The Devil's Legion

by William W. Johnstone

  “That’s the only way this thing will truly be settled, short of open warfare. I know you said there are jurisdictional problems, but I’ll drag the sheriffs of all three counties involved in here if I have to.”

  Donohue nodded slowly. “It wouldn’t break my heart to see Ed Sandeen behind bars, that’s for damned sure. I don’t see how you’re gonna get that proof you want, though, unless maybe you can lay your hands on one of Sandeen’s men and convince him to testify against his boss.”

  “That’s the very idea that’s been lurking in the back of my head,” Frank admitted. “I have to make one of them talk.”

  “I don’t know how in blazes you’ll manage that. All the men who ride for Saber are mighty tough.”

  “Any man’s liable to turn on his boss, though,” Frank said, “if it’s the only way he can save his own neck.”

  Donohue frowned. “How do you mean?”

  “Sandeen wants me dead. He’s going to keep sending men after me. I just need to take one of them alive, so that he’s faced with either testifying against Sandeen or going to the gallows for trying to kill me.”

  “Just tryin’ to kill somebody ain’t usually a hangin’ offense. You’ve got to actually commit murder to get your neck stretched.”

  “I think I can convince a prisoner otherwise,” Frank said with a faint smile.

  Donohue looked at him intently for a moment, then chuckled. “You know, I think you’re right, Frank. If you told me I had a date with the hangman, I expect I’d believe you.” He rubbed a hand along his bearded jaw. “The only problem with this plan is that you got to sit back and wait for somebody who works for Sandeen to try again to kill you. That’s just like paintin’ a damned target on your back.”

  Frank sipped his coffee and then said, “It won’t be the first time I’ve worn one.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mary Elizabeth had peach cobbler for dessert, and Frank thought it was some of the best he’d ever had. There was something a little different about it, and when he asked her about it, she smiled and said, “That’s because I got me a secret ingredient in there, Marshal.” She leaned closer and went on quietly, “I add a little ginger to it. Gives the peaches a nice spicy taste.”

  “Well, it’s mighty good,” Frank told her.

  “Good enough, in fact, that I think I’ll have another serving,” Donohue said.

  Frank grinned and reached for his hat. “Not me. I’m full. I’ll see you in the morning, Mayor.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Mary Elizabeth added caustically, “Where else is he gonna be?”

  Still smiling, Frank left the café. He walked toward Alonzo Hightower’s Mogollon Saloon, intending to stop in there for a quick beer before he went back to the livery barn.

  Along the way, he got to thinking over Donohue’s comment about having a target painted on his back. That was true, and it made the hair on the back of Frank’s neck prickle a little. He was as accustomed to danger as a man could be, but even so, it was never a pleasant feeling to know that there were hombres around who wanted him dead. He heard a faint noise in the shadows as he passed the mouth of the alley between Wilson’s Mercantile and Vincente Delgado’s saddle shop, and his muscles stiffened and his nerves cried out for him to draw his gun and whirl toward the darkness, ready to fire.

  He did neither of those things, but instead just kept walking. He glanced over his shoulder after a couple of steps and saw a scrawny cat saunter out of the alley and sit down and start washing himself. Frank grinned and gave a little shake of his head. He was glad he hadn’t made a fool out of himself.

  He had taken another couple of steps when he heard the faint scrape of boot leather on hard-packed ground behind him. This time when he glanced back, his keen eyes caught the barest reflection as a stray beam of silvery moonlight bounced off the barrel of a gun.

  Frank threw himself to the side as Colt flame bloomed in the shadows and lead clawed wickedly through the night.

  He landed on his shoulder in the street and rolled over, his hat coming off. The Peacemaker leapt into his hand as he came to a stop on his belly. He fired twice toward the mouth of the alley and then rolled again, winding up behind a water trough that gave him a little cover.

  The gunman in the shadows squeezed off another couple of shots. One of the bullets thudded into the thick wood of the trough while the other splashed into the water itself. Then Frank heard the thud of running footsteps. For the second time today, someone had tried to bushwhack him, failed, and now was fleeing.

