Devil's Kin

by Charles G. West

  Ramey continued to approach. “What are you aimin’ to do with that rifle?” he asked.

  “Depends on what you’re aimin’ to do, I reckon,” Jordan replied matter-of-factly.

  Seeing the man was dead serious, Ramey pulled his jacket aside, revealing his badge. “I’m Federal Marshal Jed Ramey,” he announced, “and I’m lookin’ for some fellers that held up the bank and murdered some folks.”

  Seeing the lawman’s badge, Jordan relaxed and walked over to replace his rifle in the sling while the other members of the posse dismounted. “I reckon I’m lookin’ for some outlaws myself,” he said.

  “Is that a fact?” Ramey replied, studying the young man intently. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you around here before. What’s your name, young feller?”

  “Jordan Gray.”

  Ramey glanced at the lathered chestnut. “Looks like you’ve been ridin’ that horse pretty hard.”

  “That’s the reason I stopped to let him rest,” Jordan answered somewhat curtly, suddenly uncomfortable with the marshal’s manner. He supposed that the lawman, by virtue of his profession, was suspicious, but he didn’t appreciate the way all six stared at him. “Like I said, I’m lookin’ for some outlaws. They murdered my family.”

  “Murdered your family?” Ramey echoed with an obvious smirk in his voice. “Well, Mr. Jordan Gray, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to find out a little bit more about you.” Without shifting his gaze from Jordan, he said, “Lem! Take a look in them saddlebags there.” With the hint of a smile on his lips, he added, “You don’t mind, do ya, Mr. Gray?”

  “Matter of fact, I do,” Jordan replied. “You’ve got no reason to search me. Just what do you think you’re lookin’ for?”

  “Maybe this,” Lem called out. He had wasted no time going through Jordan’s saddlebags. He held up a small bundle wrapped in oil cloth as if displaying a trophy.

  Ramey shifted his eyes briefly to look at the package, then back to lock on Jordan again. “What is it, Lem?”

  “Money,” Lem replied excitedly. “He’s got a nice little bundle of money here.”

  “Is that a fact?” Ramey responded. “Lathered-up horse and a bundle of cash money—that don’t look too good for you, does it?” Ramey sensed that the day was not going to be a total loss after all.

  “That money’s what I’ve saved up for three years. It’s all I’ve got after they burned my cabin down. If you’ll send somebody over to see Sheriff Moffett at Crooked Creek, he’ll vouch for me.” He glanced around him, searching among the faces surrounding him for one that believed him. There was none. Instead, he was met with accusing stares and rifles at the ready. The enormity of his mistake in trusting a badge struck him soundly. He was being railroaded. Of that, there could be no doubt. Lawmen or no lawmen, he rued the decision to put his rifle away.

  “Where’s the rest of your friends?” Ramey asked. “Judge Parker might go easier on you if I told him you cooperated. Where are you supposed to meet up?”

  “Damn you,” Jordan spat back, his patience at an end. “I told you the truth of the matter. You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree. While we’re standin’ here jawin’, the men I’m lookin’ for—maybe the ones you’re lookin’ for—are gettin’ away.”

  Without warning, Ramey backhanded Jordan sharply across the face. “Don’t get testy with me, sonny.” Jordan tried to lunge at the marshal, but was immediately stopped, restrained by Alvarez and Bates. Ramey thrust his face up close to Jordan’s, almost touching his nose. The marshal had run more than a few outlaws to ground, and they all had a fairy tale ready to tell. This one was a little different, but he still recognized it as just another version. “Now I want some straight answers outta you, or I might save Judge Parker the trouble of trying your sorry ass.”

  Staggered with disbelief that this could actually be happening, Jordan burned with white-hot frustration inside. “You dumb son of a bitch. Anybody with a spoonful of brains could see I’m not one of the men you’re chasin’.” His remark earned him another backhand.

  “Is that a fact? Well, lemme tell you what I see. Four men come into my town, rob the bank and kill two people. We follow them downriver before we lose their trail, but lo and behold, we run up on a stranger with a lathered-up horse and a saddlebag full of money. That right there sorta paints the picture, don’t it?” His tone softened a bit as he took a different approach. “Kinda looks like your friends are gonna leave you to take their medicine while they ride away fat and sassy. Now we followed your trail to the spot where you all split up when you hit the pasture. Where was you supposed to meet up again?”

