Cruel Rider

by Charles G. West

  Reasonably sure whoever was responsible for the fire was gone, Jordan pushed through the branches and stood out in the open. Toby came up beside him. They both discovered the bodies at the same time. One, a woman’s, lay between the cabin and the corral. The other was that of a boy. It was slumped against the burning wall of the cabin, the flames barely a foot or two above his head. “Lord have mercy,” Toby muttered. His words trailed off, leaving him nearly speechless before the grim scene.

  “Here, hold my rifle,” Jordan said, handing the Winchester to Toby. He then made a quick dash toward the fire, grabbed the boy’s feet, and quickly dragged the body away from the burning building. The heat of the flames almost took his breath as he hurried out of range. “There’s another one inside,” he gasped as he laid the body beside that of the woman. “I just caught a glimpse of his boots just inside the door.” He paused to look back at the cabin, which was now an inferno. “Nothin’ we can do for him. Better let the stock outta that corral before they start trying to come over the rails.” Toby nodded, and went immediately to remove the gate rails. The two mules bolted out ahead of the horse. Jordan and Toby exchanged surprised glances when the horse followed, limping noticeably. They knew without commenting that it was the horse they had been tracking.

  Jordan caught the horse as it hobbled by him, and confirmed that the favored hoof was the only one without a shoe. He released the horse and watched for a moment as it followed the mules to water. Then he looked back at the bodies on the ground. “Ain’t no need to look for tracks of this son of a bitch,” he uttered. “Just follow the dead bodies.” Their quest became even more urgent than the simple seeking of revenge. The man they hunted held no regard for the value of human life. Everyone he had dealings with was in mortal danger.

  “He can’t be gone long,” Toby offered, judging by the intensity of the fire. Aware that they had succeeded in cutting the distance between them and the man they hunted, his comment was obviously a question as he awaited Jordan’s reply.

  “No more’n an hour, I’d say,” Jordan responded, thinking of the short lead Pike now enjoyed. After a moment’s hesitation, he gave in to conscience. “We ought to put these bodies in the ground first.” He might have been tempted to leave them to the buzzards, but it was a woman and her son. It didn’t seem right to leave them there for the scavengers to feed on. Toby nodded his head in agreement, knowing it was the right thing to do.

  Though done in great haste, Helen Dunston and her son, Jeremy, were laid in a shallow grave near the stream. When it was done, Jordan began scouting along the path that followed the stream back toward the Platte, looking for confirmation that Pike had headed back toward Fort Laramie. He soon found what he was looking for—fairly fresh hoofprints following the trail back along the stream. “He can’t be more than two or three hours ahead of us,” he said.

  There was no doubt about Pike’s intended direction. His tracks led straight back along the stream to intercept the government road toward Fort Laramie. Concerned only with making up time now, Jordan and Toby didn’t bother scouting the trail before them. It was obvious that Pike intended to follow the road to the fort. It was unlikely that the outlaw would venture near the military post itself, finding it less risky to stop at the little settlement nearby. Ordinarily, a traveler would find a need to visit the sutler’s store on the post. But Jordan assumed that Pike had most likely supplied his needs with goods ransacked from the cabin they had just left. With that in mind, he decided the first place to look for Pike was Skelley’s Saloon.

  Jack Skelley, a swarthy Irishman with dark black hair, and features to match, operated a business he loosely referred to as a saloon. It was, in fact, an undisguised den of iniquity, preying upon the bored and lonesome soldiers of Fort Laramie. Skelley claimed to have served honorably with General Sherman’s army when it swept through Georgia. Not one of his customers really cared whether he did or not, although most figured it more likely he deserted before he ever saw the Chattahoochee. The big Irishman greeted everyone with a wide, toothy smile, and a glass of poison that was best described as embalming fluid—and that was what counted to a lonely trooper—that, and maybe a tussle with one of the tarnished ladies who showed up from time to time to accommodate his need for companionship.

  Skelley’s original establishment had consisted of a large canvas tent. He situated it within a mile of the post. It soon caught the attention of the post commander, however, and Colonel Bradley closed the soldier trap down. Unfazed, Skelley moved his business two miles south of the fort near a fledgling settlement of houses. With no real competition, the business thrived, and soon Skelley was able to replace the canvas tent with a permanent building—complete with a bar and several tables. On this day in early spring, Skelley was in the process of mending a broken table leg when the stranger rode up to his saloon.

