Rocky Mountain Lawmen Series Box Set: Four John Legg Westerns

by John Legg

  “Jesus, Vin, what the hell happened, here?’’ Morgan asked.

  The young store owner turned his angry glare on Morgan. “Some of the boys decided they’d wreck my store.”

  “Why? I thought you had a pretty good truce with them.”

  “I did. But that was before they saw me talkin’ to you.”

  “You sayin’ this was my fault?” Morgan asked, surprised and just a touch angry.

  “Maybe I am,” Applegate snapped.

  “There’s a lot of folks worse off than you are, Mr. Applegate. Believe me.”

  “But my store is wrecked. Everything I owned was tied up in this store.”

  “You know who did it?”

  “Sure. Del Murdock and his bunch.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Early this morning.”

  “I’ve been following his tracks since just after dawn. I figure he actually got back here sometime yesterday.” Applegate nodded. “Just before dark. It took him a while, I guess, to find out I had been talkin’ to a lawman. He wouldn’t accept my telling him that you’d just come in to buy some goods and supplies.”

  Morgan nodded. “Do you have any idea of where I followed him from?” He leaned the scattergun against a barrel that had once contained flour and pulled out a cigar.

  “Can’t say as I do.” Applegate’s frustration was beginning to get the better of him. “Look, Marshal Morgan, I’ve got a real mess on my hands here, as you can plainly see. I don’t have the time nor the inclination for chitchat.”

  “Just shut your yap and listen for a few minutes,” Morgan snapped after he lit his cheroot. “You heard anything of what’s been happening over on Shoshoni land?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Applegate answered with a shrug. “So, a few Shoshonis have gotten killed by some Arapahos. What’s the big deal?”

  “Who told you Arapaho were doin’ it?”

  Applegate shrugged again. “It’s common knowledge.”

  “It’s also complete and utter bullshit,” Morgan said coldly.

  “What?” Applegate said, startled. “If not…then who…?”

  “White men wanting it to look like Indians were doing it.”

  “No white man’d go through…” He stopped, eyes widening in realization. “Murdock and his men?” he asked, almost incredulous.

  Morgan nodded. “Where the hell do you think he got that goddamn necklace of his?”

  “He told most people he bought it from some Mexican trader down in the border country.”

  Morgan shook his head.

  “Look, Marshal, like I said, I’ve got a damn lot of work to get done here. Is there some point to all this? I mean, I don’t give a damn that Murdock’s been killing Indians, no matter what kind they are.”

  “In following his tracks I started out at the place he had left his last victims.”

  Applegate shrugged again, uninterested.

  “He and his men killed three Shoshonis this time. A warrior, his young wife, and their two-day-old baby. Then they proceeded to butcher the corpses.”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” Applegate groaned, as if in pain. When he looked at Morgan there were tears in his eyes. “This isn’t the first time he’s killed women or kids, is it, Marshal?”

  Morgan only shook his head.

  Applegate sighed, leaning against his broom as he thought things over. Finally he stood. “You’re right, Marshal, there’s a lot of folks a hell of a lot worse off than I am. And, by Christ, it’s time for a little justice. I think Murdock rode out of town just after he and his boys busted up my place. But some of his boys were down in the Bighorn Saloon, an ill dive of a place if ever I saw one.”

  “I’ve been in there,” Morgan said. “It doesn’t seem any worse than any of the other saloons in Flat Fork.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Applegate said, smiling weakly.

  “I was wonderin’, Mr. Applegate,” Morgan said offhandedly, “If you might not like to come along and help me arrest whatever miscreants we find over at this Bighorn Saloon.”

  Applegate thought it over for a bit, then shook his head. “I’d like to go, Marshal, but I’m not much of a gunman. A fistfight, yeah, I’d go with you, sure. But this looks like it’s going to be a gun battle, and I aim to stay out of such things. Besides, I figure to still live here in Flat Fork, which means I’ll have to deal with the scoundrels who call this place home.”

