The Devil's Legion

by William W. Johnstone

  Laura’s chin lifted defiantly. “That sounds like a threat.”

  “Not at all. Consider it a word of warning.”

  “How’s this for a word of warning?” Laura lifted the Colt higher. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Mr. Sandeen, you’re in here alone, while your men are still outside. If anything was to happen to you, Mr. Glover and I could claim that you tried to attack me, and no one would ever be able to prove otherwise.”

  He paled slightly as he glared at her. “My men are right outside. If they heard a shot—”

  “How long do you think they’d be your men if you weren’t around anymore to pay them?” Laura cut in.

  As one of the muscles in his tightly clenched jaw jumped and jerked, Sandeen stared at her for a long moment and then said, “You’re going to be sorry about this, Laura.”

  “The one thing I’m sorry about is that once upon a time I was taken in by your lies and thought that you were a gentleman. And my name is Miss Flynn to you.”

  “All right,” he said with a curt nod. “Have it your way. I’ll be leaving now . . . unless you’d care to try to stop me.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Sandeen,” Laura said, “it would be just fine with me if you never set foot in my house or on my range again.”

  Face flushed with rage, he turned and stalked toward the door. Before going out, he paused and said, “I don’t know what happened to you. When you came out here, you were a gentlewoman from the East, as prim and proper as could be. And you knew your place.”

  She fought against the impulse to chase him out of the house with some hot lead and said, “The West happened to me, Sandeen. It stiffened my backbone and put some sand in my craw, as they say out here. And my place is right here on the Lazy F.”

  Sandeen just shook his head, glowered, and walked out. Laura went to the door, followed by Caleb Glover, and stood watching as he got on his horse, jerked the animal’s bit savagely, and snapped at his men, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  As they rode off, their horses’ hooves kicking up a cloud of dust from the yard, Glover gave a low whistle of admiration and said, “No offense, Miss Laura, but what happened to you? I never heard talk like that from you before. It sure did sound mighty good.”

  The hand holding the revolver sagged as a wave of weariness struck Laura. She leaned against the doorjamb to steady herself and then laughed softly and shakily. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Glover, I don’t know where all that bravado came from. I just tried to imagine what Uncle Howard or Mr. Buckston would have done in a similar situation, and I pretended to be a . . . a tough Western woman.”

  Grinning, Glover shook his head. “Wasn’t no pretendin’ about it. Somehow, ma’am, over the past few days you’ve turned into the genuine article. Life on the frontier’s got a way o’ doin’ that. It either toughens you up or makes you hightail back to where you came from.”

  “Well, I’m not going anywhere,” Laura declared. “The Lazy F is my home now and always will be.”

  “Unless Sandeen takes it away.” Glover’s grin disappeared to be replaced with a worried frown. “He didn’t take kindly to what you had to say. I reckon it’s war now, for sure.”

  “Sandeen started it. He got clever by sending those masked raiders up here. He thought that if he could force me to turn to him for his so-called protection, it would look better if any outside authorities ever investigated the situation.” Laura’s brain was busy as she thought about everything Sandeen had said and done. “Did you notice the look on his face when he saw that Mr. Buckston is still alive? He was surprised, very surprised. I think one of those masked gunmen must have told him that Mr. Buckston was shot in the head last night, and Sandeen assumed he was dead. That’s proof he was behind the raid.”

  “Don’t reckon it’d stand up in a court of law,” Glover mused, “but I’d sure say you’re right, ma’am. I noticed somethin’ else, too. Sandeen looked really surprised when you mentioned Frank Morgan.”

  Laura looked over at the cowboy and frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he looked like he didn’t have no idea Morgan was here last night.” Glover hesitated, but then went on. “To tell you the truth, Miss Laura, I ain’t so sure Buck was right about Morgan workin’ for Sandeen.”

  “But Morgan was here last night,” Laura insisted. “He was riding through the yard and shooting. I saw him with my own eyes. In fact, I took a shot at him, just before Mr. Buckston’s gun ran out of bullets.”

  Glover nodded in agreement but said, “I saw Morgan, too. In fact, I saw him shootin’ at them hombres with the masks on.”

