Devil's Kin

by Charles G. West

  “What’s going to happen to him?” Kathleen asked as she was being led to the door.

  “I don’t know for sure. We’ll hold him till I get word if we’re going to try him here or if he’s going to be escorted back to stand trial in Fort Smith.”

  She went unresisting to the door, with one last remark as the captain held it open for her: “He’s innocent, Uncle Paul.”

  McGarity sighed wearily. “If he is, it’ll come out in the trial.”

  * * *

  “Hey, darlin’, did you come to see me?” Jordan heard the prisoner’s question, but paid no attention to it until he spoke again. “Jordan Gray? Wait a minute, honey, I’ll see.” The soldier turned to look at Jordan. “Ain’t your name Jordan Gray?” Jordan nodded. “There’s somebody here to see you.”

  Jordan went to the back window. “Kathleen?” he uttered, hardly believing his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “We were just transferred here,” she answered, her face a frown as she tried to search his face through the iron bars of the window. “You look awful. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay. Just need to clean up a little.”

  Ignoring the gawking of the other inmates crowding at the other window, Kathleen moved closer to the bars. “They say you were involved in that bank incident in Fort Smith.”

  “I know. It doesn’t look too good for me right now, does it?”

  “But you’re innocent,” she stated, although there was a plea for confirmation in her tone.

  “I’m innocent,” he assured her, “but I reckon the only man who knows that for sure is right here in Fort Laramie, and I kinda doubt that he’ll step forward to testify.”

  “I tried to tell Captain McGarity that you had nothing to do with that bank robbery, but he just won’t believe me. I don’t know what else to do.” For a brief moment, her complete faith in him slipped just a fraction. “Jordan, they found a lot of money in your saddlebags.”

  “I know,” he replied. “Most of it belongs to me—money I saved to buy some land. The rest is stolen money that I took off of that half-breed killer. I reckon it does belong to the bank. I was thinkin’ about givin’ it back when I was finished with this thing. I hadn’t made up my mind. Now I guess I don’t have to. The soldiers took it and my money, too.”

  “Oh, Jordan,” Kathleen despaired, not knowing what else to say. “I’d like to bump into you sometime when you were not either wounded or in trouble.” There followed a long moment during which neither could think of anything to say. Finally, Kathleen realized there was no point in prolonging the visit. “I’ll try to talk my father into persuading Uncle Paul—Captain McGarity—to hear your side of the story. Is there anything I can get you or do for you?”

  “I guess not,” he replied softly. She formed a faint smile for him and turned to leave. A thought occurred to him. “Wait!” he said. “There is something.” He leaned close to the bars to keep anyone from hearing. “If you could persuade that captain to telegraph the sheriff in Crooked Creek, Arkansas, he might vouch for me—if that would help.”

  “Oh, I know it would,” she replied eagerly. “I’ll go right away.”

  “There’s one other favor,” he said. “Can you bring me a bottle of whiskey?”

  The request caused her to raise her eyebrows and cast a curious glance at him. “You want whiskey?” It was not the kind of request she had expected.

  “Yes, a full bottle. It’s important.”

  “All right,” she said, “if that’s what you want, but I’ll wait until after dark. I don’t want to be seen walking around the post carrying a bottle of whiskey.”

  “That’ll do just fine,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “You’re welcome,” she sighed, shaking her head, astonished by such a frivolous request in the face of the serious conditions.

  * * *

  Shortly after the sun dropped below the hills directly to the west of the post, Jordan moved back to the window and waited. Glancing over at Corbin, he could see that the corporal was trying to go to sleep, but the demons that drove him to drink were evidently tormenting him. Even in the half-light of the room, Jordan could see the man’s hands shaking. Poor devil, he thought and turned his attention back to the window.

