Rocky Mountain Lawmen Series Box Set: Four John Legg Westerns

by John Legg

  “I could do with a bite,” Ashby said with a grin.

  He managed to pull himself out of his funk a little and get into the game he could see Dayton was playing. It was true, though, that he was hungry.

  “Me, too,” Dayton announced. “All right, Herm, hustle on over to Clooney’s and have the old bastard rustle us up a couple of steaks, taters, and whatever else to go with them.”

  “But…”

  “The stalls could use mucking out,” Dayton warned.

  “Two steaks with all the extras coming right up.” Obstfelt left, buttocks tight with anger.

  Ashby grinned. “You really delight in tormenting him, don’t you, Floyd?”

  “I sure do,” Dayton said with a laugh. “It’s one of the few amusements left to me, I sometimes think.”

  “Seems to me it’s a mighty easy target you got there.”

  “It sometimes does seem a little unfair, but I can’t stop myself.” He leaned forward and uncorked the bottle of whiskey. He poured a small amount into his coffee cup and stirred it with a chubby forefinger. “Want some?” he asked.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Ashby decided. He reached across the desk, took the bottle from Dayton, and then added some to his coffee. He raised his cup. “Well, cheers. Or something.”

  “Or something,” Dayton agreed. They drank a little, and then Dayton said, “Despite whatever troubles brought you here, Orv, it’s good to see you. What’s it been, two years?”

  “Closer to three, I think.” He sipped again. “With you way out here, and me out there on that damn reservation...”

  “Is it that bad out there?”

  “It’s a desolate hole,” Ashby said thoughtfully. Then he grinned. “But, you know, I kind of like it out there. Most of the reservation is scrubland and desert, but not far from Camp Brown are the Wind River Mountains. God, if they aren’t something to see. I try to get up there every chance I can to do some hunting and fishing.”

  “Sounds nice. You go with the army? Or the Indians?”

  “Either. The Shoshoni’re pretty nice people. Not savages like most people think. Clean, respectable, honest. I tell you, there ought to be more whites with those qualities.”

  “I can agree with that, even if I don’t know the Shoshoni. I’ll tell you, Orv, it might be nice out there, but I think I’ll just stay right where I’m at. Good restaurants, a soft bed, a good selection of saloons—and brothels. Ah, the good life.” He laughed.

  Chapter Four

  Antelope Hills, Wyoming Territory

  April 1874

  After getting what little information he could from Rog Cochrane, Morgan did what he could for Cochrane’s wounds, which wasn’t much. Basically he just splashed some whiskey over them—eliciting a startled hiss from Cochrane, who almost fainted when the procedure was performed on the second wound. Then he bound the wounds with a couple of dirty strips of cloth he had found on the floor.

  That done, Morgan tied the outlaw up and gagged him. Then Morgan walked through the soft, warm night and got his horse and his small stock of supplies and equipment and brought them down to the cabin.

  Putting the horse in the makeshift corral on the side of the cabin, he tended the animal. Fighting off the tiredness, he brought his things inside. After checking Cochrane again, he cooked up a plate of beans—about all the food he found in the cabin—and ate, ignoring Cochrane’s hungry eyes.

  Finished eating, he relaxed a little with a cup of coffee and a rare pipe. Afterward, he forced his weariness aside and cleaned and reloaded the pistol he had used. He checked over his rifle, making sure it was fully loaded. He gathered up all the outlaws’ guns he could find, as well as their ammunition and his own. He laid the guns—all loaded—and the extra ammunition on the table, ready to be grabbed if needed.

  It was well after midnight when he finished. He ran a hand across his weary face. While he did not think the other outlaws would be back in the middle of the night, he decided he had better take a look around anyway. He rose and stretched. Clapping on his hat, he headed outside.

  Morgan made a long, slow, careful circuit of the area, but he found nothing out of the ordinary. Still, it had taken him a couple of hours, and by the time he got back to the cabin he figured there were only a couple of hours left until daylight. He checked Cochrane’s bonds, and then poured himself some coffee.

  For a bit he pondered trying to get some sleep, but he didn’t know if that was safe. He opted for pouring cup after cup of coffee down his throat. It helped some, but by the time daylight came, he had to make water something awful. After doing so he made another check around the area, this one much faster.

