Rocky Mountain Lawmen Series Box Set: Four John Legg Westerns

by John Legg

  They left the village heading west—the direction in which Murdock and his band of marauders had gone after their lightning-fast raid on the village. Morgan had thought to ask just before the council had broken up the night before if the Shoshoni were sure it had been Murdock.

  Washakie nodded gravely. “He is the one who wears the necklace made of ears and fingers of the People. And when he shot at people, he laughed. It sounded crazy, that laugh.”

  Morgan had said nothing. It was Murdock; there could be no doubt about it.

  They picked up the killers’ trail just outside the village and followed it. Either Big Horse or Rough Wolf would check occasionally to make sure they were still on track. The trail cut southwest after a few miles, surprising them. Morgan stopped, and the others did likewise. “You sure, Big Horse?” he asked.

  The big Shoshoni nodded. “There’s no doubt.”

  “Then what’s he tryin’ to do?” Morgan mused. “I could understand if he cut north to go around the far side of Washakie’s village, or maybe even raided another village. I could understand if he turned due east here so he could make it back to Flat Fork. But the only thing in this direction is…” Morgan’s words stumbled to a halt. “Jesus, you don’t think he’s connected with Ashby, do you?”

  Big Horse shook his head. “I’ve known Orv Ashby for some time, and I’d stake my life that he had nothing to do with this. But what about the army?”

  “I expect we need to pay Commander Shit Ball a little visit,” he said tightly.

  Big Horse nodded. “My thoughts, too.” He paused. “By the way, do you know there’s someone following us?”

  “No,” Morgan said, surprised. He looked back but saw nothing. “You know who?”

  “Can’t tell. He’s one of the People, though.”

  “You sure? I don’t see anybody out there.”

  “It’s a good thing you’ve let me and Rough Wolf do the tracking,” Big Horse said with a laugh. It was one of the other things about Big Horse that Morgan liked. He could almost always find humor in a situation, even a gloomy or dangerous one.

  “I told you I wasn’t a tracker,” Morgan said a little defensively.

  “How the hell do you catch any outlaws anyway?” Morgan’s face darkened. “The ones I’m after usually leave an easy trail to follow.”

  “Oh?” He knew white men were worse than children in covering their trail, but still, Morgan’s statement sounded like too much to believe.

  “There’s bloodshed and dead bodies wherever they go,” Morgan said sourly.

  “Not much different than here in some ways,” Big Horse said drolly. He sighed. “What do you want to do about our friend back there?”

  Morgan shrugged. “He look like he’s going to cause us any trouble?”

  “No. I’ll tell you what I think, though.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t done so already,” Morgan said, trying to revive whatever little humor he had in him today.

  “Eat shit. I think it’s one of the boys. One who isn’t old enough to go to war, yet old enough to feel his blood sing with the medicine and the power of his ancestors. One who would’ve been laughed at had he asked the council for permission to go.”

  “So what do we do about him?”

  Big Horse shrugged. “Depends on several things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Which one of the boys it is. Some I wouldn’t mind having along. There’re plenty of others I wouldn’t want to even attend my burial. It also depends on whether you want him to ride alone out there and maybe get killed if Murdock and his scum cut back toward the village. It depends on whether you want a boy standing next to you in battle, if that’s what it comes to. And you and I both know Murdock will never give up without a fight. This is one goddamn outlaw you’re not going to be able to arrest.”

  “I know.” Morgan pulled off his hat and ran a shirt sleeve across his sweating forehead. “Well, I think the first thing we ought to do is find out who the little bastard is.”

  “So we lay him a little trap?”

  Morgan nodded.

  Not far on, they came to Bighorn Draw. It was almost always devoid of water, other than perhaps a few stagnant pools, except when it rained hard. It was dry now; the area hadn’t seen rain in several days, a strange thing since this was supposed to be the rainy season.

  The three men rode down into the draw. All dismounted and loosened their saddles to let the horses breathe. Then Big Horse and Rough Wolf had a short, quiet chat in Shoshoni. Just after that, Rough Wolf disappeared. That was the only way Morgan could describe it. He was looking at the two Shoshoni, turned around for a moment, and when he did, Rough Wolf was no longer anywhere in sight. Morgan sighed and shrugged.

