Devil's Kin

by Charles G. West

  Their supply of food was nearly exhausted, so the sight of vegetation and water was a relief to the two saddle-weary riders. Both horses needed rest now, as well as the men. Knowing that they had to take time to hunt for fresh meat, Jordan was still reluctant to pause from the chase. He was beginning to wonder what manner of man they tracked. Never once in almost a week had he seen any sign that told him they were gaining on Leach. It would seem that the man never stopped for more than a few hours at a time before pushing on. Jordan wondered if Leach sensed that he was being hunted. But his trail had been plain to see. This, however, was to change when they reached the banks of the Platte.

  Guiding Sweet Pea into the trees near the water’s edge, he discovered a wide expanse of shallow channels and countless tree covered islands as the river seemed to have spread over the prairie with no bluffs to contain it. With no option but to continue on the line that had led them to this point, Jordan nudged Sweet Pea into the water and headed toward the small island directly before them. As he had suspected, there were no tracks on the sandy spit of land.

  “Damn!” Briscoe swore. There was no need to say more, as both men sat there for a long moment, looking around them at the maze of islands, knowing that if Leach had crossed, he could have gone in any direction.

  With little choice in the matter, they continued across the wide expanse of river, moving from island to island until reaching the other side. Once across, they dismounted and set up camp among the cottonwoods. It was time to rest the horses and hunt for food. It was also time to decide where to go from there, since there was no longer a trail to follow. A short scout along the banks confirmed their original thinking: Leach had no doubt followed the Oregon Trail. The next morning they would follow it as well and head for Fort Laramie.

  Chapter 14

  John Durden was a stubborn man. Anyone who knew him would have confirmed that. He was also known to act on impulse. For that reason, none of his neighbors in Julesburg were oversurprised when John announced that he was pulling up stakes and leaving for the gold fields in the Black Hills. Those neighbors who were less compassionate might have even commented that it was just as well because Durden showed little aptitude for farming. Although he stubbornly worked the worthless piece of ground he and his wife, Mary, had homesteaded, his efforts failed to make the land produce. He stuck it out for three years before the discovery of gold in the Black Hills prompted him to forsake the plow and seek his and Mary’s salvation in the sacred Paha Sapa of the Sioux. The fact that it was late in the season to start out for Dakota Territory did not influence his decision.

  Abandoning his cabin, he loaded his wagon with everything of value he had left and struck out north, across the South Platte, to intercept the old emigrant trail at Ash Hollow. His plan was to follow the road to Fort Laramie to trade what he could to equip himself for mining gold. Never having been a forceful woman, Mary yielded to his authority as usual, never complaining, as was her custom.

  “John, somebody’s coming,” Mary Durden called to her husband. She paused in her supper preparations to stand erect and stare at the lone rider approaching from the east.

  Always alert to the possible appearance of unfriendly Indians, John crawled out from under the wagon, where he was mending a cracked board in his wagon bed. He pulled his shotgun from the wagon seat and moved up beside his wife to see for himself. “Looks like a white man,” he said with some relief. He had been warned before he left Julesburg that there were increased reports of raids by Sioux and Cheyenne war parties against white settlements. So the appearance of a lone white man gave him no cause for alarm.

  * * *

  Leach looked the situation over carefully as he approached the wagon: one man and his wife, two mules grazing on the tender grass near the river, and the smell of frying bacon wafting by his nostrils. He could feel his stomach churn with the aroma. He had exhausted his provisions two days ago and had spotted no game during that same period. The option was his to delay his journey long enough to hunt for food. But his instincts had told him that he was still being hunted himself, so he had continued to push his horses hard, determined not to be caught on the open prairie. Once he reached the Platte and began to follow the road west, his concerns were lessened somewhat. He figured that the Cheyenne warriors would most likely give up the chase and return home. The two white men might continue on, but those were odds he felt he could deal with. If they catch up with me now, it’s their funeral, he thought.

  “Hallo the camp,” Leach called out when within fifty yards or so.