  Laura stared at him. “What are you saying? That Frank Morgan was fighting on our side, instead of against us?”

  “That’s sure what it looked like to me. And I got to ask myself, ma’am . . . if Morgan was battlin’ against Sandeen’s men last night, what are the chances we judged him wrong on everything else?”

  “You and the others found him standing over my uncle’s body,” Laura insisted.

  “Yes’m, we did. But we didn’t see him shoot the boss. I’ve thought long an’ hard about it, and I reckon everything could’ve happened just the way Morgan said it did.”

  “But that would mean . . . that would mean I’ve misjudged him . . . we’ve all misjudged him . . . and made him a wanted man for something that he didn’t do.”

  Glover shrugged. “Could be. We don’t really know.”

  “But if that’s true, why is he still around here? Why doesn’t he just leave? And why in the world would he risk his life to try to help us?”

  “I ain’t sure, ma’am,” Glover said, “but maybe that’s just the sort o’ hombre that Frank Morgan is.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The night before, Frank had followed the men who had raided the Lazy F until he was sure they were headed for Sandeen’s ranch. They were almost on the doorstep of Sandeen’s hacienda, in fact, before Frank veered Stormy off to the east and headed for higher range. He wanted to find a place to spend the night that could be defended easily if he was discovered.

  He found such a place in a clump of boulders atop a hill. The big rocks would give him cover if he had to fight, and he had a good field of fire all around. Of course, if he got trapped up there, his enemies could just keep him pinned down and starve him out, but he hoped it would never come to that.

  He made a cold camp because kindling a fire would have been just asking for trouble. Rolling up in his blankets, he stretched out on the ground with his saddle for a pillow and relied on Stormy to serve as lookout. The Appaloosa would warn him if any danger came near.

  Frank didn’t fall asleep immediately. As he stared up at the millions of stars in the sable sky, he thought about what had happened. He was pretty sure he had Sandeen’s ploy figured out. By making sure the raiders were masked, Sandeen could claim that someone else had attacked the Lazy F. He might even be brazen enough to show up on the ranch and offer to help Laura in her time of trouble. After all, he would argue, she was a woman alone in a hostile land, beset by outlaws, who needed a man to look after her.

  The question was whether or not Laura would fall for such an approach. Frank honestly didn’t know. He sensed that Laura Flynn had the makings of a frontierswoman, that pioneer blood flowed in her veins whether she knew it or not.

  But he didn’t know how badly Jeff Buckston was hurt or if the ranch foreman was even still alive. As long as Buckston was around, Sandeen didn’t have a chance of getting his hands on the Lazy F without a fight. But if Buckston was dead . . . if Laura felt like she really was alone, with no one to turn to . . . well, there was just never any way of knowing exactly what a woman was going to do. With age came wisdom, but no man ever got wise enough to figure out the answer to that question.

  Frank dozed off and slept lightly, resting even though a part of him remained alert for trouble all night. When he woke up in the morning, his left arm and shoulder were stiff from the three-day-old wound, as they always were, firs
t thing like that. They didn’t particularly hurt, though, and he was able to work the stiffness out fairly easily.

  Suddenly, the Appaloosa lifted his head and gazed off into the distance, ears pricking forward. Frank took notice of Stormy’s reaction and immediately pulled the Winchester out of its saddle boot. He had reloaded the rifle the night before, so it carried its full complement of fifteen rounds. Stormy had heard or smelled something unusual, and until Frank was sure what it was, he was going to be ready for trouble.

  The sound of hoofbeats came to his ears, and he knew the approaching horse must have been what had caught Stormy’s attention. Frank slid between a couple of the boulders and moved forward until he could see down the hill. There was a trail of sorts down there, a game trail more than likely, and plodding along it was a rangy dun carrying an empty saddle. Frank didn’t recall ever seeing the horse before.

  He frowned as he watched the dun. The saddle proved that the horse had had a rider in the recent past. Frank hadn’t heard any shots, and he didn’t see any blood on the saddle. But the dun could have spooked for some reason and thrown his rider. The man could be lying somewhere nearby with a broken leg or a busted head, badly in need of help. If that was the case, he might even die if nobody came along to give him a hand.

