Legion of Fire

by William W. Johnstone

  If that wasn’t unsettling enough, Millie’s growing sense of dependability and comfort drawn from the nearness of Ben Craddock disturbed her and made her feel ashamed. She kept telling herself that she loathed him, yet every time either the cold wind or the cold eyes of Kelson bit into her, she caught herself involuntarily pressing back against the warmth and solidness of Craddock directly behind her in the saddle. And when his hands roamed a little too freely, as they did from time to time when he thought no one was looking, she didn’t shudder or jerk away quite as readily as she had in the beginning.

  As the day wore on, what at first was a thin trickle of a thought grew into a steadily strengthening flow of an idea. Though in the beginning just the vague outlines of the notion repulsed her, Millie nevertheless wasn’t able to dismiss it from her mind. As her dismay over the possible fate of her father and her feeling of desperation grew, so did the outrageous idea she could not suppress. It kept taking clearer shape and form no matter how hard she tried to will herself not to think about it.

  The whole thing stemmed from her troubling sense of dependence on Craddock mixed with her recognition of an undercurrent of friction between him and Kelson. It had been there almost from the beginning, right from that moment back in the draw when Kelson’s eyes had openly devoured Millie. Initially, Craddock’s overriding and understandable instinct had been for survival. To eagerly agree to join the Legion, to accept the command of Kelson, to do whatever it took not to end up another victim of the ruthless gang.

  To tell the truth, Millie’s feelings had been pretty much the same. The terror she’d felt at the sight of that wave of horsemen coming over the crest of the grassy hill had been so relieved by not being slaughtered on the spot that any clear thought or fear of what would come next, what being spared might lead to instead, had not entered her mind until sometime later.

  By the time it did, by the time fresh realizations and fears were kicking in, she was also noticing other things. In addition to the cold chill she got every time Kelson looked her way and the strange sense of contrasting comfort, for lack of a better word, furnished by Craddock’s nearness, she had a vague awareness of a kind of tension building between the two men. She didn’t feel it fully, though, until Kelson issued his order for all the women, including Millie, to be grouped together and kept separate from the men that first night in camp. Even though he masked his reaction from anyone else, she was too close not to notice the way Craddock’s eyes narrowed and his body went rigid at the command. In that moment, she found herself enjoying his response and the fact she was being taken out of his hands. To hell with him; she wasn’t his damn property, she told herself. And the only reason he cared at all what Kelson did or didn’t do to her was because he wanted her for himself.

  It wasn’t until the following morning when they were leaving that first camp and she discovered her surprising appreciation for again being partnered on horseback with Craddock that Millie also began to pick up a heightened awareness of the tension she’d noted only faintly before. It went back, of course, to the concept of her as a piece of property that each man wanted to possess strictly for himself. It wasn’t a matter of vanity to recognize this; it was just the way it was. She knew she was attractive to men, and suddenly she was caught between two ruthless sorts in the habit of simply taking what they wanted.

  The fact one of them held a position of leadership might or might not affect the outcome, but for the time being it did nothing to ease the tension. Most of the time when Millie caught Kelson looking at her, she would simply avert her eyes. On more than one occasion, however, she was positioned in such a manner that, when she looked away, Craddock would come into view and it was evident that he too had seen Kelson looking at her. He never averted his eyes, at least not right away. He would meet Kelson’s gaze and hold it long enough to become dangerously close to a challenge. Millie couldn’t help but feel it was just a matter of time before one of them—most likely Kelson—forced the issue. Then it would very suddenly be up to the other to hold his ground or back down.

  If and when it came to that, she had a strong suspicion that, no matter how much he lusted after her and in spite of his bold stare-downs, Craddock would ultimately fold. Especially with the whole rest of the Legion backing Kelson. Not that either outcome was desirable, far from it, but the thought of being Sam Kelson’s “possession” was unimaginable. The phrase fate worse than death that so often appeared in the lurid romance tales she and her friends used to thrill to when she was younger pulsed through Millie’s mind with chilling impact.

