Rocky Mountain Lawmen Series Box Set: Four John Legg Westerns

by John Legg

  Culpepper nodded. He wasn’t sure whether to believe Wiley, but it could be true. Even if it wasn’t, it really didn’t matter any.

  Culpepper finally removed the gag from Reynolds’ mouth for breakfast the next morning. After eating, Reynolds made a short but exceedingly profane harangue of both Culpepper and Wiley. Less than a minute into it, Culpepper rose, gag in hand.

  Reynolds shut up in a hurry, but that did not stop Culpepper. Seeing that he was going to be gagged no matter what he did, Reynolds got in a few last foul verbal blasts at Culpepper and Wiley before the knotted piece of cloth cut him off.

  The ride that day was considerably more peaceful than the previous one had been, and Culpepper was grateful for that. While he was a big, powerful man, caring for three horses and two prisoners—even including one who could do much for himself—was tiring. Doing it with a crazy man ranting and raving half the time made it all the harder.

  As they had since the beginning, the men rode single-file along the narrow mountain trail. Wiley was at the head, his hands cuffed in front of him, his legs free. Reynolds came next, hands cuffed behind his back, his feet bound with rope that ran under the horse’s belly. He had to control the horse’s movements with his knees, something hard enough to do at the best of times. Culpepper came last so he could keep an eye on his two prisoners. He was not really worried about them trying to run—he figured Wiley was too scared, and Reynolds would have a tough time maneuvering his horse around Wiley. There was always Bear for the outlaws to contend with, too. The huge dog trotted placidly alongside Culpepper’s horse.

  That night, it seemed as if Reynolds had learned his lesson. When Culpepper removed the gag from the outlaw’s mouth, Reynolds continued to glower at the lawman, but he kept his silence, except for requests and a small bit of conversation, all in a normal tone of voice. Because of that, Culpepper allowed Reynolds to ride without the gag the next day.

  Shortly after noon, the three came around another of the seemingly interminable bends in the trail and they looked out over Silverton in the small valley below. It took them just over an hour more to make their way down into the valley.

  They all stopped in front of the San Juan County Jail. It was an impressive-looking place built of granite blocks unadorned by paint, trim, or fancification. One the south side was Culpepper’s office. It was made of logs, but one couldn’t tell that from the front, since that was covered by a plank false front.

  Culpepper dismounted, as did Wiley. Both tied their horses to the hitching rail in front of the jail. “Wait there, Ferd,” Culpepper ordered, pointing to the wood sidewalk. When Wiley had stepped up onto the boards and stood waiting, Culpepper took the reins to Reynolds’ horse and led the animal away from the others a little so he had some working room.

  Culpepper untied the rope from Reynolds’ injured ankle. Before Culpepper could even drop the end of the rope, Reynolds kicked out with his injured leg. His boot caught Culpepper in the face. The kick had little leverage, and caused Culpepper nothing more than a split lip—and a quick burst of anger.

  Culpepper yanked the rope hard. It seared across the horse’s belly and jerked Reynolds off the far side of the horse. Reynolds’ foot stuck in the stirrup and remained there as the horse, frightened and in pain, bolted and raced off up the alley between Blair and Mineral Streets. Reynolds screamed as he bounced along in the dirt and slush on his upper back and the back of his head. The panicked horse whirled right onto Thirteenth Street.

  “Idiot,” Culpepper muttered. He looked at Wiley. “Watch that old cuss, Bear,” he said, as he started to run. He stopped at Thirteenth Street and looked up the thoroughfare. Two men were standing in the slush-muddy street in front of a couple of cribs rented by some of Blair Street’s fallen angels. They heard the commotion and looked up. Seeing what was happening, they ran into the street and managed to stop the horse.

  Coattails whipping along in the wind, Culpepper marched up the street. He pulled Reynolds’ foot out of the stirrup and dropped it. Then he reached down, grabbed the front of Reynolds’s coat, and hauled him to his feet. “Thanks for your help, gentlemen,” he said to the two men who had stopped the animal. “I’d be obliged if you was to take that horse on up to the Exchange livery.”

  One of the two men looked about ready to argue, but the other nodded and said, “Sure, Sheriff.” Both turned and walked away, leading the horse up the street.