  Skelley stood up from his work to look his visitor over through the open door, waiting until the rider pulled up before the building. One glance from Skelley’s experienced eye told him that this stranger should best be watched closely. There was a mean look about him as his stare fixed upon the burly barkeep standing in the door.

  “You open?” Pike asked.

  “Always open, friend,” Skelley responded. “Looks like you need somethin’ to cut the dust from your throat. Come on in.”

  Pike stepped down, and looped the reins over the hitching post. He paused at the door and took a good look around before stepping into the dim interior of the building. Inside, he paused again to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. His gaze settled on the table lying upside down in the light of the one window in the room.

  “A couple of soldiers got a little rough in here last night,” Skelley said. “I had to bean one of ’em. The damn fool fell across the table and broke the leg.”

  Not really interested, Pike fixed on the barkeep with a dull stare for several moments before replying. “You got anythin’ fittin’ to drink back there?”

  “Why, hell yeah,” Skelley responded, moving toward the bar. “You want beer or whiskey? I’ve got some good rye whiskey that’s strong enough to wash away a man’s sins.”

  A single grunt was as close to a laugh as Pike could get. “Gimme a shot of that, and I’ll see how big a liar you are.”

  Skelley produced a bottle from beneath the counter, blew the dust out of a shot glass, and set it down on the counter before Pike. He raised the bottle to pour, but hesitated before filling the glass. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before. Wouldn’t hurt to see the color of your money. Whiskey’s four bits a shot.”

  Pike scowled. “That’s a little steep, ain’t it?”

  “Good rye whiskey like this costs a little more than most of the rotgut you’ll find anywhere else around here,” Skelley said, still waiting before pouring. “Look at it this way, it’ll make you drunk a helluva lot quicker, so you’re savin’ money in the long run.” He flashed a wide, toothy grin at Pike. “Now, let’s see your money.”

  His scowl still in place, Pike reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wad of money. Skelley, his smile genuine now, filled the glass to the brim, with prospects in mind for gaining the whole wad. “Hell, I’ll have one with you,” he said, and produced another glass. He picked up the bottle and carried it over to the table. With a hand from Pike, he turned the table up on its legs again and set the bottle in the center. “Set yourself down, friend. The first one’s on the house.”

  “That’s more like it,” Pike said, his tone still gruff, but he sat down at the table with Skelley. As soon as Skelley poured, Pike picked up the glass and tossed the contents down. His teeth clenched in a painful grimace as the strong whiskey burned its way down his throat. “By God, you’re right,” he gasped when he could talk again. “It wouldn’t take much of that stuff to lay a man out cold.”

  Skelley chuckled. “I told you it was the best.” He picked up his glass and sipped a little of the fiery liquid. “Just take her a little slower, and you can enjoy i
t a helluva lot longer. Me and you’ll be good friends by the time we finish this bottle.”

  Pike cast a suspicious eye at the swarthy barkeep. “Yeah, I expect we might, but I ain’t plannin’ to pay for a whole bottle of whiskey, especially when you’re drinkin’ half of it.”

  “There he is!” Toby blurted, sighting the horse tied up in front of the saloon. “We caught him!” He kicked his horse hard, charging down the ridge toward the wooden building with the word SKELLEY roughly painted on the front.

  “Hold on!” Jordan shouted, but the boy was already halfway down the slope. The single trail they had followed from Dunston’s cabin led straight to the saloon, and there was only one horse tied up at the rail. So it was reasonable to assume that Toby was right, but Jordan would have preferred to be a little more cautious. That choice was no longer available to him, thanks to Toby’s impulsive action. Now there was no course left but to follow the headstrong boy, and hope he didn’t walk in blazing away and killing some innocent settler having an early drink.

  In his haste for vengeance, Toby was out of the saddle before his horse was fully stopped. Not taking time to tie the horse, he drew his pistol and stormed into the open doorway. Once inside, he hesitated, for there were only two men in the saloon, both seated at a table by the window, and no one behind the bar. Toby had never been this close to Bill Pike. At that moment, he wasn’t sure which man was Pike. The two were close in appearance. Either one could have been the man who killed Polly Hatcher. Still hesitant, he called out, “Bill Pike!”

