Rocky Mountain Lawmen Series Box Set: Four John Legg Westerns

by John Legg

  “You know goddamn well why, shit ball.” Morgan stood staring down at the chubby bartender, almost feeling sorry for him. Then he left.

  Dark came soon after, and once again Morgan walked over to Foster. He picked up the tin cup. “Best get some sleep, shit ball,” Morgan said. “And for Christ’s sake, don’t try runnin’ away again, dammit. Big Horse’ll be one ugly-mad son of a bitch if he has to go chasin’ you down again.”

  “Well, if he kilt me, I wouldn’t have to undergo your goddamn torturin’ now, would I?”

  “You think that if Big Horse—or any of us—had to go traipsin’ after you, we’d kill you quick and fast?”

  “No,” Foster said meekly.

  “Good. Now shut up and go to sleep.” Seeing the fear in Foster’s eyes increase, he added, “You don’t have to worry about these boys. They won’t hurt you while you’re asleep.”

  In the morning, Morgan brought Foster some breakfast. When the meal was over Morgan and the four Shoshoni squatted in a semicircle around Foster.

  “The time’s come, shit ball,” Morgan said flatly. “You know what information we’re lookin’ for. You tell us what you know about the men we’re interested in, we’ll take you back to Flat Fork. If you try to give me a hard time, I’ll turn you over to these Shoshoni here.”

  He paused to let that sink in a few moments. “Now,” he continued, “they ain’t near as adept at torturin’ folks as the Blackfeet or the Apache—or so I’ve been told—but they can come up with a few ideas, I’d wager.”

  Foster licked his lips nervously. “I don’t know much. I really don’t. I swear.”

  Morgan shrugged. “Then tell me what little you do know.”

  “I can’t,” Foster whined.

  “Why not?”

  “They’ll kill me sure as hell.”

  “And you think we won’t?” Morgan asked harshly. “Let me tell you something, shit ball: If those others kill you, it’ll be over quick and fast. My friends here do the job, you’ll die in great pain, and it’ll take a long time. I can guarantee you that.”

  Foster drew in a breath that shuddered and quivered both on the way in and on the way back out. “The leader of the gang that’s killin’ the Injuns is Del Murdock,” Foster finally said in a wavering voice. “He has maybe ten men that ride with him at times.”

  “What’s he look like?” Morgan asked. He had a name now. If it was the right name, he stood a chance of making use of that snippet of information.

  “He’s a tall feller, Murdock is. Not quite as tall as you, maybe, but more burly. He has real clear blue eyes, and he almost always dresses in fine style. He’s got a well-trimmed mustache and long, thick sideburns. But two things make him stand out—a necklace of dried human ears and fingers that he wears about all the time, and his laugh. It’s crazy somehow. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

  Morgan’s face betrayed nothing, but his heart was racing. He knew now that Del Murdock was the man he was looking for. He nodded and then asked, “Do you know the names of some of the other men who ride with him?”

  “A few,” Foster said. He had been watching the big Indian, the one Morgan had called Big Horse, and that scared him to no end. He did not want any of the Shoshoni torturing him, most especially the vicious-looking Big Horse. So he found it easier to talk than he had thought he would.

  “Give me names, and some descriptions of other members of Murdock’s gang.”

  Foster thought a few minutes, trying to put faces to names. Then he said. “Norm Nordmeyer is closest to Murdock. Nordmeyer’s the opposite of Murdock—-he’s real short and don’t hardly weigh nothin’ at all. He’s a fiesty little bastard, though. He’s got himself one hell of a temper.”

  Foster stopped. “Can I have some coffee, Marshal?” he asked quietly. “I’m parched with all this talkin’.”

  Morgan nodded. Over his shoulder he said, “One of you boys please get shit ball here some coffee.”

  While he waited, Morgan pulled out a thin cigar and lit it.

  Red Hand gave Foster a tin mug filled with thick black coffee. Foster nodded in thanks, trying to suppress a shudder of fear at the proximity of the Indian. He took a sip as Red Hand went back to his position.

