Devil's Kin

by Charles G. West

  His decision made, he retraced his steps to the crook in the gully, then climbed up the steep side to the rim, where he waited for a few moments before risking exposure of his body. The rifle fire at both ends of the defile was sporadic now, with only occasional shots searching for a lucky hit. They weren’t sure he wasn’t still there. He eased himself over the edge of the gully and crawled a few yards to take cover in a patch of low brush, where he again waited while he searched the trees above him. The gunfire was below him now. Satisfied that he had not been seen, he cautiously rose to his feet, and with his body bent low in a crouch, he started up through the trees toward the top of the hill.

  As he climbed, making his way through the sparse covering of pines, he thought about his partner. Leach had gotten away, but he only had a thirty-minute start at best. You ain’t got away with it yet, he thought, not by a long shot. The higher he climbed, the madder he got. He and Leach had double-crossed a few partners in the past, without conscience, but he never even considered the possibility that Leach would turn on him. His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden barrage of gunfire below him, and he knew that his attackers had stormed into the gully. Shooting at an empty ditch—the thought was almost enough to bring a smile to his face. Odds were better than even that he could work his way around them. He knew they had split up to attack the gully from both ends, so half of the party had to have left their horses somewhere back along the ridge. With that thought in mind, he stopped climbing and started out to traverse the ridge. I need a horse, he thought, and then, by God, we’ll see if the devil’s got a grip on ol’ Ernest Roach or not.

  He had taken no more than two or three steps when he caught something moving out of the corner of his eye. Immediately dropping to one knee, he scanned the trees above him, his rifle ready. Certain his eye had caught something or someone, he squinted hard in an effort to pick out a target. Seeing nothing at first, he was about to decide his eyes were playing tricks on him. Below him now, he could hear the excited voices of Indians as they searched the gully, looking for his route of escape. A sudden howl of triumph told him that they had found the trail he had left when he climbed out at the crook of the gully. They would be coming soon. He was suddenly aware of his heart pounding in his chest from the climb—or was he beginning to feel the panic of a trapped animal? He didn’t want to admit that it might be the latter. He needed a horse if he had any chance at all. That much was certain, and there was little time left to find one.

  With his nerves dancing along the length of his spine, he began to run when he was stopped abruptly once more. As if in answer to his prayers, he saw a horse standing quietly in the trees where he had first thought he had seen movement among the branches. The devil looks after his kin, he thought, but he didn’t move toward the horse at once, cautious that his rider might be nearby. Knowing that he had little time to be overcautious, he quickly scanned the hillside around the horse, but he could see no sign of anyone. His gaze returned to the horse. It was a mangy-looking mottled gray, but it couldn’t have been a more beautiful sight to him at that moment. It was even outfitted with a good saddle. The horse undoubtedly belonged to one of the white men. Even in these desperate moments, the thought brought a smug grin to Roach’s face.

  Still careful, Roach held his rifle in front of him, ready to fire if the horse’s rider suddenly appeared, and then he approached the gray slowly. Watching the man approach, the horse snorted and backed away a couple of steps until stopped by the reins, which were tied to a stout branch. “Whoa there, boy, you ugly-lookin’ son of a bitch,” he cooed softly in an effort to calm the nervous animal. He untied the reins, slipped his rifle in the empty saddle sling, and prepared to mount.

  “Her name was Sarah. The boy’s name was Jonah.”

  Startled by the voice behind him, Roach froze for a second before he could think to react. There was no time to pull his rifle out of the sling. His hand dropped to grasp the handle of his pistol, and he spun around, drawing the weapon as he turned, only to be staggered by the impact of a rifle butt across his nose. Reeling from the blow, he tried to raise the pistol, but squeezed the trigger prematurely when the rifle smashed against the side of his head, knocking him to the ground. His pistol ball ripped harmlessly into the dirt. Roach was a big man, intimidating in every saloon brawl in which he had ever been involved, but he had never faced the fury that confronted him now. Dazed, almost senseless, he tried to raise his pistol again, but his wrist was firmly pinned by Jordan’s boot. Another blow with the rifle rendered Roach unconscious.

  Gradually, Roach’s mind began to grasp reality once more as he emerged from the blackness that had descended upon him with such force. Still reeling from the hellish fury that had descended upon him so suddenly, he experienced the feeling of utter helplessness that he had so often administered to others. It was a sick, paralyzing sensation. He opened his eyes, and the forest seemed to be spinning slowly around him. The sound of voices calling out through the trees below registered in his brain, but he could place no meaning to them. In a few moments, the forest stopped spinning, and he raised his head to look around him. His gaze fell upon a man a few yards from him, squatting Indian-fashion, watching him, patiently waiting, a rifle cradled in his arms.

  “Mister,” Roach pleaded in an attempt to save his life, “you’ve got the wrong man. I swear I ain’t never hurt nobody.”

