The Devil's Posse

by Charles G. West

  “I don’t think you understand the situation here,” Logan said calmly. “The man you bought my horses, and all my gear from, murdered my brother last night. I understand how you feel about spendin’ your money, but the fact of the matter is it’s my stuff and I aim to have it back. I’m not in a good mood right now and I don’t have a lot of patience. I’d rather not kill you, but if you stand in my way, I will. Do we understand each other?”

  “But what about my money?” Walt protested. “I gave four hundred dollars for all that—” That was as far as he got before Logan cranked a cartridge into the chamber of the Winchester. “We do!” Walt blurted. “We understand each other.”

  “Good,” Logan said. “Now, let’s go get the rest of my things. In the tack room?”

  “That’s right,” Walt said, feeling it would be suicide to resist the man. There was little doubt in his mind that Logan would shoot him. Inwardly, he cursed himself for being a fool. He knew those horses, saddles, and everything with them had to have been stolen. But the price was too good to pass up. Now he was going to be out the money he had spent.

  As if reading his thoughts, Logan said, “If you tell me who you bought everything from, and where I can find him, I’ll try to help you get some of your money back. Right now we need to hurry it up.” He followed Walt to the tack room.

  In a corner of the small room, he saw the saddles, saddlebags, blankets, gun belts, handguns, tools, cooking utensils, and everything else that had been taken. He couldn’t help wondering what the real price had been for all of his and Billy’s lifetime accumulation of property, but he suspected it was less than four hundred. He motioned toward the saddles.

  “If you look on the underside of those saddle fenders, you’ll see the initials LC on one of ’em, and BC on the other one. They stand for Logan Cross and Billy Cross.” Walt didn’t bother to look. He was pretty sure the initials would be there. Logan pulled his knife from his belt and tossed it at Walt’s feet. “This is the knife that fits in the empty sheath on the gun belt hangin’ on that saddle horn.”

  “Mister,” Walt said, defeated, “you don’t have to prove nothin’ else. I believe you. I just wish to hell I hadn’t been the one got skunked.” He reached for the saddle horn nearest him and picked the saddle up. “I’ll help you saddle up.” He hesitated. “You said you might help me get some of my money back. Did you mean that?”

  “I did,” Logan said, “if you can tell me who murdered my brother and where I can find him.”

  “Well, I ain’t got no way of knowin’ who killed your brother, but there were three fellers that brought the horses here and sold everything to me. The one that done all the talkin’ was called Jake, and I expect you’ll find them at the Lucky Dollar about now.”

  Logan paused in the process of strapping his gun belt on. “Jake, huh?” he wondered aloud. His mind went back to Fort Pierre and the barroom fight. There were three of them, and he remembered telling two of them to take Jake out of there and go sober up. It was obvious now, the reason for the attack. This Jake had been out to get him but took Billy’s life when he was not there. Logan felt the fire rising in his veins again.

  He turned at once toward the door, then paused and looked back at Walt. “Put that saddle on the gray, and the packsaddle on the buckskin. I’ll leave you that sorrel and the other saddle for your trouble. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve settled with the three men who killed my brother.”

  “They’ll be ready,” Walt said.

  “And I’ll see how much of your money I can find.”

  “I’d sure appreciate it,” Walt said. He stood there for a few moments after the somber stranger strode out the tack room door, wondering if he would actually get any of his money back.

  At least I got a pretty good saddle and a sound horse, he thought, in an attempt to console himself. One thing was certain, he had not been dumb enough to try to prevent the man from claiming his possessions. Just the look of him told Walt that would have been foolish.

  * * *

  “Looks like this is my lucky day,” Jake gloated as he swept another pot of cash over toward him.

  “It sure looks like it,” Lacey said. “Between you and Harris, there ain’t been much left for Everett and me.” He tossed another losing hand down. “Maybe we need a new deck of cards.”

  “I don’t see nothin’ wrong with this one,” Jake said with a chuckle.

