Rocky Mountain Lawmen Series Box Set: Four John Legg Westerns

by John Legg

  The man nodded. He knew he had no choice right now. But if he kept alive, there was always a chance to jump the lawman somewhere, especially when there were eighteen men down in the cabin.

  “All right, let’s give it a try.” Rhodes cocked the shotgun and pointed the weapon at the man’s chest as he reached over to untie the gag.

  The man spit a few times then sighed. “How’s about you untie me, too, man? I’m gonna freeze to death like this.”

  “You’re close enough to the fire. What’s your name?”

  “Who’s askin’?”

  “If you sass me even one more time, I’m going to put the gag back in your mouth, and then I’m going to do some very painful things to you.” Rhodes had spoken very distinctly, wanting to make sure the man knew just exactly what trouble he was looking at. “Now, what’s your name, boy?”

  “Simon Hungerford.”

  “What’re you doing out here, Simon?”

  “Lookin’ for some friends,” Hungerford said glibly. “And you expected to find them in my camp?”

  “Hell, I didn’t know it was your camp. I figured it was theirs.”

  “There was only one horse here.”

  Hungerford shrugged. “Figured the others was gone off somewhere.”

  “You didn’t know that horse—one that was so distinctive—didn’t belong to your friends?”

  Hungerford shrugged and smiled weakly. “Hell, half my friends are horse thieves. One of ’em could’ve just stolen it.”

  “That, Mr. Hungerford, is about the first true thing you’ve said.” Rhodes sighed. “Now, what’s Turlow planning to do with the gold?” He could see in Hungerford’s eyes that he had scored a solid hit.

  “I...I...I don’t know.”

  “It’s not bad enough you’re a goddamn liar, you’re also a poor goddamn liar.”

  “Christ, man, I don’t know what the hell he’s gonna do with the goddamn gold. I’m gonna get me my share and head for Californy.”

  “That makes some sense.” Rhodes paused. “I’m not very patient these days, Mr. Hungerford. Being cold all the time, and having sores on my ass from riding so much and losing a friend has made my temper shorter than usual. So what I want you to do, is to tell me all about it. How it was done, who did it, how it was planned, and who in Intolerance was behind it.”

  “You know someone in Intolerance is behind it?” Hungerford asked, surprised.

  Rhodes nodded. “I figure it’s Ham Macmillan.” The look in Hungerford’s eyes was almost startling. “It’s not Macmillan?”

  “It’s a Macmillan all right, but not Ham.”

  “Logan?” Rhodes was incredulous.

  “Didn’t know near as much as you thought, did you, man?”

  Rhodes shrugged. “Now that I’m aware, tell the rest of it.”

  “You wanna hear what I got to say, you’re gonna have to untie me and get me some hot food and coffee.”

  “What I’m going to do is start breaking some of your bones.”

  Hungerford’s eyes flashed hotly, but one look at Rhodes’s wide torso and the big, meaty fists at the end of arms that looked powerful even hidden under the coat, convinced him that Rhodes could do as he said.

  “Damn, you’re a son of a bitch, ain’t you?” Hungerford muttered. “All right. Logan told me and some of the boys to ride into Intolerance and start raisin’ a ruckus, which we did. That’s when you and that old far...that old man come out. I didn’t want to go back after we started ridin’ away, but Luther, he made us do it. I didn’t mean for that old man to get killed. I didn’t even know it till you said it just now.”

  Hungerford actually looked a little sad, but Rhodes figured it was more because he knew he was going to die soon rather than any remorse. Still, if the knowledge that he was going to die oiled Hungerford’s tongue, Rhodes figured so be it. Or, if Hungerford was unburdening his soul in an effort to gain some leniency with Rhodes, that was even better. He’d be less likely to lie that way.

  “Why’d he want you to raise a ruckus in Intolerance?” Rhodes asked.

  Hungerford shrugged. “I ain’t real sure. Luther—Luther Cudahy—was the boss of that little deal. Best I can figure is that Logan wanted you to trail us out of Intolerance.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Rhodes mused. “I wouldn’t be too inclined to go chasing anyone out of town just for hurrahin’ the town like that.” He thought about it for a minute. “That’s why you boys came back. To either kill me and get me out of the way for good, or to kill someone else to make sure I’d follow.”

