by John Legg
The Rocky Mountain Lawmen Series
Boxed Set
by
John Legg
Proudly brought to you by:
Wolfpack Publishing
ISBN: 978-1-62918-384-8
Sheriff’s Blood
Blood in the Snow
Shoshoni Vengeance
Vigilante Coffin
Sheriff’s Blood
by
John Legg
Kindle Edition
© Copyright 2015 John Legg
Wolfpack Publishing
48 Rock Creek Road.
Clinton, Montana 59825
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-62918-327-5
Table of Contents:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter One
Jonas Culpepper told his companion to stay where he was, and then he stepped into the clearing amidst the tall pines of a small flat on a windswept peak in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado. He strode through the shallow, slushy covering of snow toward the small fire with the small, thin man hunched over it.
The man at the fire suddenly realized he was not alone, and he turned, unafraid—until he saw the powerfully bulky man in the long bear-fur coat. “Sheriff Culpepper!” the small man breathed. He was sparse, frail, and ratty looking, and even in the finest store-bought suit he would have looked seedy and ill kempt. His face was pale, with that lack of color often seen on men who spent the better part of their lives deep in a hole in the ground, pulling precious metals from the earth’s bosom. Graying black stubble covered the lower half of his face, and his hair hung lankly from under his wool cap.
“Here and in person, Wiley,” Culpepper said quietly. He almost always spoke quietly, though he could bellow with the best of them when necessary. Still, one look at him and no one would mistake his normally soft voice for weakness. Culpepper was perhaps five-foot-ten and weighed in at around two hundred pounds. He was in his mid-twenties. Shaggy, bright red hair capped his head under his plain, mousy Stetson. His long, thick mustache and small, neatly trimmed beard were of the same hue as his hair. Piercing blue eyes peered out over a short, slightly bulbous nose. He was dressed simply in wool pants over plain boots, a linsey-woolsey-style shirt and suspenders. His long bear-fur coat was open, exposing the San Juan County sheriffs badge on his chest. He carried two .44-caliber Remington’s in holsters worn high on his hips. A bowie knife was stuck in his gun belt.
“What’re you gonna do with me, Sheriff?” Ferd Wiley asked, voice wobbling, as it usually did, sending out small, spit-laced clouds of mist out as he spoke.
“Take you back to Silverton, boy, what in Hades do you think?”
“They’re gonna hang me,” Wiley whined.
Culpepper shrugged. “You should’ve thought of that before you made off with a couple bags full of the Anvil Mining Company’s silver.”
“It wasn’t my doin’s, Sheriff. It was Tuck made me do it.”
“Speaking of Tuck, where is that pukin’ scoundrel?”
Wiley looked a little uncomfortable. “I ain’t sure, Sheriff. He took off yesterday, left me settin’ here all by my lonesome, with damn near no food or silver.”
“You’re breakin’ my heart, Wiley,” Culpepper said easily, not really concerned. He was here to do a job and he planned to do it, hopefully without bloodshed or trouble.
Wiley shrugged, knowing he would get no sympathy from Culpepper. “You mind I have somethin’ to eat before we hit the trail? I was just figurin’ to have a noon meal. You’re welcome to join me, if you want.”
“What’s on the fire?” Culpepper asked.
“Same old shit—bacon, beans, and coffee,” Wiley said with a self-deprecating shrug.
“Reckon it won’t hurt none. But,” Culpepper added dryly, “you’ll have to hand over your pistol first. And any other weapons you might have on your person, Mister Wiley.”
“That’s understandable, Sheriff,” Wiley said. “If I...” He paused, then suddenly shouted, “Watch it, Sheriff!” He pointed beyond Culpepper.
Culpepper did not hesitate. He might look like a fool, but that was a heap better than being, dead, he figured. He shoved himself to the side and dropped into the slush. He landed on one big shoulder and rolled. It took him longer to stop than he had counted on, but when he did, he had managed to get out one of his revolvers.
