Devil's Kin

by Charles G. West

  On the ground now, Jordan struggled to keep the skittish horse between him and the bluffs by the river, whence he thought the shot had come. He looked around for Briscoe. With no conscious thought necessary, Briscoe immediately kicked his heels in his horse’s sides. Lying low on the animal’s neck, he galloped for the cover of the trees. Jordan quickly retrieved the silver chain, and keeping Sweet Pea between him and the bluffs, he ran after Briscoe. Another shot from the rifle brought a yelp of pain from the old man, and Jordan knew Briscoe had been hit. The rifle spoke again, this time kicking up dust before his horse, and Jordan knew Leach was trying for his legs beneath the horse’s belly. With no more than fifty yards to reach cover, he placed one foot in the stirrup, and holding on to the saddle horn, he clung to Sweet Pea’s side. Requiring no encouragement at that point, Sweet Pea hightailed it toward the trees.

  Safely reaching the cover of the cottonwoods, Jordan dropped off the stirrup and went immediately to Briscoe’s side. The old man was sitting on the ground, staring at his shattered right arm, where the bullet had broken the bone just below his elbow. When Jordan dropped down beside him, he rolled his eyes toward his young friend and moaned. “Damn, ain’t this a poor piece of luck?”

  “You’re bleedin’ pretty bad,” Jordan said. “We need to tie something around that arm.” He took a quick look back toward the bluffs, but could see no sign of Leach. Then he untied the bandanna from around Briscoe’s neck and tied it tightly above his elbow. “That’s all I can do for now,” he apologized. “First, I’ve gotta find out where those shots are comin’ from.”

  Grimacing with pain between his words, Briscoe gasped, “Don’t worry ’bout me. Just watch you don’t get your ass shot off by that bastard.” When Jordan shot a concerned look in his direction, he sought to reassure him. “I’ll be all right.” He took his pistol in his left hand and cocked it. “I’ll just lay low while you try to smoke him out.” Seeing Jordan’s obvious indecision over leaving him, Briscoe insisted, “Go get the bastard.”

  Another brief look at Briscoe’s shattered arm to make sure the bleeding was slowing down, and Jordan was off. With his rifle in hand, he slipped through the trees to the river’s edge and began working his way toward the bluffs. There were not many places along the broad river that formed bluffs of any significant height, so Jordan was forced to move slowly from one patch of brush to the next for concealment. Several minutes had passed since the shots had sent them running for cover. There was no sound but the occasional snorting of one of the horses behind him—Sweet Pea, he guessed from the pitch. It was as if the river itself was holding its breath as Jordan stalked the last of the men who had destroyed his family.

  * * *

  “Damn the luck!” Leach swore. He had held Jordan squarely in his rifle sights, but for some reason, Jordan had ducked just at the instant Leach pulled the trigger. He had no opportunity to get a clear shot at the younger man after that, but he was certain that he had put a bullet in the other one. At least the odds are one to one, he thought, feeling confident that at those odds, he always came out on top. Knowing that Jordan would be coming after him, he quickly surveyed the terrain. There was but one way Jordan could stalk him. The brush and willows along the river’s edge offered the only concealment in an otherwise open expanse of prairie before the bluff. “You just come on,” Leach muttered under his breath while his eyes remained fixed upon the bushes growing along the bank.

  A slight rustle in the leaves of a service berry bush brought an immediate volley of several shots from Leach’s rifle, sending bits of leaves and branches flying, as well as a meadowlark whose search for insects had triggered the barrage. “Damn!” Leach swore when he saw the bird fly. The man lying flat in the sand at the base of the bush remained still for a few moments before carefully crawling along the bank toward a rotting log.

