The Devil's Posse

by Charles G. West

  Lacey looked at Wormy and mumbled, “When are we gonna stop chasin’ our tails and get back to what we’re supposed to be doin’?”

  Overhearing, Lonnie snapped, “What did you say, Lacey? You got somethin’ on your mind? Let all of us hear it.”

  “Nothin’, Lonnie,” Lacey replied quickly. “I was just sayin’ I was anxious to get on Cross’s trail. It mighta sounded like I was sayin’ somethin’ different.”

  “You ain’t rode with Quincy and me as long as Wormy and Curly and Stokes have, so you ain’t got no right to complain about anythin’.”

  “I ain’t complainin’, Lonnie. I swear.”

  “All right,” Quincy commanded, completely recovered now, “we’re goin’ back to that shack.” He pointed to Lou and Bob. “One of you fellers is goin’ back with us to show me which way Cross went from there. Which one of you wants to do it?” When neither volunteered right away, Quincy said, “Jim here can take your place with the cattle.” When there was still no volunteer, he said, “All right, you can do it.” He nodded toward Lou Cheatam.

  “I really oughta stay with the cattle,” Lou started, but got no further when Curly drove his horse over to almost lean on Lou’s. “I reckon Jim can help drive ’em on down to the creek, though,” Lou decided with the grinning brute sitting a head taller in the saddle than he.

  “Let’s get goin’,” Lonnie said. “We’re gonna have to rest these horses before we start out from that shack.”

  He glanced at Quincy to make sure his cousin understood that.

  * * *

  At roughly the same time Quincy Morgan’s gang of outlaws rested their horses in preparation for continuing their search, the man they hunted was resting the flea-bitten gray gelding he rode. Sitting on his saddle blanket beside a slow-moving stream, Logan fed a few more sticks to the fire he had built to make his coffee. He looked for a long moment at the powerful horse grazing on the short grass beside the stream. It had been a long night for Pepper, with only a couple of stops for rest, but Logan had deemed it important to make the most of the head start given him by his unlikely friend. He wondered if Ox had been able to get back to the ranch before daylight and avoid being discovered by the marshal. Since he had no way of knowing, it was the reason he had pushed Pepper all through the night.

  Surely, he thought, I must have a full day’s lead on them.

  When he had ridden away from the line shack, he had headed east without a clear notion as to where he was going. After a few miles, he decided it might be too easy to track him if he continued on this rolling prairie. So he had turned back to the south, with the intention of returning to the Black Hills to get lost in the mountainous terrain they provided.

  Sitting here now in the clear morning light, he looked across a wide-open prairie to gaze at Bear Butte, standing alone on an empty plain. He estimated that it was at least two or three miles distant, yet he could see it plainly. And if there had been a man on a horse anywhere between where he sat and the butte, he could have seen him, too. The thought justified his decision to swing back to seek the protection afforded under the eaves of the pine-clad mountains and the isolation of their hidden gulches and ravines.

  On first thought, it might seem an unwise decision to return to the vicinity where he had killed Jake Morgan and the man with him, but the Black Hills were the closest place to lose himself. He could find a spot to hole up there while he decided it was safe enough to head for distant territory. That seemed a better choice than an endless race across a hundred miles of prairie with a marshal’s posse in pursuit. A second reason to return to the Hills might be that the marshal and his posse would not figure for him to return to the vicinity where he had committed the crime.

  He had attempted to sleep a little while he rested Pepper, but in spite of being awake all night, he found that he could not. There were too many thoughts swirling around in his mind to permit him to relax. He thought about the attitude of the men he had worked with on the Triple-T. It had been for such a short time, and yet their reaction upon hearing he was wanted for killing two men was to help him escape.

  But the most surprising had been the actions of Ox. He would never have imagined that his simple act after their confrontation would generate such a sense of loyalty on the part of the big man. One thing that troubled him greatly was having to leave the buckskin that Billy rode, and he promised himself that, if at all possible, he would return to get it. He couldn’t help smiling when he remembered Ox telling him he would take care of the horse until he came for him.

