Devil's Kin

by Charles G. West

  She struggled for breath as he clamped down harder and harder. Feeling her windpipe crunch within her throat, she flailed with her arms, trying to fight him as the life was being squeezed from her body. Ignoring the fingernails that tore at his face and neck, he grinned down at her as he watched her die.

  When at last the battered woman relaxed in death’s embrace, Leach released her and let her body drop back on the bed. He backed away a couple of steps, then stood there a few moments gazing at the lifeless body. Reflecting on the hours just past, he muttered, “It just ain’t your day, is it, bitch?”

  The evening had begun peacefully enough. It had been Della’s misfortune that he was the only guest staying the night. He had felt like celebrating the ironic twist of fate that had eliminated any concern for the man stalking him. So he had drunk more than he normally would have, and the more he drank, the meaner he got. It hadn’t helped matters when he had at first tried to satisfy his carnal cravings with Della. He had been too drunk to perform, and Della laughed at his fumbling attempts. That was a mistake, and the ultimate consequence she paid for it was her own fault, as far as Leach was concerned. I’ll not be laughed at by any old flabby-thighed, saddle-weary whore, he thought. He reflected that he had been stud horse enough when he had awakened in the predawn hours and gone downstairs to her room. He had been brutal in his assault, but she had earned it. “You ain’t so sassy-mouthed now, are you?” He glared at the corpse.

  How long he had been standing there, he couldn’t say. When he turned away from the body, tying up his trousers, he was jolted by the sight of an Indian girl standing wide-eyed in the doorway. The two were frozen for a brief moment, shocked by the unexpected encounter. The girl recovered first and started to back slowly away. “Com’eer!” Leach roared and started toward her. She slammed the door between them and ran out through the kitchen. Wrenching the door open, he went after her, but soon gave up the chase. His clumsy feet were no match for those of the swift Indian girl. “Damn!” he swore for not having his pistol on him as he watched her disappear around the front corner of the house.

  Well, that sure as hell changes things, he told himself. There was no telling how much time he had before the girl had an army patrol on his tail. He wasted no time getting his things together and heading for the barn. “Dammit!” he swore again as he threw his saddle on his horse, for he was again about to start out with no supplies. “I shoulda got them goods I paid for yesterday.”

  * * *

  Jordan Gray leaned low over Sweet Pea’s neck as the mottled gray mare stretched out in a full gallop, eating up the dusty road past the cavalry stables and away from the post. Rounding a bend, his horse almost collided with an Indian girl running as if fleeing the devil himself. He yanked back on the reins, bringing Sweet Pea and his packhorse to a sliding stop amid a cloud of dust. The frightened girl gasped for breath as she hysterically tried to tell him about the murder of her mistress. In her panic, however, she babbled in her native tongue, and Jordan spoke no Osage. Though he could not understand what she was trying to tell him, he had a fair idea who could cause such a state of fright. Not waiting for his response, she started running again. “Here!” Jordan yelled, wheeling his horse around her and dropping the reins to Briscoe’s horse. It was unnecessary to say more. She immediately scrambled up on the horse’s back and galloped away toward the fort.

  Knowing that Della’s couldn’t be far, he gave Sweet Pea his heels, and she responded willingly. With no weapons but his two hands, Jordan gave no thought toward caution. He knew that nothing would keep him from fulfilling his vow of vengeance. Spotting the two white gate posts, he bent low on Sweet Pea’s neck again, guiding her directly toward the house.