  Ten minutes later, Morgan heard a short, sharp squawk. He reached for a pistol, but then saw Big Horse sitting there calmly. The Shoshoni grinned and winked. “Rough Wolf has just encountered our tracker.”

  Rough Wolf half slid, half jumped down into the draw, holding a youth by the shirt.

  “Rabbit Tail,” Morgan said, “why’re you following us?”

  “That white man, he killed my friend Yellow Wing. I want to avenge my friend’s death.”

  When Big Horse had finished translating for him, Morgan said, “Do you think you’re up to the task?” The youth bobbed his head when Big Horse translated.

  “What do you think, Big Horse?” Morgan asked. “He one of the ones you might be willing to have fight at your side?”

  Big Horse studied the boy for a few moments. Then he spoke in Shoshoni to the youth and waited for a reply. Turning to Morgan, Big Horse said, “He will come with us.”

  Morgan nodded. “What was that last bit about?”

  “I told him that you are the war chief of this raiding party. As such, you are to be obeyed immediately and without question. If he doesn’t, I told him I’ll send him back. He agreed.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him you were the war chief?” Morgan asked. “He’d be more likely to take orders from you than from me.”

  “Bullshit. You’re big medicine among the whites. All the People believe that. That’s why Curly Bull keeps ruffling your feathers. He’s trying to knock you down a peg or two so he can strut around. But he can’t do it because you have strong medicine.”

  “Right now I’d rather have a strong left arm.”

  “Your shoulder still bothering you?”

  Morgan nodded. “It doesn’t hurt so much as it just don’t work right.”

  Big Horse grinned. “You get in the middle of a battle and you’ll forget all about how that shoulder doesn’t work right. You might regret it later, but you’ll never know it while you’re fighting.”

  Morgan nodded, knowing the truth of it. He had experienced it before, and he figured Big Horse had, too. “Does Rabbit Tail have any weapons?” he asked.

  “Not much. His small bow and some arrows. A knife. That’s about it.”

  “Does he know how to use a pistol?”

  Big Horse shrugged. “It doesn’t much matter, does it? I’m not giving up mine, and Rough Wolf feels the same, I’m sure. And I really doubt you’ll hand over one of those Smith and Wessons to a boy.”

  “I’ve got extra,” Morgan said. “Skousen’s .36 Colt. I picked it up after I handcuffed him and shoved it in my saddlebags. I found half a box of shells for it, too.”

  “Well, even if he doesn’t know how to use it,” Big Horse said, “having it might keep him out of trouble. Hell, it might get him in trouble.”

  “You’re a big goddamn help,” Morgan said dryly. He got the pistol and the shells, then called to Rabbit Tail. He handed the youth the pistol. With Big Horse translating, he asked, “You know how to fire one of these?”

  Rabbit Tail’s head bobbed.

  “I think you’re full of shit, but we don’t have the time to quibble about it.” He showed Rabbit Tail how to load the pistol and how to eject the spent shells. “Since you don’t have a holster, you’ll have to stick
it in your belt. And because of that, you only load five chambers. Leave the hammer on the empty chamber.”

  “Why?” Rabbit Tail asked, puzzled. Here was a weapon that would fire many times, yet he was not allowed to use its full power. That made no sense to him.

  “Because if you don’t, the first time you hit a good bump or something on your pony, you’re going to ensure that you never become a man.”

  “Oh,” Rabbit Tail said with a gulp.

  “All right, boys, let’s get going,” Morgan announced.

  They still rode southwest, growing ever nearer to the agency and Camp Brown. Within an hour, Big Horse pointed. “See that, Buck?” he asked.

  Morgan nodded. He had seen the cloud of dust. “Is it coming or going?”

  They all stopped, and Big Horse shaded his eyes with his hand. After a minute or two of observation, he said, “Coming this way.”

  Morgan wondered as he and his small group started riding again whether it was Murdock and his gang or Pomeroy and his soldiers. It could even be Ashby, with some soldiers as an escort.