  The guardhouse sat with its back facing the Laramie River, so it was relatively easy for Kathleen to avoid contact with anyone as she quickly stepped into the shadows of the administration building. Captain McGarity’s office was in the front part of the building. But she was not concerned, for she knew that Uncle Paul was at that moment in his quarters, where he and his wife were entertaining Kathleen’s father. Kathleen herself had been there moments before, but excused herself to fetch some linen she had borrowed from the adjutant’s wife. The linen draped casually over the bottle of scotch whiskey she held in her hand, Kathleen made her way along the rear part of the building, which served as a school for the post children. At the back corner, she stopped to make sure the guard walking his post before the guardhouse was out of sight. Then she hurried directly across to the rear window, where she had earlier spoken to Jordan.

  “Jordan,” she called out softly.

  “I’m here,” he immediately answered. “Did you get it?” He had experienced some concern during the afternoon, for fear that she might have had some difficulty acquiring a bottle of whiskey.

  “Here,” she replied, poking the neck of the bottle through the bars of the window.

  He couldn’t help but ask, “Where did you get it?”

  “I took it from my father’s footlocker. I just hope he isn’t going to be looking for it anytime soon.” There was a definite tone of impatience in her voice as she said, “I’ve got to get back now before they miss me.”

  “Kathleen,” he implored, “I truly am grateful for this and sorry that I had to put you to the trouble.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome,” she replied with an added hint of disgust. “Enjoy your evening.” She turned to leave, then paused. “I sent a wire to the sheriff’s office in Crooked Creek.” Then she was gone into the night.

  “Thanks again,” he called out in a whisper.

  * * *

  “What the hell have you got?”

  Jordan turned to find Corbin at his elbow. The suffering man had been aroused from his half-sleep by the sound of Jordan talking at the window. “Oh, a little somethin’ to ward off the chills,” Jordan replied casually, while letting Corbin glimpse the bottle.

  “Oh, sweet Lord in heaven!” Corbin exclaimed when he was sure he was not seeing a mirage. His prayers seemingly answered, he asked, “Where the hell did you get that?”

  “One of the women down the road,” Jordan lied.

  “Della’s?” Corbin didn’t really care. His eyes glued to the bottle.

  “Yeah, Della’s,” Jordan answered. “I just needed a little drink.”

  “Well, hell, man, pull the cork on her, and let’s have a snort.” Corbin’s trembling hands had already become steady just from the sight of the bottle.

  Jordan pulled the bottle away. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You’re gettin’ outta here in the morning. If they find you drunk, they won’t let you go.” In the dim light of the room, he could see Corbin’s face droop. “Besides,” Jordan went on, “when you get out in the morning, you can go get yourself a drink then.”

  “For God’s sake, man, have some pity. I need a drink bad.” He moved closer, but Jordan took a step away, holding the bottle away from the corporal’s outstretched hand.

  The conversation was overheard by some of the prisoners near Jordan and Corbin, and soon all the prisoners were aware of a bottle of whiskey in the room. “Hey,” a voice called out, “I’d like a drink of that whiskey.” A second voice answered with, “We’d all like a drink.” Several of the men got up from their pallets and started to crowd around Jordan. It was a situation he had anticipated, but hoped to avoid.

  “You might as well all go on back to sleep,” he said. “T
his whiskey is for me alone. Nobody gets a drink.”

  “Maybe we just might decide to take it away from you,” one man said to an echo of “Yeahs.”

  With his back to the wall, Jordan faced them, holding the bottle by the neck like a club. “The first one that tries is gonna get his head busted, and I’ll bust the bottle before I give anybody a drink.” There was a long pause in the crowded room, with a few grunts of protest, but no one seemed willing to lead a charge. Jordan presented a formidable adversary to anyone brave enough to risk getting his skull cracked. After a few tense moments passed, the mob settled down, returning to their straw pallets with a few scattered comments of “Bastard” and “Greedy son of a bitch.”

