The Devil's Legion

by William W. Johnstone

  Suddenly, Frank decided that his visit to Sandeen’s spread was going to have to be postponed. He was going to follow those mysterious riders and see if he could find out what sort of mischief they were up to.

  He was willing to bet that it wouldn’t be anything good.

  When the riders were out of sight but he could still hear their horses, Frank stepped up into the saddle and started after them. They wouldn’t be able to hear Stormy’s hoofbeats over the sounds of their own mounts, so Frank urged the Appaloosa into a brisk pace that wouldn’t let him lose the trail of the men he was following.

  Not surprisingly, the group veered a little east of north a short time later. Now they were riding straight toward the Lazy F ranch house. Frank no longer had any doubt that was where they were going, or that they were up to no good.

  Being careful not to get too close, he trailed the men until they brought their mounts to a stop on a knoll overlooking the Lazy F headquarters. A hundred yards behind them, Frank reined in, too, and swung down from the saddle to slip forward on foot, leaving Stormy behind him with the leathers dangling. The Appaloosa knew to stay right where he was until Frank either whistled for him or came back for him.

  Skulking like the Apaches who had once roamed this land, Frank catfooted forward, darting from bush to bush, tree trunk to tree trunk. The masked riders had all their attention focused on the ranch headquarters spread out before them and had no idea anyone was slipping up on them from behind. Within moments, Frank was close enough to overhear that they were saying in low voices.

  “—kill the girl,” a voice that Frank didn’t recognize was saying, and the words sent a pulse of anger throbbing through him. Did Sandeen hate Laura Flynn so much that he had ordered her murder?

  A second later, the man giving the orders went on, and Frank’s nerves eased a little as he heard, “Anybody else is fair game, but she’s not to come to any harm, understand?”

  That made more sense. Sandeen had sent these killers to raid the Lazy F, but he didn’t want anything to happen to Laura. Of course, it was hard to guarantee such a thing once the lead started flying, but that was the job these hired gunmen were charged with.

  The mystery deepened as the man ramrodding the raiding party continued. “We’ll hit the place hard and fast and then pull back. Do as much damage as you can, but remember, we’re not out to take it over.”

  Muttered agreement came from the other gunnies.

  Frank wasn’t sure why Sandeen had ordered such a hit-and-run raid on the ranch, but at the moment, the motive didn’t really matter. Death and destruction were about to descend on the Lazy F. Frank could see that several lights were burning in the main house and the bunkhouse, but there was no real air of vigilance about the place. Buckston was smart enough to know that Sandeen might try something now that Flynn was dead, so the foreman likely had posted a few guards. But they probably wouldn’t be able to raise the alarm soon enough to stop these raiders from sweeping in and killing at least a few of the crew.

  “Got those torches?” the leader asked.

  Torches! They were going to try to start a fire. They probably aimed to burn down the barns.

  Frank didn’t wait to hear any more. He backed away from the brush where he had crouched in concealment and then turned to run silently toward the spot where he’d left Stormy. He had to let the people who were at the Lazy F know what was about to happen.

  But even as he reached the Appaloosa and vaulted into the saddle, he knew he was too late. He heard the thunder of hoofbeats as the raiders charged down the hill toward the ranch, and the swift rattle of shots as they opened fire.

  * * *

  Buckston fought against the discouragement he felt gnawing away at his vitals. He and a good number of the men had spent all afternoon searching for Frank Morgan. They had started by going back to the place where Howard Flynn had been killed, and then they rode in the same direction Morgan had fled, searching for any sort of trail they could pick up.

  Rain had washed out any tracks that Appaloosa of Morgan’s might have made, so they had to rely on other signs—broken branches, chipped places on rocks where a horseshoe might have struck them, the sorts of things that only an expert tracker could see. Buckston had lived in Arizona Territory all his life and was an experienced frontiersman, but this sort of task was beyond even his expertise. None of the cowboys with him were up to the chore, either. Inevitably, they had lost what little trail there was.

  That meant they were reduced to riding back and forth through the hills, trying to pick up a trail that might or might not be there and hoping they would stumble over Morgan or some trace that would lead them to him.