The weapon wasn’t really necessary, as a hundred and ninety-three pounds of dark-fawn brindle mastiff flew through the air and hit the armed man sitting on the horse. When the man and dog landed, the animal gnawed on the man’s arm, while he frantically squiggled and scrambled in an attempt to evade the insistent teeth. The horse whinnied and trotted off into the trees.
As Culpepper rose to his feet, he flicked a glance at Wiley. The scrawny criminal had made no move for his pistol. Culpepper moved to where he could keep a wary eye on Wiley while focusing most of his attention on the other.
“Bear,” Culpepper called, “let him be, now. Come on.”
The mastiff took one last, lingering taste of the man’s arm, then backed off, still snarling ferociously. He stopped next to Culpepper, who patted the big beast on the head.
“Good boy, Bear,” Culpepper praised the dog. He looked at the man the mastiff had attacked. “Get up there, maggot,” he commanded. When the man had, holding a bloody arm and staring fearfully at the dog, Culpepper said, “Well, if it isn’t that old rascal Tucker Reynolds. Glad you could join us, Tuck.” Despite the evenly spoken words, there was no friendship whatsoever in Culpepper’s voice.
“Eat shit, ya stinkin’ law dog,” Reynolds snapped.
“Such language,” Culpepper chided. “You keep it up and I’ll have Bear come chew on you some more.”
“You keep that goddamn shit-eatin’ monster away from me, you bastard.”
“Well, you got the monster part wrong, but I agree he was eatin’ shit,” Culpepper said dryly, using one of his very rare profanities. Then he sighed, as if overwhelmed by troubles.
“But I can see that politeness isn’t going to work with you,” he added, almost to himself. “Such a pity, boy.” He shot Reynolds in the right ankle.
“Holy shit!” Reynolds screamed, as he fell. Clutching his shattered ankle, he half raised himself and glared at Culpepper. “You whore mongerin’ asswipe,” he cursed, his voice filled with vehemence.
“It’d serve you well, boy, to remember that I’m the big
gest toad in this here damn puddle,” Culpepper responded calmly. “And if you keep on smart-mouthin’ me, boy, I’ll be happy to pile on the agony for you.”
“Kiss my ass, you festerin’ pile of hog shit.”
Culpepper shook his head. It never ceased to amaze him how foolish people could be. He briefly considered putting a bullet into Reynolds’ heart, but Culpepper was a man who took no joy in killing, and he avoided it whenever possible. He also pondered momentarily shooting Reynolds in the other leg, but he decided it would be all the more work for him getting Reynolds back to Silverton. He finally settled for walking over to Reynolds and kicking him in the injured ankle. “I can do this all day, if you’d like,” he said evenly.
“God damn it, you dumb son...” He stopped in a hurry when Culpepper kicked the ankle again. When he was able to speak again, he said, “I think I’ve had enough for now.”
“A pleasure to hear, Mister Reynolds.” He put his pistol away, then reached down, grabbed the front of Reynolds’ coat, and pulled him up. “Now, what say we take your pistols and get rid of them and then mosey on over to the fire? Mister Wiley’s invited us to break bread with him for the nooning hour.” Reynolds said nothing; he just concentrated on making sure he did not put his right foot down.
Culpepper swiftly pulled Reynolds’ two pistols and dropped them at his feet. Then he checked Reynolds over, finding secreted in an inside pocket of his coat a derringer, a pocketknife, and a large butcher knife. All got dropped on the ground. “All right, Mister Reynolds,” Culpepper said. “Let’s go.”
“I can’t walk, Sheriff,” Reynolds whined.
“Then hop, skip or jump, I don’t much care which.” Keeping a grip on Reynolds’ coat, Culpepper turned and started off, tugging the man with him.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Reynolds gasped, as he was forced to use the smashed ankle. Then he got into a rhythm of hopping, grateful at least that Culpepper was not going too fast.