  “It seems odd that you’d still want to live here, Mr. Applegate.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to stay here in Flat Fork, Marshal,” Applegate said wearily. “I said I figure I would. Like I told you before, everything I owned was tied up in this store. I don’t have the money to go anywhere else, no matter how much I might want to.”

  Morgan nodded. “I understand. I half figured you’d turn me down, but I wanted to offer you a chance to get some measure of revenge against those who did this to you.” He waved his hand around the wreckage of Applegate’s store.

  “It’s revenge enough for my timid soul to point out where some of the bastards are.”

  Morgan nodded. He started to leave, but turned back when Applegate called him.

  “Just wait a minute, Marshal,” Applegate said. He dropped his broom and then hurried to where his counter used to stand. Only parts of it were left. He rummaged around a little and came up with a small .31-caliber Colt pocket pistol. “Here, take this,” Applegate said. “Use it for a belly gun. Just in case.” Morgan took the small pistol and nodded thanks. He checked it to make sure it was loaded and pulled out one of the five shells in the five-shot pistol. “I’ve got no desire to shoot my nuts off,” he said flatly. He stuffed the pistol into the waistband of his trousers, inside his shirt.

  “You have enough shells for that scattergun?” Morgan nodded. “Obliged, Mr. Applegate,” he said. He turned and headed outside.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Morgan rode slowly down the street and stopped in front of the Bighorn Saloon. He dismounted and looked around. He had drawn quite an audience, though no one seemed ready to threaten him—yet. He checked the shotgun and his two Smith and Wessons. With a slightly sardonic grin, he headed for the door of the saloon.

  He eased inside and stopped just to the side door. He was glad there were only seven—including the bartender—in the wretched place. Four of them were Murdock’s men. He recognized Henry Coates, Cliff Bagley, Roscoe Davidson, and Russ Quinn.

  Morgan fired the shotgun in the air. “You,” he said, pointing to the bartender, “come out from behind there. And bring a bucket of water. You other shit balls stay right where you are for now. When the bartender gets out here I want you and you,” he pointed to the two men who were not members of Murdock’s gang as far as he knew, “to drop your weapons in the bucket. Then get the hell out. Then you other four dump your pistols in the bucket and go line up against yonder wall.” Once more he pointed.

  “What the hell’s all this about, Marshal?” Davidson asked.

  “You and the three shit balls with you are under arrest,” Morgan said flatly.

  The four started to laugh. “You ain’t serious, now, are you, Marshal?” Davidson asked in wonder.

  The bartender had come out from behind the bar. The two patrons who had been told to leave hurriedly stood, dropped their pistols into the pail, and then practically ran outside.

  “Yessir, I am serious,” Morgan said as he pulled the empty shell from the scattergun and replaced it. He snapped the weapon closed and pulled back the hammers. “Now, you boys can do like I said. One at a time. Why don’t you take the first honors, Mr. Bagley, since you’re the closest to the bartender.”

  Still laughing, Bagley rose and started walking toward the bartender. Two feet away, he went for his Colt. The other three men began yanking out their pistols at the same time.

  Without hesitation, Morgan fired the scattergun at Bagley. The outlaw went down, as did the bartender. Not sure but that he hadn’t gotten a full load of buckshot into Bagl
ey, Morgan let loose the other barrel, hitting Bagley again.

  Morgan felt a hammer blow to his stomach, and he was shoved back by the blast. He fell, managing to keep a hold of the shotgun. Another bullet kicked up dirt from the floor inches to his side. He rolled until he was behind the giant keg that made up part of the Bighorn Saloon’s bar.

  Morgan quickly pulled out the two spent shells and rammed two more home. He snapped the shotgun closed and cocked it. Then he popped straight up, shotgun butt to his shoulder, and fired twice. Just before dropping behind cover again, he saw that he had hit Quinn. He also noticed that neither the bartender nor Bagley had moved.

  Figuring he did not have time to reload the shotgun again, he dropped it to the floor and pulled out one of his two Smith and Wessons. He decided to check around the side of the barrel rather than over the top. He was glad he did, too, since two bullets clunked into the log wall of the saloon, directly behind where he had fired from moments before.