  He finally returned to the cabin and sat back to wait for the four other outlaws to return.

  But the lack of rest over the past several days caught up to him and he fell asleep, snoring softly as his head slumped forward onto his chest.

  Cochrane lay on the cot where Morgan had thrown him and watched the marshal warily for some time. Morgan certainly seemed to be sleeping soundly, but Cochrane worried that the lawman was trying to fool him into trying something. Then Morgan could shoot him to death without anyone being the wiser.

  After almost an hour Cochrane figured he was safe enough, and he began working to free his bonds. It was difficult—after two more hours Cochrane began to think impossible—considering that both his arms were wounded. Still, Cochrane kept at it, pausing more and more frequently as the minutes turned into hours. More than once he had to twist himself so he could bury his face in the straw tick as pain swept over him in gut-wrenching waves.

  He figured it was a little past noon when he heard horses approaching the cabin. Cochrane jerked at the ropes frantically, face mashed against the mattress to keep his groans of pain quiet. But it was no use. He gave that up and instead shoved his face against the mattress time and time again, trying to force down the side of the gag a little.

  The cloth budged a little, then a bit more. With a frantic look at Morgan, who was still sleeping, Cochrane rolled up onto his knees. A nail stuck out of the wall, and he slid his cheek against it several times. He tore his flesh, but finally snagged the cloth that was in his mouth. Two jerks and the gag finally came free, hanging wetly just below his lower lip.

  He gasped as pain swept over him again. Then he sucked in a deep breath. “Rob!” he shouted as a warning to his brother and friends. “Raise dust outta here, boys!”

  Morgan jerked awake at the shout. And he did so fully alert. Without delay, he spun, Smith and Wesson in hand, and angrily shot Cochrane through the chest. Then he jumped up and ran for the one crude window.

  “Shit and goddamn,” he snarled when he saw the four outlaws hightailing it for the ridge a hundred and fifty yards or so away. Smith and Wessons would never do for a long shot at fleeing targets, and he knew that by the time he grabbed his rifle they’d be over the ridge. He holstered his one pistol.

  Teeth clenched in anger, he stomped to the cot. Cochrane was dead. “Goddamn stupid young shit ball,” he muttered. He was talking as much to himself as he was to the remains of Rog Cochrane. He was enraged at himself for having fallen asleep. He finally sighed. Recriminations would do him no good, no matter who they were directed at. He turned, grabbed his rifle from the table, and went to stand in the corner near the window. That allowed him a good view of the landscape, but still kept him mostly protected.

  As he stood there, he wondered if the outlaws would just keep on riding. He got his answer soon enough when a slug whistled through the window and whined off the coffeepot. Morgan did not fire back, since he had no target.

  “Rog!” one of the outlaws yelled. “Rog, you still in there? Ronny? How about you? Manny?” There was a pause, then, “If any of you’re alive in there, call out.”

  Morgan waited a few moments, then bellowed, “All three’re dead. You’ll be in the same condition, if you don’t give yourselves up right quick.”

  “Who the hell are you?” an angry, arrogant voice d
rifted down from the ridge.

  “Deputy U.S. Marshal Buck Morgan. Now give yourselves up and save us all a heap of grief.”

  “You really kill Manny, Ronny, and Rog?”

  “All three.”

  “Bastard.”

  Morgan could see no reason to comment on that, so he said nothing.

  The outlaws laid siege to the cabin all the rest of the day, firing at intervals and from slightly different locations so as not to give Morgan anything to shoot at. The shots were frequent enough to keep Morgan alert, but not enough to waste too much ammunition.

  Morgan fired back on occasion, more to let the outlaws know that he was still there than for any other reason. He was grateful for the cabin’s location; with all the open land between the ridge and the cabin, the outlaws could not get close enough to rush the cabin.

  He did know full well, though, that the outlaws were certain to charge the cabin after dark. He figured they would do so after midnight, maybe even shortly before dawn. That would give Morgan some time to worry about being overpowered and maybe get tired, which would mean he would be less alert.

