by John Legg
Foster, seeing this as a chance—perhaps his only chance—of getting rid of this annoying marshal, as well as gaining some meager amount of vengeance, dropped his bucket and dove. He landed on the planks, resting on their wobbly supports. The planks went down with him, and it all landed on Morgan.
“Shit,” Morgan managed to get out as he found himself smashed to the floor.
“I gotcha now, you pain in the ass,” Foster growled as he got up and began flinging wood and other debris out of the way. He grabbed Morgan—who was still a little stunned—and slammed his back up against the log wall behind them. “I’ll teach you, you goddamn irritatin’ son of a bitch. Goddamn right, I will.” He smashed Morgan’s back up against the wall again and yet again. Then he spun in a half turn, dragging Morgan with him, and finally pitched Morgan across the room.
Morgan lost the scattergun and his hat as he bounced along the floor. He stopped against a table leg and pushed himself up. He felt shaky, but at least he was on his feet as he saw the bulky bartender charging at him.
Morgan ducked and caught Foster on his shoulder. Praying he had enough strength left, he pushed upright, shoving Foster’s legs as he did. The bartender flew over Morgan and landed on his back, where he bounced.
Morgan took a few deep breaths to steady himself. He was sore, but he was fairly certain he had broken no bones nor done any serious damage to himself. He stepped up and kicked Foster in the face as the bartender tried to stand. Foster groaned and fell back.
The lawman turned and retrieved the scattergun. Then he went to where the bar had been and kicked aside debris until he found a box of shotgun shells. He grabbed a handful and stuffed the shells into a vest pocket. He did the same with the other pocket. He stuffed a few more in his pants pocket and then loaded the shotgun.
Morgan walked outside and got a pair of handcuffs he kept in his saddlebags. Then he went back inside. Foster had gotten up, but he looked weak and shaky.
“Put these on, shit ball,” Morgan said, throwing the handcuffs at Foster.
“Why?” Foster asked dully.
“You’re under arrest.”
Foster still seemed a little stunned as he put the handcuffs on.
“Outside,” Morgan ordered.
“Where’re you takin’ me?” Foster asked nervously as he walked outside. “There’s no jail here.” He was recovering some, and starting to feel a little cocky. “No law, either.”
“Where I’m going to take you, there ain’t a jail either, but you won’t go nowhere. You got a horse?” Foster looked scared. “At the livery.”
Morgan nodded and mounted his horse. “Walk,” he commanded. With scattergun in hand, butt resting against his right thigh, Morgan followed the bartender to the livery stable. There, Morgan said, “Saddle shit ball’s horse, and be goddamn quick about it.”
“Jesus, Marshal,” the man said, “can’t it wait? I’m up to my ass in work here.”
“You’re going to be up to your ass in your own goddamn blood, you don’t have that horse saddled and out here in five minutes.”
The man shivered when he looked into Morgan’s cold gray eyes. “Yessir, Marshal. Right away.” He hustled away. Three and a half minutes later, he came back with Foster’s horse.
“Get on,” Morgan said icily. When Foster had done so Morgan said, “Out. South end of town.”
With a growing sense of dread, Foster got his horse moving. He was sweating as he rode, but he knew it wasn’t from the heat. Or set least not totally. Having everyone stop and watch him was embarrassing, too. He was a big man, and used to keeping order in his saloon by brute force more often than not. Having these others seeing him being taken out of town in handcuffs was disheartening.
As they neared Foster’s saloon, Morgan said, “Stop.” He spotted a man peering cautiously into the saloon. “Hey, pard,” he called. When the man looked at him Morgan said, “This here’s the man who runs that shithole. And since he’s here, there ain’t nobody inside.”
“Nobody watchin’ the whiskey?” the man asked, interest sparkling in his eyes.
“Nope.”
“Good gawddamn almighty,” the man said. He looked as if he had struck the mother lode.
“All right, shit ball,” Morgan said to Foster. “Ride on.”
Foster built up a nice dose of hatred to go with his fear as he rode out of town. It wasn’t bad enough he was trussed up like a Christmas turkey, but Morgan had just given everyone on Flat Fork license to raid his saloon. It wasn’t very neighborly to take away a man’s livelihood. And that angered him to no end. He’d get back at this marshal one way or another, he vowed.
