Devil's Kin

by Charles G. West

  * * *

  Jordan had come out of the saddle the instant he heard the shot and saw Perley’s horse stumble. Snatching his rifle from the sling as his foot hit the ground, he wasted no time scrambling for cover. When he saw that Perley had found cover behind a log, he concentrated his attention on the thick stand of trees along the banks of the stream. He had no idea where the shot had come from, but it had most likely come from that direction. When a volley of several shots blistered a clump of willows off to his left, he realized their assailant wasn’t sure where he was. This time, Jordan was able to get the general location from where the shots had come. He did not return fire because he was still not sure of a target. He had the feeling that one rifle had done all the shooting, but he had to assume that the other two outlaws were lying low, waiting for him or Perley to show themselves.

  From his position, he could see Perley hugging the ground behind the log. The old man was pretty much pinned down. There was nothing but open sand on either end of the log. Perley would be forced to expose himself if he tried to move. A stab of guilt flashed through Jordan’s mind when he thought about the danger he had created for Perley. He had wondered about it before, but could never understand why Perley had continued on with him after Bannerman’s. And now I’ve gotten him pinned down about to get his ass shot off, he thought. Well, I’m not going to let that happen!

  With total disregard for his own life, Jordan pushed up from his position behind a water oak and charged toward the thick willow stand by the water. Oblivious to the branches and willow switches that reached out to whip his face and arms, he ran headlong into the thicket, his rifle before him, searching for any target that presented itself. Forgetting Perley for the moment, he was now driven by his desperate need to avenge his family. He had been trailing the murderers for days, and now they were in reach. He would not be denied; he gave no thought to the possibility that they might kill him.

  The harder he ran, the more the fury built up inside him, until he became possessed by one dominant thought: to destroy those who had taken his life away. Visions of Sarah’s mud-spattered body and little Jonah’s crushed skull flashed through his brain, providing fuel for his rage. Breaking through to the stream, he found no one there. He almost cried out in anguish. Looking all around him, searching for someone, he spied several spent cartridges on the ground. Farther back along the stream, he caught a glimpse of a single horse tied near the water. It registered briefly on his mind that there was only one man. Perley! he thought and immediately started running back to help the old man.

  As he had feared, the old man was in mortal danger, still huddled behind the log, unaware of the rifle aimed at his back. Jordan would never forget the vivid image of the twisted face that sighted down the barrel of that rifle. It was a cruel face beneath cold black hair, woven in a single braid with an eagle feather dangling to one side. He was certain at that moment that he was looking into the face of evil itself. It took on a crooked smile as Snake savored the pleasure he derived from the taking of a life. At the instant he started to squeeze the trigger, however, he was distracted by the sudden emergence of Jordan, charging from the brush of the thicket no more than a few yards from him. He quickly turned and fired. The bullet shattered the stock of Jordan’s rifle. The impact at such close range was sufficient to knock the weapon from Jordan’s hands and cause him to stumble and fall. Seeing him go down, Snake thought he had killed him, and he hesitated for a moment before cocking his rifle. It cost him his life.

  In one continuous motion, Jordan hit the ground and rolled, pulling his skinning knife as he regained his feet. Snake tried to sidestep the charging mass of fury, but he was not quick enough. The force of the impact, as Jordan drove his shoulder into Snake’s midsection, was sufficient to carry both bodies several feet before they crashed to the ground. Snake tried desperately to claw his way out from under Jordan, but his desperation was no match for Jordan’s rage. Freeing his knife hand, Jordan drove the blade to the hilt up under Snake’s rib cage. Snake gasped a long guttural scream, and the hands reaching for Jordan’s throat suddenly relaxed. Jordan withdrew the blade and quickly thrust it into Snake’s body again, causing the mortally wounded half-breed to cry out helplessly. His conscious mind almost blinded by his rage, Jordan looked deeply into the terrified eyes, watching Snake die. There were no words spoken between victim and executioner, but somehow Snake sensed that this was the man whose wife and son he had murdered.