  Hunter and hunted saw each other at the same time. Coming out of the barn, Leach was startled by the sudden appearance of a galloping horse rounding the corner of the house. Jordan charged straight for him. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted an ax embedded in the top of a chopping block. In one swift motion, he reached down and grabbed it as he sped by. With no more than an instant to react, Leach reached for the pistol in his belt. In a wild panic, he squeezed the trigger twice. With no time to aim, he missed with both shots. Twice was all he had time for before the two horses collided. Sweet Pea, having an ingrained dislike for most other horses, was intent upon charging right through Leach’s mount. The impact sent horses and riders sprawling. Frantic to recover, both men scrambled to retrieve the weapons that had been lost in the collision. On hands and knees, Leach recovered his pistol in time to turn just as Jordan reached him. He managed to get off one shot that grazed Jordan’s shoulder. In his rage, Jordan ignored the wound and struck with the ax. The blow landed squarely on Leach’s chest and sent him sprawling again. Jordan was immediately upon him, swinging the ax with the fury that had grown to a blinding rage. Leach tried to shoot, but could not aim the weapon while desperately trying to avoid the flailing ax. The moment came when Leach realized the full meaning of terror. He felt the sting of the blade as it thudded into his side, knocking him back against the wall of the barn. His eyes wild with fear, he looked in horror, paralyzed by the pain, and unable to resist as Jordan withdrew the ax. In one last desperate attempt, Leach raised the pistol to fire. Jordan swung the ax again, catching Leach’s wrist, and pinning it firmly against the barn wall, the blade biting through the wrist and firmly imbedded in the wood. Leach screamed. Rendered almost helpless by the shock, he tried to free his wrist, but the blade had almost severed his hand. The pistol dropped harmlessly to the ground.

  “Do you know why you’re going to die?” Jordan demanded, his face close to Leach’s. “My wife, my son—you killed them. Now you can join the other two that murdered my family. They’re waitin’ for you in hell.” Then, wanting to be done with it, he picked up Leach’s pistol. Grabbing a handful of the mortally wounded man’s hair, he yanked his head back hard. When Leach opened his mouth to cry out, Jordan thrust the barrel of the pistol in it and pulled the trigger.

  It was done. Jordan stepped back and stood transfixed for a long moment while he stared at the bloody corpse sitting against the barn, held in that position by the ax pinning one arm to the wall. He had imagined that he would feel a sense of peace and gratification at this moment. It didn’t come. Instead of a feeling of exultation, he was, in fact, overwhelmed by a woeful sense of hopelessness. Though young in years, he had lived a lifetime in the few months just passed. Vengeance had been served, yet he was still alone. For months, he had harbored no thoughts of the future beyond this moment. There was nothing for him to go back to, and he had no idea of the trail ahead.

  Subconsciously, he reached for his inside pocket to retrieve the tiny silver chain he kept there, only to realize that he had left it in the shirt he had traded to Corbin. There was a fleeting moment of despair before he decided it didn’t really matter. The chain was nothing more than a symbol. He had never found the heart-shaped locket it had once held. Now they were both gone, like Sarah and Jonah, but he knew he didn’t need a silver chain to hold them in his heart.

  Suddenly aware of a stinging sensation in his shoulder, he looked at the blood-soaked sleeve of the corporal’s shirt, remembering only then that he had been grazed by one of Leach’s shots. It didn’t concern him. Already the blood was coagulating around the wound. He would tend to it in time. At the moment, he had a decision to make. Should he take Leach’s weapons and run, or should he return to Fort Laramie and attempt to clear his name?

  The former choice appealed to him. He had always held a fascination for the high mountains that lay to the west. But in this moment of sober thought, he was practical enough to realize the hardship that awaited a man striking out at this time of year, without the most fundamental of supplies other than a rifle and ammunition. There was no lack of confidence in his mind that he could make it in the wilderness—if any man could—with nothing more than that. But there was also a stubborn streak in Jordan Gray and a reluctance to part with property that was rightfully h
is. He had a horse and two damn good rifles back at Fort Laramie, plus the money he had saved. Besides these material possessions, there were more important issues. If he ran now, he might be running all his life. Turning away from the grim scene by the barn, he gathered up his horse’s reins and stepped up in the saddle. “Come on, Sweet Pea, we’re goin’ back.”

  * * *

  Paul McGarity stood silently contemplating the grisly scene before him. The corpse was a stranger to him, sitting upright against the barn, one arm extended and pinned to the wall by an ax. He had seen mutilated corpses before, the handiwork of Indian war parties. But this one was especially macabre in the way the dead man stared vacantly at him as if the eyes were looking right through him. “Get him off of there,” he ordered one of the men with him and turned to go back to the house.