  “That’s better,” Foster said, feeling a small sense of relief. “Other men who run with Murdock are Cliff Bagley and Henry Coates. Both are pretty nondescript sorts of fellers. You’d never be able to pick Bagley out in a crowd, and the only way you could do it with Coates is by his left eye. It points off in whatever direction it has a mind to.”

  Morgan nodded. “Any others?”

  Foster was almost beginning to enjoy this. He had never really been the center of attention before. As a bartender, people generally took him for granted, as if he were part of the furnishings. Still, that had allowed him to overhear a lot of things that men would normally not want people to know about. Such as the names of some of Murdock’s men.

  “Let’s see, there’s Al Oberman, a big, fat feller— fatter’n me even—who has a reputation for being a sadistic man. He likes to torture people before he kills them, from what I’ve heard. And then there’s Ward Haggerty. He looks like a damn preacher. He’s always clean-shaved and scrubbed. Looks like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. But I’ve heard he’s also a nasty bastard, particularly when it comes to women.”

  Morgan nodded again. Foster knew a lot more about the marauders than he had thought the fat bartender would. “That’s five,” Morgan noted. “You said there were ten, maybe more. You know any others?”

  “A few,” Morgan said after some moments’ thought. “Let’s see, there’s also Roscoe Davidson. He thinks he’s a dandy, what with wearing his derby and tie all the time. And Russ Quinn. Oh, but ain’t he a character. Got a great big goddamn nose, enough for two or three people. And a couple new fellers. They just started runnin’ with Murdock the past couple of months or so. Brothers named Spangler.”

  Two Wounds, sitting behind Morgan, could tell just from the sudden stiffening of Morgan’s back that the names were familiar to Morgan. “You know them, Buck?” he asked.

  Morgan nodded. “Couple of shit balls used to have their own outlaw enterprise down around South Pass City and thereabouts. I was huntin’ them just before I come out here. I got the Spanglers’ two brothers, Avery and Manny, plus another set of brothers—Ronny, Rob, and Roger Cochrane. I never could track the last two bastards down, though. Now I know why.”

  “You know what they look like then?” Foster asked. Morgan shrugged. “Only from their likenesses on handbills. Any more?”

  Foster shook his head as he grew frightened again. While he had been dispensing information, he had felt at least a little safe. None of the men facing him had made any move against him then. But now that he was out of information, he began to worry about his life. They might consider him useless now; he was certain he was going to be killed, after being tortured.

  “They have any one place in Flat Fork where they hang their hats?” Morgan asked.

  Foster shook his head again. “They frequent all the saloons—includin’ mine every now and again—and whorehouses in Flat Fork.” He paused, and then said thoughtfully, “You know, come to think of it, I ain’t seen them in town for several days. Maybe they’ve ridden on.”

  “They’ve ridden on the reservation here is where they’ve ridden. Those shit balls’ve killed three more Shoshoni in the past two days.”

  “Four,” Old Belly said quietly from behind Morgan. “Yellow Wing, too.”

  Morgan nodded, not looking back. “Four that we know of. There might be others.”

  “I’m sorry,” Foster said. He was sincere, but he wasn’t sure if his captors knew that.

  “You are sorry,” Morgan said sarcastically, “that’s for goddamn sure.”

  “What now, Buck?” Two Wounds asked.

  “I go huntin’ for Del Murdock and his gang,” Morgan said flatly.

  “We go hunting for Del Murdock and his gang,” B
ig Horse said. “Lame Bear was my friend. I must avenge him.”

  Morgan looked back over his shoulder. Big Horse had a mean, determined set to his wide, flat face. Morgan decided he would not want to have Big Horse on his trail. Morgan nodded and looked back at Foster. “What about him?” Red Hand asked.

  Morgan knew who Red Hand was talking about. “I reckon we ought to take shit ball back to Flat Fork.”

  “Why?” Big Horse growled. “That’ll waste time.”

  “One reason is that I promised him. For another, Murdock just might be back in Flat Fork.”

  Big Horse grunted an assent, still not really liking the idea. “When do we leave?” he asked.

  “Soon’s we get the horses ready,” Morgan said, standing.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Shoshoni waited where they had the day before while Morgan rode into Flat Fork with Foster. The bartender was still scared half out of his wits. Even though he was no longer in the company of the fearsome Shoshoni, he was almost equally afraid of Del Murdock and his men. They would kill him without a thought if they learned that he had revealed their identities to a federal lawman.

