The Devil's Waltz

by Ethan J. Wolfe

  Before he turned in, Posey fed Bear grain and brushed his coat.

  “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, but whatever happens, I’ll be sure to keep you out of the line of fire,” Posey said.

  Bear turned and looked at Posey.

  “You’re welcome,” Posey said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  * * *

  After a hot breakfast of bacon, beans, and the last bit of cornbread, Posey saddled Bear and rode cautiously along the canyon floor as directed by Parker. The morning sun wasn’t high enough yet, and he rode in shadows.

  Last night had been a restless night full of bad dreams and memories.

  And lies.

  He lied to Dale about his reasons for accepting the pardon and badge.

  He lied to Jane to use her to find Spooner.

  He lied to Belle Starr for the same reason.

  He even lied to that old buzzard, Judge Bean.

  And he lied to Pilar, although when he did tell her the truth, it seemed to make no difference to her.

  Or to Dale, for that matter.

  Maybe that was how love was supposed to be. A person can see the bad in another person and still love him for what good there was.

  Except that Posey didn’t know what good Pilar or Dale saw in him.

  When he did sleep, he dreamt about the farm and the war. How he carried the guilt around for not being there when his parents and sister were murdered even though the truth was that, had he been there, he would have been murdered right alongside them.

  The guilt, he realized, was not born of the idea that they were murdered senselessly, but that he lived while they died.

  Since the war, he carried that guilt around on his back like it was a sack of adobe bricks.

  Pilar took that sack and set it to the ground.

  And during his restless night, he awoke and realized that he didn’t want to die without seeing her one last time.

  Bear held up as if he sensed something ahead he didn’t want to encounter.

  Posey snapped out of his daydream and realized they had come to the end of the narrow pass in the canyon.

  “Right,” Posey said and dismounted. He took the reins and walked Bear up a softly rolling hill and onto a lush valley.

  “So far that kid’s telling the truth,” Posey said as he mounted the saddle. “Let’s find out.”

  After about a half mile, Posey spotted a cabin in the distance.

  He dismounted and dug the binoculars out of the saddlebags. Using the saddle to rest the binoculars on, Posey scanned the cabin. It was large with a deep front porch. The porch had no railing. A large window flanked each side of the door. Smoke rose up from the chimney.

  To the left of the cabin and directly behind it was a small corral with two horses in it.

  “Let’s get a bit closer,” Posey told Bear as he mounted the saddle.

  About three hundred feet to the left of the cabin, Posey dismounted and used the binoculars for a closer look through the windows.

  The man who had to be Pepper Broussard was seated at a table in the left side of the cabin. He wore his long underwear and appeared to be drinking coffee. There was no sign of Spooner or Erin in either window.

  Sunlight reflected off the open window on the right side.

  “Glass,” Posey said softly. “The cabin has glass windows.”

  He put the binoculars away and walked Bear to within two hundred feet of the cabin. He could see Broussard still drinking. Some chickens pecked at the ground beside the cabin.

  Posey rubbed Bear’s neck. “You wait for me here,” he whispered.

  Leaving Bear, Posey walked directly in front of the window to the right of the door from a distance of about two hundred feet. From that angle, Broussard was no longer visible.

  Posey stood perfectly still and closed his eyes for a brief moment. He heard Belle Starr’s voice in his head.

  “You’d be better off waltzing with the devil.”

  Posey opened his eyes. “I prefer a two-step,” he said.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, and then broke into a hard run directly toward the cabin. At the porch, he leapt onto it, covered his face with his arms, and crashed through the right-side window.

  As he landed on the other side, he grabbed his Colt, rolled, and quickly stood up just as Spooner ran out the back door.

  Pepper Broussard sat calmly sipping his coffee at a table. He looked at Posey. The long scar on his cheek moved as he spoke.

  “You’d be Jack Posey,” Broussard said.

  “And you’re Pepper Broussard,” Posey said.

  “I am,” Broussard said. He sipped some coffee and grinned at Posey. His teeth were yellow and foul-looking.

