Devil's Kin

by Charles G. West

  Young John Jr., known by everyone as Little John, had grown to be a strapping young man. A shade over six feet tall, with wide shoulders and arms like tree trunks, Little John soon took over the operation of the store from his father. Not content with the meager bartering with the Indians that had been the basis of his father’s survival, he hauled a wagon load of whiskey in from Fort Smith. His father had objected to it, and they fought over the issue, resulting in Little John strangling the old man. He buried him behind the stockade wall. When people asked after the old man, Little John told them that he had contracted a sudden case of pneumonia.

  Over the years since his father’s untimely death, Little John found a new source of business. The territory became a refuge for outlaws, and outlaws paid for their whiskey and supplies with cash. Every two months, Bannerman sent a wagon to Fort Smith to purchase supplies for his store. In effect, he was returning cash money to recirculate in civilization. The fact that it was money originally stolen from the civilized folk never bothered him. The authorities in Fort Smith suspected as much, but there was no way they could prove it.

  Now at age fifty-five, Bannerman had seen few changes in the territory over the years, at least in his remote corner of the Choctaw Nation. Towns had sprung up in other parts of Indian Territory, and white settlers had infringed upon the land set aside for the five nations. But things were pretty much the same as far as Bannerman was concerned. Although his hair, once jet-black, was now frosted with white, turning it to a shade of slate gray—and his face was etched with lines like the crevices in the bluffs on the western side of the creek—he was still every bit the formidable brute he had been in his youth. On this day, in late summer of 1875, when his old friend Perley Gates showed up with a young stranger, Bannerman was in a foul mood.

  “It’s a damn good thing I ain’t no Comanche lookin’ for a scalp,” Perley announced from the doorway.

  Bannerman paused, leaning on the broom he had been using. “Hell, Perley, I seen you comin’ a mile away. I heard you before that,” he lied. In fact, he had been distracted by irritating thoughts of an incident that occurred the night before. His mood improving a bit at the sight of the old man, he added, “Besides, if you was a Comanche, you’d damn sure be lost.”

  Perley laughed. “I reckon.” He walked over to shake hands with Bannerman. “How the hell are you, you old bear?”

  “Tolerable, I reckon, for a man my age.”

  “Hell, wait till you get as long in the tooth as I am,” Perley replied. He stepped aside and nodded back toward Jordan, who entered the store after him. “Say howdy to Jordan Gray.”

  “Jordan,” Bannerman acknowledged, along with a nod of his head. When Jordan nodded in return, Bannerman turned back to Perley. “He ain’t particular who he rides with, is he?”

  Perley grunted, taking mock offense. Unable to think of a clever comeback for the insult, he changed the subject. “What were you lookin’ so grouchy about when we come in?”

  Bannerman shrugged, as if to indicate it was nothing. “Ah, nuthin’ much. That damn half-breed they call Snake was in here last night with some fellers I ain’t ever seen around here before.” Perley shot a quick look in Jordan’s direction to see if he had picked up on the comment. He had. Bannerman went on. “He had a little too much to drink. He never could hold his liquor, anyway. He got to stumblin’ around here till he broke a lantern and knocked over a barrel of flour. I had to throw the sorry son of a bitch out.”

  “I know the coyote you’re talkin’ about,” Perley said. “He’s a mean one, all right. You say he was with some strangers?”

  “Two I never seen before,” Bannerman replied while he finished sweeping up the flour from the plank floor. Picking up the pile in a dustpan, he dumped it back into the flour barrel, then turned it under so the dirt from the floor would not be noticeable. “That feller they call Roach was with ’em. He’s been here a few times before, lookin’ for whiskey.” Oblivious to the solid effect his words had upon Perley and his friend, Bannerman propped the broom in a corner and went to the short bar at the opposite end of the room. “Reckon you fellers want somethin’ to cut the dust,” he said. “I know damn well Perley does. How ’bout you, young feller?”

  “Are they still around here?” Jordan blurted. Unable to control his impatience, he demanded, “Was one of ’em called Johnny Spratte?”