  The two rode straight to the livery, where Foster left his horse. Morgan climbed down from his own horse and uncuffed Foster. “You pull anything stupid against me,” Morgan warned, “and I’ll come back with the Shoshonis and pay you a visit. You got that?”

  Foster nodded nervously.

  “Then get goin’, shit ball. If you’re lucky, you might have somethin’ left of your saloon.”

  Morgan watched for a few minutes as Foster waddled swiftly down the dusty street. Then he climbed up on his horse and rode off, stopping at the first saloon he came to. He spent the best part of that day going from one saloon to another. Unlike the last time, though, now he made no pretense at drinking. He simply walked in, fired off one barrel of the scatter-gun to gain attention, and then asked loudly if anyone in the place had heard of Del Murdock, Norm Nordmeyer, Henry Coates, Al Oberman, Ward Haggerty, or Kevin and Jess Spangler. When he got a resounding response of silence he would head to the next saloon.

  He got not so much as one person nodding, let alone offering information. He had hit every saloon and every bordello in Flat Fork by dusk. He was hungry, and he looked at the fetid restaurant. But he could not torture himself that much. Instead, he stopped at the mercantile.

  “What can I do for you, Marshal?” a strapping young man asked.

  “First off, a box of shotgun shells. Ten-gauge, double-ought buck, if you got them.”

  “We sure do.” The young man walked off and returned a minute later with a box of shells that he placed on the counter. “Anything else?”

  “You have anything to eat in here?”

  The man laughed. “I see you’ve tried Morty’s place down the street.”

  Morgan nodded. “Couple of days ago. My stomach still hasn’t forgiven me for it.”

  “I know what you mean. Well, we’ve got jerky— both buffalo and beef; canned love apples; salted beef; bacon; beans; some antelope brought in just this mornin’; fresh apples and peaches and grapes…Anything strike your fancy?”

  “Most of it,” Morgan admitted. “Give me some beef jerky, some bacon, beans. You have any biscuits?”

  “Just hardtack.”

  “Throw some of them in. And half a dozen apples.”

  As the young man began gathering up the items, he said, “We don’t get many lawmen in Flat Fork, Marshall. You come to clean the place up?” He grinned.

  “Only way this hellhole’d get cleaned up is to put a Lucifer to it and then start from scratch.”

  “I agree. Definitely agree.”

  “You seem awfully out of place in Flat Fork, too, Mister…?”

  “Applegate. Alvin Applegate. Most folks call me Vin. And, yes, I do seem out of place. I feel that way more often than not, too. But I persevere.”

  “Don’t the scum that run in this town bother you?”

  “They did some when I first came here. I finally beat the shit out of a couple of them, and shot two others dead. Then I told the rest that I’d kill anyone else who messed with me. I also told them that I’d prefer to be something of a neutral spot in Flat Fork. That if opposing fellows were in here they could not fight or cause argument. They accepted that—reluctantly, I must admit, at first, but they grew more accustomed to it. I’ve had no real trouble with the people of Flat Fork in three years.”

  “You’re either crazy or a nervy bastard,” Morgan commented honestly.

  “Perhaps a little—or a lot—of both,” Applegate said with a laugh. He stopped working to look directly at Morgan. “You’re a pretty nervy bastard yourself, Marshal. There’s not many men who’d ride into Flat Fork alone, wearing a badge. That’s an open invitation to assassination. How’d you get away with it?”

  Morgan shrugged. “For one, I showed right off that I wasn’t here to clean up the town, as you put it. Second, I took on several gunmen and laid them in their graves. But I think the main reason,” he added with a little grin, “is the same way you got away with what you did. We just acted like we had more balls than everyone else in town.”

  Applegate laughed loudly as he went back to his work. “I believe you might be right about that, Marshal…What is your name, anyway?”

  “Buck Morgan.”

  “You been a lawman long, Marshal?”

  “Too goddamn long, I sometimes think.” He thought for a moment. “Guess it’s been close to ten years now.”