Chapter Eighteen
Herb Foster gave up all idea of vengeance half a mile outside of Flat Fork. There was simply no room for such thoughts amid the total, absolute terror that had suddenly clutched at his testes and robbed his spine of much of its rigidity.
“Is this one of ’em?” Two Wounds asked, pointing his bow at Foster.
Morgan shrugged. “I don’t know, but I don’t think so.”
“Why’d you bring him out here then?”
“I figure there’s a good chance he might know somethin’ about the killers. So I brought him along in case he needed a little persuadin’ to part with what information he might have.”
Two Wounds grinned as he came right up alongside Foster and shoved his face within inches of the bartender’s. He wrinkled up his nose and backed off right away. “Damn, Buck,” he said, “the sumbitch’s wet his pants. Goddamn if that don’t beat all.”
“I’m surprised he ain’t shit in them,” Morgan commented matter-of-factly as he dismounted. “Get down, shit ball,” he said to Foster. “Then go sit over there.” He pointed.
“We gonna work on him here?” Big Horse asked. He sounded eager.
“No,” Morgan responded. “We’re too close to Flat Fork. Those shits down there hear it, they’re liable to get drunk enough to come out here and kill some Indians.”
“Damn,” Big Horse muttered. He was a man with an apropos name. He was about Morgan’s height— six-four or so—but packed thirty or forty pounds more on his frame than Morgan did. He was a fierce and ferocious man when he wanted to be, too. At other times, he was like an overgrown boy. And no matter what mood he was in, he remained something of an enigma to Morgan.
“Why’d you stop here, then?” Two Wounds asked.
Morgan shrugged. “Just to see if anything happens. Besides, I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry,” Two Wounds said with a laugh.
“That don’t make no sense,” Big Horse added. “Not when he’s full of shit.” He, too, started laughing, and the others—including Morgan—quickly joined in.
Sitting in terror nearby, Herb Foster began to think he had come completely unhinged. Here he was, sitting amid a pack of wild savages with a federal marshal, and they were making jokes. It was incomprehensible. The only explanation for all this absurdity was that he had lost his mind, because if it was real…He couldn’t even contemplate that.
Half an hour later, Morgan rose and said, “Time to ride, my friends.”
“Where to?” Two Wounds asked.
“Up toward the Little Wind.”
The men rode in silence, pacing their horses. As he rode, Foster still tried to make sense out of this surreal tableau in which he had found himself inserted. The Shoshoni were quite frightening, yet in another way, they seemed so…“normal” was the only word he could think of. They were all relatively tall, and their backs were straight. They rode like they were part of their ponies. They smelled funny, though, and seemed to be covered with grease. They’re all little better than animals, he thought, never giving a thought to his own filthy pants and shirt and the stench of whiskey that seemed to be a permanent part of him.
Just past noon, Two Wounds, who had been riding several hundred yards ahead of the others, rode back and moved up to pace Morgan. “Someone’s comin’,” he said.
“Who?”<
br />
“Blue coats.”
“Shit. How far?”
“Half a mile, maybe less.”
Morgan nodded. “You best let me handle this, but there might be some goddamn trouble. That goddamn Pomeroy strikes me as an ass. So you and the others best stay ready. There’s no tellin’ but what Pomeroy might decide to get fractious.”
Big Horse, who had pulled alongside, said, “I hope he does. It’s been too long since I’ve had a good fight.”
“You take some blue coat’s bullet in that big fat belly of yours, you’ll most likely’ll change your mind on that,” Morgan said. He trotted ahead so that he was in the lead.
The other riders bunched up a little closer, with Foster right behind Morgan, flanked by Big Horse and Red Hand. Two Wounds and Old Belly brought up the rear, hemming Foster in.
Morgan could see the cloud of dust kicked up by the soldiers. It grew closer and closer, until Morgan could see the soldiers themselves. Morgan stopped and let the troopers come to him.
