LeRoy, U.S. Marshal 3

by Neil Hunter

  LeRoy had little chance to unfurl his slicker before he was soaked through. Beyond the downpour thunder rumbled in the darkening skies. LeRoy felt his horse balk as it plodded through the sweeping rain. As if there wasn’t enough to contend with a rising wind accompanied the storm, pushing the rain into LeRoy’s face. It stung his flesh and forced him to almost close his eyes against the numbing cascades. The gloom of day’s end was made worse by the heavy downpour and LeRoy took the decision to locate a spot where he could acquire some kind of shelter for himself and his ride. There was too much risk of an accident trying to negotiate the near dark. It took him some time before he made out a gradual rise dotted with half-buried rock formations. He pushed his weary horse up the slope and into a cluster of boulders where he could get them out of the worst of the storm. They were far from totally protected but at least there was a degree of comfort.

  Out of the saddle LeRoy pulled his horse into some semblance of cover. The full force of the drenching rain was relieved. LeRoy’s horse, sensing its rider was attempting to protect it made no protest. It huddled against the closest rock face and stood motionless, head down.

  LeRoy huddled in his slicker, sliding down on his haunches and tugged his hat brim down across his face. Overhead he heard the thunder rumble again and wondered if there might be a lightning storm to add to the misery. He held the reins in his left hand in case the horse became jittery and tried to bolt.

  He found himself longing for a mug of hot, strong coffee. Even the blaze of a fire. For a moment he imagined those things and the added comfort of a warm bed. A thin smile edged his lips. Those luxuries were beyond him. They were for normal folk. Not for a US Marshal who spent most of his time in the saddle, trailing every kind of lawbreaker in existence, and not for the first time he allowed himself to wonder just why he put up with the life of a manhunter. He was damned if he could figure it out. It certainly wasn’t for the money. Or the kudos of wearing the badge.

  There was little honor in being an appointed lawman. There were those who resented the power a Marshal possessed. Usually some local sheriff who didn’t take kindly to being overruled by a stranger in his town telling how to do his duty. That could apply to local townsfolk. They saw the US Marshal as an interloper telling them what to do and how to do it. The fact LeRoy was there to help did little to make them feel happy.

  LeRoy was often in the middle of it all. Few friends. Any number who wanted him gone. He took it in his stride because it was the way the cards fell. It was part of being a Marshal and he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  Was it job satisfaction?

  Vanity that pushed him on?

  The liking of the power the badge allowed him?

  Alvin LeRoy had a hard time justifying it all and right then and there in the chill darkness of the torrential rain soaking him, he knew for certain that it wasn’t for the glamour of the job.

  He didn’t know when he slept. Only knew when he opened his eyes that dawn was slowly pushing away the shadows and the storm had let up.

  LeRoy pushed slowly to his feet, aching in every part of his body from the hard treatment he had received over the last few days and the uncomfortable night he had just endured. It took him a little time to ease the stiffness from his limbs before he could move. Under his slicker his clothes felt damp. He took off his hat and shook off as much water that he could, then worked his way out of the slicker, rolling it up and placing it behind his saddle.

  His horse swung it head and stared at him with what could only be described as a baleful look.

  ‘Don’t blame me, son. I had to go through that storm as well.’

  LeRoy unhooked his canteen and took a swallow to rinse his mouth, spat it out, then drank. Hot coffee would have been better but he didn’t have the time or the wherewithal to light a fire. He dug out a piece of dried beef and chewed on that.

  As soon as it was light enough to ride safely LeRoy swung into the saddle and guided his horse back to where he had left the previous night’s trail. Physical tracks had been sloughed away by the storm. LeRoy stayed on his earlier course taking the chance his three fugitives would remain on a direct course themselves. Sooner or later their fresh tracks would be visible as the ground dried out.

  His premonition proved out. By mid-morning he had come across the prints left by three horses. The rain storm might have deposited a great deal of water but with the heat of the day, the sun returned with a vengeance. LeRoy felt the encompassing force as it enveloped him. Already dust was being stirred by his horse and sweat formed on his face. Heat waves shimmered ahead of him as it was reflected from the ground and even breathing became an effort.