Culpepper eased him down in a relatively dry spot, and one without anything near enough to grab to use as a weapon.
“What’n the goddamn hell’d you have to go warnin’ him for, Ferd?” Reynolds questioned Wiley.
Wiley was uncomfortable and would not look at Reynolds. He said nothing.
“Wouldn’t have made no difference,” Culpepper said. “Bear was back in the trees and would’ve done just what he did whether Wiley’d said anything or not.”
“Damn dog,” Reynolds muttered.
“Watch him, Bear,” Culpepper said with a small grin in Reynolds’s direction just before he turned toward Wiley.
Bear growled low and deep, his wrinkled, droopy face seemingly hopeful that Reynolds would try something.
“Your weapons, please, Mister Wiley,” Culpepper said.
After watching the way Culpepper had treated Reynolds, Ferd Wiley was eager to obey.
Culpepper took the pistol, belly gun, and medium-sized knife and then gathered up Reynolds’ weapons. “I’ll be back momentarily, gentlemen,” he said. “Bear’ll keep an eye on you for me. Mister Wiley, I suggest you see to your pots and pans.”
He returned minutes later with his horse. Seeing that Reynolds’ horse was not there, he mounted up and rode off. He was back before long, and he tied both horses to a tree.
“Soup’s on, Sheriff,” Wiley said.
Culpepper nodded and headed to the fire. He sat on a log and ate quietly, quickly. He had eaten better before, but he’d eaten a lot worse, too. The food was hot and filling, which was all he could expect from it.
Culpepper decided while he was eating that he’d spend the night here. A fire was made, there was firewood stacked up, and they had food. Reynolds’ leg would need at least minimal tending, and he himself was tired. He’d been on the trail of these two men for the better part of a week. He wasn’t all that far from Silverton, but he’d gone in circles trying to track the two men.
After finishing his meal—and a last leisurely cup of coffee—Culpepper unsaddled his and Reynolds’ horses and tended them both.
“We stayin’ here, Sheriff?” Wiley asked, when Culpepper had returned to his seat by the fire.
Culpepper nodded. He had brought a small piece of rolled-up canvas with him. He unrolled it, revealing a haunch of deer. He pulled out his big knife, sliced off several sizable chunks, and fed one to Bear. While the dog bolted that one down, Culpepper rewrapped the meat. Then he leisurely fed the mastiff the rest of what he’d cut.
When the dog had finished wolfing it down, Culpepper gave the animal some water poured into his hat. Then Bear lay with his jaw on one of Culpepper’s thighs while Culpepper stroked the massive dog’s head between the ears.
Finally Culpepper roused himself and stood. He went to his saddlebags and pulled out two sets of handcuffs. He cuffed Reynolds with his hands behind his back. He knew it was a lot more uncomfortable for the outlaw, but Culpepper was not about to open himself up to getting hammered by Reynolds while he tried to do something for Reynolds’ ankle.
Culpepper shackled Wiley, hands in front, and then warned him, “You make a move against me, Wiley, and you’ll suffer a heap more than Reynolds has done.”
“I ain’t plannin’ nothin’,” Wiley said sullenly.
“Good. After all, you did try to warn me about your pukin’ scoundrel of a pal there. Since you did that, I might be disposed toward speakin’ less ill of you before Judge Pfeiffer when we get back to Silverton.”
“I told you to keep your goddamn mouth shut, Ferd, you egg-suckin’ little asswipe, you.”
Culpepper kicked the bottom of Reynolds’ right boot. “That’ll be enough of that out of you, boy,” he said, with an edge to his voice. He looked back at Wiley. “You just set there, Ferd, whilst I work on your old friend here.” He pointed at Reynolds.
