Rocky Mountain Lawmen Series Box Set: Four John Legg Westerns

by John Legg

  Rhodes, though, reloading the Colts on the run, cut them off. One ripped out his own revolver, but Rhodes drilled him through the side of the head. Astride the palomino Rhodes ran the other man down. The man fell, knocked unconscious by the horse’s broad chest.

  Rhodes quickly found out that Turlow was a sneaky fellow. He slipped out of the cabin early on, using two of his men for cover. Rhodes had shot the two, but Turlow had slipped around the far end of the cabin. By the time Rhodes got there, Turlow was gone. Rhodes raced back the other way, figuring to head Turlow off before he could get to the bam.

  Three men, at least two of them wounded, suddenly popped up in front of Rhodes. The palomino reared, almost throwing him, but it probably saved his life, since the wildly pawing horse threw off the three men’s gunfire.

  The palomino came down with steel-shod hooves hitting one man in the head. The animal’s big chest hit another man, whose gun went off, winging the horse a little. As soon as the horse was on all four hooves, Rhodes fired once from each pistol. He hit both men, but he was not sure he had killed them.

  Turlow burst from the barn, riding bareback. He held on to the horse’s mane with one hand, in which he also held a pistol. His other hand held another pistol, which he was firing wildly at Rhodes.

  Rhodes pulled the palomino to a stop and waited as Turlow rushed closer. Rhodes thought many times during the war that he was somehow special. More than once he had stood fast in the face of overwhelming odds and had come out mostly unscathed. Like now. He just waited as Turlow emptied one pistol at him, and then switched to the other.

  Then Rhodes fired twice. Both balls struck the racing horse in the chest. The animal’s front legs buckled and he skidded along on his chest and jaw in the snow. Turlow was thrown over the horse’s head, and lay sprawled and motionless on the ground.

  Rhodes pulled to a stop and reloaded his pistols. The scene was grotesque and eerily silent. But Rhodes had not seen the two men who had killed Bonner. He wondered if perhaps they had not been here. With fresh loads in his pistols, Rhodes dismounted and walked through the open-air slaughterhouse. Not counting Turlow, Rhodes found thirteen men, all but three of them dead. Those three would not last long, he figured, not with the bitter cold and the extent of their wounds. With Turlow and the man Rhodes had killed in the barn, the total was fifteen. That left three men unaccounted for, based on what he had seen earlier and what Hungerford had told him.

  The cabin was still burning well, throwing heat over a considerable distance. Occasional bullets were fired as the flames found cartridges. But mostly it was over.

  Holding the palomino’s reins, Rhodes walked slowly toward Turlow. He stopped and looked down. Turlow was alive, though unconscious. Rhodes didn’t know how badly the man was hurt, but he hoped it wasn’t much, since he wanted to take Turlow back to Intolerance alive and healthy enough to be able to testify against Logan Macmillan.

  He tied Turlow up and dragged him into the barn. When Rhodes came back out, he looked around. He sensed that there were others around, but he could see nor hear nothing out of the usual.

  He mounted the palomino and rode behind the cabin. He found nothing there. Suddenly, on a hunch, he headed to where the road went out of the valley—the opposite side from where he had come into it.

  A quarter of a mile away, he spotted three men lurching along. None had a coat, and all three were shivering with the bitter cold. They heard Rhodes approaching and they turned. One raised a pistol, and Rhodes snapped off a shot. The man dropped his revolver, as he spun toward the ground.

  “You other two boys got a choice,” Rhodes said mildly. “You either haul yourselves back up the hill nice and peaceable, or I’ll put a bullet through each of you here and now. You have three seconds to decide.”

  One of the men held his hands up. “I ain’t lookin’ for no bullet, mister.” He slowly lowered his left hand, eased out his Colt, and tossed it away.

  “You?” Rhodes asked, looking at the other one still standing. He was one of Bonner’s killers, and Rhodes more than half-hoped the man would try something. But he followed the same path as his companion.

  “Your friend still alive?” he asked.

  “Yes, goddammit, I’m alive,” the fallen man said. He got up, having some trouble. He was the last of the men who had killed Bonner.

  “Since you’re so agreeable, now you can march nice and easy back up the hill.”