  LeRoy saw the landscape change ahead. The near desert took on a visible difference. Rocky slopes, scattered with vegetation. Yucca and creosote. Clumps of catclaw. Patches of tough grass. In the far distance, on the crest of a jagged skyline he saw stands of cottonwoods. Beyond that the land made leaps to higher slopes.

  Passing between larger boulders, some house-sized, LeRoy picked out a humped shape on the ground. It became the still form of horse. Reaching it he slid from the saddle, reins in his hands as he inspected the animal. A shattered foreleg, bone showing through the flesh told him what had happened. Someone had severed the throat of the crippled horse. Dark blood showed where it had bled its life away.

  LeRoy studied the area. Scanned the slope ahead where the soft sand was marked by recent hoofs and the prints of a man on foot.

  Now it was three men and two horses. That would slow his quarry down.

  Heat bounced in at him from the surrounding rock faces. LeRoy took a canteen and tipped water into his hat for his horse. It lapped at the precious liquid greedily, then pushed its damp muzzle at him for more. He allowed it a second drink.

  ‘Make it last, son.’

  He drank himself and then led the animal, walking for a while. The ground underfoot was loose and as the way tended to slope up LeRoy found walking hard going, especially on his wounded leg. He felt every step played on his body. In reality he needed some rest time. To give his aches a chance to heal. That wasn’t going to happen while Teague and Hobbs and Tannen were still loose.

  At one point, close to noon, his aching eyes fixed on a distant point and LeRoy felt sure he had seen a pair of riders. He took a longer look, convinced he wasn’t imagining it. He pulled his glasses from his saddlebags and set them on the images ahead. It took him some time to focus on them. They were way ahead but as he brought the riders into sharp relief he realized he was looking at Teague and Hobbs. They were moving slowly, crossing a higher slope, horses struggling under the high, bright sun. It took him a few seconds before he realized a singular fact.

  Two riders.

  No third man. On foot or not.

  So where was Jay Tannen?

  Twenty-Nine

  LeRoy received his answer as he caught a shadow of movement to his left side. The black shadow of a slanting, high rock, shimmering in the waves of heat, suddenly moved. The extension had LeRoy fooled for a few seconds, unsure what he was seeing until he realized it was the shape of a man rising atop the rock.

  Rising and leaping forward and down.

  LeRoy let the reins slip from his fingers, twisting around as the blurred shape of a man fell towards him, sunlight gleaming on metal in his hand. The man slammed into LeRoy, shoulder high, the impact driving LeRoy backwards into the sand. He landed hard, the leaping figure astride him, the glasses knocked from his grasp.

  LeRoy’s attacker reared up, throwing his right arm back. LeRoy caught a glimpse of the raised weapon. A square-bladed cleaver that was ready to come down at him. He bucked against the weight across his body and threw the man off balance as the blade slashed down at him. It missed by inches, sinking into the ground at LeRoy’s side. LeRoy launched a clenched fist in retaliation and felt it slam into the man’s face.

  In the brief moment he was staring at his attacker LeRoy recognized the snarling face.

  The thir
d rider missing from the group ahead of him.

  Jay Tannen.

  LeRoy’s blow drove into Tannen’s mouth, tearing lips and loosening teeth. Blood burst from his lips, spilling down his dust gray shirt. There was enough force to push Tannen away from LeRoy, giving him the chance to wriggle out from beneath the man. He rolled, gathering his legs under him, rising as Tannen squirmed backwards and stood.

  ‘I want that goddam horse,’ Tannen said, spitting blood from his lips. ‘Ain’t goin’ to die out here because of you.’

