Rocky Mountain Lawmen Series Box Set: Four John Legg Westerns

by John Legg

  “How old is he?”

  “Now, about seventy, as best as anyone can figure.”

  “And when did this take place?”

  “Just a couple of years ago.”

  Dayton looked at Ashby skeptically but said only, “Well, what happened?”

  “Washakie got them to quiet down and stay home, at least for a spell. Then he disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  Ashby nodded. “He was gone a little over a week. The young warriors were certain he had run away, and they were drumming up support for a punitive expedition against the Blackfeet when Washakie returned—with seven Blackfoot scalps.”

  Dayton’s eyebrows rose.

  “Yes, all by himself he went to Blackfoot territory, killed seven of them, and took their scalps. Not too many of the men gave him a hard time about anything after that. There wasn’t one of them who had the balls—or the ability—to do what he had done.”

  “And you believe that?”

  Ashby took a sip of coffee and nodded. “Yeah, I do. I’ve heard it from enough people—including some who can’t be considered exactly good friends with Washakie—to believe it.”

  Dayton nodded. “He sounds like a wild character,” the marshal admitted. “But what’s that got to do with any of this?”

  “Well, you had thought he might be blaming whites simply because he hates whites. But he doesn’t. And he wouldn’t blame whites just for the hell of it. Nor would he allow his men to blame whites for the hell of it.”

  “So what made now you think it was some other Indians?” Dayton asked.

  “All the bodies were mutilated.”

  “How?”

  “All the victims’ ears were cut off, as were some fingers. Two were disemboweled; rather crudely, I’d say.”

  “So now you’re an expert on disembowelments?” Dayton asked with a grin.

  Ashby shook his head, seeing no humor in the statement. “No, I wouldn’t say that. But I have seen the results of an Indian battle where the bodies were mutilated, and these Shoshonis did not seem to have been done the same way. I can’t really figure it out, but there was just something different about it.”

  “Maybe other Indians did do it but were rushed,” Dayton said thoughtfully. “They hurried their job and didn’t get a chance to do it right, if that’s the correct term.”

  “What about the others, though?” Ashby countered. “The ones that did not suffer that particular mutilation?”

  “Again, maybe they were pressed for time. They sliced the ears, and maybe only a finger or two, and then thought someone was coming or something. So they just kicked up the dust getting away from there.”

  “I suppose that could be true. But Washakie’s got me more than half convinced that it wasn’t Indians, in large part because of the ears. No Indians I know of cut ears off,” he added, parroting Washakie. “At least, not as a regular practice.”

  “But why in the hell would white men do such a thing?” Dayton asked.

  “Jesus, Floyd, you know the way men act. White men don’t need any excuse to kill Indians. Hell, the same can be said of most Indians. Why do men—any men—do half the damn things they do? Why are men so bent on killing each other for no good reason?”

  “Christ, Orv, calm down a little. I don’t have the answers. I just do my job the best I can and try to treat my fellow man as good—or as bad—as he treats me.” Ashby smiled ruefully. “I was getting a little carried away there, wasn’t I?” he asked rhetorically. “Anyway, I tend to believe Washakie. Being a ‘savage,’ as it were, he knows about mutilations far better than I do. At least with ritualistic mutilations, which is what the Indians practice.”

  “Ritualistic mutilations?” Dayton asked, surprised. “Has something to do with their religion,” Ashby said. “I don’t really understand it, but they seem to think that if they hack up someone’s body, that person’ll get to the Happy Hunting Grounds in a carved-up state. Since they believe that everyone will live again after death, better to have to face an enemy who’s got no arms or no eyes, or no balls—literally—than one who’s got all his limbs, senses, and abilities.”

  “Sounds mighty damn stupid to me,” Dayton commented. “But who’s to say? I figure half of my beliefs’d be thought strange by others.” He drained his coffee cup and leaned back, puffing quietly on his cigar for a little while. Then he leaned forward. “Whether it’s whites or other Indians, why don’t you go to the army? They do have troops out there for your protection, don’t they?”