  “Dalton’s gonna have your ass for this, you son of a bitch,” the wounded man snarled.

  “Turlow’s trussed up like a Christmas turkey,” Rhodes said pleasantly. “He ain’t going to do a damn thing.”

  “Then Mac—”

  “Shut up,” one of the others hissed.

  Rhodes smiled, but there was precious little humor in it. “I know all about Macmillan,” he said quietly. “And he ain’t going to do anything either.” He paused to let that sink in. “Now, move on up the hill or I’ll leave you here for the wolves.”

  The three began moving, walking slowly up the hill. Rhodes followed on his horse.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Rhodes went straight into the barn, where he tied the three men up after checking to see they had no weapons hidden on them. Then he gave the palomino another nose bag full of grain.

  Turlow had regained consciousness, and was cursing a blue streak. Rhodes put up with it for a few moments, before he whirled, pistol in hand. He fired and then jammed the pistol back into his pocket. “Next one’ll be two inches lower,” he said quietly. “Now shut your yap.”

  Since Turlow had felt the bullet cut through the small cowlick he had mornings when he woke up, he did not need any more encouragement.

  Rhodes pulled the wanted posters out of his pocket. Turlow he knew, and the one who had not been among Bonner’s killers was named Mark Chesterfield. The two who had killed Bonner did not have wanted posters—not in this batch anyway. He walked to an unwounded one and squatted in front of him. “What’s your name, boy?” he asked.

  “Go to hell, Marshal,” he sneered. “We killed that badge-totin’ old fart back in Intolerance, and well do the same to you, you son of a bitch.”

  “That’s no way to talk,” Rhodes said, keeping a lid on his simmering anger. Then he smashed the man in the face with a rock-hard fist. The blow mashed the man’s nose and made his eyes cross. “Now,” Rhodes said quietly “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Bobby Hood,” the man mumbled.

  Rhodes looked at the wounded man. “And you?”

  “Jordan Porter.”

  Rhodes went back outside and made another tour of the battlefield. Two of the three wounded men had died. The third was still clinging to life, but Rhodes figured he had only minutes left. As he walked around, he picked up every weapon he found and tossed it into a feed sack he had brought from the barn. When he was done, he took the sack down to the stream and pitched it in. Then he went back to the barn.

  He paused, looking around. His next problem—and it was a major one—was getting the gold back to Intolerance. It would not be easy alone. He checked the four men’s bonds and then strolled to the shed to look at the wagons. Then he had an idea.

  He harnessed the wagons, eight mules to each. Then he tied the lead mules for one wagon to the back of the first wagon. He had no idea if this would work, but it would be the only way he could manage it that he could see.

  He wheeled the elongated wagon but into the meadow. Then he got Chesterfield and Hood from the barn. He hobbled them with ropes around the ankles. They could move, but not fast. Then he took them outside. “Start loading, boys.”

  “Loading what?” Chesterfield asked.

  “Your pals. Put some on each wagon and either tie ’em down or put another tarp over ’em. We don’t want ’em bouncin’ all over now, do we?”

  The two men shrugged, but Chesterfield’s eyes lit up a little. He was sure he could grab a weapon from one of the dead and blast this son of a bitch to hell and gone.

 
Rhodes had seen the look and smiled. He said nothing. Let them find out for themselves. A few minutes later, he could see the budding frustration on Chesterfield’s face. “You didn’t think I’d leave pistols lying all over for you to pick up, did you?” he asked innocently.

  “Bastard.”

  While the two men worked, Rhodes got some jerky from one of his saddlebags and gnawed on it. He would prefer a nice piece of beefsteak, but he’d prefer some hot coffee even more. He had neither, though, and he was not about to go through the charred cabin, which might collapse at any moment, for it. He could have sent one of the outlaws into the cabin to check, but there might be some weapons left in there that were usable. Better to stay hungry, he thought.

  Finally the men finished. “Nice work,” Rhodes commented. He felt sick at all the death he had brought to this picturesque little canyon, but there was nothing could be done about it. All these men would have hanged anyway, had they been captured by vigilance committees or other marshals.

  Rhodes hastily tied Chesterfield and Hood to one of the wagons and then brought Turlow and Porter outside. He tied Turlow to the right side of the first wagon, and Chesterfield to the left side of it.