  “And make sure it gets to the durn livery,” Culpepper added. “It don’t, I’ll hunt you rascals down.”

  Both men nodded rather glumly before heading off again.

  “Jail’s that way, Tuck,” Culpepper said evenly, giving Reynolds a moderate shove on the shoulder. Reynolds reluctantly hobbled toward the jail.

  When they got there, town Marshal Wes Hennessy was waiting, a ring of keys in his hand. Culpepper and Hennessy did not get along all that well. Culpepper considered Hennessy to be a useless dandy who was more interested in drinking at the Greene Street saloons or visiting the Blair Street whorehouses than in catching lawbreakers. He also was fond of sitting around while his six policemen did most of the work. He considered himself a truly generous man, seeing as how he allowed his deputies to keep sixty percent of the fines they were allowed to assess, while keeping only forty percent.

  “Got them robbers, did ya, Jonas?” he asked in his high-pitched warble. Hennessy was only in his late thirties, not more than ten years or so Culpepper’s senior, but he seemed infinitely older. He was relatively tall, and fairly thin. With the store-bought suits he always wore, his neatly trimmed, gray-speckled mustache and beard, and his faded yellow hair, he looked almost elegant. He did consider himself something of a dandy, and with the amount of fines he collected—or rather, his deputies collected for him—he could afford to dress well.

  “Yep, Wes, I did,” Culpepper said patiently. Though he did not get along with Hennessy, he could see no reason to be rude to the man—unless it became necessary.

  “Thought you might need these,” Hennessy said, holding out the ring of keys.

  “Obliged,” Culpepper said with a nod. He opened the heavy iron door. While the jail was sturdy and almost impossible to break out of, there were times Culpepper hated it, what with the huge lock on the front door and the four locks on each of the cells inside. When he had the door open, he stepped back. Looking at Reynolds and Wiley, he said, “Inside. Both of you.”

  He went inside just behind the two. He struck a match to light the lantern on the wall next to the door. It relieved the darkness, but not the gloominess. The jailhouse was a little bit wider than it was long, with a small anteroom in front that held only a stove to be used for warmth. A six-foot-wide corridor ran up the right, leading to the indoor water closet. The corridor had two locked, barred doors at right angles to each other. There were only two cells, each fairly spacious, with a small vertical window with two iron bars embedded deep into the stone walls at top and bottom. There was another similar, though rather larger, window in the wall running along the corridor to the water closet. A pump for water was situated on the left-hand stone wall, centered on the edge of each cell, within reach of the prisoners. The “walls” between the cells were nothing but bars, so that with one look inside the door, every prisoner could be seen. Each cell had an iron cot bolted to the stone wall and the stone floor. On every bunk lay a thin straw-filled tick.

  Culpepper had his prisoners stand facing the cells as he unlocked the corridor doors. Hennessy followed them inside, which normally would have irritated him. It didn’t now, though, since it meant an extra set of eyes on the two prisoners. As Culpepper directed Reynolds and Wiley into the corridor, he stopped and looked back. “Do me a favor, Wes,” he said, “go and fetch Doc McQuiston to look at Reynolds here.” He was relieved when Hennessy immediately did as he was asked.

  He uncuffed Reynolds and placed him in the cell nearest the door; an uncuffed Wiley went into the one at the rear. Then Culpepper left, taking the keys with him. Outside, he gra
bbed the two canvas bags of stolen silver and carried them into his office. He hung the keys on a peg behind his cramped messy desk, and then put the silver in the safe against the wall. He had just sat at his desk to begin doing the paperwork related to the two arrests when Hennessy and McQuiston entered.

  “You have a patient for me?” the physician asked. He was a short, plump man of about fifty. His creased, open face usually brimmed with joy, and his hazel eyes glittered with life and amusement. Culpepper liked McQuiston a considerable lot.

  Culpepper nodded. “Tucker Reynolds. Cell nearest the door.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Broke ankle, to start with. I had to shoot him.”

  McQuiston nodded, not finding any reason to argue with that. “Anything else?”

  “Well, you might give him a good lookin’ over.” He explained quickly about the incident with the horse.

