The Devil's Legion

by William W. Johnstone

  It was a good plan, but it depended on Howard Flynn being a reasonable man. That was a big question mark.

  With Glover and the assortment of dead bodies bringing up the rear, Frank and Buckston rode for the next hour across some of the best range Frank had seen in quite a while. He could understand why men might go to war over country like this. Wooded hills and lush pastures were well watered by several creeks that flowed fast and cold and clear, fed by springs in the mountains to the north. Arizona had its burning deserts to the south and its red-rock wastelands north of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, but this fertile strip that slanted across the territory from northwest to southeast was prime country indeed.

  They came to a valley nestled between two ranges of low hills, with a creek running through the middle of it, and the thin curl of smoke that rose into the blue sky told Frank they were nearing the headquarters of the Lazy F. That smoke had to be coming from a chimney. Sure enough, a few minutes later they came in sight of a big house sprawled on a bench just above the creek. The two-story center section of the house was built of stone, but several wings constructed of logs had been added. Quite a few outbuildings were scattered around the place—a long structure that was probably the bunkhouse, a cookshack and smokehouse and blacksmith shop, several barns, and plenty of corrals. The Lazy F was an impressive place. Howard Flynn certainly hadn’t been lazy during the years when he had built this spread into one of the finest in the territory.

  Several dogs ran out to greet the riders, barking exuberantly. Trotting along next to Frank, Dog growled in response to the display. “I expect you to behave yourself,” Frank told him sternly. “No fighting with these ranch dogs.”

  “That critter looks like he’s part wolf,” Buckston commented.

  “Might be. He won’t cause any trouble, though.”

  “Unless you tell him to.”

  Frank chuckled. “A good dog stops more trouble than he starts, just by being around.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Dog.”

  It was Buckston’s turn to laugh a little. “And I reckon that Palouse you’re ridin’ is called Horse?”

  “Nope,” Frank answered solemnly. “His name is Stormy. I used to have a horse named Horse, though.”

  Buckston just shook his head.

  The commotion created by the dogs had alerted people on the ranch that someone was coming. A long porch ran across the front of the main house. A white-haired man stepped out onto it and gazed toward them. His pose was casual at first, with his hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans. But then, as he saw what the horses Glover was leading were carrying, he straightened and took his hands out of his pockets. Frank saw him turn his head sharply and say something to someone still in the house. A second later another man emerged from the house and hurried toward the bunkhouse, the long dark braid of hair hanging down his back flapping as he ran.

  “That the cook?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah. The boys call him Acey-Deucy, because that’s what he likes to play all the time.”

  “And the white-haired hombre is Howard Flynn.” Frank wasn’t asking a question this time. The man on the porch stood there with an unmistakable air of command about him.

  “That’s right,” Buckston said. “And here come some o’ the boys from the bunkhouse, so don’t get any funny ideas, Morgan.”

  “I don’t intend to,” Frank said. “Believe it or not, Buckston, I’m sorry about the way things turned out. I just want to clear this up and ride on.”

  Buckston just grunted, as if to say, We’ll see.

  At this time of day, most members of the ranch’s crew would be out on the range, but there were usually a few cowboys around headquarters all the time, for one reason or another. Four men came out of the bunkhouse and strode quickly toward the main house, followed by the Chinese cook. By the time Frank and Buckston got there, the four punchers had formed a line in front of the porch and stood there with their hands resting on the guns they carried.

  “What the devil is this, Buck?” Howard Flynn asked in a loud voice as Buckston and Frank reined to a stop. “Who’s that with you, and why are those boys facedown on their saddles?”

  “They’re dead, Mr. Flynn,” Buckston answered. “Blake, Bragan, Houlihan, and Crenshaw. Wardell’s dead, too, but he’s out at what’s left of the east line shack. It’s been burned.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Flynn exploded. He was about sixty years old but still hale and hearty despite his age. Deep lines seamed his weathered face, but his blue eyes sparkled with vitality. He looked like he could ride the range from dawn to dusk, work from can to can’t, and be the last to quit a chore and the first to buy the beer. A damned fine hombre, in other words. Frank liked him right away, instinctively.