  Frank grimaced as he thought about what he should do. The smart thing would be to just stay out of sight and let the dun wander on. Whoever the horse belonged to, the man’s problems were none of Frank’s business.

  It was difficult for him to turn his back on somebody in trouble, though. That tendency to try to help had nearly been his downfall many times. But he couldn’t change the way the Good Lord had made him.

  The dun was carrying a pair of saddlebags. By searching them, Frank might be able to find out who the horse belonged to, at the very least. He scanned the countryside all around and didn’t see any sign of movement except the obviously weary dun.

  Muttering a curse directed at his own stubborn foolishness, Frank turned around, went back to Stormy, slid the Winchester back in its sheath, and swung up into the saddle. He rode out of the clump of boulders and trotted down the hill toward the dim trail.

  The dun saw him coming and stopped. The horse stood there placidly and let Frank ride up and take hold of its reins. He leaned over and opened the flap on one of the saddlebags. There was nothing inside except a box of. 44-40 cartridges, some jerky, a small frying pan, and a waterproof packet of matches. He checked the other side of the saddlebags and found just a few supplies—flour, salt, sugar, a slab of bacon. Whoever owned the dun traveled light, carrying only the bare necessities, including a canteen hung around the saddle horn by its strap. There was nothing to tell Frank who the horse belonged to. To find that out, he was going to have to backtrack the animal.

  “Come on,” he said as he started along the trail in the direction the dun had come from, leading the riderless horse. He listened closely in case anybody was crying out for help, but he didn’t hear anything unusual.

  A few hundred yards along, the trail passed close by an aspen. Frank didn’t pay any attention to the tree until he had already ridden beyond it. The sudden rustle of its leaves warned him, though, and he kicked his feet free of the stirrups, let go of the dun’s reins, and rolled out of the saddle. He heard a thump as booted feet hit the ground, and knew that somebody had been lurking in the concealment of that tree and had dropped out of it after he rode past. Frank hit the ground himself, rolled over, and came up on one knee with the Colt in his hand, his finger taut on the trigger.

  He found himself facing a man he had never seen before. The man had a rifle in his hands, and the weapon was pointed right at Frank. Neither of them could fire without the other one having a chance to pull the trigger, too.

  After a tense moment of silence, the man with the rifle drawled, “Well, looks like we got us a standoff here, don’t it?”

  He was a lean man about the same height as Frank, dressed in rough but clean range clothes and a battered Stetson. The hair under his hat was a sandy brown, as was the mustache that drooped over the corners of his mouth. Frank judged his age to be in the mid-thirties.

  “That your dun horse?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah.” The rifle muzzle never wavered as the man replied—but then, neither did the barrel of the Colt in Frank’s hand. “Thanks for bringin’ him back to me.”

  “You were hoping I’d be curious enough to backtrack him and try to find out where his rider was. You were trying to draw me out.”

  The rifleman smiled a little. “Figured that’d be easier than tryin’ to roust you outta them rocks up there on top of the hill. A man could get killed doin’ that. Anyway, I never heard of Frank Morgan passin’ up a challenge.”

  “You know who I am, then,” Frank said flatly.

  “Yeah.” The man added dryly, “I’ve seen your picture on the covers o’ dime novels.”

  “That was a pretty smart trick with the horse.” Frank watched the man closely, ready to take advantage of any opportunity that presented itself, even if it lasted for only an instant. He wanted to keep the stranger talking. “Do you ride for the Lazy F, or are you one of Sandeen’s men?”

  “Neither. Name’s Horn. Tom Horn.”

  Frank knew the name, but with iron control he didn’t show any reaction. Tom Horn had been a civilian mule packer for General Crook during Crook’s campaign against the Apaches, and he had also worked as a scout and translator for Chief of Scouts Al Sieber. Unless Frank was remembering it wrong, Horn had even been Chief of Scouts himself for a while, until Geronimo had surrendered, effectively bringing the Apache Wars to an end. Since then Horn had developed a somewhat shady reputation, sometimes working on the side of the law, sometimes rumored to be nothing more than a common, hired killer. Frank had never crossed trails with him before, but in the way of the frontier, he definitely knew who Horn was, just as Horn knew who he was.