  LeRoy watched the swinging cleaver and dropped his hand to his Colt. Found the holster empty, the gun having fallen clear when he went down. No time to reach for his second gun. He twisted his body away from Tannen’s clumsy swing and managed to avoid the thick blade. Tannen was pulled around by the weight of the cleaver, allowing LeRoy the briefest moment to react. He lashed out, his right fist slamming into Tannen’s cheek, snapping the man’s head aside. LeRoy kept up the attack, throwing more punches at the man. Tannen spat blood, stepping back, and LeRoy pushed forward, hitting out without pause. Tannen backtracked, coming up against the slab of rock behind him. Blood and sweat streaked his face as he yelled and cursed at LeRoy. The cleaver in his hand made ineffectual slashes at LeRoy, its solid weight making in hard for Tannen to direct it accurately and LeRoy took advantage. He reached out with his left hand and gripped Tannen’s wrist, forcing the weapon away from him. He felt Tannen’s right hand, bunched into a fist, slam against his ribs. The blow made him gasp but he concentrated on driving Tannen’s hand against the rock with enough force to crack the man’s knuckles until Tannen let go the cleaver. Tannen recovered quickly, pounding at LeRoy with hard fists to his face and body. LeRoy felt blood streaming down his face from the blows and he struggled for a time until he was able to brace himself and return his own blows to Tannen. Panting and straining neither man backed off and they were both bruised and bloody before LeRoy managed to bunch a fist in Tannen’s shirt, hauling him away from the rock and throwing him aside. Tannen hit the ground and raised a cloud of dust. He lay for a moment then twisted his body and made a grab for LeRoy’s dropped Colt, fingers starting to curl around the butt. He might have gained the weapon fully if LeRoy hadn’t smashed his boot down across his outstretched hand. Bone broke and Tannen gave a screech of pain. He tried again for the discarded weapon before LeRoy grabbed a handful of his hair and dragged him bodily clear of the gun. Aware his tired body didn’t have the capacity for a drawn out struggle LeRoy lashed out with his right foot, catching Tannen across the side of his head. The kick was brutal, solid, delivered with the last of LeRoy’s strength. Tannen’s body twisted from the blow, giving a sudden jerk before he dropped face down in the sand and lay still.

  LeRoy slumped against the slab of rock, heaving air into his starved lungs. Sweat poured down his face, mingling with blood from the tears in his flesh and he could feel nausea roiling in his stomach. He didn’t try to move for a while until the sensation calmed down. Then he moved on unsteady legs across to where his horse stood. Unhooked a canteen and poured water over his head and face before taking a slow drink.

  Tannen hadn’t moved. Staring down at him LeRoy saw that the man’s neck lay at an awkward angle. He bent over Tannen, checked him and realized his final blow had broken Tannen’s neck.

  Tannen was dead.

  Unfortunate for the man but brought on when he had attacked LeRoy. It could easily have been LeRoy lying in the dirt if Tannen’s cleaver had succeeded in hitting its intended target.

  With Tannen’s death LeRoy’s pursuit was reduced to the original two. He still had Teague and Hobbs to deal with. The pair had a good lead on him. It made no difference. It was his job to bring them in, and while he might not be at his best right now he was not about to quit.

  LeRoy rested for a time. He was hurting and even the thought of climbing into the saddle didn’t sit too well. He found his remaining hardtack in his possibles sack and ate, washing the tough meat down with more water. He remembered the bottle of whisky Barnabus Cole had produced. A long swallow of it would have been welcome right then, alongside a mug of hot coffee. As he chewed on the meat LeRoy realized he was allowing himself to get sidetracked. He needed to concentrate on what lay ahead. Wallowing in self-pity didn’t suit him. He figured it was coming from him being physically tired and hurt.

  A simple prisoner delivery had become a dragged out, violent trek that was far from over.

  LeRoy searched around until he located his Colt, shaking off the dust that coated the weapon and dropped it back in his holster, this time slipping the hammer loop in place. If he hadn’t lost the weapon during his scuffle with Tannen the end result might have come about sooner.

  Another matter jostled for recognition in his mind. The man hunter called Lang, who had sided with the Apache LeRoy had killed. There existed the chance Lang was somewhere around. Following the same trail as the lawman. Looking for Teague and Hobbs so he could still claim his bounty. LeRoy didn’t need the additional problem but there was little he could do unless Lang showed his hand. If Lang was after the bounty offered by Lawrence Machin it was not beyond possibility he could be tracking LeRoy, looking to cross his path before the Marshal delivered his prisoners to Yuma.

