Devil's Kin

by Charles G. West

  In a few moments, a slender Indian woman appeared at the corner of the store. Having heard her husband talking to the two strangers, she glanced quickly at one, then at the other, before gazing at Briscoe. She was at once troubled by a sudden feeling of dread. Her instincts told her that these two white men were dangerous, and she was immediately concerned for her husband.

  “Sally,” Briscoe said, ignoring her frown, “these fellers is stayin’ to supper. Reckon you could make some pan bread to go with that stew?” She nodded and turned obediently to do his bidding, hoping that her instincts were wrong.

  Turning back to Roach and Leach, Briscoe said, “Since you fellers is plannin’ to buy supplies, it wouldn’t be polite to charge you for a little somethin’ to eat.”

  Never far below the surface, Roach’s lust for women was immediately stirred by the sight of the handsome Cheyenne woman. Intrigued by the fact that she didn’t appear to be mixed blood, he wondered aloud, “Is that your daughter?”

  “She’s my wife,” Briscoe stated flatly, his tone tightening a little.

  Both men looked surprised. Like his partner, Leach had automatically assumed the woman was Briscoe’s daughter. He took a longer look at Sally as she disappeared around the corner. He glanced at Roach, who was grinning broadly, his gaze still nailed to the corner of the store. Looking back at Briscoe then, he discovered a hostile spark in the older man’s eye. Leach chuckled and gave him a knowing wink. “Nice goin’, old man.” Before Briscoe had time to reply, Leach forged ahead. “Now let’s see what we can buy for supplies.” He stepped past Briscoe and entered the store.

  His mind now on the business of turning a profit, Briscoe brought out what supplies he had left, including some cartridges for their rifles. Leach wasted no time, pointing out the items he wanted with no attempt to bargain for better prices. He had come by his ill-gotten finances easily enough. It wasn’t in his nature to bargain. “This trail we come in on, if we stay on it, where does it lead?” he asked as Briscoe weighed out the coffee beans.

  “Well, if you stay on the main trail, you’ll strike the Platte in three or four days. Where are you fellers headed, anyway?” It was plain to see that the two had no idea where they were going.

  Leach’s face formed a thin smile. “Nowhere in particular, just tryin’ to take a look at the country, see places we ain’t ever seen before.”

  Briscoe had his own ideas as to why the two were traveling through Indian Territory, and he doubted if it was to see the country. But he kept his suspicions to himself and played along with the game. “Well, you ain’t gonna see much worth lookin’ at between here and the Platte. But if you’re of a mind to, you can follow the Platte west to Fort Laramie.” Roach and Leach nodded to each other as if that was worth considering. Further talk was interrupted by the appearance of Sally carrying two plates of stew and bread while keeping a wary eye on the strangers.

  In the Cheyenne tongue, Briscoe instructed his wife. “Put the plates on the counter, and go back to the tipi. I want to be rid of these two quickly.” She nodded her acknowledgment and did as she was told, relieved to find that her husband shared her caution toward them. To his two guests, he said, “Eat up, boys, and I’ll help you tote your supplies out to your horses. There’s still plenty of daylight left, and you’re probably anxious to be on your way. If you don’t tarry too long, you can make Antelope Crick. That’s a dandy spot to camp—good water and plenty of firewood.” When neither man gave any indication of urgency, he went on. “’Course, you’d be welcome to camp here if you want, but I wouldn’t recommend it. There’s a band of Cheyenne—Sally’s people—supposed to get here this evening, and they ain’t too friendly to white men. They tolerate me because of Sally.” He paused to see if it was necessary to build on to the lie.

  “I reckon we’ll keep movin’,” Leach replied. “Right, Roach? I ain’t lookin’ to meet up with no Cheyennes.”

  Roach, a wide grin plastered upon his face, nodded without taking his eyes off the Indian woman as she set the plates upon the counter before them. He had followed her every move from the time she appeared in the doorway, the never-rusty wheels of lust turning rapidly in his head as he formed an imaginary picture of what was beneath her long calico skirt.

