Devil Rising

by R. B. Conroy

  “Mr. Jed! Mr. Jed!” Little Bear shouted. He frowned as Jed continued on. The leaves flew and the twigs cracked as the strong legs of the aging warrior pushed through the brush. Little Bear’s moccasins touched the dusty road outside as he finally cleared the wooded area. His brown eyes scanned the road ahead for signs of Jed; he could see clouds of dust blowing around the bend. He quickly ducked back into the woods, fearing the arrival of more riders. He sat motionless in a thicket of bushes, senses on high alert. He could hear the sound of men’s voices at the bend in the road. Jed had run into some riders on the way to town. Charlie was braying very loudly; this alarmed Little Bear. Protective by nature, the donkey’s brays meant that his master was in danger. Little Bear’s moccasins once again touched the edge of the road; he began to move quickly along side the road toward the voices. The voices were becoming louder and more animated. Charlie’s brays sounded like a horrible scream for help. Little Bear’s heart was pounding out of his chest, a bolt of fear shot up his spine as the aging warrior neared the bend in the road.

  Chapter 11

  “Your coffee pot busted or what, Auggie?” Jon shouted as he dropped down in the corner seat and plopped his leg on the nearby window sill. Camp tossed his straw hat on the table and sat down. “There’s other restaurants in town, you know!” Camp chimed in.

  “Okay! Okay! Try and keep your pants on fellas!” The steam rose from the snout of the black metal pot as the owner hurried over. He sat two cups on the table; Auggie filled the cups and Camp pushed one over in front of Jon. The men raised the cups in a ritualistic salute as they took their first sip.

  “Ahhhh! Nothing like that first cup of coffee in the morning!” Jon said. He smacked his lips, his handsome face broke into a smile.

  “How you doing today, fellas?” Auggie asked, order pad in hand.

  “Okay Auggie, how ’bout yourself?” Camp smiled at the friendly Irishman.

  “Just fine, thank you!” Auggie replied.

  “How’s that pretty wife of yours doing today?” Jon’s lips curled into a mischievous smile as he kidded his good friend.

  “Just let me worry--” Auggie was suddenly interrupted by a woman’s voice coming from the kitchen area.

  “Just fine thank you Jon, and how’s our handsome sheriff doing today?” Auggie’s wife, Lucy, stuck her chubby face out of the kitchen door and smiled at Jon.

  “Wonderful Lucy, good to see you back there! The food always tastes better when I know you’re doing the cooking.”

  “Thank you kindly, Jon. That’s the nicest thing anybody’s said to me in a long, long time.” Lucy’s rosy cheeks turned bright red, her eye lashes fluttered as she spoke.

  “Don’t mention it, darlin’,” Jon said as the cherub cook reluctantly ducked back into the kitchen.

  Thud! Jon’s boot hit the ground as Auggie pushed his big leg off the window sill. “Sit up and behave yourself, flannel mouth,” Auggie bellowed.

  “Thanks Auggie, I needed that!” Jon laughed. Auggie’s thin face slowly broke into a grin, followed by a raucous round of laughter by both men. The laughter increased as Camp joined in. It finally subsided. Pencil in hand, Auggie asked for their orders.

  “Okay boys, what’ll it be?” Auggie continued to chuckle as he scribbled the men’s orders.

  “Biscuits n’ gravy for me, Auggie,” Camp said.

  “Got you Camp, how about you, Sheriff?”

  “Eggs over, bacon, n’ toast for me, Aug.”

  “Sorry Sheriff, no eggs today.”

  “No eggs? What are you talking about?”

  Jed hasn’t been in for a couple of days. I’m fresh out of eggs.” Auggie frowned a little.

  “What wrong with Jed?” Jon asked, somewhat alarmed.

  “Don’t know, he just hasn’t been in. Sometimes his laying hens don’t cooperate, but he usually comes in anyway and tells me about it. Not this time, I haven’t seen him.”

  “Hmmn! You don’t say.” Jon grimaced. “Give me the biscuits and gravy too, Auggie.”

  “Nother thing Sheriff,” Auggie said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Little Bear always does my cleanin’ up ‘round here. He hasn’t been in for a couple of days either.”

  “Hmmm! Is that so?” Jon scowled. “Let’s eat up and get on out to Jed’s place, Deputy.”