  And of course, that effort had been futile. Morgan had disappeared like a veritable phantom. Buckston wasn’t really surprised. From all accounts, Morgan had spent years—decades, actually—getting into and out of trouble. It was to be expected that he would be one slick son of a bitch.

  But that didn’t matter. Sooner or later, Buckston would get him. If he had to spend the rest of his life in the effort, he would bring Frank Morgan to justice.

  Looking at Laura Flynn lifted Buckston’s spirits. When he and the boys rode in, he had come to the main house to report their failure, and Laura had asked him to stay and have supper with her. Buckston had agreed, thinking this would be a good time to discuss the details of how the Lazy F was run. He doubted that Laura would want to make any changes; after all, as she admitted, she didn’t know anything about running a ranch. But as the owner, she had the right to know what was going on and to express her opinion of it. And if she wanted to issue orders, whether they were right or wrong, as foreman Buckston would be duty-bound to honor them.

  So he’d gone back out to the bunkhouse and told the men who had remained at the ranch during Flynn’s funeral to take their rifles and spread out around the headquarters to stand guard. Buckston hadn’t forgotten that Ed Sandeen and his men still represented a threat. He told some of the men who had gone with him on the search for Morgan to turn in early, get some sleep, and then relieve the sentries around two in the morning. With that taken care of, he returned to the main house to have dinner with Laura.

  As it turned out, she didn’t want to talk about the business of running the ranch. Instead, as they ate the fine supper that Acey-Deucy had prepared for them, she asked Buckston to tell her more about her uncle. She said, “He was closemouthed, you know, especially about himself. But it must be quite a story, how he came out here when the only ones around were Indians and outlaws and made a home for himself and his family.”

  “It was pretty adventuresome, all right, from what I’ve heard,” Buckston said. “You understand, I’ve only been here on the Lazy F for the last ten years or so, so I can’t speak from experience about what it was like back there. When I started ridin’ for your uncle, though, Ol’ Badger Burris was still here, and Jap Clark and Ned Simms, and all of them were with the boss in the early days. Those old codgers liked to talk, too.”

  Laura smiled and leaned forward. “So tell me their stories,” she said.

  “Some of ’em are sort of rough,” Buckston cautioned. “In a lot of ways, Arizona is dark and bloody ground, and the tales about the early days are, too.”

  “That’s all right. I want to hear them. I want to learn all I can, not so much about the running of the ranch—I know I can trust you to handle that, Jeff—but about the spirit that motivated men like Uncle Howard to risk everything to make something worthwhile out of such a wilderness. I want to learn what was in his heart . . . so I can find the same strength in mine.”

  At that moment, there was no doubt in Buckston’s mind. He loved this woman. She would do to ride the river with. She would stand at a man’s side and make him proud.

  So he started telling her all the yarns those old cowboys had spun, about the savage winters and the brutal summers, about the droughts and the floods, about the raids by bloodthirsty Apache renegades and the rustlers who had foolishly thought th
at they could come in and clean out Howard Flynn’s stock. Flynn and those who rode for him had fought the elements, and they had fought ruthless, unscrupulous men. Most of the time they won, and even when they didn’t, they battled their way to a draw. In the end they might have scars to show, but those scars were badges of honor, proof that they had fought the good fight. And the fact that they were still here showed that they had never been defeated.

  Laura listened intently, hanging on Buckston’s every word. Despite all the tragedy, he sensed an even deeper bond growing between them. In the back of his mind, hopes and dreams stirred.

  It was a good moment, and as far as Buckston was concerned it could have lasted a lot longer, but suddenly his head jerked up in alarm as guns began to blast outside. He came to his feet, and without even thinking about it, his hand moved to the butt of his gun and closed around the well-worn walnut grips.

  “Stay here,” he said to Laura. “I’ll see what’s going on out there.”

  She stood up, too. Her face had gone pale and her eyes were wide as she said, “It’s my ranch. I ought to—”

  “Stay here,” Buckston said again, and his tone of voice made it clear he wouldn’t tolerate any argument. “That’s one order I’m givin’.”