  “Yeah, they do. Not a hell of a lot, but there’re some. They’re supposed to be keeping the Shoshoni safe from the Arapaho and the Crow.”

  “Then why aren’t they helping find out who’s committing all the murders?”

  “For one, there’s only fifty or sixty of them. For another, I’m not sure those idiots can find their socks if they’re wearing them. But mostly, I haven’t brought the army into it because Washakie’s asked me not to.”

  “Why the hell not?” Dayton didn’t like where this might be heading.

  “He’s sure that bringing in the army would only lead to more Shoshonis getting killed. I tend to agree with him.”

  Dayton nodded. “Yeah, the army does have a way of screwing things up, don’t they?” Dayton drummed his fingers on the desk. “I don’t want to,” he finally said, “but I guess I have to ask. What’s this got to do with me?”

  “I want your help.”

  “I figured that. How?”

  “Send me a group of deputy marshals to help find who’s been doing these murders and put an end to them.”

  “A group?” Dayton said with a small laughs of derision. “How the hell many deputies do you think I have?”

  “I have no idea,” Ashby said evenly. “But I do know you can hire as many as you want.”

  “As many as the budget’ll stand is closer to the truth. And I don’t have the biggest budget in the world.”

  “A small group then,” Ashby suggested hopefully. “Half a dozen maybe?”

  Dayton, who, like all U.S. marshals, was appointed by the president, didn’t really want to get involved, since this was almost certain to bring controversy. He didn’t know how to explain that to an old friend, though. Finally, he said, “It’s really out of my jurisdiction, you know, Orv, but for an old friend, I can spare one man. That’s the best I can do, Orv. Take it or leave it.”

  “Reckon I don’t have much choice,” Ashby said. “Except to bring the army in on it, and I’m not going to do that unless it’s the last resort.” He paused. “But I want—and Washakie, who’s always been a friend to the whites wants—someone who doesn’t hate Indians just for being Indians. We need someone who’s strong, fearless, and used to hardships. That reservation isn’t a garden spot, if you’ll recall me telling you.”

  “I got just the man in mind,” Dayton said. “He’s the best I got. I’ll send him out there soon’s he gets free. That might be a little while, since he’s after some real bastards.”

  “Just make it as soon as you can, Floyd. I’d like to prevent any more killings.”

  Chapter Six

  South Pass City, Wyoming Territory

  April 1874

  Buck Morgan waited as long for service as he thought reasonable—perhaps three minutes. Then he said in a medium-loud voice, “If I got to get my own supper, I’m gonna leave one hell of a mess in the kitchen.”

  A fearful-looking woman hurried over to the table. “What can I get for you, Marshal?” she asked.

  “Beefsteak, beans, biscuits, coffee,” Morgan said flatly. “And don’t take all night about it.”

  A tall, reedy older man edged into the restaurant. A cheap tin badge hung loosely from his worn vest. The pistol he carried was in a holster that flapped almost squarely over his crotch. He looked ridiculous—except for the light of determination in his faded old eyes. He shuffled to Morgan’s table and sat. “I’m Fish Walters,” he announced. “Marshal of South Pass City, such as it is
these poor days.”

  “So?” Morgan was in little mood for conversation.

  “It’s my duty to ask what’s with them bodies you brought in.”

  “They need buryin’.”

  “Who’s gonna pay for it?”

  “Sell their horses and use the money. If that ain’t enough, send a bill to U.S. Marshal Floyd Dayton in Cheyenne. He’ll see you get paid, I suppose.”

  “That ain’t much comfort for those who have to do the work,” Walters said calmly.

  “No skin off my ass. You don’t want to bury them, dump them out in the scrub somewhere. They don’t deserve no better anyway. Hell, I wasn’t even going to bring those shit balls in.” He paused. “You know where the other two are?”

  “What other two?” Walters countered.

  Morgan fixed Walters with a cold, hard stare. “You might be an old coot, but you ain’t that goddamn stupid.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, sonny,” Walters snapped. “I’ve seen a hundred smart-ass little punks like you in my many days. I’m too goddamn old to be afraid of some young snot like you.”