  “In hell, I reckon,” Jordan replied, his anger and frustration having gotten the best of him. “I can’t tell you somethin’ I don’t know.”

  “All right, then.” Ramey threw his hands up in surrender. “Have it your way. Somebody’s gonna pay for what you and your friends did. You mighta got off easier if you told us where the rest of your bunch headed. Judge Parker likes to have all debts paid in full, so I reckon you’ve got an appointment with the gallows.”

  “Why don’t we just hang him right here and be done with it?” This was Morris, the banker’s cousin, who spoke up, anxious to extract justice for his cousin’s murder.

  Jordan glared at the man petitioning for his execution. “I told you, you’ve got the wrong man. While you jackasses are standin’ around here talkin’ about lynchin’ me, the men you’re after are gettin’ away.”

  Ramey didn’t say anything for a few minutes. He listened to the men discussing Morris’ suggestion, watching Jordan’s face to see if the immediate threat might serve to loosen his tongue. He had no intention of permitting a hanging, but it wouldn’t hurt to let his prisoner think about it.

  Jordan became suddenly calm, no longer straining against Bates and Alvarez, who still held his arms securely. There was a doleful look in his eye as he glanced around him, his gaze darting from one face to the next. Ramey had seen that look before. It was the look of a man who had nothing to lose. The deputy marshal had apprehended countless dozens of fugitives from justice in his ten years as a lawman, and he could recognize the warning signs in a man’s eyes. This one was getting ready to fight. While a lively discussion ensued among the members of his posse over whether or not to hang the stranger on the spot, Ramey nodded to his deputy. Lem Deacon acknowledged the marshal’s signal with a return nod, then stepped up close behind the prisoner, his rifle ready.

  “Well, son, looks like you’re gonna be the only one standin’ trial while the rest of your friends are spending all that money. Climb on your horse. We’ve wasted too much time here already.” He took a step back to give Alvarez and Bates room to turn Jordan toward his horse.

  With never a thought of going peacefully, Jordan did not resist when the two turned him toward the chestnut. His concentration was now locked securely upon the rifle still riding in his saddle sling. When he felt a slight decrease in the pressure in Bates’ grip on his arm, he did not hesitate. In one violent motion, he wrenched his arm free, flinging Bates several feet away and making him stumble awkwardly to keep from falling. The beefy Alvarez was not so easily overpowered. He clamped down hard on Jordan’s left arm, not even releasing his grip when Jordan planted a solid right hand that flattened his nose and caused his knees to buckle momentarily. Anticipating the sudden eruption, Lem was ready with his rifle, bringing the barrel down hard against Jordan’s skull. Lem was a big man, with arms almost as stout as Alvarez’s. The force he applied to the blow was sufficient to lay Jordan out cold. Unmoved by the sudden violence, Ramey instructed Lem and Alvarez to put the prisoner on his horse.

  “Tie his hands to the saddle horn, Lem, and we’ll get back in time for supper.” Ramey was not satisfied with the results of his posse, but at least he wasn’t going back empty-handed. Three might have gotten away, but the one he caught would by God pay the price for all four. He watched dispassionately as Lem, with Thornton’s and Alvarez’s help, hefted the unconscious pri
soner up in the saddle. Alvarez in particular was none too gentle in the effort, still smarting from a broken nose. When Jordan threatened to roll off onto the ground, Ramey said, “Let him lay on the horse’s neck. Tie his hands together around the neck.” He watched them follow out his instructions. “Better tie his feet together under the horse’s belly, too. That oughta keep him in the saddle.” He was a little surprised that Jordan was still out cold. Lem must have cracked his skull, he thought, not really concerned.

  Chapter 4

  “He ain’t moved since we put him on his horse,” Bates commented when the posse paused to let the horses drink from a small stream just south of town. This caused the others to take a long look at their prisoner, still lying motionless on the chestnut’s neck.

  “Lem, you mighta tapped him a little too hard,” Morris said, a wide grin spread across his face. “I believe you kilt him.”

  “Yeah, Lem,” Thornton chimed in, “you better check your rifle. You mighta bent the barrel.”

  Lem grinned, enjoying the banter. “I might have at that, but that’s all right. Maybe now I can shoot around corners.”

