The Devil's Legion

by William W. Johnstone

  Laura Flynn was in deeper trouble than ever before, and she might not even know it yet.

  A frown creased Frank’s forehead as he asked himself what these men had been doing out here. From the looks of it, they had been on their way to San Remo, but why? Frank thought back to the battle at the Lazy F the night before. If some of the punchers had been killed in that raid, Laura would have sent their bodies to town so that Jasper Culverhouse could see to the burials. But that would have required a wagon....

  Frank’s eyes narrowed as he spotted the tracks of iron-rimmed wheels in the dust of the trail. The marks looked fresh. There had been a wagon with the group of riders, and that fact supported his theory. But where was it now?

  He turned his head and looked out across the flats at the bottom of the slope, and he bit back a curse as he spotted what looked like some sort of wreckage a few hundred yards away. Turning, he hurried back to where Stormy waited, along with Tom Horn.

  “All dead?” Horn asked.

  Frank nodded curtly. “And it looks like the wagon that was with them crashed down yonder. Come on. We’ll see if there’s anybody alive there.”

  He mounted quickly and sent Stormy down the trail through the cut, letting the Appaloosa pick his own way through the welter of dead bodies. Horn followed.

  When they reached the flats, Frank heeled Stormy into a trot. It took them only moments to reach the bend in the trail. The wrecked wagon lay upside down just beyond the turn. The team had broken free and stampeded on down the trail for a couple of hundred yards before stopping. Frank spotted them just standing there, still spooked but no longer in the grip of panic.

  A couple of long, blanket-wrapped bundles lay on the ground near the overturned wagon. Frank recognized them for what they were and knew his theory was correct. The wagon had been carrying a couple of dead punchers from the Lazy F into San Remo so they could be buried. He wondered if one of the rough shrouds contained the corpse of Jeff Buckston.

  He wondered, too, where the driver of the wagon was. Maybe he had been shot off the seat and was one of those unlucky men lying back up there in the cut, at the site of the ambush. That was the most likely explanation—

  But then a groan of pain told him it was the wrong answer. The driver was down here, underneath the wrecked wagon.

  Frank was out of the saddle in a flash, running forward to see if he could help the injured man. Horn was right behind him. They reached the wagon and saw a man lying just beyond it, with his legs trapped underneath it. Frank recognized Caleb Glover. The black cowboy’s face was now an ashen gray with agony. The right side of his shirt and jacket were soaked with blood, probably from a bullet wound. And the way he was lying told Frank that the wagon had landed on his legs when it flipped over, probably crushing both of them.

  “We got to get him out from under there,” Horn said.

  Frank nodded. “There’s a rope on my saddle. We’ll tie it to the wagon and see if we can use the horses to lift it enough to pull him free.”

  “Yeah, I got a lariat, too,” Horn agreed. “We’ll use ’em both.”

  He hurried back to the horses to see about that while Frank knelt next to Glover. The cowboy was unconscious, but he moaned from time to time, feeling the overwhelming pain even though he was senseless at the moment.

  “Glover,” Frank said. “Glover, can you hear me?”

  The man didn’t respond. Frank hadn’t really expected him to. Between the loss of blood from the bullet wound and the injuries he must have suffered in the wreck of the wagon, it was amazing that Glover was even still alive.

  Horn ran back trailing two ropes. One of the lariats was tied to Stormy’s saddle, the other to Horn’s horse. Horn handed one of the ropes to Frank and took the other himself. Without wasting any time, the men tied the ropes to the body of the wagon at front and back of the vehicle, running them across the bed to the side where Glover lay.

  “You start the horses backing up,” Frank told Horn. “I’ll be ready to pull Glover clear as soon as the weight’s off him.”

  Horn nodded in understanding. He ran back to the horses, caught hold of their reins, and walked backward, clucking to the horses and urging them to follow suit. Stormy and Horn’s dun both cooperated, backing up so that the ropes pulled tight against the weight of the overturned wagon.

