The Devil's Justice

by Chad Cull

The walnut grips of the .44 Colt were well worn and smooth from constant use. The varnish had worn almost completely off and the light brown grain had a shine to it. The bright summer sun glinted off the gunmetal blue of the exposed trigger guard and cylinder and the end of the gun barrel that protruded from the plain brown leather holster. By itself, the gun in its holster was like a piece of artwork; its fine crafted lines blending into a sight to behold, neither good nor bad in itself, but riding high on a gunman’s hip tied down against his thigh, the piece turned into a tool of threatening menace.

  Jace Carlin rode tall in the saddle. He rode with practiced ease feeling the familiar reassuring weight of the weapon against his leg. He hated to admit it to himself, so he didn’t, that it was like an old friend that had returned and had given him comfort. There was the familiar rush of adrenaline flowing through his veins and the thrill of the hunt had returned, but he tried to tell himself that he hated it, knowing that he was riding with a purpose once again.

  It was still early morning after his visit with Duncan Holt the day before, when he crossed over onto Diamond 8 range. He was once again riding his own gray mare and leading the Diamond 8 horse that Stacy Merritt had lent him. Actually, she had given it to him to keep him from returning, but Carlin was returning the horse anyways. It was a good excuse to come back. He had been wary for the past several minutes as he rode on, expecting trouble at any moment and hoping to carry out his plan without gunplay.

  He rode along a dry wash and emerged into large rolling grasslands that extended for miles. Cattle grazed, lazily, almost as far as the eye could see. There were no punchers insight to nursemaid them. This was strictly grazing range and the herd roamed free. He rode into the herd, guiding his mount and led horse among them where he wouldn’t be as noticeable.

  The herd was of fine stock. Shorthorn Herefords mostly and they were well fed. A herd like this would survive a drive up north with enough fat left on them to demand a good price for beef. His legs brushed against their hides as he meandered across the meadows. The cattle paid little attention to the rider and only moved slightly to let the man and his horses through.

  Carlin noted that a good share of the herd still carried Ben Crenshaw’s brand, the Slash C. The rest carried the new Diamond 8 brand. It would be easy enough to change the old Slash C into the Diamond 8 brand, but either Stacy Merritt had not wanted to nor had the time to make the conversion. He noted however, that there were no Rafter H brands among them. Of course, some of these Diamond 8 brands could have been placed over Holt’s brand. He ran his hand along the hide of a steer here and there, examining the brand. Although the brands were fresh, they didn’t appear to have been altered. But, without skinning off the hide and examining the underside, it was difficult to tell for sure.

  Half an hour later, Carlin had left the herd and grazing range far behind. So far, so good. No trouble. He had not even seen a rider, but now he could see smoke above the trees ahead, probably from a chimney in the distance. He knew the main ranch house was in the next valley beyond a stand of cottonwoods and soon he would see signs of life.

  It was as he emerged from the cottonwoods, that the rifle fire started. With the first blast, his range hat flew off his head and hung from his loose chin strap down his back. He immediately pulled the mare up sharply, to a halt, as rifle slugs drilled into the sod just in front of the horse’s front hoofs. He lifted his hands high, still holding the reins, and offering no resistance.

  Three riders came up from the right. One circled around to his left and grasped the mare’s bridle. There was a pistol in his other hand.

  The other two riders were Stacy Merritt and Morgan Slate. They pulled to a halt in front of Carlin. Stacy’s face was red with fire and she held a rifle, one handed, barrel pointing directly at Carlin’s chest. Slate had an amused look on his face. His guns were still in their holsters and he shifted his weight in the saddle.

  “I told you to stay off Diamond 8 range, Mister.” The rifle barrel came close under Carlin’s chin and he arched his neck backwards.

  “Just bringing your horse back, ma’am,” Jace said calmly, his eyes seeming to cross as he eyed the gun barrel warily.

  “I told you, I didn’t want the damn horse back.”

  “You want I should take him out now, boss?” Morgan Slate chided, a gleam in his eye.

  Jace ignored him, kept his attention on Stacy. “But, I couldn’t take charity, like that. Besides, I got my own horse back and found out I was mistaken about a few things.”

  “Well, you’re still mistaken, Mister. It was a big mistake coming back here. It just might be your last,” the girl said.

