Rocky Mountain Lawmen Series Box Set: Four John Legg Westerns

by John Legg

  Cursing himself, Morgan fired again. This time he hit Nordmeyer in the side, and he figured he had punctured one of his lungs.

  At the same time, though, Morgan’s hat went sailing off, apparently from a shot coming from his right. Morgan flopped down on his belly and then rolled a few times, once more coming up on one knee.

  Jess Spangler was slumped half across the table, dead. Morgan wondered about that for less than a heartbeat. Then he swung to his left. As he did, he heard gunfire behind him, and he wondered what that was all about. He could not take the time to see, though. He quickly drilled Haggerty, who had gotten tangled up in his chair. He saw another unknown outlaw was also down.

  Morgan almost jumped out of his skin when he heard, “You all right, Marshal?” He was about to turn and see who was addressing him when a bullet caught him high up on the left side, only a couple of inches from where he had been shot not long before. The impact knocked him flat.

  He pushed up quickly, ignoring the blood seeping into his shirt and even his vest. He cocked the Smith and Wesson and aimed it at Murdock, who was still holding Laughing Elk in front of him with his lecherous grip. “Put the piece down and let the girl go, shit ball,” he said firmly.

  Murdock laughed. It was a strange, warbling, maniacal sound. “Just try’n shoot me while I got this here little redskin piece in front of me.”

  “I will, if you insist.”

  He laughed again. He thumbed back the hammer of his Colt and let it drop. All he got was a click. Panic spreading across his face, he kept firing and firing. “Shit!” he screamed. He threw the gun away and pulled a knife. He moved the knife blade around till it was resting on Laughing Elk’s throat. “Back the hell up, lawman,” he snarled. “Back the hell up or I’ll cut her good.”

  Morgan fired, and the bullet smacked Murdock in the left eye, less than four inches from Laughing Elk’s head. The outlaw spun away, his knife nicking Laughing Elk’s throat.

  “Come, girl,” Morgan said quietly. “Come. It’s all right.”

  Laughing Elk hesitated only a moment. She had been treated disgustingly by Murdock and his men, and this tall white man with the shiny star had just killed many of the outlaws. She had heard about the man with the star. He was a chief and had big medicine among his people, and she thought she could trust him. She ran swiftly toward him. “Get behind me,” he said, not even sure she understood. He gave her a gentle push where he wanted her to go.

  He was fairly certain that no one would be causing him trouble—at least not the ones in front of him. He half turned, eyes widening in surprise when he saw the storekeeper with a pistol in his hand.

  “Mr. Applegate,” Morgan said. “I’m obliged.”

  “It was the least I could do, Marshal,” Applegate said.

  Morgan nodded. “See that shit ball just to our left there?” When Applegate nodded Morgan said, “Please ask him—politely of course—if we might borrow his long coat to cover this poor child.”

  “Sure can. Yep. Goddamn, sure enough,” the man said nervously, tearing off his coat before Applegate had even looked at him.

  “Thank you,” Applegate said sarcastically as he took the coat. He came forward and handed it to the girl. He tried not to look at her, but he couldn’t help himself. She was so beautiful, with smooth, dusky skin, small, high breasts, and a perfect oval face. He gulped hard when he gave her the coat.

  With Laughing Elk attired after a fashion, Morgan went forth to see about his and Applegate’s handiwork. He thought he had heard some groans from over where Jess Spangler lay, and he headed that way.

  Suddenly there was a commotion outside. People began screaming, and many of them began running. Above it all, Morgan could hear a war cry or two.

  Then Big Horse was standing in the doorway, filling a good portion of it. He had a war club in one hand and a pistol in the other. “Looks like I got here a wee bit too late,” he announced, sounding disappointed.

  “What the hell…” Morgan started.

  “I got a couple of the boys from the village and we came to see if you needed some help.”

  “A couple of Shoshonis sent all those people fleeing?” Morgan asked skeptically.

  “Well, a little more than a couple. Twenty-six, to be exact.” He laughed.

  “Very goddamn funny,” Morgan said weakly. Then the blackness came over him, and he fell.

  Morgan was groggy when he awoke in his lodge. At least, he thought it was his lodge. He closed his eyes again, wondering if perhaps he had dreamed up everything—the Spanglers and Cochranes, Del Murdock and his men, Washakie, Two Wounds, Big Horse, Cloud Woman.

  Lord, I hope if any of this is a dream that at least Cloud Woman is real, he thought.

  He opened his eyes to see Cloud Woman’s worried face over him. On the other side was the large, round mug of Big Horse. He sighed in relief.

  It was several more weeks before he was pretty much his normal self again, but as soon as he could get out of the robe bed, he did.

  “What did I miss after I went out?” he asked Big Horse a few days later.

  “Well, we found two of those ‘shit balls’ alive—Jess Spangler, and a fellow said his name was Ronny Cole. Apparently, your friend Mr. Applegate wasn’t as efficient as some others I know.”

