Rocky Mountain Lawmen Series Box Set: Four John Legg Westerns

by John Legg

  Rhodes never heard the frantic pounding of the door but St. John finally felt he should let Logan Macmillan, Hickman, and Erastus Flake in.

  The three men poured into the office, and Logan grabbed the keys. He jerked the cell door open. He and Hickman managed to pry Rhodes away from Pennington. Chests heaving from the exertions, Logan and Hickman shoved Rhodes against the barred wall of the cell and held him there.

  Eventually, the light of reason came back into Rhodes’s eyes. Seeing it, Logan nodded to Hickman. They released him. “You all right, Travis?” Logan asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Go on out of the cell now.” As Rhodes did, Logan turned and looked at the pulpy mass that had not long ago been a man. He was still breathing, but Logan knew there could be nothing to do for him—except perhaps shoot him to put him out of his misery. Logan was not so inclined. He turned and walked out of the cell.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Rhodes plopped into the seat at his desk. His face was hard and unforgiving.

  “You got a bottle?” Mr. Macmillan asked. When Rhodes nodded, Logan went rooting through desk drawers until he came up with a half-empty bottle. He pulled the cork and tossed it on the desk. “Here,” he said, holding out the bottle. “Take a swig of this.”

  Rhodes shrugged and took the bottle. He poured some whiskey down his gullet, not really tasting it. He handed the bottle back.

  Logan had a drink. He held it out to Hickman, but the Mormon refused. Logan shrugged and set the bottle on the desk. “Mr. Hickman, please go find Dexter Fairchild and bring him over here for Pennington.”

  When Hickman had left, Logan turned to Andy St. John. “You watched that?” he asked.

  “Yessir,” he whispered. The youth looked stunned, as if he could not comprehend what he had seen. He was sure he no longer wanted anything to do with being a lawman. He looked down at the silver badge Rhodes had made for him, and then he touched it. He almost tore it off and threw it down, but something stayed his hand. He wasn’t sure what.

  “You all right, son?” Mr. Macmillan asked.

  “I think so, sir,” St. John said. He was trying mightily to keep from throwing up.

  “Think you could clean up the cell—after Pennington’s taken out?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Go on and get a pail, some water, and some kind of soap. By the time you get back, Pennington should be taken care of.”

  The boy nodded, eyes still wide. He ran out, glad to be away from the smell of blood, death, and fear.

  Inside, silence grew, as neither Logan nor Rhodes felt the need to say anything. Both men did reach for the bottle on occasion. After a few minutes, Logan brought out cigars and handed one to Rhodes. After lighting the cigar, he sat on the corner of Rhodes’s desk, facing the door. He had no desire to stare at Rhodes’s rock-hard features or Pennington’s battered remains. Through the window, Logan could see a crowd gathering in the autumn chill. Many people pointed fingers at the marshal’s office and jabbered loudly. Most could not have known what had gone on in there, but they were sure to have a heap of speculation.

  Not long after, Hickman returned with Dexter Fairchild and two strapping young men. The two young men carried a cheap pine casket. They went straight to the cell in back. With Fairchild watching over them, the two young men reached for Pennington.

  “Jesus!” one of the men said, jumping back. “Son of a bitch ain’t dead.”

  “Tut, tut, Mr. Hornsby,” Fairchild said. “If he’s not dead now, he will be by the time we get him back to the office. Or would you rather sit here and watch over the unfortunate soul until he succumbs?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Then pick him up and put him in the casket. He won’t bite.”

  “Jesus, I gotta get another job,” Hornsby said. “Sure feels funny catchin’ up a warm one, don’t it?” the other youth said as the two reached for Pennington.

  Hornsby nodded. “I can’t recall gettin’ one’s been pounded so much either.”

  “Less chatter and more work, boys,” Fairchild said. As usual he seemed cheerful.

  It did not take long before the big, young men were marching out, coffin on their shoulders. Gawkers crowded around them, until Hickman and Malone, who had come into the office just moments ago, had to go out and clear a path for the “funeral procession.”

  While the onlookers were distracted by the coffin, Andy and Hallie St. John slipped into the marshal’s office. With quiet determination, Andy headed for the cell with his pail and began cleaning. Hallie stood in the corner by Rhodes’s desk, one hand on his shoulder.