  “I see Spooner didn’t stick around,” Posey said.

  “Old Tom,” Broussard said. “I expected no less from him. Now what?”

  Posey looked at the holster hanging from a hook on the wall beside the table.

  “Stand up and put your gun belt on,” Posey said.

  “Tom said you had no stomach for killing in cold blood,” Broussard said. “Guess he was right.”

  “Do it,” Posey said.

  “You sure?” Broussard grinned.

  “Do it,” Posey said again.

  Broussard slid his chair back and slowly stood up. He smirked as he reached for his holster. “Tom said they used to call you Lightning Jack in the old days,” he said.

  “I never liked that name,” Posey said.

  Slowly, carefully, Broussard strapped on his holster.

  “I see you carry the likeness of Doc Holliday’s nickel-plated Colt,” Posey said.

  “You’ll see it soon enough,” Broussard said.

  Posey holstered his Colt. “Show it to me,” he said.

  Broussard grinned his yellow, rotten grin.

  A moment of calm stillness passed. Neither man moved a muscle. With the table between them, they were separated by about twelve feet, a distance impossible to miss from.

  Posey saw Broussard’s shoulder twitch and both men reached for their guns. Two shots fired simultaneously sounded as one.

  Broussard’s shot entered Posey’s lower, left abdomen and made a clean exit wound. He turned on impact and immediately righted himself.

  Posey’s shot struck Broussard a few inches to the left of his heart. He fell backwards to the floor.

  Posey walked forward and looked behind the table. Broussard was on his back still holding onto his nickel-plated Colt. He looked at Posey and grunted loudly as he rolled onto his side.

  “You son of a bitch,” Broussard said and cocked his Colt. “You go to hell.”

  Posey shot Broussard a second time in the chest, and Broussard dropped his gun and hit the floor.

  “You first,” Posey said.

  Broussard died looking at the ceiling.

  Posey opened the loading gate, replaced the two spent rounds, then went to the back door.

  In the distance, Spooner was on his horse and at least a thousand yards away. Erin was in the saddle with him.

  Bleeding heavily from his wound, Posey went outside to the porch. He whistled to Bear, and the horse trotted over to him.

  “We got some riding to do,” Posey said and grunted in pain as he mounted the saddle.

  With a hard yank on the reins, Bear took off running. Behind the house, Spooner was still in sight and riding hard.

  Posey tugged the reins, and Bear opened his stride up full. He ran for a full five minutes without breaking stride, and Posey saw they had gained on Spooner.

  Spooner always like to ride a light horse built for short bursts of speed, but what a light horse had in speed, it lacked in endurance.

  Bear started to sweat and his nostrils flared, but he kept his stride and gave Posey his all.

  The gap closed.

  Spooner’s horse tired badly.

  “You got him, Bear,” Posey said. “Don’t let him get away.”

  Bear kept his pace, and Posey ignored
the hot pain in his side. Soon the gap closed to just several hundred feet.

  Then Spooner did the unexpected. He pulled his horse to a complete stop, turned him around, and faced Posey.

  Posey tugged his reins and slowed Bear until fifty feet separated them.

  Erin was in front of Spooner on the saddle. He dismounted, yanked her down, drew his gun, and stuck it against her head.

  Erin was frightened into shock and stood motionless.

  “I will splatter this girl’s brains to the winds, Jack,” Spooner said. “And you know I’ll do what I say.”

  “Let the girl go, Tom. She’s done you no harm,” Posey said.

  “The hell you say,” Spooner said. “Climb down off that horse and toss the Colt.”

  Posey dismounted and moved away from Bear.

  “The Colt,” Spooner said.

  Posey opened his gun belt and dropped it to the ground.

  “Now let her go, Tom,” Posey said.

  “In time,” Spooner said.

  “She’s just a child, Tom.”

  “I know that, but I will do what I have to do,” Spooner said. “I see you took Pepper. I told him you could, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “He was fast, Tom. Very fast.”

  “Not fast enough,” Spooner said. “Although I see he got one in before he died. What about my lookouts?”