Lieutenant Pomeroy held up his hand, stopping his men about twenty feet from Morgan, who was glad to see that Pomeroy had only eight men with him.
“A little out of your regular haunts, aren’t you, Lieutenant?” Morgan said more than asked.
“The entire reservation is my area, Marshal. You know that as well as I do.”
Morgan shrugged.
“Who’s that back there?”
“A prisoner,” Morgan said flatly.
“A prisoner guarded by Shoshonis? Highly irregular, I would think.”
“I didn’t know you could think. You’ve not shown any evidence of it that I’ve been able to see.”
Pomeroy’s face reddened when he heard some snickers from his men. “What’s he charged with?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I can make it my business.”
“You can’t do shit.”
“Is he one of the murderers?”
“I don’t think so,” Morgan said honestly. “But he might have some information that’ll lead me to them.”
Pomeroy nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I’ll just take him off your hands. I’ll bring him back to the camp and interrogate...” He stopped and his eyes widened. “That’s why you’ve brought him on the reservation,” he said. “To have the savages torture him to extract information. Have you gone mad?”
Morgan said nothing, since he was fighting back a grin.
“Well, I’m afraid I simply can’t allow that.”
“Lieutenant,” Morgan said, finally giving in a little to annoyance, “I am sick and tired of you and your officious bullshit. If you stayed back at the camp, like you were supposed to, we wouldn’t be having this problem. But no, you had to go stickin’ your nose into business that’s not your affair and that you can do little about.”
“If it’s on the Wind River Reservation, it’s my business,” an angry Pomeroy insisted.
“You remember what I told you back at Ashby’s?”
“Yes.” Pomeroy’s jaw was tight, but his eyes betrayed his worry and fear.
“Well, Lieutenant,” Morgan said harshly, “you best turn you and your boys around and head back to Camp Brown.” He left off the or else, thinking it not necessary. Despite his earlier comment, Morgan knew Pomeroy was plenty smart. It was just a matter of letting his head rule his heart. Morgan hoped Pomeroy could do it this time. Morgan had no desire to start a bloodbath. On the other hand, he could not allow Pomeroy’s interference, if only for his own pride in his abilities as a lawman. Still, if even one shot were fired, this would become a bloodbath. Most of the blue coats had, Morgan figured, seen battle before; and all the Shoshoni had, too.
“When this is over, Marshal,” Pomeroy finally said in a tight voice, “you’ll have to answer to me.”
“I’ll meet you anytime, anywhere—after this is done with. Until that time, keep away from me, the Shoshonis, and Flat Fork.”
Pomeroy glared at Morgan. Then he viciously jerked his horse’s head around and moved off. His men followed slowly. As Private Skousen rode by, he sneered at Morgan. The lawman leaned over a little and spit. It landed on Skousen’s light blue wool pants just above the knee. Skousen’s face turned livid.
When the soldiers had passed by Morgan and his group moved on. Before he went out to scout Two Wounds pulled up to Morgan. “At one point when you were talking with the soldier chief, I notice you almost smiled. Why?” Two Wounds asked.
“You remember what he had just said?”
“No. Not that I can think of.”
“He accused me of bringin’ Foster to the reservation here so I could have you savages torture him to get information. It’s true, but what that shit ball doesn’t know is that by openin’ his big mouth the way he did he made our job easier.”
“How?”
“Hell, Foster was ready to shit his pants as soon as he saw you. Hell, he did piss them. With Pomeroy makin’ that accusation, Foster’s got to be real worried. That’ll soften him up if he has half a day or so to think about what you ‘savages’ are going to do to him.” Two Wounds grinned. “Maybe the soldier chief ain’t so bad after all, hey?”
“Bullshit. He’s still a goddamn idiot.”
Two Wounds laughed as he galloped ahead to take his position ahead of the others. They rode on, feeling the day’s heat baking their heads. Finally, about midafternoon, Two Wounds stopped. Morgan rode up alongside him.
“This look good?” Two Wounds asked.
Morgan nodded.
Big Horse and Old Belly began setting up a small camp. Morgan, Two Wounds, and Red Hand took care of the horses.