  “I see you two are seeing each other again,” Logan said, looking from Rhodes to Hallie.

  Hallie nodded tentatively; Rhodes said nothing. Mr. Macmillan sighed. “Now what?” he asked. Rhodes shrugged, as if only an idiot would ask such a question. “I’ll go after the others. The ones who got away.”

  “That wouldn’t be wise, Travis.”

  Rhodes looked up at Logan in surprise.

  “The gold,” he said quietly.

  “Fin and Sean can watch it.”

  “It’s your job. You’re the one in charge.”

  “Bringing killers to heel’s my job, too.”

  “The way those others were riding, they were out of your jurisdiction in minutes. They come back here, you can arrest ’em. Until then, you’re supposed to stay here and watch over the bullion in the bank. You gave me your word to do this,” Logan warned.

  “You’re right, I did,” Rhodes said with a nod. “Well,” Logan said expansively, “now that that’s decided, we can all get back to work.” He smiled in sympathy at Rhodes. “You can take the rest of the day off, Marshal, to see to your friend’s funeral.”

  “Thanks,” Rhodes said sarcastically.

  “What do you want us to do now, Travis?” Hickman asked.

  “You boys get any sleep last night?”

  Both Hickman and Malone shook their heads. “Go on home, then, and get some shut-eye. I’ll stick it out here and handle whatever comes up.”

  “You think they’ll be back?” Malone asked. His voice held no fear, only curiosity.

  Rhodes shrugged. “Don’t see why they would. Out of seven of ’em, four’re dead.” He paused. “Unless they come back with some friends,” he added flatly.

  “They do that,” Malone said, “maybe I can get in on the action.” He seemed put out that he had missed the gun battle. With that, he turned and headed outside.

  Minutes later, Andy finished cleaning the cell and came out into the office with his pail. He still looked green.

  “Best go on home, boy,” Rhodes said quietly. “Get some rest.” Rhodes looked up at Hallie. “Why don’t you go with him?”

  “Don’t you want me here?” Hallie asked nervously. “I have things to do. Come by and we’ll have supper together.” He was worn down by all that had happened in so short a time.

  “All right.” Hallie patted Rhodes’s shoulder, wishing there was something she could say or do to help him. But there wasn’t, and she knew it. Quietly she went outside with Andy, who left the pail of bloody water behind.

  Rhodes sat there for a while, puffing on the cigar, taking occasional swigs from the whiskey bottle. He felt deflated, like someone had taken all the air out of him. Finally he pitched his cigar into the pail and then stood. He stretched and yawned, annoyed, angry.

  Fairchild returned, knocking on the door and then entering quietly.

  “What can I do for you, Dex?” Rhodes asked.

  “It’s about your friend—Mr. Bonner.”

  “What about him?”

  “We need to know what he should wear to his final reward. The clothes he was wearing are quite bloody, but we could use them, if you wish.” He quieted, waiting.

  Rhodes thought for a few moments. “I’ll stop by directly, Dex. Unless you need it all right this minute.”

  “No, Marshal, I can wait a bit.” He paused. “Also, when do you want
the burial to be?”

  “I can’t see any reason for waiting. Late this afternoon, just before dark. That all right?”

  “Fine. That’ll give us enough time to do a bang-up job.”

  Fairchild’s ebullience was annoying to Rhodes today, but Rhodes managed to refrain from criticizing. Fairchild could not help it; it was just the way he was.

  Rhodes left on the heels of Fairchild, heading for the shack he and Bonner had shared not so long ago. Rhodes went inside and lit the lanterns. He began piling Bonner’s belongings on the old bed.

  He had not been at it long when he heard the door creak, and then quiet, soft footsteps. He pulled one of his Whitneys and spun to face the door to the front room. The Whitney was cocked and his finger was on the trigger.

  Only a fraction of a second, less than a heartbeat, kept Hallie St. John alive. Shaking from almost having killed the woman he loved, Rhodes eased the hammer down. Hallie stood in the doorway, fascinated fear frozen on her face as she watched him.

  “I came to help you,” Hallie said, her voice still wavering with fright.

  “How’d you know I’d be here?” he asked, his voice almost normal.

