Devil's Kin

by Charles G. West

  Jordan knew the terrible pain the man was feeling, but he was aware of his own mission of vengeance, and he felt he was now closer to his quarry than ever before. He was anxious to get started after the two outlaws, but he felt he had to offer his help. “I’ll help you bury the dead,” he said, “but then I’ve got to be on my way.” The plight of Briscoe’s wife at the mercy of those two murderers was something he didn’t like to think about. And every minute he wasted might mean the difference between her living and dying. “It might be that your wife’s all right. I didn’t see any sign of blood anywhere except around the bodies.” He watched Briscoe carefully, waiting for his reply, but the man seemed stunned.

  After a long moment, Briscoe appeared to come out of it, and his face took on a look of anger. Shifting his gaze to meet Jordan’s, he spoke in quiet determination. “I reckon you got a partner, mister. I’m goin’ with you.”

  Jordan didn’t reply at once. He preferred working alone in the grim business of tracking Roach and Leach, but he couldn’t expect a different reaction from any man. “All right,” he said, after a moment. “But I don’t have much time to waste.” He glanced around him, thinking of the man’s mules and possessions, and the possible delay while he took care of them.

  Guessing what Jordan was thinking, Briscoe said, “I ain’t gonna waste no time.” He nodded toward his team of mules. “I’ll unhitch the mules and let ’em loose. They can take care of theirselves. I’ll have to worry about the dead later.”

  Briscoe wasted little time in packing what supplies he deemed necessary on his wife’s pony while Jordan studied the tracks that led away from the river. When they were ready to ride, Briscoe paused for a moment and extended his hand. “Have you got a name, mister?”

  “Jordan Gray,” Jordan replied, taking the hand.

  “Mine’s Briscoe Greenwell. Let’s ride.”

  Chapter 12

  Bill Leach removed his hat and wiped the sweat from around the band with his bandanna. He squinted up at the midday sun. It was damn hot, considering that a few days ago the weather had begun to show signs of an early fall. Now the sun shone down mercilessly on the rolling grassland. “Gawdam crazy country,” he muttered to himself. “We need to get movin’.” He turned to glance back at his partner, who was far too busy with his carnal gratification to pay any attention to Leach.

  Soaked with sweat, Roach grunted and strained, working hard to gain his sinful satisfaction. The slight Indian girl lay beneath him, her body broken and beaten, unable to resist further assaults upon her. Her face bloody and bruised, she closed her eyes, trying to close her mind as well to the horrible fate that had descended upon her. Slowly her mind drifted from reality. Like a cloud of fog ascending from a winter stream, it floated from her consciousness until there was no longer any feeling in her body.

  “Come on, Roach,” Leach complained. “Ain’t you had enough?” He was anxious to ride, after having satisfied his own desires with a turn with the Indian woman. He absentmindedly touched the scratches on his cheek, still fresh enough to sting a little. The large bruise beside the woman’s left eye was a result of his retaliation for those scratches.

  Roach paid no attention to his partner’s nagging. Unlike Leach, when it came to women, Roach’s appetite was insatiable. Impatient to be on the move again, Leach walked up to the brow of the shallow ravine to take a look around. “Gawdam crazy country,” he repeated. Glancing up at the sun to get his bearings, he turned to look toward the north. There appeared to be a line of hills some distance ahead. He would have preferred to reach them before stopping, and he would have, had it not been for Roach’s overpowering lust—and the tiny trickle of water that crept along the bottom of the ravine. A slight movement to the west caught his eye, and he turned to stare in that direction. At first, he saw nothing, and then they topped a rise and came into view. He wasn’t happy with what he saw. Indians! A small hunting party, he guessed. There looked to be about six or eight, and they were headed in his direction. He wasted no time scurrying back down the side of the ravine.

  “Roach! Get your ass off her. We got to ride.” When Roach still refused to be distracted, Leach aimed a boot at his ribs, knocking him over sideways. Immediately enraged, Roach bounced up, ready to fight.

  “Injuns!” Leach exclaimed. “We got to get the hell outta here.”

  Roach snatched his trousers up from his boot tops.

  Hearing Leach’s warning, Sally tried to cry out for help, but was unable to summon much more than a loud moan.

  “Shut her up,” Leach ordered.