  “What the hell’s this?” Turlow asked.

  “We’re heading back to Intolerance. You two boys are going to walk.” He untied Hood and pushed him toward Porter. “You two ain’t,” he said flatly.

  “What?” Hood asked, surprised.

  “I reckon he means we’re gonna ride,” Porter said with a sneer. “Ain’t that right, Marshall?”

  Rhodes nodded slowly. “You scum remember an old man with a gold badge on his chest?”

  “Sure,” Porter said nervously.

  Rhodes smiled, and it chilled Porter and Hood more than the bitter weather did. “There ain’t anything I could do to you two that’d be equal to what you did to ol’ Joe Bonner. Still, you’ve got to pay for it, and now’s as good a time as any.”

  “Hey, now wait a minute,” Hood said, fear cracking his voice. “There’s no call to—”

  “Shut your yap, you lily-livered little bastard,” Porter snapped. “Don’t give him the satisfaction of hearin’ you beg.” He looked at Rhodes and sneered again. “Go on and do your worst, Marshal. I ain’t afraid of no goddamn carpet baggin’ damn Yankee.”

  “Us damn Yankees did all right in the war, boy,” Rhodes said even more quietly than usual. “Whipped your asses good we did, and none of your whining about the glory of the Old South ain’t going to change that fact one teeny little bit.”

  “You gonna talk all goddamn day?” Porter asked. Rhodes shook his head and shot Porter in the other shoulder. Being so close, the blast knocked Porter down. As Rhodes bent over him to haul him back up, Hood slammed into him, knocking Rhodes off to Porter’s side.

  Rhodes rolled and came up with pistol cocked and ready. Hood was looming over him. Rhodes shoved the pistol up and fired. The bullet tore through the underside of Hood’s jaw and blasted out the top of his head. He slumped.

  “Maybe he wasn’t so damn dumb after all,” Rhodes said as he stood and brushed snow off him. He hobbled Porter’s feet and then hauled him up.

  He tied him to the left side of the first wagon. Then he smashed Porter’s nose and mouth with a leather glove-clad fist.

  Porter sagged but remained upright.

  Rhodes tied his palomino to the back of the second wagon. Then he let all the rest of the horses out of the barn. Sensing freedom, the animals trotted off. Finally Rhodes climbed onto the seat of the first wagon. He released the brake and moved out, silently praying that this would work.

  The hardest part, he knew, would be the climb up out of the canyon. It was fairly steep, and coated with snow and rock. Even worse, he wasn’t sure if the second team of mules would follow along, hooked as they were to the first wagon. Rhodes’s only other choice, though, would be to let Chesterfield drive the first wagon, while he drove the second. That might be better, but it could also have some serious consequences.

  He got to the trail and started up it. He realized right off that he wasn’t going to be able to get die wagons up there this way. He eased backward until he was on the flat again. It took a considerable effort to keep his temper when Turlow began ridiculing him for having failed.

  Rhodes climbed down from the wagon seat, walked past Turlow, and kicked the outlaw leader in the knee.

  “Shit,” Turlow hissed.

  “You still might make it through this trip if you watch your mouth.” Rhodes said. He unhooked the second wagon from the first. Then he untied Chesterfield from the wagon, though he left his hands bound together. “Get on up there on the first wagon.”

  When Chesterfield was seated, Rhodes climbed into the back of the wagon, wrapped a slip knot around Chesterfield’s neck and tied the other end of the short piece of rope to the back of the wagon seat. He had enough room—barely—to drive the wagon, but not enough slack in his hands to allow him to do anything, and any attempt to move too much would strangle him. The only other thing he might possibly do would be to race off in the wagon. But two things made that an unlikely possibility. For one, Turlow and Porter were tied to the sides of the first wagon and would be walking. Of course, Chesterfield might not care that he dragged his two old comrades along as he made a bid for escape, but it was a factor. The other was that Rhodes would be fifty feet or less behind him, and Rhodes was not going to miss him with five or six shots.

  “Move out,” Rhodes said as he settled into the seat of the second wagon.