  When they’d stopped to make camp for a second night, she feared it might come to a head in the event Kelson made some new demand where she was concerned. But he hadn’t.

  In the morning when they’d resumed riding, she was again motioned into a saddle with Craddock. Kelson’s eyes continued to linger on her more openly and for increasing lengths of time, almost like he was taunting Craddock.

  All of that gave impetus to the stubborn thought, that shamefully bold idea that refused to stop running through Millie’s mind. What if Craddock didn’t fold in the event of an open conflict with Kelson over her? It surely would result in violence, the consequences of which would just as surely leave one of the men dead. If it was Kelson who lived, that would be the worst possible outcome.

  But if Kelson died and Craddock logically sought to take over the leadership of the Legion, Millie would be marginally better off, even if it went no further than that. The ultimate aim of her idea was to create, out of the violence and initial turmoil bound to follow Kelson’s death, a chance for her and Lucinda to use the chaos in order to make good their escape.

  The key to any or all of it was Craddock . . . building on the tension that already existed between him and the gang leader. Making sure he would be willing to take a stand against Kelson. Instilling in him the idea that he could become the leader of the Legion of Fire. Strengthening his desire to have her all to himself... and allowing him to believe that she might be ready and willing to accept it.

  Millie didn’t know if she had the wiles to actually sway a man’s behavior in such a manner, let alone the courage to go through with it, but what she did know was that she was determined to survive her ordeal. If not completely unscathed or untarnished, then as much as possible. She would not only survive, but she would do so knowing she had fought every inch of the way and with every weapon at her disposal—even her body, if necessary.

  During the night, she had half hoped for a chance to discuss her scheme with Lucinda. Even if there’d been the opportunity, she wasn’t sure she could have brought herself to admit to another woman she was considering such a brazen ploy, especially not to her father’s betrothed. In the end it became a moot point because their watchers stayed so alert and so close, no chance for any kind of private discussion ever presented itself.

  Ultimately, Millie was faced with making her own decision on whether or not to proceed with her scheme. And, with time running out, she also had to face the fact she no longer had much time to set it in motion if she expected any chance for it to pay off.

  Taking a deep breath, exhaling part of it out against the crisp late afternoon wind that passed across her face, she leaned slowly back against Ben Craddock, very purposely pressing her shoulders to his chest and scooting her bottom slightly, pushing it tighter to him.

  Chapter 29

  Lucas Grogan was angry. Angry at the weather for the cold wind it sent biting into his bones. Angry at the stupid packhorse who’d stumbled and broken its leg. Angry at the two imbeciles he’d been assigned to travel with. Angry at his weakness for liquor and other things he’d let himself be tempted with. And angry at the onset of another bitter night he would be spending on the bare, empty prairie in the company of that homely damn woman and those two simpletons, Rooster and Turkey Grimes.

  Now that the liquor was all gone and his head was starting to clear except for a terrible pounding inside it, Grogan could see how bad he’d foule
d up. First by allowing the Grimes cousins to talk him into letting them bring the Delmonte daughter along for “company” instead of putting a bullet in her head and leaving her back at the Split D Ranch like Kelson had told them to do and like they did with her mother. Second, and worst of all, by letting them hang on to the stash of whiskey they’d found in the well house but kept secret from everybody else until the rest of the gang had ridden off for Arapaho Springs, leaving Grogan and the cousins tasked with getting the loaded packhorses to winter quarters.

  It was easy for Grogan to control his liquor appetite when he was in the stern presence of Sam Kelson; he’d made the mistake of telling himself he could also control it on his own and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a couple of bottles along for the trip to warm a body’s insides when the chilly wind kicked up. Trouble was, once he started warming himself he hadn’t been able to stop tipping up the bottle. Nor had the Grimes cousins, with bottles of their own. And once the drinking was in full swing, the homely daughter started looking more and more fetching. To the point where maintaining a steady pace with the packhorses and supplies became secondary to swilling whiskey and stopping frequently so that one or the other of them could take a turn with the girl.