  “Maybe you are that goddamn stupid after all,” Morgan mused.

  “You should have more respect for your elders, sonny boy.” He leaned over a little and spit into a spittoon on the floor by the table.

  “Just because you’re old?” Morgan asked mockingly. “You’re gonna have a long goddamn wait. Now was you to give me some reason to respect you, you’d get it. But I just don’t hand out my respect for the hell of it, old man.”

  “I really hate struttin’ little bastards like you,” Walters said angrily.

  Morgan shrugged. “And I hate parsimonious old shits like you. Now you either shit or get off the pot, Gramps.” He leaned back as the woman began setting his supper in front of him. “You want my respect, earn it. Tell me where the rest of the Spangler-Cochrane gang is.”

  Walters sat for some moments—long enough for Morgan to cut into his steak and began gnawing on a hunk. Finally, he said, “I ain’t seen ’em since day before yesterday. They were here for a day or two, raisin’ hell, as always.”

  “And you didn’t do anything?” Morgan asked evenly.

  “I might be too damn old to worry about dyin’, but that don’t mean I aim to commit suicide. There ain’t a person in South Pass City these days that’d stand up with me against the Spanglers, the Cochranes, or any other goddamn band of cutthroats like ’em.”

  Morgan nodded. “I can understand that. This ain’t the only town full of yellow-bellied shit balls.” He swallowed. “You know where the last two got off to? They were headed in this direction when last I heard them.”

  Walters shook his head. “Nope. Bastards like them could be anywhere. You mind if I have a biscuit?”

  “Help yourself. Coffee, too, if you like.”

  “I would.” He turned. “Mabel, bring me a cup over here, will ya?” he shouted. A moment later the woman brought the cup, and Walters filled it. “Who were the two who got away?” he asked after a sip. “Kevin and Jess Spangler.”

  “You killed the other five by yourself?”

  Morgan nodded.

  Walters whistled, impressed. “You must be pretty damn good, boy,” he said.

  “The best in the territory,” Morgan said. There was no hint of boasting; he was simply stating a fact.

  Walters looked askance at Morgan, who was paying Walters no mind. Walters shook his head, believing. “Anything else I can help you with, Marshal?” he asked.

  “Just see if I can get a room upstairs. And see if you can have my horse tended to.” He reached into a vest pocket, pulled out a ten-dollar piece, and flicked it across the table. “That ought to be more than enough for the room and the horse. The meal, too.”

  Walters nodded and drained his coffee cup. He stood, half-eaten biscuit in hand. “You pullin’ out come mornin’?” he asked.

  Morgan nodded. “Oh, one more thing, Marshal,” he added. “You can ask around, see if anyone else in town has seen the Spanglers today.”

  “I’ll do so.” Walters shuffled off.

  After eating Morgan went outside and got his saddlebags and rifle. Then he went into the hotel. The same woman who had waited on him in the restaurant was in the small hotel lobby.

  “Sign here,” she ordered, pointing with a dirty finger to a line in the ledger book. When Morgan had complied Mabel handed him a key. “Top of the stairs, back corner. We start servin’ breakfast about dawn.”

  “And a pleasant day to you, too, ma’am,” Morgan said sarcastically. He went upstairs. An hour later, Walters knocked on the door and entered when Morgan gave him leave to do so. “You learn anything?” Morgan asked.

  Walters shook his head. “Nobody’s seen nothin’, nobody’s heard nothin’, nobody knows nothin’.”

  “About what I figured. Well, Marshal, I’m obliged for your efforts anyway. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve had a long day and I could really use some shut-eye.”

  Not knowing which way to go, Morgan headed for South Pass itself the next morning. In Atlantic City he stopped and asked the sheriff there if anyone had seen the Spanglers. Getting a negative response, he moved on, turning west to take the smooth, easy way across the Continental Divide.

  Once through the pass, he turned his horse southwest, roughly following the course of Pacific Creek. Two days later he found himself in Farson. He got a hotel room, brought his horse to the livery, and then had a meal. After all that he began hitting saloons. There was a more than adequate number of such establishments, and Morgan had to watch his intake of liquor. He stuck to beer, and only sipped that as he tried to find out if anyone in this town had seen or heard of the Spanglers lately.