  “If you’ll just point that cannon away from my face for a minute, maybe I can tell you that I found out you had nothing to do with what happened to me the other day. I know now that you didn’t steal my land.”

  “Of course, I didn’t steal your land. Duncan Holt did.”

  He found it hard to hear the words, even though he knew better. “I know that now,” Carlin said. “It was his men that beat up on me and took my horse. Lacy and Riley. Know them?”

  “Yeah, I know them. Low life scum.”

  “Gave them a beating, they won’t forget,” Carlin said. “I’m going to have to look out for them. Wouldn’t put it past them to try to drygulch me.”

  “That would be just too bad,” Slate said. “I’m hoping to get my chance at you first.”

  “Dry gulching is your style, isn’t it Slate?”

  “I could take you down in a standup fight, anytime, Carlin. And you know it,” Slate scoffed.

  “Enough of that, Morgan,” Stacy warned, not taking her eyes off Carlin. Slate let his mount step back.

  “I need to get back at Holt,” Jace said, ignoring the whole tirade. “I was hoping we could team up.”

  “Why would I want to team up with you?” She answered.

  “Some say I’m good with a gun.”

  Slate just shrugged at that.

  “I know you’re good with a gun, but I don’t hire guns.”

  Jace glanced at Morgan Slate. “Oh, no. What about him?”

  “I’m her partner,” Slate interjected, mockingly. “And I don’t hire guns either.”

  “Not yet,” Stacy snapped.”you’re not a partner until I say so.”.

  Carlin was a bit taken back by these remarks. He wondered just what it all meant, but he dared not let on. “Well maybe you don’t think you need my help, but I need yours. Seems to me, we both want to get back at Duncan Holt and I want my land back. A temporary alliance might be beneficial to both of us. Holt thinks I bought his lies about you and thinks I’m still his friend. Being on the inside working him from the middle while you blindside him might be the way to take him down.”

  Stacy’s eyes softened a bit. Jace could tell that she was starting to think on it. “Sure, you got Slate to back you up. But, why not have both of us? I can work with Slate.” He glanced toward the gunman. “Unless, he’s too arrogant to work with me.”

  “I’ll show you how arrogant I am. With the hot end of a pistol.” Slate retorted, his right hand drifting toward the butt of his pistol.

  “Morgan!” Stacy snapped sharply. “How many times do I have to tell you to back off.”

  Slate grimaced and brought his hand back to the reins.

  “Maybe, Carlin’s right. Maybe we should join forces,” Stacy said. She lowered the rifle and Jace breathed a sigh of relief as he relaxed in the saddle and lowered his arms..

  “I still think you’re mistaken,” Slate grumbled, glowering at Carlin, edging his horse back a little further as if he were too close to a rattlesnake.

  “Must I remind you, Morgan,” Stacy said. “I still do the thinking around here.”

  Slate pursed his lips with chagrin and looked away momentarily. Then to Carlin, he said, “Alright, for now, we work together, but when this is all over and we have no further need of each other, then we settle
things between us.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Jace said icily. Then he reached behind his back and slid his hat around front. He poked his finger through the bullet hole in the crown and said playfully to Stacy, “I just bought this hat new. I’m getting tired of replacing hats.”

  “I’ll buy you a damned hat when you’ve earned it,” she said with annoyance.

  He smiled, put the hat back on his head and tightened the chin strap. “Fair enough,” he said.

  “Now, as I told you yesterday,” Jace said. “I assumed you had taken over my spread because I saw grazing cattle wearing the Diamond 8 brand. I would think you’d want them back as proof that Holt rustled your cattle. You could go to Parmalee and have Holt arrested.”

  “Parmalee?” Stacy scoffed. “He’s in Duncan Holt’s pocket. The only law we got here is our own guns.”

  “Then why don’t we use them?” Carlin urged. “Let’s go get them back. If Holt tries to stop us, we fight.”

  “Range war, you mean,” Stacy answered.

  “Seems to me you already have it. It’s just been simmering. Maybe it’s time to bring it to a boil.”

  “I guess it is,” Stacy said with a bit of regret, but rich with resolve. “Then, let’s go get them.”

  Morgan Slate grinned broadly. He was going to use his gun.

  They were twelve riders strong when they galloped into the basin where Jace Carlin had once called home. Cattle were grazing contentedly in the lush meadows. There was no sight of Rafter H riders about. As they rode onto the range, Carlin hauled back sharply on the reins and lifted his hand skyward in signal to Stacy, Slate and the other nine riders, urging them to slow the pace. To ride pell mell into the herd would mean startling the cattle and sending them into a milling swirl of confusion.