  The sideboards on the other side from where Glover was pinned dug into the ground and acted as a fulcrum as the ropes tautened. The side that lay on Glover began to lift. Frank grabbed him under the arms and pulled him back about five feet. “That’s good!” he called to Horn.

  Horn let the horses step forward again, and the wagon sank to the ground. Leaving the horses hooked up to it, the special deputy trotted around the overturned vehicle to join Frank in kneeling next to Glover.

  “You know this fella?” he asked.

  Frank nodded. “Yes, his name’s Caleb Glover. He rides for the Lazy F. One of the old punchers who was with Flynn for a long time. Looks like he was driving into San Remo with the bodies of the men who were killed in the raid last night. Laura Flynn must have sent the other men along with him. But then they rode into an ambush set up by Sandeen.”

  “How do you know it was Sandeen’s men who were up there on those banks?”

  “I guess I can’t prove it,” Frank admitted. “But nobody else in these parts has any reason to want to wipe out a group of Lazy F cowboys. With that many men lost, Laura doesn’t have enough now to fight off any real attack on her place.”

  “Maybe somebody better go warn her about what’s probably comin’, then.”

  “Yes, but we need to get Glover on to the settlement, too. Maybe something can be done for him.”

  “So we split up?” Horn suggested.

  Frank thought about it, but only for a second. Then he nodded and said, “We don’t have any choice. You take Glover to San Remo, and I’ll head for the Lazy F.”

  “Why not the other way around?”

  “Nobody in town is going to believe me after everything that’s happened,” Frank said. “But maybe they’ll believe you, since you’re working for Buckey O’Neill. Get help for Glover, and tell people what’s going on. Maybe you could get some men together and ride back out to the Lazy F, to help protect the place from Sandeen.”

  “A posse, you mean?”

  “You’re a special deputy, after all,” Frank pointed out. “I reckon that gives you the authority to deputize folks to help you.”

  Horn chuckled humorlessly. “Well, if it don’t, we’ll say it does. But you’re facin’ the same problem either way, Morgan. The folks on the Lazy F aren’t gonna believe you any more than the townspeople would. And those wild cowboys are liable to start shootin’ at you as soon as they lay eyes on you.”

  “I’ll just have to run that risk. If I can get to Laura Flynn and talk to her, I think I can convince her that she’s in a lot more danger from Sandeen than she is from me.”

  “Maybe . . . if you can stay alive that long.”

  On the ground between them, Glover suddenly stirred. He let out another groan, and his eyelids fluttered. “Get my canteen,” Frank told Horn. He got an arm under Glover’s shoulders and lifted the injured man a little while Horn fetched the canteen from Stormy’s saddle.

  Frank took the canteen from Horn and dribbled a little water into Glover’s mouth. The cowboy choked some but swallowed most of the water. His eyes opened all the way. For a few seconds his pain-wracked gaze wouldn’t lock on anything, but then his eyes settled on Frank’s face.

  “M-Morgan?” Glover husked.

  “That’s right,” Frank said. “Just take it easy, Glover. We’re going to take you to town and get you some help.”

  “H-how bad . . . am I hurt?”

  “I don’t know,” Frank told him honestly. “You’ve been shot, and that wagon landed on your legs when it turned over.” Frank glanced at Glover’s mangled limbs and added, “They’re probably both broken. I can’t tell whether or not you’re busted up any
inside. But you’re still alive, and that tells me you want to live. I know Miss Warren wants you to live, too, so you just think about her and hang on, hear?”

  Glover closed his eyes and nodded weakly. “Th-thanks . . . Morgan.” He opened his eyes and looked up at Frank again. “The boys . . . with me . . . we was . . . ambushed . . . did any of ’em . . . make it?”

  “How many riders were with you?”

  “T-ten.”

  Frank’s mouth was a thin, grim line as he said, “I’m sorry, Glover. They’re all up there in that cut, dead.”

  Glover’s face turned a little more gray. “Th-that bastard . . . Sandeen . . . it was his men . . . who done this . . .”