  His pleas, though pitiful, made no impression upon the cold stony face of his executioner. He was a dead man from the very moment he had first spotted Jordan’s horse on the hillside. The sole reason he had not already been dispatched to join Snake and Johnny Spratte in hell was because Jordan waited for him to regain consciousness. Certain now that Roach was fully aware of what was about to happen, Jordan got to his feet. In motions slow and deliberate, he took a step closer to the terrified man and aimed the rifle at Roach’s head. Unable to look at the rifle barrel leveled at him, Roach closed his eyes moments before his life was snatched away by the roar of the Winchester, the sound of which he never heard.

  Jordan stood over the body, staring but not really seeing. His mind was not yet at peace. There was still one left—one final reckoning before the debt was paid. The sound of excited voices approaching from below him on the hill failed to totally penetrate his concentration on the one remaining demon in his mind. Not until Briscoe’s familiar twang rose above the Cheyenne war whoops did he turn away from the corpse.

  “The other’un run,” Briscoe announced apologetically as he walked up to look at the body. “You done for this’un right enough,” he added when he saw Roach’s battered head. He would have preferred to have had a hand in the execution, but he understood Jordan’s prior claim for justice. “I reckon we’d best be goin’ after the other’un.”

  “I reckon,” Jordan replied, his voice without emotion as he ejected the spent shell from his rifle.

  Chapter 13

  Leach couldn’t be certain, but he thought he could still hear the faint sound of distant gunfire as he pushed his horse to keep up a steady pace. Ol’ Roach must be giving them all they can handle, he thought. There were no feelings of betrayal on his part for having left his partner to face the assault upon the gully. Leach never burdened himself with the baggage of guilt or concerns about honor. He and Roach had been partners for a long time, and he appreciated the fact that Roach was most likely sacrificing his neck so that he could escape—even though it was not by choice. In a way, the hotheaded fool deserved it. They might not have been in such a fix if Roach had held his fire when Leach told him to. It would have been handy to have the big brute along in case of future trouble. Another gun was always welcome. But Roach’s share of the bank money was tucked away in the saddlebags of the horse Leach was leading. Together with his share, it represented a small fortune—certainly worth throwing Roach to the Indians. Maybe Greenwell and the other white man with him would be satisfied to give up the chase now.

  * * *

  Briscoe stood silently watching as one of
the Cheyenne warriors took Roach’s scalp and held it up for the others to see. Puzzled when he offered it to Jordan and it was refused, the warrior then turned to Briscoe. Briscoe accepted the grisly trophy, and the warriors raised their voices in war whoops. Wounded Elk then picked up Roach’s rifle and pistol and brought them to Jordan.

  “You take them,” Jordan said. Then realizing the Cheyenne didn’t understand, he turned to Briscoe. “Tell him he can have them.”

  Briscoe did as Jordan directed. Wounded Elk seemed to be astonished and looked to be at a loss. Briscoe explained that a rifle and pistol were gifts of great magnitude, and Wounded Elk felt he should respond with a gift of his own. The problem was that the Cheyenne had nothing with him that he considered of equal value.

  “Tell him it doesn’t matter,” Jordan said, already concerned that he was losing time standing there.

  “It does to him,” Briscoe stated flatly.

  Briscoe’s tone caused Jordan to pause. Realizing that it was a matter of the Cheyenne’s pride, he nodded his head and said, “Then tell him I fancy that bone-handle knife he’s wearin’.”

  Wounded Elk was still somewhat puzzled, but Briscoe explained that the carved bone handle was something that Jordan had expressed admiration for and had placed great value upon. Nodding his head and smiling, Wounded Elk removed the knife and its antelope-hide case and gave them to Jordan. Jordan thanked the warrior and shoved the knife under his belt. The two white men then said farewell to the Cheyenne warriors as Wounded Elk led his hunters back to the southwest, leaving Jordan and Briscoe to continue the search alone.

  “If it’s all right with you,” Briscoe said, “I’ll go after Leach with you.”

  Jordan didn’t answer at once, giving the matter serious thought. Thinking of Perley Gates, he said, “I ain’t been very good luck for partners, but suit yourself. I reckon you’ll be goin’ after him either way, whether you’re ridin’ with me or not.”

  “I reckon,” Briscoe replied.

  “We’d best get started then. We’re losing ground standin’ here.”

  * * *

  The afternoon sun, weary after a long journey across the plains, began to settle down upon the western horizon, anxious to call it a day. Intent upon using every bit of the light that remained, the lone rider whipped his mount mercilessly as he galloped up out of another grassy draw. He had covered his tracks well, crisscrossing a stream several times before reversing his direction and riding down the stream for almost half a mile before leaving the water at a rock ledge. Once he was out of the hills, he headed straight north with no thought of sparing the horses. It would be dark soon, he thought, the horses could rest then. But for now, the urgent need was distance from his pursuers. So he whipped his horse for more speed until the animal began to falter. Then he stopped and changed mounts, starting out again on Roach’s horse and leading his own.

  Bill Leach was a violent man, but his cunning was the asset that had allowed him to escape reparation for his evil deeds. A good portion of his adult life had been spent avoiding those who would punish him. On some occasions, it had been most expeditious to wait in ambush for his pursuer, usually a lawman, and bushwhack him, thus ending the chase. Other times—and this was one of them—his instincts told him that it might be best to run. There were too many chasing him. If he waited again in ambush, he might eliminate several of them, but in so doing, he would allow the rest of them to catch up to him. And he had no liking for the thought of several Indians surrounding him in the dark.