  It was still difficult going up the slope, but they made it halfway without trouble. At that point, Rhodes called for a stop at the flat spot where he had entered the forest when he arrived here—was it only yesterday?

  He got down and gagged Porter. Then he unhooked Chesterfield and Turlow from the wagon and directed them toward his camp. Hungerford was still swinging from the tree, frozen stiff. Rhodes cut the rope and the body fell like a lead weight.

  Rhodes let Hungerford’s horse go and untied his mule. “Grab your pal.”

  With their hands still bound, Chesterfield and Turlow had a tough time carrying the stiff corpse. They finally made it back to the wagons and put Hungerford with all his dead comrades. Rhodes tied Turlow back to the side of the wagon and then rebound Chesterfield on the wagon seat. With a check to make sure Porter had made no success at trying to free himself, Rhodes tied his mule to the back of the wagon next to the palomino.

  They moved on again, up the hillside, the mules sometimes having a little trouble with their footing. Then they were on the mostly flat road toward Intolerance.

  Rhodes’s little caravan drew quite a crowd of gaping people as it wheeled down the wide main street. It was late afternoon and for some reason, it had warmed up some, inching past freezing. The caravan stopped in front of the First Mining and Mercantile Bank of Intolerance. Frederick Wormsley, the bank’s president, came outside to stare in wide-eyed wonder along with everyone else.

  “Somebody best get Dexter out here,” Rhodes said as he climbed down off the wagon. “He’s going to be one busy fella.”

  A woman gasped after having looked under one of the tarps, and word spread —as it always does in such situations—that there were dozens of bodies in the two wagons.

  Phineas Hickman shoved his way forward. “Welcome back, Marshal,” he said loudly.

  Rhodes nodded. “Fin,” he acknowledged. “It’s good to be back.” He pointed to Turlow, who could barely stand. “That there’s Dalton Turlow. Take him over to the jail and lock him up till we can set a trial for him.”

  “Be glad to. Who’s the other?”

  “One of Turlow’s men. Name’s Mark Chesterfield. He can join Turlow at the jail.” Jordan Porter had not finished the trip, having succumbed to loss of blood.

  Fairchild strutted up. “Someone call for me?” he asked officiously.

  “You ought to be able to retire after this batch, Dex,” Rhodes said with less humor than he had planned.
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  Fairchild looked under both tarps. “I should make you a partner,” he said with a laugh.

  “Well, now that all this is taken care of,” Wormsley said, “We must get the gold back into the bank where it’ll be safe.”

  “Hope it’ll be safer than it was last time,” someone shouted. Wormsley looked offended.

  “Only two problems with that,” Rhodes said. “One is I get ten thousand bucks in gold.” He paused, but no one argued about that. “Second is that this ain’t all over yet.”

  “Didn’t you catch all the outlaws?” Wormsley asked, worried.

  “All but one.” He spotted Hallie St. John standing with her brother. She looked happy but shy. Rhodes nodded and smiled at her.

  Hallie moved tentatively forward, until she was in the warm, protective cover of Travis Rhodes’s big left arm.

  “I said, do you know where the other one is?” Wormsley asked for the fourth time. His exasperation was showing.

  Rhodes nodded. He pointed to Logan Macmillan, who was standing near the back of the second wagon. A gasp went up from the crowd.

  “You’ve been riding too long, Marshal,” Logan said easily, but with a touch of wariness and concern.

  “No, sir,” Rhodes said wearily. “You were behind this robbery, and you were behind the killing of Joe Bonner. And for that, you son of a bitch, I’m going to see you hang.”

  “Surely you’re joking, Marshal,” Logan said. His voiced quavered a little bit. “Who made these ridiculous allegations? I must say, sir, that I find them most offensive.”

  “Simon Hungerford told me first. Turlow and Chesterfield acknowledged it. And, I have a letter you wrote to Turlow about divvying up the gold.” Rhodes tapped the breast of his old black frock coat, with the gold badge shining brightly on the lapel.

  “You’ve gone mad.”

  “Have I?” Rhodes was weary; tired of deadly games, of blood and death, of intrigue. He wanted it all to end. Still, this had to be played out. With his left arm still around Hallie’s shoulders, he eased out one of his trusty old Whitneys. He held it straight down alongside his leg.