  “I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that,” Hungerford protested. “All I know is that Luther said let’s make another run down the street, just to show you lawmen fellers that we wasn’t gonna be run outta town so easy.”

  Rhodes nodded. His stomach roiled with hatred, and his soul cried out for revenge, but he forced himself to wait. He needed to know everything first. “Makes sense,” he muttered. “Where’d you go?”

  “Luther and me went to the shack behind Macmillan’s place. All the others was waitin’ there. Billy Beene was the other of us that was in that fracas. He headed on toward here, figurin’ to ambush you, but you went the other way. Still Billy, he waited out there for the rest of us.”

  Hungerford paused to lick his lips. He was shivering now since the fire had burned down some. Rhodes noted that it was cold and tossed a couple more pieces of wood on the fire.

  “Thanks,” Hungerford said. “It’d help some, though, if I was to have some of that hot coffee you got there.”

  Rhodes thought about it for a few moments. Then he nodded. He uncocked the scattergun and set it aside. He stood and rolled Hungerford over onto his stomach. He knelt on Hungerford’s back as he untied his feet and hands. Then he retied the left foot and put the rope over Hungerford’s right shoulder.

  He did it with the other foot, again crossing the rope over the opposite shoulder.

  “What the hell’re you doin’?” Hungerford asked, confused.

  “Just keep your mouth shut.”

  Rhodes maneuvered Hungerford over onto his back. Then he tied his hands to the rope coming over the shoulders. Tied that way, Hungerford’s hands touched just over the sternum fairly high up. Hungerford would be able—with a little effort—to drink some coffee, but since he had barely an inch or two of slack, he could not throw the coffee at Rhodes.

  Hungerford did not look happy with the arrangement, but he said nothing, except to mumble thanks when Rhodes gave him a tin mug of coffee. He sipped, grateful for the warmth that splashed through him.

  “Now, you got your coffee. Let’s hear some more,” Rhodes ordered.

  “Almost as soon as you rode out of town—well, we gave it a little time to make sure you just didn’t ride out and back in—we hitched up the mules to the two wagons and took ’em around back of the bank. That door back there ain’t used for much except movin’ the gold in and out. Half the boys went around front and kept folks busy while the rest of us moved the gold out. We covered it up and rode nice and easy out of town.”

  “That simple, eh?”

  “Yep. The others inside the front of the bank stayed there a little while to let us fellers with the wagons get a ways away. Then they ran outside, jumped on their horses, and skedaddled.”

  Rhodes sat mulling it all over. It was a simple plan, which made it workable. It would take Logan Macmillan a little while longer to gather a posse and give a halfhearted chase. A couple of the outlaws could lie in wait and shoot down a couple of townsfolk which would send the rest of the posse scurrying home. Then they could leisurely ride here to the hideout and wait out the winter. How and when they divvied up the gold remained to be seen, but he didn’t expect Hungerford to know much about that.

  Rhodes could find no real flaw in the explanation; nothing that would make him think Hungerford was lying. It was too simple, too clean. His only problem, Rhodes figured, would be in convincing the people of Intolerance that Logan Macmill
an was behind it all.

  “What were you doing out here?” Rhodes suddenly asked. He realized he had never gotten an answer to it, and changing the subject slightly might give him a little more time to decide what to do about Hungerford—and the others.

  “Rode to Intolerance for some supplies.”

  “Couldn’t have been many supplies, if all you had was that horse.”

  “Didn’t need much,” Hungerford said with a small shrug, one that was constrained by the ropes.

  Rhodes rose. “Reckon I can see what was so important. You won’t make any noise now, will you?” The threat was ill-disguised by the calm words and even tone.

  Rhodes went to Hungerford’s horse and opened one of the saddlebags and looked inside. Several boxes of metallic cartridges were wrapped in an old shirt. Rhodes pulled everything out and looked through it carefully. Most of the shells were .44s, though he did find one box of .36s. Rhodes tossed that one aside to keep.