  Fully alert to the situation now, Roach reached for his knife before remembering he had removed his belt to keep the weapon out of Sally’s reach. Leach tossed his knife to him. Roach caught it and rolled over on top of the helpless woman. “It’s been a real pleasure knowin’ you, darlin’,” he said, clapping a huge palm over her mouth to stifle her moans. Her only reaction to the sudden thrust of the knife was a stiffening of her entire body before sliding gratefully into eternal sleep.

  “How many?” Roach asked as he buckled on his gun belt.

  “Half a dozen or more,” Leach said, “and they’re comin’ this way. Grab her horse’s reins, and let’s get outta here.”

  “Hell,” Roach replied, “leave the damn horse. Maybe that’ll keep ’em satisfied for a while.”

  “Suit yourself,” Leach replied, already in the saddle. “I ain’t waitin’ around to see.” Using the ravine for cover, he rode off along the bottom, following the tiny trickle of water. Roach was right on his heels.

  * * *

  Wounded Elk was the first to spot the two riders, some three-quarters of a mile away when they emerged from the head of a ravine and headed directly away from the Indians at a gallop. “There!” he exclaimed and pointed to the north.

  Spotted Bull pulled up beside him, staring hard at the two riders in full flight. Even at that distance, it was obvious that they were white men and had evidently spotted the Cheyenne hunting party. By their reactions, it was easy to assume the white men had been up to some evil. Spotted Bull’s first thought was that they were probably slaughtering some animal for the hide only, leaving the meat to rot. “Let’s go and see what mischief they have been up to,” Spotted Bull said.

  It was a grim scene the Cheyenne hunting party came upon at the bottom of the ravine. The woman’s face was battered and swollen so badly that she was not recognizable at once, even though they knew her well. A few yards away, a buckskin stallion stood by a tiny stream, watching the warriors approach.

  Wounded Elk knelt next to the body, which was still bleeding out its lifeblood. He jerked his head back, shocked when he realized who it was. “It’s Summer Moon,” he gasped, then quickly pressed his ear to her chest to see if she was alive. “She’s dead,” he announced to the others.

  There was an immediate reaction of rage among the hunting party, and the cry went out to go after the two white men. “Wait!” one of the hunters near the rim of the ravine called out. “Two more are coming.” Wounded Elk leaped upon his pony and rode up to see for himself.

  They were white men, one leading a packhorse. They had apparently not spotted the Indian ponies waiting just below the lip of the ravine. Enraged by the scene they had just come upon, the warriors checked their weapons, preparing to attack the two riders. “Wait,” Wounded Elk said. “Let them get closer.” Heeding his command, the warriors backed their horses below the brow of the ravine, watching the riders as they closed the distance between them.

  “It’s Greenwell,” Spotted Bull said, recognizing the familiar form of the old man from the trading post by the Smoky Hill. He squinted hard against the brightness of the midday sun in an effort to identify the man with Briscoe. “The other one I have never seen before.” He glanced back toward the bottom of the ravine, realizing what his white friend was about to discover. Seeking to spare him from the shock of seeing his wife’s body without prior warning, Spotted Bull rode up from the ravine to prepare him. Sha
ring the same thoughts, Wounded Elk and the others followed him.

  At the same time he saw the Indians emerge from the ravine ahead, Briscoe heard Jordan cock his rifle behind him. Taking but a moment to identify them, he called back to Jordan, “It’s all right. It’s some of Sally’s people.” He recognized Spotted Bull and Wounded Elk immediately. He held up his hand in greeting. “Maybe they’ve seen sign of the two we’re after.”

  The news that greeted him struck Briscoe with devastating impact, even though he had prepared himself for the worst. Knowing what the likely outcome would be, he had still kept his hopes alive with thoughts that Sally was a captive. Jordan’s heart went out to him, for he still felt the pain of his discovery of Sarah’s body. Briscoe’s loss only served to intensify Jordan’s impatience to extract the vengeance he sought, however. And upon learning that Roach and Leach were only minutes ahead, he was anxious to ride. “Stay here with your wife,” he said. “I’m goin’ after them.”

  Sick with grief, Briscoe held the body of his Cheyenne wife close to his chest, gently rocking back and forth as if she were a baby. He looked up at Jordan with doleful eyes, silently asking why God above could permit one so innocent to be taken so brutally. After a moment, the pain in his eyes turned to anger, and he knew he could not turn back, not even to take Sally home, until she had been avenged.