  And so it had gone for two days and nights. With the last of the whiskey swallowed and the third day coming to a close, Grogan was faced with the consequences of his foolishness. They were at least a half day behind schedule as far as the distance they should have covered already. Whether or not the Grimes cousins realized or cared about that, Grogan couldn’t say. Not that it mattered, he was the one Kelson and Elmer Pride had put in charge of this undertaking, so he’d be the one held to account for any shortcomings.

  It didn’t help any that one of the horses had stepped wrong and busted its leg earlier in the day. Having to shoot it and redistribute its load to the other animals meant they were moving even slower under the added weight. There was also the added burden of the girl—a burden Grogan had decided it was time to get rid of. A decision he fully expected an argument from the cousins over.

  Nor did it help that a bloated, ugly gray cloud cover had rolled in during the afternoon, blocking out the sun, making it colder still and causing the increased wind to sting all the more. They’d be forced to make camp early, as soon as they found a suitable spot. Another unhelpful fact was that Grogan didn’t know the area. He’d never approached the hideout from this way before. He wanted to believe they would come within sight of the badlands sometime tomorrow, but he wasn’t even certain of that. All he knew for sure was that if it took too much longer and Kelson and the rest of the gang ended up getting there well ahead of them, he’d have some tall explaining to do.

  As Grogan was pondering all of this and trying to ignore the pounding inside his head, Turkey Grimes, leading two of the packhorses, moved up to ride alongside him.

  “I hope you’re keepin’ an eye peeled for someplace to make night camp,” Grimes said.

  “I am,” Grogan responded.

  “They’s bad weather in the air. I can feel it certain. Rain for sure, and considerin’ how cold that blamed wind is gettin’, maybe even a touch of snow.”

  “I doubt we’ll see snow.”

  “This time of year, you can never tell. Either way, we’ll be needin’ some shelter.”

  Grogan cringed at the thought of being huddled in a close shelter with the Grimes cousins. They were notoriously unwashed and about as foul-smelling as a couple of penned-up old boar hogs. Even out in open fresh air it was a common practice among other Legion members to never get caught riding downwind of either of them.

  On a couple of occasions over the past months, Sam Kelson had ordered them to find a lake or river to soak in, one time declaring, “If a posse ever takes out after us when we ride away from a job, they won’t need to bother trying to track ground sign. All they’ll have to do is follow their noses!”

  Any relief from these command soakings never seemed to last long, though. In a matter of days the cousins were right back to giving off their overripe odors. General consensus among the other gang members was that the filth and stink had long ago sunk so deep into their skin that no amount of surface scrubbing was going to keep it from seeping right back out again in short order. The only question after that was a debate over which of the cousins smelled the worst.

  One good thing about the evening’s bitter wind, Grogan told himself, was that they were riding straight into it, so whatever stink Turkey carried with him was being quickly blown away. The oldest of the two cousins, Turkey—which he swore was his given name, and likewise for Rooster—was a pinch-faced runt of fifty or so, with gray beard stubble, long stringy hair that constantly hung down around the sides of his face, and a twang to his Kentucky drawl that many found nearly as annoying as his smell.

  Rooster, allegedly younger by a couple of years, was taller and stockier, with a faded yellow full beard, and a bucktoothed overbite that added a whistling sound to certain words when he spoke. Despite their unimpressive appearance and dull intelligence, however, both men were proven to be cold-blooded killers who possessed an almost eerie level of calm when lead was flying the thickest.

  “Those hills in the distance,” Grogan said in response to Turkey’s comment about shelter, “look like they’ve got some trees in among ’em. That might be the best we’re going to find.”

  “I sure hope so,” Turkey said earnestly. “Cousin Rooster tends to take on the croup iffen he gets too cold and wet. I don’t want to see him get sick. Me, I just plain don’t like the misery of an early winter storm.”

  Grogan shot him a look. “You think anybody does? I’ve already got enough damn misery, storm or not.”

  Turkey met Grogan’s hard gaze and then responded with a grin so wide it nearly split his narrow face in two. “Yeah, I can see that. You’re lookin’ a little green around the gills, Grogan. When ol’ John Barleycorn runs out on you, he sometimes stomps a little hard in the leavin’, don’t he?”