  I hope he remembered to tell Jace I was sorry I had to run out on him after he was kind enough to give me a job, he thought.

  He had never quit a job before, and that was important to him. At least he had not been around long enough to get a payday. That relieved his sense of responsibility a little.

  “All this thinkin’ hurts my head,” he told Pepper, although the lack of sleep was more likely the cause of his headache. “I expect we’re both rested enough to get goin’ again.” He drained the last swallow of coffee in his cup and swished the cup a couple of times in the stream before returning it to his saddlebags. “Time to saddle up, boy.” The patient gelding stood waiting while Logan approached with the saddle.

  He entered the dark mountains well east of Deadwood, following one winding valley after another as he worked his way to the southern part of the Hills. With no shortage of camping sites by the many rushing streams, he sought to find a place where there was no evidence that others had camped there before.

  On most of the larger streams that gushed from the heights above him, he found old campsites where hopeful miners had either struck it or not. They brought back thoughts of Billy, and when the two of them had first explored the Black Hills. There were also recollections of Hannah Mabry, and he pictured her as he had last seen her, a handsome young woman, instead of the dumpy forlorn-looking widow in baggy men’s clothes he had traveled with. He wondered how the partnership between Hannah and Mae was progressing. He did not know a great deal about Daisy, since he had not had the opportunity to meet her.

  The Three Widows Inn, he thought as he sat beside his campfire after another day following old game trails. I wish I could have supper there tonight.

  He gazed at the strip of roasted venison he was eating and shrugged. At least there was plenty of game in these mountains. He wasn’t worried about going hungry as long as he had plenty of cartridges for his rifle. When he had first returned to the mountains, he was very reluctant to fire his rifle, even though he had become very low on food. As the following days found him deeper and deeper in the mountains, he became less concerned, for he felt confident that he had covered his trail adequately. He decided it was very unlikely the posse could track him.

  Now his concern was finding a more permanent camp that he could prepare for winter while there was still plenty of time. For the leaves of the birch and aspen had not yet begun to change. He found what he considered the perfect spot a day later in a narrow canyon with steep mountain walls reaching almost straight up to form a broad granite face. High up, a rushing waterfall spilled over the face to create two smaller streams below. It was above the granite face where Logan made his camp, halfway up the slope where a small meadow lay hidden behind a thick wall of pines. It would provide some grazing for Pepper, and not a likely spot for someone to stumble upon. If a prospective miner was searching for a place to pan for gold, he would most likely build his sluice box below the granite wall, Logan reasoned.

  He immediately set about preparing it for winter. He would need shelter for himself and his horse, so he began by bending some of the younger pines over to be tied together to form a framework on which he could weave smaller branches to construct his roof. He had never been called upon to construct such a dwelling before, but as it progressed, he felt it might be adequate. When he finished his, he set to work on one for Pepper. The work took him three full days,
and the final product was not pretty, but he was satisfied that it was the best he could do. Only the coming of winter would determine his work successful or not. He decided it was time now to concentrate on adding to his supply of meat.

  * * *

  While Logan was now busy hunting in the mountains, the man who sought to kill him had come to a dead stop on another trail that had yielded nothing. Thanks to Wormy’s skill as a tracker, they had been able to follow Logan right up to the point where he had entered the foothills of the mountains.

  “Damn,” Quincy cursed, knowing that had he continued on toward Fort Pierre, they would have had a chance of overtaking him. “Look hard,” he said to Wormy, who had dismounted to verify what he already knew.

  “He rode into this creek, all right,” Wormy said. “There ain’t no doubt about that, and I can’t track him in water.” They had no way of knowing if the trail they had picked up was, in fact, that of Logan Cross’s, but they intended to follow it, wherever it led them.

  “The only thing we can do,” Lonnie said, “is scout both sides of this creek and see if we can find where he came out of it.” So with no other option available for them, they split up and rode up the banks of the creek.