  They had found Della’s body first. It was in the bedroom as Janie White Feather had said. Della’s Indian maid had not known about the body by the barn. Jordan Gray had told him about Leach. He had volunteered the fact that he had killed him.

  Paul would have to decide what to do about Jordan Gray. The man’s story was a wild one. Paul’s friend, Stephen Beard, tended to believe Gray was innocent, and Kathleen was certain of it. McGarity had to explain to them that this was not enough for him to release a man on a wanted poster. In the end, he felt he had no choice but to turn Jordan over to civil authorities in Fort Smith and Judge Isaac Parker’s federal court.

  * * *

  “Sooner or later,” Deputy Marshal Jed Ramey gloated, “they all end up dead or back here in my jail.”

  Jordan made no reply and offered no resistance as he was led into the crowded jail underneath the courthouse. He had made a mistake in voluntarily returning to Fort Laramie. Standing here now in an open room with twenty or more other prisoners, waiting while Ramey removed his shackles, he knew he should have taken his chances in the mountains. Looking around him, he ignored the curious glances of the other inmates, his thoughts concentrated instead on the possibility of escape. Prospects were not encouraging.

  There were no individual cells in the dank enclosure. Walls were solid masonry with flagstone floors. What little light and ventilation there was came from windows that were shielded by wide porches above them. Consequently, the air in the jail was foul and heavy with the smell of urine. The smell was so offensive that the urine tubs had been set in the unused fireplaces in the vain hope that the fumes would go up the chimney. I’ve got no one to blame but myself, he thought. I was a damn fool to think that captain would believe me.

  During the next couple of days, Jordan tried to resign himself to accepting the prison routine, promising himself that his chance to escape would come when he was taken upstairs to stand trial. And he was certain he would escape this hellhole or die trying. He was told by some of the other inmates that if they didn’t hang him, he would most likely be sent to the federal prison in Little Rock. He made a solemn vow that if, in fact, he made the trip to Little Rock, it would be in a pine box.

  On the third day, a man whom one of the other prisoners identified as John Barrett arrived at the jail with two other men. Jordan was told that Barrett was a prosecuting attorney and most likely the man who would present the court’s case against him. Barrett said nothing directly to Jordan, instead asking the guard to summon him to the door, where he and the other two men simply stared at him. A day later, the routine was repeated, only this time, instead of the two men, Barrett had a young woman with him. Again, Jordan was offered no explanation.

  * * *

  Judge Isaac Parker sat behind his desk, listening to the two barristers sitting across from him. Ben Farmer, the court-appointed defense attorney, was petitioning the judge to throw the trial out due to insufficient evidence against the accused. Barrett still wanted to prosecute, despite the fact that he had to agree that his case was less than compelling. “Hell, Judge, there ain’t nobody who can say for sure that Gray wasn’t a member of the gang that robbed the bank. And he sure as hell had a fair share of money on him when they arrested him.”

  Farmer shook his head as if perplexed by his opponent’s stand. “John, you’ve already paraded the only three witnesses to the crime by Jordan Gray, and all three say they’ve never seen the man before.”

  “Maybe so,” Barrett replied. “But two of them, Crowder and Spooner—two drunks—hell, they don’t remember what they had for breakfast this morning.”

  “Hell, John, you’re already discrediting your own witnesses. What about Polly Price? She’s not a drunk, and she’s the only witness who got a close look at all of them—and she’s never seen the man before.” Farmer turned to Judge Parker. “I’ve got several character witnesses from Crooked Creek, including the sheriff, who’ll testify that Jordan Gray was a member of the posse that chased the outlaws. And they’ll also confirm the fact that Gray’s wife and child were murdered by them. As for the money, most of the cash was found on that man, Leach’s, horse. The amount found on Gray could very well have been saved up by him, just like he claims.” He threw his hands up in desperation. “God! What more do you need to know you’re holding an innocent man?”

  Judge Parker had heard enough. “All right,” he said, ending the discussion. “I’ll think on it.” With that, the attorneys were dismissed.