  Morgan let his anger steep in the heat of his blood. Most of his anger was directed at himself. He wasn’t sure what he could have done to prevent many of the deaths of the past month, but he figured he should have been able to do something.

  The cloud of dust grew more substantial, until it eventually formed a light tan spot over several bouncing figures. It took a little longer to reveal that the figures wore what appeared to be blue.

  Morgan pulled up. “This is far enough,” he said. “If that’s really Pomeroy and his men, I’d just as soon they come to us.”

  None of the others said anything. They just spread out a little, with Morgan and Big Horse in the center, with Rabbit Tail on Big Horse’s right, and Rough Wolf on Morgan’s left. Then they waited. Morgan pulled out a plug of tobacco and cut off a chunk. He shoved it in his mouth and began chewing.

  It was not long before the figures heading toward Morgan’s small group became recognizable figures. First Lt. Dexter Pomeroy was indeed in the lead. He had Second Lt. Virgil Whitehill and ten enlisted men with him.

  The military procession came to a halt perhaps twenty feet from Morgan and his men. The troops formed ranks in a semicircle around Morgan’s men.

  “Marshal Morgan,” Pomeroy said pompously, “I hereby place you under military arrest. You will give up your weapons and come along peacefully or you’ll suffer the consequences.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Morgan laughed loud and hard. It was a relief after days of tension. “You are one strange son of a bitch, Lieutenant,” he said, still chuckling.

  Pomeroy glowered.

  “And not only are you strange, shit ball, you’re also under arrest, for various and sundry crimes against the U.S. government.”

  “Like what?” Pomeroy asked, sneering.

  “Like ordering the murders of numerous Indians under your charge and care. Like trying to foment war between the Shoshoni and the Arapaho, something with which you expected to cover yourself in glory and attain higher rank. Like ordering the rape and murder of an Indian agent’s family.”

  Lieutenant Whitehill’s eyes bulged and widened as the list grew. The soldiers also were looking at each other in wonder. Some seemed to be sick, as if they had had a part in all this and were now regretting it— or regretting the possibility of getting caught.

  “Like directing a criminal enterprise,” Morgan continued. “Like interfering with an Indian agent performing his work. Like interfering with a deputy U.S. marshal performing his duties.” He stopped to take a breath. “I’ve got some others, if you care for me to list them.”

  “Do you have any proof of these claims, Marshal?” Lieutenant Whitehill asked.

  “I do. And what I don’t have I should be able to get in the next day or so. I’ve even got a witness.”

  “Oh?”

  “Private Lee Skousen. He was one of the shit balls sent out to rape and murder Mr. Ashby’s family.”

  “In addition to being an insufferable bastard, you’re also a lying, cheating, and interfering son of a bitch, Morgan,” Pomeroy said. He drew in a long breath, blew it out, and then sneered. “Arrest him, men,” he ordered. “And the others with him. If any of them resists, shoot him down.” He puffed out his chest, arrogant in his power and authority.

  “You men stand fast,” Whitehill suddenly ordered. He edged his horse up alongside Pomeroy’s and stopped with his horse’s head about even with Pomeroy’s left leg. Whitehill had his Colt pistol in hand. It was cocked and brushing the back of Pomeroy’s head.

  Whitehill looked at Morgan. “Are they obeying my orders?” he asked.

  “Seem to be—so far.”

  “Goddammit, I order you men to arrest that marshal and his accomplices. Now!” Pomeroy screeched.

  “As I said, men, stand fast,” Whitehill repeated. “I am hereby taking over command of Camp Brown and all its personnel.”

  “By whose authority?” Pomeroy demanded.

  “By my authority. I am scheduled to take command in two weeks. This just moves it up.”

  “I’ll have you hanged for this!” Pomeroy almost screamed. “You son of a bitch. I will. You have no right to take my command. I’ll kill you for this.”

  “I have every right to do so. Regulations allow the next in line to assume command if the current post commander is too ill to retain his position, if he is incapacitated or is physically or mentally incapable of handling the duties of his position.”

