Legion of Fire

by William W. Johnstone

  “Tomorrow will come,” Burnett said somberly. “It will come after yet another mighty cold and slow night. But it’ll get here . . . And when it does, that’s when we’ll finally get our chance to face those heathen raiders again and set things right for our women.”

  * * *

  Inside the stockade within the Legion cave, Millie was discovering how difficult it was to gauge the passage of time with no view of the sky or sense of day from night. She knew they had first arrived about midday. How many hours had gone by since then she could only guess. At first there was a flurry of activity, getting inside, getting dismounted, and then being herded in behind the barricade.

  Then there had been Kelson’s rant upon hearing about the fight and the stabbing that took place. Following that came the horror of seeing the man named Browne get tied down and whipped. Since that took place right against the latticework of the barricade that imprisoned her and the other women in their chamber, it was impossible not to hear the savage crack of the whip striking bare flesh and the cries that resulted each time it did.

  Almost as bad as watching that was the sight of Craddock being the one to administer the whipping.

  At first he’d shown some reluctance, though he had little choice but to carry out Kelson’s cruel order. But then, after he’d commenced and the beating was underway, something strange and troubling had occurred. A kind of wild gleam had formed in Craddock’s eyes, growing brighter with each swing of his arm and each groan of pain from Browne. By the time all twenty lashes had been administered, his eyes were devilish and the expression on his sweat-slicked face appeared to be one of . . . satisfaction . . . or maybe even pleasure.

  Millie couldn’t decide which.

  Either one was frightening to her. He was the man she’d allowed herself to believe—in a tentative, desperate kind of way—she might somehow be able to manipulate and depend on to help her facilitate an escape. Abruptly, she saw him in a different kind of light. Or perhaps more accurately, she was reminded once again of how she had originally seen him, before her desperation clouded her thinking.

  Craddock was every bit as violent and vicious as the rest of the Legion raiders. Maybe even as bad as Kelson himself. Millie shuddered at ever duping herself into believing otherwise.

  In the unknowable length of time—hours, to be sure—that followed the whipping, the women in the stockade were more thoroughly searched than at any time previous. They were stripped of shoes, belts, rings, bracelets—anything that might serve as a weapon.

  Once that was done, they were left without anyone standing guard over the stockade. Apparently it was accepted that the barricade alone was fully adequate to restrain them. Though that wasn’t to say no one kept an eye on them. At all times, Millie and the others were very aware of hungry, longing gazes being cast their way by one or more of the men.

  A pail of fairly fresh drinking water and another for washing with was placed inside the stockade. At one point, Old Man Crowley, the caretaker of the cave, showed up with a pot of stew and gourd cups for them to partake of what Millie assumed was their evening meal. For the time it took the old man to enter and then leave again, two raiders with Winchesters stood close by. The stew, as it turned out, was actually quite good.

  While the women were taking their meal, the men gathered around the large central fire pit and ate as well. After the pot and gourds were removed from the women’s quarters, the men split into two or three smaller bunches and sat playing cards or just visiting.

  Craddock and a couple of others kept to themselves. Kelson was nowhere to be seen, but Millie had a hunch he was in with the wounded Elmer Pride. Every once in a while, she sensed that he was casting his cold gaze her way, even though she couldn’t see him.

  Eventually, the men drifted off to their bedrolls and crawled in them to sleep. From this, Millie was able to judge that night had descended.

  From the time he’d been beaten, Browne was left to hang by his wrists on the outside of the barricade latticework. If he placed his feet flat on the ground, he could stand. But if he relaxed or passed out, his weight would collapse and put a painful strain on his chafed, bleeding wrists. He groaned frequently, sometimes sobbing, and at regular intervals asked for water. No one brought him any. When Millie and Lucinda attempted to give him a drink from their pail, Old Man Crowley appeared as if from nowhere and warned them that if Kelson saw them doing that, their own water would be removed.

