Devil's Kin

by Charles G. West

  Now, kneeling in the muddy quagmire of his corral, created by six days of steady rain, and holding the bodies of his wife and son wrapped in his coat and pressed close to him, he felt the fatal results of his pride. He clenched his eyes tightly closed, grimacing with the pain he felt when he pictured Sarah’s final moments. From the marks left in the mud, he could see that she had attempted to make a run for the barn and was shot down halfway across the small corral. Her murderers didn’t waste a bullet on little Jonah, simply knocking him in the head as he must have cried out for his mother. Unable to contain his grief as these horrible images flooded his brain, Jordan looked up to the leaden skies and cried out his pain. He had not been there when they needed him most. The irony of the situation increased his agony tenfold. He had been away with a posse, looking for outlaws who had raided another isolated farm two days before, leaving a family of five dead. If he had stayed at home, Sarah and Jonah might still be alive.

  As he looked around him now, his world seemed dead, gray as the dingy clouds hanging low overhead. The smoldering ashes of the cabin he had built were in the final stages of life as the steady rain patiently extinguished each lonely spark. The barn was still standing, but the livestock were gone. The only things left to him were his rifle and his horse. There was some money he had been saving to purchase another fifty acres near the river—if the raiders had not discovered his hiding place and dug it up. Everything else was gone. Suddenly the thought struck him that he hated the sight of this place, and he wanted to be away from it. All meaning to his life would be buried with his wife and son.

  It was almost sunup by the time he finished digging the grave on the little hill behind the cabin. This was Sarah’s favorite spot to gaze at the stars, out from under the huge poplars that shaded the little cabin in summer. She’ll always be able to look up at the stars, he thought as he gently lowered the tiny body of his son to rest beside her. He stood back to look up into the dark sky, which was already melting into lighter shades of gray in anticipation of the sunrise. It had stopped raining sometime during the night. He had not taken notice of the exact moment as he had steadily worked at his grim task. Parting clouds overhead held promise of a clear day, suggesting that the long rainy spell might be over. The signs were lost on him. It no longer mattered that he was late in the spring plowing.

  His tears exhausted, he was forced to choke back a dry sob as he began to shovel the saturated earth into the open grave. “I’m sorry, honey,” he blurted, unable to contain his grief when the first wet shovelful fell heavily upon her feet. Even though he knew she was no longer there, he could not bear to cover her with dirt. Vivid images of her radiant face raced through his mind, and he backed away from the grave, trying to control his emotions. Knowing it had to be done, he took hold of the shovel again and set to his grim chore.

  The dismal task finished, only then did he give thought to the immediate demands of the living. His mind already overburdened with the guilt of not having been there to protect his family, he felt another stab of guilt when he realized that he had not unsaddled his horse. The poor beast had stood uncomplaining all night. Jordan quickly pulled the saddle off and led the chestnut gelding to the barn. He left it there with a portion of oats while he returned to look through the ashes of the house.

  The fire had pretty much destroyed everything, but Jordan continued to search for anything that might have come through unscathed. Lifting a charred timber that had been the cabin’s ridge pole, he caught a glimpse of something shiny in the ashes beneath it. Brushing away the ashes, he reached down to retrieve a broken length of silver chain. Standing up again, he carefully wiped the chain on his shirt. It had held a small heart-shaped locket. The locket had been his wedding present to Sarah. He dropped the chain into his pocket and began sifting through the ashes in hopes of finding the locket. After half an hour with no luck, he gave up. It was useless to continue searching the ruins of his life. Everything was gone. Suddenly feeling totally exhausted, it occurred to him that he had not slept in two days. He walked back to the barn, sat down against the side of it, and closed his eyes for a few minutes. A few minutes turned into several hours, as he drifted off into a deep sleep.

  He was awakened by the sun shining through the open end of the barn. A new day, it would go unappreciated by the man as he set his mind for what he had to do. He had no notion as to whom or how many he must hunt—only that hunt them he would, if it took the rest of his life.

