The Devil's Posse

by Charles G. West

  “We found somethin’!” Stokes called out excitedly as he and Curly urged their horses up the slope. “We mighta found his camp, back in them trees below that ledge back yonder.”

  “I saw the smoke,” Curly said proudly. “It was almost too dark to see, but I saw it.”

  The sighting was enough to generate newfound enthusiasm in all of them. “All right, then,” Quincy said. “It’s about time. Let’s go have a look.”

  Stokes and Curly led them back to the spot on the ledge where they had seen the camp. They dismounted and moved up close to the edge. The camp was there, all right, below them where a busy stream cut its way through a thick growth of pines. It was just possible to make out the form of one man as he seemed to be tending something over the fire. Quincy could feel the pounding of his heartbeat in his temples as he realized he was about to have his second chance to gain his vengeance.

  Lonnie, always the calm one, suggested that they should leave their horses where they were while they went down the slope on foot to approach the camp through the trees. Quincy nodded his approval, and they hurried back off the ledge.

  When they reached the belt of trees, Quincy sent Stokes with Lonnie to circle around behind the camp to make sure Logan couldn’t run that way. “I’ll give you time to get where you can cut him off,” he said to Lonnie. “But I’ll take the first shot. Don’t nobody shoot until I do, but when I do, you can all cut loose. I don’t want any chance for him to get away this time.”

  “You’re the boss,” Lonnie replied, knowing how important it was for Quincy to be the one who killed Logan. He and Stokes hurried off through the trees.

  Quincy, with Curly and Lacey following, worked his way carefully through the thick growth of pines until he reached a position where he could now see the man, still kneeling by the fire. The darkness was already closing in around the camp, but his target was well defined in the glow of the campfire, and well within the effective range of the Spencer carbine.

  Down on one knee, Quincy raised the weapon and sighted carefully, taking care not to rush the shot. He wanted his bullet to be the one that killed Logan. He slowly squeezed the trigger, startling the darkness with the sharp crack of the Spencer. It was followed almost immediately by a barrage of shots into the already dead body. With a triumphant roar, Quincy sprang to his feet and charged down to the camp to find that the body had fallen across the fire.

  “Drag the son of a bitch outta there,” he commanded. “I wanna see his face.”

  Curly grabbed the victim’s boots and dragged the bullet-riddled body off the fire amid the gleeful shouts of the hunters. Quincy bent over it and stared down into the face that stared back at him in death. “What?” he demanded, hearing someone speak behind him.

  “I said that ain’t him,” Lacey repeated.

  “What?” Quincy demanded again. “Whaddaya mean it ain’t him?”

  “Like I said, that ain’t Logan Cross.”

  A total silence fell over the would-be avengers, broken a second later by a loud wail, like that of a wolf, as Quincy roared out his frustration. Looking around him then, Lonnie calmly said, “Just a minin’ claim.”

  “Reckon did he have any luck?” Stokes wondered, unconcerned about their mistake that resulted in the death of an innocent miner. His question prompted the others, except for Quincy, to start plundering the camp in search of gold. Infuriated, Quincy remained to stare at the body.

  “I found somethin’,” Lonnie called out. When the others ran over to see what he’d found, they were surprised to see him standing over a frightened man who he had caught trying to crawl off through the bushes by the creek. Lonnie had pinned him down with his boot firmly placed on the terrified miner’s ankle. He aimed his .44 at the man’s head and cocked the hammer.

  “Hold on a minute,” Stokes said. “Ask him where he’s got his gold hid.”

  Lonnie paused, thinking that a good idea. “Well,” he said, “where is it?”

  “We ain’t found but a little bit,” the doomed man muttered, barely able to speak. “You can take it all. I’ll tell you where it is if you’ll just let me go.”

  “All right,” Lonnie said. “That’s a deal. Where is it?”

  “It’s buried under that flat rock where the mules are tied up,” the frightened man answered, his voice trembling with fear.