  The crisis passed, Jordan moved over beside Corbin and sat down. The corporal had turned on his side, his back to Jordan, trying to forget the bottle so close, but forbidden. He had started to tremble again. When he was certain all was quiet again, Jordan pulled the cork from the bottle and waved it close over Corbin’s head. It took but a moment for the fumes to waft past Corbin’s nostrils. In a moment, he rolled over to face Jordan. “For God’s sake,” he pleaded desperately.

  Without replying at once, Jordan slowly lifted the bottle to his lips and took a drink. Watching the pain form in Corbin’s face, he brought the bottle down and recorked it. “How bad do you want a drink?”

  “Bad enough to kill you for it,” Corbin replied simply.

  “Bad enough to risk spending more time in here?”

  “Bad enough not to give a shit,” the corporal admitted.

  Jordan nodded, satisfied with the man’s desperation. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll make you a trade.” Corbin immediately sat up, a ray of light penetrating his dark abyss. Jordan continued. “I’ll trade you this whole bottle of scotch whiskey, plus my shirt, for your shirt and cap.”

  Corbin didn’t understand. At first, he thought Jordan was toying with him again. When Jordan remained silent, waiting for an answer, Corbin asked cautiously, “What kinda crazy trade is that? This shirt ain’t as good as the one you’re wearing.” He was certain there was a catch to Jordan’s proposal.

  “Never mind that,” Jordan pressed. “You want the whiskey or not?” He plugged the cork back in the bottle and started to take it away.

  “Hold on a minute!” Corbin blurted. There was no need for further negotiations. “It’s a deal!” He reached out for the bottle.

  Jordan pulled it away from him. “The shirt and cap,” he demanded.

  Corbin shucked his shirt in an instant, pulling it over his head without bothering with the buttons. Jordan removed his own shirt and handed it along with the bottle to the trembling corporal. When the thing he coveted most was safely in his hands, Corbin held it close to his breast and looked furtively around him to make sure no one else had overheard the trade taking place. He made himself comfortable, seated with his back against the wall, shielding the bottle protectively. When he was certain no one was paying him any attention, he took a long pull from the bottle. Content at last, Corbin settled himself for the night with his evil mistress.

  Morning broke, chilly and gray. Jordan roused himself by the sound of the bugler blowing reveille. It had been a fitful night with short periods of sleep. Each time he had awakened, he looked over at Corbin. Each time, he had found the corporal still seated against the wall, secretly nursing from his bottle. This last time, he saw that his unwitting accomplish had keeled over on his side, passed out on the floor, the empty bottle beside him.

  Due to the rank condition of Corbin’s shirt, Jordan had chosen to sleep without it. Now, shivering with the cold, he snorted, disgusted by the foul-smelling garment as he pulled it on and tucked it in his trousers. At approximately thirty minutes after the first bugle, he heard another. “Stable and watering call,” he heard someone grumble. Moments later, he heard the sergeant of the guard at the door, so he put Corbin’s cap on and pulled it down low on his head.

  “Corbin!” the sergeant called out when he opened the door. “Which one’s Corbin?”

  “Right here, Sergeant.” Jordan stepped quickly up to the door.

  “Your time’s up. Get your sorry ass outta there and report back to your company.”

  Jordan wasted no time filing past the sergeant. He didn’t look back at Corbin, who was dead to the world. His primary thought was to remove himself from the vicinity of the guardhouse before some suspicious soldier questioned his identity, so he walked briskly across the parade ground toward the opposite corner. With no weapons, nor even a coat against the morning chill, he was acutely aware of a sense of vulnerability. He had bluffed his way past the sergeant of the guard simply because Corbin hadn’t been at Fort Laramie long enough for anyone to know him. Jordan feared that it would have been too great a risk to make an attempt to recover his rifle and saddlebags. He wasn’t even sure where they were taken. He would worry about that later, he told himself. The thought uppermost in his mind at the moment was the stranger rooming at Della’s.