  Flynn went on. “You still ain’t told me who this hombre is.”

  “He says he’s Frank Morgan, Boss.”

  Flynn’s bushy white eyebrows went up in surprise. “Morgan! The gunfighter?”

  “One and the same.”

  Flynn switched his gaze to Frank. “Damn it, did that blasted Sandeen hire you, Morgan? I wouldn’t put it past that skunk to bring in a hired killer!”

  Frank’s lips thinned. “I never heard of Sandeen before today, Flynn, and I’m sure as hell not working for him. I don’t know anything about this range war between the two of you except what your foreman here has told me.”

  Flynn leveled a finger at the bodies as Glover rode up leading the horses. “You didn’t have anything to do with those boys bein’ dead?”

  Buckston opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Frank said, “I killed two of them. Crenshaw and Houlihan.”

  Flynn’s already florid face turned an even darker shade of red. “And you’ve got the gall to sit there and brag about it?” he roared. “Grab him, boys! We’re gonna string us up a gunslinger!”

  Chapter Four

  Frank’s hand flashed to his Colt, the movement too fast for the eye to follow. One second he was sitting there casually in the saddle, his hands empty. Less than a heartbeat later, he had his six-gun leveled at Flynn, and his finger was taut on the trigger.

  “Back off, Flynn,” he said stonily. “I don’t intend to let anybody lynch me, especially not some hotheaded cattle baron who acts before he thinks.”

  The Lazy F punchers in front of the porch hesitated, not sure what they should do next. They were all armed, but their guns were still in their holsters. None of them could hope to draw before Frank could put three or four rounds right through their boss. So for now they just stood there tensely and didn’t do anything.

  “You come on my ranch and dare to point a gun at me?” Flynn said as he glared indignantly at Frank. “You might as well go ahead and shoot me now, Morgan, because if you don’t, sooner or later I’ll kill you!”

  From beside Frank, Buckston said, “Morgan, you gotta know that if you pull that trigger, you’re a dead man. I figure you pack five rounds in that smokepole, with one chamber left empty for the hammer to sit on. There’s six of us. You can’t get us all.”

  Frank allowed himself a thin smile. “Not unless I get two of you with one bullet. Might be an interesting challenge.”

  “The gall of the man!” Flynn exploded. “I’ve never seen the like.”

  The tense tableau held for another couple of seconds, and then it was disturbed abruptly by the opening of the door behind Flynn. A woman stepped onto the porch and asked, “Uncle Howard, what’s going on here? I heard angry voices.”

  Frank couldn’t study her closely because he still had his gaze fixed on Howard Flynn, but he saw enough in a glance to realize that the woman was blond and quite attractive. Buckston had said that she wasn’t hard on the eyes, but Frank thought that was an understatement. Laura Flynn—and that was obviously who she was, based on her calling Flynn “Uncle Howard”—had a great deal of fresh, wholesome beauty about her.

  “Laura, get back in the house!” Flynn snapped. “It ain’t safe for yo
u to be out here.”

  Laura noticed now that Frank was pointing a gun at her uncle. Her blue eyes widened with fear and surprise. “Good Lord!” she exclaimed. “Is that man going to shoot you?”

  “Not if he knows what’s good for him,” Flynn growled.

  “I don’t plan on shooting anybody unless I have to, miss,” Frank said to her, still without taking his eyes off Flynn. “But your uncle here threatened to have me lynched, and I don’t plan on sitting still for that.”

  “Lynched! Is he telling the truth about that, Uncle Howard?”

  “He killed two of our hands,” Flynn said as if that simple answer explained everything. “And he’s a gunfighter, a notorious killer. What he did was the same as murder.”

  Buckston rubbed his jaw and said, “Don’t know if I’d go so far as to say that, Boss. Houlihan fired the first shot, and Crenshaw got a round off, too, before Morgan plugged him.”

  “Mr. Houlihan and Mr. Crenshaw are dead?” Laura asked in a hollow voice. “That . . . that can’t be.”

  “And Bragan and Wardell and the Blake kid, too,” Flynn told her. “Morgan’s bound to be workin’ for Sandeen, so he probably had somethin’ to do with killin’ them, too.”