  It was the beginning of a long, restless night. Millie lay wrapped tight in her blankets and listened to Browne groan and sob from time to time.

  For the first time since being abducted, it took all of her willpower not to join in.

  Chapter 38

  “Cut him down. I trust I’ve made my point.” Sam Kelson stood a dozen feet from Browne’s sagging form, letting his fresh-poured cup of coffee cool some before he drank from it. He looked on indifferently as No Nation Smith and two other men moved to follow his order, putting their knives to the bonds that secured the whipping victim. Once his wrists were free, Browne’s arms dropped limply. He tried to stand, but his knees buckled almost immediately. The men on either side grabbed him and held him up, taking a certain amount of care not to bump against his ravaged back.

  “Take him to one of the side chambers,” Kelson said, gesturing, “and lay him out so Crowley can dress those wounds. Tell the old man to get some food and water in him. Maybe a couple of swallows of wine when he’s able to hold it down. He needs to get started on healing.”

  As the men took Browne away, Henry Wymer edged up beside Kelson. “You want my opinion, you’d better consider growing a set of eyes in the back of your head for when he does get healed up.”

  Kelson glanced over at him. “You really think Browne’s got it in him to be the vengeful sort?”

  “You never can tell,” Wymer said. “All I know is that few men come back the same after a whipping. Some, it cows into obedient little pups. Others it fills full of humiliation that festers into hate and rage. I don’t see Browne as the sort who’ll come out of this all that cowed.”

  “His choice. Should he decide to be difficult, he can always meet the same fate as Eames. If Pride doesn’t make it, that’s a guarantee.”

  “Uh-huh. I’m half thinking that after Elmer got cut, I maybe should have gone ahead and handled it that way right then and there.”

  The mention of Pride caused the eyes of both men to swing involuntarily toward the side chamber inside of which the wounded man lay.

  All around them, the other men inside the cave were stirring and rising to a new day. Flames were crackling high in the central fire pit and on its edge a pair of huge coffeepots were bubbling and sending out a strong aroma.

  “Speaking of Elmer, how is he?” Wymer wanted to know.

  “Holding his own. That’s about all anybody can say,” Kelson responded grimly. “I stayed close by all through the night. So did Crowley. Elmer doesn’t seem to be in a lot of pain, at least none he’s showing. But you know how tough and damn stubborn he can be. He’s so weak, though, from blood loss. When he breathes, you can hardly see his chest rise and fall.”

  The muscles at the hinges of Wymer’s jaw bulged visibly. “Like you said, he’s tough and stubborn. If anybody can make it, he can.”

  Kelson took a sip of his coffee. Lowering the cup, his gaze drifted to the main fire pit and hung there as if he were trying to see something deep within the writhing flames. “Damn that no-account pissant of a town. Arapaho Springs,” he muttered bitterly. “I wish we never would have set foot there. It’s almost like it was a jinx to us. All the men who fell in the raid itself, more than we lost in the previous seven or eight towns combined. Then you having to shoot Eames. Elmer laid up bad the way he is. Browne maybe due to get his next . . .” The gang leader let his words trail off, wagging his head slowly.

  “Just between me and you, Wymer, I’ve got a bad feeling. It weighed on me all night. We’ve had awful good luck up until now. The law, the
Pinks—nobody’s ever been able to run us down or lay a hand on us. Never even close.

  “But sometimes the cards start running cold for no reason. Not because you make a mistake or run into a player who’s more skillful. Nothing like that, nothing you can pin down. When the jinx decides to sink its claws in you, you can’t always make sense of the reason why. You think Elmer’s stubborn? When the jinx lands on you, nothing can be more stubborn. And if you try to outlast it, it’ll grind you down every time.”

  Wymer frowned. “Come on, Sam. I never heard you carry on that way before. It’s not like you.”

  “Like I said, those were words between just me and you. But whether I say it out loud or hold it in, it doesn’t change the feeling gnawing at me.”