  He went through the other saddlebag, and found more boxes of ammunition wrapped in another dirty shirt. But this bag also included a letter. Rhodes opened the letter. It was to “Dalton,” and outlined the dividing of the loot. It had a few other things of little import to Rhodes, and was signed “Logan M.”

  Rhodes quietly folded the paper again and slipped it into an inside pocket of his coat, where it would be safe. The rest of the cartridges, he left in a pile. He had no use for them, but the others down in the cabin would not get any use out of them either.

  He walked back to Hungerford and squatted in his old spot. “How many boys’re down in the cabin?”

  “There was eighteen of us. I ain’t sure that one or two’ve gone elsewhere while I was on the trail, but maybe some did.” He hoped to scare Rhodes into letting him go. Only a madman would try to take on eighteen hard cases by himself. Travis Rhodes did not strike Hungerford as a fool.

  When Rhodes did not say anything after a few moments, Hungerford said hopefully, “How’s about you let me go now, huh? I’ll give you fifteen minutes or so to get on down the trail before I even start to the cabin. Hell,” he added magnanimously, “make it a half-hour.” He paused, waiting, but still no response. “You can’t take on all of us by yourself. Use your head, man.”

  Rhodes nodded slowly. “Reckon you might be right.” He pushed up and pulled out his big knife. He advanced slowly on Hungerford. The captive, now excited at the prospect of freedom, eagerly held out his hands as far as he could. He looked very shocked when Rhodes jammed the knife to the hilt into his chest.

  Hungerford gasped, looking at Rhodes with wide eyes. “Why?” he whispered.

  “That’s for an old man you left lyin’ in the street in Intolerance, boy.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Rhodes stood watching the cabin from his spot in the rocks. He had untied the ropes from Hungerford’s body, placed one around Hungerford’s chest, hauled him away, and then hung him from a tree limb to keep him away from scavengers. He intended to bring the cadaver back to Intolerance and see if there was a reward on him. He also wanted Logan Macmillan to see the body.

  Now he stood near the rocks wondering just how he was going to take seventeen or eighteen men who were all armed and ensconced in a cabin. He could think of only one way, and that would take some doing. He would wait for a while yet, though. It would not do to get done too early. In the meantime, he would eat, and then prepare.

  He estimated that there were two hours until daylight, such as it would be. Snow was falling again, though not heavily, and the quiet whoosh of the snow was almost comforting. He had filled himself up good on hot coffee and fatty, rich bacon and beans.

  He saddled the palomino. He had considered using Hungerford’s horse, but he did not know the animal, nor the animal him. He would need a horse he could trust. He climbed on, the two kegs of powder dangling by ropes from the saddle horn. He moved the horse out into the flat, snowy darkness.

  He went down the hill and turned right at the base of the mountain. He followed the same course as he had the first time. He walked quietly behind the house and brought the palomino into the barn. None of the other mules or horses seemed upset at this, which suited Rhodes just fine.

  Rhodes dismounted, found a nose bag, filled it with grain and put it on his horse. Then he grabbed a large armful of hay. He slipped out with it, went to the far end of the cabin at the back, and started laying the straw down as thickly as he could. He kept repeating the procedure until there was a path of straw along the back and near side of the cabin.

  He was heading back to the barn when the sounds from the house grew louder for a few moments and then faded. He froze and then sprinted for the barn, figured that someone had just come out of the house. He might be headed to the barn.

  Rhodes slipped inside and grabbed the pitchfork that he had moved earlier to get at the pile of hay. Then he waited, trying not to breathe too loudly. He was beginning to think that whoever had come out of the house was just going out to relieve himself or something, when the barn door creaked open.

  The man headed toward what had been a fair-size pile of hay. He stopped, head cocked, knowing something was wrong, but not sure what. “Damn Dalton anyway,” he muttered, angry at having to come out here to feed the horses and mules in the cold, dark time just before dawn.

  Rhodes stepped out of the shadows. “Looking for this?” he asked as he skewered the man with the pitchfork. The man gasped and wilted. Rhodes pulled the pitchfork out and tossed it aside. He dragged the body outside, since the animals were uncomfortable with the smell of fresh blood.