  Frank felt a surge of anger and frustration. “Is there something in the water in this country that makes everybody deaf as a post? How many times do I have to say that I didn’t have anything to do with burning that line shack and killing those three punchers?”

  “You admitted gunnin’ Houlihan and Crenshaw,” Flynn said.

  “Because they drew on me first.”

  Buckston put in, “That’s sure enough true, Boss. I told those boys to settle down, but they wouldn’t do it. Told ’em if they were bound an’ determined to brace Morgan, they ought to come back here and draw their time first, just so we wouldn’t have a problem like this.”

  “My men ride for the brand,” Flynn said harshly, “and I back them all the way.”

  “That’s an admirable quality,” Frank said. “Why don’t you try using some common sense with it?”

  Glover had pulled his mount and the other horses to a stop about forty feet behind Frank and Buckston. Now he swung down from his saddle and said wearily, “Somebody come get these horses and help me with the bodies. Things happened out there the way Morgan and Buck say they did, so I don’t see that there’s any call to string up Mr. Morgan.”

  “Now it’s Mr. Morgan, is it?” Flynn asked. “Since when did you start givin’ the orders around here, Glover?”

  “I just don’t like lynch talk,” the cowboy said. “It don’t seem right.”

  One of the other cowboys laughed. “What do you expect a darky to say, Boss?”

  Glover stiffened, and his big, work-roughened hands twitched like they wanted to close into fists. Instead of throwing a punch, though, he said, “Black or white, it don’t matter. I’m just talkin’ fair, that’s all. Morgan didn’t do nothin’ ’cept defend hisself.”

  Laura said, “I don’t like the idea of a man being lynched, either, Uncle Howard. If something like that is necessary, the law will do it.”

  The old rancher sighed in frustration. “The law!” he said. “When I come out here, girl, the only law was right here.” He slapped the butt of his pistol. “It got enforced, too, until this country settled down some. And sometimes it’s still needed.”

  “But not today,” Morgan said. He lowered the heavy Colt and slid it back into leather. “I’m tired of this, Flynn. You’re not going to lynch me or tell your men to shoot me, or you’d have already done it before now. I’ve told you what happened. I’m riding away now. I’m out of this.”

  “Wait a minute!” Flynn said quickly. “You say Sandeen burned the line shack?”

  “His men, anyway. That’s what Rufe Blake told me before he died. I don’t know if Sandeen was there personal-like.”

  “Poor Rufe,” Laura murmured.

  “Sandeen probably wasn’t there,” Flynn said. “These days he likes to pay other men to do his dirty work. Men like you, Morgan.”

  “I don’t have any interest in working for Sandeen.” Frank lifted his reins. “Fact is, I’m just passing through this part of the country. Thought I’d ride on down to Phoenix.”

  “You do that,” Flynn said sullenly. “Best you keep movin’, because I ain’t gonna forget that you pointed a gun at me. Next time I see you, I’m liable to kill you.”

  Not likely, Frank thought, but he didn’t say it. Flynn had settled down a little, and there was no point in goading him into a rage again.

  Frank turned Stormy and said, “Come on, Dog.” As he rode away with the big cur trotting alongside him, the skin in the middle of his back crawled a little, as if a bull’s-eye had been painted on it. He didn’t think a man like Flynn would stoop to shooting somebody in the back, but he knew he was betting his life on that hunch.

  A sudden rattle of hoofbeats made him glance over his shoulder. Buckston was riding after him. Frank reined in for a moment and let the foreman catch up to him.

  “I told the boss I’d see to it that you got off of Lazy F range,” Buckston said.

  “But what you’re really doing is making sure that nobody tries to drygulch me, right?”

  Buckston shrugged. “Nobody who rides for the Lazy F would do a low-down thing like that, least of all the boss.”

  “Well, I’m glad for the company, anyway.”

  The two men rode on in silence for several minutes. When the ranch house was a good half mile behind them, Buckston asked, “Did you mean that about ridin’ down to Phoenix?”