  “That’ll pass. You’re just worried about Elmer, that’s all. Other than his injury and us getting stung worse than usual in that last raid, just look around. Things ain’t so bad otherwise. We’re burrowed snug in for the winter, we got a pile of supplies to last us, we’ve got money stashed away that adds up to more than any bank in the state. All that’s pretty good, ain’t it? Come spring, we’ll add on some new men and go back to raiding right where we left off. And Elmer will be right there in the thick of it with us. You watch and see.”

  Kelson drank some more of his coffee. “Maybe you’re right. Hope to hell so. But speaking of supplies, in case you haven’t noticed, Grogan and those stinkin’ Grimes cousins haven’t made it here yet. That’s something else bothering me. They should have gotten in well ahead of us, yet still no sign of them.”

  “Yeah, I was thinking the same myself,” Wymer admitted. “Seems like they should have made it in before this. Still, in the meantime, it’s not like we’re running short of supplies.”

  “Doesn’t change that them not being here could be one more sign of some damn thing gone wrong.”

  “Maybe, but not necessarily. Most likely there’s a simple explanation. Probably nothing more than one of the horses pulling up lame going over rugged country. As heavily loaded as they were, that would slow them considerable. Plus there was that freak snowfall we got caught in, remember. Maybe they got hit harder than we did. Something like that could explain it, too.”

  “The fact remains,” Kelson said, “that they aren’t here but they should be. Makes it one more thing gnawing at me.”

  Wymer sighed. “You want me to take a few men and go out looking for them? Would that make you feel better? Surely they can’t be more than a half day or so out.”

  Kelson had started to raise his coffee for another drink, but paused with the cup short of his mouth. “That’s not a bad idea. I’d appreciate you doing that, Henry. It’d ease my worry a fair amount to have those fools here among us, even with the stink of the Grimes cousins. And to know they haven’t run into some kind of trouble.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t have reminded me about that—the way those Grimeses smell, I mean,” Wymer said, making a sour face. “Sort of takes the edge off wanting to succeed in what we’re going out for.”

  A ghost of a smile passed across Kelson’s stern expression. “Look on the bright side. Catch the wind right, it ought to make finding them easy. Just follow the smell.”

  * * *

  Millie was relieved to see them finally take Browne down. What was more, observing how they used at least a little bit of care when it came to his wounds and then overhearing Kelson say to give him some food and water gave her hope that the poor devil was past his worst treatment.

  In the deepest part of the night, when the fire pits were all burnt down to reddish coals with only a few small flames licking up through them, Millie had slipped slowly through the shadows within the stockade and risked giving Browne a drink of water. Finding it impossible to fit the dipper through the openings between the wooden bars made it difficult, but she’d nevertheless managed to pour part of the contents over his upturned face and into his mouth. It was pitiful little solace for what he’d been through, but it was enough to ease his suffering somewhat and he repeatedly whispered his gratitude in a hoarse voice.

  When she returned to her blankets afterward, she’d experienced a wave of fear that her actions had somehow been spotted and Kelson would suddenly appear outside the barricade flanked by riflemen he would order to drag her out and punish her in some unspeakable way. But the minutes ticked by and nothing happened. Eventually she was able to slip into a shallow, troubled sleep.

  When she woke in the morning, her night fears didn’t awaken with her. But it wouldn’t be long, Millie thought dejectedly, before Kelson was certain to find a way of introducing some new ones.

  * * *

  Across the cave, as Ben Craddock opened his eyes to the new day, his thoughts returned to his unsettled night.

  The way he saw it, he hadn’t had much choice but to comply with Kelson’s command to whip the man Browne. But in the hours that followed, before everybody settled into their bedrolls, the number of hard looks he got from some of the other men—friends of Browne, he surmised—sent a pretty clear message his actions didn’t set well with them. They didn’t register any of the same toward Kelson, at least none they displayed openly, but Craddock was a different story. After all, he was a new addition to their ranks and he’d beaten hell out of one the veterans.