  The farther up into the hills they rode, the harder it became to follow the creek. Because of the outcroppings of rocks they encountered, some extending well out into the water, they were often forced to ride around them. Consequently they could not be absolutely sure they had not missed Logan’s exit from the creek somewhere along the line. As the day progressed, Quincy became more and more frustrated. The waning enthusiasm for the chase he was seeing in his men as darkness drew near only increased that frustration and triggered his wrath.

  “Damn it!” he roared out in anger. “He wouldn’ta rode up this creek this far. We missed it somewhere back there. Some of you ain’t keepin’ a sharp eye on that creek bank.” He cast an accusing glare in Wormy’s direction on the opposite side of the creek.

  “If there’da been tracks, I’da seen ’em,” Wormy said in his defense. “Maybe that damn gray horse he’s ridin’ sprouted some wings.”

  The remark didn’t strike Quincy as humorous. “You think this whole thing is funny?” he railed. “This son of a bitch shot my brother down in cold blood, and you think it’s funny?”

  “Ah, hell no, Quincy,” Wormy pleaded immediately. “I don’t think it’s funny. I didn’t mean it that way atall.”

  “Wormy didn’t mean nothin’, Quincy,” Lonnie said, seeing that his cousin was about to work up another fit of anger. He was the only one who could settle Quincy down when he became blinded by his rage. And Lonnie worried that they might lose Wormy if Quincy didn’t calm down. “It’s gonna be dark under these trees in just a little while, and we sure as hell can’t do much trackin’ in the dark. So let’s just go back to that little clearin’ we passed a few minutes ago and make camp. We’ll be able to see better in the mornin’. Whaddaya say?”

  Quincy continued to glare at Wormy for a few seconds before turning toward Lonnie. After a few more moments, he seemed to get a grip on his emotions. “I reckon you’re right,” he finally replied. “We’ll make camp and hit it hard in the mornin’.”

  “Hold on!” Wormy suddenly blurted, and pointed to a single hoofprint at the base of a flat rock shelf. “By God, he didn’t get all of his horse’s feet on this damn rock. Lookee there!” He stood up and looked down the slope toward the valley below, pointing triumphantly now. “I bet he’s down in that valley. Maybe he’s got a camp down there.”

  Catching Wormy’s excitement, Quincy exclaimed, “Let’s get down there! It’s him! I know damn well it’s gotta be him!”

  “Let’s take it slow and easy,” Lonnie said, hoping they had finally had some luck. “We need to be careful he don’t see us comin’ and take off again.” He picked a spot about two-thirds of the way down the mountain. “See that ridge there? We oughta be able to get a good look at anybody who’s in that narrow valley.” He looked at Quincy, who was tense and eager to descend the slope. “Why don’t you and Lacey and I go on down by ourselves, and leave the rest of the boys here? We don’t wanna take a chance on him hearin’ us.”

  Quincy was not sure he was in favor of that plan, since he was inclined to charge down the slope firing away. But he knew that Logan might be flushed from his hiding place before he got down there. “I want that first shot,” he reminded Lonnie. “I don’t want anybody cheatin’ me out of my right to kill that son of a bitch.”

  “All right, cousin,” Lonnie said. “We ain’t gonna do nothin’ but find out for sure where he is, so you can take the shot.”

  * * *

  The narrow little valley he had found was abounding in deer sign, so much so that he decided to camp there instead of returning to his base camp. Hunting had been so good that he sorely missed his extra horse to pack all the meat out. In the meantime, Pepper was just going to have to carry the whole load. The big gray had so far shown no signs of revolt.

  “One of these days, I’ll get back to pick up the buckskin to give you a little help,” he said to the patient horse.

  He interrupted the chore of butchering the young doe that he had recently killed to gather wood for a fire. There was plenty of wood on the banks of the narrow stream that dissected the valley, so he gathered up an armload and carried it back to a level spot by the water.