  “Sounds good, Sheriff; things are a little slow at the stable right now,” Camp replied. Auggie hurried to put their order in.

  The fork clanged on the plate, Jon’s big hands rubbed up and down on his belly. “Grub was great Auggie, give Lucy a hug for me.” Jon picked up his brown felt hat and pushed away from the table.

  “Will do, Jon.” Auggie smiled at his good friend.

  “Ready to go Camp?”

  “Sure am Boss, lead the way,” Camp said. He grabbed his straw hat and stood up.

  The two men walked to the cash register, paid the friendly Irishman and hurried out.

  The leather strap slipped off the peg as Camp mounted up. The strap cracked against the hind leg of his powerful steed. Camp charged down the muddy street toward Jed Orton’s place; Jon was close behind.

  “Buk, buk, baack!” Feathers flew; the loose broilers squawked and scurried out of the way as the horses galloped past. Jon pulled back on the reins, the mud flew as they came to a quick stop. Jon’s eyes scanned the barnyard looking for any sign of Jed. He jumped down and went over to look in the metal feed trays.

  “They’re all empty, Camp,” Jon shouted.

  Camp nudged his horse forward as he looked down in the tray. The broilers ran towards them, the laying hens squawked.

  “These chickens are plenty hungry, they ain’t been fed for awhile,” Jon deduced.

  “Look over there, Jon!” Camp said excitedly. “It’s Charlie, over by Jed’s hut!”

  Jon jumped on Babe, the two rode quickly over to the hut. He bumped Charlie as he slid off Babe.

  “Eee..aw!” Charlie brayed weakly, the flies temporarily scattered off the piles of dung lying beneath her tail.

  “Charlie’s been standing here without food or water for a couple a days. Somebody tied her down real good so she wouldn’t wander into town.” Jon frowned. “Something don’t smell right round here and it isn’t the donkey dung,” Jon said solemnly.

  “Take Charlie over to the barn and get her some feed and water Camp,” Jon ordered. “I’m going to look around a little.”

  “It’s going be tough finding anything Boss.” Camp’s eyebrows raised, his light blue eyes looked hard at Jon. “That heavy rain yesterday washed all the tracks away.” He slid off his horse, untied the donkey’s leather straps and walked him over to the barn.

  “Yea I know,” Jon scowled. “They might have got lucky.”

  Chapter 12

  Bam! Bam! Alex Faraday glanced up from his desk as the knocker slammed against the huge oak door that led to his study.

  “Come in!” “Please come in!” he shouted.

  Clive pushed the door open; his barrel chest bumped the door as he hurried into the study. The door clicked shut behind him.

  Faraday stuck his pipe between his teeth, he bit down gently; his long narrow fingers pushed the Scottish Blend tightly into the bowl. He struck a match on the bottom of his riding boot and lit up. His cheeks pruned as he took several drags, the curling smoke floated to the ceiling. He looked up at Cook as he approached his desk.

  “Good morning, Alex.”

  “Top of the morning to you, Clive. Please, please be seated.” Alex gestured toward one of the two chairs that sat in front of his large desk. “We need to talk.

  “Web just got back from town. I guess our friend, Mr. Stoudenmire, and his young cohort from the livery stable just rode out to Jed Orton’s place. I’m sure they’re doing a lot of snooping around. I need your opinion about this, Clive, it makes me nervous.” Puffs of smoke drifted to the ceiling from Alex’s pipe.

  “I assure you they won’t find anything, Sir,” Clive said nervously. �
��We left Jed’s body in woods near Little Bear’s cabin. The bloody tomahawk Canady used to beat him to death is broken and lying next to his body. We hightailed it over to Jed’s chicken farm, picked up some Bantam chickens, ran over to Little Bear’s hut and stuck them in his pen. It looks like Little Bear was stealing broilers from Jed. They had a big argument, a horrible fight ensued, and Little Bear beat him to death with his tomahawk and then dropped the busted tomahawk next to the body.”

  “Hmmm, okay, okay. What about the Indian, uh....”

  “Little Bear?” Clive replied.

  “Yes, yes, where is he now?”

  “Well uh, he knew too much! Zing shot him in the back of the head. We took the body and threw it into Dead Man’s Canyon.”

  “He’s dead too?” Faraday seemed surprised.

  “I guess so.” Cook chuckled. “But don’t worry. Web tells me that nobody has ever been to the bottom of that canyon, the walls are too steep.” Clive sat still in his chair as he talked of the two murders.