  “If you’re not working for either of those two spreads, what do you want with me? There’s no bounty on my head.” Frank paused. “Or is there? I’ve had rewards posted for me before when I didn’t even know about it.”

  “Naw, no bounty,” Horn said, “and I ain’t a bounty hunter, anyway. Buckey O’Neill sent me into this here Mogollon Rim country. I’m workin’ for him as a special deputy.”

  Frank grunted in surprise. He had also heard plenty about Buckey O’Neill, the former newspaperman turned sheriff of Yavapai County. A few years earlier, O’Neill had set off with a posse after a gang of outlaws that held up a train at Diablo Canyon Station. The other members of the posse had gradually given up, but O’Neill had pushed on doggedly, pursuing the outlaws in a dangerous trek that had eventually covered over six hundred miles before he brought them all to justice.

  “O’Neill sent you after me?” Frank asked.

  “Not exactly. Don’t reckon he even knew you were hereabouts when he sent me in. He’s been hearin’ rumors that there’s a range war brewin’ in these parts, and since some of the range involved lies in Yavapai County, he decided to find out what’s goin’ on and nip it in the bud.” Horn chuckled. “I reckon you could say that I’m the nipper.”

  “He’s right about the war. There’s been trouble, even bloodshed, between Howard Flynn’s Lazy F spread and Ed Sandeen’s Saber ranch. But Flynn’s dead now, and I figure Sandeen’s on the verge of a cleanup. The Lazy F is being run by a woman now, Flynn’s niece.”

  “Yeah, I heard about all that. Heard, too, that you’ve been in the middle of the big trouble ever since you rode into these parts, Morgan.”

  “Not by choice,” Frank said. “Trouble just seems to find me.”

  “I know the feelin’,” Horn drawled.

  It was odd that they could be here like this, conversing calmly while pointing guns at each other, both of them ready to kill if they had to. Each man had icy nerve to spare, though, and they weren’t quite ready to trust each other.

  “I been pokin’ around for the past few days,” Horn went
on. “Did some drinkin’ in all the saloons in San Remo. Didn’t really talk to anybody, but I did a lot of listenin’. Most folks seem to think that you’re workin’ for Sandeen and that you killed Howard Flynn.”

  “Neither of those things is true,” Frank said. “Sandeen offered me a job at fighting wages, and I turned him down flat. And I’m convinced it was really one of Sandeen’s men who killed Flynn.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that you had some trouble with a few of Sandeen’s men. Killed the Hanley brothers and Carl Lannigan, didn’t you?”

  “I did. None of them gave me any choice.”

  “Them Hanleys wasn’t such a much, but Lannigan was one tough hombre. So are you, from everything I’ve heard about you. But you never struck me as the sort who’d just work for anybody who met your price. I ain’t surprised you turned down Sandeen.” Horn sighed. “Hell, Morgan, I’m gettin’ a mite tired. What say we put down these guns and finish our talk without threatenin’ to shoot each other?”

  Frank smiled faintly. “Sounds good to me . . . as long as you go first, Horn.”

  Horn snorted. “You think I won’t do it. I never heard tell of The Drifter gunnin’ a man down in cold blood, though, so I reckon I’m gonna surprise you, Morgan.” He lowered the rifle, letting the barrel fall until it pointed to the ground in front of him. The tension left his body, too, and a grin creased his leathery face. “See? If you want to shoot me, there ain’t a damned thing I can do about it.”

  Frank was still wary of a trick. He suggested, “Why don’t you get your horse and put the rifle back in the saddle boot?”

  “Sure.” Horn strolled toward the dun, whistling for the horse to come to him. They met, and Horn slid the rifle into its sheath. He faced Frank again and said, “There you go.”

  Frank nodded and lowered his Colt. Horn wore a six-gun on his hip, too, but although the former scout was a deadly shot at any range with a rifle, Frank had never heard anything about him being fast on the draw with a handgun. He holstered his Colt, knowing that he could beat Horn if the other man decided to slap leather.