  Stunned by the violent confrontation that had occurred right behind him, Perley failed to react quickly enough to be a factor. When he did realize how close he had come to meeting his Maker, it was too late. As quickly as he could, he turned over on his back and tried to get a clear shot at Snake. But he could not fire without risk of hitting Jordan. Helpless to do anything but watch, he at once realized that he was witness to the most violent attack of one man upon another that he had ever seen.

  When it was over, and Snake’s last dying convulsions were stilled, Jordan continued to stare into the lifeless eyes, his hand straining against the handle of his knife as if trying to force every spark of life from the half-breed’s body. Perley found himself almost afraid to speak, for fear he might somehow turn Jordan’s blind fury upon him. It was only after several minutes had passed with no motion from his young friend that Perley risked breaking through the trance that seemed to have captured him. “Jordan,” he said softly, “it’s all over. He’s done for.”

  As if just then realizing Perley’s presence, Jordan slowly turned to stare at the old man, his eyes still somewhat glazed. He continued to gaze at Perley for a few seconds before his face finally relaxed, and the fury drained from his features. “Perley,” he asked, “are you all right?”

  “Thanks to you, I reckon I am,” Perley answered, relieved to see that Jordan seemed to have recovered.

  Jordan looked again at the dead man, then withdrew his knife and got to his feet. Staring at the knife, he seemed surprised to see the blade covered with blood. After a moment, he cleaned it on the shirt tail of the late Thomas Kicking Horse and went in search of his rifle. “He was gettin’ ready to shoot you,” he said.

  “I reckon,” Perley replied, still much in awe of the transformation he had just witnessed, turning a quiet somber man into a savage killing machine. “I’m obliged to you. I just hope you don’t ever get that mad at me.”

  “Was he the one they called Snake?”

  “He was,” Perley confirmed, “and he was meaner than any rattler you’d come across.”

  “Two to go,” Jordan uttered softly, not really speaking to Perley. He reached down and picked up his father’s Henry rifle, the stock smashed and splintered. Turning it over in his hands, he examined it carefully. “I reckon it saved my life today,” he said.

  “I’d say you was pretty lucky,” Perley agreed. He wondered if Jordan really appreciated just how lucky he had been. Charging blindly like he had, and Snake firing at point-blank range, he should have been dead. Perley decided somebody upstairs must have taken a liking to his young friend.

  Jordan didn’t reply to Perley’s comment. Continuing to stare at his broken rifle, he seemed to be lost in his thoughts. It wasn’t necessary for the old man to ask what he was thinking. He could fairly well guess that Jordan had never killed a man before. And if a man had any shred of conscience in him, it could be a damn uncomfortable feeling to trespass in God’s business—no matter how much the mean son of a bitch needed killing.

  Perley knew the feeling. He had experienced it himself, years ago, when he was a young man, maybe younger than Jordan. He thought about it once in a while, and it always made him melancholy for a spell. And it seemed the mood lasted a little longer each time, now that he was closer to the final chapter of his own life. Had he sought to examine it, he might have guessed that it was because he would be called to stand in judgment one day soon. Barney Tatum had been his friend and partner. Back in forty—or was it thirty-nine?—the two friends had decided to journey out t
o the Big Horn country to try their hand at trapping. They did pretty well for a couple of greenhorns, but the inexperience of youth and the evil influence of whiskey proved to be Perley’s downfall. At the last big rendezvous on the Green River, they traded a good portion of their plews for rotgut whiskey, and during a drunken fit, they quarreled over a young Crow maiden. The quarrel led to a fight, and Perley was getting the best of it until Barney pulled his knife. Perley managed to wrest it away from him and drive it deep into Barney’s chest. It didn’t even register with him in his drunken state that he had killed Barney. In the clear light of dawn, when he realized what he had done, he was devastated. In desperate need for redemption, he laid the blame entirely on demon whiskey and vowed never to imbibe again. At the end of that summer, he journeyed back to Oklahoma Territory. He never told anyone the true story, telling family and friends that Barney had been killed by Blackfoot Indians.

