The Devil's Posse

by Charles G. West

  His guess was accurate, for he came out of the mountains to find what seemed to be a well-established town, with several stores, a couple of saloons, what appeared to be a hotel of sorts, a stable, and luckily, a blacksmith.

  He decided to take care of Pepper first, so he rode past the second saloon to the smithy beyond. A short, muscular man came from the back of the shop to greet him. “How do, neighbor? What can I do for you?”

  “I’m needin’ my horse shod,” Logan answered.

  “Don’t believe I’ve seen you around town before,” the smithy said.

  “Ain’t been in this town before,” Logan replied.

  When Logan didn’t seem to be especially chatty, the smithy said, “I’m Hank Mosley. Let’s take a look.”

  Logan stepped down and handed the reins to Mosley. “I’m Logan Cross, pleased to meet you.” He studied Mosley’s face carefully, looking for any sign that he recognized the name. There was none, at least that he could see. He had thought at first to use a fake name in case there were wanted posters circulating with his name on them. But he decided to give his real name to see if it caused any reaction that might indicate the smithy had heard it before. He felt a little more secure now in knowing he had not.

  Mosley led Pepper back into the shop where his forge was located and preceded to inspect the horse’s hooves. “You weren’t lyin’,” he remarked. “You need some shoes, all right. A little bit longer and you’da been ridin’ an Injun pony.”

  “I reckon,” Logan said. “I’m glad this town has a blacksmith. What’s the name of it, anyway?”

  “Rapid City,” Mosley said. “You passin’ through, or are you thinkin’ about stayin’ with us? I can tell by your rig that you’ve worked some cattle. You with one of the ranches over toward Bear Butte?”

  That seemed to be as good a story as any, so he went along with it. “I’m on my way over to see Matt Morrison. I’ve worked for him before and he told me to come on back over to see him. You know Matt Morrison?”

  “Know of him,” Mosley said. “His spread’s quite a little piece from here, near Sturgis, ain’t it?”

  “That’s a fact. Well, I’m needin’ some camp supplies. I’ll just go pick up some things while you’re shoein’ my horse.”

  “If you’re talkin’ ’bout stuff to cook with, coffee and such,” Mosley said, “place right across the street can take care of that, Donald Brooks.”

  “’Preciate it,” Logan said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He decided to test the recognition of his name once more to be doubly sure, so he gave his real name when he said howdy to Donald Brooks. Just as Mosley had done, Brooks gave no indication that he had ever heard the name before. Logan was convinced that he had nothing to fear in Rapid City. He completed his transactions with Brooks, putting most of the items in the cotton war bag that he tied behind his saddle cantle. He said good day to the store owner and headed back to the blacksmith.

  As he walked across the street, avoiding the deeper ruts left by heavy wagons in the mix of snow and mud, a man came from the saloon, also walking toward the blacksmith. Reaching Mosley’s shop at the same time as Logan, the man nodded and said, “Howdy.” Logan responded with a howdy as well, and paused to let the man precede him.

  “You’re all finished and ready to ride, Marshal,” Mosley called out when he saw the two men walk in. Startled, Logan froze.

  “Good,” the man replied. “We’ll settle up, then.” He reached inside his coat to pull out his wallet, exposing a marshal’s badge. Logan remained frozen at the front of the shop, trapped.

  “I’m about to finish shoein’ your horse, too, Mr. Cross,” Mosley said. There was no reaction from the marshal as he fished some bills from his wallet. Making an effort to be polite, Mosley didn’t stop there. “This here is Ed Welch. He’s a deputy marshal outta Cheyenne, up here lookin’ for some stagecoach robbers. Ed, this is Mr. Cross. Logan, warn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” Logan managed to answer.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cross,” Ed Welch said, and extended his hand.

  Logan accepted it, bracing himself in the event it was a trick. “Likewise,” he said. Astonished that there was no name recognition, he decided to press for more information. “Lookin’ for stage bandits, huh? I woulda figured you’d be looking between Deadwood and Cheyenne, instead of over here.”