  * * *

  Sheriff Winston Moffett was not in a good mood. He was late for breakfast, and that always served to put him in a foul mood. His deputy, young Johnny Spratte, had failed to show up for work that morning, and Winston didn’t like to leave the jail unattended when there was a prisoner in one of the two cells. When seven thirty came and passed, and Johnny had still not shown up, Moffett opened up the cell and roused Ned Tucker from the bunk. Ned hadn’t had time to sleep off his drunk, and protested his eviction before the usual time, but Moffett would not relent. His belly was already growling like a catfight about to commence.

  Hell, I made it to work on time, he said to himself, thinking about his tardy deputy. If I can make it, he by God can. Speculating that Johnny felt justified in coming to work late because he had ridden with the posse, Moffett would be sure to remind his wild young deputy that riding a posse was part of the job. The sheriff had led the posse, and in spite of returning late in the night—and having to lock Ned up—he was at work on time this morning.

  Still grumbling to himself, he was about to step up on the wooden walkway that fronted the hotel when he caught sight of a rider approaching from the far end of the street. He paused long enough to identify Jordan Gray, mildly surprised to see the quiet young settler in town after having ridden with the posse for two days. His interest tuned more toward a plate of potatoes and eggs than Jordan Gray’s reasons for being in town, the sheriff stepped up on the boardwalk and ambled into the hotel dining room.

  Having spotted the sheriff at about the same time Moffett had seen him, Jordan guided his horse directly to the hotel. Still somewhat dazed, he went through the process of dismounting and tying his horse, his motions trancelike, before following the sheriff into the dining room.

  “Well, Jordan,” Moffett greeted him when he walked in, “I’m surprised to see you here this mornin’. I thought you’d wanna be with that pretty little wife of yours after riding around in the rain for two days.”

  “Sarah’s dead,” Jordan answered bluntly. “Jonah, too.”

  Moffett dropped his fork. “What? Dead? How?” he stammered.

  “Murdered,” Jordan replied, his words devoid of emotion. “By the same bunch we’ve been chasin’, I reckon.”

  “Damn!” Moffett muttered, unable to think of an appropriate reply. “Damn,” he repeated. “We were lookin’ in the wrong end of the valley. They musta doubled back on us.” Seeing the blank look on Jordan’s face, the sheriff wasn’t sure what action the bereaved young man expected of him. “I reckon we could get up another posse,” he volunteered, glancing at his breakfast rapidly cooling off. In fact, Moffett had been satisfied that he had done all that was required of him in regard to the raid on the Thompson place. He had assumed that the raiders had left the territory, and were consequently out of his jurisdiction. He felt badly for the Thompson family, all five murdered, but he was relieved that he did not have to go up against a gang of ruthless killers. Now this with Jordan Gray, and his eggs were getting stone cold. Feeling a tiny stab of guilt for thinking of his stomach in the face of such tragic news, Moffett realized he must answer the call of his responsibilities.

  “How long ago you figure it was?” the sheriff asked, reluctantly pushing his plate away.

  Jordan hesitated. “A day or two—I don’t know.” It occurred to him then that he had not taken the time to look for signs that would even tell him which way the raiders had left when they finished their evil business. He promised himself that he would tuck his emotions away from that point on
.

  Moffett placed his hand on Jordan’s arm, reassuring him. “Don’t you worry, son. We’ll go after them, soon as I can round up another posse.” The implications of Jordan’s tragedy began to take hold in the sheriff’s mind. Maybe this band of raiders had not left the valley after all. Who might be the next to be hit? His own house was over a half mile from town. “Yes, sir,” he decided, “we’d best not waste any more time.” Grabbing a biscuit from his plate, he got to his feet.