  Hallie noted that fact, and she figured Rhodes was coming out of his funk. It would be a while, and rightly so, before he was over it completely. “I just knew is all,” she said with a small shrug.

  Rhodes nodded and went back to gathering Bonner’s possessions. There wasn’t too much—Bonner’s old, single-shot muzzle-loading pistol; a small, well-used Bible; a scalp; several knives; a pair of dice made from old lead balls that had been squared off; a deck of cards; a photograph taken not long ago of Bonner with an Indian woman and a child; some old clothes. Not much for a man’s whole life, Rhodes thought.

  Rhodes put some of the items in an old sack and handed it to Hallie. “Take that to my house. I’m takin’ these other things to Fairchild’s.”

  Hallie nodded. Both left, he going one way, she the other. At Fairchild’s, Rhodes handed the undertaker a fair-size buckskin bag. “Things I want Joe buried in,” Rhodes said gruffly. “That and his coat.” Fairchild nodded. As Rhodes left, the undertaker unpacked the bag, finding the old, worn buckskins Bonner had been so fond of wearing, the flintlock pistol, a wood-handled butcher knife, a beaver trap, a twist of tobacco, a well-used pipe, and the scalp. Fairchild looked askance at the latter, but then decided it was not his place to judge what others took to the other side.

  Old Mrs. Kimball was inside Rhodes’s house, when he returned. She and Hallie were sitting, each with a cup of coffee in front of her. When Rhodes entered, Mrs. Kimball jumped up, as if she were doing something wrong.

  “No call for you to get up, Mrs. Kimball,” Rhodes murmured quietly.

  “I brought your coat back, Mr. Rhodes,” she said, sitting again. “It was a fast job I did, but a quality one, nonetheless.”

  “I’m obliged. Was what I gave you before enough to cover everything—new material, your time?”

  “Oh, yes, Marshal. More than enough. I feel like a thief for taking it.”

  “You earned it, ma’am.”

  Rhodes put on his best shirt, one he had just gotten that day at Burgmeier’s, and new pants, then his refurbished frock coat, his marshal’s badge shiny against the coarse black cloth. When he was in the store, Rhodes could see no need for restraint, so he had also gotten himself a somber, flat-crowned hat, and new, calf-high boots.

  He stepped outside, stopped, and looked around again. It was, he realized, a beautiful early winter day. The afternoon was waning rapidly, but the sun still gave off plenty of light and some feeble heat. The day was cool, turning to cold and crisp. He walked toward the livery stable.

  “What can I do for you, Marshal?” the livery man, Pace, asked.

  “I want Joe Bonner’s old mule. That cantankerous beast he used to ride all the time.”

  Pace nodded. “You want him saddled?”

  “Nope. Just lead him out here.”

  Pace returned in minutes with the animal. “It’s a god-awful shame to waste such a beautiful day on a funeral.” he said.

  Rhodes nodded. He had thought the same himself. He led the mule outside and walked quickly to the St. John house. Jim St. John was still up at work, but Hallie and Andy were waiting. They were dressed in their finest somber outfits, Andy with his silver badge on his only jacket. He looked almost funny. The jacket, his only suit, had been bought two years ago, and was small across the shoulders and in the arms. The pants were a little better, but not much.

  Together the three headed toward the cemetery, still towing the mule. Along the way, Phineas Hickman, Erastus Flake, and Sean Malone joined the procession. They were almost the only ones at the graveside service. The only others were Preacher Moss; Irish Maggie, a soiled dove; and Logan Macmillan. Fairchild and his two helpers waited patiently a discreet distance away.

  Moss kept the service short, then Rhodes went and knelt beside the open coffin. Old Joe looked pretty good, Rhodes thought. Maybe not really realistic, but enough like his cantankerous old self so’s no one’d notice too much. Rhodes drew in a ragged breath. “So long, you nasty old fart,” he whispered. “You raise some hell wherever it is you’re going.” He almost smiled, as he heard Bonner’s old cackling laugh in his head.

  Rhodes stood and nodded. Fairchild’s two helpers came up and quickly, with no fuss, nailed the top onto the coffin. Then they eased the coffin into the grave, using ropes. Rhodes tossed in a handful of dirt onto the coffin and then stepped back.