  So Perley had a notion as to what Jordan was feeling, but at least Jordan’s kill was justified. Over the years since that rendezvous, Perley had slipped on his vow more than a few times. But he usually took no more than one drink on most occasions, and never more than two.

  * * *

  Shadows lengthened as the sun settled closer upon the crests of the distant hills as Jordan helped Perley pull his saddle out from under his horse’s carcass. “Damn, I hate losing that horse,” Perley said, shaking his head sadly. “I reckon I’ll be ridin’ Sweet Pea now.”

  “His horse is tied a little way up the stream,” Jordan said, nodding his head toward Snake’s corpse.

  Both men had forgotten about the half-breed’s horse. Their first concern after Jordan had killed Snake was why he was alone. Where were his two partners? When there were no further attacks upon them, they decided the other two outlaws must have continued on, leaving Snake behind. After making sure they were indeed alone, Jordan led Perley back along the stream to the point where he had glimpsed the horse tied in the willows. When they approached the horse, they discovered that there was not one horse, but two. “Probably the other feller’s horse we found dead back there,” Perley said.

  Chapter 8

  After examining the two horses the confrontation with Snake had provided, Perley decided to throw his saddle on the one Snake had ridden. It was a ragged-looking paint, but it had good lines, with a broad chest. Perley thought it a better choice for a saddle horse than his own mottled gray. He wasn’t sure Sweet Pea would cotton to having a rider on her back, anyway. “You need a packhorse,” he told Jordan, so Jordan put a lead line on Johnny Spratte’s horse, resisting an urge to shoot the animal for having belonged to the deputy. In addition to Snake’s rifle, a Winchester 66, there was a sizable roll of cash money in his saddlebags. Jordan was content to let Perley decide what to do with that. It had to be part of the money stolen from the bank in Fort Smith. “Maybe I’ll just hang on to it for a spell,” Perley said, a sheepish grin covering his face, “until the next time I’m in Fort Smith.”

  Leaving the horses hobbled, and walking in opposite directions, both men scouted a wide circle around the camp to make sure there was no sign of Snake’s two partners. Afterward, fairly confident there was no one near the willow stand by the stream but the two of them and the two cold corpses, Perley built a fire, and they settled in for the night.

  Morning brought a clear day, and Jordan was up with the sun. There was a question in his mind as to whether Perley might decide to turn back after the previous day’s confrontation, and the close call he had with Snake. He didn’t mention it to Perley when the old man rolled out of his blanket and moved closer to the fire Jordan was busy rekindling. Jordan figured he could track the two outlaws if they continued to leave a trail as plain as the one they had followed to that point. Perley settled the issue when he announced, “We’d best get a little grub in our bellies if we’re gonna chase them two varmints across Kansas Territory.”

  “I reckon,” Jordan replied with a faint smile. He was to have his tracker with him, after all.

  Snake’s paint pony had appeared to be indifferent to the change in masters the night before when Perley was looking him over. The morning seemed to have brought a change in disposition, however, for the beast rolled a wary eye in Perley’s direction when the old man approached with a strange saddle. Perley sensed the change in attitude, and he, in turn, kept a sharp eye on the paint as he gently settled his saddle upon the horse’s back. The paint did not protest, showing no more than a nervous quiver in his front legs. “Easy, son,” Perley cooed as he placed a foot in the stirrup. The paint did not back away. “Atta boy,” Perley muttered and stepped up in the stirrup. That was as far as he got. Before he could throw his other leg over and settle in the saddle, the paint humped his back and threw Perley head over heels. He landed squarely on his shoulder blades and did a complete reverse summersault before coming to rest in the grass.

  Alarmed, Jordan thought the old man might have broken his neck. He dropped the chestnut’s reins and hurried to help him.

  “Got-dam,” the old trapper forced out, the only sound he could manage after having the wind knocked out of him. “Got-dam,” he uttered again when Jordan helped him sit up.

  “Are you all right?” Jordan asked when he saw Perley struggling to regain his breathing.