  Horn leaned forward, suddenly more interested. “You know this for a fact?”

  Glover licked his lips, and Frank gave him a little more water. That seemed to strengthen him. He said, “Yeah, I . . . I seen that son of a bitch Riley . . . and his damned shotgun . . . just caught . . . a glimpse of him . . . but it was . . . enough.”

  Horn looked across Glover’s broken body at Frank and nodded. “It’s enough, all right. There’s the testimony you been lookin’ for, Morgan. I heard it with my own ears, and on my authority as a special deputy, I can arrest Sandeen now.”

  “Not with forty gunslingers around him, you can’t,” Frank pointed out.

  “Well, I didn’t say it’d be easy, now did I?” Horn asked with a grin. “Anyway, I’m countin’ on you to whittle down them odds a mite first.”

  Frank nodded. “I’ll do my best. Let’s get Glover on your horse, so you can get on to San Remo.”

  Horn took the lariats loose from the wagon and coiled them, replacing them on the saddles. Then, as carefully as possible, he and Frank lifted the injured man to the back of Horn’s dun and tied him into the saddle. Horn climbed on behind him and said, “I’ll hang on to him. Won’t be the first time I’ve got some blood on me.”

  “Just follow this trail,” Frank told him. “It’ll take you right to San Remo. When you get there, take Glover to Jasper Culverhouse, who owns the blacksmith shop and livery stable. He’s the closest thing the town has to a doctor. Miss Warren at the café is Glover’s friend, and I’m sure she’ll want to help, too.”

  Horn nodded. “I’ll take care of this fella as best I can, Morgan. Just you be careful, too. Better keep your head down when you ride up to the Lazy F, or they’re liable to try to part your hair with lead.”

  “Like you said about the blood,” Frank replied, “it won’t be the first time.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Laura didn’t want to leave Jeff Buckston’s side even for a moment, because she planned to be there when he woke. But Acey-Deucy finally persuaded her to go to her room and clean up a little. He promised he would watch Buckston like a hawk and call her right away if there was any sign that he was about to regain consciousness.

  She had to admit that she felt a little better after she had washed her face, brushed her hair, and gotten out of the bloodstained clothing she’d been wearing since the night before. She put on a clean dress and went back downstairs, hoping that there might have been some change for the better in Buckston’s condition while she was gone.

  But as she entered the parlor, Acey-Deucy looked up at her and just shook his head glumly. Buckston still lay there on the divan, out cold. The gentle rise and fall of his chest was the only sign that he was still alive.

  “He wake up soon, Missy Laura,” the cook said. “You not worry.”

  Laura summoned up a smile. She knew that Acey-Deucy was just trying to cheer her up. In truth, none of them knew when—or if—Buckston would ever wake up again.

  “I’ll sit with him,” she said. “You go on about your cooking. The men will be wanting some dinner pretty soon.”

  Acey-Deucy bowed his way out of the parlor and headed for the kitchen. Laura sat in the rocking chair next to the divan and watched Buckston.

  She had never been fully aware of the depth of her feelings for him until he had been hurt. Now she knew she loved him and wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. And it wasn’t just because she needed him to help her run the Lazy F, either. Like all top hands, he had a great deal of loyalty to the brand for which he rode. He would have stayed on here as foreman and done his absolute best to run the ranch properly whether or not there was ever anything personal between the two of them. She was sure of that, because that was just the sort of man Jeff Buckston was.

  But she knew now she would have loved him no matter what the circumstances were, simply because he was a good man and something within her responded to him. She liked and admired him, and at the same time she longed to feel his hands on her body, his lips on hers. She knew she was being brazen to even have thoughts like that, but she couldn’t help it. She loved him.

  If only he would wake up . . .

  She sighed and thought that she would be glad when Mr. Glover and the other men she had sent to San Remo with the bodies of the two dead punchers returned to the ranch. They ought to be back by nightfall, she told herself. She thought the Lazy F would be safe until then. It seemed unlikely to her that Ed Sandeen would attack the place in broad daylight.