  McQuiston nodded again. “Well,” he said with an exaggerated sigh of fatigue, “I’d best get to it.”

  “Send your bill to me, Doc,” Culpepper said as he led the physician to the jail.

  “Don’t I always?” McQuiston said with a laugh.

  Culpepper went through unlocking the corridor doors and then the cell doors, once more annoyed at all the work it was. He waited patiently, leaning against the bars, eyes watchful, as McQuiston examined Reynolds and tended to his various injuries.

  When the doctor was done, Culpepper saw him out, and said goodbye. His annoyance grew when he saw that Hennessy was still waiting in the office, having made himself comfortable in a chair.

  “How’d you catch them?” Hennessy asked, as Culpepper settled into the creaking chair behind his desk.

  “Wasn’t hard,” Culpepper responded, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Look, Wes,” he added. “I’ve got to write up the arrests, then go take care of the horses and make arrangements for those two scoundrels to be fed. And all before I get to fill my own belly and go see Merry. I don’t aim to be rude, but I really need to get this nonsense done.”

  Hennessy nodded in understanding. “Sorry, Jonas,” he said, rising. “Didn’t mean to take up your time.”

  “That’s all right,” Culpepper said, wondering if Hennessy really was hurt or if was just acting the role. Then he decided he didn’t much care one way or the other.

  Culpepper went back to his paperwork before Hennessy was even out the door. He hated doing it, but it was necessary—or so the county officials told him. The only thing he hated worse about his job was running for office. He was a lawman, he had told people more than once, not a pencil pusher or a politician. But he doggedly persisted with the paperwork and eventually finished.

  Chapter Three

  Culpepper pulled on his coat and went outside. He stopped for a few moments, savoring the chilly air of this high mountain valley surrounded by towering, rugged peaks. Winter was a hellacious time in Silverton, with foot upon foot of snow piling up, and temperatures more often than not down below zero. But Culpepper liked this time of year, as winter grudgingly gave way to spring. He liked it almost as much as he liked autumn, with the aspen leaves blazing in color, and the world beginning to prepare for the winter to come.

  Sighing, Culpepper mounted his horse. With Bear trotting alongside, he rode to the Exchange livery up on Silverton’s main thoroughfare, Greene Street, leading Wiley’s horse behind him. Rather than tend to the two horses, plus Reynolds himself, Culpepper paid Art Cassidy’s nine-year-old son, Jamie, fifty cents to do it.

  Then Culpepper went to Moldovan’s restaurant a couple doors down from the livery and told Eleni Moldovan about the two prisoners over at the jail.

  “I’ll feed them,” Eleni said with a firm nod. She was a short, stout, but still pretty middle-aged woman of uncertain—to Culpepper—lineage. She seemed to have unlimited energy, and she also seemed to be at the restaurant twenty-four hours a day.

  “I thought you would,” Culpepper said, smiling tiredly. “I expect Jimmy’ll be around the office to let you in,” he said of his deputy, Jimmy Cahill. “If he ain’t, you send someone over to the house and get me.”

  “Don’t you worry none about it, Sheriff,” Eleni said. “We’ll make do.”

  Culpepper finally turned toward home. The thought of being with his Merry pushed some of the tiredness off him and his steps picked up a little speed. In the early days, he used to send someone to the house to tell Merry that he was back in town and would be home soon. But he had learned over the years that she somehow knew. He wondered how, and had finally decided that she had a network of spies who reported his every movement to her. He knew the thought was ludicrous, but he’d told it to Merry once, and she had laughed raucously at it.

  As always, Merry was watching out the door for him as he crossed the small bridge over Cement Creek. When his boot hit the first of the three steps up to the porch, Merry flung open the door and rushed into his arms.

  The sheriff happily engulfed her in his big, strong embrace as Bear danced around looking for attention.

  “People must think I’m a shameless trollop,” Merry said a few minutes later, after she had allowed Culpepper into the house.

  “Ain’t a one of them got the nerve,” Culpepper said honestly. “Besides, I’m the only one you got to worry who’s thinkin’ anything of you.”

  “And are you?” she asked, her soft brown eyes gazing intently into his piercing blue ones.

