Legion of Fire

by William W. Johnstone

  Rooster scowled. “Damn it all. I don’t mind takin’ Sam’s orders on some things—things that got to do with where we rob and how we go about it and such. But there’s other things that ought not be any of his doggone business.”

  “Maybe so. But that ain’t the way Sam sees it,” Turkey insisted. “You ride in his gang, you do things his way. It was made clear to us right from the git-go, and it’s what we agreed to. And, I’ll remind you, doin’ things Sam’s way has made our share of the money from the jobs we’ve pulled a helluva lot more than we ever scored elsewise in our lives.”

  Rooster’s scowl shifted, turned less stubborn and more thoughtful. “Yeah, I guess I can’t argue that part . . . but dang it, I still don’t cotton to givin’ up this sweetie.”

  “Elmer Pride told everybody that Sam figures on making some women part of the haul they take out of that town they rode off to hit,” Grogan reminded the cousins. “That means they’ll be available at winter quarters once we get settled in. It seems a sure bet to me that anything they bring is bound to be an improvement over this one you’re so all-fired anxious to hang on to.”

  “That’s ungrateful talk,” Rooster huffed. “This sweetie has been servin’ us right fine, ain’t she? I seem to recall you takin’ plenty of turns with her.”

  “Only because I was dog-ass drunk,” Grogan said. “Look, arguing about this is wasting even more time we can’t afford. We’ve got to get a move on and we’ve got to get rid of that damned girl before we get to the hideout. That’s all there is to it.”

  Turkey heaved a big sigh and once more pinned Rooster with a direct gaze. “He’s right, Cuz. We got to get shed of the gal. She’s done us some good, but not enough to make her worth bracin’ Sam Kelson over.”

  Rooster glared defiantly for several seconds. Then, gradually, the defiance went out of his eyes and his shoulders sagged. “All right,” he finally said. “But it can by God wait until mornin’. Bad enough we’re out of whiskey. I want this sweetie around for what’s shapin’ up to be a mighty cold night.”

  Chapter 30

  In order to regain some of the time lost due to the ambush, Luke had hoped to forge well into the night. Upon broaching the notion to Burnett and Russell, both were quick to agree.

  Unfortunately, the weather turned out not to be so agreeable. In spite of a lasting chill in the air, most of the day had been clear and bright. But late afternoon brought dark clouds out of the northwest and by the onset of evening the sky was overcast with a heavy layer of gray. When full dark set in, the moonless night cut visibility to a thick, nearly impenetrable blackness. At the same time, the ground the three men were covering grew steadily rockier and more broken, making the tracks of the raiders more difficult to read.

  Finally, a frustrated Luke called a halt and suggested they stop and make camp for the night.

  “I can probably hold a northerly course and pick out enough sign to keep us from wandering too far off course,” Luke told the others, “but it would be slow and painstaking and I don’t know that it would advance us enough to be worth the effort. I’m thinking the best thing for us is to stop, get some rest, and then hit it fresh in the morning as soon as we have light to see.”

  Once again Burnett and Russell agreed, albeit reluctantly.

  They went a ways farther until they found a shallow arroyo with some scruffy graze along its bottom for the horses and a flat side to the northwest that would break the wind. While Luke stripped, hobbled, and watered the animals, Burnett and Russell scrounged enough fuel to make a small fire over which they cooked some coffee to wash down a meal of jerky and hardtack.

  After that, they spread their bedrolls snug against the arroyo wall and crawled into them for some sleep. There was a brief discussion about posting a lookout, but all things considered, it was deemed unnecessary. Once that was decided, the long, exhausting day assured that slumber came quickly and deeply.

  * * *

  At first light, Luke woke to find a thin dusting of snow covering his blankets and the floor of the arroyo. He shook off the powdery coating and pushed to his feet, thankful to note that the pale gray sky appeared clear and the rim of the eastern horizon glowed with a sun that would soon be thrusting above it. Before rousting the others, he started a fire and got a fresh pot of coffee brewing.