  Grogan didn’t say anything right away. He was also a man of around fifty; he’d lost exact count over the years. He was medium height, on the heavy side—though solid, what some folks called “hard fat.” He had pale blue eyes under a ledge of bristly brows, a blunt nose, and an oddly delicate-looking mouth. But there was little else delicate about him. He was strong as a bull, strong enough to crush a man’s windpipe or cave in a rib cage with a single blow of his fist, and while he was no fast-draw artist, he was plenty capable with a shooting iron, too.

  Right at the moment, however, with his skull threatening to crack open and his guts churning unsteadily, he felt barely capable of sitting his saddle and keeping the gaggle of misfits on the move.

  “John Barleycorn,” Grogan spat disgustedly. “He can go to hell, and good riddance to him. Thanks to him sticking his nose in, we’ve lost a lot of time—time we’re going to have to push hard to make up tomorrow. We don’t, you can bet Sam Kelson will add to our miseries—and rightfully so—when we finally do show up at the hideout.”

  “Aw, Sam’ll be more understandin’ than that,” Turkey argued. “Hell, we had a whole passel of miles to cover over ground we ain’t never traveled before. And draggin’ a heavy loaded pack train the whole way—includin’ losin’ one of the brainless critters when it fell and busted its leg. He can’t blame us for that, can he?”

  “Who the hell can say,” Grogan grumbled. “You know as well as I do that Sam ain’t exactly reasonable at times. If he made a good haul in that town him and the rest of the boys was going to hit, maybe he’ll be in a mood to swallow a line like you’re dishing out . . . but I wouldn’t count on it.”

  Turkey frowned, looking a little worried. “But if we show up with all the supplies, that’s what counts the most, ain’t it? Sam shouldn’t be too sore if we’re runnin’ a little late as long as we deliver the goods . . . should he?”

  Grogan made a face. “Like I said, who the hell knows? I’ll tell you one thing, though, and that is we for sur
e need to get shed of the damn girl before we get there. In addition to going against his orders and not leaving her dead back at the ranch to begin with, he’ll figure we lost time dallying with her along the way.”

  Rooster Grimes, leading the other two packhorses, drew up on the other side of Grogan. The Delmonte daughter was propped in the saddle in front of him. She slumped loosely and never would have been able to remain upright on her own if Rooster’s thick left arm wasn’t wrapped around her middle. Her appearance was bruised, battered, and bedraggled. Her heavy-lidded eyes gazed blankly down from her forward-tipped face and a string of drool hung from her blood-encrusted lips. Grogan looked at her not with any measure of sympathy but rather with revulsion at the thought that he had lain with such a sorry specimen, and, even worse, that he’d shared her with the cousins. It was nearly enough to cause his already roiling stomach to upchuck.

  “Say now,” Rooster said gruffly. “Is that our little sweetie here you’re talkin’ about so careless and rough? By God, I ain’t ready to be shed of her. Not anytime soon! I got me a lot more ruttin’ in mind!”

  “If you know what’s good for you,” Grogan replied, “what you’d better set your mind on is getting finished with her.”

  Rooster’s lips peeled back in a sneer. “What if I ain’t so inclined? Who’s gonna tell me what’s good for me? You, Grogan?”

  Grogan’s pale blue eyes took on a deeper shade. “If I have to. If not me, you can bet your ass Sam Kelson will. You really ready to explain to him how you figure your rutting urges are more important than following his orders?”

  “Now simmer down! Both of you back up a row or two,” Turkey interjected. Then, looking past Grogan and focusing strictly on Rooster, he added, “I ain’t keen on givin’ up the girl neither, Cuz. She’s been real entertainin’ for all of us. But Grogan’s right. Sam Kelson’s mighty prickly about havin’ his orders followed, and you know it. We show up with that gal after he said for us not to have any truck with her, it’ll be all our asses. She was fun while it lasted, but she ain’t nohow worth gettin’ crossways of Sam and those who’ll back him.”