  Up to a point, he could understand their feelings toward him. But it still came down to him only following orders. If he’d refused, would any of the same men so quick to cast glares his way have come to his defense against Kelson’s wrath? You damn well bet they wouldn’t.

  He conceded the fact that he had conducted the whipping with more zeal than probably had been necessary. At first, he’d actually been a bit reluctant. But after only a few swings of the whip, the memory of being a lad growing up back in Ohio and all the hickory switch beatings he had endured at the hand of his father suddenly flashed through his mind. The next thing he knew it felt like he was striking back against his father and that dreaded hickory switch. By the time he’d finished administering the beating he’d been bathed in sweat, breathing hard, and for a few seconds had actually felt good . . . until he’d noticed the way the other men were looking at him. Even Kelson.

  To hell with them all. He’d done what he’d been told to do.

  Only after most everyone else had turned in did he go over to the stew pot hanging over the main fire pit and scrape out something to eat, along with a cup of overcooked coffee. Returning to his bedroll he felt baleful eyes following him even in the dark.

  To hell with them, he thought again. He hadn’t asked for any of it. He was only trying to get by, to survive.

  With the stew lumped heavily in his gut and the bitter aftertaste of the coffee filling his mouth, he lay awake, realizing more and more that the situation wasn’t for him. He’d known from the beginning he wasn’t cut out to be a follower in a gang. The one link that held the promise of making it bearable, possibly workable, was Elmer Pride, but from all reports, he was hovering at death’s door.

  It seemed just a matter of time before the rest of it stood a good chance of falling apart. And if he waited to see what happened, he’d likely end up dead.

  At some timeless point in the middle of the bleak night, he decided he was going to have to do something more than just wait. The lousy odds against him would only stack up more unfavorably if all he did was hang around and hope for things to get better.

  He was going to shoot for the works, not settle for simply riding clear of the Legion of Fire. There was the girl . . . and there was the strongbox full of money—each separated from his reach by a mere few yards.

  He’d already tried hard to convince himself he was willing to be shed of conniving little Millie, but he still wanted her. As much or more than since first laying eyes on her.

  Additionally, he yearned for some of the money the Legion had accumulated. It sat right in the middle of the cave with only that damnable log box in the way to becoming wealthier than the richest cattle baron. Wealthier than a damn king!r />
  Craddock rose and rolled up his bedroll. The money and the girl . . .

  He didn’t know exactly how, but he meant to get his hands on both. And when he did, all those narrow-eyed bastards who were giving him the cold shoulder would be left aiming their glares at nothing but the dust of his departure.

  Chapter 39

  “You mean you’re nothing but a damn law dog? That’s what you’ve been all this time?” Turkey Grimes looked mortified, scarcely able to believe his eyes and ears.

  “By God,” marveled Tom Burnett, “you must be getting smarter just by hanging around with us. Look how much faster you’re catching on to things.”

  “How could I catch on to something you never gave a clue to before this, you damn sneak?” Turkey wailed. “I thought all you stinkin’ law dogs had your tin stars pinned on you! What’s the big idea not showin’ yours before this?”

  “Would it have done any good except to give you and your pals a bright, shiny target to shoot at?”

  “You’re damn right about that! Not many things us boys like better than pluggin’ holes through badges and those we find ’em pinned on.”

  “That’s exactly the kind of attitude we’d expect from the likes of you,” Luke said. “That’s why, if you’re lying about Kelson not having any lookouts posted around the Legion hideout, you might be in a touchy situation.”

  Turkey scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean? In the first place, I ain’t lyin’. But even if I was, what difference would a lousy tin star make to me?”

  “Because,” Burnett told him, “for all your friendliness and willing assistance, I’m about to make you an honorary special deputy. And that means you get to wear your very own shiny tin star. As a matter of fact, I’m going to go so far as to loan you mine.”