  Bannerman paused, shot glasses in his hand, to give Jordan a long, hard look. In this part of the territory, especially in view of Bannerman’s clientele, a man didn’t ask a lot of questions. Perley quickly stepped in. “Hold your horses, there, Jordan,” he said. Then turning to Bannerman, he explained, “Jordan here ain’t long off the farm. You’ll have to excuse his rough edges. Fact is, he’s lookin’ for four men that just come from Fort Smith. They robbed the bank over there a couple of days back.”

  Bannerman cocked a suspicious eye in Jordan’s direction. “You a lawman?”

  “Nah, he ain’t no lawman,” Perley replied before Jordan could answer for himself. He then went on to explain Jordan’s reasons for trailing the four.

  “Why those low-down sons of bitches,” Bannerman exclaimed, upon hearing of the ruthless murders. “Sorry, young feller,” he offered in a show of sympathy. “Don’t surprise me none. That damn half-breed never has been one to turn your back on. You sure these are the same fellers that hit your place?”

  “I’m sure,” Jordan replied.

  “Well, I’ll help you all I can, but I didn’t pay much attention to their names. One of ’em mighta been called Johnny. I can’t say for sure. I was too busy keepin’ an eye on that damn Snake. The more he drinks, the meaner he gets, and they didn’t seem to have no shortage of cash. The one they called Roach wasn’t sayin’ much, just keepin’ up with the others, and I kept pourin’ as long as they put money on the bar. The other two fellers was as opposite as night and day. The young one whooped and hollered a lot until he passed out. When I finally had to run ’em outta here close to midnight, they had to drag him out and throw him across his saddle. The other feller didn’t talk a lot. He just sat there on that chair in the corner and watched the others. He was the one I kinda kept my eye on, too. I figured I’d have trouble with him when the time came to throw ’em out. But he didn’t say a word. Just got up and walked out.”

  “Any idea where they were headed when they left here?” Jordan asked.

  “I didn’t pay no attention,” Bannerman replied. “They did ride out across the creek, but I don’t know whether they went north or south when they got across.”

  “That oughtn’t to be hard to figure out,” Perley said. “We can pick up their trail on the other side.”

  His comment surprised Jordan. Perley had given no indication that he was going to accompany him beyond Bannerman’s. “I didn’t think you were goin’ any farther,” he said.

  “I warn’t,” Perley replied without emotion. “But you sure as hell ain’t much of a tracker, and you’d probably get lost wanderin’ around in this territory. I’ll ride a piece further with you, if you’ll wait till Bannerman here gets through cheatin’ me outta my hides.”

  Jordan couldn’t suppress a smile. “Much obliged,” he said, “and much obliged to you, Mr. Bannerman.”

  “Wish I could help you more,” Bannerman replied.

  Although impatient to take up the trail again, Jordan was more than willing to wait while Perley and Bannerman came to an agreement over the value of Perley’s furs. Jordan was never one to need companionship, but he was not too hardheaded to admit that he was not especially skilled in tracking. And he sure as hell wasn’t familiar with the territory. Besides, he found that he had taken a liking to the crusty old trapper.

  “All right, then,” he heard Bannerman say as he totaled up the count. “Looks like you got yourself thirty-seven dollars’ worth of credit.” He raised his eyebrows slightly as he gave the old man an accusing glance. “And that includes that damn coyote hide in the middle of the pile.”

 
Perley recoiled in mock astonishment. “Coyote?” he exclaimed. “Them was all prime antelope and deer. How in the world did a coyote hide get in there?”

  “I wonder,” Bannerman replied, amused by the old man’s theatrics. He gave Jordan a wink. “I need me a door mat. Maybe I’ll use it for that.”

  Still playing the part, Perley mumbled a few words of disbelief that the lowly pelt had somehow found its way into his pile of prime skins. While Bannerman and Jordan grinned at each other, he selected a few possibles from the shelves. Jordan got the feeling that Bannerman had been exceedingly generous in his evaluation of Perley’s pelts in what might even be considered outright charity. Maybe, he thought, the gruff exterior of the huge man enclosed a few tender spots in his heart, and in truth, Bannerman had mellowed over the years—a far cry from the callous young man who had strangled his own father.