  “Deal me out,” Lacey said. “I gotta go to the outhouse.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “Maybe I can get rid of some of this poor luck I’m havin’.”

  “Hurry up,” Jake said, “I ain’t through with you yet.”

  A few moments after Lacey went out the back door, a tall, menacing figure walked through the front door of the Lucky Dollar. He paused to search the crowded saloon, which was busy as usual, no matter the hour. In a moment, he spotted the man he sought. There was no question of mistaken identity—Logan could still see the results of their fight when his right hand had rearranged his nose. He was seated at a table with two others. The one to Jake’s left was recognizable as one of the two men with him in the saloon at Fort Pierre. The man across the table from Jake, wearing a frock coat, was a stranger. Logan would have preferred to find all three, for he was certain that they all had shot Billy judging from the number of bullet holes in his brother’s body. The opportunity was now, however, so he could not waste it. He walked directly toward the table, cocking the Winchester on the way.

  At the distinct sound of a rifle being cocked, Jake glanced up to spot the man walking deliberately toward him. Across from him, the gambler, Harris, was startled by the sudden blanching of Jake’s face. Before he had time to turn around to seek the cause of it, the first sharp crack of the rifle exploded, and Jake gasped in horror as the slug slammed into his chest.

  Trying to get up out of the chair, he went over backward to land on the floor. Absorbed in his cards until that moment, Everett looked up to discover the fury that had descended upon them too late to draw his pistol. Logan’s next shot turned Everett’s lights out with a bullet in his forehead. Then he turned around swiftly to crank a final shot into Jake, as the dying man struggled to pull the .44 from his holster.

  The double execution took place in mere seconds. The noisy room fell immediately silent and the patrons drew away from the table like a receding tide. An open space was created, with the grim avenger standing over two bodies, and a frightened gambler crouched under the table. Logan turned to survey the stunned spectators, stopping when his gaze settled upon the bartender, who was slowly reaching under the bar. Logan’s look was enough to convince the bartender to forsake any thoughts toward pulling the shotgun out.

  Terrified moments before, Harris decided that he was not a target of the gunman’s rage. So he cautiously reached from under the table with one hand and felt blindly around for the cash still on top. For his efforts, he received a solid rap on his knuckles from Logan’s rifle barrel. “That money goes with me,” Logan stated soberly. “Get out from under there and rake all that money into this hat.” He pulled his hat off and set it on the table.

  While the gambler did as instructed, Logan turned his attention back to the crowd of astonished patrons. “These men murdered my brother in cold blood, so they got what was comin’. There was one more with them. If I find him, I will kill him, too. I don’t have any intention of hurtin’ anybody else, unless they stand in my way. The money I’m takin’ doesn’t belong to them. They stole it.”

  Keeping a cautious eye on the people, he quickly checked the pockets of Jake and Everett to relieve them of any money they had on them. He took his hat from Harris and dipped his head quickly to clap it on without spilling the cash. “Now, I’ll ask you folks over here to clear me a path to the door.” They moved at once to obey, and he walked toward the front door.

  Halfway convinced that he was not about to be shot, Harris called after him, “Hey,
how about me? Some of that money on the table was mine.”

  Logan was in no mood to delay his departure, and had little sympathy for the gambler. “That’s the price you paid for playin’ with outlaws,” he called back.

  As he passed by the end of the bar, Lyle leaned toward him and said, “You’d best not delay. Somebody’s liable to run for the marshal.”

  “Much obliged,” Logan said, and went out the door.

  Back in the kitchen, Tom Lacey stood trembling, his pistol still in his hand. He had it in his mind to shoot, but he couldn’t get a clear shot, because of the crowded saloon and the men standing between him and the target. He had brought his pistol up to aim when a couple of the patrons parted enough to give him a glimpse of the man with the rifle. But it was during the moments when Logan was scanning the crowd for possible trouble. And Lacey lost his nerve when it appeared that Logan was staring right at him. By the time he realized that he wasn’t, it was too late. The opening was gone.