  Although Skelley was taken by surprise, Pike did not hesitate. At first sight of the excited young boy with a gun in his hand, Pike had reached under the table and eased his own pistol out of the holster. He didn’t wait for explanations. As soon as Toby yelled out his name, he fired. With the pistol under the table, his aim was unsure, so his first shot was wide, ripping into the doorframe. But his second shot caught the boy near the collarbone, slamming him backward through the doorway, into the arms of Jordan, who arrived just in time to catch him before he fell. In the chaos of the moment, Skelley attempted to lunge out of the line of fire, turning over the table and his chair in the process. It was enough to spoil Pike’s aim, and the shot he fired at Jordan splintered the edge of the wooden door. He didn’t take time to try to get off another shot, but took the few moments when Jordan had his hands full holding the wounded boy to dive headlong out the window.

  “Get him!” Toby yelled as Jordan eased him down on the floor. The blood was already soaking his shirt.

  With no way of knowing the connection between Pike and Skelley, Jordan, his pistol drawn, had to first concern himself with the bartender, who was crawling across the floor toward the bar. “Don’t shoot!” Skelley screamed. “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with him!” Jordan turned his attention back to Toby, intent upon stopping the boy’s bleeding.

  “Don’t let him get away,” Toby pleaded. “Go after him.”

  “I’ll get him,” Jordan promised. “You just take it easy till I get back.” Feeling confident that Toby wouldn’t bleed to death, he got to his feet and ran for the door, only to be forced back against the wall when Pike emptied the remaining three bullets from his six-gun through the open doorway. A moment later, Jordan heard the sound of a horse’s hooves as Pike fled the scene. One more look back at Toby to be sure he was all right, and a glance at Skelley who signaled that he would take care of the boy, and Jordan was off.

  Sweet Pea stamped her feet impatiently as Jordan untied her reins. The ornery mare knew instinctively that she had to run down the horse galloping away up the slope. Jordan had barely thrown a leg over when she bolted after Pike, gobbling up the incline and racing along the top of the ridge. The half-mile lead that Pike held would not last long as Jordan laid low on the determined mare’s neck. There was no need to encourage her. Jordan knew that she would run until she caught the roan—or until she dropped over dead.

  Only a quarter mile ahead now, Pike’s horse stumbled slightly as he whipped it ruthlessly. The horse, though tiring rapidly, recovered and leaped a narrow gully as Pike desperately drove it toward a line of trees at the base of a hill. The lead had shrunk to less than a couple hundred yards when Sweet Pea glided over the gully, hardly breaking stride. Feeling his pursuer closing in on him, Pike drew his pistol, and in a desperate attempt to slow Jordan down, tried to shoot behind him, only to hear the firing pin click on an empty cylinder. In a panic to reload, he fumbled with the weapon and dropped it in the dust, leaving it behind. His efforts resulted in slowing his horse down as it groaned for breath. Pike whipped it furiously with the reins. The roan was not short of heart, but it had no more to give, and the relentless mare was no more than a dozen yards behind now.

  Pike realized that the chase was over. He cursed the roan as it stumbled to a halt. With a dark scowl on his face, he turned to meet the onrushing mare, drawing his rifle from the saddle sling. There was no time to aim the weapon. Sweet Pea, her nostrils flaring, her broad chest glistening with lather, her legs pumped powerfully, drove forward like a small locomotive. Jordan could only hang on. At this point, he could not have stopped the belligerent mare if he had wanted to. There was a solid thump of horseflesh as she plowed into the hapless roan, her powerful chest impacting with the roan’s belly. The resulting collision knocked the exhausted horse backward to land on its side, and threw both riders from the saddle.