  They rode slowly into the herd, each rider spreading out away from the others, loosening their lariats from the saddles and seeking out the cattle with Diamond 8 brands. They shook out their loops and began cutting the animals out and herding them into a smaller herd away from the main bunch. They worked the better part of two hours. By mid afternoon they had culled most, if not all of them, out of the bunch. They were no longer readily finding Diamond 8 brands among the primary herd and Stacy was satisfied with what they had..

  “Alright, boys!” Stacy Merritt shouted riding toward the head of her herd. “Let’s take them home.”

  The riders took up positions on flanks, swings, and drag. Stacy, Slate and Carlin took point. Morgan Slate seemed a little glum; disappointed that there had been no confrontation with Holt’s riders.

  “Cheer up, Morgan,” Jace chided. “We’re not home yet. You may get your chance at trouble yet.”

  “Something about this seems fishy to me,” Slate growled. “Too damned easy if you ask me.”

  “Nobody’s asking you, Morgan,” Stacy put in. “Don’t be in such a hurry for trouble. When Holt finds out we took our cattle back, we’ll have our full share of trouble sooner than we may want.”

  “Well, it can’t come soon enough to suit me,” Slate boasted.

  “That’s good, Morgan,” Jace drawled. “’Cause here it comes, now.” He reined his horse to a halt, signaling the other riders to contain the herd.

  Two large groups of riders, guns in hands, came over the ridges on each side of the basin and were barreling down on top of them. The riders from the right were led by Duncan Holt himself while the riders on the left were led by Will Parmalee. The late afternoon sun glinted off the five pointed star on his vest.

  The sudden appearance of riders frightened the steers and they began to scatter, brushing against the Diamond 8 punchers’ horses and pushing them off balance. At the same time the lead steers pushed forward, forcing Carlin, Slate, and Merritt to separate, allowing the cattle to pass through ahead of them.

  Slate sidled his mount sideways, moving out of their way and turned to face the riders from the left. His face went pale, then he forced a bravado smile and pulled both pistols from their holsters. He seemed to fumble with them as he tried to hang onto the reins and control his skittering mount.

  “Hold it!” Carlin shouted, jumping his mare forward and grasping Slate’s left gun arm. “There’s too many of them. And were caught in the middle of the herd.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Slate swore and shook him off, sidling his horse away and raising his guns. Both pistols belched and flame spat from the muzzles. Through the fog of clouding gunsmoke, Slate saw one of Parmalee’s riders pitch backward from his saddle and fell wounded into the grass. The oncoming riders slowed their pace, sidestepping their horses around the man as he scurried out of the way of oncoming hooves. The posse opened return fire at Slate.

  Bullets whined over Morgan Slate’s head and one chewed a chunk out the front right side of his hat brim. Carlin charged his mare, once again, at Slates’s steed, and slammed solidly into the animal’s side, pushing Slate out the way as another slug buzzed past his ear. The impact upset Slate in the saddle. His rear raised out of the saddle, but he remained standing in the stirrups. The sudden jolt forced him to drop his guns and he grasped the pommel of his saddle to retain his perch.

  Carlin leaped from his own saddle, slamming into Morgan Slate, wrapping his arms around the gunman’s large frame, lifting him completely out of the saddle and landing on top of him as they fell heavily, beneath their horses’ feet and rolled in the tall grass while frightened cattle rushed by, barely missing them. As much as Jace hated the man, he hovered over Slate’s body, holding him down and protecting him from the sharp hooves.

  As the onslaught of passing cattle subsided, Jace eased up the pressure on the gunman. Morgan Slate twisted beneath Carlin, pulled his right arm free, cocking it and slamming his fist upward, driving a solid blow under Jace’s chin. Stunned by the blow, Jace fell backward and landed flat on his back in the grass. Slated vaulted halfway to his feet, stretching his body and diving forward, landing across Jace’s form and wrapping his huge hands around Carlin’s throat, digging his knuckles deep into the flesh.