  “You better not be lyin’ to me,” Lonnie warned him.

  “No, I swear,” the miner said. “Just let me go.”

  “All right, you can go,” Lonnie said, and removed his boot from the unfortunate man’s ankle, releasing him. The horrified man got up on his hands and knees and started to crawl toward the creek. Lonnie let him crawl about ten feet before raising his .44 and shooting him in the back of his head. He turned then to Wormy, who was standing behind him. “I didn’t see no mules. Where are they?”

  “They’re on the other side of the stream, behind those berry bushes,” Lacey said, having just seen them himself. “Looks like two of ’em.”

  “Let’s go see if that gold is there,” Lonnie said.

  Just as the miner had said, there were two mules tied to a rope stretched between a couple of trees about twenty yards down the stream at the foot of a steep cliff. It was so dark back in the shadows that they had been hard to see.

  Eager to see how much they had gained in the murders of the two miners, they started looking around frantically for a flat rock. With no luck at first, they thought the man had lied, but then Wormy pointed toward a massive rock outcropping at the base of the cliff. A flat stone was tight up against it.

  “There it is,” he said. “Pretty slick, it just looks like a piece of the cliff.” He went immediately to turn it over but found it was too big for him to move. “I reckon it took both of ’em to roll it over,” he decided. “Somebody gimme a hand.”

  “I can roll that rock over by myself,” Curly boasted. “I don’t need no help.”

  “Is that so?” Wormy scoffed, unconvinced. “Well, go to it, big boy.”

  Regaining control of his frustration by then, Quincy joined the others as they gathered around the heavy stone to see if Curly could move it. Grinning confidently, Curly walked around the stone, deciding where he wanted to set himself to lift the backside of it. Satisfied that he had picked the position that would give him the best leverage, he spat on his hands and rubbed them together vigorously.

  “Stand outta the way, Wormy. I’m fixin’ to roll it right where you’re standin’.”

  Wormy no longer doubted the big man’s ability to do it, so he got well out of the way, as did the others. Curly braced himself, his feet set wide apart. Then he squatted and took a firm handhold with both of his huge hands. Lifting with his legs, he grunted with the effort he was applying against the rock. It did not move for thirty or more seconds. Then gradually it began to come away from the rock wall as he strained mightily. His efforts brought a cheer from his friends, giving him the will to continue until the massive stone surrendered to his strength. And with one mighty heave, he rolled it over to reveal a hole beneath it, but too late to see the family of rattlesnakes that dwelled there. With a shriek of horror, he jumped back, but not in time to avoid being struck by two large rattlers. The angry serpents struck again and again while he desperately tried to pull them away from his arms and legs.

  There was nothing his friends could do to save him from being bitten over and over as other snakes struck as well. The only thing they could do was to shoot the snakes, so Wormy, Stokes, and Lonnie emptied their pistols into the hole, killing all but two that were still clinging to the crazed brute of a man. Lonnie grabbed one of them by the tail and yanked it off Curly, flinging it away to barely avoid getting bitten himself.

  “Damn!” he swore, reacting to the close call. Since no one else stepped forward to remove the other snake, however, he grabbed the second reptile and flung it as quickly as he could. Stokes
and Lacey shot them before they could escape into the rocks.

  The big man sat down on the rock he had just turned over, whimpering with fear, afraid that he was going to die. He looked desperately from one face to another, pleading for some word that he was going to be all right.

  All he received in return was a sympathetic shake of the head until Quincy said, “That’s damn tough luck, Curly, I swear it is. The only thing you can do is lay down over there.” He pointed to a little plot of grass near the stream. “And be real still, and maybe the poison won’t get pumped up in your heart.”

  This was not very encouraging advice to the now frantic man, but he didn’t know what else to do, so he got up from the rock and stumbled over to lie down in the grass. With Curly out of the way, Quincy and the others turned their attention to the hole and the snakes.

  Peering down into the dark nest, Quincy decided it too difficult to see if all the snakes were dead. “Go get a stick outta that fire so we can see what we’re doin’,” he said.