  “All the time.”

  She kissed him quickly on the lips. “Thank you,” she said simply. “Now come, take off your coat. I’ve got chicken and dumplings all set. And fresh bread for soppin’ up with.”

  “Food can wait,” he growled. He wanted her, and deeply. She was as pretty to him as she had been the day they’d met almost eight years ago. She was tall for a woman, though shy of his height by several inches. She had a good, strong bone structure and a straight back. Her face was broad and pretty, but more in a, plain way than in an ostentatious one. Her dark brown hair was her pride, and it grew long and silky, though she most often had it pinned up in some sort of bun. She was smaller of bosom than most women of her general size and age, but that didn’t bother Culpepper any. He was perfectly satisfied with the way Merry filled out her simple calico dresses.

  She giggled. From her, it was not a silly sound, but one loaded with huskiness and desire. She lusted after Jonas Culpepper as much now as she had when she had first married him seven years ago. She had been afraid then to let him know she had desires, but as she’d come to know Culpepper better in a wifely way, she knew he would not be shocked or disgusted at her letting him know she had desires. Still, over the years she had learned restraint, and now knew that if they waited just a little, their intimate time would be so much more pleasurable. “There’s time for that later,” she said, her voice betraying her desire just a little.

  “Durn,” Culpepper said in mock anger. “I should’ve just gone over to Mabel Pierce’s place over on Blair Street.”

  “You can do that, if you want,” Merry said with a nod, her lips curled in a small smile, certain in the love of her man. “But if you do, you’d best take all your belonging with you and stay there, for I shan’t let you in this house again.”

  “Lord, woman,” Culpepper said, feigning peevishness, “you sure know how to spoil a man’s good time.’’

  “I want to see if you can say the same thing tomorrow morning,” Merry said brassily. “Now, take off your coat and wash up for supper.”

  “Yes’m.”

  Merry allowed him another small kiss on the mouth—just enough to keep him interested—before she went back to setting the table.

  It still amazed her in some ways that Culpepper loved her and desired her as much as he did. His want of her had not lessened over the years.

  Merriam English and Jonas Culpepper had come a long way in the time they had known each other. The darkest days were the times their children had died. Their first, Jonas Junior, had, died in infancy
of scarlet fever. Three years later, their daughter had succumbed to diphtheria just before her second birthday. She had been distraught when Junior died, but when little Cecille was taken from her, Merry was devastated, thinking herself a powerful sinner to have been punished so. She thought for sure Culpepper would leave her then, and she girded herself for that crushing blow. But he had not. He had been a strong comfort to her in those mournful days, and his love and desire for her never wavered. Soon after Cecille’s death, Culpepper moved them from the flat plains of eastern Colorado up here to the high mountains, figuring the change of scenery and neighbors would do her some good. Eventually she overcame most of her grief, aided by her husband’s unwavering love and support. Still, she grew melancholy at times, since there had been no other children to bless their lives, though not from lack of trying. At such times, she thought herself not much of a woman, though Culpepper didn’t seem to mind.

  Merry found herself standing there staring at her man, and she shook herself out of the reverie to get back to her work.

  Culpepper pulled off the heavy bear-fur coat and hung it on a peg next to the door. He pulled out his bowie knife and stabbed it into the wall, then unstrapped his gun belt and hung that on another peg. He rolled up his shirtsleeves as he headed for the washbasin. By the time he had cleaned himself off some, Merry had the table set and the food served. With increasing hunger, Culpepper sat.

  When he finished, Culpepper felt good, but sleepy. He had known that would happen. It was why he wanted to take Merry into the bedroom earlier, before the exhaustion hit him.

  Merry could see it, but she was not worried. She thought she could revive him, given half a chance. And she intended to make sure she got that chance. “Go and shave and clean up a little, Jonas,” she said quietly. “I’ll clean up here and then make myself ready.” After their years of being married, she could say such things boldly, without even blushing.

  Culpepper smiled and nodded. He got water in a basin, his shaving soap, and a straight razor. He brought it all back to the table and then propped up a mirror against a coffeepot. Finally he sat and began to shave. When he finished that, he cleaned his teeth and then sat back to wait.