  Lem’s response brought a round of chuckles from the rest of the posse. Even the usually dour Ramey grinned. The mood of the six men was considerably lighter, now that the brick building that housed the jail and the district court was in sight. In spite of capturing one of the outlaws, Ramey could not feel totally justified in his mind. Three had gotten away. He had recovered only a small portion of the stolen money. But, he asked himself realistically, what else could he have done? There was no trail to follow. His posse could have ridden around in Indian Territory for a month without finding a trace of the other three. It would take a regiment of soldiers to run to ground all the outlaws hiding out in Indian Territory.

  “Seems to me the district court oughta show its gratitude to this posse with a round of drinks at Sweeney’s.” This from Bates. It was followed by another wave of chuckles and comments of agreement. “Alvarez might need somethin’ for medicinal purposes.”

  Alvarez managed a grin and laid a finger gently alongside his swollen nose. “I’ve had worse than this from a mule kick,” he said.

  It might have appeared otherwise to the returning posse, but the motionless figure draped across the chestnut gelding’s neck was aware of the meaningless banter going back and forth around him. Jordan could not really remember the blow that had cast him into sudden darkness, he only knew that the throbbing in his brain when he emerged felt as if his skull had been split. Consciousness had come slowly, a few degrees at a time, until he had finally become aware of his surroundings. Upon finding himself on his horse, he had at first attempted to sit up, only to find that his arms were tied around the horse’s neck. When he realized that none of the men had noticed his efforts, he decided to feign unconsciousness a while longer until he had a clearer picture of his situation.

  By the time the posse had stopped on the edge of town to water their horses, Jordan’s mind had cleared to the point where the ground no longer spun around whenever he risked opening his eyes. When the horses started again, leaving the little stream behind, his mind began to race with thoughts of escape. Under different conditions, he would not have considered such thoughts, but it was painfully clear that, at best, there was going to be a great loss of time before his innocence could be confirmed. And he didn’t have that time to lose. The men who murdered his family were already two days ahead of him. He could also not ignore the possibility that he was already tried and found guilty. Remembering how the deputy marshal had ignored his suggestion to contact Sheriff Moffett, he realized that Ramey was determined to hang somebody, guilty or not. Jordan had no fear of dying. With the loss of his beloved Sarah and his son, death might bring a release from the terrible grief he felt. If he had fear, it would be the fear of being prevented from finding the men who had taken his family. In the end, there was no decision to be made, for he knew he could not permit himself to be locked in a cell—even if he died trying to escape.

  “You fellers go on over to Sweeney’s and tell him the court owes you a drink. We’ll take the prisoner on over to the jail.” Ramey pulled up momentarily, then added, “Much obliged,” in way of thanks.

  Alvarez, who had been studying the dazed man sprawled across the chestnut’s neck, alerted the marshal, “Looks like your prisoner’s come to.” He had noticed that Jordan’s eyes were now open. “I reckon Lem ain’t kilt him after all.”

  Unconcerned, Ramey gazed at Jordan but a moment before commenting, “Looks that way, don’t it? I figured we were gonna have a burial or a hangin’. I reckon it’s gonna be a hangin’.”

  With the prospect of a drink of whiskey at Sweeney’s, and the opportunity of recounting their heroic capture of a dangerous outlaw to the patrons of the saloon, the other members of the posse had already turned to depart. Alvarez hesitated for a few seconds. “Want me to ride with you? He might still have some fight in him.”

  Ramey took a long look at the prisoner, still sprawled lifeless, although his eyes were open and seemed to be shifting from side to side in a dazed stupor. “Nah, you go on over and get a drink. Lem and I can handle this one.”

  Alvarez wheeled his horse and rode after the others, who, by this time, had been discovered by a few people in the street. Before they had reached the hitching rail at Sweeney’s, the posse had attracted a modest crowd of the curious. A couple of bystanders fell in step with Ramey and Lem, following the two lawmen down to the jail, gawking at the man tied in the saddle. Jordan, fully alert now, although still pretending to be in a stupor, tried to decide upon his best chance to escape. “Looks like you caught one of ’em, Jed,” he heard a man who was walking just out of his line of vision say. “He don’t look too spry,” he heard another man say. “Looks like you had to crack his head for him,” the first voice said, apparently noticing the crusting trail of blood that had dried upon Jordan’s face and neck.

  “Yeah,” Ramey replied, “he had a little fit there for a minute, but Lem took the fight right outta him.” A man never made a statement that was farther from the fact. In a matter of moments Ramey would find this out.