  “What happened to the two?”

  “They, and Lee Skousen, plus Lieutenant Pomeroy, are now residing in the Camp Brown guardhouse, awaiting you. Oh, and Lieutenant Whitehill sends his regards. As does Orv.”

  “They say anything to you?”

  “Yeah,” Big Horse said with a grin. “We encouraged them a little. You had things figured out pretty well right. It’s almost as if you knew what they were planning.”

  “If I’d known what they were planning,” Morgan said sourly, “I’d never have let any of this happen. Anything else I ought to know about?”

  “Well, let’s see. Rabbit Tail’s wound has healed and he thinks he’s something special. He’s even asking to go on war parties. The store man, Mr. Applegate, has taken a shine to Laughing Elk, and claims what she went through doesn’t bother him.”

  “She reciprocate those feelings?”

  “It appears so. She was in bad shape for a little while, but Applegate practically moved in with her. I think he really helped her get over things.”

  “He can’t take her back to Flat Fork.”

  “Of course not. So Virg Whitehill offered him the chance to be Camp Brown’s sutler.”

  “That it?”

  “Jesus, you’ve only been out a couple of days. How the hell much do you think things can change?”

  “Not much, I suppose.”

  “Sounds like you’re sorry to have come out here,” Big Horse said with a laugh.

  “I’ve been in lots of better places, I can tell you that,” Morgan replied. Then he looked up at Cloud Woman and grinned. “Of course,” he said quietly, “there are some things to be said for being here.”

  THE END

  Vigilante Coffin

  by

  John Legg

  Copyright 2015 John Legg (as revised)

  Wolfpack Publishing

  48 Rock Creek Rd

  Clinton, Montana 59825

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-62918-339-8

  For Ben Wiseman: For sticking around through thick and thin. Thanks.

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen
/>   Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Joe Coffin’s finger began tightening on the trigger just moments before something hard clobbered him good on the back of the head. Spots dotted the curtain of blackness that was growing swiftly before his eyes, and the saloon’s sawdust floor was rising rapidly. He thought that was very strange. Then the lights went out on him.

  He awoke later—how much later he was not sure. He figured it was the deluge that woke him, since it was raining to beat all hell. He was soaked through, which, with the wind, chilled him to the bone. His head thumped with a steady, almost incapacitating pounding.

  He was lying face down in the muck behind a rambunctious riverfront saloon in St. Louis, and he was more than a little amazed that he had not drowned while he was out. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, and hung there, rain pounding on his back, trying to control the sharp stabs of pain in his head. He managed only a little, but it allowed him to push himself around and plop his rear end into the small but growing puddle. He tried to ignore the blistering pain in his head while taking stock of his situation. It was instantly apparent that he was in poor straits.

  He realized that his pistols were gone, taken by the men with whom he had been fighting in the saloon. Taking them was bad enough in and of itself, but Coffin felt their loss more keenly since he had had them for a long time. The two .44-caliber Remington cap-and-ball revolvers had come with him throughout the war, and beyond.

  He still had his horse over in the livery stable, as well as the saddle and bridle. They and a single change of clothes over at the boardinghouse were pretty much all he had, though. He shifted a little and dug a hand into his pants pocket. “Damn,” he snapped as he dropped his buttocks back into the water. They had even taken the few dollars he had had in his pockets. It hadn’t been much, but now that it was gone, there was none left.

  “Damn, if you ain’t in some pickle,” he muttered. It almost brought a smile to his lips.

  He rose until he was standing at his full five-foot-four. He wobbled more than a little. Though he was short, he was a stocky, powerful-looking man, with dark, almost black eyes. Despite his short stature and his young age, he was rather cocky. He had a crooked, handsome little smile when he used it, which was often enough. He was fierce, proud and strong, and cared little what others thought of him—unless they were so crude as to make fun of his height. Then he got really touchy, and was prone to taking on all comers at such times. That’s how he had wound up lying in the mud with the rain trying to smash him down into the ground. He was usually clean-shaven, though he often let his dark hair get rather long and shaggy.

  Right now he figured he needed to get his guns back, and then get even with the five men who had taunted him. Coffin took a step and almost fell. He managed to catch himself and then stood stock still, waiting until the newest burst of pain had simmered down. “Go easy, boy,” he mumbled to himself as he prepared to try walking again. He had a little more success this time.

  He hobbled along, his whole body seeming to ache, heading for the boardinghouse. His luck these past three years had been dismal. Or worse. He wondered now, as he had numerous times during that time, where he had gone wrong. Born in a rough-and-tumble mining camp in the Sierra Nevada, he was still just a child when his mother had died, and then he was dragged around from one mining claim to another by his father, a hard-luck miner who never had hit even a small lode, let alone the mother lode. He had died when Coffin was only fourteen.

  Old Jake Coffin hadn’t been much of a father, but he tried to do the best he could with what he had. But once he was gone, young Joe Coffin could see no reason to linger. He headed east to find relatives he had in Pennsylvania. When he did, he learned straight off that he was not welcome. So he had gone off and joined a unit of Pennsylvania Volunteers and marched off to war.