  No one said he had, and Morgan was beginning to tire of the questions and the lack of positive responses. It irritated him, and that made him cantankerous. Though no one in Farson knew him, just about all could see by the look in Morgan’s eye that he was not a man to be messed with.

  He considered visiting one of the brothels but put it off. The best place to find out information about men like the Spanglers was in saloons. The second-best place was in a brothel. He vowed to try that avenue as soon as he made it through all the saloons in town.

  There were only two more saloons left when he thought he had gotten a break. Two short, wiry men sitting at a back table in the Ox Blood saloon nodded when he asked his question. Interested, Morgan sat. “When did you last see them?” he asked, interest piqued, some of the tiredness dropping off him.

  “Well now, who wants to know?” one asked.

  “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Buck Morgan. Now answer the question.”

  “Well, now, Marshal,” one said, holding up his three-quarters empty mug of beer, “I’m mighty dry here, and talkin’ll need me to have a wet whistle.” Morgan felt like he would explode, but he calmed himself down. “Fair enough,” he said evenly. He called over the bartender and ordered a new beer and a shot of whiskey for each of the two men. While they waited for it, Morgan asked, “What’s your names, boys?”

  “I’m Mark Willsey,” the one who had spoken before said. “My pal here is Cliff Sloan.”

  The drinks arrived. “Now,” Morgan said patiently, “let’s hear what you boys got to say.”

  “Me’n Cliff’re some hungry, Marshal,” Willsey said with a small, insincere smile.

  Morgan snapped halfway up and reached out, then grabbed Willsey by the shirtfront and jerked him most of the way across the table. “Answer my question, shit ball, or I’ll shove that glass of beer so far up your ass you’ll have to keep your hat on so it don’t spill.” Willsey’s mouth flapped and his eyes blinked rapidly.

  Then someone hit Morgan with a bottle. Morgan had sensed someone coming up behind him, and just before he got hit he shoved Willsey away from him and darted his head to the side. The bottle hit on his shoulder. It hurt, but it would not incapacitate him. He snapped his elbow back and hit someone in the stomach.

  Not knowing
what he faced behind him, Morgan dropped to the floor, turning as he did. Then he surged upward, his back knocking the table up and over. It landed on Willsey and Sloan. By the time he was standing, Morgan had one of his Smith and Wessons out. He fired once at a large, fat man who had a bottle in one hand and a pistol in the other. The fat man went down, dead.

  Morgan swiftly glanced around the room. No one else seemed ready to make a move, so he spun back to face Willsey and Sloan. The latter had unlimbered his pistol, so Morgan drilled him a shot in the chest.

  Willsey also had been drawing his pistol; he had it almost all the way out when Morgan killed Sloan. Willsey threw the revolver away. “Don’t shoot, Marshal!” he screeched, fear stamped all over his face. “Don’t shoot. I ain’t got a gun no more.”

  Morgan grabbed Willsey’s bandanna and jerked him forward. He spun, facing the room again. “You’re under arrest,” he announced. “Now move, unless you want to join your friend there.”

  As Morgan left the town marshal’s office, he knew damn well that the marshal wouldn’t hold Willsey any longer than Morgan was in town. Morgan didn’t much care right at the moment. In a foul mood, he headed for the nearest bordello, where much of his anger dissipated in a spirited session with a tall, chubby young woman.

  The next day he rode northwest. Several days later he reached Sublette’s Spring. He spent the night there before moving west across the trackless wastes until he came to the Green River. He saw no one until he reached a small town on the river. No one there had even so much as heard of the Spanglers. For once he was certain they were telling the truth.

  He followed the river southwest, stopping at every town, farm, or ranch he spotted. Still no one had seen the Spanglers. He finally moved into the barren, arid, treacherous Bad Lands Hills. It was the kind of place men like Kevin and Jess Spangler would go to throw off a posse. But he found no trace of anyone there.