  Jace gasped for breath, but Slate squeezed tighter. Carlin felt lightheaded and blackness started to cloud his brain. He was about to pass out when he felt the pressure release. He suddenly tasted a breath of air and he tried to suck it in. At first, it seemed like all he could draw in was more pain. His throat felt tight and ached as if it had a large ball lodged inside. Then the muscles seemed to relax and he felt the first full breath of air. It felt cool and overwhelming. His lungs filled and contracted. Then another breath, and another until he was breathing fully once again. His throat still ached, but the pain was beginning to subside. His brain started to clear. The darkness dissolved into light and soon his vision started to return. At first it was just light, then patches of color, gradually melting into shapes. Slowly, the shapes came into focus and he could see plainly now. He sat up in the grass, rubbing his neck, and looking around.

  Parmalee and two of his posse had Morgan Slate on his feet and held in restraint. Slate struggled violently within their grasp, but it was to no avail. He glared with anger, swore vehemently, and tried to spit in Parmalee’s face. But the lawman merely leaned back out of spitting range and chuckled at his prisoner’s plight.

  The herd had scattered and was still running. Possemen and Holt riders held the Diamond 8 punchers at bay. Stacy Merritt sat calmly in her saddle, accepting their capture. “Morgan!” She shouted. “Give it up. There’s nothing we can do right now.”

  “Listen to your boss, Slate,” Parmalee urged. “It’ll all go easier, if you don’t fight it.”

  “Go to hell,” Slate growled.

  “Morgan!” Stacy repeated. “Do as I say.”

  Slate jerked his head toward Stacy Merritt. He saw riders with guns out, sitting their horses in a semi circle around her. He glanced around, saw other riders holding guns on the other punchers. He saw Carlin pushing himself to his feet. The sight of Carlin drove h
is anger to a new level and he blurted a stream of obscenities at him.

  “That’s enough, Morgan,” Stacy ordered. She glowered at him with determination. He stopped struggling against his captors, feeling relief from the struggle, and stared back at her in astonishment. “But, it’s all his fault, Stace. You know that. He lured us up here into a trap.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said contemptuously. She glared at Jace as he came to his feet and adjusted his hat. To Jace she said, “I suppose you think you’re pretty clever, Mister Carlin. But, you’re just plain stupid. You chose the wrong side. Now you’ll never get your land back.” She looked away, not wanting to see him anymore.

  Carlin glanced toward Duncan Holt, who was still on his horse and observing the situation with the air of a supervisor. Duncan, half smiled reassuringly to Jace, that he had, indeed, done the right thing. Jace felt a chill and a pang of regret. He quickly dismissed the fleeting hint of distrust that momentarily came over him, when Duncan nodded to Parmalee.

  “Get Slate on his horse, men,” Parmalee ordered his posse. Then to Jace, “Unbuckle your gunbelt and get on your horse.”

  Then to Stacy, he said, “You’re all under arrest for cattle rustling.”

  “You’re arresting the wrong people, Sheriff,” Stacy Merritt responded. “Duncan Holt stole these steers from me. We were merely taking them back. You’ll notice they all have a Diamond 8 brand.”

  “I think if you’ll look close, Sheriff,” Holt said. “You’ll find those brands have been changed from a Rafter H to a Diamond 8.”

  “That’s a lie,” Stacy said. “See for yourself.”

  Parmalee pointed to two of his men, who were still mounted. “You two, go check those brands.”

  They wheeled their mounts and rode off after the cattle. A few minutes later they returned and reported. “It’s hard to tell,” the older rider said. “The brands are fresh, but they could’ve been altered. “Only way to tell for sure, is to skin a couple steers and see what it looks like on the other side of the hide.”

  “Well then, do it. Take a couple more men to help you. When you get hides, bring them into town.”

  “You butcher my cattle, Parmalee and the town’s going to have to pay for them,” Stacy warned. “You won’t find any altered brands on my cattle.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Parmalee said with amusement. “In the meantime, I’m taking you, Slate and Carlin in. I don’t have jail cells enough for all of your punchers, so I’m letting them go for now. Let them know right now, they are not to cause any trouble, or it will go bad for all of you.”

  Stacy glanced around at her men. “You heard the Sheriff, boys,” she said. “Any of you who don’t want any part of trouble and want to clear out of the country, it’s all right with me. Tell Zeke Austin what happened and tell him I said to pay you off. Anyone who wants to stay,..stay. But, no trouble. Understand? I’ll be back.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” the sheriff chuckled.

  *****

  Chapter Six