Devil's Kin

by Charles G. West

  * * *

  Lieutenant Lance McCoy had set his morning report aside and emerged from his tent when he was informed that he had a visitor. “Well, Mr. Gray,” he greeted Jordan, “I see you seem to have recovered from your wounds.”

  “Mornin’, Lieutenant,” Jordan said. “Yeah, I reckon I’m ready to get on my way now.”

  McCoy had a fair idea of the purpose of Jordan’s visit. He only wished that he had more information to give him. “Looks like you’re packed up and ready to go.”

  “That’s a fact. I’m hopin’ you can give me some idea of which way to start.”

  “North when they left here,” McCoy said. “That’s about the best I can tell you. They followed the river as far as Sawyer Creek, and that’s where we lost them. I don’t know if they rode up the creek, heading northeast, or crossed over the river and headed west. We scouted about a four-mile arc, from a mile below the creek—nothing. I truly wish I could help you, but not one of my Indian scouts could pick up a trail.”

  Jordan had given no consideration to a meeting with the town’s sheriff, figuring it a waste of time. Ben Waldren held an office that was little more than political at best. The army was responsible for maintaining law and order in the territory, especially since being reposted to Fort Gibson in seventy-two. But the people of the settlement thought they should have a sheriff, so they appointed Ben Waldren to the job. He didn’t bother anyone and primarily served as an innkeeper for the town drunks when they needed a place to sleep it off. Ben had come by to talk to Jordan on several occasions while he was convalescing. Jordan found the man to be pleasant, but a bit windy, sometimes tiring Jordan out before ending his visits. If Lieutenant McCoy could offer no more than a general direction to start, then there was little more to be gained from Ben Waldren.

  It seemed a hopeless picture. Jordan was attempting to follow a trail that was a month old now, but he had hoped that the army patrol could have at least given him some idea beyond the general direction of flight. But Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith—the names Leach and Roach had registered under at the hotel—had been very successful in hiding their trail. According to McCoy, their tracks had become mixed in with countless others almost as soon as they had left the stables. His visit to the fort a waste of time, Jordan thanked the lieutenant and turned the chestnut’s head north. Discouraged, but still determined, he refused to let his mind work on the hopelessness of his mission. Nothing else mattered but the reckoning due him.

  He had settled his account with Sam Irwin for boarding the horses by swapping two of the four horses for payment of the bill. Having no desire to keep the horses formerly owned by murderers, he left the paint Perley had last ridden, and Johnny Spratte’s roan with Sam. It was fitting that he take Perley’s Sweet Pea as his packhorse—the mottled and shaggy gray would serve as a remembrance of the old man who was responsible for most of the knowledge about scouting he had learned. Sweet Pea had become fairly tolerant of the chestnut, but Jordan knew that she had already taken a nip out of one of Sam’s horses in the time she had been corralled with them.

  Sheriff Waldren glanced up when Jordan rode by the jail, leading his packhorse. The sheriff had just made a pot of coffee for himself and had unwrapped a cold biscuit that Mrs. Waldren had stuck in his pocket when he had left for his office at the jail. As was his custom, he took a sheet of paper from the stack of notices neatly piled on the corner of his desk for a place mat. His wife used a fair amount of lard in her biscuits, and it wouldn’t do to let them stain the solid oak desk. Unnoticed by Ben, for he always turned the notices upside down, the paper he selected that morning was to tell him to be on the lookout for one Jordan Gray, a suspect in the bank robbery in Fort Smith. He might have stepped to the door to wish Jordan well, but he had just poured his cup of coffee, and he liked to drink it hot.

  Following the Neosho River as it wound in a generally northern direction, Jordan had to admit that his search might take years. He did not know the country he was riding into, and he had no notion of where he was heading. Lieutenant McCoy’s scouts had not had any success in picking up the trail when it was still fresh. Now, with the trail almost a month old, even Perley would have had trouble finding tracks left by the two outlaws. Jordan did not allow his mind to dwell upon the hopelessness of his quest, however. His only purpose for living—and the sole reason he had refused to die—was to seek out and kill the two whose hands were soiled with the blood of his family and his friend.