  “Howdy,” John Durden returned. “Come on in.” He watched the stranger approach: a man alone leading a saddled horse. Durden’s curiosity was sufficiently aroused. When Leach pulled up before him, John couldn’t help but comment, “Mister, you look plum wearied.” He continued to gape at his guest.

  Noticing Durden’s questioning gaze at the empty saddle on Roach’s horse, Leach offered an explanation. “Injuns . . . killed my partner . . . dern near got me.”

  “Lord have mercy,” Mary gasped from behind her husband, at once alarmed.

  “No need to worry yourself,” Leach was quick to reassure. “I left ’em a long ways back.”

  “Me and the missus was about to set down for some supper. Why don’t you step down and join us? You shore look like you could use somethin’ to eat.”

  Leach smiled. “Much obliged. I ain’t et in two days.”

  “Well, what we got is humble fare, some bacon and beans and a little corn bread, but you’re welcome to share it,” Durden said.

  “Why, that’s mighty Christian of you folks,” Leach said, and stepped down. Flashing his most neighborly smile, he extended his hand. “My name’s Bill Leach.”

  “John Durden, and this is my missus,” John responded.

  Mary smiled politely and nodded. Then she went to the wagon to fetch another plate for their guest. The portions would have to be smaller now, but she would take only a little for herself and hope that Mr. Leach took no notice. It wouldn’t do for him to see that his visit would cause her to do without. The fact that she sacrificed would go unnoticed by her husband—it always did.

  “Where are you bound for, Mr. Leach?” Durden asked, still curious about their visitor.

  “Fort Laramie,” Leach answered. Then he quickly turned the point of conversation away from himself. “You folks look like you’re haulin’ everything you own in that wagon. Where are you headin’?”

  Durden took the bait and related the reasons he had suddenly decided to pull up stakes and head for new horizons. Leach, while appearing to be an interested listener, was sizing up the fortunate opportunity that had presented itself in the person of John Durden. There he was, in desperate need of supplies, and fate, the devil, or whoever it was that took care of outlaws presented him with a wagon load. It occurred to him then that he could even take the wagon on in to Fort Laramie. A man driving a team of mules would hardly warrant a second look from any suspicious lawman. And he had to allow for the possibility that his description might have been telegraphed ahead to Laramie. I should have shot that other woman in the bank at Fort Smith, he thought.

  There was a brief pause in Durden’s narration when Mary brought three plates of beans and bacon and placed them before the men. “The corn bread ain’t quite done yet,” she apologized and returned to the fire to watch the pan.

  “What line of business are you in, Mr. Leach?” Durden asked around a mouthful of beans and bacon.

  Leach smiled cordially, reached down and pulled his pistol from its holster. Holding it up for Durden to see, he answered, “Guns, Mr. Durden. Guns is my business.”

  Durden stopped chewing for a moment while he thought about that. Then nodding slowly as if he understood, he asked, “You sell ’em or make ’em?”

  With his smile still in place, Leach answered. “I shoot ’em.” Glancing back and forth at the astonished expressions on the faces of man and wife, he went on. “Robbin’ and killin’, I reckon you coul
d say that was my business.”

  Having no reply for that statement, Durden let his mouth drop open; his face froze in disbelief. He noticed then that Leach’s pistol had slowly dropped until it was pointed directly at him, and his expression turned instantly to one of terror. It was the expression that he would wear as a death mask, for that instant was his last.

  Startled by the sudden report of Leach’s pistol, Mary Durden almost lost her balance. Barely catching herself from falling into the fire with one hand on the ground, she turned to see her husband slump to the ground, his plate landing upside down on his chest. Shocked and unable to understand what was happening, she turned a terrified gaze toward her husband’s executioner.

  “No hard feelin’s, ma’am, just business,” Leach stated matter-of-factly. Then he shot her. The grisly deed done, he put his pistol away and finished his supper. When his plate was clean, he tossed it aside and went over to the fire to pull the pan of corn bread from the coals. Breaking the loaf of corn bread in half, he sat down to finish the small portion of beans and bacon that Mary had served for herself. When his hunger was satisfied, he got on his horse and rode up to the top of a bluff to take a look around, mindful of the feeling that he was still being followed. Seeing no sign of anyone else in any direction, he rode back down beside the river to finish his evil business.