  Stokes hurried over to the campfire and pulled out one of the larger pieces of wood that had a healthy flame going. Quincy took it from him and extended it down in the hole.

  “Damn,” he swore softly. “There must be a dozen rattlers in there.” He moved the torch around the perimeter of the hole to make sure none were moving. “They’re all dead now, though.”

  “Anythin’ else in that hole?” Lonnie asked hopefully.

  “Yep, sure is,” Quincy said, looked back at him, and grinned, “a couple of canvas sacks.” He looked over at Stokes on the other side of the hole. “I’ll hold the light for you. Reach down in there and pull them sacks outta there, and we’ll see what these two jaspers were worth.” He saw no need to risk his hand down in that nest.

  “That son of a bitch was smart,” Wormy said, referring to the miner who had told them about the rock. “He pretty much knew we weren’t gonna let him live after he told us where they hid the gold, so he didn’t bother to tell us about them snakes.”

  “I reckon,” Stokes said as he stared down in the hole. He was no more enthusiastic about reaching down there than Quincy was, but he nevertheless took the chance. He reached down in the nest, pulled one of the sacks out, then went after the other one without mishap. “They feel pretty heavy,” he said. “I believe we struck it rich, boys.” Everyone crowded around to have a look, leaving Curly to deal with his horrors alone.

  “This is the only smart way to mine for gold,” Wormy said as he peered down into an open sack. “How much you think it is, Quincy?”

  “I don’t know,” Quincy answered. He picked up each bag to test its weight. “I’ll bet those bags weigh about thirty pounds apiece. We’ll have to get it weighed to find out for sure, but I can tell you it’s a right healthy amount.” Like the other men’s, his spirits were lifted considerably from the cranky mood that had preceded this stroke of luck. For the moment, thoughts of Logan Cross were pushed from his mind in the celebration of their windfall.

  Witnessing his cousin’s apparent change in attitude, Lonnie sought to take advantage of it and make a suggestion he had been hesitant to propose. While Lacey whooped and hollered with Wormy as they watched Stokes perform a clumsy version of a spirited dance, Lonnie captured Quincy’s ear. “It looks to me like we’re set up pretty good for the winter now. I think we’re just wastin’ our time roamin’ around in these mountains lookin’ for that son of a bitch. He’s give us the switch for sure. I think you know that. So why don’t we go on back to that little town, Spearfish, and pass the winter in style? Hell, we can afford it. And there ain’t no lawmen lookin’ for us right now.” When he saw a frown begin to form on his cousin’s face, he continued hurriedly. “I ain’t sayin’ we oughta forget about Cross. Hell no, he’s got to pay for what he done. But a man like that is bound to show up sooner or later, especially if he thinks he lost us for good. One thing for sure, we could ride all over these mountains from now on and never find him. There’re too many hidin’ places. He’ll come outta his hole sometime to go to one of the towns where he can buy supplies. That’s when we’ll find out where he is. We’ll work all the towns till we find him. Whaddaya say?”

  Quincy didn’t answer right away while he considered Lonnie’s proposal. His desire to kill Logan Cross had become a mental disease that knew only one cure. But maybe what Lonnie was trying to tell him made sense. Maybe it was useless to continue searching just for the sake of searching, with no reason to expect results. And while gold was not the cure for his sickness, it could ease the symptoms temporarily.

  In his present state of calm, he was able to realize something that Lonnie had been concerned about, the weariness of the men with this fruitless search—and the possibility that they might decide to leave one dark night. He quickly glanced over at Curly, shivering and moaning on the ground. It was a good bet that he had already lost another man. That would leave just five of them, when they had started out as six with plans to pick up Jake and two others.

  “All right,” Quincy finally said. “I reckon that’s the best idea right now. I’ll let Logan Cross go for a while, but I ain’t forgot him.”