  “Killed one. The other was just a boy. I let him go.”

  “I didn’t figure on you taking my lookouts, but you always was smart, weren’t you, Jack.”

  “Why don’t you be smart, Tom, and let the girl go,” Posey said.

  “When she’s of no more use,” Spooner said.

  “Let her go, and I won’t come after you,” Posey said. “All I want is the girl.”

  “That’s too thin a promise, Jack,” Spooner said. “I think I’ll just hold on to her for a while longer.”

  “Why did you set me up, Tom? I would not have told the law about you.”

  “I couldn’t trust you wouldn’t turn on me if the law caught up with you,” Spooner said. “Make yourself a deal at my expense. And I see by that badge you did just that.”

  “I sat in Yuma two years and never said a word,” Posey said. “My brother got me out on a pardon.”

  “I heard that and knew right away you’d come looking for me,” Spooner said. “I was near Tucson when they let you out. I planned that payroll job in Texas and figured to spend six months in Mexico. That was you killed my men, wasn’t it Jack?”

  Posey nodded.

  “Revenge on old Tom, is it? But old Tom has the upper hand now, don’t he?” Spooner said and cocked his gun.

  “Tom, don’t,” Posey said. “Shoot me if you have to, but not the girl.”

  “Now that’s an idea,” Spooner said.

  He aimed his gun at Posey. Erin came to life and kicked him in the leg.

  “Damn child,” Spooner said and flung Erin to the ground.

  Posey stared at Spooner and looked into his eyes. The man was insane with his hatred and bloodlust.

  “I will kill you, Jack, and then for the fun of it I will kill this child,” Spooner said.

  He pulled the trigger and the bullet tore a hole in Posey’s left shoulder. Posey fell to one knee, looked at Spooner, and then stood up.

  “I forgot how strong you are, Jack,” Spooner said. “Two holes in you and still on your feet.”

  “Erin, run,” Posey shouted.

  Erin stared at Posey.

  Spooner cocked his gun, aimed, and fired. The bullet struck Posey in the left rib cage and he fell to the ground.

  Spooner chuckled as he walked toward Posey.

  “We had us a time once, Jack,” he said.

  Spooner cocked his gun and aimed it at Posey.

  “But that party is over,” he said.

  Posey looked up at Spooner.

  “Bye, Jack,” Spooner said.

  Posey heard a whizzing sound and a large hole appeared in Spooner’s chest. Two seconds later, the crack of the Sharps rifle echoed loudly as Spooner fell to his knees.

  “Jesus,” Spooner said.

  Posey reached for his holster and grabbed his Colt. He cocked the hammer, aimed it at Spooner, and shot him in the chest. As Spooner fell dead to the ground, Posey said, “Don’t count on meeting him any time soon.”

  Then, light-headed and weak, Posey dropped the Colt, rolled onto his back, and heard Erin run to him.

  “Uncle Jack,” she cried.

  “Are you hurt?” Posey asked.

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “Uncle Jack, men are coming.”

  “That would be Scout,” Posey said. “He’s a good man. You listen to him.”

  Posey closed his eyes and Erin screamed, “Uncle Jack.”

  Erin knelt beside Posey as Scout, Stockton, and the others raced to a stop beside Posey. They quickly dismounted and went to his side.

  “He’s still alive,” Scout said. “Rip open his shirt. Quick.”

  As Stockton ripped open Posey’s shirt, Scout went for a bottle of whiskey in his saddlebags. He pulled the cork and poured whiskey onto Posey’s wounds. “They got a doctor at Buffalo?” he asked.

  “A good one I hear,” Stockton said.

  “Make some mud, quick,” Scout said.

  Stockton’s men made mud from canteen water and scooped it onto a tin plate from their gear. Scout poured half the bottle of whiskey into the mud, mixed it up, and then stuck the whiskey-laced mud into Posey’s wounds.

  “Put him on my horse and tie his hands to the saddle horn,” Scout said.