  “And you’d be right,” Welch said. “Sam Bass and his gang of road agents, in fact. They’ve been pretty busy lately up closer to Deadwood. I ain’t had much luck findin’ where they hole up, but I got a tip that they’ve been seen over in these parts.”

  “You say you’re outta Cheyenne?” Logan asked. “I’da figured you’d be workin’ outta Fort Meade.”

  “There ain’t no marshals workin’ outta Fort Meade. That’s an army post,” Welch said.

  Logan merely nodded in response, his mind in disorder as he tried to sort out what he had just learned. So deep in thought was he that he was suddenly startled when Ed Welch bade him a good day and led his horse outside the shop.

  Ox had told him the marshal that had come for him was out of Fort Meade. He was sure of that. Ox was not the smartest man he had ever met. Maybe the big man had gotten it wrong. Even so, this marshal said he was looking for somebody named Sam Bass.

  Confused, Logan knew that he needed to think this thing through. He hurried outside after Welch, who was just stepping up in the saddle. “Say, Marshal, do you know a marshal named Quincy Smith?”

  “Can’t say as I do,” Welch replied. He hesitated, waiting to see if Logan had anything else to ask.

  “I was just wonderin’,” Logan said. “I heard there was a marshal in these parts by that name.”

  “If there is, I don’t know anything about him,” Welch said, and waited for a few moments before again saying, “Good day,” and rode away.

  If there’s no marshal in these parts, then who the hell is chasing me?

  The question was staggering, considering all he had done to escape. It didn’t make sense, but there was definitely a posse out to get him. He had to conclude that the gang tracking him was somehow connected to Jake Morgan, and not the law at all. Thinking back now, he realized he had made a mistake in not going after the man who had tried to bushwhack him right after he left Montana City. He had wounded him, and at the time, he thought that would be the end of any attempt at retaliation. He had figured the man was a bushwhacker who just happened upon him. But upon thinking back on it, he now thought it more likely that it was the same man as before.

  So now he’s got a posse coming after me, he thought, a devil’s posse.

  He knew now why there was no arrest attempted by this posse. This was a death posse. The question he needed an answer for was, where were they? Had they given up, or were they still searching?

  This revelation that had occurred today put a whole new spin on the game. He would no longer be concerned about possibly killing a lawman. Now it was no different from being attacked by a pack of wolves, and maybe the best way to fight a pack of wolves was to thin them out. Angry to have been duped into believing he was on the run from the law, he decided that he was no longer running. He would reverse the roles and become the hunter instead of the prey.

  He jumped when he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. “Whoa!” Mosely blurted, and jumped as well. “You musta been thinkin’ hard about somethin’.”

  “Sorry,” Logan said, “I was at that. What were you sayin’?”

  “I was tryin’ to tell you I’m done with your horse,” Mosely explained.

  * * *

  Undecided as to what his next move should be, he rode back into the mountains and returned to his camp, where he stood looking at the shelters he had built, trying to decide whether he should go in search of his pursuers. It was just the beginning of winter, and not a good time to be traveling out in the open night a
fter night. He was thinking not so much for himself, but of how hard it might be on Pepper. Still, he could not help being infuriated by the thought that he was being chased by a gang of outlaws, posing as lawmen. If he had known who they were, he would have taken his chances on the Triple-T, instead of fleeing to these mountains and running out on what had promised to be a decent job with Jace Evans.

  By now, they had already driven the cattle to the holding pens for shipment to the East. He still had money, more than enough to carry him through the winter, but it wasn’t going to last forever. And spring would find him a drifter, looking for work again. He didn’t care much for the prospect. Then he reminded himself that there was still a gang of assassins searching for him.

  “Damn it!” he cursed angrily. “I’d rather hunt them than have them huntin’ me!”