  Frank surged to his feet and leaped onto the boardwalk in front of the saddle shop. He pressed his back against the wall of the building, which was dark now because Vincente had gone home to be with his wife and their multitude of youngsters. Frank slid along the wall, ready to fire if anybody came around the corner of the building. When nobody did, he ducked around the corner himself, crouching low to make himself a smaller target.

  Hoofbeats pounded, heading north. The bushwhacker had reached the horse he had left hidden somewhere behind the buildings. Frank bit back a curse, whirled around, and dashed out of the alley and along the street. There was no time for him to fetch Stormy from the livery stable; if he tried to do that, the bushwhacker would be long gone before Frank could get mounted. He had only one slim chance of stopping the gunman.

  The bridge over the Verde was the only good place to cross the river for several miles in either direction. If the bushwhacker rode past the bridge and continued north along the river, he would get away. Frank wouldn’t be able to catch him.

  But if he tried to cross the bridge, Frank might be able to stop him. It would be a difficult shot, in poor light, at long range for a handgun. But a chance was just that, and Frank wasn’t going to give up just yet.

  The rider bolted out from between Desmond’s store and the Baptist church, at the north end of town. Leaning low over the horse’s neck, he galloped toward the bridge. Frank came to a stop in the street, leveled the pistol, and steadied his arm by gripping his right wrist with his left hand. The rider reached the bridge and started onto it. Frank’s mind calculated the angles and the elevation with lightning-fast speed as he drew a bead and fired. For a second he thought he had missed, but then the horse stumbled and its front legs collapsed, dropping the animal on the bridge and sending the rider sailing over its head.

  Frank hated to shoot an animal, but the horse made a lot bigger target than the rider and he didn’t have much choice if he wanted to stop that bushwhacker. As soon as the horse went down and threw its rider, Frank sprinted forward again, heading for the bridge.

  When he reached it, he saw the horse lying there, motionless, but there was no sign of the fallen bushwhacker. Frank slowed to a stop and frowned. He had been watching the bridge as he approached, and he hadn’t seen the gunman get up and run off to the other side. Was it possible that when the horse had gone down, the man had been thrown completely off the bridge into the river? Frank hadn’t heard a splash.

  There was an open railing on each side of the bridge. It would have been simple enough for the bushwhacker to slide through there. And there were support beams underneath the bridge, Frank recalled, where a man could stand.

  Quickly, he reloaded the empty chambers of his Colt, then cautiously started out onto the bridge. He tried to move as quietly as possible, but the heels of his boots made unavoidable clomping noises on the planks. His eyes moved constantly as he checked back and forth between both sides of the bridge.

  A flicker of movement to the left caught his attention. He twisted in that direction and dodged quickly to the right at the same time, and as he did so flame stabbed from the muzzle of a gun down near the level of the bridge. The slug whistled past Frank’s ear. Moving so swiftly had saved his life. As he returned the fire, he realized that the bushwhacker was hidden underneath the bridge, just as he had suspected.

  The only cover out here was the corpse of the dead horse. Frank threw himself down behind the horse a
s another bullet screamed overhead. They were at a standoff now. From where the bushwhacker crouched on one of the support beams underneath the bridge, he couldn’t get a shot at Frank. But neither could Frank hit him.

  Over in the settlement, voices could be heard shouting questions. The shots had roused everyone in San Remo, and they wanted to know what was going on. Sooner or later, they would come up here to the bridge to investigate. That meant the bushwhacker couldn’t afford to stand around and wait. He had to either try something different or cut and run, abandoning his attempt on Frank’s life.

  Frank listened intently and heard a grunt of effort, then a scraping sound somewhere below him. The bushwhacker was on the move, trying to work his way around to a better position where he could get a decent shot at his intended target. Acting on instinct, Frank rolled out from behind the carcass and reached the edge of the bridge. Cedar posts spaced every eight feet or so supported the railings along the sides. With his left hand he grabbed one of them at the bottom where it was nailed to the bridge, clamping his fingers around it in a grip of iron. Then he continued rolling and dropped off the side of the bridge.