  When Marshal Burnett poked his head out of his blankets he was met with a sprinkling of fluffy flakes that spilled out of the brim of the hat he’d had cocked over his face. “What the hell?” he sputtered, suddenly sitting up the rest of the way.

  Luke grinned. “It’s a mite too cool for that place, Marshal. Welcome to a nice, bracing wake-up call from Mother Nature.”

  Burnett pulled up a corner of blanket to wipe his face. “No wonder my feet are freezing.”

  “Pull your boots on and stomp around some. That’ll warm ’em up. Be some coffee ready in a minute.”

  Russell was also sitting up, his blankets still pulled tight under his chin. He was looking around, frowning as if he’d somehow been betrayed. “Snow!” he exclaimed. “Did either of you see this coming?”

  “Not exactly,” Luke allowed. “But this time of year, anything can happen. We were bound to get our first taste sooner or later. Won’t be much of one, though. Once the sun pokes all the way out, it will be gone quick enough.”

  Russell’s frown deepened. “But what will it do to your ability to be able to track the outlaws?”

  “It’s not heavy enough to bother much,” Luke told him. “Like I said, it won’t last long. When it’s gone, any ground sign I’m able to pick up will still be there.”

  Anticipating another day of pushing hard, except for stretches of walking to rest the horses, they took time to fry slices of bacon to go with the coffee and some more of the “tooth duller” hardtack, softened slightly in the bacon grease. Then, before the sun had fully risen above the horizon, they carried their bedrolls to the horses and got ready to saddle up.

  It was just before they stepped into their stirrups that they heard the sound of the shot—a single flat, dull, distant report that rolled across the white-dusted terrain and reached into the shallow arroyo.

  Three faces snapped toward the northeast, the direction from which the sound seemed to have originated.

  “Was that a gunshot?” Russell said.

  “Sure enough,” Burnett responded.

  “A big-bore pistol, I’d say,” Luke added.

  They kept quiet for a long minute, ears straining for any follow-up to the single report. None came. The air was very still, everything so quiet they could hear the soft whisper of the snow settling into the ground.

  At length, Luke said, “Judging by the way we all turned, it seems like each of us heard it coming from off to the east. Not necessarily in line with any of the tracks we’ve been following.”

  “Sound coming from a distance and rolling over these hills could be a little tricky,” Burnett pointed out. “It also sounded like it came some from the north, too. Could be the trail we’re on veers that way up ahead.”

  “Could be,” Luke allowed.

  “In any event, we should go check it out, shouldn’t we?” Russell said. “I mean, since it’s so close, we can’t risk that it’s not connected somehow to the outlaws. Can we?”

  Burnett grimaced. “Damn. I hate to lose more time if it turns out to be just a lone hunter or some such. But I reckon you’re right, kid. We can’t risk ignoring it. Don’t you agree, Jensen?”

  “Hunters don’t usually do their shooting with a handgun,” Luke said. “I don’t think we have much choice.”

  They mounted up and heeled their horses out of the arroyo.

  “How do we proceed?” Burnett said. “Just aim to the northeast and see what we come in sight of?”

  Without acknowledging it in any way, and maybe without even realizing it, the marshal had come to rely on Luke’s say-so in most matters. While he’d chafed a bit in the beginning when the black-clad bounty hunter showed a tendency tow
ard taking charge, he’d since grown to recognize and accept a voice of greater experience and sharply honed instincts.

  In response to the marshal’s questions, Luke inclined his head in the direction of due east. “See the string of hills that rise up over that way and then reach on up to the north? Might be a good idea to cut straight over and then work our way north in amongst them. Give us some cover down in the low spots, and some high ground to scan ahead from.”

  Burnett nodded. “Good idea.”

  “When we make the swing north,” Luke added, “let me take the point a dozen or so yards ahead. You two fan out and flank me. With luck, maybe we can time it so at least one of us is always topping the crown of a hill.”

  Glancing over at Russell, the marshal said, “Keep your eyes peeled sharp and your guns leathered loose. If you spot something, don’t be too hasty to shoot . . . but don’t be too slow, either.”