  Seeing the pain in the grieving man’s eyes, Wounded Elk realized the indecision tearing at his white friend’s heart. “One of my warriors can take Summer Moon back to the village,” he said.

  “There ain’t nothin’ I can do for her right now,” Briscoe replied emphatically. His mind made up, he looked at Jordan. “I’m goin’ with you. I’ll come back for Sally.” He quickly pulled his saddle off her pony and put it on his own horse. Then, with Wounded Elk’s help, he lifted Sally’s body onto the back of her pony. Wounded Elk then sent a younger warrior who owned no rifle back to his camp with Summer Moon’s body.

  * * *

  “Damn! They’re comin’ after us, all right.” From his position at the top of a low hill, Roach looked back over the open prairie they had just crossed. “Whaddaya think we oughta do, Leach, make a run for it or try to hide somewhere in these hills?”

  Leach didn’t answer for a moment while he looked the situation over. The small hunting party he had seen might not have but a couple of rifles. Just below where he and Roach now stood, there was a deep gully that cut across the side of the hill. “Two men with rifles could set in that gully and pick off half of that little party before they even got close to the trees. I expect it wouldn’t take much to chase that bunch back to where they come from.”

  “Suits me,” Roach said. “I’d just as soon put the fear of God in ’em right away.”

  With his rifle and a belt of extra cartridges, Roach positioned himself at the head of the gully where he had a full field of vision over the rolling prairie that led up to the hills. Leach led the horses out of harm’s way around a crook in the gully near the other end. Once they were tied safely out of sight, he returned to take up a position at the curve of the gully some fifteen yards from Roach and waited for the Indians to come into range.

  “There’s a couple more with ’em,” Roach called back to Leach, “at least it looks like there’s more of ’em to me.”

  Leach craned his neck to see, but his view was not as sweeping as Roach’s. The Indians were just coming into his field of vision. “Let ’em get a little bit closer,” he called back. He was about to call out again, but Roach beat him to it.

  “Hell, them other two are white men. It’s that ol’ man from back at the river, come lookin’ for his little Injun wife, I reckon.” Roach found humor in the thought. In the next second, the smile froze upon his face, for he recognized the man riding with Briscoe. His jaw dropped as if he had seen a ghost. “Leach! I swear I think it’s the son of a bitch I killed back at Fort Gibson.”

  Leach stared hard at the approaching party. Roach could be right. He did resemble the man in the hotel hallway. “I reckon you didn’t kill him enough ’cause that sure as hell looks like him ridin’ with them Injuns.”

  The sight of a man he was certain he had killed unnerved Roach to the point where he could wait no longer. He raised his rifle and fired. The bullet kicked up dirt a few feet before Jordan’s horse. “Dammit, Roach,” Leach cursed. “I told you to wait till they got closer.” What would have been like shooting ducks in a barrel had now developed into a gunfight, thanks to Roach’s premature shot. In frustration, Leach fired at the scattering party as rapidly as he could in hopes of a lucky shot. In a matter of seconds, the warriors and their two white allies disappeared from his view behind a deep swale in the prairie.

  * * *

  “I don’t know where that first shot came from,” Briscoe said as he crawled up beside Jordan. “But them last shots came from the trees near the end of that gully.” He pointed toward the lower end of a long gully that cut across the side of the hill. “If we charge straight at ’em, they’re gonna pick us off one by one. Our best bet is to divide up and circle around that hill. If we’re quick enough, we might be able to box ’em up in that gully.” It made sense to Jordan, and Wounded Elk nodded his agreement with the plan. They split up then, one of the warriors going with the two white men, the others following Wounded Elk.

  * * *

  Back on the hillside, Leach craned his neck in an effort to see what was going on behind the swale. For a few moments, there was no sign of any movement, and he wondered if they were simply going to stay put. A few moments later, he saw four warriors race from the west end of the long swale, heading for the cover of the trees at the foot of the hill. Roach immediately opened fire, but at that distance to no avail. “Dammit!” Leach swore, quickly shifting his gaze to the eastern end of the swale. As he expected, the three remaining members of the party came galloping toward the trees on his left. It was fairly obvious what they had in mind. Although he knew it to be wasted ammunition, he fired off a couple shots, hoping for a lucky hit. Fully irritated now, he yelled at his partner, “Damn you, Roach, we coulda finished half of ’em if you’d waited like I told you. Now they’re gonna try to come at us from both sides.”