Culpepper endured Reynolds’ screeching for a few minutes before he got tired of it, and he thumped the outlaw on the head with a pistol butt. It didn’t quite knock Reynolds- out, but it made him groggy enough that he was relatively quiet. Culpepper cursed himself silently for having shot Reynolds in the ankle. Had he just shot him in the leg, it would’ve been ever so much easier to fashion a splint. But he persevered, and at last sat back. He wasn’t real pleased with his handiwork, but he figured it would hold Reynolds for the three days or so it would take to get back to Silverton.
He cleaned up and then washed his hands off in some of the cleaner snow crowded up against the north side of a boulder. Then he got a bottle of small bottle of whiskey. Back at the fire, he filled a mug with coffee, added a dose of whiskey, and handed it to a grateful Ferd Wiley. Then Culpepper prepared the same concoction for himself and sat back on the log.
Once Culpepper was settled in, Bear disappeared, but the mastiff came trotting back soon enough, looking pleased with himself.
Reynolds came around after a while, looking around angrily. Culpepper fixed him a whiskey-coffee and allowed Wiley to hold it for Reynolds to drink. Reynolds was surprised that Culpepper had given him some whiskey, but he was too angry and too proud to speak his thanks.
Chapter Two
Three days of traveling with a crotchety Tucker Reynolds came nearabout to driving Culpepper to do something drastic, but he managed to contain his temper. Mostly. There were a few times during the journey when Culpepper allowed just a bit of his ire to show. After several good whacks on the head, Reynolds began to realize that his smart mouth was going to get him killed. The final day heading into Silverton was the quietest.
Along the way, Ferd Wiley took a heap of abuse from Reynolds, most of it profane but very quiet. Reynolds would blister Wiley in the evenings, after dinner.
Finally Culpepper had gotten tired of that, too. “Keep spoutin’ off, Tuck,” he said with a little grin on the second night out, “and I’ll let Ferd loose on you.”
“You’re fulla shit, ya dumb, badge-wearin’ skunk,” Reynolds snarled. He was tired after two days of sitting with his hands bound behind him, having to be helped on an
d off his horse, and whatnot. About the only time his hands were free was when he was eating or relieving himself. In the former instance, Culpepper was always somewhere behind him, and Reynolds knew the she riff had a gun in hand. In the latter, Culpepper also was right nearby, nonchalantly holding a pistol.
Still with a small, hard smile on his lips, Culpepper stood quietly and uncuffed Wiley. Leaving Reynolds with his hand handcuffed behind his back, Culpepper said, “Mister Wiley, he’s yours to thump, if you’re of a mind.”
“It’s temptin’, Sheriff,” Wiley said. “But I don’t suppose it’d shut that foolish bastard up.”
“Hah!” Reynolds snorted. “See, ya damn fool sheriff? He ain’t nothin’ but a chicken shit asswipe is all. I told ya, damn it, but you don’t never listen to me, no.”
“Well, Mister Wiley,” Culpepper said flatly, “perhaps you don’t mind listenin’ to this pukin’ scoundrel’s drivel, but I do.” He went to the supplies, grabbed something and then walked to Reynolds.
“Don’t you come near me with that gag, goddamn you,” Reynolds screeched. “Don’t you dare…”
With some joy, but more relief, Culpepper jammed the cloth into Reynolds’ mouth and knotted it tightly behind Reynolds’ head. Reynolds jerked his head and shoulders, trying to get away from the insistent gag, but to no avail.
Culpepper wiped his hands together in exaggerated satisfaction. “Well, Ferd, time for your cuffs again.”
“You gotta, Sheriff?”
“Yep,” Culpepper said with no apology. He slapped the handcuffs back on Wiley’s hands. He poured himself some coffee and sat. “Have some, if you want,” he said to Wiley. When the scrawny outlaw had gotten himself some, Culpepper asked, “Why didn’t you thump the bejesus out of Tuck when you had the chance?”
Wiley shrugged. “I wasn’t ever much of a violent man, Sheriff. Nor was I ever one to whomp on the defenseless.”