  When the undertaker’s helpers had filled in the hole, Rhodes nodded again and gave each a dollar. They left, until only Rhodes, Hallie, and Andy were left. Rhodes went and got the mule from where he had left it tied to a tree. Stopping with the mule right over Bonner’s new grave, Rhodes calmly drew his pistol and shot the animal in the head.

  The mule made a strange noise and fell heavily, kicking some. Rhodes knelt to see if the mule needed another bullet. He didn’t. Rhodes stood, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from him. He even smiled for real this time. Old Joe was watching from wherever he was, and he approved of what Rhodes had done for him.

  Chapter Thirty

  Rhodes was saddling his palomino just before midnight when Hickman materialized. Rhodes had heard him coming and waited quietly with a pistol in hand. When he saw who it was, Rhodes put his pistol back into his belt and went back to saddling the horse.

  “Where’re you goin’, Travis?” Hickman asked.

  “Out after the three bastards that got away.”

  “You told Mr. Macmillan you wouldn’t do that.”

  “Did I?” Rhodes asked, unconcerned.

  “You did,” Hickman said firmly. “I was right there when you did, too.”

  “I never promised him any such thing.”

  “But I heard—”

  “You heard him say that I gave him my word to stay here instead of chasin’ killers.”

  “Yeah. And then —”

  “And then all I said was, ‘You’re right, I did.’ That’s all. I just agreed that I had said that. I never promised him today that I wouldn’t do it.”

  “That’s splittin’ some fine hairs, there, Marshal,” Hickman said.

  Rhodes shrugged. “Right now I don’t give a tinker’s damn what I said to Mr. Macmillan or what he thinks I said to him. All I care about right now is catching the sons of bitches who killed a good man.”

  “You want company?” Hickman asked.

  Rhodes looked over the horse at Hickman, showing some surprise.

  Hickman saw the look and half-smiled. “I know we’ve had our differences, Travis,” Hickman said bluntly, “but that don’t seem to matter much right now. I think back on it, and you gave me and Erastus far more help than would’ve been expected from a Gentile. From a fellow Saint, we might’ve expected it, but certainly not from an outsider.”

  He paused and spit into the hay on the floor. “I thought all along that you were helpin’ us just to t
ake somethin’ from us. I didn’t know how or why.” he added with a shrug. “Worse,” he added, “I was jealous. I thought maybe you were going to try to steal Minerva away from me. Though you never said an unkind word to me or an untoward word toward Minerva, I was afraid of that.

  “And I was jealous of you directly, too. You’re a strong man, good with your fists and with your guns. I was just filled with jealousy, and I’ve not been as good a friend as I could have been because of it. But I’ve come to see recently that there’s no reason to be jealous of you. I can admire some of your traits and maybe wish that in some ways I was more like you. But to let the green monster eat at me, blind me to another man’s worth, that’s unspeakable. I’d...Well, dammit, I’d like to...I don’t know...make it up somehow.”

  “That’s admirable, Fin,” Rhodes said seriously. “But I reckon I got to do this one alone.” He paused to slip the bridle over the palomino’s head and shove the bit gently into the horse’s mouth. “Besides, you’ll be a lot more valuable here than out there. With me gone and Joe dead, you’ll be the main lawman in Intolerance now.”

  Hickman nodded. “There anything you need?” he asked.

  “Just watch over Hallie for me.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Obliged.” Rhodes hung a bag of supplies over the saddle horn.

  “You know it’s snowin’ again?”

  Rhodes nodded as he tied his bedroll to the back of the saddle. Then he pulled on his frock coat and mounted the horse. “I’ll be back in a couple days, I expect. Try to hold the lid on things here.” Rhodes rode out of the stable, and walked the horse along the almost quiet streets of Intolerance.

  Snow was falling steadily, if not thickly, and the temperature hovered around freezing. The wind whistling up the empty canyons made it feel colder. Rhodes was glad he had the fur-lined coat, and thick, warm gloves.

  There was really only one way the gunmen could have gone when they left Intolerance. But five miles on, the road forked. One road wandered northwest and then cut due north through Berthoud Pass and on down the valley toward the Colorado River. The other turned southwest and into a wilderness of sharp canyons, steep cliffs, thick pine forests, and God knew what else.