along its rim momentarily obscured them.

  Luke spat a curse of his own, knowing that if Craddock made it to the other side of the ditch and broke for open country, he almost certainly would make good his escape.

  As suddenly as they’d dropped from sight, the pair reappeared on the other side of the ditch. The horse was gallantly struggling upward, its front hooves pawing and digging through the weeds, trying to find enough purchase in the soft earth underneath to pull itself forward. Craddock was hugging the animal’s neck, frantically urging it on.

  Luke continued to run toward them. His chugging breath was burning like fire inside his chest, but he didn’t let up. Wouldn’t let up. It crossed his mind to use his pistols, but the situation didn’t yet feel desperate enough to warrant shooting a man in the back, nor did he want to risk hitting the flailing horse.

  The distance to the ditch was shrinking. Luke’s ears were filled with the hammering of his own heart and, more vague, the shrieks of the struggling horse and Craddock’s demanding curses.

  For a moment, it looked like the animal had made it. Its hooves reached up over the edge of the embankment, slamming down hard, gouging in, straining to pull its heaving chest and the rider on its back the rest of the way up the incline. But then part of the embankment crumbled away under those slashing hooves and horse and rider backslid amidst a shower of wet, loosened dirt.

  An instant later, Luke launched himself from the edge of the near bank and landed full on Craddock’s back. Still gripping his two pistols, Luke wrapped his arms and legs around the horseman and twisted with all his might, wrenching Craddock out of the saddle. Tangled together, the two men toppled into the four feet of water that filled the bottom of the ditch.

  It was shockingly cold. They rolled under the surface, barely escaping the thrusts and kicks of the horse’s hind feet as it continued to struggle up the embankment. The sensation of being underwater was briefly disorienting yet at the same time bracing and somewhat revitalizing. It jolted Luke out of the exhaustion from his run.

  Never loosening the clamp of his legs or the grip of his powerful arms around Craddock, Luke twisted the man underneath him and held him there, grinding him into the muck and mud at the bottom of the ditch. Craddock tried to struggle, but he was outmatched. Much of the wind had been knocked out of him when Luke landed on his back, and he was being given no chance to try and regain any of it.

  Luke, meanwhile, jerked his face above the surface and sucked in a great mouthful of air while he continued to hold Craddock under.

  Only after he felt satisfied all the fight was gone from the fugitive did Luke finally roll off. He stood up, holstering his left-hand gun, and yanked Craddock’s head out of the water.

  To his surprise, the gasping, choking man showed he had some fight left after all—although only a meager amount. A last-ditch, desperation effort came in the form of a pitifully weak punch to Luke’s jaw. It was enough to earn him a ringing clout to the side of the head from the long-barreled Remington still in Luke’s right fist. When Craddock sagged against the muddy bank, it was certain he was out of it. He was knocked cold.

  Chapter 3

  “After chasing rustlers for half the night and through the morning in the damn rain, I was looking forward to coming home to a nice dose of peace and quiet.” Tom Burnett, the marshal of Arapaho Springs, spoke the words with a sour twist to his mouth and a mild scowl aimed at Luke Jensen.

  “Things are peaceful and quiet around here . . . now,” Luke replied matter-of-factly. “And you can hardly blame me for my share of the lead that got thro
wn in the streets of your town. I was defending myself against an ambush attempt that nearly blew my head off.”

  “Yeah, I guess I have to give you that much,” Burnett allowed somewhat grudgingly. “Anybody who saw any part of it agrees with your version. It’s just damn lucky that no innocent citizens got caught by any of that flying lead.”

  “But not everybody escaped harm,” Luke reminded him. “How’s your blacksmith?”

  “Doc says he’ll likely have a headache and maybe a touch of dizziness for a few days, thanks to that rap on the noggin he got from Craddock.” Burnett grunted. “Luckily, Swede’s got a skull only a little less thick than that anvil he hammers on every day, otherwise it might have been a lot worse.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. I hope it’s some consolation for him to know that I paid Craddock back with a smart rap to his own noggin.”