  The outlaws had ducked behind tables, and it looked as if things were going to be something of a standoff for a while. That did not bode well for Morgan. Pain radiated from his abdomen, and he figured he was a goner if he didn’t get out of there soon and find some help. That still might not save him, but it was better than not doing anything.

  Seeing that the “bar”—one much like the one Foster had used—had a screen of dark cloth across the empty spot between the two kegs holding the bar up, he put his Smith and Wesson away, retrieved his shotgun, and reloaded it. Then he began slinking across the floor toward the other side of the bar. He suddenly froze when he heard something just around the side of the bar. Then he nodded.

  He slithered back until he was about centered on the open space between the two kegs. Then he squiggled into the space. He held his breath, trying to catch sounds while at the same time trying to see through the cloth a little. He thought he could see two of the outlaws behind tables. He wasn’t sure of that, but he would have to take the chance that he was right.

  He heard a sound and then another. Suddenly he rolled out through the hanging piece of cloth. He rose up onto one knee, shotgun against his shoulder. He fired both barrels at a tabletop that was at right angles to the floor.

  He threw the scattergun away and dove to his left. He hit harder than he expected and bounced off a table. He was slow getting to his feet, but when he did he had the Smith and Wesson in hand. A bullet punched him in the shoulder, knocking him back a step.

  Morgan recovered his balance and fired twice at Davidson, who was at the far side of the bar. Morgan noted that at least one, and maybe both, shots had hit Davidson in the head. He figured he wouldn’t have any more trouble from him. He looked around, a little worried about the two men who had hidden behind tables. He saw no movement from there, though. If they were dead, or at least incapacitated, then Morgan figured he only had one more man to contend with—and that one was now behind the bar.

  Morgan saw a little movement from the keg on his side of the bar. He took the chance and fired. He was rewarded with a yell of pain.

  “You son of a bitch!” the outlaw behind the bar bellowed. “You shot off my heel, you bastard.”

  “I’ll shoot off somethin’ else, you don’t quit this foolishness, shit ball.”

  “You just wait, you son-of-a-bitch bastard.”

  “I got time.” Actually, Morgan didn’t think he had much time at all. His stomach hurt like hellfire, and his shoulder was bleeding pretty well. He got no response from the outlaw, though he thought he caught a tiny movement behind the curtain. He wasn’t sure, though, and did not fire.

  Suddenly, Coates popped up from the far end of the bar. He had a pistol in each hand. He fired steadily as he hobbled for the door.

  Morgan let him run out of ammunition before he stood and calmly fired the last two shots in the Smith and Wesson. Both hit Coates in the back of the head, adding to his momentum. Coates landed on his face in the dirt.

  Morgan reloaded the Smith and Wesson and shoved it back into his holster. He walked over and picked up the shotgun and reloaded that, too. Then he looked down at his stomach. There was no blood, which surprised him. He pulled his shirt out of his pants. With it came broken bits of the pocket pistol Applegate had given him. He spotted the .44-caliber slug that had hit him. He shook his head, amazed. He pulled out the rest of that pistol and threw it away.

  Then he went to check on the bodies. All four outlaws were dead, as was the bartender. Morgan felt a little sorry about that, but not much. Any man who willingly chose to run such a foul bar in such a festering boil of a town couldn’t be all good, Morgan figured.

  Morgan stepped over to the bar, such as it was, and found an unbroken bottle. He poured some down his throat. With shotgun in hand, he headed outside and stopped.

  “Any of you other pustulant shit balls want some of this?” he roared, holding up the shotgun.

  No one answered in the affirmative. “Then you tell Del Murdock that I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Buck Morgan, and I’m coming after him. When I find him—and rest assured, folks, I will find him—I’m going to give him a dose of his own goddamn medicine. That shit ball will know what that means.”

  “You’ll never find him,” someone from the crowd yelled.

  “There ain’t a place he can hide from me. It might take me years, but I’ll find him. You tell him.”