Foster sat leaning back against a cottonwood tree. At least at first. Fifteen minutes after arriving, Foster looked around. Everyone seemed busy, and no one was paying him any mind at all. Licking his lips, he pushed his back against the tree trunk to get up. His knees trembled with fear, but he had to get away. He sidled off, trying not to make a sound. He had no real plan, other than to get away. He would have liked to be able to get to Morgan’s gear and get the key to the handcuffs, but he couldn’t. He would simply have to wait until he got back to Flat Fork. Then he could have the blacksmith get them off.
A hundred yards away, Foster began to run. In moments his heart was pounding and his breath was hard to catch. A stitch started in his side. Less than a hundred yards later, he stopped running, and settled for walking. He glanced back a few times, expecting pursuit at any moment. But none seemed to be coming. He walked on with more certainty.
Breathing a little more easily, he pushed on, more slowly than he wanted, but knowing that he would never be able to last if he went at any faster a pace than a medium walk. Suddenly he heard something behind him. He whirled, and then lost control of his anal sphincter when he spotted two Shoshoni bearing down on him in a rush. Mounted on their ponies, they were a terrifying sight as they yipped and howled.
The odor of feces wafted up to his nostrils and seemed to shake him out of his lethargy. He turned and began running. He did not get far before Big Horse cut in front of him. Big Horse’s pony reared. The warrior let out with several “ow-ow-ows” as his pony came back to earth. Then Big Horse dropped a horsehair rope loop around Foster’s neck. “You come me,” he grunted. “Or me take ’um hair.”
Nearby, Red Hand sat on his pony and laughed. Big Horse might be a ferocious warrior, but he had a marvelous facility for languages, plus he had an excellent education. He could speak English better than many white men could.
The two Shoshoni, mounted bareback, escorted Foster back to their camp. The overweight bartender walked between the two ponies, his face pasty white from fear.
“Took you long enough,” Morgan said when the three were back in camp.
“He needed time to shit,” Big Horse said with a laugh.
“In his pants, I take it,” Morgan said, wrinkling his nose.
Big Horse nodded, still laughing.
“Go sit, Mr. Foster,” Morgan said. “Yo
u try another stupid stunt like that and whoever catches you will break or cut off one of your body parts.”
Shaking, Foster stumbled back to his tree, where he huddled, trying to climb into himself. He cried and blubbered until his nose ran and coated the lower half of his shirt.
Chapter Nineteen
Foster looked up, a deeper terror taking hold of him. He was surprised to see Morgan standing above him with a steaming tin mug in one hand and a hunk of roasted meat on the point of a big knife in the other.
“That for me?” he asked stupidly.
Morgan nodded, and Foster took the proffered food, pulling the meat off the knife. He wiped a sleeve across his snot-smeared face and bit into the food, hungrily gobbling the half-raw meat. He finished his coffee pretty quickly and wished he hadn’t. He wanted more but was too frightened to ask for it.
He watched in fear as one of the Shoshoni—the big, beefy one—came toward him. Big Horse stopped and squatted in front of Foster, his face a mask of fierceness. Then he suddenly said, “You want some more coffee?” He burst into wild laughter at the look of terror on Foster’s face.
“Hey, Big Horse,” Morgan yelled. “Leave the shit ball alone, dammit.”
“I only asked him if he wanted some more coffee,” Big Horse answered without rising. “Well, do you, shit ball?” He laughed a little again. “That’s a funny name—shit ball. How’d you get it?”
Foster’s mouth worked, but only some funny little squeaks were emitted.
Morgan strolled up. “Go on back to the fire, Big Horse,” he said calmly. “You can terrify shit ball here later.”
“You’re no goddamn fun at all,” Big Horse growled, but he grinned at Morgan.
“You want more coffee?” Morgan asked.
“Yes, please,” Foster whispered, as if he were afraid the sky would fall on him if he spoke any louder.
Morgan took the cup, went to the fire, filled the cup, and then brought it back to Foster. “Enjoy,” he said evenly.
Foster looked up at Morgan, fear turning his watery eyes into great, round, dark circles. “Why’re you doin’ this to me?” he asked plaintively.