  After a brief search of the body to see if there was anything of value, he dragged John Durden’s corpse over to the edge of the river and rolled it over the bank. He watched for a moment to see if it was going to sink before going back to pull Mary’s body over and repeating the procedure. Although the water was not very deep near the bank, John’s body sank to the bottom, leaving it to stare lifelessly at the surface. Mary’s body did not sink right away, bobbing against the steep bank like a boat at anchor. Leach looked around him until he spotted a good-sized rock. Straining to lift it, he struggled to carry it over to the water and dropped it on the dead woman’s stomach.

  The bodies disposed of, Leach climbed up into the wagon to examine the cargo. Indiscriminately tossing household items out of the wagon as well as clothes and family keepsakes, he soon had it emptied of everything but food stores and grain for the animals. With plenty of space now, he threw his two saddles in the back of the wagon and hitched up the mules. There was still a good bit of daylight left, so he thought it best to put a little distance between himself and the business that took place at that campsite. As he drove the mules up from the bluffs to strike the main trail, he felt satisfied with his good fortune. The traveling would be a little slower, but it was only a short distance to Fort Laramie. If, as he suspected, someone was still trailing him, he felt he would reach the fort long before they could catch up.

  As he drove the mules along the trail, he rethought his hastily formed plan. He felt sure a man driving a wagon would arouse no suspicion at Fort Laramie, but what if he decided he wanted to stay out the winter there? Might be a little bit awkward for a peaceful mule driver to explain killing two men right under the army’s nose, he thought. A better plan would be to bushwhack them on the trail before he got to Fort Laramie. That way, there would be no one to ask questions. “I’ll just set me up a little camp a few miles up the trail,” he said aloud, “and wait for company to come a-callin’.”

  * * *

  There were very few words passed between the two riders following the wide trail etched upon the floor of the prairie. Deep ruts formed over three decades by the wagon wheels of countless emigrants spoke of the great migration of settlers to the Oregon Territory. They reminded Jordan of thoughts he had considered when he and Sarah were wed. It had been in his mind to strike out for Oregon, but Sarah could not bear the thought of leaving her family so far behind. If he had not given in to her wishes, she and Jonah would still be alive, and he would not be on this forsaken trail. It occurred to him then that Sarah was no longer constantly in the forefront of his mind. Feeling a slight stab of guilt, he reached into his pocket to retrieve the small silver chain that was the only remaining link between him and his late wife. Found in the ashes of his burned-out cabin, it was the only physical remembrance of Sarah he had managed to keep. Back in the beginning of this death hunt, he used to hold it in his hand each night when he went to sleep. It made him feel closer to her. But the ritual was interrupted when he lay half-dead from gunshot wounds in Fort Gibson. Since then, he seldom removed it from his pocket. “I reckon we’d best rest the horses,” Briscoe spoke from behind him, breaking into his thoughts.

  “I expect so,” Jordan replied. “We might as well set up camp in that grove of trees over there. We’re about to run out of daylight.” The prospect of a warm fire and a little coffee suddenly appealed to him. There was a chill in the early evening air that seemed to emphasize the stiffness in his saddle-weary body. It made him wonder. “It must be getting up into September,” he mused aloud.

  Surprised to hear a mundane comment from his typically silent companion, Briscoe paused to think about it. “Why, I expect it probably is,” he replied. Jordan’s comment caused him to think about his cabin by the Smoky Hill, and he began to wonder about the mules he had left to stray and his wagon and tools. The Indians wouldn’t bother his things. His concerns were for the possibility of white strangers stumbling upon his little trading post. He suddenly realized that, unlike Jordan, he had roots back in Indian Territory. It would be lonely without Sally, but he was too old to start a new chapter in his life. When he had seen Sally’s mutilated body, the rage inside him had driven out all thoughts of anything but vengeance and the death of the two men responsible. His desire for revenge was still a dominant force in his mind, but the long days on a seemingly endless trail were beginning to dull the passion that had first consumed him. He paused for a second to observe his partner in this manhunt. Going about the business of building a fire, the young man gathered wood, his face expressionless, and Briscoe ventured to speculate that there were never any thoughts in Jordan’s mind beyond the day that Leach was dead. Briscoe was suddenly struck with a feeling of great compassion for the somber young man. It was a sad thing to have no place to call home he decided.