  “No, sir, Quincy,” Lonnie replied. “We ain’t forgot Mr. Cross. We’ll get him.” Eager to get under way before Quincy had enough time to sink back into the dismal state of mind that had driven him, he suggested that they should leave first thing in the morning to go back to Spearfish. “We can get a better idea if Curly’s gonna make it by then.” With that thought in mind, he went over to see how the injured man was doing.

  “I’m burnin’ up, Lonnie,” Curly complained pitifully. “I don’t feel so good.”

  “Lemme take a look at those bites,” Lonnie said, and pulled Curly’s sleeve up to check his arm. There was already some swelling around the bite marks, and what appeared to be venom residue on Curly’s skin. “Does it hurt?”

  “It stings,” Curly moaned. “I feel ’em all over me, stingin’ ever’where they bit me, and I feel like I’m gonna throw up. I tried to get up, but my head took to spinnin’ so bad I had to set down. I can’t see. Ever’thin’s kinda fuzzy lookin’.”

  “You just need a good night’s rest,” Lonnie said, although he was not sure Curly would make it through the night. “We’re gonna start back to Spearfish in the mornin’. When we get there, you can lay up in that house where we’ve got some rooms. That’ud be pretty good, wouldn’t it—have them three women waitin’ on you?”

  “That’ud be good, Lonnie,” Curly said childlike, his face twisted in a painful frown.

  * * *

  With the arrival of morning, there was no sound of suffering from the stricken man. He did not stir when the others rolled out of their blankets to start a fire. Quincy and Lonnie stood over him for a few seconds, but seeing no signs of life, they left him while they prepared to get under way.

  After the horses were saddled, including Curly’s, Lonnie went over to take one last look at the huge man. He stood there for a few moments, thinking of the simple giant.

  Born with the body of a bull and the brain of a gnat, he thought. He reached down and searched Curly’s pockets to relieve him of his money. Then he unbuckled his gun belt. When he tugged on it to pull it out from under the massive body, Curly’s eyes opened slightly, startling Lonnie. “Oh, shit!” he exclaimed, pulled his .44, and shot him in the head. The gunshot startled the others, causing them to think they were under attack. “It’s all right,” Lonnie called out. “He wasn’t all the way dead yet.”

  “Well, that was a piece of bad luck,” Quincy said. “Curly never was very lucky. I expect we’d best get started, if we’re goin’.”

  “Reckon we oughta bury him?” Wormy asked.

  “No, I reckon not,” Quincy said, after considering the question for no more than a second. “The buzzards will take care of him when they come after those two miners. Curly ain’t in no place to care one way or the other. I exp
ect he’s got other things to worry about now.”

  Chapter 10

  Winter sent her calling card early in the form of an unexpected snow well before the birch and aspen trees had lost their autumn colors. It was the first test of Logan’s winter camp. The huts he had fashioned for himself and Pepper successfully withstood the blanket of snow that coated his structure of young ponderosa pines. While he was pleased with the results, he could not be certain how well his roof would hold up under a heavy snowstorm. It would appear that the marshal’s posse had given up in their search for him. Either that or they were simply looking in the wrong place.

  In any event, he felt reasonably safe, as the passing days turned into weeks, with no sighting of any other human beings. He had begun to range farther and farther from his camp in search of game, and he was satisfied that he was well fixed for meat, having prepared several caches of smoked venison. There were other basic cooking supplies that he needed, since his forced departure from the Triple-T had caught him with coffee, beans, salt, and flour enough for only a few days. His craving for a cup of hot coffee was enough to make him risk a trip into a town. Of more importance, Pepper needed shoeing, so Logan decided he was going to make the trip before the weather worsened.

  On one of his hunting excursions he had seen what appeared to be a trading post of sorts on a broad creek toward the eastern edge of the mountains. He could probably have bought his supplies there, but since he needed a blacksmith, he was going to have to find a town large enough to support a forge. He figured if he followed the creek out of the mountains, there was a good chance he’d find a town out in the foothills or beyond at the edge of the prairie.