  * * *

  From Lance McCoy’s description, Jordan recognized Sawyer Creek when he came upon the place where it joined the river. According to the lieutenant, a settler, John McIntyre, had a small place about a quarter of a mile up the creek, where he lived with his Indian wife. McCoy also said that McIntyre had been of little help as far as Roach and Leach were concerned. Jordan decided he would talk to the man, anyway, and guided the chestnut along the creekbank.

  He had ridden less than a quarter of a mile when he spotted a crude abode of logs and sod close by the bank of the creek. Having spotted a visitor long seconds before Jordan spied the cabin, an Indian woman stood motionless near the door, watching him approach. At first, it appeared that there was no one else around, but a slight motion near a large cottonwood tree caught Jordan’s eye, and he discovered a man partially hidden by the trunk. John McIntyre, like his wife, stood motionless, watching. A double-barreled shotgun stood ready, propped against the tree, close by the man’s hand.

  “Afternoon,” Jordan called out and pulled his horse up at the edge of the yard, deciding it best to wait to be invited in before approaching the cabin.

  “Afternoon,” McIntyre returned, still evaluating the manner of man his visitor might be. Being naturally cautious, a necessary trait for a man living in Indian Territory, he kept his eyes glued upon Jordan’s every move.

  Aware that his reception was especially cool, Jordan asked, “Mind if I step down?”

  “Reckon not” was McIntyre’s cautious response. He relaxed his guard somewhat, however, when Jordan dismounted, leaving his rifle in the saddle sling. McIntyre took one step forward, still within easy reach of his shotgun, while he continued to scrutinize the young man’s face for signs of mischief. Finding none, he decided Jordan was just a traveler passing through. “What brings you out this way?” he finally asked, breaking the cool silence. “We go half a year without seeing nobody. Then in one month’s time we seed a passel of folks.”

  “I’m lookin’ for a couple of fellows that might have come this way a few weeks back,” Jordan said. “I was wonderin’ if you had seen them.”

  “Most folks passin’ through this part of the territory follow the river. They seldom come this far up the creek.” He paused for emphasis. “That’s the reason I didn’t build my place on the river.” He studied Jordan’s face for a few seconds longer, then asked, “You a lawman?”

  “No,” Jordan replied, “I’m not a lawman.” He went on to explain why he was looking for Leach and Roach.

  When Jordan had finished, McIntyre’s stony, expressionless face softened a bit. He nodded toward the Indian woman still standing by the door of the cabin. She turned and went inside. “Wife and child,” he murmured, shaking his head slowly. “I thought them two was on the run from the law—knew it before them soldiers come lookin’ fer ’em.”

  His response surprised Jordan. According to what Lieutenant McCoy had told him, McIntyre had seen no one. “You mean you did see them?” Jordan asked. “The lieutenant said you hadn’t.”

  “I seen ’em, all right,” he replied, “but they never saw me. I was down by the river when they come through.” He glanced toward the cabin door, where his wife had been standing. “I reckon it was lucky fer me they didn’t, from what you say.”

  “But you didn’t tell Lieutenant McCoy you saw them?”

  McIntyre’s face turned stony again, but just for a second as he explained. “I didn’t tell him I didn’t, either. I just told him I hadn’t seen nobody around here. He didn’t
ask me if I’d seen anybody down by the river. I don’t know if I’da told him even if he had’da asked me—come gallopin’ up here like they was gonna swarm all over us. Two of his dad-blamed troopers rode right over the edge of my garden. I had to chase ’em out. They was just settin’ there, lettin’ their horses graze on my bean vines.” He paused to allow a second for that insult to sink in. Then his voice softened a shade, and he nodded toward the cabin. “My woman didn’t want me to tell ’em nothin’, anyway. She’s Osage, and she naturally ain’t got no love for them Cherokee scouts ridin’ with the soldiers.” He shrugged in his own defense. “Besides, I figured them two they was chasin’ was probably deserters or somethin’, and hell, I didn’t care if the army caught ’em or not.” He looked quickly into Jordan’s eyes. “If I’da knowed what they’d done, I woulda told them soldiers what I could.”