  He had to admit to himself that he was glad that he didn’t try to stop the man. He was better off to stay out of it and count himself lucky that he had had to go to the outhouse. He slid his pistol back into his holster and went back out the kitchen door. He didn’t forget the fact that the man had walked out of the saloon with a considerable amount of money, however. It was difficult to let him ride away with it.

  * * *

  Walt Bowen had remained outside his stable, beside the corral, waiting for the grim stranger’s return, not totally convinced that he would, for he had seen the nature of the three men Logan was seeking out. It had occurred to him that there was a good chance that he might not lose the horses and gear he had bought from the outlaws after all, so he stood, staring up the street toward the Lucky Dollar. The gray and the buckskin were saddled and packed as he had been instructed to do, but if the lone stalker was unsuccessful, they were his property to keep.

  Even though he was anticipating them, he jumped, startled, when he heard the gunshots from the saloon, and he strained to stare harder at the door. In a couple of minutes, he saw a handful of people backing out of the doorway to get out of the way of the man who had obviously done what he had gone there to do.

  “Yep, he did it,” Walt murmured to himself softly as Logan strode purposefully toward the stables.

  Not willing to take much time in the process, but with the intention of standing by his word, Logan walked directly by Walt and into the tack room. He dumped his hat on the bench there and quickly counted the money. Walt stood silently by. The total of all the money raked off the table, plus what he found on Jake and Everett, added up to a tidy sum. He had a rough idea how much money he and Billy had had with them, so he subtracted that, plus what he considered a fair price for the sorrel packhorse. When he was finished, he told Walt, “There’s a hundred and fifty dollars cash there on the table. You have the sorrel and saddle I gave you already, and the horses they rode in on, so I figure you didn’t get hurt too bad.”

  “I ’preciate you tryin’ to be fair about it,” Walt said. “I take it you settled with all three of ’em.”

  “Two of ’em,” Logan replied while walking back to the horses. “One of ’em wasn’t there.”

  “What about him?” Walt asked anxiously. “What if he shows up here, claimin’ the horses?”

  “Then I reckon you’re gonna have to deal with that yourself,” Logan said.

  Knowing there was nothing he could do to help Walt, he stepped up into the saddle and turned Pepper’s head toward the trail up the western side of the gulch. He considered himself fortunate that the marshal had not come looking for him yet, and he didn’t plan to waste any more time.

  He was disappointed not to have settled with all three of the men who had attacked Billy, but he was satisfied that the one responsible was dead, and he had no plans to seek the third man out.

  Chapter 4

  Logan reined his horse to a stop when he came to a clear stream running through a narrow canyon, formed by two high mountains. The somber man took no notice of the beauty of the green canyon floor, nor the dark pine forests that covered the slopes.

  He supposed that he was now a wanted man in Dakota Territory, regardless of the wrong or right of his recent acts of vengeance. He couldn’t say that he really cared at the moment, and the only plan he had in mind was to lose himself in these mountains in case the marshal of Montana City was set on coming after him. He didn’t think there was really much chance of that, even though the bartender at the Lucky Dollar had advised him to run. Montana City didn’t look as though it could afford much of a marshal.

  Even so, he preferred to run than to take the chance of an encounter with the law, for no matter the situation, he could not justify a gun battle with a sheriff or marshal. In his mind, he had done no wrong, and he had no intention to surrender to the law. His brother was gone, and he missed him. But now that he had no family, he had to go forward from this tragedy. It was the hand he had been dealt.

  Cramps in his stomach reminded him that it had been almost two days since he last ate. He was not hungry, but he told himself that he had to come back from the pit of sorrow that had captured his mind, and he needed food to keep his strength.