  * * *

  A light snow covered the wagon ruts leading up to the bridge across the Laramie River. It was an early snow, but not unusual for this part of the plains. A lone rider, his collar turned up against the cold wind sweeping across the open prairie, made his way leisurely past the outbuildings of the fort, heading directly toward the post adjutant’s office.

  “Captain McGarity, sir, there’s a man here wants to see you.”

  Paul McGarity glanced up from his desk. When he saw the man behind his clerk, he immediately got to his feet and walked around the desk to greet him. “Jordan Gray—come in, man. I got a wire from Fort Smith. I guess I owe you an apology. I didn’t have much choice in sending you to—”

  “No need to apologize,” Jordan interrupted. He had spent little time begrudging the circumstances that had sent him to jail. He was content to be free. “I brought you some papers they said I should give you. They said they would give you the authority to give me back my horse and my other property.”

  “Of course,” McGarity quickly responded. Then, in an effort to lighten the serious demeanor Jordan presented, he went on. “Your possessions are here in my office. I think the boys down at the stables will be more than happy to give you your horse. I don’t think there’s a horse down there that hasn’t had a chunk bit out of him by that horse of yours. Maybe you can afford to buy yourself one that isn’t part coyote.”

  Jordan couldn’t help but smile at the thought of the homely nag. “Looks don’t mean everything,” he said. “I don’t know if there’s enough money to buy that horse from me.”

  After leaving the post adjutant’s office, he threw his recovered possessions on the back of the blue roan he had bought in Fort Smith with reward money Ben Farmer had been shrewd enough to claim for him. Jordan could not help but appreciate the irony of collecting money offered for Leach’s gang, and he, in turn, split it with Farmer. With release papers in hand from Captain McGarity, he headed for the stables to spring Sweet Pea.

  The private on duty suspected something was up when the scruffy-looking nag cocked her ears up, threw her head up in the air, and snorted. Sensing trouble, the other horses in the corral backed away, giving the ill-tempered beast plenty of room. As a precaution, the private quickly slipped through the gate to watch from the other side of the rails. A few moments later, Jordan walked up, leading the roan. He handed the release papers to the private and stood waiting while the soldier read them.

  “Well, there she is,” the private said, handing the papers back to Jordan. “I’d offer to fetch her for you, but I ain’t had a cravin’ today to have my ass kicked over that fence.”

  “How about my saddle?” Jordan asked. The soldier tur
ned and led him to the tack room, where he pointed out Jordan’s gear. Then he helped carry it out to the corral. Jordan threw the saddle on the top rail and, with just the bridle in hand, stepped inside the corral. The other horses parted as the man approached. Sweet Pea stood watching him moving directly toward her, her eye watching his every move. Behind Jordan, the private, a wide grin on his face, climbed up on the fence to enjoy the show. His grin faded to a genuine look of astonishment when the ornery horse suddenly dropped her head and moved to meet Jordan, much like a puppy to its master. The bewildered soldier almost fell off the rail when Sweet Pea gently brushed Jordan’s chest with her muzzle.

  “I’ve missed you, too,” Jordan cooed softly, rubbing her ears. He slipped the bridle over her head and led her out. She stood obediently while he saddled her. That done, he faced the private again. “I’ve got a packhorse here.”

  The soldier nodded, remembering then. “I’ll get that one for you.”

  Jordan waited while the soldier caught Briscoe’s horse and led him out of the corral. “I’m tradin’ this roan I rode in for my packhorse. I’d appreciate it if you’d see that the Indian girl who spoke up for me gets the roan.”

  “She wasn’t the only girl who spoke up for you.” Startled, both men turned to discover Kathleen Beard walking quietly up behind them. “Were you just planning to ride out again without even saying hello, goodbye?” She laughed then. “Or even asking me to steal some of my father’s whiskey?”

  “Kathleen,” he stammered. In truth, he had not given the young girl much thought during the preceding days. Seeing her now, her face aglow in the chilly fall air, he was suddenly struck speechless. “I don’t know,” he finally managed. “I guess I was gonna come by to thank you for your help. I didn’t know if your pa would like the idea of me showing up on your doorstep.”