  “Got-dam,” Perley repeated, and nodded his head in answer to Jordan’s question. He sat there on the ground for a few minutes until he could breathe easily. Then he cocked his head to look up at the paint, which was standing quietly, watching the old man.

  “I don’t think he likes the feel of your saddle,” Jordan said with some amusement, now that it appeared Perley was not seriously injured.

  “Maybe,” Perley allowed, getting to his feet, “he just ain’t got to know me yet. It ain’t the first time I’ve been bucked off a horse.” He walked over to the still-smoking remains of the fire and pulled the largest limb from the ashes. Approximately the size of a woman’s arm, the stick of wood was still smoldering on one end. Without any calming words or sounds, he walked up to the paint, and with one sudden motion, he broke the limb across the horse’s face. Jordan couldn’t help but wince as the paint squealed in pain and jerked its head away. Perley, with a firm grip on the reins, held the startled animal fast. When the paint settled down again, Perley placed his foot in the stirrup once more. Jordan got set for more acrobatics, but the horse seemed to have sensed who was to be the boss of the new partnership—accepting Perley’s weight in the saddle without further protest. “Let’s go,” Perley said to Jordan, and turned the paint’s head north. The paint, a long sooty stripe across its face, started out obediently, Sweet Pea following behind. Jordan, riding the chestnut with Johnny Spratte’s roan behind him, fell in line, being careful not to ride too close to Perley’s packhorse.

  * * *

  Less than a day’s ride ahead of Jordan and Perley, the two outlaws approached the bluffs along the Arkansas River. Late in the afternoon, on the day before, they had heard the faint report of a series of rifle shots in the distance behind them. Knowing that it was most probably Snake’s Winchester, they had speculated on the cause. They knew that the unpredictable half-breed could have been nowhere near Eagle Claw’s village.

  “No tellin’ what that damn crazy Injun is shootin’ at,” Leach had commented. They both paused to listen for more shots, but there was just the one.

  “Mighta been a squirrel or somethin’ he just didn’t like the looks of,” Roach speculated with a grin.

  “Yeah, well, it might not be a bad idea to keep on ridin’ till dark, in case he changes his mind about goin’ back to that Choctaw camp.”

  Once having rid themselves of the dangerous half-breed, both men were anxious to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their former partner. At this point, they had no reason to believe anyone other than Snake would be coming after them, but they pushed on until it was nearly too dark to see before making camp. Now, with the Arkansas in sight, they were approaching the point whe
re they intended to lose the half-breed for good.

  “Now what do we do?” Roach asked, after the two made their way down through the trees to the water’s edge. “I ain’t about to try to swim that far,” he announced, gazing at the far shore. “I got a natural dislike of water that wide and that deep.”

  Leach pulled up beside him and studied their predicament for a few moments. Then, noticing a narrow path along the river, he said, “We’ll just follow this trail upriver till we come to a place to get across.”

  The trail showed evidence of more than a little traffic, as it wound its way through the trees, sometimes leading away from the riverbank, before turning back close to the water’s edge again. They had followed it for the most part of an hour, riding in silence until Roach spoke out. “I wish to hell I knew where we’re goin’.”

  “Why?” Leach shot back. “You got an appointment somewhere?”

  “Hell, I’d just like to know where the hell I am. Maybe we shoulda turned back toward Skullyville to spend some of this money for somethin’ to eat. I’m about out of coffee and bacon.” They rode on in silence again for a spell until Roach called out again, this time with a measure of excitement in his voice. “What the hell . . .?” He turned in the saddle to gawk over his shoulder. “Leach! Lookee yonder!”

  Leach, his hand automatically falling on the handle of his pistol, turned to see what had caused Roach’s excitement. Through the screen of poplar and oak, a dark and monstrous image had suddenly appeared. In unreal proportions, it threatened to overtake them, belching black plumes of smoke and sparks. In a few seconds, they heard the sound of its huge paddlewheel churning up the calm river water. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Leach uttered as the steamboat slowly moved up to parallel the two men on horses. Then, recognizing the opportunity, he yelled, “Come on!” and kicked his horse into a gallop.