  But then, she had to admit that she really didn’t know what Sandeen was capable of. When she first met him, she wouldn’t have dreamed that he was actually the sort of man he was. But the more time that passed, the more she saw the truth. He was a ruthless man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted . . . and what he wanted was the Lazy F and, she feared, her. He hadn’t gotten over her rejection of him and was still determined to have her, one way or another.

  Sooner or later, he would come to take what he wanted. Laura could only hope that Glover and the others would be back by then, and that she would have enough men to fight off Sandeen and his killers.

  She was musing grimly about that when one of the hands came up onto the porch and knocked on the open front door. “Miss Laura?” he called.

  Her head jerked up as the words broke her reverie. “What . . . what is it?” she asked as she stood up and turned toward the door.

  “Better step out here for a minute,” the cowboy advised her.

  She glanced at the unmoving Buckston, then went to the door and walked out onto the porch. The cowboy held his hat in his hand as he said, “Listen.”

  Laura listened, and right away she heard the distant sounds that had been inaudible inside the house. “That’s gunfire, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Yes’m,” the puncher said. “It’s shootin’, and a lot of it. Sounds like it’s comin’ from somewhere between here and town.”

  Immediately, Laura thought of Glover and the riders she had sent along with the wagon. “Have our men had time to reach San Remo yet?”

  The cowboy shrugged. “Hard to say, but prob’ly not.”

  “What does this mean?” Even as she asked the question, Laura was afraid she knew the answer, and the thought made her stomach clench sickly.

  “Well, it could be that those shots don’t have anything to do with the fellas you sent to town,” he said, turning his hat over nervously. “But it could be that somebody jumped ’em, too. That many shots means a big ruckus.”

  “An ambush, you mean?”

  “Could be.”

  The man’s refusal to give her a straight answer was maddening, but Laura understood it. He just didn’t know what had happened. But under the circumstances, the chances were that the shots didn’t mean anything good.

  Damn that Sandeen! He would have known that she would send the bodies of the men who had been killed the night before into town. He could have sent his killers to set up a trap for her men. She never should have sent so many riders with the wagon. She realized now that she was facing a cunning enemy who might have just cut her forces almost in half. She had played right into his hands.

  If only Buckston had been in charge, he never would have made such a mistake, she told herself bitterly. If only . . .

  But there was
no point in such self-recrimination. The past couldn’t be changed, and she had to deal with the situation the way it was, not the way she wished it could be.

  “You want me to send a rider to take a look . . . ?” the cowboy began.

  Laura shook her head. Despite the fear she felt that something might have happened to Mr. Glover and the others, she couldn’t afford to split the ranch’s defenders any more, not even by one man.

  “All the remaining hands are here at headquarters, aren’t they?” she asked.

  The puncher grimaced. “Yes’m. Ain’t nobody out ridin’ the range today. Sandeen’s men may be roundin’ up all our stock, right this minute.”

  She knew the decision to abandon the cattle didn’t sit well with the men, but there was nothing that could be done about it. The ranch headquarters had to be defended. They could try to recover any stolen stock later, when this whole range war was settled.

  “I want every man armed with a rifle and pistol, and make sure they have plenty of ammunition in their pockets,” she ordered. “Stay out of sight as much as possible. Everyone is to find some good cover that can be easily defended.”

  “Yes, ma’am. You reckon Sandeen’s gonna hit us again?”

  “I think it’s only a matter of time,” Laura said.

  * * *

  If not for the smoke that curled thinly from the main house’s chimney, Frank would have thought that the headquarters of the Lazy F was deserted when he rode up some time later. He didn’t see anyone moving anywhere as he approached. When he came closer, he spotted quite a few horses in the corral. It looked like the remaining punchers were staying close to home today, rather than riding the range. That jibed with the observations Frank had made as he rode toward the ranch. He had seen Lazy F stock but no one tending it.