  Rhodes took a few minutes of a breather and then grabbed more hay, glad that the light snowfall had stopped as he walked back to the cabin. He left a two-foot-wide trail of the hay at an angle between the shed and the house and leading out into the snowy meadow.

  Finally Rhodes went back to the barn and picked up one keg of powder and opened it. He headed toward the far end of the barn. Carefully he laid a trail of powder on top of the still dry hay, all the way to the end of the hay. He walked back and put the keg at the near back corner of the cabin. It was still about a quarter full. He tossed in several boxes of the cartridges Hungerford had been carrying.

  Then Rhodes got the other keg, opened it, and walked to the far end of the cabin again. He poured a small mound of the powder and then placed the keg on it. He placed two boxes of cartridges on top and three sort of stuck into the mound of powder.

  At last, he went back to the barn, took the feedbag off the palomino, and climbed aboard. He walked the horse outside to the end of the hay and gunpowder. He dismounted, pulled off his gloves, and shoved them in his saddlebags. He opened his coat so the pistols were easily accessible. Then he pulled out a match. He scraped it into flaming life, knelt, and set it to the powder-covered hay.

  The hay sputtered and caught, then sizzled hotly as it latched on to the gunpowder. Once it was going sufficiently well, Rhodes leisurely pulled himself into the saddle and rode a little to his left, so that he would be straight ahead from the front door of the cabin. He pulled his scattergun and Hungerford’s .44-caliber pistol. The revolver he stuck in a side pocket of his coat. Then he waited. It was almost dawn, though it looked like it would be another gray day.

  He watched as the snaking sputter of sparkles moved along, until it went around the corner of the cabin. It seemed interminable, and Rhodes began to have doubts that his plan would work.

  Suddenly there was a grudging roar, and Rhodes could have sworn the side of the cabin lifted up some. Gunshots rang out as the cartridges went off. The cabin door burst open and two men charged out. Rhodes let go both barrels of the shotgun, not really expecting to hit anyone at this range, which he estimated at thirty yards or so.

  One man went down. The other skidded in the snow as he tried to stop. Then he spun and dove back toward the doorway of the house. There were no windows in the cabin, so Rhodes had little to fear from them shooting at him from inside. Of course, some of the chinks in the
wood were big enough to get a rifle barrel through. Still, the men had almost certainly been asleep when the small blast came.

  Less than two minutes later, the full keg of powder caught. It seemed this time to Rhodes that the explosion punched the building rather than just lifting it. Bullets from the other boxes of cartridges went flying about, and flames licked at the cabin’s rotting wood walls.

  Men scrambled for the door, and Rhodes began picking them off. Since there was only one door, the outlaws were having trouble escaping. And when they got out, they were more interested in fleeing than in shooting back at whatever army was attacking them.

  Rhodes even had a little time to reload Hungerford’s .44 Colt and empty it at the outlaws again. Then he tossed it away and pulled the two new .36- caliber Colts. It was, he knew somewhere down in his mind, just like being at Spotsylvania or Chickamauga or Gettysburg or any of those outdoor charnel houses where bodies were piled shoulder deep to horse. He refused, though, to allow the thought of what he was doing to affect him. He was doing what needed to be done in the best way he could figure to do it. He would feel no sympathy for these men in any case. They were thieves and murderers all and as such deserved no concern.

  The palomino was a horse accustomed to moving in the face of fire, and with this short, stocky man on his back, Rhodes needed to do little to control his horse as he rode back and forth in front of the cabin, with the outlaws still trying to find freedom and safety.

  Flames built up, goaded on by coal oil, whiskey, ammunition, and gunpowder inside the house. One outlaw raced, screaming, from the house, clothes ablaze. He threw himself into the snow, rolling frantically to extinguish the flames.

  It was almost too easy for Rhodes as he rode back and forth, moving a little closer every now and then, plinking outlaws. Despite the fury of the battle, though, he was aware of each and every man there. He checked each one in his mental file, wanting to find Turlow and the two other men who were responsible for Joe Bonner’s death.

  Several men dashed toward the barn, figuring to grab horses and get the hell out of this valley.