  That’s how Morgan figured the outlaws would reason it out, anyway. Of course, they did not know who they were dealing with here.

  Morgan watched until it was too dark to see anything. Then he turned and went to the table. He tossed two Colt revolvers into his saddlebags and unloaded all the rest of the weapons. He stuck as much ammunition as he could into the saddlebags. He downed a quick cup of coffee. He had been considerably relieved earlier in the day to find that the bullet that had hit the pot had only winged the top. He had taken the time then to heat up some beans, which he had eaten while standing at the window. He did the same a couple of hours later. Now he figured he could get by without more food for the rest of the night, if need be.

  He shut off the lantern and waited fifteen minutes. The moon provided enough light that he could see if any of the outlaws were heading for the cabin. None were.

  Finally Morgan slipped out of the cabin and saddled his horse. Leaving it there, in case he had to make a run for it, he headed toward the ridge to his right. That ridge cast enough shadows that he figured he could get there without being seen.

  He moved swiftly and surely, heading toward where he figured the outlaws were. He found one of them fairly quickly. The man—Morgan was not sure which one of them it was—was lying on the rim of the ridge, rifle in front of him. He was gnawing at his fingernails.

  Morgan sighed. He knew it would be far easier just to put a knife in the outlaw’s back and be done with it. But he was a deputy U.S. marshal, and he took his job seriously. He would have to try to arrest the man.

  He marched forward and placed a foot flat against the man’s back, then knelt that way. He pressed the muzzle of his Smith and Wesson against the nape of the outlaw’s neck. “You’re under arrest, shit ball,” Morgan said quietly.

  “Like hell I am,” the outlaw snapped. He jerked himself up violently, shoving hard with both hands. The maneuver threw Morgan to the side a little. He fired his pistol, but the bullet just missed the outlaw’s head.

  The outlaw—Avery Spangler, Morgan saw now—flopped back down and then rolled away from Morgan, snatching up his rifle as he did.

  Morgan shot him twice in the face, making a bloody awful mess at that range.

  Morgan’s hat went flying off as he heard the whine of a bullet. He did not flinch, but he swung a little to his left, still kneeling, and fired the remaining two bullets in his Smith and Wesson at the flash of gunfire he had spotted.

  Someone yelped, and there were no more gunshots. Morgan slipped the Smith and Wesson away and scuttled off a few feet to his right as he pulled the other pistol. Then he stood and moved cautiously toward where he had fired at the gun flashes.

  Suddenly, he heard hoofbeats racing off. He stopped and listened for a few moments. The hoofbeats were heading away, toward South Pass City, moving fast. Still, Morgan meant to be cautious. There was no telling yet if the outlaws hadn’t simply sent a couple of stolen horses running off to fool him.

  Behind a rock, he found a dead outlaw—Rob Cochrane. Morgan squatted, his back against the rock, and reloaded his empty revolver. That done, he stood and moved off again.

  Morgan spent several hours searching the area. He found where the outlaws had tethered their horses originally. Only one was there now. He left the horse there and continued his wary search. Shortly after midnight, he decided that the remaining outlaws had taken off. He got the one horse they had left and then went back to the two men he had killed. One at a time he threw them across the saddle. Then he walked down the slope to the cabin.

  Morgan unsaddled his horse and brought his gear back into the cabin. He brought the two bodies inside and then unsaddled the other outlaw horse. Back inside, he nailed a few old boards over the window. He ate a plateful of beans and had a cup of coffee. Then he turned in.

  In the morning he saddled his own horse, then tied the bodies of the outlaws across the backs of horses. Two animals were left, and Morgan set them loose. He pulled himself into the saddle and rode off, stopping when he got to where the outlaws’ horses had been tied the night before. He tried to follow their trail, but it was difficult on the rocky, scrub-covered ground.

  Finally, he decided to just head for South Pass City. The outlaws most likely wouldn’t linger there—even if that was where they had headed—but Morgan thought someone there might have some information about the two men.

  He took his time riding, not wanting to overtax any of the animals in the heat. He also was watching the ground halfheartedly, hoping to pick up the outlaws’ trail. He had no luck, and an hour or so before dark he rode into South Pass City.