  “Hmmm! Well that’s good, that’s good. Everybody will think Little Bear killed him and then ran off,” Alex mumbled.. He stood up and began pacing the room. He knew there had been killings, but hearing the details was another thing.

  “What about the hoof prints, my dear man? There must be hoof prints all over the place.” Alex was unnerved, alarmed by his own revelation. He continued to pace.

  “No problem Boss! We swept all the tracks away with a couple a big tree limbs. If there was a chance we missed any, the big rain yesterday took care of that!” Clive grinned smugly.

  “Yes, yes, the rain! I guess we got lucky there,” Alex replied.

  “Guess so.”

  Alex walked back to his desk and dropped into the leather chair. He leaned forward, plucked the ink pen from its holder and punched it in the ink bottle. He scribbled some notes on a piece of paper and handed it to Clive.

  “Get Zing and ride into town. Pick up those supplies.” Alex pointed at the note. “While you’re there, stay awhile and have a drink, nose around a little. See what you can find out. Hopefully the sheriff will be back from Jed’s place. Find out what he knows.” Alex’s thin lips turned up into an evil smile. “We have our chance now to take this town over.” He gestured toward the large oak doors sending Cook on his way.

  * * *

  Babe’s ears perked up. The beautiful Palomino came to a sudden stop on the edge of Jed Orton’s farm. Big Jon sat up in the saddle, “What is it, girl?” Jon gently rubbed her neck. Babe whinnied, her head jerked backwards. Downwind, the crafty horse had picked up a scent.

  Jon spurred her hindquarter. “Take me there girl,” Jon whispered, as she galloped forward. Just a few hundred yards down the rode, she came to an abrupt stop. The whites of her eyes were huge as the frightened horse stared into the woods next to the road.

  Jon grabbed the saddle horn and jumped down; his feet hit the ground running. He charged into the woods, pushing low lying limbs out of his way. Leaves and twigs from the desert ironwoods crunched under his feet as he stormed ahead. Suddenly he stopped; he saw something up ahead. It was a body. The stench was awful; his stomach started to turn as he moved ahead. He reached the large, swollen body and looked down. He saw the terribly battered remains of Jed Orton. A bloody, broken tomahawk lay nearby.

  Jon slid his gun out of its holster and pointed it toward the sky, his thick index finger squeezed the trigger. The loud noise—a signal for Camp to come over--reverberated through the dense woods. Soon Jon could hear hoof beats as Camp rushed toward the gunshot.

  He jumped off his charging steed; stumbled for a second then righted himself. Gun in hand he charged into the thick woods.

  “Over here!” Jon shouted.

  Camp’s eyes moved toward the sound of Jon’s voice. He struggled to see through the thick brush. A beam of sunlight broke through the trees, the bright sun reflected off Jon’s gun barrel. Camp saw the light and raised his hand over his eyes as he rushed toward Jon.

  “Oh my--”

  “Yea, it’s pretty ugly,” Jon interrupted. “Somebody beat the poor bastard to a pulp and left him here to die. It isn’t right,” Jon whispered. His anger was palpable as he looked down at the mutilated face of the friendly commissioner. Jon’s mood was beginning to darken.

  “Some Injun must of got him,” Camp said as he stepped over and picked up the bloody tomahawk.

  Jon frowned.

  “What’s that over there in that clearing, Jon? Looks like a little house or something.”

  “Let’s check it out,” Jon ordered. The two men pushed through the thick brush toward the clearing.

  Jon stopped at the edge of the clearing, his eyes examined the area. The only sounds were a few “buk, buk, baacks!” coming from a small pen next to the hut.

  Jon stepped into the clearing; he walked over to the hut, gun in hand. Camp was close behind. The barrel of Jon’s Colt 45 pushed up on the metal latch, the rickety wooden door fell open. Jon peered into the empty cabin; there was no sign of life. Jon’s head dipped down and leaned through the opening, he stepped into the small room. Camp was right behind.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” Jon exclaimed. “This is Little Bear’s cabin!” His fingers slid through the handle on the old metal coffee pot setting on the stove. “This old coffee pot’s the one I gave him for cleaning the cells awhile back.” He lifted it toward Camp.

  “Yea,” Camp replied. “Over there’s the hammer I gave him for helping me out at the stables.”