  Jordan lent a hand when Perley and Bannerman carried the skins to the back room. As he looked around the storeroom, it was easy to conclude that Bannerman derived very little of his income from the trading of hides. The walls of the room were lined with barrels. Some contained molasses, a few, dried apples, but most were unmarked, leading Jordan to suspect that whiskey was Bannerman’s major commodity.

  The trading done, Jordan and Perley got on their horses. With a final tip of the hat to Bannerman, they turned their mounts toward the creek, and Perley led them out. Something triggered a memory in Bannerman’s mind, and he called after them, “Johnny Spratte! That was the name they called that young feller.” Jordan acknowledged him with a wave of his hand. “Johnny Spratte,” Bannerman mumbled to himself again, certain of his recollection.

  So it was as Jordan had believed. Winston Moffett’s deputy had thrown in with the three men who had killed his wife and son. In Jordan’s mind, the fact that Johnny had obviously joined the outlaws after the slaughter of his family, as well as that of the Thompson family, made him no less guilty than the other three. He had been with them when the banker and his employee were killed. Consumed by his desire for vengeance, Jordan wanted to cleanse the earth of these men and anything they touched. In his present state of grief, he wanted to kill each one of them, anyone associated with them, and their horses. He would not be satisfied until all traces of their existence were removed from the earth. Even when that was accomplished, he was not sure he could deal with a life without Sarah and Jonah.

  Chapter 6

  It didn’t take long to pick up the outlaws’ tracks on the other side of the creek. The four riders had started out toward the west, riding only a quarter of a mile before striking a commonly used trail and following it north. “This trail leads to John Eagle Claw’s village,” Perley said. “He’s the chief. It ain’t a very big village, and now that I think on it, I believe that’s where Snake’s mama lives. I’m surprised he’d even be welcome there. From what I’ve heard, he caused a lot of trouble there a few years back—killed a man in an argument over somethin’—I don’t know what, but I think ol’ Eagle Claw run him off. If they’re figurin’ on holing up there for a spell, they might be in for a surprise. They probably figured his mama’s village just might be the closest place to sleep off a hangover.”

  This made sense to Jordan. According to what they had just learned from Bannerman, it was after midnight when the outlaws left his store, and they were in no shape to ride very far. They no doubt would have been looking for the closest place to recover from a night of drinking. The thought of the four lying around a tipi only a few hours away served to stimulate Jordan’s impatience even more.

  There was no time wasted as Jordan and Perley started out at a fast walk, following the distinct trail over the grassy hills. Jordan would occasionally push the chestnut into a faster pace, causing the horse to break into a lope. Each time, Perley would caution him not to tire the horse out. “We don’t know if we’re gonna have to run these horses or not when we get to the Choctaw village.”

  * * *

  “Hey, there’s a bunch of them damn Injuns snoopin’ around our horses!” Johnny Spratte suddenly exclaimed over the steady drone of Roach’s snoring. He had spent the balance of the night where his friends had dropped him, with his head halfway out of the open door of the mud hut. His outburst awakened Snake, and while Johnny tried to sit up, in a painful effort to figure out just where in hell he was, the half-breed crawled over to the door.

  “Eagle Claw,” Snake hissed, at once annoyed to see the chief nosing around the horses. “He’ll be sticking his nose in here before long.” Then, as if just remembering he didn’t particularly like the young ex-deputy—or most anybody else for that matter—he scowled at Johnny. “Go wake the old woman. Tell her to rustle up some food.”

  Johnny turned to look at the woman huddled in a corner of the hut. One glance at the wide-eyed expression told him that she had probably not closed her eyes ever since her son and his friends had dropped in for an unexpected visit. Painfully aware then of a pounding in his skull, Johnny attempted to stand up, only to fall helplessly to his hands and knees. Sick, as only an overdose of rotgut whiskey can incapacitate a man, he remained in that position with his head hanging down like an abused yard dog, the earthen floor spinning beneath him. The old woman watched in frightened confusion while the young white man remained on all fours, half in and half out of the doorway, rocking slightly from side to side.

  Disgusted with Johnny’s apparent weakness, Snake glowered at his mother. “I’m hungry, old woman. Get your fire started before I have to whip you,” he scolded, talking to her in the Choctaw tongue.