  With that thought firmly in mind, he decided to go back along the trail that he had taken to this camp, feeling it important to find out for sure what had happened to the posse. At least he might be able to determine if they had called off the hunt and withdrawn. That would be better than sitting here in this camp wondering if he was going to have company one dark night.

  When morning came, he packed up a supply of smoked deer meat, coffee, and dried beans, as well as a sack of oats he planned to feed sparingly to Pepper. He took one last look at the camp he had labored so hard to build, and wondered if it would still be there should he return. Then he made his way down past the waterfall to the twin streams below and started backtracking along the trail that had led him to this spot. He found that he remembered his way clearly, recalling places where he had left one game trail to take another that looked more promising—and where he had entered streams to confuse his trackers. With only a light blanket of snow to cover the ground, it would still have been possible to pick up some sign of six horses, even after this long a time, but he found none.

  On the second day, late in the afternoon, he came upon the sign he searched for. In several tight places where a game trail had led through a thicket of pines, he found broken branches. And when he dismounted and carefully brushed snow away from the path, he found hoofprints. So, he thought, they had gotten this far before they lost his trail. He stood up and looked around him. Judging by the number of broken pine boughs, it appeared that they had divided to look in different directions.

  They didn’t know which way I went, he thought. So now they’re just looking for sign. There seemed to be one trail that led down the mountain under a ledge that jutted out over a grove of pines, so he followed it.

  The trail led through the thickest part of the pines below the ledge. Logan’s eyes were fixed on the ground ahead of Pepper, watching for any places that might cause the horse to stumble.

  When he glanced up, he caught a movement in the trees ahead, causing him to rein Pepper back hard. Mostly hidden by the trees, he saw what he thought was a deer, or maybe an elk, judging by the size. When it whinnied, he realized it was a mule. Astonished, he pushed on through the trees to find a stream and the remains of what appeared to be a camp. It was not until he stepped down from his horse that he discovered the bodies of the two miners. Apart from them, he then discovered a third body of what had to have been an extremely large man. It looked to him that all three had been dead for days, nothing left but bones and rags, though; they had not managed to escape the notice of the buzzards and coyotes.

  It was easy to guess that they had had the misfortune to have been found by the posse. It impressed upon him the kind of ruthless men who sought to find him. It was up to somebody to stop these murderers, and it was beginning to look as though he was the one who was going to have to do it. For it seemed he might be the only one who knew they were not real lawmen.

  His mind made up, he found their trail where it left the camp, marked only by the few branches broken as their horses pushed through a bank of small bushes. It led down the mountain. He left the three skeletons as he had found them, as well as the mule to continue to shift for itself. It followed along behind him for only a little way before deciding it preferred to remain free and trailed off to return to the stream. There was no deviation in the trail he now followed. They had obviously broken off the chase and decided to return the way they had come. He followed until darkness forced him to make camp. He continued on the next morning and throughout that day until his next camp found him in the foothills north of the mountains. The second snow of the season fell during the night, making it difficult, but not impossible, to follow the posse through the foothills to the prairie beyond. That was as far as it led, however, for the snow covered any tracks that might have been left on the open prairie.

  He decided to stop and rest Pepper, build a fire, and make some coffee while he decided what he was going to do. He felt the frustration of knowing there was a gang of men somewhere looking to kill him, and he didn’t know where they were. Worse yet, unless they all came at him at once, he wouldn’t know them if he saw them individually. It was not a comfortable feeling to be unable to identify his enemy. It might be safer to return to his camp in the mountains, but since he had already come this far, he had a strong desire to continue on to the Triple-T.

  It was important to him to let Jace Evans and Thomas Towson and the men of the Triple-T know that he was not a wanted man, at least not by a U.S. Marshal. It was also important to him that Hannah know the truth. There was the possibility that the sheriff in Montana City might have been looking for him after he had executed Jake Morgan in the Lucky Dollar Saloon. But he doubted the sheriff had any interest in coming after him, and was probably satisfied that he had left town.