  His patience thinning, Leach decided to move to a new position, fearing his last burst of fire had given his present one away. Moving a few yards to his right, he took cover behind a large cottonwood, never taking his eyes off the brush by the water’s edge. He waited. Minutes passed with no discernable movement in the sprawling brush that lined the river. Leach began to wonder if maybe one of his shots had found its mark after all. In all this time, there had been no return fire. Maybe he had gotten in a lucky shot. Suddenly, he caught a flicker of leaves out of the corner of his eye, and he quickly pumped a couple of shots into the offending clump of alder bushes before realizing it was only the wind. He cursed his jumpy reflexes for going off half cocked. Then he cursed the fresh breeze that ruffled the leaves all along the riverbank. Straining to make his focus sharper, he shifted his gaze back and forth along the bank, stopping momentarily to stare at a rotten log before moving on. Maybe I’d better move again, he thought as he reloaded his rifle. If he ain’t dead, he might have seen where those last two shots came from.

  While he lay there, debating whether or not to move, he realized that he had neither seen nor heard anything since his first shots had chased the two men into the trees. The possibility occurred to him that both men might still be hiding among the cottonwoods farther downstream. And he might have simply been wasting ammunition, shooting at birds and the wind. The thought irritated him—enough to make him decide to find out for sure. He rose to one knee, suddenly flinching when the sting of flying bark cut his cheek an instant before he heard the report of the rifle.

  Without conscious thought, he flattened himself upon the ground and rolled away from the trunk of the tree. Rolling over and over, he then crawled quickly up to the brow of the bluff to return fire. Before he could locate the point from which the shots had come, two more slugs kicked up sand on either side of his face. The rifle had him pinpointed. In a panic, Leach pushed himself backward, below the brow of the bluff. Scrambling back down toward his horses, he searched frantically for a place to set up a new ambush. With not much time to think about it, he picked a shallow gully and positioned himself to cover the bluff he had just descended. With eyes riveted upon the slope above him, he held his rifle ready.

  Long moments passed with no sign of pursuit, and the riverbank grew silent once more. Come on, you bastard, Leach thought, impatient to get a clean shot at the man stalking him. Come on, damn you. His pleas were suddenly answered by a rifle ball that ripped a groove in the sand before his face. The man had circled halfway around to his side! Knowing the next shot might not miss, Leach dived out of the gully. As quickly as he could manage, he gained his feet and, stumbling wildly, ran through the trees toward his horses, rifle slugs nipping at his heels. With no thoughts beyond saving his neck, he jumped on his horse and fled. There was no time to bother with Roach’s horse. He left the animal tied there.

  Forced to backtrack to avoid Jordan’s rifle, Leach whipped his horse savagely, galloping back toward the point where Jordan and Briscoe had first taken cover. Seeking cover in the trees until he could put some distance between himself and Jordan, he rounded a clump of alder just in time to encounter Briscoe Greenwell standing in his way. With his right arm dangling uselessly at his side, Briscoe aimed his pistol at the galloping rider with his left hand. Leach pulled his pistol from his belt, and both men fired at the same time. Briscoe’s shot missed wide to the right. Leach’s shot struck Briscoe squarely in the chest. The old man sank to his knees, making no sound beyond the sharp sucking in of his breath as Leach’s horse grazed him, knocking him over on the ground.

  By the time Jordan reached Briscoe’s side, Leach was out of rifle range and rapidly disappearing from view. Jordan raised the Winchester again and aimed, but did not pull the trigger. It would have been a waste of ammunition. Breathing hard, as a result of his sprint through the trees, he knelt down beside Briscoe, his emotions battling wildly within his brain. Leach was so close! To let him escape after getting so close would serve to drive Jordan to the limits of his frustration. He looked down at his partner, lying mortally wounded, his eyes reflecting the pain deep in his chest. Briscoe knew he was dying. �
�I had a chance to stop him,” he struggled to gasp, trying to apologize for missing.

  Not knowing what to say, Jordan nodded and tried to reassure the old man. “It’s all right,” he uttered. Feeling helpless to ease Briscoe’s pain, he was at a loss, for he knew there was nothing he could do for him.

  Seeing the indecision in his young partner’s eyes, Briscoe strained to speak. “Go after him, Jordan.”