  After promising that he would ride down to the river with him and show him which way Roach and Leach had taken, McIntyre insisted that Jordan should stop long enough to have something to drink. Jordan would have preferred to decline the invitation, but he didn’t want to seem ungrateful, so he led his horses over to stand in the shade of the large cottonwood, then followed McIntyre over to the cabin.

  “Set yourself down on that bench there,” McIntyre said, “and we’ll have us a cup of cool plum wine.” He turned his head toward the doorway and called out some instructions to his wife. He spoke in the Osage tongue, so Jordan had no idea what he was telling her. In a few minutes, the Indian woman appeared, carrying two cups. She nodded politely to Jordan as she handed him one of the cups. After giving the other to her husband, she went to the creekbank. Pulling her skirt up almost to her bottom, she waded out into the water to a spring box, anchored in the center of the current. With one hand holding her skirt, she reached down to fetch a quart-size jar.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Jordan said as she filled his cup with a dark red liquid.

  “You’re welcome,” she replied in English.

  Surprised, Jordan remarked that she spoke American very well. McIntyre chuckled. “PJ don’t know but a few words in American, but what she does know, she speaks pretty good. We talk about half American and half Osage. And half the time I ain’t even sure what I’ve said, right after I said it.”

  “Well, thank you again . . . PJ?” He looked at McIntyre, wondering if he had pronounced her name correctly.

  McIntyre laughed. “I don’t know how to spell it, but it sounds like PJ to me, so that’s what I call her—means some kinda bird or somethin’.” PJ nodded, smiling.

  Jordan sipped the wine, while McIntyre watched him intently, waiting for Jordan’s compliment. The wine was good, though a bit cloudy. It was not as sweet as most homemade wine he had tasted, probably, he decided, because sugar was not in huge supply. But it was good, and Jordan gave McIntyre the approval he waited for.

  Satisfied that his guest appreciated his wine, McIntyre extended an invitation to supper. “PJ ain’t started supper yet, but you’re welcome to stay and share it with us.”

  Jordan thanked him, but declined, explaining that he was already a month behind on a cold trail, and he was anxious to get under way. McIntyre understood Jordan’s impatience, and as soon as they had finished the wine, he slipped a bridle on his mule, and he and Jordan rode back down the creek to the river.

  “I was settin’ right down yonder near that old log stickin’ outta the water—had me a line in—thought I might catch somethin’ besides a catfish for a change.” He started to veer off into a standard complaint about the lack of good fishing in the river, but caught himself in time. “Anyway,” he resumed, “I was about to call it a day, when I heard their horses above me on the bluff. My mule was tied to a willow tree not more than thirty yards back up the creek. She didn’t make a sound when them two horses went by.” He paused to allow Jordan to express amazement at that. “I crawled up the bank to have myself a look. I figured they was Cherokees, maybe huntin’ or somethin’. When I saw it was two white men, I just laid low for a while till I had a chance to look ’em over. There’s a lot of outlaws in this part of the territory, and I didn’t want no trouble. Well, they crossed over to the other side of the river after they talked about it for a spell. I couldn’t hear what they was sayin’, but it looked like they was tryin’ to make up their minds to keep followin’ the river, or cross over and head west. I reckon they decided to head west.”

  Jordan stood gazing at the shallow ravine that led up from the river on the far side. It appeared to be a trail of some sort, though seldom used, judging from the brush that grew unhampered there. “Where does that trail lead?” he asked.

  “West,” McIntyre replied. “Nowhere.” He shrugged. “I mean there ain’t nuthin’ between here and the Smoky Hill that I know of—maybe a stray band of Osage or Cheyenne. ’Course, I ain’t ever been more’n fifteen or twenty miles in that direction—as far as the Verdigris. I’ve heard tell there’s a settlement on the Smoky Hill due west of here—I couldn’t say for sure—supposed to been a favorite campsite for a band of Cheyenne ten or twelve years ago. They mighta been headin’ for that, but I don’t think them fellers knew where they was goin’—they was just goin’.”

  It wasn’t much to go on, but at least Jordan knew the general direction. That was more than Lieutenant McCoy had been able to supply. “I’m obliged to you,” he said and guided the chestnut down the bank and into the dark water of the river. The mottled gray followed without protest after attempting to take a nip out of McIntyre’s mule as she passed.