  There was another reason to go to the ranch. He had a horse there, Billy’s buckskin. He intended to return for it sometime—might as well be now. With that decision firm in his mind, he set out for the Triple-T.

  * * *

  “I’m not sure we’re so lucky to have their business,” Mae Davis remarked to Hannah Mabry when she saw the marshal and his men file in the door of the dining room for supper. “They don’t seem to be short of money, but I’m afraid they’re gonna scare some of our regular customers away. They’ve been minding their manners so far, but I declare they look like they’re liable to bust loose at any minute. If Marshal Smith wasn’t here to control them, I think they might turn into the animals they look like. I know I shouldn’t say it, but at least the worst-looking one of them didn’t come back.” She was referring to the fact that Curly had been killed in a desperate gun battle with some road agents. This was according to what they had been told by Quincy. “That was one scary-lookin’ man,” Mae went on.

  “I agree with you,” Hannah said. “I’m afraid to go into either one of those two rooms they’ve let. I’m glad Daisy doesn’t mind cleaning them. That may have been our biggest mistake, letting them have those rooms. The marshal seems nice enough, but his men, even his cousin, Lonnie, might be better suited to sleep in Sam Taylor’s stable.”

  Mae looked at her and grinned. “You’re just taking up for Quincy because he’s sweet on you.”

  “No such a thing,” Hannah responded, but could not suppress a blush. “Don’t forget I’m a recently widowed woman. The marshal’s just a friendly person, that’s all.”

  “Right,” Mae replied with a bigger grin.

  “Surely they won’t be staying here much longer,” Hannah speculated. “I mean, won’t his superiors send him somewhere to catch some other outlaws, since they weren’t able to find Logan?”

  “He told me that he aimed to stay here till he was able to track him down,” Mae said. “Said he was gonna make Spearfish his headquarters.”

  “I don’t know how he can track Logan down if he’s staying here.”

  “I don’t, either,” Mae said playfully. “You might have to go up in the mountains to get Quincy to go look for Logan up there.”

  “Stop it, Mae!” Hannah fussed, pretending to be angry. Then she became serious for a mome
nt as she confessed, “I really hope that he doesn’t ever catch Logan. I don’t care if he did do what they claim.”

  “Uh-oh,” Mae said, “conversation’s over. Here he comes.” They stood waiting while Quincy ambled over to greet them.

  “Well, now, ain’t this a pretty sight to see first thing in the mornin’?” Quincy teased playfully, his hair slicked back and parted, his mustache neatly trimmed. It was obvious that he was intent upon impressing the ladies. “Like two spring flowers bloomin’ in the snow.”

  Mae couldn’t help laughing. There was no doubt in her mind which one of the flowers Quincy was set on plucking. “More like a flower and a clump of sour grass,” she said. “Set yourself down and we’ll see about feedin’ you and that bunch of hounds with you.” She had to admit that the marshal was a handsome man, in a devil-may-care kind of way. She glanced at Hannah, wondering if Quincy’s attempt to charm was having any effect on the young widow.

  I hope to hell not, she thought. That man doesn’t look like the settling-down kind.

  Hannah smiled sweetly at him and said, “I’ll go fetch the coffee for you and your men.” She turned at once to return to the kitchen.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Quincy was quick to reply. “I could surely use a cup of it this mornin’.” He watched her until she was out of his view, then turned to favor Mae with a smile before heading toward the table prepared for him and his men.

  A special section had been set up for the marshal and his posse. Mae and Daisy had pulled two tables together in the back corner of the dining room in an effort to separate them as much as possible from the other customers. The four menacing-looking posse men filed into the room like a pack of hungry hyenas, leering at the few diners already eating at the one long table in the center of the room. But they made no loud remarks as they pulled their chairs back and sat down. Quincy had made it very clear to them all that any boisterous behavior would be reserved for the saloon. Here in the rooming house they were to behave like gentlemen, or they would answer directly to him.