  Outside the hotel, Moffett paused, looking up and down the empty street as if searching for candidates for his posse. “I wonder where the hell Johnny is,” he complained. He pulled his watch from a vest pocket and stared at it for a few seconds. It was already half past eight, and still no sign of his deputy. He looked into the expressionless eyes of the man stoically watching him, waiting for some show of action. “It’s gonna take me some time to round up some of the boys who rode with us out to the Thompsons’. Why don’t you go on back to your place and scout around? And we’ll meet you out there.”

  Jordan didn’t react at once as he studied Moffett’s face. He was thinking that maybe it had been a waste of time coming to the sheriff for help. He should have scouted around, picked up the raiders’ trail, and gone after them while it was still fresh. After a moment, he nodded his head and turned to leave, just as Rufus Bailey unlocked the door of the saloon next door to the hotel. Jordan paused when Rufus walked over to greet them.

  “Damn, I’m right sorry to hear that,” Rufus said when Moffett related Jordan’s tragedy. “I’d volunteer to ride with you, Sheriff, if I wasn’t by myself in the saloon until this afternoon when my help comes in.”

  “I’m lookin’ for Johnny,” Moffett said. “Was he in the saloon last night?”

  Bailey nodded. “Yeah, he came in after you came back, stayed around for about an hour, then lit out for somewhere. He didn’t say where.”

  Moffett shook his head slowly, thinking about his young deputy. “I swear, I mighta made a mistake when I hired that boy,” he speculated aloud.

  Rufus hesitated for a moment, as if not sure he should say what he was thinking. “It ain’t none of my affair, but I’d say Johnny Spratte picks a pretty rough bunch for drinkin’ partners. I mean, with him supposed to be a lawman.”

  This piqued Moffett’s interest. “Whaddaya mean?” he asked.

  “I mean there was three pretty rough-lookin’ fellers passed through here a couple of days ago. You probably saw ’em.”

  The sheriff nodded. “Johnny said they was with a cattle drive north of town.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Rufus replied, shaking his head. “They didn’t look like no ranch hands to me. One of ’em looked like a half-breed. I probably shouldn’t have even served him any whiskey. I was kinda glad they moved on. Johnny sure seemed to enjoy their company, though.”

  Moffett, feeling Jordan Gray’s eyes on him, spoke in his deputy’s defense. “What with the Thompson murders and all, I naturally was curious about any strangers in town, but Johnny said they was all right.” He shifted his gaze, avoiding Jordan’s eyes. “I’ll have a talk with Johnny when he comes in.”

  Jordan had heard enough, a clear picture already forming in his mind. He remembered that it had been primarily Johnny Spratte directing the posse at the Thompson place. He had been so sure of the direction to search that Moffett had let him lead. The rest of the posse, Jordan included, followed along blindly until it became obvious that there was no trail to follow. Thinking back now, he felt sure it was also Johnny who had insisted that the raiders were long gone from this valley. The thought also occurred to him that there had been no sign of any cattle drive anywhere near Crooked Creek.

  Jordan untied his horse and stepped up in the saddle. “I wouldn’t wait too long for Johnny.” He stared hard at the sheriff. “I don’t think he’ll be coming to work.” That said, he turned the chestnut away from the rail, and rode away.

  * * *

  With his sorrow tucked carefully away in his mind now, Jordan set about his task with a clear head. After a brief visit to the new grave to say a final farewell to the two souls who had completed his world, he turned his thoughts to concentrate on their killers. There was no doubt in his mind that his search was for the three strangers Rufus had talked about. They might be four now. Johnny Spratte was somehow involved. Maybe he had joined them.

  Jordan didn’t consider himself much of a tracker. He had never had reason to be. But he studied all the tracks and signs he could find around the corral and the ruins of the cabin. He soon found that there were too many tracks, which resulted in telling him nothing beyond the fact that the raiders had ridden their horses back and forth, and all around the cabin. There may have been three horses; there may have been thirty. There was no way he could be sure from the churned-up mud that had been his yard. Feeling the frustration that fueled his anger even more, he walked away from the barn to a distance of about forty yards. Keeping that distance between him and his home, he then began a slow walk in a circle around the barn and the charred remains of his house, his eyes focused on the ground before him. He crossed a fresh set of hoofprints that his horse had left just minutes before as he returned from town. A few yards farther on, he saw the sharp imprint of a deer track. Heading for what’s left of the garden, he unconsciously observed. Halfway around the circle, he found what he was looking for.