  McIntyre stood and watched until rider and horses had reached the other side. Then he called out, “If you get back this way, stop in for a longer visit.” Jordan answered with a wave of his hand, then turned to follow the ravine up from the river.

  * * *

  John McIntyre had not lied when he said there was nothing between his cabin and the Smoky Hill. Jordan had hoped to strike the Verdigris by nightfall, but he had to settle for a late camp by a tiny stream that struggled to provide enough water for him and his horses. That night, as he lay by his fire, he felt almost smothered by the shroud of hopelessness that descended upon him. His mind was clouded by a hailstorm of random thoughts swirling around in his head, thoughts of his wife and child—of the men he hunted—of Perley—and even thoughts of the slender young girl who had been his nurse. Looking up at a dark moonless sky, he couldn’t help but think that his chances of finding Roach and Leach were about as good as if he were searching the black starry heavens above him. The notion that he could find two men in the vast wilderness that lay before him was absurd to a rational thinking man. He didn’t know where he was, and he had not the faintest idea where the two were heading. As McIntyre had said, he doubted that Leach and Roach knew where they were going. There was no trail to follow. In spite of the hopelessness of it, he never considered turning back, for there was nothing to turn back to. He would press on, taking the easiest route he could determine that took him in a general northwest direction, following a gut feeling that the two he sought would have done the same.

  Early the next morning, he struck the Verdigris at a gentle turn of the river, just as McIntyre had described. This was as far as McIntyre had ventured in this direction. From this point on, he might as well be searching the surface of the moon. His hopes were raised, however, by the discovery of the remains of a campfire close by the water’s edge. He dismounted to examine it more closely, not really knowing what more it could tell him. After stirring the cold ashes with his finger, he stood up and gazed toward the other side of the river. The easiest way to cross would be toward that sand spit by the bend, he thought, so that’s the way I’ll go. If there had been tracks remaining after a month’s time, he might have been able to determine that this was the point where Roach and Leach had almost decided to change direction, but headed for the Arkansas once again.

  Leaving the Verdigris behind, he set his course for a distant line of hills on the far horizon. He had now left behind him the
heavily forested hills around the two rivers, and the land took on a grassy rolling quality that appeared to be endless. Riding with an urgency that allowed for no wasted time, he was careful, however, not to push his horses too hard. He had no desire to be on foot in this empty land.

  It took him an entire day to reach the hills he had guided on. Grateful to discover a little stream cutting through the center of the slopes, he made his camp. Then, on the hopes of having a stroke of luck, he scouted a wide area around his camp, looking for an old campfire to let him know that his instincts were accurate. But there was no sign of any recent camps.

  As he had done the day before, he selected a distant range of hills to sight on. These looked taller than the hills he had ridden toward on the day just past, and were now behind him. Proceeding solely upon his opinion as to the best line of travel, and the easiest on the horses, he started out again. His rational mind told him that the farther he rode, the greater his chances that he was just hopelessly wandering. Leach and Roach could have gone in any direction. Even so, the alternative—to give up completely—was a choice he could not make. So he passed that day as he had the days before, pushing onward across a land that seemed devoid of any living things except himself, his horses, and occasional colonies of prairie dogs.

  He soon discovered that he was not fond of prairie dog. There wasn’t much meat on the little critters, and the flavor reminded him of squirrel that had gone bad. To conserve what provisions he had, however, he forced himself to add them to his diet, but only until he chanced upon more desirable game.

  Early the next afternoon, he picked up an old trail that led him to a river. He had no clue he was near water until the horses sensed it. Topping a gentle rise in the prairie, he discovered a narrow, serpentine river, bordered by cottonwoods and willows. He pulled the chestnut up short, and the horse sidestepped to slide its rump away from Sweet Pea’s muzzle. Jordan took a long look up and down the river as far as he could see. Was this the Smoky Hill? he wondered. There was no evidence of a settlement or an old Indian camp. He decided that it was not the river McIntyre had described. But it was a welcome sight. The late August afternoons were hot and dry. Horses and man could use a dip in the cool waters of the river, so he decided to make camp for the night. His decision to rest was also strongly influenced by his concern for his horse.