  “Let ’em come,” Roach called back, smarting properly in reply to Leach’s chastising. “They’ll play hell tryin’ to root us outta this gully.”

  Still irritated, Leach looked above him toward the top of the hill. If they get behind us, on the brow of that hill, he thought, they could make short work of us. “Keep your eyes peeled,” he warned Roach. “I’m gonna make sure the horses are all right.”

  Roach cast a quick glance toward his partner as Leach disappeared around the crook in the gully, then shifted his gaze back to the foot of the hill to his right. Seeking better cover now that the Indians would be coming from a different direction, he moved to position himself behind a sizable rock where he could cover a wider field of fire. He then laid his bullet belt on the ground beside him, where it would be handy, and placed his pistol beside it. Satisfied that he was ready, he watched for the first sign of movement in the pines below him. His wait was not to be lengthy. In a matter of minutes, a rifle ball split a limb above his head. It was followed by three more shots in quick succession, all whining harmlessly above him, and all seeming to come from one rifle. They ain’t got but one rifle among them, he thought, straining to see where the shots had come from. In a moment, he thought he caught sight of a muzzle flash at the base of a large pine when a couple more shots were fired. He immediately responded with a series of shots, peppering the tree trunk and the ground beside it. That’ll give them something to think about, he thought.

  There followed a lull in the exchange of gunfire. The rifle at the base of the large pine seemed to have been silenced. Roach decided that he may have gotten a lucky hit—either that or they might have decided it was too risky to charge the gully. His speculation was answered in the next moment with a hail of rifle fire that caused him to bury his face in the dirt while a
dozen bullets sang their deadly song over his head. “Damn!” He uttered as a slug ricocheted off the rock, throwing chips of stone on his neck. Staying flat to the ground, he pushed back to find cover behind a stunted pine. “Leach!” he called out. “They’ve got up the hill above us!”

  Once again, a lull occurred in the barrage of gunfire, and Roach knew the other men were moving to find new positions. He crawled up as close to the edge of the gully as he dared to try to spot some movement that would give him a clear target. He caught a glimpse of something that he took to be an Indian, just as it disappeared behind a rock. “Damn,” he uttered, knowing that he had missed a clean shot by moments. Another movement below the gully caught his eye, and he quickly turned his head in that direction, but he could see no one. I don’t like this worth a shit, he thought, knowing that they would soon have him in a cross fire if he didn’t get a clear target soon. In desperation, he leveled his rifle at the spot in the trees where he thought he had last seen some movement, and fired three times in rapid succession. His shots were immediately answered from below and above, causing him to scurry backward from the rim of the gully. “To hell with this!” he decided and scrambled back down to the bottom. “I’m comin’ back with you,” he yelled out to Leach.

  Running, half stumbling, he made his way along the bottom of the deep defile to the point where it took a sharp turn. Rounding the crook in the gully, he was stopped in his tracks. Leach was not there. It took a moment for it to register in his confused brain. “You son of a bitch,” he uttered when he realized that his partner had deserted him, leaving him to hold off the Indians while he made good his escape. “Leach! You son of a bitch!” This time he roared it out in anger. It occurred to him then that he had not heard Leach fire a shot during the time he was being dusted by rifle fire at the other end of the gully. The bastard didn’t wait around for the shooting to start, he thought. Being of the same criminal mind as his partner, Roach also knew why Leach had taken his horse as well. Leach knew Roach would be coming after him if he escaped the assault—and with blood in his eye. By leaving Roach on foot, Leach also figured he would be forced to hold them off until his ammunition ran out. But Roach was not inclined to serve as Leach’s sacrificial goat. He quickly evaluated his chances of survival, and he didn’t like what he came up with. Digging in and holding them off was not an option as far as he was concerned. He decided his best bet was to climb up the hill, instead of running down through the pines. The party had split up to cover both ends of the gully. He figured there weren’t enough of them to cover the entire length of it. Maybe he could catch one of them from behind and get a horse for himself.