  Thirty

  The trail was becoming long-winded and almost tedious. Lang was well used to long pursuit but this one, lurching from one spot to another was testing his patience. But be was being cautious because US Marshal Alvin LeRoy stood between him and his quarry. Lang did not under-estimate the man’s abilities to survive.

  LeRoy’s long career attested to his skill and his perseverance. As a Marshal LeRoy could not be faulted. His record showed excellence in his tenacity in bringing the most devious and brutal criminals to justice. He did it his way regardless of the obstacles placed in his path. Any man who treated him casually deserved whatever befell him, and understanding that Lang would not allow himself to waver.

  When he had come across the body of the man called Tannen his growing respect for LeRoy strengthened. Lane saw the signs of a struggle. The cast aside cleaver Tannen had been using made him more aware of the Marshal’s survival skills.

  He had seen the dead horse. Now the dead man. LeRoy moving off in pursuit of Teague and Hobbs. He saw the fresher tracks left by LeRoy as he had taken up the chase again.

  ‘You’re a tough hombre, Leroy,’ Lang said, ‘but I’m a long way from quitting myself. You better have eyes in the back of your head, mister ’cause I am still on your trail.’

  He pushed his horse forward, picking his way through the maze of boulders, eyes on the ragged line of tracks in the dirt.

  He felt the hot wind through his clothing as it picked up again. Lang dipped his head against the gritty blast, realizing a stronger blow was developing. It would add to the difficulty of tracking but wouldn’t deter him. One way or another he would catch up with LeRoy and that would be the end of it.

  Thirty-One

  ‘Could be our luck’s changing,’ Teague said.

  ‘About damn time if it is,’ his partner said.

  They were sitting in the shadows of a stand of skinny cottonwoods, watching a lone rider guiding his horse through the brush.

  ‘Hell,’ Hobbs said, ‘what’s that feller doing all the way out here on his lonesome? Could be a damn lawdog. Mebbe looking for us.’

  Teague glanced at him. Scowling. ‘You allus got to see the bad side of everything.’

  ‘Way things been going for us it wouldn’t surprise me. We had nothing but bad luck all the way down the line. Arrested. Hauled off for a spell in Yuma. An’ at the end we didn’t even make any money. So I figure all we got goin’ for us is bad luck.’

  Teague sat with his arms resting on his saddle horn watching the distant rider.

  ‘Well maybe this feller could be a change for us. I see a rifle butt sticking out of his boot. An’ a handgun on his side.’

  ‘You figure he’s just going to hand them over?’

&nb
sp; Teague showed the knife he carried. ‘I get the chance to stick this in his gut he ain’t about to have a choice.’

  ‘With LeRoy on our backtrail we ain’t left with much of a choice,’ Hobbs said. ‘I need a gun in my fist an’ a chance to put that lawdog on the ground.’

  ‘Let’s do this. Just ride easy and don’t make the man nervous. Hunch over and look ill.’

  ‘Way I feel that ain’t going to be hard.’

  Teague pushed his knife out of sight down the back of his belt. Riding slowly they emerged from the trees, Hobbs with his head down and clutching his stomach. Teague took his reins and led Hobbs in a slow walk in the general direction of the oncoming rider. Teague kept leaning over to minister to his injured partner as they moved to intersect with the lone rider.

  Teague had already checked the man over seeing a middle-aged man in good clothing who was riding a sleek looking black horse. He had broad shoulders on a stocky body with big hands holding his reins. The man studied the pair approaching him. His keen eyes took in the travel-stained pair approaching him and was quick to notice neither had any weapons. Even so he maintained an alert stance as Teague and Hobbs stopped a few yards from him.

  ‘We close to any town?’ Teague said. ‘My partner needs tending to. Had a run in with a bunch of Apaches at dawn. We was just getting ready to break camp. Had saddled out horses but we had to make a break and leave our gear they showed up so damn fast.’

  The man peered at Hobbs. ‘You been shot?’

  ‘Them Apaches took a run at him. Knocked him over and like to busted his ribs. Tell you mister we was lucky to fork our saddles and raise some dust ‘fore those damn Indians started shooting. Left most of our gear behind. Guns to. I think that’s what interested ’em more than us.’