  He felt a numbness that shot up the length of his spine as he stood motionless for a few seconds, gazing at the hoofprints in the soft, wet sand of the creek. Looking back toward his cabin, he saw that the tracks were mixed together, telling him that the raiders had ridden single file until coming to the small creek that wound around behind his barn. They had fanned out to cross the creek, leaving three clear sets of tracks. His earlier feelings were strengthened. The murderers of his wife and son were the same three strangers in Rufus Bailey’s saloon. This was the only reasonable conclusion.

  He knelt down to examine the tracks carefully, looking for any distinguishing markings of the shoes. Prepared to follow the prints into the bowels of hell if necessary, he studied the impressions in the sand intensely. There was nothing he could discover that made any of the tracks remarkable. One of the horses might have a nick in one shoe. He couldn’t even be sure of that. Feeling a need to somehow put his hand on the men he hunted, he placed his fingers on one of the prints and gently traced the outline. A surge like lightning shot up his arm; the immense pain he had been struggling to contain would no longer be denied. With clenched teeth and every muscle in his body taunt, he lifted his head toward the heavens and roared out his frustration. It would be the last time he would give in to such an emotional display of his anger. From that point on, he would lock his emotions away, replacing them with a cold, hard determination to hunt down the men who had killed his wife and son.

  He rose to his feet again and followed the direction of the hoofprints with his eyes. They were heading for the northwest corner of the wide river valley, away from town, probably to cross the wagon trace to Fort Smith. With a controlled urgency, Jordan returned to the barn. He filled a sack of oats for his horse and dug up the money he had buried under a cornerstone of the cabin. There was nothing else to pack. A change of clothes and his rifle and cartridges were already on his saddle, having been there since he was riding with the posse. He would need to spend some of the money for cartridges. His rifle, an 1866-model Henry, was the only remembrance he had of his father. The old man had bought the rifle in 1868, when he had paid fifty dollars for it. He had bought it from a returning war veteran who had purchased it at a government sale for fourteen dollars and fifty cents. His father had not begrudged the young man for the excessive profit of the sale. A good, dependable rifle, though not an unusually powerful one, it held sixteen shots in its magazine. Jordan had killed many a deer with that rifle.

  He paused for a moment to think about his father. Jordan had always supposed his father was a good man. He didn’t know for sure, since he w
as only ten years old when his father was crushed under a giant oak tree while clearing some land for Jonah Wheeler. Since his mother had left them two years prior to that to return to her parents’ home in Virginia, Jordan was left an orphan. Jordan felt a begrudging respect for Jonah Wheeler. The man had felt a responsibility toward him, and Jordan owed him for it. After all, he had given the boy a place to live, but after all the years Jordan lived and worked on Jonah’s farm, he was never elevated above the status of hired hand. Jordan had never been content to work on a farm. He would have left to seek his fortune in the mountains of the Rockies as soon as he was full grown, but there was one overpowering force that held him there: Jonah Wheeler’s daughter, Sarah.

  Sarah—a ray of golden sunshine whose smile would always lighten his darkest days. It was Sarah who befriended the orphaned boy when there was no one else for him to turn to. Although her father discouraged it, she and Jordan became close friends, spending a great deal of time together after Jordan’s work was done. Thinking about her now, Jordan was forced to smile when he remembered the times she would sneak a piece of cake, or a slice of pie, from the kitchen for him. It was only natural that childhood friendship developed into love as they grew older. In Jordan’s case, it was more aptly described as adoration, for he never dreamed Sarah could ever become his wife.