  “I’ll be leavin’ out of here myself in the mornin’—me and Sally. I’m already late in makin’ the trip to Fort Gibson,” Briscoe said. The statement was partially true. He was planning to leave in the morning, but Sally was going to remain behind with her uncle. She never accompanied him on his twice-a-year trips to the white settlement. He couldn’t tell if they bought his story or not, but they made no comment. And when they had finished the supper Sally had brought, Leach pulled out a wad of money and paid up, much to Briscoe’s relief. He had harbored more than a few thoughts about whether the strangers really intended to pay for their supplies and if he was going to find it necessary to reach for his shotgun.

  There was little more said as Roach and Leach climbed into the saddle again and turned their horses toward the north. Briscoe stood watching them as they rode away. “Much obliged,” he called out after them. “Just stay on that trail. Antelope Crick—you’ll recognize it when you get there.” He had a feeling the two knew he was anxious to get rid of them, but it didn’t matter. They were gone, and he felt he was lucky to be done with them. He remained there at the edge of the yard, watching until they disappeared from his sight. He had cash money in hand, and they had given no indication of causing him trouble. Maybe he had misjudged the pair, but he couldn’t help feeling a sense of distrust. Maybe I oughtn’t to leave here tomorrow, he thought, thinking it might be wise to wait another day or two in case they decided to come back. “Hell,” he said aloud, “they’re long gone. They’ve got no reason to hang around here. The law or somebody’s probably chasin’ ’em, anyway.”

  * * *

  It was almost dark by the time Leach and Roach reached Antelope Creek. As Briscoe had predicted, they had no trouble recognizing it: a ribbon of dark water lined with cottonwoods and low brush. They set up their camp close by the water’s edge. Leach kept a suspicious eye on his partner, who had been unusually quiet during the entire ride from the Smoky Hill. It wasn’t like Roach to be so quiet. Something was eating at him, and Leach was pretty sure he knew what it was. “You’re thinkin’ about that damn little Injun woman, ain’t you?” he finally asked.

  “That old man ain’t plannin’ to take that woman with him to Fort Gibson,” Roach replied, speaking out in the middle of a thought. “He just wants us to think he’s takin’ her.” He paused to think about it. “I’ll bet she’s gonna be there all by herself. Think about that, Leach: pretty little thing just settin’ there waitin’.”

  Leach recognized the faraway look in Roach’s eyes. He had seen it many times before, and most of the time trouble followed as a result. He knew Roach was picturing the Indian woman alone and vulnerable. It was a picture that appealed to his crude desires as well, but he wasn’t as big a fool about it as Roach. “I reckon you wanna go back there tomorrow to see if she’s still there,” he said.

  “I’m thinkin’ about it,” Roach said with an evil grin.

  * * *

  On some days, usually when the mornings were cooler than normal, Jordan could feel the bullet lodged deep in his chest. There was no physical pain, just a cold reminder of its presence, and he would concentrate hard to enslave in his mind the image of the two faces he hunted. He accepted the fact that the odds of finding Roach and Leach were against him. It might take years of scouring every square mile of territory between there and Oregon, but he was resigned to the task. He had room for no other purpose for his life, and the images of the faces he endeavored to keep fresh in his mind were the only link between himself and his quest.

  Lost deep in his thoughts of Sarah and the life that was theirs before that tragic day when his world was destroyed, he was suddenly surprised by the appearance of a wagon and a team of mules on the trail ahead. He pulled the gray up sh
ort to take a longer look. The wagon was still more than a mile away, and it was difficult for him to identify the driver, whether Indian or white man. Jordan remained stationary for a while, watching the wagon approach. He could soon see that there was just one man, and the wagon appeared to be loaded with hides. Maybe this trail does lead somewhere, he thought. He nudged the gray with his heels and moved to close the distance.