  More shots rang out and he heard men shouting in alarm as he hurried toward the front door. He jerked it open, stepped out onto the porch, and saw muzzle flames spurting in the darkness as a dozen or more raiders on horseback swept down the hill that overlooked the headquarters of the Lazy F. Some of them galloped into the yard between the house and the barns and the bunkhouse, firing at anything that moved. As Buckston lifted his gun and tried to draw a bead on one of the hard-riding figures, he realized with a shock that the men were masked.

  The masks didn’t really matter. He knew they had to be some of Sandeen’s hired killers. He squeezed off a shot, but couldn’t tell if he hit the man he was aiming at. The bastard didn’t tumble off his horse, that was for sure. The rider kept going, peppering the house with bullets. Buckston heard the lead singing around his head and dropped to a knee to make himself a smaller target. He fired again, the revolver kicking against his hand, as he saw several of the marauders swinging brightly blazing torches over their heads. Horror welled up inside Buckston as he saw those torches go spinning through the air as the masked raiders flung them into the barns and onto the roof of the bunkhouse. Buckston shouted a furious curse as he stood up again and emptied his Colt toward the attackers.

  He had just squeezed off his last shot when something slammed against his head and knocked him back several steps. He reeled and tried to lift his gun again, no longer thinking straight enough to realize that it was empty. He fell, but he didn’t feel it as he crashed down on the planks of the porch. Blackness surged up around him, threatening to engulf him, and the last thing he heard before oblivion claimed him was Laura Flynn screaming his name.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Frank sent Stormy charging after the raiders. The noise of battle already had grown intense by the time he reached the top of the knoll and started down the slope toward the ranch. Frank knew he was only one man, but he had the advantage of surprise and could also hit the attacking gunmen from the rear.

  He pulled his Winchester from the saddle boot as he started down the slope. At the biggest of the barns, a Lazy F puncher raced out and started firing at the raiders. He was cut down almost instantly as bullets from several different guns tore into his body. Frank saw that and his face was set in grim lines as he let Stormy pick his own path. The rifle came up to Frank’s shoulder. He fired, levered the Winchester, fired again, and was rewarded by the sight of one of the men jerking in the saddle and almost falling off his horse. Frank had scored a hit, even if he hadn’t knocked the man completely out of the fight.

  The men with the blazing torches made good targets. Frank reined Stormy to a halt and leaped down from the Appaloosa’s back so that he could aim better. He drew a bead on one of the torch-wielders and pressed the trigger. The Winchester kicked against his shoulder. The bullet slammed into the back of the man with the torch just as he threw it and drove him forward over the neck of his horse. The torch spun crazily in the air and fell short of the barn to gutter out in the dirt of the yard.

  Frank emptied the Winchester in a matter of moments. By the time he was finished, several of the raiders were hunched over in their saddles in pain and a couple of others had limp, dangling arms that had been smashed by Frank’s shots. But the attack was still going on. As Frank jammed the rifle back in its sheath, he saw a tall, lean figure on the porch of the big house blazing away at the raiders with a six-gun. Even at this distance, Frank recognized Jeff Buckston.

  But then Buckston staggered and went down, the gun dropping from his hand. Frank couldn’t tell how badly the foreman was wounded. Laura Flynn appeared in the open doorway of the house, her left arm in a black sling. Her right hand went to her mouth, and Frank figured she was screaming at the sight of Buckston lying on the porch. He couldn’t hear her over the sound of all the shooting, though.

  Frank leaped back into the saddle. One of the barns and the bunkhouse were on fire by now. Several bodies were sprawled out in the open, probably the guards Buckston had posted who had been caught and gunned down while they were trying to give the alarm or get to cover. A bitter taste filled Frank’s mouth. If not for the bad luck that had caused Buckston to blame him for Howard Flynn’s death, the two of them might have been able to work together and prevent this violence, or at least meet it more effectively. Now, for some of those men who were down, it was probably too late.