  Pulling the horses up before a stately brick building that housed the jail as well as the federal district courthouse, Ramey remained in the saddle while Lem dismounted. A couple of off-duty guards, who had been taking the evening air on the wide front porch of the building, got up from their rocking chairs to watch. One of them took a few steps to the edge of the porch to knock the ashes from his pipe. “Well, I see you got one of ’em, Jed. What about the rest of ’em?”

  “Scattered all over Indian Territory, I reckon,” Ramey answered. “There weren’t no way we could cut their trail.”

  While Ramey talked to the guard, Lem untied the rope holding Jordan’s hands. As soon as they were free, he stood back for a moment to make sure there was no violent reaction from the prisoner. Satisfied that Jordan would offer no resistance, Lem untied the rope under the horse’s belly, freeing Jordan’s feet, and reached up to pull him off the horse. In the next second, Lem found out what it was like to pull a panther off a tree limb. Fists flying and legs driving, Jordan exploded upon the startled deputy. With his shoulders lowered, he drove Lem off-balance, slamming him up against his horse. Before Lem could react, Jordan’s hand found the rifle butt protruding from the saddle sling. In the confusion of the moment, the guard talking to Ramey dropped his pipe and pulled his pistol. Trying to act quickly, he fired, but in his haste, he missed his target, hitting Lem high in the shoulder. The deputy howled in pain and dropped to his knees. Jordan immediately showered the porch with rifle balls, firing and cocking as rapidly as he could. With bullets snapping all around them, the two guards ran for their lives, jumping off the end of the porch to escape the storm of lead.

  Ramey, taken completely by surprise, tried to draw his pistol, but his horse, startled by the sudden eruption, reared up, causing the marshal to grab the saddle horn to keep from being thrown. By the t
ime he was able to bring his weapon to bear, he found himself staring at the business end of a Henry rifle, as Jordan stood deadly calm, waiting.

  “Put the rifle down,” Ramey ordered. “You’re already in enough trouble. Don’t make it any worse.”

  “I don’t wanna kill you unless I have to,” Jordan said. “You have two choices—makes no difference to me which one you pick. You can drop that pistol, and I’ll ride out of here. But if you pull that trigger, I’m takin’ you with me. What’s it gonna be?”

  “You’re makin’ a big mistake, mister,” Ramey replied. “You’ll never get out of town alive. Now drop the rifle.”

  “Then I reckon we can finish this conversation in hell,” Jordan responded, his tone calm and final.

  “Shoot him, Jed,” Lem pleaded, still on his knees, his shirt soaked with blood.

  The two men remained frozen for what seemed an eternity, their weapons aimed at each other before one was forced to waver. Ramey had faced many a desperate man before. But this time, there was a cool glint in this man’s eyes, a gaze as hard and unyielding as cold steel. It was the same gaze he had seen in Jordan’s eyes before, and he knew without question that, if he pulled the trigger, he was a dead man. They stood staring into each other’s eyes for several long seconds more, fingers on the trigger, until Ramey’s hand relaxed and the pistol dropped to the ground. Lem was stupefied. He never thought he would see the day Ramey backed down from any man. In one last attempt, he suddenly reached for the pistol still in his holster. Anticipating just such a move, Jordan caught him with a solid blow with the rifle barrel that knocked the wounded deputy senseless. “I reckon that makes us even,” Jordan said. Then turning back to Ramey, he ordered, “Get down off that horse and walk over to the rail.”

  “You know I’ll be comin’ after you,” Ramey said, forcing as much bluster as a man who had just backed down to an adversary could.

  Keeping the rifle trained on the marshal, Jordan stepped up in the saddle after picking up Ramey’s pistol. “I hope for your sake you don’t catch up with me,” Jordan said. “I haven’t killed anyone, and I haven’t stolen any money.” That stated, he picked up the reins of the two lawmen’s horses. “I ain’t a horse thief, either. I’ll let ’em go after I get outta town.” Then he was off at a gallop. As he turned the corner at Sweeney’s, he could hear the boisterous sounds of the crowd inside listening to the posse’s recounting of the day’s action. Behind him, a mortified deputy marshal helped his wounded deputy to his feet—with the aid of a few people who had heard the barrage of rifle shots—and two off-duty jail guards, who reappeared from behind the courthouse.