  They reached the hillier terrain quickly, their horses’ hooves kicking up clouds of pure white. Some of the fine, crisp flakes within those clouds caught glints of early sunlight that made them flash like sparks.

  Turning north, Luke slowed their pace, and Burnett and Russell fanned out behind him as instructed. The sun, fully risen above the horizon, cast long shadows from the slowly moving shapes. As they advanced, each man’s expression was somber, eyes sweeping restlessly, alertly. The memory of the recent ambush they had ridden into was all too fresh in their minds.

  Twice Luke signaled a halt from the knob of a hill. Each time he paused to listen and scan the surrounding landscape with added intensity. Neither sound nor sight of anything that might be related to the gunshot presented itself until, at last, a faint curl of smoke rising from within a low-lying cluster of distant trees became visible. Had it not been for the background of the closely grouped trunks, the wisp would have been invisible against the surrounding snow-covered hills or the clear, bright sky.

  Once Luke had stopped for a third time and reached back to withdraw his binoculars from his saddlebags, Burnett and Russell came forward and reined up on either side of him.

  “What is it?” Russell asked anxiously.

  “A trace of smoke,” Luke said, sighting through the glass. “A recent fire, part of a campsite down in those trees.”

  “Anybody still there?” Burnett wanted to know.

  Luke took time to focus and scan with the glass before answering, “Not that I can see. Not anymore. But I can see tracks leading away through the snow—meaning they weren’t made very long ago.”

  It was the marshal whose tone then became anxious. “How many? The riders we followed away from those ambush buttes?”

  “Can’t tell for sure from this far back, but it could be. They’re the tracks of several horses. I can make out that much,” Luke said.

  Burnett swore under his breath.

  “We can tell more when we reach the camp and examine it closer. If it looks right, we’ll continue after whoever spent the night there. They can’t have gotten far.” Luke collapsed the spyglass and dropped it back into his saddlebags. “Come on. Let’s go have a look.”

  Chapter 31

  The fear that the body might belong to one of the women abducted from town was an immediate and understandable reaction.

  “Oh, my God . . . God no,” Burnett groaned, momentarily frozen in his saddle as he gazed down in horror at the still form sprawled beside the ashes of the recent campfire. The shape was clearly female, though its face was obscured by being pressed flat to the ground. It was the hair—flaming red hair stained with the darker, duller red of wet, relatively fresh blood that had spouted from a bullet hole in the back of the woman’s head—that yanked the anguished reaction out of the marshal. His beloved Lucinda had hair exactly that color and length!

  Before Luke could say or do anything to steady the lawman, Burnett suddenly broke from his shocked immobility and sprang out of the saddle. He raced to the body and dropped to his knees beside it. Luke quickly followed, only to stand uncertainly by and watch as Burnett, with trembling hands, gently lifted the head and turned it so he could see the face.

  The sound that escaped the marshal was half a choked sob and half a startled cry. He released the head, spreading his hands wide, and rocked back on his heels as if he’d touched something unexpectedly hot.

  Luke stepped forward and placed a hand on Burnett’s shoulder. “Take it easy. Do you know this woman?”

  “No . . . no, I don’t.” The marshal seemed short of breath, his words coming out in ragged gasps. “But the red hair . . . the shape and size of her . . . Jesus, for a minute I thought it was my Lucinda.”

  Luke winced, understanding the reaction he had witnessed. “So you don’t recognize her at all? She’s not one of the women from town?”

  Burnett shook his head. “I never saw this woman before in my life.”

  Luke turned to Russell, who had dismounted but was hanging back reluctantly, a distraught look on his face. “How about you? Any chance you know her?”

  Russell shook his head. “If the marshal doesn’t recognize her, I don’t see where there’s much chance I—”

  “Come over here and take a look to make certain.” Luke could see the young man was unnerved by the dead woman and he regretted forcing the examination on him, but it was important to know for sure.

  Russell came closer, leaned over to peer down at the face, then turned quickly away. “No. No, I have no idea who that . . . that poor creature is . . . was.”