  Pike tried to hold onto his rifle, but lost it when he hit the ground. As soon as he could recover, he scrambled on all fours to retrieve it as Jordan rolled a few feet away to regain his feet. Unable to get to his own rifle, which was still on his saddle, Jordan charged toward Pike. His hand on the rifle now, Pike turned to find Jordan practically on top of him. He tried to bring the rifle up to shoot, but Jordan aimed a boot that caught the outlaw under the chin. The crack of his jawbone resounded like the snap of a pistol shot as he was knocked over backward and the rifle was sent flying. Jordan was quick to follow up with another kick to the dazed man’s ribs. Pike gasped loudly as the breath was knocked from his lungs. Rolling over in desperate pain, he knew he must fight or die. Oblivious to the broken jaw that caused him to suck air furiously through his nose, his thoughts were now only of survival, and he tried to back away from the relentless attack. Caught up in the fury of the confrontation, Jordan stalked him step-by-step, images of Jonah Parsons, Polly Hatcher, and Toby Blessings flitting briefly before his eyes. There was no thought of mercy, for Bill Pike had never traded in mercy. His victims demanded death, nothing less.

  Pike struggled to get to his feet. With one hand holding his broken ribs, he managed to draw the pearl-handled razor he had taken from John Dunston’s cabin. Leaning forward in a painful crouch, he waved the razor back and forth, threatening. Jordan continued to advance, oblivious to the danger, closer and closer, until Pike suddenly lunged, aiming for Jordan’s throat. Quick as a cat, Jordan stepped to the side, and with a massive right hand, smashed Pike’s face, knocking him sprawling. He attempted to stagger to his feet, but he had been knocked senseless by the powerful blow. When he tried to steady himself, he fell back against Jordan’s horse. Sweet Pea reacted violently, rearing up, and coming down hard on the ill-fated man, her hooves stamping the life from his bosom.

  Jordan backed away, not sure if the wild-eyed mare was out of control as she trampled the now lifeless corpse. After a few minutes, she calmed down and backed away from the body to stand and stare at the bloodied remains. Then she turned her head and gazed beseechingly at Jordan. He whistled softly, and she came obediently to him, pressing her muzzle against his chest. He stroked her neck for a few moments while he gazed blindly at the remains of Bill Pike. Then he turned and led the mare away, leaving the corpse to the buzzards.

  Chapter 16

  “Well, it’s a miracle you aren’t dead, young fellow,” Captain Beard commented stoically when he examined Toby’s wound. “The bullet isn’t near the heart or lung, but stuffed with that old rag, it’s a wonder gangrene
hasn’t set in.” He looked up accusingly at Jordan. “Whose idea was that?”

  Jordan shrugged defensively. “We had to stop the bleedin’,” he offered. It was actually Skelley who had stuffed the wound with a bar towel, but Jordan had not seen fit to remove it before carrying Toby to the post surgeon.

  “Well, it did stop the bleeding, I guess,” the doctor admitted reluctantly. “And the wound doesn’t look like it’s festering—probably because the towel’s soaked in whiskey.” Turning back to Toby, he said, “I’ll bandage you up properly. I’m going to leave that bullet right where it is. You should heal right over it.” Then he winked at Jordan before joking, “Might cause him to lean a little to the left when he walks.” Toby grinned weakly, doing his best not to show his discomfort.

  “I thought I recognized that horse. There couldn’t be two like that.” Surprised to hear a woman’s voice, they all turned to see the surgeon’s daughter enter the office. Kathleen Wallace covered the room with a casual smile that froze only slightly when it settled upon Jordan Gray.

  “Mrs. Wallace,” Jordan acknowledged politely with a nod of his head.

  “Kathleen,” the surgeon greeted his daughter. “Where are you off to?” Before she could answer, he continued, “This young man is Toby Blessings. Seems he’s gotten himself shot.” He looked back at the boy, and jokingly lectured, “That’s likely to happen to folks that hang around Jordan.”

  Kathleen smiled again at Toby. “Father’s right,” she said. “A person can get into a great deal of trouble with Jordan Gray.” Her smile stiffened when she met Jordan’s gaze, losing her composure for a brief moment before recovering to go on. “I was on my way to visit Sergeant Grant’s wife when I saw that awful-looking horse of Jordan’s tied out front. And I couldn’t pass without stopping in to see an old friend.” Feeling Jordan’s eyes upon her, she turned her attention to Toby, pretending to evaluate her father’s job of bandaging. “Not bad,” she said. “Not as neat as I would have done, but not bad.” Directing her gaze at Jordan again, she said, “I suppose you’ll be around for a few days while his wound heals.”