  Jordan turned to look at the rapidly diminishing form of his wife’s murderer, almost out of sight beyond a rise in the prairie floor. He glanced at his horse waiting a dozen yards away in the cottonwoods. The homely looking mare seemed eager to chase Leach’s roan. Jordan hesitated. The moment of opportunity he had traveled so many miles to find, the long days of hard riding, the loss of newfound friends, the pistol slug he still carried in his chest—all those things implored him to do as Briscoe insisted. The purpose of his entire life was to balance that ledger. He could not linger here while Leach was once again getting away. The driving urge was powerful, but in the end, he could not bring himself to desert Briscoe. “Don’t worry,” he finally said. “I’ll get him, but right now we need to see if we can make you a little more comfortable.”

  Jordan’s attempt to sound reassuring did not fool Briscoe. “Don’t waste your time here,” he muttered, every word painful. “I’m done for. Go after him.”

  “The hell you say,” Jordan replied. “You’ve got a lot more kickin’ to do before you’re ready to cash in.” He started to grasp the old man’s shoulders in an effort to lift him to a more comfortable position.

  Briscoe winced in pain with the slight shift of his body. “Leave me be!” he cried out angrily, then attempted a faint smile in instant apology. In a calmer voice, he said, “Just leave me be. I’ll be all right.” He closed his eyes, resting from the effort it had taken him to speak.

  Jordan was helpless to do anything but sit by his partner of a few days and watch him die. After a few minutes, Briscoe seemed to be asleep, for his body appeared to relax. He was still breathing, his breaths coming in short, shallow drafts, and for a few moments Jordan thought he heard faint sounds like snoring. Maybe, he thought, the old man’s going to make it. A few moments later, Briscoe opened his eyes and gazed into Jordan’s. “You’re a good man, Jordan Gray. You take care of yourself.”

  “I will,” Jordan replied, smiling. But Briscoe didn’t hear, his weak smile fixed permanently in place. Several minutes passed before Jordan realized that the old man was gone.

  Jordan remained at Briscoe’s side for a long moment. Their relationship had not lasted long enough for Jordan to really know the man, but he felt a deep responsibility for his death. Raw-boned and determined while on Leach’s trail, Briscoe now seemed small and fragile in death. Jordan had encountered death more times over the past summer than most men saw in a lifetime. It bothered his mind that he was becoming accustomed to it, and he felt a sense of guilt for the lack of grief for Briscoe’s death. His thoughts were already focused on the man who had once again eluded him. With an apologetic sigh, he reached down and gently closed Briscoe’s eyelids. Then he got to his feet and said, “I reckon you’ll understand I’ve got to go after him.” He took a couple of steps backward and stopped to gaze at the body. Then he turned to look out over the prairie, where Leach had fled and was getting farther away by the second. “Dammit,” he swore, “I’m just wastin’ time.” He knew that he didn’t have the heart to leave Briscoe’s body to the buzzards and wolves.

  It was a shallow, hastily dug grave, but Jordan felt it would serve to keep scavengers away. Leach was long gone, but Jordan was secure in the knowledge that he would find him, no matter the length of time it took. The immediate sense of urgency that had pulled at him before had now given way to a feeling of patience. Almost as if he were death itself, he knew that he would eventually catch up with Leach—as death catches up with every man.

  With Briscoe’s body in the ground, Jordan stepped up into the saddle. Taking the reins of Briscoe’s horse, he started out after Leach once again. He had not gone more than a hundred yards when he heard a horse whinny from among the trees near the river. Sweet Pea answered with an indifferent neigh, and the strange horse whinnied again. Jordan guessed that the horse was probably a stallion from the little snort on the end of the whinny, a characteristic of stallions. He turned Sweet Pea toward the sound, making his way through the cottonwoods until he came upon the horse Leach had left tied to a tree limb. He didn’t need another horse and saddle at this point, but out of compassion for the horse, he took the time to unsaddle him and set him free. Then he set out again on Leach’s trail. Roach’s horse followed for over a mile before turning back toward the riverbank. It was the last Jordan saw of the animal.