  “Poor creature, all right,” Luke echoed, his tone grim. “It’s obvious she saw considerable abuse before somebody put that bullet in her head. Beaten. Choked, by the looks of those marks on her neck. And the way her clothes are disheveled . . . well, you can imagine the rest. The bullet likely came as a blessing.”

  Burnett stood up, his earlier distress turning into a visible display of anger. “Anybody who’d do a woman that way deserves . . . I don’t know what. Even hanging would be too good for scum like that.”

  “What manner of filth would do such a thing?” Russell said, his eyes returning against his will to the fallen woman.

  Luke cut him a sidelong glance, saying, “Hate to remind you, kid, but exactly the kind of filth we’re on the trail of.”

  Burnett frowned. “So, in spite of us not recognizing the woman, are you saying this is the work of the Legion of Fire?”

  Luke didn’t answer right away. He walked a few steps out from the others and paused, staring down at the hoofprints. He’d taken a cursory look earlier, upon first reaching the camp, before all attention had focused on the dead woman, but now he studied the marks more closely. Burnett and Russell watched him, waiting quietly though impatiently for his response.

  Finally turning back to them, Luke said, “I don’t think so. At least no part of the Legion we’ve been following up until now.” He made a gesture with one hand. “I count the prints of seven horses here. After Craddock joined the Legion, there were twenty-one riders. Then they left three behind at the ambush buttes and split into two groups of nine. That’s the number we’ve been trailing right up until we stopped last night.”

  After considering this, Burnett said, “Could it be that a couple of them separated from the nine for some reason? Maybe we didn’t notice it in the dark or hadn’t yet reached the spot where they split off.”

  Luke shook his head. “For one thing, the ones we’re on the trail of are bound to be a lot farther along than this. For another, these prints don’t match up with any I’ve previously seen. There’s seven horses, true, but I make it as only three of them carrying riders. The other four are weighted down much heavier. Packhorses hauling full loads, I’d say.”

  Russell looked back and forth between Luke and Burnett. “So what does this mean, then, as far as the main business we’re about—tracking down the raiders who hit our town and took Millie and the other women?”

  Burnett’s brows pinched together and his forehead filled with deep horizontal seams. “Much as it st
icks in my craw, the idea of not going after the vermin who did this and wiping them off the face of the earth, the time it would take for that would mean precious minutes diverted from the other. And the thought of what those minutes might mean to our women . . .”

  “But the idea of going after the killers who rode away from here might not necessarily mean abandoning the trail of the Legion of Fire.” Luke paused, letting the puzzled looks of Burnett and Russell bore into him. “What I said was that I didn’t think these tracks belonged to any part of the Legion we’ve been following. That doesn’t automatically mean they don’t belong to men who are still a part of the Legion, though.”

  The seams in Burnett’s forehead puckered even deeper. “We don’t have time for riddles, Jensen. What the hell are you driving at?”

  “Look at the way these tracks are headed,” Luke said, gesturing once more. “North and west, toward the same badlands we’ve been aiming for and where the Legion reportedly has a hideout and their winter quarters. Is it so far-fetched to think that maybe three proven killers—prime Legion material, any way you slice it—could be on their way separately to that hideout, loaded down with supplies for the upcoming winter? The main part of the gang would hardly take a slow-moving pack train on the kind of fast, smash-rob-burn raid like they’re notorious for staging. Why else would anybody lead a heavily loaded pack train out here to the middle of nowhere, especially so close to the suspected stomping grounds of the Legion?”

  By the time Luke was finished, Burnett and Russell had lost their puzzled expressions and were looking thoughtful if not all the way convinced.

  “Just might be you’re on to something,” the marshal allowed. “It not only could tie together like you say, it really doesn’t fit any other way.”

  “Plus,” Luke pointed out, “following these tracks basically wouldn’t change the course we were on already. And if we could manage to take one of these hombres alive—like we tried but failed to do last time—he might prove valuable for leading us to the badlands hideout.”