  Applegate finally stopped at the counter, a small pile of packages in front of him. “Well, that’s it—unless you’ve forgotten something?”

  “A couple of those cheroots you have there,” He pointed. He put them into his shirt pocket.

  “Anything more?”

  Morgan grinned and pulled the top off a jar sitting on the counter. He dipped in and came up with a handful of sour balls. He dropped them on the counter. “That’ll do it for certain.”

  When he had paid and his purchases were in a sack Morgan asked, “You know Del Murdock and his ilk?” Applegate nodded.

  “You know where I can find them?”

  “That why you’re here, for Murdock and his men?” Applegate countered.

  Morgan nodded.

  “Why?”

  “That’s none of your concern. Now, I asked you a question, and I’m still awaitin’ an answer.”

  “No, I don’t know where you could find them. And even if I did, I probably wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Oh?” Morgan asked, raising his eyebrows in question.

  “It’s like this, Marshal,” Applegate said uneasily. “When I offered this as a neutral meeting place for the many competing interests in Flat Fork, I also meant that I would stay neutral. If nobody bothers me, I’m not going to point a finger at them. Murdock’s honored my position all along. I plan to honor his privacy.”

  “A noble attitude, Mr. Applegate,” Morgan said without too much sarcasm. “I hope that it works well for you.”

  “It has so far, Marshal,” Applegate said with a shrug. “But as for it continuing, who knows? We all do what we can.”

  Morgan touched the brim of his hat and then picked up his parcels. “Good day, Mr. Applegate.” Morgan found that he had liked the young store owner, despite his unwillingness to provide any information. Morgan trotted out of town. Hooking up with the Shoshoni again, they rode for another two or three miles and stopped to make their camp.

  “Did you learn anything in Flat Fork?” Two Wounds asked as the five men sat down to a supper of bacon, beans, and fresh antelope and rabbit the warriors had taken during the long day of waiting.

  “Not a single goddamn thing. Nobody knows anything, nobody’s heard anything, nobody’s done anything. You’d think they were a goddamn bunch of saints.” Seeing the blank looks on the Shoshonis’ faces, he added, “Helpers of Man Above. They were humans so pure and wondrous that God picked them to be at his side for all times.”

  The
Shoshoni nodded. Then Big Horse asked, “What do we do now?”

  “Well, since I couldn’t find Murdock or any of his men in Flat Fork, I expect he’s not there. That means there’s a good chance of him being on Shoshoni land.”

  “So we look for him here?” Big Horse asked. Once again there was an eagerness in his voice.

  Morgan nodded.

  “That’s a hell of a job, Buck,” Two Wounds said. “The People have a hell of a lot of land.”

  Morgan looked at him and nodded. “You have any other ideas?”

  “Stay near the town and wait for him to find us?” Red Hand said hopefully.

  “While more of the People die?” Two Wounds said.

  “No.”

  “Even if we don’t really catch them right off, if Murdock knows we’re lookin’ for him and his men, he might stay on the move. The more he moves around, the less chance that shit ball’ll have for his deviltry.” The Shoshoni agreed. “We start in the mornin’,” Two Wounds said more than asked.

  Morgan nodded. He was tired from the long day, from the tension of the entire situation, so he made his good nights and went to sleep.

  “How’re you figurin’ to do this, Buck?” Two Wounds asked in the morning over a cup of hot coffee.

  “We can only cover so much land at one time, but we might as well be organized about how we go about it. I’ll act as a sort of focus point, staying in the center. Two of you go out on my right flank, two on my left. Spread out as much as we think is safe and reasonable. I don’t want none of you fools gettin’ killed out there.

  Then we just ride. We ought to be able to cover a fair piece of ground that way.”

  “Why’re you in the center?” Big Horse asked, unconcerned but curious.

  “Because I don’t know shit about trackin’. Never had the knack for it.” He shrugged. It was a gift with which he had not been endowed, and wishing it different would not make it so. “You put me out on the far flank or somethin’ and I’m going to miss about everything unless it up and smacks me in the face.”

  Big Foot rose, his face hard and set in determination. “Then let’s go,” he growled. “I’ve seen enough of the People killed already. I don’t want to see no more.”