  Chapter 15

  “Jeez-sus,” Leach swore as he pulled his horse to an abrupt stop and backed him down below the brow of the hill. Pulling out his rifle, he quickly dismounted and crawled up to the edge again. This was the second Sioux hunting party he had seen since noon, and he had almost ridden blindly into the midst of this one before spotting the warriors. He watched for a few moments to make sure the hunters had not detected his presence on the hill above them. Then he turned his head to look back the way he had come. There was no sign of the man who hunted him. To hell with this, he silently declared. It was common knowledge that the Sioux and Cheyenne were raiding ranches and small settlements in the territory. To keep riding north would only result in the loss of his scalp. It was time to get the hell out of Indian country.

  He had to admit that, for once, he had gotten himself in a bit of a fix. He was fairly confident that he had been successful in losing Jordan for the time being. But he had no food supplies, having left those recently gained in John Durden’s wagon. And with the frequency of close encounters with Sioux parties, he was afraid to risk hunting for food, for fear the shots would be heard. He had his saddlebags filled with money, but he couldn’t eat greenbacks. The only choice left to him was to buy the supplies he needed and strike out for Montana Territory, and the only place he knew of within a reasonable distance to do that was Fort Laramie. Maybe Montana would be far enough to rid him of the relentless pursuit of the man behind him. He felt confident that he had gained at least a day on Jordan, maybe two. And if his luck held, Jordan would most likely be running into one of the Sioux hunting parties roaming north of the Platte. I can double back to Laramie, buy me a packhorse and supplies, and be on my way to Montana before the first snow. Satisfied with the plan, he turned his horse’s head west.

  * * *

  Jordan led his horses as he walked along the banks of a shallow stream, searching for signs that would tell him where Leach had left the water. It was the second stream he had crossed since setting out after the outlaw. And as with the first, he was again delayed when he found no tracks on the other side. He was beginning to lose his patience, so he paused to think things over for a moment. Starting out from the ambush by the Platte, Leach would have him believe he was striking out toward the great Sioux reservation, which didn’t make a lot of sense. Briscoe had told him that the Sioux were not especially cordial to white men at the present. If Leach knew this, he would hardly want to continue riding north. Then, too, Leach was taking a lot of pains to cover his trail over the last ten miles. This told Jordan that he was most likely getting ready to make a big change in direction. It also lessened the fear of another ambush, since he wasn’t leaving a trail plain enough to follow. “He left all his supplies in that wagon back there,” he said aloud. “He’s either gonna double back to get ’em, or he’s gonna have to go somewhere to buy more.” The more he considered the choices, the more he felt that Leach would choose the latter, and the only place he could get supplies was Fort Laramie. It was a gamble, but he felt the odds were in his favor. So he decided to break off the chase and strike out straight for Fort Laramie.

  * * *

  It was almost dark when Leach’s weary horse walked slowly past the outer buildings of Fort Laramie. H
e had passed several small ranches on his way in, and he was hoping to find some semblance of a town near the army post. It appeared, however, that he was going to have to settle for the sutler’s store for his supplies. The irony of it did not escape him. One of the last places he would have sought out was a military post.

  The post trader had already closed his store by the time Leach found it, but a couple of soldiers standing outside the door told him where he might still find a bed and some supper. “Woman named Della owns the place,” one of the soldiers informed him. “She calls it a boardinghouse, but it’s a little more than that, if you know what I mean. But you can get some supper there and a room for the night if that’s all you want.”

  “Sounds like just the place I’m lookin’ for,” Leach said. Following their directions, he rode out the road past the cavalry barracks, beyond the stables, to a two-story frame house. As the soldiers had said, Della welcomed him and, after showing him where he could put his horse up, led him back to the kitchen. He paid her in advance for the room, but declined when she offered other services. He explained that he was not in the proper frame of mind at the moment, but he might sample her wares before he left the next day.

  * * *

  Captain Stephen Beard opened the door to the post adjutant’s office and held it for his daughter to enter before him. The corporal on duty immediately jumped to his feet. “Good morning, sir,” he greeted the captain while his gaze remained fixed on the surgeon’s comely young daughter.

  “Good morning,” Beard returned. “Is Captain McGarity in?”

  Hearing his friend in the outer office, Paul McGarity didn’t wait to be summoned by the corporal. “Morning, Steve,” he said cheerfully as he came from his office. “And how is our prettiest addition to this homely post this morning?” This he directed to Kathleen.