  * * *

  Briscoe pulled his pistol from its holster and laid it on the wagon seat beside him. He had spotted the lone traveler as soon as the mules topped a rise in the prairie some several hundred yards back. Another damn stranger heading for my place, he thought. It’s getting so you’d think you were on a street in St. Louis. “Ha, Blue,” he called out, encouraging the lead mule to pull harder as the trail dipped into a shallow draw. When he emerged from the draw, he was no more than a hundred yards from the lone rider. It was a white man for sure. He had rather it had been an Indian. White men alone in this territory often meant trouble, and his mind went immediately to the two he had left behind the day before. This one looked no better, with his flat-crowned hat pulled low against the afternoon sun and about a week’s growth of dark beard covering his face. Like the two before him, this one carried no evidence of tools or packs to suggest an honest way of making a living. Briscoe decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he would keep his hand close to the handle of his pistol just in case.

  “Howdy,” Briscoe called out in greeting and pulled his mules up.

  “Howdy,” Jordan returned as he reined up alongside the wagon.

  “Don’t see many white men on this trail,” Briscoe said, looking the stranger over thoroughly. Upon closer observation, he determined the rider to be a young man. Solidly built, he sat his saddle easily and looked Briscoe directly in the eye. Briscoe quickly took inventory of the stranger’s gear: two heavily loaded saddle packs, two rifles, one with a busted stock. It was the look in his eyes that caused Briscoe to decide the man was a hunter, and not for four-legged game. “Where you bound for?” he asked.

  “I’m lookin’ for two men that mighta headed this way,” Jordan replied.

  “Friends of yours?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Figured as much,” Briscoe said, still looking Jordan over. Seeing no badge, he asked, “Are you a lawman?”

  “No,” Jordan replied impatiently. He couldn’t help but wonder how many times he had been asked that question. “Have you seen two white men ridin’ this way?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have. Two strangers was at my store yesterday.” He went on to explain that he had a small trading post on the Smoky Hill. Roach and Leach had showed up there the afternoon before, but pushed on north. “Ain’t none of my business, but if they ain’t friends of your’n, how come you’re lookin’ for ’em?”

  Jordan was reluctant to discuss his reasons. “I just need to find ’em,” he answered simply.

  Briscoe wasn’t satisfied with that explanation. His mind had been troubled by thoughts that he should have waited another day or two before starting for Fort Gibson to make sure Leach and Roach were not lingering. He had not been blind to the way both men gawked at Sally when she brought them food. With that in mind, he had told her uncle, Red Deer, to take her and her mother to his village until his return. Now he worried that he should have at least stayed until he saw them on their way to the Cheyenne camp. “Look here, young feller. I know it ain’t polite to stick my nose into another man’s business, but I left my wife back there with nobody but her mother and an old half-blind Cheyenne to look after her. I need to know if them two you’re trailin’ is somethin’ to worry about.”

  “Mister,” Jordan replied in no uncertain tone, “you’d better hope those two kept ridin’.” Deciding Briscoe had a right to know, he went on to tell why he was after the two outlaws.

  “Lord have mercy,” Briscoe uttered softly, his eyes now wide with fear that his wife might be in danger. He immediately turned his team of mules around, yelling to Jordan as he cracked his whip over their rumps. “Please, mister, go on ahead to my place. You can make better time than I can. It ain’t more’n seven or eight miles.” With no need for comment, Jordan was off at a fast lope.

  If there was ever a horse misnamed, it had to be Sweet Pea. Jordan had never seen a more ornery horse. But he had to admire her strength and stamina. What she lacked in beauty, she more than compensated with a broad chest and a stout heart. As his partnership lengthened with the scruffy-looking gray mare, his appreciation for Perley Gates’ appraisal of horseflesh grew. Though Perley had never seen fit to saddle his cantankerous packhorse, thinking the animal would not tolerate a man on her back, Jordan was certain the horse’s antisocial behavior stemmed from a simple matter of jealousy. Ever since the chestnut had been removed from the scene, Sweet Pea had mysteriously acquired some manners. And after her initial protest to the strange sensation of a man on her back, she had evidently decided to accept her role, responding to her master’s commands with a willing spirit, just as she was doing on this late August afternoon.

  Jordan soon left Briscoe Greenwell and his wagon behind, a speck on the horizon, and then completely out of sight, as Sweet Pea steadily ate up the miles to the Smoky Hill River. There was still plenty of daylight left when he spotted the river and the simple log building on the far side. He reined the gray back to a slow walk as he looked the situation over. There was no sign of anyone about the cabin or the tipi behind. There was a horse in the small corral beyond the tipi, a smallish paint pony that pricked up its ears when it sensed Sweet Pea’s presence. Jordan guided the gray into the water.