  Pain shot through his arm and shoulder as his weight hit them, but his grip held. He dangled there, his keen eyes searching the shadows under the bridge. He saw a deeper patch of darkness perched in the support beams about a dozen feet away, heard the startled exclamation as the bushwhacker ripped out a curse. The man twisted toward Frank, his six-gun again belching flame and death.

  Frank fired twice, and then he couldn’t hold on anymore. His grip gave way and he fell. Luckily, it wasn’t far to the river, only about six feet. He plunged into the swift-flowing Verde, unsure whether his shots had struck the bushwhacker or not.

  Just before his head went under, though, he heard a big splash and knew that it was caused by the gunman falling into the river, too.

  The water was cold, since the river was fed by snow melt and mountain springs, but not bone-numbingly frigid. Frank was able to push himself to the surface and strike out for shore. His boots touched the rocky streambed. He surged out of the water and sprawled on the bank. Despite being chilled, he knew he couldn’t just lie there. He had no idea whether the bushwhacker was still alive, but it was certainly possible that the man was not only alive but still bent on killing his quarry.

  Frank scrambled upright and looked along both banks of the river. The newly risen moon and the stars that had popped out in the arching black vault of the sky gave enough light so that he could see fairly well. He spotted movement on the same side of the river, on the far side of the bridge, and after a second that movement resolved itself into the shape of a man stumbling away.

  Frank gave chase, splashing through the edge of the stream as he crossed underneath the bridge. That noise warned the bushwhacker, who threw a frightened glance over his shoulder and broke into a shambling run. Frank was fairly sure from the way the man was moving that he was wounded. He had also caught enough of a glimpse of the man’s face that he was reasonably certain the bushwhacker was Carl Lannigan.

  Now that he had turned the tables on Lannigan, Frank wanted to take the man alive. He wanted Lannigan’s testimony that Ed Sandeen had sent him to San Remo to murder the town’s new marshal. With that sort of evidence, the authorities wouldn’t be able to ignore the situation in the Mogollon Rim country any longer. From what Frank knew of Sheriff Buckey O’Neill, the man would find a way to come in and clean up this mess, jurisdictional disputes be damned.

  But that hope was predicated on capturing Lannigan and getting him to talk. That was why Frank didn’t open fire again. Instead, he jammed his Colt back in its holster, slipped the seldom-used thong over the hammer, and gave chase as Lannigan fled up the bank of the river.

  Both men were soaked, exhausted, beaten up, and Lannigan possibly was wounded. Neither of them was in any shape to run a race. But a race was exactly what it was as Frank scrambled up the bank and ran after Lannigan, who was headed for some trees about a hundred yards away. If he reached that thick growth of pines, it would be hard for Frank to find him. Frank knew he had to catch up to Lannigan before he reached the trees, if he was going to have a good chance of capturing him. Frank summoned up as much strength, speed, and stamina as he could.

  The fact that Lannigan hadn’t turned around and started shooting at him told Frank that Lannigan must have dropped his gun when he fell in the river. That was a lucky break, one that Frank intended to take advantage of. He drew closer, his long legs flashing now as he ran at top speed. Riding boots weren’t meant for making such a dash, but Lannigan had that same problem. He slowed and began to hobble even more. Frank closed in.

  When only ten feet or so separated the two men, Lannigan looked back over his shoulder and screamed, “Morgan, you bastard!” He stopped short. Frank, who was moving considerably faster than the stocky Lannigan, couldn’t slow his momentum in time. Lannigan dropped down and flung himself at Frank’s legs. The two men crashed together. Frank flew forward, out of control, his legs chopped from underneath him by Lannigan’s diving block.

  Frank slammed into the ground, rolled over, and came to a stop on his back. As he looked up, Lannigan’s bulk blotted out some of the stars as the man loomed over him. Frank saw the glint of starlight on the knife in Lannigan’s upraised hand. As Lannigan dove at him, Frank jerked his feet up and planted his boots in Lannigan’s stomach. With a heave, he sent Lannigan flying up and over him. Lannigan yelled in surprise and alarm as he somersaulted in midair and crashed down beyond Frank.