  As if nature herself extended her hand to him, a young doe bounded across the stream a dozen yards in front of him, then stopped stone-still. It seemed she was presenting him a target, for she still did not move when he slowly drew his rifle from the saddle sling and carefully laid the front sight on a spot just behind the deer’s front leg. He squeezed the trigger until the Winchester suddenly spoke, and the doe leaped once before crashing to the ground.

  Deciding that was as good a place as any to make his camp, he built a fire and unsaddled Pepper. He still felt a stab of sorrow when he removed the packsaddle from the buckskin, Billy’s horse, and wondered if it would not have been better to keep the sorrel instead. He shook his head, then busied himself with the skinning and butchering of the deer, remembering now and again that he was preparing his food using the same knife with which he had dug Billy’s grave.

  After he placed some strips of the fresh venison over the fire, the aroma of the roasting meat awakened his forgotten desire to eat.

  “I reckon I’ll have to see the Black Hills for both of us, Billy,” he said aloud. “After that, I reckon I’ll head over toward Belle Fourche like Percy suggested—see if I can get on with a cattle outfit up there.”

  He figured he’d be better off making his way to the western part of the hills, away from Deadwood Gulch, so as to put a little distance between him and Montana City. He was still of the opinion that the marshal of that town wouldn’t make much of an effort to search for him, after he felt sure Logan was gone from his town. As for the days to come, he had no reason to expect any additional trouble, now that the situation with Jake Morgan was settled. It was a dangerous assumption.

  A whinny from Pepper caught his attention, causing him to look toward the horses. Their ears were flickering rapidly and both horses whinnied then, telling him he might have company. He reached for his rifle just at the moment a slug tore into the ashes of his fire, followed almost at once by the report of the sniper’s rifle. Logan’s reaction was instantaneous and he rolled over and over until reaching the protection of the stream bank. Another shot ripped into the dirt above his head.

  His first thought was the marshal from Montana City, but it struck him as odd that he wasn’t given the option of surrendering. Maybe it wasn’t the marshal. Maybe it was an Indian, or a claim jumper, thinking his camp was that of a miner, panning for gold. Whoever it was didn’t seem to be interested in taking him alive, so he tried to evaluate his situation and decide what to do. It didn’t look too promising. For starters, he wasn’t sure where the shots were coming from. But then another round was fired at the bank above his head, and this time he saw the muzzle flash. He waited and in a few seconds, another shot came. It was from t
he same place.

  One man, he thought, behind that rock outcropping at the foot of the mountain to the east.

  Now that he had located the sniper, he could decide the best way to respond. Looking behind him, he observed the course of the stream as it came down the mountain. He decided his best bet was to make his way along the bank, using it for cover, until it made a sharp turn into a narrow ravine. If he was careful, he might be able to stay low enough that his assailant could not see what he was up to. Seeing no other solution that promised a greater chance of success, he crawled down into the water and set out along the stream. As he ran, hunched over as far as he could, he heard a couple more shots behind him, still shooting at the spot he had just vacated.

  When he reached the place where the stream turned sharply into the ravine, he realized that he could leave it and make his way along the foot of the mountain, using the thick growth of pines for cover. As he moved along through the trees, he stopped each time he heard another shot to determine where the shooter was hiding. He was anxious to reach a place above the sniper before the man realized he was shooting at an empty stream bank. After a few moments more, he figured he had to be right over the bushwhacker, but he could not see anything through the thick pine branches between him and the large rock he had first spotted.

  Then, all at once, a gentle breeze parted the boughs below him to give him a brief glimpse of his adversary. It was not enough to give him a clear shot, but it would at least give him a fifty-fifty chance. He brought the Winchester to his shoulder but hesitated.

  What if it’s the marshal I’m about to kill? He only considered the thought for a moment before deciding. He isn’t trying to arrest me, and murder’s murder, even if it’s in the name of the law.

  He realized then that he had hesitated too long, for his target started to shift to another location. Thinking he might not have a better chance, he fired, cranked in a new cartridge, and fired again. A sharp cry of pain told him that he had hit him.