  “I expect I’ll be headin’ back to the Smoky Hill after we get to Fort Laramie,” Briscoe blurted.

  Jordan paused to gaze in Briscoe’s direction, but made no reply beyond nodding his head slowly to acknowledge hearing the older man’s statement.

  “I’ve got to turn the soil in my garden, and it’s already gettin’ a little late to make that trip to Fort Smith.”

  Again, Jordan nodded his understanding. He placed a few more dry limbs on the flames before rising to his feet. “You can start back in the mornin’ if you want to. I’ll get Leach. I promise you that.”

  “Oh, no,” Briscoe was quick to reply. “I’ll go on to Fort Laramie. I expect that’s where we’ll catch up with him. I’m just sayin’ that Laramie is as far as I’m goin’.”

  Realizing that Briscoe was battling within himself to justify a decision to return home, even if he did not personally avenge his wife, Jordan sought to assure him. “You’ve got things to take care of. Maybe it’s best to leave this business to me.”

  “No, like I said, I’ll stay with it till Laramie. We’ll get him, and then I’ll go on back home.”

  “Suit yourself,” Jordan said.

  * * *

  They awoke the next morning to discover a thin frost on the ground—way too early in the season according to Briscoe. It served to add a bit of quickening to the task of reviving the fire, and after a hasty breakfast, they were mounted and on their way. With the sun at his back, Jordan led out on Sweet Pea, following the rutted trail. The ridges of the old wagon tracks fairly sparkled as the sun’s rays danced off the frost, giving the road a silvery sheen. The sight triggered a memory in Jordan’s mind, and without consciously thinking about it, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver chain that had held Sarah’s locket. Suddenly he felt a warmth that seemed to envelop his entire body. It was almost as i
f Sarah herself were near. He closed his fingers around the tiny chain and held it in his hand.

  “Somebody’s camped up ahead,” Briscoe called out as they topped a rise.

  Jordan didn’t answer. He had already seen the wagon standing near a line of cottonwoods on the bluffs of the river. It was so near the main trail that he had at first thought it was abandoned. But as they came closer, he could see a brace of mules in harness standing in the trees.

  “They didn’t camp very far from the trail, did they?” Briscoe commented. Again, Jordan did not answer.

  It was unlikely that someone would set up camp so close to the trail. It seemed more likely to Jordan that someone might be in trouble. There was no sign of anyone around the wagon or the mules tied in the cottonwoods. He thought of the kind of man he followed, and his instincts warned him to be careful as he and Briscoe approached the wagon. Still, there was no sign of the owner of the wagon. If there were anyone about, they should have called out to two strangers approaching their camp. Jordan suspected foul play, possibly another unfortunate victim of the cold-blooded outlaw he trailed. Glancing back at Briscoe, he said, “This don’t smell right to me.” Nodding toward the trees along the bluffs, he said, “Let’s head for those cottonwoods and come up from behind that wagon.”

  Sharing Jordan’s suspicions, Briscoe nodded quickly in agreement, and they turned their horses toward the trees. Suddenly aware then that he still held the silver chain in his hand, Jordan reached back to put it away. In doing so, his hand brushed the handle of his pistol, causing him to drop the chain. In instant reflex, he reached down in an effort to catch it. As he did, he heard the sharp snap of a rifle slug as it passed over him, exactly where his head had been a moment before. The angry bark of Leach’s rifle reached his ears an instant later. Jordan rolled out of the saddle, using his horse for cover.