  “None of those things apply to me, Second Lieutenant,” Pomeroy said with a smirk.

  “Well, sir, I am not sufficiently educated to determine your mental state, though I would venture to say that you are as crazy as a bedbug. As for the rest, I think—no, I’m certain—that you are physically unable to handle your duties.”

  “You’re the one who’s crazy here. I’m as fit as anyone on the post.”

  “You were.” Then Whitehill lambasted Pomeroy a good shot on the side of the head with his pistol barrel. Pomeroy fell off the side of his horse and hit the dirt hard. Blood coated the side of his head.

  Whitehill moved his horse back a little and then turned to face the men of his new command. “Johnson, O’Reilly, pick up Lieutenant Pomeroy and cart him back to the camp. Bring him to Dr. Snyder. If the doctor asks you what happened, tell him that you know nothing and that I’ll fill him in later—if I feel like it.” He paused, thinking for a few moments. “I don’t know if any of you others are involved in Lieutenant Pomeroy’s schemes and machinations, but if you were, I’ll ferret you out as sure as I’m standing here. It would go easier on you to confess your involvement and make a clean breast of it. Then I can—and will—help you. Refuse, and you are found out, and your punishment will be more severe.” He sat there a few moments more, looking over his troops.

  As the two soldiers dismounted to retrieve Pomeroy, Whitehill turned his horse until he was facing Morgan again. He moved closer, stopping ten feet away.

  “He’s my prisoner, Lieutenant,” Morgan said. “The army has first dibs on him, Marshal. If there’s anything left of the sorry son of a bitch when the army gets done with him, you can have him.”

  “You sure you’re going to be able to keep him locked up? He’s got plenty of friends around here, it seems. Or at least many acquaintances.”

  “I’m aware of all that—now.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Lieutenant. You’ve only been here a week or two. Hell, a man can’t learn everything about the place where he does his job or the people he’s forced to deal with. Not in a million years, and certainly not in a couple of weeks.”

  “Thank you, Marshal.” He sighed. It had been a hell of a day so far. “I take it you and your men are hunting for Murdock.”

  “Yes,” Morgan said sharply. Seeing Whitehill’s look of surprise, Morgan added. “Murdock and his men rode through Washakie’s village first thing yesterday. Killed three people. With Two Wounds, Old Belly
, and Red Hand killed at Ashby’s, it was a mighty poor day for a heap of people.”

  Whitehill nodded. “Yes, yes, it most certainly was.”

  “You seen Murdock lately?”

  “Not exactly. But a work detail said they spotted them—at least they thought it was them—camped several miles from the camp, some ways up into the Wind River Mountains, on the north fork of the Little Wind.”

  “Obliged, Lieutenant,” Morgan said. “But I figure we ought to be gettin’ back on the trail. Time’s a-wasting.”

  “Do you and your men want our help?” Whitehill asked, almost embarrassed by making the offer sifter all that had gone on with Pomeroy.

  “No, though I’m obliged for the offer. The best thing you can do to help is to stay out of the way. And make sure you ferret out Pomeroy’s helpers.”

  “Are you sure?” Whitehill asked rather skeptically. “It doesn’t look like you have much of a fighting force with you.” He pointed to Rabbit Tail.

  “We’ll do all right, I expect.”

  “Jesus, Marshal, why’d you bring a boy with you?” Morgan’s temper flared, but he forced it back down. It was, now that he thought about it, quite a reasonable question. One normally did not go on the warpath with boys. “He followed us out but stuck far enough behind that we didn’t know about it until we were too far from the village to make it worthwhile to send or escort him back there.”

  “He must be quite skilled if he trailed you unfound for some miles when you have two Shoshoni warriors with you.”

  Morgan was about to say something when he slapped his mouth shut. He turned to Big Horse. The big Shoshoni sat there, looking as innocent as a choirboy, gazing toward the heavens. “You knew he was there the whole goddamn time, didn’t you, you son of a bitch?” Morgan said.

  “Of course I did. Trouble was, I didn’t believe you were anywhere near as bad at reading sign as you said all those times. But damn if you ain’t.”