  “Hmmm!” Jon said softly. He turned and stepped out of the hut. He laid his hand on the metal fence post next to the hut.

  Camp stepped out of the hut and looked over at the bantam chickens in the fenced area. “Looks like Little Bear’s been stealin’ chickens from Jed.”

  “Sure looks that way,” Jon replied.

  Camp continued. “Maybe Jed got suspicious and came over to check things out. He and Little Bear got in an argument. Little Bear whacked him a few times with the tomahawk and then flew the coop.”

  “Maybe so, but something just doesn’t smell right.” Jon grimaced. “Get a pack horse out here and pick up the body. I’m going to look around a little bit.”

  “Okay, Boss.”

  Chapter 13

  The silver dollar rattled as it slid to a stop on the bar top. “‘Nother round, Sam!” Zing Fuller ordered, speech slurred.

  Sam pulled the whiskey bottle out of the rack and filled the glasses. He frowned as he slid the bottle back into the rack. “That’s it,” he said. “You boys have had enough.”

  Zing’s thin lips turned down. “Did I hear you right bartender? You tellin’ me no more drinks?”

  “Fraid so, Zing. You’re both packin’ and you’re pretty darn roostered up. So I’m cuttin’ you off. Maybe they’ll serve you down at Faraday’s,” Sam said, as his hand moved nervously over the shiny bar top. Libby glanced over at the men from a nearby table where she was entertaining some friends.

  Fuller’s head fell backwards as he quickly downed the last drink and slammed the small glass on the bar. “Now damn it, give me another drink!” The nattily dressed gunman’s face was contorted, red with anger. He grabbed the black handle on his six gun and took it out of its holster. The cold metal barrel crammed into Sam’s neck. Fuller leaned forward pushing the gun barrel harder against Sam’s neck.

  “Now bartender, now!”

  Sam looked over and saw Jon and Camp, just back from Jed Orton’s place, enter the Barbee. Jon raised his hand, Camp stopped. The two men stood quietly listening just inside the batwing doors.

  Libby’s chair slid out, she rose up quickly. Attempting to calm the situation, she spoke to the wily gunman, “Mr. Fuller, surely--!” Before the lovely saloon owner could finish she was rudely interrupted by Clive Cook.

  “I beg your pardon Madame, but we certainly don’t need a common bar girl dressing us down, now do we?” The pompous Brit’s face broke into a cruel grin.

  The angry Fuller’s ey
es were locked on Sam; he didn’t notice big Jon as he came in the room. Clive Cook glanced to the right and saw the angry Sheriff. He reached over and squeezed Fuller’s shoulder from the back. Trying to warn the surly gunman, the petulant Fuller pulled away, still focused on Sam.

  “I’m tellin’ you for the--!” the angry Zing shouted.

  Before he could finish, Jon spoke up. “Draw down, Zing!” Fuller’s eyes shot right at the sound of Jon’s voice. Jon kicked a chair off to the side, as he spread his legs apart. Facing Fuller directly, Jon looked huge and menacing in his dark leather vest and brim-down hat. Camp was slightly behind, out of the line of fire. Jon’s head tipped to the side, signaling Camp to get out of the way. Camp reluctantly moved over to the end of the bar.

  “No problem Sheriff, we’re just having a drink,” Clive Cook said sardonically, still smarting from the beating Jon had given at the mansion some days earlier.

  Jon was still, his eyes narrow and angry. His arms hung at his side, ready to draw at a second’s notice. “Butt out, Cook!” Jon ordered. “I’ll deal with you later.” His attention went back to Zing Fuller. “I said draw down!”

  The vicious Fuller eased the barrel away from Sam’s neck; he slid it carefully back into his holster.

  “What’s the problem here, Sam?” Jon asked.

  “I shut ’em off a little while ago and Zing here took exception,” Sam replied as he rubbed his neck.

  “My friend here shuts you off and you cram iron in his neck? Is that what I’m hearing?”

  “You guessed right, Sheriff,” the smart aleck Fuller replied, emboldened by the whiskey and Cook’s presence.

  “First Malone and now Sam. You’re always trying to hurt my friends, Fuller!”

  Beads of sweat were forming on Fuller’s forehead as he turned away from the bar and faced the famed gunman. “I asked this man for a drink and he refused. I ain’t leavin’ till he gives it to me,” Fuller said, as an evil smile broke out his face.