  “I reckon I oughta take that saddle off you, since we’re gonna stay here tonight,” he said to Pepper, and turned toward the horse. He heard the snap of the bullet as it passed within inches of his leg. The sound of the rifle echoed in the narrow valley moments after. Logan dropped the firewood and sprinted to his horse as the ridge above him erupted into a hail of gunshots, raining around him as he ran. Leaping into the saddle, he galloped away down the stream with no time to think of the danger of his horse tumbling on the rocky streambed.

  Not until he had rounded a granite column that protruded into the stream could he be sure he was protected from the rifle fire on the ridge. He knew that he had best push Pepper hard to increase the distance between him and his assailants. The posse had to negotiate the descent down the steep slope, and that was going to take a little time. So he held the big horse to a lope for half a mile until reaching the fork of a second stream that flowed down from a neighboring mountain. Slowing Pepper to a walk, he guided him up the middle of that stream. Confident that he now had a decent lead on his pursuers, he kept his horse in the water until he found a place to come out without leaving tracks.

  As he watched for some rocks or pine straw, he thought about how close he had just come. If he had not turned toward his horse at that precise moment, he would have caught a bullet in his leg, which would probably have stopped him long enough for the fatal bullet to hit him. It was the posse that had been looking for him ever since he left the Triple-T. Of that he was sure. The thought that really struck him was the fact that there was no attempt to arrest him. They had fired upon sighting him in the valley, with no chance of surrender. They had no intention of taking him to be tried.

  * * *

  “Come on, damn it!” Quincy shouted to the men on the slope above who had been left to hold the horses. He, Lonnie, and Lacey were scrambling down the steep mountain as fast as they could, stopping every few feet to cock their weapons and fire at the fleeing man. “He moved!” Quincy yelled. “I had the son of a bitch, and he moved just when I pulled the trigger!” He was almost ill with frustration, and he tried to hurry, causing him to slide and stumble, falling to his knees. Bleeding anger from every pore, he pushed Lonnie’s arm aside when his cousin tried to help him up. Cursing and flailing his arms in anguish, he fired his Spencer carbine as fast as he could, long after Logan had reached the safety of the granite column. When finally they reached the stream at the bottom of the narrow canyon, he was forced to realize that they had missed their opportunity. He turned to Lacey, who was coming down behind him.<
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  “Was it him?” he demanded. “Was it Logan Cross?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lacey answered apologetically. “It was him, all right. He was a little piece off, but I could see him good enough to tell it was him.”

  “Goddamn!” Quincy swore, beside himself with anger. He turned to yell again at the men carefully leading the horses down to the bottom. “Come on! Bring those horses! He’s gettin’ away!”

  “Look at that,” Lacey said. “He left us a good supply of deer meat.”

  “Damn that deer meat!” Quincy roared.

  “Right,” Lacey apologized quickly. “We don’t care about no deer meat. We’ve got to get after that son of a bitch.”

  As soon as the horses were down at the bottom, the outlaws climbed aboard and followed Quincy, who was heading toward the granite column at a gallop. Lonnie was right behind him, anticipating the job of calming him down. The evening light was already fading in the narrow valley. Pretty soon, they were going to have to admit it was too dark to try to follow Cross, and Quincy was going to be furious, most likely visited by another one of his fits. They followed the stream up the second mountain, scouting in the poor light for tracks leading out of the water. There were none, but Quincy kept them at it until Lonnie convinced him that they could no longer see them, even if there were tracks.

  “We’ll find him,” Quincy vowed, “if we have to cover every inch of these damn mountains. We’ll start early in the mornin’. He can’t hide from me forever.”

  The following day, and the day after that, offered no signs of Logan Cross’s trail after he left the creek. Finally, when it was certain that they had apparently missed it, they started combing the mountainside, searching for any sign of a horse and rider. Lonnie knew that the rest of the men were weary of the hopeless search, and were anxious to give it up, yet none had the nerve to test Quincy’s ever-growing frustration. And then, when even Quincy was thinking of admitting defeat, Stokes and Curly caught up with the others after splitting off to check a ledge that extended out over a thick belt of tall pines.