  Morgan mounted his horse and began riding slowly toward the south end of town. There was a sharp pain his left shoulder, near the original one. About the same time that he realized he had been hit again, he heard the gun firing. He whirled and spotted the thick cloud of powder smoke swirling around one man.

  The man raised his pistol again when Morgan yelled to his horse. The animal bolted forward, going full out in half a dozen paces, the man fired, but the bullet did not hit Morgan.

  Morgan still bore down on the man, who suddenly turned and tried to run. But he got nowhere against the solid wall of people. With Morgan almost on them, the crowd began to part, backing away toward the side of the street.

  The man who had fired the gun had finally found a little avenue for escape, and he fled down it with Morgan in pursuit. A dozen paces on, Morgan edged past the man and then swung his horse to the right. The man slammed into the animal and then fell flat on his back in the street.

  “By rights, I ought to arrest you, you back-shootin’ little shit ball,” Morgan said icily. “But I’ve got neither the time nor the inclination for it. But I’d best make sure you learned your lesson.”

  “I have, I have!” the man screeched. He was still groggy, but he knew he was in serious trouble.

  “I’m not so sure of that!” Morgan lowered the shotgun and fired.

  The man screamed when his right leg shattered.

  “Next time it’ll be your face,” Morgan said flatly, leaving no room for doubt as to his sincerity. He reloaded the scattergun and then trotted out of town. As he passed Applegate’s store, Applegate was standing outside. The store owner smiled a little mid waved.

  Morgan touched the brim of his hat at Applegate and kept right on going. Despite his brave front, though, Morgan felt as weak as a babe when he reached his friends. He almost fell off his horse, but Big Horse caught him and eased him down onto the scrubby grass. He was barely conscious.

  “We better get him back to the camp. Or the agency. They have a medicine healer there,” Old Belly said.

  “I don’t trust those white men,” Two Wounds said flatly.

  “Neither do I,” Big Horse agreed. “We’ll take him to Cloud Woman. Two Wounds, you ride for the agency. Tell Orv to have the medicine healer come to Washakie’s village.”

  Two Wounds nodded. He jumped on his pony and sped off.

  Big Horse got on his war horse—a big-chested, sturdy animal, one that a man as big as Big Horse needed—and then took Morgan when Old Belly and Red Hand held him up. Big Horse settled Morgan in front of him and held him in place with beefy arms.

  “This ain’t nece
ssary,” Morgan said weakly.

  “Bullshit,” Big Horse said nonchalantly.

  Morgan nodded and slumped against the big Shoshoni.

  Big Horse and his companions arrived at Washakie’s village about midmorning. The whole village turned out to watch as Morgan was eased out of Big Horse’s powerful grip and carried into Cloud Woman’s lodge. Moments later, the band’s medicine man, No Blood, entered the lodge and began performing his rituals.

  It wasn’t until the afternoon that Dr. Snyder arrived—with an escort consisting of Lt. Dexter Pomeroy, a man with a second lieutenant’s insignia on his shoulders, and six soldiers. The Shoshoni suddenly melted into their lodges, watching with weary eyes as the armed soldiers dismounted and surrounded Morgan’s tepee.

  The Shoshoni did not like this one little bit. They would find no comfort in knowing that the soldiers were far more frightened than they. There was something utterly terrifying to the soldiers about standing amid so many Indians, even if a majority of them were women and children.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Snyder, Pomeroy, and the other army officers entered the lodge a little worried. None had been inside an Indian lodge, and they did not know what to expect.

  Snyder was seriously affronted by No Blood. “Get him the hell out of here,” the physician ordered, pointing to No Blood.

  Big Horse glared at Snyder, who was not paying any attention as he knelt beside Morgan. Big Horse shrugged. “Come, grandfather,” he said in his own language, taking No Blood’s arm, “we must go. The blue coat chief and the blue coat medicine healer don’t want us here.”

  No Blood started to protest, but Two Wounds, who had brought Snyder and Pomeroy to the village, said in Shoshoni, “No arguments. Buck is chief among his people, and we must let his people help him.”