  “Yeah, I expect Swede enjoyed hearing that,” Burnett said. “A lot more, I’m sure, than Craddock enjoyed it from his end. The doc says he has a concussion. Not to mention the three or four cracked ribs you gave him.”

  “If anybody expects me to express sympathy for his injuries, I’m afraid they’re in for a long wait.”

  The marshal regarded him. Burnett was a husky six footer, somewhere around fifty years old, getting a little thick through the middle as the years crept up. His face was broad and fleshy, featuring an expressively wide mouth, blunt nose, and inquisitive eyes. The hair on his head was thick and wavy, sand-colored, going gray around the temples. At the moment he was dressed in damp, rumpled, mud-spattered trail clothes and clearly not in the best of moods.

  As he continued to study Luke, his scowl shifted to a look of curiosity. “Why didn’t you just go ahead and shoot this Craddock varmint? Especially since the papers you got on him say WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE. Ain’t that the way you bounty hunters usually do it—take the simplest route to be able to claim your blood money?”

  Luke felt the familiar swell of resentment start to rise in him, but he managed to hold it in check. After all the times he’d endured similar remarks, he guessed he was getting used to them. The unfortunate truth was that too many in his profession did take the quick and easy way when it came to dealing with the men they went after. But then, so did a fair amount of lawmen operating on the fringe of the frontier. Luke considered pointing this out to Burnett, but decided against it. Countering one rude comment with another seldom accomplished anything useful.

  “The rewards I claim,” he responded calmly, “are legal compensation paid for rendering a service long upheld by the laws and courts of our land. I conduct my business in what I believe to be a reasonable and professional manner. Toward that end, I stopped by this office first thing to let you know I was here in pursuit of a fugitive. You were unavailable. As for not shooting Craddock—it wasn’t necessary, so I didn’t.”

  “Well, now,” Burnett said, hiking his eyebrows, “you’ve got that spiel down real pat, don’t you?”

  “I’m just saying how it is, that’s all. I figure it’s best if we have an accurate understanding of one another. Including, I should add, my appreciation for you and your deputy allowing me to lock my prisoner in one of your cells for the time being.”

  The discussion was taking place in the front office area of the sturdy log building that housed the town marshal’s office and jail. After apprehending Ben Craddock, it was there—encouraged by a handful of townsfolk who’d reappeared once the shooting was over—that Luke had taken his prisoner. Big Swede Norsky, the blacksmith who’d gotten bashed over the head with a rifle barrel when he’d tried to stop Craddock’s attempted ambush, was prominent in the mix of citizens who’d marched with Luke on the walk over. Upon being shown the reward dodger and hearing the eyewitness accounts of the shooting and the assault on Norsky, Fred Packer, the round-faced old part-time deputy, hadn’t hesitated to make a cell available for locking up Craddock.

  With his man secured behind bars, Luke had been directed to the local barbershop, where he was able to arrange for a hot bath, the cold one he’d gotten in the drainage ditch not counting for much, along with a shave and a hair trim. His soiled clothes were sent to a woman who took in wash and were received with a promise they would be cleaned and ready to be picked up the next day.

  While soaking in a steaming tub in the privacy of a cramped room behind the barbershop, Luke had cleaned and oiled his guns and holsters, then carefully wiped dry each cartridge before reloading the Remingtons.

  Once he was scraped and scrubbed clean, his intent was to finally pay a visit to that aromatic little café. Those plans, unfortunately, got knocked askew once again before he ever made it out of the barbershop. The disruption had come from Deputy Packer, who’d showed up to inform Luke the marshal wanted to see him right away. The deputy then departed to tend to other matters and Luke was left with little choice but to heed the marshal’s summons. After all, he had participated in a shooting in the man’s town and was responsible for the prisoner currently in his jail.

  “Based on everything I heard from Deputy Packer, not to mention the half dozen citizens who waylaid me as soon as I got within the city limits, I got no problem keeping Craddock in our lockup,” Burnett said now. “It sure seems to be where he belongs. Hell, that much would be warranted just based on his actions here in Arapaho Springs. But there’s no sense going to the trouble of adding to the list of charges already listed on that dodger of yours. There’s plenty there”—the marshal made an offhanded gesture to the soggy poster spread out to dry on a corner of his desk—“to stretch the hangman’s rope.”