  “I did,” Frank said. “If there’s a settlement somewhere around here, though, I wouldn’t mind stopping there for a night or two. I’d like to replenish my supplies and maybe give my horse a little rest.” With a smile, Frank patted Stormy’s shoulder affectionately. “He’s like the rest of us . . . not as young as he used to be.”

  “He looks like he’s still got plenty of sand,” Buckston commented. “So do you, Morgan. A word of advice . . . the boss meant what he said. If he ever runs into you again, he’s liable to slap leather.”

  “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “I do, too, because you’d kill him, and then you’d have every waddy who ever rode for him on your trail, tryin’ to even the score. There ain’t a finer man in Arizona Territory than Howard Flynn.”

  “I can believe that,” Frank said. “I liked him as soon as I saw him.”

  Buckston looked over at him, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Is that so?”

  “Of course. Oh, he had his back up because five of his men were dead. I’d think less of him if he hadn’t been mad enough to chew nails and spit out thumbtacks. He just directed some of his anger toward the wrong man.”

  “Meanin’ you.”

  “I’m sorry about Crenshaw and Houlihan. But they didn’t leave me much choice.”

  “No, I don’t reckon they did,” Buckston said as he jogged his horse along next to Stormy. “But I ain’t overfond of you my own self. Those boys were too proddy, but they were still Lazy F.”

  “I know what you mean,” Frank said quietly. “Is that your way of saying the same thing Flynn did? That you’ll try to kill me if you ever see me again?”

  “If it’s on Lazy F range . . . I’d have to think long and hard on it.”

  “Fair enough.” Frank couldn’t ask a man not to feel loyalty toward his friends. “What about that settlement? Is there one around here?”

  Buckston nodded. “Yeah, a little place called San Remo. It don’t amount to much, but you can buy some supplies and get a drink and a night’s sleep there, if you’re of a mind to. It’s just the other side of the Verde River, maybe five miles from here. If you need to go someplace bigger, you could ride up to Prescott. It ain’t too far. But that’ll take you in the wrong direction to go to Phoenix.”

  “San Remo will probably do.”

  Buckston pulled back on his reins. Frank did likewise. “I reckon this is far
enough for me to go, then,” the Lazy F foreman said. “You just keep to this trail we been followin’, and it’ll take you to San Remo. You ought to be there by nightfall.”

  “Are we off Flynn’s range now?”

  “No, but close enough.” Buckston lifted a hand. “Hasta la vista, Morgan. I hope our trails don’t never cross again.”

  “Vaya con Dios,” Frank said in return. He hipped around in the saddle enough to watch Buckston ride back toward the ranch headquarters.

  The thought crossed his mind briefly that Buckston could have ridden along with him solely to keep him occupied so that he wouldn’t notice more of Flynn’s men getting ready to ambush him. Frank discarded the idea. He hadn’t lived as long as he had without becoming a good judge of character, and he knew that while Buckston could be a rough, dangerous man when he wanted to, the foreman was also fundamentally honest. Otherwise, Flynn wouldn’t have trusted him to ramrod the crew of the Lazy F.

  Frank watched until Buckston had vanished around a bend in the trail. Then he lifted Stormy’s reins and said, “Let’s ramble on, hoss.”

  As Buckston had predicted, Frank reached the little settlement of San Remo before night fell, but it was late in the afternoon before he got there. Calling the place a town would have been generous. A wooden bridge crossed the fast-flowing Verde River, and beyond it San Remo consisted of one block of business buildings and a dozen or so cabins. There were a couple of stores, a blacksmith shop, a saddlemaker’s, a café, a Baptist church at one end of town and a Catholic mission at the other, and, not surprisingly since it was located in the middle of a ranching region, four saloons where the cowboys from the surrounding spreads could come to blow off steam.

  Although Frank liked a cold beer from time to time and could appreciate a shot of fine whiskey, he wasn’t really interested in the saloons at the moment. The café was more what he was looking for. A home-cooked meal and a cup of hot, strong coffee sounded mighty fine right about now. There was no hotel as far as he could see, but he had spotted a corral and a livery barn behind the blacksmith shop. If push came to shove, he could sleep in the hayloft of that barn and be reasonably comfortable.