  Speaking for the first time since her son and his three white companions fell in on her in the wee hours of the morning, she nodded toward Johnny. “That white man is crazy. He looks like he’s having a fit. How can I start my cook fire with him blocking the door?”

  The brief exchange between mother and son served to awaken Leach, who was sleeping closest to the old woman. “What’s goin’ on?” Leach asked, feeling none too well himself after a night of drinking.

  “That damn lawman you picked up is about to puke in the door,” Snake shot back in angry disgust. “If he does, I’m gonna shoot the son of a bitch.”

  Leach knew the belligerent half-breed made a great many threats, some idle, some not. At this point, he didn’t care whether Snake intended to shoot Spratte or not. He had more immediate concerns. His bladder threatened to burst if not given relief in the next minute or two. So he struggled out of his blanket and rose to his feet, pausing only a moment to steady himself. A brief glance at the woman to his left startled him for a moment until he remembered the hut belonged to Snake’s mother. “Ugh,” he grunted for lack of words, and pushed past Snake, who was now on his feet. “I gotta piss,” he said. Stopping before the doorway, he planted his boot on Johnny’s backside and shoved the stricken man out the door.

  Johnny landed face-first in the sandy gravel in front of the hut. The sudden assault served to break the grip he had been desperately struggling to maintain on his insides, and the entire contents of his stomach and bowels immediately moved to exit his body. “Damn!” Leach exclaimed as he stepped aside to avoid walking through the contents of Johnny’s stomach. Showing no sympathy for the stricken man, he went around to the back of the hut to relieve himself.

  Having the same urgency as Leach, Snake left the hut to join him. He was stopped at once by the sight of Johnny Spratte, lying in his own filth, his stomach continuing to convulse in repeated efforts to empty itself. Snake was already disgusted, and the sight of the helpless man served to infuriate him. Without a moment’s hesitation, he pulled his pistol and shot Johnny in the head. Grabbing the corpse by one ankle, he dragged it a few feet out of the way. Then he walked behind the hut to join Leach, who had been abruptly interrupted in midstream by the sound of the gunshot.

  “He ain’t gonna be no trouble no more,” Snake offered nonchalantly and proceeded to untie his britches.

  “Reckon not,” Leach replied, his own pistol in hand now. Keeping a wa
ry eye on his half-breed partner, he put the gun away and resumed the evacuation of his bladder.

  Seeing the guarded look in Leach’s eye, Snake shrugged. “I told you I’d shoot the son of a bitch.”

  Leach was about to reply when they were suddenly joined by Roach, who had been awakened by the pistol shot. Never one to rush headlong into trouble, Roach had grabbed his pistol and crawled up to the door. Seeing Johnny’s body sprawled a few yards away, he then spotted the group of Indians standing by the horses, all of them staring in his direction. With neither Leach nor Snake in sight, he prepared to return fire. Drawing down on the nearest Choctaw, he was about to pull the trigger when he heard his partners talking behind the hut. Hesitating then, mainly because the group of Indians showed no signs of advancing toward the hut, he decided to find out what was what before taking any action. He had then made a dash around the hut to join his partners. “Damn!” Roach exclaimed upon turning the corner and finding Snake and Leach completing their morning bladder call. He stood, staring for a moment, before informing them, “Somebody shot Johnny.”

  “That was Snake,” Leach replied without emotion.

  “What for?” Roach asked, directing his question toward the stoic half-breed.

  “I didn’t like the son of a bitch,” Snake said, already bored with the subject. “I’m hungry. Is that old woman fixin’ some food yet?” Not waiting for an answer, he left them to find out for himself. As he disappeared around the corner of the hut, they heard him mumble, “If she ain’t, I might whip her lazy ass.”

  Roach and Leach exchanged glances. Leach just shook his head. Roach said, “There ain’t nothin’ sweeter than the love between a mother and son.” His comment brought a chuckle, but both men were thinking that the time might soon come when something would have to be done about the belligerent half-Choctaw. Although the men had ridden together for the better part of three years, there was no guarantee that either Leach or Roach wouldn’t at any time become a victim of Snake’s uncontrollable violence, and he was getting worse with each passing day.