  When he reached the bank on the other side, he pulled Sweet Pea to a halt and took another careful look around before proceeding. There were no horses around, other than the little paint in the corral. He might have assumed that the woman and her uncle had gone, as her husband had expected. But the little pony in the corral bothered him. Why would the woman leave it penned up in the corral if she was expecting to be gone for several days while her husband went to Fort Gibson? Although he felt sure he was the sole human around, he drew his rifle from the sling and cranked a round in the chamber.

  Approaching the crude log structure, Jordan had an eerie feeling that he had lived this moment before, and his mind went back to the rainy afternoon when he had returned to his own cabin and the horrible scene that had left an ever-festering scar upon his heart. He rode slowly up to the cabin and dismounted, eyeing the partially open door warily. After another look around to make sure he was alone, he walked up to the door and pushed it open with his rifle barrel. There, on the floor, just inside the door, lay the body of Sally’s uncle. A pool of blood had gathered under the old man’s head from a ragged gash that ran almost from ear to ear, leaving his neck gaping in a macabre grin. One look and Jordan knew the old Indian had been dead for a good while. He was already starting to get stiff as Jordan turned him over, disturbing the swarm of flies that had been feeding in the bloody pool.

  Jordan stood up and looked around him. Leach and Roach had obviously ransacked the cabin before leaving. Articles of clothing and trade goods lay scattered about on the floor. There was a deathly silence that filled the log building, with nothing but the whining of the flies to prevent its being a total vacuum. There was another door that Jordan assumed led to the store owner’s private living quarters. Unless he lives in the tipi behind the store, he thought. That door was also partially open. Jordan wondered if he would find the man’s wife in the other room. Moving as quietly as he could, although he felt certain there was no other living soul around, he pushed the door open wide and peered into the darkened room. What first appeared to be a body on the bed in the corner turned out to be a disheveled roll of blankets. He stared at the bed for a long moment, then shifted his attention to the rest of the room. Like the store, the floor was strewn with articles of clothing and personal items. But there was no sign of a woman. That could be good or bad news for the man following him in the w
agon.

  With his rifle still held ready for any surprises, he went back outside, and walked around the cabin to the tipi. He discovered the ashes of a cook fire a few paces from the back of the cabin. They were still warm. Fully expecting to find the bodies of the two women inside, he stuck his head inside the tipi. There was only one. The old woman’s head had been bashed in, her body left in the center of the lodge. Realizing there was nothing he could do for the dead, he walked back around the store to wait for the man following in the wagon.

  Cracking his whip over the backs of his mules, Briscoe pushed the lathered animals hard in an effort to demand more speed. His hands shook with anxiety as he guided the lead mule into the water. Seeing Jordan coming to meet him, he cried out in despair, already fearing the worst, “Sally?”

  “Not here,” Jordan replied. “But they’ve been here—took your wife with them, it appears.” He was not without sympathy for the stricken man, but he didn’t know what to say to console him.

  Briscoe scrambled down from the wagon seat and hurried past Jordan, heading for the door of his store. “Maybe Sally and her uncle were already gone,” he uttered hopefully. “They was supposed to go to the Cheyenne camp.”

  “There’s a dead man inside with his throat cut,” Jordan said. “I expect it’s her uncle. Her mother’s inside the tipi. She’s dead, too.”

  Briscoe’s heart sank, his pain reflected vividly in his face. It was what he had feared when he first saw Sally’s pony in the corral. He knew that she would not leave the paint behind, but he had desperately prayed that she had taken his horse for some reason. Jordan’s statement stopped him in his tracks, and he stood hesitating before the door for a few moments before going inside. Jordan waited outside.

  After a few minutes, Briscoe reappeared, his face drained of all color, his jaw set in grim determination. “It’s Red Deer, all right. The poor old man didn’t have much chance against the likes of those two.” He stood there, trembling, not knowing what to do at the moment, desperately trying to keep his mind from painting a picture that he could not bear to envision.