  As Stockton’s men lifted Posey and placed him on Scout’s horse, Scout and Stockton went to Erin.

  Scout knelt before her.

  “I’ll get him to Buffalo, to the doctor,” Scout said. “You’ll follow with Mr. Stockton here and the others.”

  “My Uncle Jack is very brave,” Erin said.

  Scout grinned. “He is that,” he said.

  “Come with me, honey,” Stockton said and took Erin’s hand.

  Scout went to his horse and mounted the saddle behind the unconscious Posey.

  “See you in Buffalo,” Scout said and yanked hard on the reins.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  * * *

  Scout ran his horse hard along the canyon floor toward the town of Buffalo. The horse had no quit in him and gave it his all for several hours. But even the best of horses will tire if forced to run long enough. By early afternoon Scout’s horse, covered in sweat and steam, began to lose pace.

  “We’re almost out of the canyon,” Scout said to his horse. “Just give me a little more.”

  The horse responded and gave Scout what little he had left and they cleared the canyon. Soon the Bighorn Mountains were behind them. They raced across the open, flat ground for another mile, but exhausted, the horse began to falter and slow and Scout was forced to stop.

  He dismounted and checked his horse. A thick layer of salty sweat covered his chest and legs, and to force him to run any more was to kill him.

  Scout checked Posey. Remarkably the man was still alive, though barely. Scout wasn’t sure how far it was to Buffalo, but he knew it must be at least another twenty miles. Scout rubbed his horse’s neck and brushed away salty foam.

  “Won’t make another twenty feet,” Scout said.

  He looked at the band of Cheyenne Indians that appeared on his right. They were led by a Cheyenne wearing the shirt of an army scout.

  The group of Cheyenne surrounded Scout, and the one wearing the shirt of an army scout dismounted.

  “I am White Buffalo,” he said. “That is Marshal Jack Posey?”

  “It is.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “For now, but I have to get him to the doctor in Buffalo or he won’t be.”

  White Buffalo looked at Scout’s horse. “You won’t make it.”

  “Appears not.”

  White Buffalo looked at his men and spoke to them in Cheyen
ne. Several dismounted, went to Scout’s horse, untied Posey’s hands, and carried him to White Buffalo’s horse.

  “Did he save the little girl?” White Buffalo asked.

  “Yes,” Scout said.

  “I figured he would,” White Buffalo said. “Don’t ride that horse again today.”

  With a yank of the reins, White Buffalo’s horse took off running and was quickly followed by his men.

  “Damnedest thing I ever saw,” Scout said.

  Hours later, when Stockton and his men caught up with him, Scout had a campfire going with hot food cooking.

  Erin was on Stockton’s horse, and he gently lowered her to the ground. Bear was in tow behind Stockton’s men.

  “Where’s the marshal?” Stockton said.

  “Damnedest thing I ever saw,” Scout said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  * * *

  When Posey opened his eyes, he was in a bed. Across the dimly lit room, Sarah and Erin were seated in chairs.

  Sarah was knitting. Erin was holding the yarn.

  “What are you knitting?” Posey asked in a soft, raspy voice.

  Sarah and Erin looked at him and burst into tears.

  “Well, if knitting upsets you so, I suggest you stop,” Posey said, which made them cry even harder.

  “Would you females quit your crying and tell me what’s going on?” Posey asked.

  It took a few moments for Sarah and Erin to compose themselves, but finally they stopped crying and Sarah said, “After you . . .”

  “After you killed the outlaw Tom Spooner, Mr. Scout showed up and put you on his horse,” Erin said. “He said he’d ride you to Buffalo, which is where we are right now.”

  “I see,” Posey said.

  “Only his horse played out and he didn’t make it,” Erin said. “You would have died for sure, Uncle Jack, if the Cheyenne Indian scout called White Buffalo didn’t come along and take you the rest of the way.”

  “White Buffalo, huh?” Posey said.

  “Yes, sir,” Erin said. “He looks real mean, but he ain’t.”

  “He isn’t real mean, Erin,” Sarah said.