  As Frank galloped toward the ranch headquarters, he saw Laura Flynn on her knees beside Buckston, cradling his head in her lap. But that wasn’t all she was doing. As Frank watched, she pulled her left arm out of the sling, reached over, picked up the gun Buckston had dropped, and using both hands, pointed it at the masked men and began to fire, squeezing off several shots in rapid succession.

  Frank hoped the raiders all remembered Sandeen’s orders that Laura wasn’t to be hurt. In the heat of battle, with the woman shooting at them, some of the gunmen might lose their heads and return the fire. Frank sent Stormy racing toward the house. As he did so, he began raking the raiders with well-placed shots from his Colt, hoping to keep them so busy they wouldn’t have time to turn their guns on Laura.

  He heard someone shout, “Fall back! Fall back! Let’s get out of here!” Sandeen’s men had accomplished their deadly hit-and-run mission. The barn and the bunkhouse were both burning strongly and probably wouldn’t be able to be saved. Several members of the Lazy F crew were either wounded or dead, including the foreman, Jeff Buckston. The damage they had set out to do was done, so they were ready to get the hell out.

  But they weren’t escaping unscathed. Frank knew he had wounded several of them, even though they weren’t leaving any dead behind as they sent their mounts charging off into the darkness. He fired a couple of final shots after them, but then the hammer of the Colt snapped on an empty chamber.

  Frank swung the Appaloosa toward the porch, intending to check on Buckston’s condition. But as he did so, Laura Flynn pointed the gun in her hands at him and fired. The bullet came close enough to his ear so that Frank heard the wind-rip of its passage. The next instant, Laura screamed, “Morgan! It’s Frank Morgan! He’s their leader! Get him!”

  Frank’s jaw tightened and he grated a curse through clenched teeth as the Lazy F punchers opened fire on him from the various places where they had sought cover during the raid. Bullets whistled around his head.

  He didn’t want to fight these men. They were honest cowboys. Besides, the gun in his hand was empty and he didn’t really have time to reload. The only choice he had left was to whirl Stormy around and light a shuck out of here as fast as he could.

  Flame geysered from rifle muzzles and lead continued to claw through the night after him as he raced away from the ranch. Luck was on his side for a change, though, and none of the sho
ts found him or the big Appaloosa. In a matter of moments, he was out of sight.

  Even though he and Stormy were all right, frustration seethed inside Frank. He hadn’t been able to stop the masked gunmen from carrying out their raid. He didn’t know whether or not Buckston was dead, or how badly the foreman was hurt if he was still alive. And perhaps worst of all, Laura Flynn had seen him, recognized him, and blamed him for what had happened. By the time twenty-four hours had passed, everybody in this part of the country would believe that Frank Morgan himself had led the deadly raid on the Lazy F.

  The hole he was in was just getting deeper, and it seemed that every time he tried to dig himself out, things only got worse. Who was going to believe him now? Even Jasper Culverhouse might not believe in his innocence anymore, once he had heard what Laura Flynn had to say.

  He had some supplies now. Maybe he ought to just ride on, he told himself, and leave this part of the territory behind for good. Let the folks here sort out their own troubles.

  But if he did that, the killing of Howard Flynn would always be hanging over his head, tarnishing a reputation that wasn’t all that sterling to begin with. And even worse, he would know that he had turned his back on people who needed his help.

  Like it or not, Frank told himself as he rode through the night, heading once again in the general direction of Sandeen’s spread, he was in this fight to the finish. He couldn’t get up from the table until the last hand was played.

  Whatever the cards might be.

  * * *

  Laura Flynn fought back tears as Caleb Glover and Acey-Deucy carried Buckston into the house. “Careful with him!” she said as his head lolled and blood dripped from the wound just above his right ear. “Oh, please be careful!”

  “We’re bein’ as easy with him as we can, Miss Laura,” Glover assured her. “You sure you want us to put him on the divan? He’ll get blood on it.”

  “I don’t give a damn about that!” Laura said, not caring a whit that it wasn’t proper for a lady to curse. She still clutched Buckston’s six-gun in her hand and had his blood smeared all over the front of her dress, too, and that wasn’t really ladylike, either.