  “Seems like,” Luke agreed. “But once I take him back and turn him over to the authorities down in Amarillo, that will be up to them to decide.”

  Burnett leaned back in his chair behind the desk and laced his fingers over his stomach. He seemed to relax some, and the scowl was gone from his face as he regarded Luke once more. “Maybe I was a little harsh a minute ago, Jensen. Painting you with a broad brush dipped in the stain of other bounty hunters I’ve had past encounters with. You seem different, and I recollect now hearing your name mentioned a few times in the past. How you play the bounty-hunting game a lot straighter than many in your trade. So I’ll ask you to overlook my unfriendliness and chalk it up to a case of saddle sores, bone weariness, and being wet from my butt both ways after some long hours chasing sneaky, no-account wangdoodles.”

  “Consider it done. I know a little something about how a long chase can wear a body down.”

  “Well, at least we got the stolen cattle back.” Burnett sighed. “Two of the thieves learned what you might call a hard, permanent lesson about the error of their ways. Three others got away, but I wager they’ll think twice about coming back around these parts to try any more of that business in the future.”

  “I’m glad things turned out okay,” Luke said. “But, if you don’t mind me asking, isn’t it a little unusual for a town marshal to go to so much trouble for a rustling problem?”

  “Because of all that jurisdictional crap, you mean?” Burnett made a face. “If we had a sheriff or a U.S. marshal anywhere close by, believe me, I’d be more than happy to stay within the limits of my town jurisdiction and let them handle rustlers. What’s more, my aching butt and back would be quick to second that motion by reminding me, the way they’re doing right now, just how out of shape I am for gallivanting off into rugged country on such pursuits . . . which, come to think of it, rightfully calls for something else.” The marshal leaned forward and reached into a low drawer on the side of his desk. When he straightened back up, he was brandishing a three-quarter-full bottle of whiskey.

  Pulling the cork, he announced, “Strictly for medicinal purposes, you understand. To soothe the aforementioned aches and ward off the risk of catching a cold from the damp.”

  A faint smile touched Luke’s mouth. “Understood.”

  After taking a long pull, Burnett lowered the bottle, wincing slightly as the contents went down. Then he said, “Come to
think on it more, I reckon tussling with a hardcase desperado, not to mention getting soaked yourself due to being dunked in a muddy drainage ditch, might also rate a touch of preventative medicine.” He extended the bottle toward Luke. “A swig of prevention?”

  Luke accepted the bottle. “Don’t mind if I do.” A moment later, after throwing down a healthy slug, he handed the bottle back, exclaiming, “Whoa now. That is not for the young and innocent.”

  Burnett grinned. “Too true. It’s local moonshine.” He took another nip from the bottle, then recorked it and returned it to the drawer.

  “Now then. Back to the matter of your prisoner.” Burnett leaned back in his chair once more, again lacing his fingers. “You said you plan on taking him to Amarillo. Not to sound pushy, but when did you have in mind to do that?”

  “Just as soon as possible,” Luke answered. “Ordinarily, since it’s getting late in the day and you’ve agreed to keep him in your jail, I’d wait and head out first thing in the morning.”

  Burnett frowned. “Something about this make it not ordinary?”

  “Not as far as I’m concerned,” Luke told him. “But your town doctor made it a point to state pretty emphatically in front of several onlookers that it would be inhumane of me, considering Craddock’s condition, to put him on the back of a horse and ride him any distance for at least a couple of days.”

  “That sounds like Doc Whitney, cautious to a fault some of the time. Leastways in my opinion.” Burnett twisted his mouth ruefully. “But he’s been doctoring in this town for a lot of years and has managed to save more than he’s let slip away, so folks tend to pay attention to what he says.”

  “Where does that leave me as far as not paying attention?” Luke wanted to know. “In other words, if I was to decide to go ahead and ride out tomorrow with Craddock in my custody, would you object based on the doctor speaking out against it?”