  After crossing the parade ground, Jordan fell in behind a large detail of soldiers heading for the cavalry stables. No one seemed to notice that he was out of uniform as he walked along at the end of the column. Once they reached the stables, the men fell out to take care of their individual mounts. Jordan walked along the rows of stalls, searching for Sweet Pea and his packhorse. About halfway the length of the stable, he encountered a grim-faced sergeant who stood watching him approach.

  “Soldier,” the sergeant demanded, “who the hell are you?”

  “Corporal Corbin,” Jordan replied.

  The sergeant knew the man was not assigned to his company. “What the hell kind of uniform do you call that?”

  Remembering what Corbin had told him, Jordan replied, “I just got transferred in from Fort Lincoln, and my gear got lost.” It was all he could think of at the moment, and he hoped the sergeant wouldn’t ask how he could have lost his uniforms.

  “What are you doin’ here with my company?” the sergeant wanted to know. “Are you on stable duty?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jordan quickly replied. “Stable duty, I’m supposed to take care of a couple of horses that belong to a prisoner in the guardhouse.”

  “You must be lookin’ for that mangy-looking beast out in the corral.” The sergeant snorted a chuckle. “I wouldn’t waste much time tryin’ to groom that horse. She looks half-coyote.”

  “I’m just doin’ what I’m told,” Jordan replied and took his leave.

  As the sergeant had said, both horses were running loose in the corral among a group of twenty or more. Jordan almost grinned when Sweet Pea took a nip out of the side of a roan stallion, causing the injured horse to kick at her. The ornery mare spotted Jordan as soon as he entered the corral and much to his surprise came immediately to meet him. Out of habit, Briscoe’s horse followed her.

  Jordan glanced around him to see if anyone was watching, but all the soldiers seemed intent only upon finishing their chores before the bugler blew mess call. Finding that his horses’ bridles had been conveniently left on, he took the reins and led them out of the back gate. Once outside the corral, he stopped to again make sure no one had paid any attention to his movements. Then he looped the reins over the top rail and headed for the tack room. As he had hoped, he found his saddle and Briscoe’s there. His saddlebags and weapons were missing, however.

  Electing not to take the time to bother with Briscoe’s saddle, he picked up his saddle and blanket and went out the back door of the tack room. In a matter of minutes, he was ready to ride. Taking a final look around, he stepped up in the saddle and filed slowly past the rear of the corral. The sergeant in charge of the grooming detail took notice of the man riding away from the stables, but cared not enough to concern himself.

  Chapter 17

  “You son of a bitch,” Della spat, flicks of blood from her swollen lip leaving a fine pattern on the torn tail of her nightgown.

  Leach grinned at the bloody and bruised woman staring up
at him from the floor beside the bed. “Now ain’t that a nice way to talk to a good customer like me?” he said.

  “You’ve done your dirty work, you bastard. Now why don’t you get on outta here and leave me alone?” She started to get up from the floor, but her battered and exhausted body resisted, and she sank back again. “My help will be here soon. I’ve got friends. If you know what’s good for you, you’d better be gone when they get here.”

  He knew she was bluffing. “Is that so?” he taunted. “Well, maybe me and you better have one more go at it before they git here.”

  She cringed as he approached her again. “Keep your dirty hands off’a me!” she shouted, trying to shield herself with her arms.

  Grabbing one of her arms, he jerked her up from the floor and shoved her over on the bed. She tried to roll over away from him, but he backhanded her hard across the face. “Damn you!” she cursed. He lifted her gown and forced his way between her legs. She struggled to make his conquest as difficult as possible. He repeatedly tried to enter her body, but was unsuccessful in his attempts, at first due to her struggling, then because of his waning ability to perform. When she realized that he was no longer able to complete his intended assault, she taunted him. “You ain’t got the starch you thought you had, you pathetic piece of shit. Now get your filthy body off’a me.”

  “Shut your mouth, you used-up old whore,” he spat. Angered that she dared to mock him, he clamped one huge hand around her throat and slowly began to tighten his grip. “Now let’s hear what you got to say,” he growled.