  Morgan stopped in front of the Sherlock Hotel and dismounted, ignoring the people gathering to stare at him. He went inside the dining room portion of the hotel and took a seat.

  Chapter Five

  Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory

  April 1874

  Deputy U.S. Marshal Herman Obstfelt entered the office of his boss, U.S. Marshal Floyd Dayton, after knocking. In his hand was a tray loaded with a steak dinner and all the trimmings. He held the door open for another man, who also carried a tray. The two placed the trays on the desk, one in front of Dayton, the other across the desk, near Orville Ashby, who pulled his chair closer to the desk, hunger glistening in his eyes.

  “Anything else, Marshal?” Obstfelt asked tightly.

  “Coffee—bring another pot. With some sugar. And we can use some more biscuits, too. Oh, and bring us a couple of those good cigars Klemmer sells.”

  “I hate to intrude,” the other man said, “but who’s payin’ for all this?”

  Dayton looked up at Mike Clooney and grinned a little. “Put it on the office tab. It’ll be paid when I get my next check for expenses and such.”

  “Shit, I expected you to say that. Dammit, Marshal, I can’t feed you and every goddamn criminal in the territory on your good wishes and promises. I need me some good hard cash every once in a while, dammit.”

  “You always get your money, Clooney,” Dayton said, some of his humor dissipating.

  “Yeah,” Clooney admitted. “But it takes long enough.” He sighed. “All right. I’ll send Obstfelt here back with the coffee and sugar. He can get the cigars at his leisure, as far as I’m concerned. I’m in the restaurant business, not running a tobacco shop.”

  Obstfelt returned not too long after, setting a small package of cigars on the desk along with a large coffeepot and a small dish of sugar. “Anything else?” he asked, hoping he kept the annoyance out of his voice.

  He hadn’t, but Dayton didn’t mind. “Not for now, boy, but you better stick close by just in case me and Orville here need some dessert.”

  After the steaks the marshal and the Indian agent decided that they did, indeed, need some dessert, so Obstfelt was dispatched to bring them another large pot of coffee plus a large helping of cherry cobbler for each.

 
Bloated, the two finally leaned back in their chairs. A mug of whiskey-laced coffee sat before each man and a cigar jutted jauntily out of each mouth. Once more Dayton called in Obstfelt and had the deputy clean away the supper debris. It took him several trips. On the last, Dayton said, “You can go on home now, Herm.”

  “Gee, thanks, Marshal,” Obstfelt said sarcastically. When Obstfelt had left Dayton looked at Ashby and asked, “Well, Orv, now that supper and all the pleasantries’re out of the way, what can I do for you?”

  “Someone’s killing Shoshonis on the reservation, Floyd,” Ashby said quietly.

  “Who? And, more importantly, why?”

  Ashby shrugged. “I don’t know the answer to either of those questions. I wish I did.”

  “You have any ideas on who’s doing it?”

  “I thought it was Arapaho. They’ve been enemies of the Shoshoni for years, and it would seem likely.”

  “You don’t really sound so sure of that, though,” Dayton said pointedly.

  “Well, the killer or killers are trying to make it look like members of a rival tribe are doing it. That’s why I suspected the Arapaho. They have the hatred, and the proximity, to be able to pull something like that off.”

  “But…?” Dayton pressed.

  “But Chief Washakie suspects it’s the work of white men.”

  “Why’s he think it’s white men? He hate us so much he’s trying to blame everything on us?”

  “No. No, nothing like that. Washakie’s been invariably friendly to the white man. He’s been chief more than twenty years, and never once has a Shoshoni killed a white man that anyone knows about. It’s odd. Most of the other tribes don’t allow one chief to rule, but for some reason the Shoshoni have allowed Washakie to do so.”

  “Must be one tough old bird,” Dayton commented. “He is that.” Ashby paused. “There’s a story about him that illustrates his toughness quite well. Seems the Blackfeet were attacking the Shoshonis regularly. The warriors wanted to send a war party against the Blackfeet to get some revenge. But Washakie told them it’d be foolish—maybe even suicidal. Well, that didn’t sit real well with his men, and they started making fun of him. Called him a dried-up old man who had no balls.”