  When he was mustered out, a few months after the war ended, he had no place to go. His only family, as far as he knew, were the folks in Pennsylvania who so graciously had told him to move on two years before. He did not expect he would be any better received this time simply because he was a veteran, and a wounded one.

  Not knowing where to go, he headed for Sandy Hollow, a small town where one of his army pals was from. He didn’t want to sponge off the friend, but he figured Nate Greenwood would help him get a job.

  He arrived in Sandy Hollow in late summer. Greenwood was glad enough to see him, and even invited Coffin to come live with his family until he could get situated. The next morning, Greenwood took Coffin to the Langfeld Brothers’ Iron Works.

  Old Jules Langfeld looked Coffin up and down. “You’re mighty young, boy, ain’t you? And kind of small.”

  “I didn’t know you had to be tall to chuck coal into the furnace,” Coffin snapped. He was always pricklish when it came to his small stature. “And if I was old enough to fight the Rebs, I figure I’m old enough to do whatever’s required here.”

  “Touchy little bastard, aren’t you, boy?” Langfeld said without rancor.

  Coffin shrugged. “Does it make any difference in working here?”

  “Nope. Just commenting on the facts.”

  Coffin nodded. “So? Do I get a job?”

  “Don’t see why not,” Langfeld said. “You can start in the morning. Pay’s a buck and a half a day, twelve hours a day, six days a week.” Langfeld looked smug, since he considered himself something of an enlightened employer, what with such high pay and short hours.

  “I’ll be here.”

  The job lasted four months. It could’ve lasted a lot longer, Jules Langfeld told him, if he hadn’t beaten three other workers within an inch of their lives.

  “Damn fools shouldn’t have started something, if they didn’t want to get their asses whupped,” Coffin said angrily.

  “Bah,” Langfeld snapped. “You’re nothing but a goddamn troublemaker. Go draw what pay’s due you and get the hell out of my plant.”

  “Sorry, Nate,” Coffin said when they were eating supper that night. He didn’t sound very contrite.

  Greenwood shrugged. He was not happy at this turn of events. He was afraid that Langfeld would somehow hold him responsible for bringing Coffin to the iron works in the first place. Still, he was not the type of man to throw a friend out. “Why’d you have to go causin’ trouble just before Christmas anyway?” Greenwood asked.

  Coffin shrugged. “Christmas ain’t much but another day,” he said sourly. They finished their supper in silence. Coffin brooded for the short while before going to bed. He was up well before his friend. Mama Greenwood, a short, rotund, exuberant woman was surprised to see Coffin up so early.

  “Some coffee, Joe?” she asked.

  “Please.” He sat.

  Once Mama Greenwood had poured him some coffee and stuck a stack of pancakes in front of him, she asked, “So, what will you do now?”

  Coffin shrugged. “Ain’t rightly sure.”

  “We’ll miss you.”

  Coffin looked up at her in surprise, his forkful of pancake hanging in midair. “How’d you know?” he asked.

  “In four months, I’ve come to know you more than a little. You are a good friend to my Nate, and you don’t want him to get caught in your troubles.”

  “Most of which I cause for my
self,” Coffin said regretfully. He stuck the forkful of pancake into his mouth and chewed slowly.

  “That’s neither here nor there. What’s important is that you care for my Nate. And he for you. He wrote me many letters during the war, and many mentioned you. He would not want to ask you to leave. But I can see in your eyes, too, that because Nate is your friend, you don’t want to do anything that might jeopardize his work or his life here.” Mama Greenwood sat on a chair near Coffin and patted his arm. “And so, being the kind of man you are, you will leave, so that Nate does not have to make such a choice.”

  “I didn’t realize I was bein’ so obvious,” Coffin said with a touch of regret.

  “It’s obvious only to those who are looking for it.” She stood, wiping her hands absently on her apron. “You eat well. I will pack you a bag of things.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “It’s Christmas.”

  “I still couldn’t ask you to do that, Mama Greenwood,” Coffin protested.

  “And, so, who is doing the asking and who is doing the telling?” she countered.

  There was a certain logic to the statement, and he was not about to wrestle more meaning into it. Within half an hour, he was ready to go. With sadness, Coffin belted his two Remington pistols around his middle. Then he saddled his horse. Taking the bag of grub Mama Greenwood had given him, he pulled himself into the saddle. He looked over at Mama Greenwood, figuring he ought to say something, give a proper speech to this fine woman who had cared for him as she did her own son. But there were no words, he knew, except, “Thank you, ma’am.” He said the words and rode off into the snow and cold.

  It was the same way wherever he went. He would pull into a town, take whatever job he could find, and work. Within a few weeks, he would get tired of being taunted or being set on, as he saw it, and he would start a fight. Then he would either pull out of town on his own accord after being roundly pummeled, or, if victorious, he was often asked to leave town.