  Frank flipped over onto his belly, pushed himself onto hands and knees, and came up onto his feet. Lannigan lay a few feet away, apparently stunned. Frank’s hand went to his Colt. He thumbed the rawhide thong off the hammer and palmed out the gun. As he covered Lannigan, he said, “Don’t move, you son of a bitch. It’s all over. You’re under arrest, Lannigan.”

  The man still didn’t move. Wary of a trick, Frank approached him carefully. When he heard Lannigan’s strained, raspy breathing, he realized that something was wrong. He got a toe under Lannigan’s shoulder and rolled the gunman onto his back.

  The handle of the knife Lannigan had tried to use on Frank stood straight up from his chest. The blade was buried deep inside his body. Obviously, he had fallen on it when he landed.

  Blood trickled blackly from both corners of Lannigan’s mouth. Frank dropped to a knee beside him and said urgently, “Lannigan! Lannigan, can you hear me?”

  The man’s eyes flickered open. He stared up into the night, seemingly unable for a moment to focus on anything. Then his gaze found Frank, and he grated, “D-damn you . . . Morgan!”

  “Looks like you’re on your way out, Lannigan,” Frank said bluntly. It was too late to be pulling any punches. “Did Sandeen send you after me? Don’t let him get away with it, Lannigan.”

  “G-go . . . to hell!”

  “That’s where you’re headed. If it was Sandeen’s fault, he ought to be keeping you company, shouldn’t he?”

  Frank heard people moving through the grass behind him. He didn’t dare take his attention off Lannigan, because the man might admit to Sandeen’s involvement at any second. Anyway, Frank knew the people who were approaching were probably some of the townspeople from San Remo. That was good. Maybe they would hear Lannigan’s confession. Maybe they would hear him implicate Sandeen. The more testimony against the rogue cattleman, the better.

  But Lannigan just laughed hoarsely, and more blood bubbled from his mouth, and he said, “You . . . you bastard. . . Morgan . . .”

  Then he took one last rattling breath, and his chest stilled. He was dead—and he hadn’t admitted that it was Sandeen who had sent him to kill Frank.

  “Marshal?” The worried voice belonged to Jasper Culverhouse. “Marshal, is that you? Are you all right?”

  Feeling weariness wash through him, Frank stood up and holstered his gun. “I’m fine,” he said as he turned to look at the group of men who had come up. He recognized Culverhouse, Wil
lard Donohue, and a couple of the saloon keepers. “Too bad I can’t say the same for Lannigan.”

  “He’s dead?” Donohue asked.

  “He’s dead.”

  “Well, I reckon that avenges Marshal Crawford, anyway.”

  Vengeance was the last thing Frank cared about right now. He had lost a valuable potential witness against Sandeen. He was back almost where he had started, with the threat of a deadly range war looming over this part of the country. With Lannigan dead, Sandeen had one less gun on his side now, but in the long run that didn’t matter. Sandeen could always hire more killers.

  And that was exactly what he would do, until sooner or later the Mogollon Rim would look down on a range that ran red with blood.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Frank’s clothes were soaked. He hoped he wouldn’t catch a chill from that as he trudged back to the settlement with the other men. Culverhouse was going to fetch his cart and bring Lannigan’s body back to the blacksmith shop, which also served as an impromptu undertaking establishment when needed.

  Here lately, there had been more call for Culverhouse’s services in that line of work than as a blacksmith or liveryman.

  “Somebody will have to let Sandeen know what happened,” Culverhouse commented. “Since Lannigan worked for him, Sandeen may want to pay for the buryin’. Otherwise, I guess I’ll just take whatever’s in Lannigan’s pockets.”

  “Sorry I had to shoot his horse,” Frank said. “If I hadn’t, you could claim it.”

  Culverhouse laughed grimly. “I ain’t in the buryin’ business to get rich. It’s just something that’s got to be done, and most folks don’t want to have anything to do with it.”

  “I may need some of that liniment of yours for my shoulder,” Frank said as he worked his left arm around, trying to get some of the stiffness and soreness out of it. “Feels like I almost jerked the arm out of its socket.” He had explained to the other men how he had hung from the bridge by that arm in order to get a clear shot at Lannigan.