  There was something else that triggered his instincts to run: the two white men. Even if he could have known that the Cheyenne hunting party had turned back, he might have rejected the idea of standing to fight. One of the men he identified. It was the storekeeper whose Indian wife Roach had killed. But who was the other man? Roach had thought it was the man he had shot in the hotel in Fort Gibson, but Roach might have just been seeing ghosts. Leach’s gut feeling told him that this man was not a lawman, but one who had a score to settle, a relentless stalker who might have been after him since God knew when. So he decided to lose them on the plains. Then if he was not successful in that endeavor, he would have to kill them.

  * * *

  “Dammit,” Briscoe blurted in total frustration, “he ain’t makin’ it easy, is he?”

  Jordan didn’t answer, but continued to scout along the stream, searching for tracks. The man he hunted—Briscoe said his name was Leach—had gone in and out of the water several times, changing directions at least once. He had been successful in delaying the pursuit, but a man riding a horse, and leading another, had to leave a trail somewhere, and Jordan would not give up before he found it. Using the skills that Perley had taught him, he scouted every inch along the stream-bank, knowing the sign was there. He just had to be patient. Darkness descended upon the little range of hills, forcing them to make camp and wait for daylight to continue.

  At first light, Jordan was awake and impatient to resume his search. After a hurried breakfast, they followed the stream as it meandered in a general northeast direction. One on each side, the two men walked, leading their horses, scouring the grassy banks for any sign, no matter how slight. When their search offered up no clue that would even hint that a man on horseback leading another horse had passed that way, they stopped and reversed directions. Heading back downstream to the point where they had spent the night, they began the search again. Jordan was almost ready to believe that Leach’s horses had wings when his eye caught a faint hoofprint in a broad area of short grass. “Here,” he called out to Briscoe.

  As Briscoe crossed the stream to join him, Jordan knelt down to examine the print, scanning the stubby grass carefully until he spotted another. Leach had done a creditable job in covering his intended line of flight. It would have been easy to miss the faint hoof marks. “He had better sense than to leave the stream in the tall grass,” Briscoe commented. “This patch is so short it almost sprang back before we found them tracks.”

  Once they had found the point where Leach had left the stream, it was not difficult to pick up his trail beyond the border of trees and brush. He had headed straight north and, from the look of his tracks, had not spared his horses. Likewise, Jordan held his horse to a steady pace. The gray responded to the task willingly. It was Briscoe’s horse that finally determined the necessity for a stop to rest.

  “That damn horse of your’n must be part coyote,” Briscoe commented as he watched his own horse drinking water from a tiny stream almost dried up by the August sun. He marveled at the endurance of the homely beast. “How’d you come by that horse—go down to the stable and pick out the ugliest horse in the lot?”

  Jordan allowed a hint of a smile. It was the first comment Briscoe had made that even approached casual conversation. “She belonged to a friend of mine,” he responded. Intent upon studying the tracks that showed where Leach had crossed the tiny stream, he made no other comment. Briscoe’s remark brought back thoughts of Perley and the carefree swagger of the old trapper, however. Jordan had learned a great deal from Perley—things he might have taken a long time to learn for himself. Then the image of Perley’s death mask flashed through his mind, and the heavy feeling of guilt followed. Jordan had been fortunate to have met Perley Gates. He regretted the fact that their meeting had not been so lucky for Perley. That thought caused him to turn and take a hard look at Briscoe. Was his acquaintance with Jordan Gray destined to seal his fate as well? Jordan wondered if he should insist on going on alone. He gave the matter no more than a few moments’ thought before deciding that Briscoe would not consider turning back.

  * * *

  One day melted into the next as the search continued. The trail was easy enough to follow, but they never seemed to gain on Leach. They crossed a sizable river that Briscoe seemed to think might be the Republican. He changed his mind a day later when they struck a larger river, deciding that it was more than likely the Republican. Jordan didn’t care which was which. His only concern was the
tracks of two horses that never varied from a northern course as they crossed the lonely prairie. Leach, evidently figuring that he had disguised his trail sufficiently in the beginning, was no longer concerned with leaving tracks.

  On the fifth day after leaving the Smoky Hill, they came to a faint trail left by the wagon wheels of some early settlers on their way to Oregon Territory. A short distance beyond, they spotted a long line of trees that stretched across the horizon, bordering the Platte River. Not far beyond the first faint wagon tracks, they crossed a well-worn trail close to the river, where hundreds of emigrant wagons had passed on their way west. This had to be the main trail that most of the emigrants had followed. It only made sense that Leach had probably followed that trail. East or west—those were the only reasonable choices. To continue north would lead to wild country inhabited by Indian tribes unfriendly to the white man.

  “West to Fort Laramie is my guess,” Briscoe offered after only a moment’s consideration. Jordan agreed, but decided to cross over to scout the opposite side of the river in case Leach would do the unexpected.